Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

‘I’m a bull, Dad, what are you?’ Crunching his toast, jam on his cheek.

‘A fish.’

‘And Mum?’

‘A ram.’

‘Hah! I’m the strongest. I don’t think they should have bullfighting. It’s mean.’

‘It is.’

‘Why are they called star signs?’

‘Because the whole idea is based on the stars. In the ancient world people thought the stars affected everything that happened on the earth. I’ve a map somewhere, a chart.’

‘Get it!’ Jason eyes alight as he puts the last bit of crust in his mouth and clacks his sticky fingers together.

‘Wash your hands, then.’

Val was on sick leave. She’d made it through until the end of February, then had in effect been sent home from work. She couldn’t function properly, she couldn’t concentrate, she was depressed. She started taking antidepressants. He tried to help, to pamper her, to keep her company, but often as not she gave him that blank look that chilled him to the core.

Jason’s birthday loomed, growing closer, denser, darker, a storm on the horizon. Nineteen, Andrew thought. But he wasn’t, wouldn’t ever be. Andrew asked Val what she wanted to do, how they should mark it.

She closed her eyes, shook her head. He couldn’t do this on his own; he felt drained. He expected they would spend time at the grave, but what else? She kept the shrine going. Simplified now, as the original candles had melted, the flowers and cards ruined by the weather. He wondered if this was healthy, but was happy to go along with it.

One bleak, stifling Sunday, he tackled her, head on. ‘Val, we need to talk to someone, get some help.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? We can’t go on like this. You’re so unhappy, not communicating. We never talk, we never make love, we barely exist.’

She covered her eyes. He reined in his temper, lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know how to reach you any more. I don’t know what you want from me.’ He felt cold and tense inside.

She said nothing. He looked up to the ceiling, to the lampshade they had chosen, the paper they’d hung together. ‘I need you,’ he said. ‘I love you, Val, I don’t want to lose you too. But I don’t know how to make things right.’

‘You can’t. You can’t make it right.’

‘I can’t bring Jason back.’ His voice shook, he cleared his throat. ‘But you and me, our marriage, we need to work things out.’

She shook her head.

‘You’re depressed, I know that, but talking to someone, someone who’s experienced, the bereavement service, we could do it together. Or separately if you want.’

She sat there, dull, uninterested. ‘No.’

‘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?’