Belinda Bauer - Rubbernecker

She smiled bravely at herself in the mirror and poked her hair into perfect place.

Not long now. And once Jordan or Jamelia (or possibly Jaden?) came along, she’d lose the weight, and she’d start going to clubs again, and they would take long, exotic foreign holidays – the kind spent on a fancy lilo, while cute, tanned waiters swam out to serve them cocktails stuffed with pineapple slices and umbrellas.

Her mother had already agreed to have the baby.

PATRICK HADN’T BEEN to a party since he was five years old, when the clamour of twenty over-sugared children in such disorganized proximity had led to a meltdown on a scale rarely witnessed during musical chairs. The very word ‘party’ had the power to trigger in him flashbacks of wailing classmates, overturned furniture, and a big brown dog gulping down spilled jelly.

It all hit him with fresh clarity when Dr Spicer opened the door of his flat. The music alone made him take a nervous step backwards across the corridor.

‘Hi,’ said Spicer. ‘Come in!’

Meg did just that, but Patrick stayed where he was. Meg turned and pointed at the bottle of wine she’d insisted that they buy at the corner shop. Apparently it was their entrance ticket. He’d bought a bottle of Coke for himself. It was plastic, not glass, but it was better than nothing.

Patrick handed the wine to Spicer and said, ‘Where’s Scott?’

Spicer laughed and said thank you, and Meg smiled and let their tutor kiss her cheek.

Spicer looked at him. ‘Come on in, Patrick. It’s nice to see you.’

He looked very different without his white coat and blue gloves, and Patrick didn’t like it. He hadn’t been prepared for Spicer in jeans and a Cardiff rugby shirt. It made him feel as if he had already lost control of the situation.

‘Is Scott here?’ he said, without moving.

‘Yeah, he found out about it somehow,’ said Spicer with a wink that made Meg giggle.

Still Patrick stood rooted to the deep-green carpet of the hallway. ‘Can you get him for me?’

Spicer smiled and beckoned with the wine. ‘Why don’t you come in and find him?’

Patrick folded his arms across his chest and took a step backwards. ‘I’ll stay here,’ he said to Meg. ‘You go and get him.’

‘Don’t be daft, Patrick,’ she said. ‘No one’s going to bite you.’

Patrick looked past her to the people and the lights and the bass that made his stomach vibrate unpleasantly, even from here. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry.

‘C’ mon ,’ said Meg, and took a step towards him. For an awful moment Patrick thought she was going to take his hand. Instead she said quietly, ‘If you don’t, you might never know.’

Then she turned and walked inside as if she expected him to follow.

Not knowing was not an option. So – after a long, long hesitation – he did.

Everyone was there. What seemed to be dozens of students, all looking impossibly sophisticated, with wine glasses and bottled beer in their hands, without their grubby paper coats. There were also several of the younger tutors – Dr Clarke, Dr Spiller and Dr Tsu – laughing and talking with two women Patrick didn’t recognize, and fitting in with everyone seamlessly. They all seemed to know why they were here. They all looked as if they belonged .

Meg said ‘Hi’ and waved to a slim, dark-haired woman whom Patrick didn’t recognize.

‘Hi, Patrick,’ said Rob, and Patrick nodded.

‘Nice party,’ Rob added.

‘Is it?’ said Patrick.

Rob stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh,’ said Patrick. ‘OK.’

‘Want a beer?’ said Rob, and picked one out of a barrel filled to the brim with ice and bottles.

‘No,’ he said, and hurried on.

Meg led him through to the kitchen, which was empty, and furthest from the stereo. Even so, by the time they got there, Patrick wanted to sob or scream with itchy repulsion and the pain in his ears. He sat with his back to the wall, then pulled the kitchen table towards him across the fancy quarry tiles so that no one could pass behind him. There was some small relief in having his back covered, even if his face and chest and hands and legs felt hopelessly vulnerable. There were a dozen bottles on the table and Patrick rearranged them into a glass barrier.

Meg found a tumbler in a cupboard. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she said.

He shook his head. The Coke was cold and tempting in his hands but he didn’t dare open it, because it had become his guardian for the night. Full, it protected him; empty, it lost its power. Opening it would seem like the action of a man who had dropped his guard.

Meg put the tumbler on the table and went over to the counter nearest the sink, where more bottles were waiting for customers.

Patrick noticed that the glass Meg had chosen had a faint smear near the rim. He got up and washed it.

‘Thanks,’ she said, sitting down and pouring herself some wine. She took a long gulp and smiled at him. ‘So, Patrick, how many Valentine’s cards did you get?’

‘One.’

‘Only one? Who was it from?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You said you were going to find Scott.’

Meg stared silently into her wine glass for a while, then said, ‘OK then.’

When she’d gone, Patrick opened the cupboard and examined all the glasses. He ran a bowlful of soapy water and washed them and put them on the rack to dry. Then he opened the cutlery drawer. He emptied the whole lot into the hot water.

He flinched as Spicer came in on a wave of noise.

‘I didn’t realize the kitchen was contaminated,’ he said with a wink.

‘That’s OK,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m cleaning it now.’

Spicer laughed, and started to transfer pizzas from the freezer to the eye-level oven. ‘I’m sorry you were asked to leave the course, Patrick.’

‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘It was inconsistent.’

‘I hear you took it out on the porter.’

Patrick shrugged. Removing all the knives and forks and spoons and bits like tin-openers and broken candles meant he could now see that the tray needed washing too. And the drawer underneath that.

Dr Clarke came in and said, ‘Hello, Slugger.’

Patrick thought he must have confused him with someone else.

Dr Clarke sat on the corner of the table and drank beer from a bottle and made small talk with Spicer that Patrick didn’t listen to. Up to his elbows in warm suds, he felt suddenly more at home. By the time Meg came back with Scott, he was sitting at the table once more, rubbing the clean cutlery to a shine and placing it neatly back in its freshly washed tray.

Scott dragged a chair out with a clatter and flopped down into it. His Mohawk was half up and half down, and his face was shiny.

‘All right, Paddy!’

‘Patrick,’ said Patrick.

‘You’re such a tight-arse, you know?’

‘I know. Did you take the peanut?’

‘What peanut?’

‘The one I found in Number 19.’

‘Hey, I didn’t take your stupid peanut, so just get over it.’

Patrick didn’t stop polishing the knife in his hand, but he did stop thinking about polishing it. His heart sank. Scott had not taken the peanut. He believed that, not because Scott was inherently trustworthy, but because Scott was drunk, and drunks told the truth, in his experience. His drunken mother had once told him that she’d almost killed herself because of him – that on the day his father had died, she’d gone up Penyfan and come this close to throwing herself off. Because of you! she’d shouted. Because of you!

Scott put his head on the table so he could look up at Patrick’s face. ‘Did you hear me?’