Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

‘Ridiculous,’ Daphne yelled. ‘They’re so stupid. What do they think they’re doing, just standing there?’ She picked up a stick and began swiping at the tulip heads. The flowers snapped off with horrifying ease, spinning through the air before landing on the ground – toy-coloured, dead things. ‘I’m the executioner,’ she shouted, leaping across the path to another bed and addressing the flowers. ‘And you’re all Anne Boleyn.’

Jane loved tulips – she’d put them on a list of favourite things. ‘Hey, Daphne. Maybe…’ Daphne took a running jump to mow through a circular display of yellow tulips with her improvised sword and slipped on the grass, cackling as she landed on her bum like a slapstick clown. VANDALS WILL BE PROSECUTED, read a sign.

‘I hate them,’ slurred Daphne, staying where she was on the grass and patting it. ‘Give us a drink.’ Jane moved reluctantly and sat down, opening her army-surplus shoulder bag with the remaining whisky. They’d already drunk about a third of it. Daphne took a slug. ‘I just hate them – hate those flowers, all stiff and snooty. What’s the point? In their stupid lines.’ She looked genuinely upset at the tulips. ‘I want to kill them. They deserve to die.’

‘D’you think, maybe we…’ Jane tried to take back the bottle. Exhaustion had struck, but she saw that Daphne was heading towards something more extreme.

‘D’you think? D’you think? Jou fink? Jou Fink Janey. A new name!’ Daphne collapsed back on to the grass laughing uncontrollably. ‘Jou-Fink-Jane, don’t complain.’ Pleased with her rhyme, she repeated it over and over.

‘I think we need to go now. Otherwise we’ll never get home.’ Jane’s eyes welled and she dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand to stop the tears. Daphne didn’t notice. She was rolling on the grass, crushing the decapitated tulip flowers in her wake and laughing to herself like a lunatic.

‘I’m not sure I’ll find that bit of the fence where we got in. It’s really dark now.’ Fear concentrated her mind and she held on to both of Daphne’s wrists, giving all her strength to pulling her up.

The two girls swayed along for a few yards before Daphne fell over. She didn’t crumple on to the ground but plummeted headlong as though she’d been shot.

‘Oh come on, Daphne. Get up! Please!’ Jane yanked at her, but there was no response. She patted her cheeks. ‘Come on, we need to go home. We can’t stay here.’ The park was spinning and Jane was overcome with leaden exhaustion and sat down on the damp grass. She could smell dog shit. ‘I’ll have to leave you! Get up, Daphne. We can’t stay.’

Daphne let out a groan, a gush of vomit shot from her mouth, her body was convulsed by spasms and then she lay immobile, her hair and clothes covered with sick.

Jane couldn’t stand sick. It made her feel like throwing up too. ‘Daphne? Hey, get up now.’ No answer. She was completely motionless and Jane wondered if she might be dead. You could die from alcohol, couldn’t you? ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t do this. Please.’ She was begging, nudging her friend’s shoulder to make her move, to bring her back to life. What would happen now? she wondered. Imagine the phone call to Daphne’s parents. What would it be like at school? An icy panic set in. She put her hand on her friend’s chest and a slow breath raised the ribcage. Alive, then, but she looked awful. Jane tried to roll her into the recovery position as they’d been taught in life-saving, touching her gingerly so as not to get too much sick on her.

Afterwards, retching, she wiped her hands on the grass, hoping to miss the dog shit. Then she threw up herself. She sat for a few minutes, feeling slightly better. Deciding to go for help, she lurched about in the dark, trying to locate the hole in the fence, crawling through bushes to no avail. The point of entry had been so obvious from the street. It was odd to find herself muttering small prayers. ‘Please, God. Please don’t let her die.’ Eventually, she located the right place, scraping her cheek on a piece of wire as she scrambled out on to the pavement. She ran heavy-footed and groaning through the street-lamped, suburban hush to her house. Her parents were watching telly and she couldn’t get the words out properly. She saw in the mirror that her face was bloodied and her long hair tangled with twigs and leaves like a lost child.

It all took ages. Her father marched her back to the park. When she lagged, he muttered in muted fury, ‘Come on! Hurry.’ Daphne was still out cold and he tried to wake her by slapping her cheeks rather hard. She’d become a disgusting Sleeping Beauty, who stank of sick. A bad girl who sliced through flowers and stole whisky. When Daphne remained unconscious, Jane’s father attempted to lift her and, with difficulty, grunting and coughing, carried her some way. Jane tried to assist in hauling her through the hole in the fence but it was impossible; she was far too crumpled and, despite her small frame, seemed absurdly heavy.

Jane stayed with her while her dad went to call an ambulance. ‘She could die from alcohol poisoning,’ he snapped as he left. Jane felt like dying too. The night was cold and she shivered with fear. A siren, flashing blue lights, men with uniforms and torches. It had turned into something official. The police came too, so that the park could be opened. Daphne didn’t wake up, even when she was bundled on to a stretcher and carried away.

Her parents took Jane with them to Putney Hospital, scolding her as they drove. ‘You need to see how serious this is,’ her father said. ‘How could you be so stupid?’ Naturally, they rang Daphne’s home and Ellie arrived soon after them. Jane cried even more when Ellie tried to question her about what happened because she was so kind, even though she looked terrified. By the time they were allowed to see Daphne, it was nearly 3 a.m. She was tucked inside white sheets, hooked up to a drip, her stomach pumped, and her face and hair wiped clean. She was still unconscious, but the doctor said she was out of danger and should be left to sleep it off. ‘Are you able to tell me exactly what she drank?’ he asked Jane, who replied so quietly she had to repeat three times that it was probably almost half a bottle of whisky in addition to several glasses of wine.

The next day, Jane’s head was jagged with pain, her stomach roiling with bilious nausea. People made a hangover sound like a joke, but this was like hanging over the abyss, hanging from a rope, hangdog, hang it all. She took some of her parents’ Alka-Seltzer from the bathroom without asking, but it didn’t help. Surprisingly, they gave her permission to visit Daphne, but they had already set the punishment: after the hospital, no going out or seeing friends outside school for a month. ‘And you can wash up every evening,’ added her mother.

Daphne was sitting up in bed in a children’s ward. She looked like a child in an old-fashioned storybook, gently convalescing after a long illness. Gone was the wicked, Lou Reed-listening, liquor-guzzling, teenage vomit queen. She wore a white nightie, her hair was brushed and Ellie was feeding her rice from a plastic spoon and making small noises of stern satisfaction each time she swallowed. They exchanged grim-mouthed smiles as a greeting.

‘Sorry,’ Daphne frowned. ‘What a mess.’

Ellie spoke to them in a low, restrained voice that did not hide an impressive, incandescent anger, as though she was burning inside. ‘You will never, never do something like this again. Daphne? Jane? Do you understand? This isn’t about fun or independence. You could be dead, Daphne. Jane, she could be gone. Does that mean something to you both?’ Jane noticed the young boy staring at them from the next bed. He had hollow, lethargic eyes and a bulky bandage wrapped around his head.