C.J. Skuse - The Deviants

‘So it’s not actually from you, it’s from your dad, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Same as your driving lessons, your car, our Glastonbury tickets…’

‘Do you like it?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said, touching the teddy bear – a mistake, as he spotted my scabby knuckles.

‘Christ, what happened to your hands?’

I toyed with telling him the truth, but then thought better of it. ‘I fell over on the track a few days ago.’

‘How did you manage to fall on the backs of your hands?’ He lifted up my other one and looked at it, gently tracing his fingertips over the scabs. ‘This one’s even worse.’

‘I tripped. I think my new spikes are too big.’ I flexed my fingers – the deep ache was still there, but if I didn’t concentrate on it too much, it didn’t matter. Quickly, I diverted his attention back to the necklace. ‘This is beautiful. Thank you.’

I opened the envelope. Inside was an oversized card, covered in pictures of us. He must have spent ages sticking them down, shaking on glitter. There were pictures of us on swings. Our school Nativity, with me as Mary, with a cushion up my dress and Max as the innkeeper, with a scribbly black beard. Selfies in Starbucks. Selfies outside the arena in Cardiff waiting to see The Regulators. Selfies on bonfire night in woolly hats and scarves. Snuggly Duddlies in our Christmas onesies. There was one photo he hadn’t cropped – it was a day we’d spent on the island with some other kids we used to hang around with – Zane, Corey and Fallon. We all had wet hair and chocolate or jam around our mouths, and we were all laughing.

‘God, look at us,’ I said. My throat grew sore.

‘Yeah. I didn’t want to cut that one up,’ said Max. ‘I love that picture.’

‘Me too,’ I said, clearing my throat. I never saw them any more. Even though we’d all gone to the same school, walked the same streets, breathed the same salty air, we were virtual strangers now. Zane had turned out to be the world’s biggest bully, we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Fallon since the funeral, and though Corey still lived just down the road from me, we rarely spoke any more. Weird, wasn’t it? One day spending every second of the holidays together, the next barely acknowledging each other’s existence.

I opened the card. The message inside read: To my Ella Bella Boodles, who owns my heart and every beat in it. Love you always and 4 ever Maxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.

I looked at the front again. At the picture of us all as kids. Me, Max, Zane, Fallon and Corey. ‘Do you remember going to the town carnival? Us all sitting in Zane’s mum’s hairdresser’s window, eating tomato soup?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘And watching the fireworks on the hill on Bonfire Night. And that time we went to the island and Corey got stuck up the tree and Zane had to talk him down. God, we’d spend whole days out there in the summer, wouldn’t we? Do you remember camping out?’

‘Ella…’

I’d have given anything for just five minutes back inside that photograph. Before the island had become this evil cancerous lump sticking out of the sea that I could barely look at. It used to be called Grebe Island. Supposedly formed thousands of years ago from a huge blast of debris the volcano spewed out. Another local legend says there’s precious stones buried there. When the council put it up for auction, Max told Neil about the stones and the next thing I knew, he’d bought it and renamed it Ella’s Island. The council and a few birdwatchers were up in arms about that. I hadn’t been back there for years.

Max was looking at me, all glassy-eyed and cheesy smiley.

‘What?’ I said, a mouthful of freezing-cold fruit.

‘I really love you, Estella Grace Newhall.’

I looked up at him. ‘I love you too, Maximus Decimus Meridius.’

‘Oi,’ he said, with a bat of eyelids. ‘I’m trying to be meaningful here.’

‘I love you too, Max Alexander Rittman.’ I couldn’t say anything else. Why did looking at that photograph make me pine so much? Me and Max weren’t even going out then, just friends; friends who knew there was buried treasure on that island, and spent years looking for it. Friends who gurned for photos, who ate chips not caring about what we weighed, not caring whether our tans were even. That’s why I loved Max, I guessed. Because of what he represented. I’d hung around with various Beckys or Laurens at school and I knew girls at the track who did the same distances, but none of them were Max. He was my constant.

‘Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but to remain part of my character, part of the good in me, part of the evil…’

I couldn’t help it – I laughed. I was glad for the break in the tension in my throat. ‘You did not just come up with that.’

‘No, it’s from Great Expectations . I memorised it.’

‘My dad named me after her from that book.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah. We’re all named after Dickens characters. David, Oliver, then me. Apparently Estella’s a right bitch in the book too.’ I laughed an ugly laugh and I hated myself for it.

‘You’re always so hard on yourself.’

‘It’s the athlete in me. Nothing’s ever good enough. Everything can be improved.’

‘How come I didn’t know that about your name?’

I swallowed as tears stung my eyes. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. ‘There’s lots of things you don’t know about me.’

Stroking my hand, he stared at me. There was meaning in that stare. I tensed up, flaring with realisation; tonight wasn’t just about ‘marking the occasion’. This was a prelude – he wanted us to try sex again. Here. Tonight . I pulled away.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ I scratched my arm. ‘My hives are up. I had a satsuma earlier, it’s probably that. I need to cool down. Do you fancy a dip in the pool?’

‘Sure.’ He blew out the Yankee Candle and we both scraped back our chairs on the hardwood floor and walked out of the café, through the sliding doors and into the night.

Hidden between all the rose beds and ferns, bronze statues, ceramic ladybirds and smirking Buddhas, lay the large rectangular pool with the statue in the middle; a laughing pearl fisherman, spouting water from his ears. It all looked so beautiful, lit by outdoor nightlights, making the water look as appealing as an icy blue cocktail on a hot beach. People had thrown coins in, and the bottom was green with algae in patches, but otherwise it was quite clear. A string of lights that looked like blue ice cubes hung around the edge of the pool.

Max had known me when I swam – in the days when my dad used to call me ‘Little Fish’ because I could hold my breath underwater for a whole minute. Now, I was ‘Volcano Girl’ – the Commonwealth Games hopeful with a county record for the 400 metres. In the days before dieting and 6 a.m. jogs got their claws into me, I’d loved to swim. But I didn’t even own a costume any more. And Dad hadn’t called me Little Fish for years.

‘Good idea, this,’ said Max, kicking off his trainers and ruffling his socks down over his feet. ‘I didn’t shower after football.’ He pulled his T-shirt up over his back. I took off my top and skirt, until I had on only my black sports bra and Snoopy knickers. It never used to bother me that my underwear didn’t match.

I got in as Max lowered himself beneath the surface. I watched his body shimmer through the blue water until he bobbed up in front of me with a smile, a dolphin expecting chum. He put his hands on the ledge, either side of me.

‘Hello,’ he said, droplets of water peppering his skin all over.

‘It’s colder than I thought.’ I shivered. His hair looked darker when it was wet.