‘You won’t even try?’ He felt the ground rumble and shift. The future ripple and disintegrate. He heard the release of her breath. ‘Do you even want to be with me?’ he asked her.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
And his heart broke.
Emma
Emma knew she had to say something to Laura soon. She had intended to pull out of the holiday before they even booked it. Had sat there, her guts in turmoil, as they voted on which destination to try for. Meekly giving her passport details to Laura, who was going to scour the internet for deals that very evening. She promised herself she would ring Laura after work and explain. But then she hadn’t been able to. She stalled each time she picked up the phone, shame stealing over her skin. It was impossible to do it, to tell Laura, to say the words, because she’d have to explain why, and how could she tell anyone such disgusting things?
And the next morning Laura was so excited: she had found a brilliant full-board deal in Corfu, mid-May, with daytime flights. Less than three hundred pounds each. Emma had paid her deposit.
The balance was due six weeks before leaving and the date crept closer. At night, Emma lay awake and wondered about ways round it. But any excuses she came up with, she always found a way that it might unravel on her and end up costing her the friendship. If she said her passport had expired, Laura would insist she go get one Priority Service. Or if she said there was a family wedding or her mum was having surgery, so many other lies would have to be told.
Then they had a night out. Little Kim’s boyfriend was playing drums in a band and they were on at The Academy. Emma liked the music, it was a mix of folk and pop with lots of fast tunes that some of the crowd jigged about to. There were no seats, everyone had to stand. The venue looked a bit run-down really, a big barn of a place. Blonde Kim and Laura had both smuggled bottles of vodka in and shared them out, so they just bought soft drinks at the bar to mix.
Emma felt giddy and a bit sick by the time the band had finished, and agreed to go on to a bar in town with everyone. The band came, and friends of theirs, and Emma enjoyed being in the middle of the group and no one bothering about her but just accepting she was one of them.
The man who did the sound desk for the band, Simon, ended up sitting next to Emma. He chatted away to her about the band and then about cycling; he was in a cycling club and did races and things. He asked her if she’d ever been to the velodrome, and if she had a bike, but she said no. She thought he’d stop talking to her then but he didn’t. He had nice brown eyes. He bought her a drink, carried on chatting. He had a gap in his top teeth. A nice gap.
When Emma went to the loo Laura was there, redoing her eyeliner.
‘You’re in there, Emma,’ said Laura. ‘You fancy him?’
‘Jesus!’ Emma coughed, giggled. ‘Dunno.’ He didn’t fancy her, did he? No one ever did. Why would they?
‘Take him back to yours and try ’im out.’
‘Laura!’
‘Well give him a kiss, drop your handkerchief or something. I’m on my tod out there, but you’re in with a chance.’ Laura was single, had been since the previous summer.
‘Do you like him?’ Emma said. ‘We can swap places.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Laura said. ‘It’s you he’s interested in.’
‘How do you know?’
Laura sighed. ‘Because it’s you he’s talking to, you muppet. Go on, before he forgets what you look like.’
I can’t, thought Emma. Even if I like him, I could never… If I let him kiss me, let him take me out, I could never let him touch me, not properly. Because then he’d know…
‘I can’t go on holiday, Laura,’ Emma blurted out, ‘I just can’t.’
‘What?’ Laura looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Why? We’ve paid the deposit now and everything.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ Emma made to leave, her heart tripping, but Laura caught at her wrist, swung her back. ‘Hang on, don’t go all weird on me. Is it the money?’
‘No.’
‘What, then?’
Emma tried not to cry, but she felt the tears sliding down her face.
‘You’re not going till you’ve told me,’ Laura said. She wasn’t nasty but she was determined to have an explanation.
‘I can’t.’
‘Emma! I’m not doing bleeding twenty questions.’
The truth clogged in her throat. Laura kept watching her. ‘I cut myself,’ Emma said quietly, ‘on purpose.’
‘Okay,’ Laura said slowly.
Emma stared at her, stunned. ‘With a razor blade,’ she said, in case Laura hadn’t actually grasped what she was saying.
‘What’s that got to do with the holiday?’
Emma clutched at her head. ‘The scars on my legs.’ She waved a hand towards her thighs. ‘I can’t wear a swimsuit.’
Laura smiled, gave a little snort. ‘That’s why?’
Emma nodded.
‘Come here,’ Laura said. She hugged Emma. ‘You dozy cow.’ She stood back. ‘Just get a playsuit; you can get quite long ones, like bermudas. Or cycle shorts. No one’ll know.’ She looked at Emma. ‘How long have you been doing it?’
‘Three years.’ Emma thought about pinching herself. Laura hadn’t pushed her away or shrieked with disgust. ‘I’m bulimic as well.’
‘Thought you might be.’
‘Why?’ Emma stared.
‘Couple of things,’ Laura said. ‘My auntie had it.’
Emma felt dizzy. ‘Did she?’
‘She’s all right now. Still frets a bit about her weight, but she’s not chucking up all the time.’
‘And self-harm?’
‘Nah. She never did that. Why do you do it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Emma blew her nose, laughed awkwardly. ‘It helps.’
‘Helps what?’
Emma couldn’t say. The thing too big, too complicated, a shifting shape. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe you should find out,’ Laura said gently.
‘Don’t tell them?’ Emma begged.
‘Course not.’ Laura smiled. ‘You’d better fix your face, you look like a Goth.’
Emma glanced in the mirror; her mascara had run.
‘So the holiday’s on, yeah? We’ll work something out.’
Emma nodded. She felt peculiar. Like there was a bubble billowing in her chest, big and light. She cleaned her face and put on fresh make-up. She checked her purse and worked out she still had enough money to buy Simon a drink if he hadn’t gone yet. Just a drink. She wouldn’t lead him on, but it was nice to talk to him. She could tell him about the holiday, see where he had travelled.
Louise
There had been a visit from DC Illingworth in the week after the arrests to go over the details of the prosecution. Conrad Quinn was pleading guilty to wounding Luke and had agreed to testify against the others. They would face charges of murder and attempted murder. The detective stressed that although Quinn’s evidence would be a great help to the prosecution, it did not automatically mean that the others would be found guilty.
Louise thought of the faces in the paper, the smudged images from the CCTV. ‘What about the bus driver?’ she asked. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘He’s off sick,’ the officer said, ‘with stress.’ Louise stared at her, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Luke was moved to a high-dependency unit in Fallowfield at the beginning of March. It was closer to Louise’s than the hospital had been, and easier to park.
It was a twilight world, she thought, with several other patients in various states of limited capability. People suspended between life and death, lives riven by sudden, wrenching tragedy. She had no complaints about the staff, and the place didn’t smell, which was always a good sign.
She had further meetings with Dr Liu in the process of sorting out the referral and transfer. Louise shut her ears, her mind, to any talk of decisions about life support. Luke continued to be fed via a tube in his stomach.