13 Minutes
Authors: Sarah Pinborough
Tags: #Thrillers, #Bullying, #Fantasy, #Social Themes, #General, #Crime, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fiction
13 Minutes
Sarah Pinborough
Orion (2016)
Rating: ★★★★★
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Crime, Juvenile Fiction, Social Themes, Bullying, General, Fantasy
Fictionttt Thrillersttt Crimettt Juvenile Fictionttt Social Themesttt Bullyingttt Generalttt Fantasyttt
I was dead for 13 minutes.I don't remember how I ended up in the icy water but I do know this - it wasn't an accident and I wasn't suicidal.They say you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but when you're a teenage girl, it's hard to tell them apart. My friends love me, I'm sure of it. But that doesn't mean they didn't try to kill me. Does it?13 MINUTES by Sarah Pinborough is a gripping psychological thriller about people, fears, manuiplation and the power of the truth. A stunning read, it questions our relationships - and what we really know about the people closest to us . . .
Dedication
For Baria,
Gonzo to my Duke
and Pats/Eds to my Eds/Pats,
with much love.
Sarah Pinborough
GOLLANCZ
LONDON
Contents
Also by Sarah Pinborough from Gollancz:
Ophelia.
She was young. No more than eighteen. Probably less. Her hair could be blonde or brown, it was hard to tell, soaked wet in the gloom. She was wearing white, bright against the dark river, almost an accent to the fresh snow that lay heavy on the ground. Her pale face, blue lips slightly parted, was turned up to the inky sky. She was snagged on twigs as if the bent branches, bare of leaves and broken by winter, had grasped to save her, to keep her afloat.
His breath steamed a harsh mist.
He could hear his chest wheezing loud, although Biscuit’s frantic barking, the alarm that had brought him from the path to the bank, seemed to be coming from somewhere far away. He couldn’t move. It was five forty-five in the morning and there was a dead girl in the river.
I am a cliché
, was his next coherent thought.
I am the early-morning dog-walker who finds a body.
Biscuit ran in small darts up and down the dirty snow at the water’s edge; furious, eager, disturbed by this change to their daily routine. By this
wrong
. The dog turned and whined at his owner, but still the man couldn’t stop staring, fingers gripping the phone tucked deep in the pocket of his thick coat.
And then he saw it. Just the slightest twitch of her hand. Then, moments after, another.
He walked Biscuit early not out of necessity but because of the quiet. Because time moved more slowly in the hours before the world woke up. It was perfectly peaceful and sleep had never been his friend, anyway.
The later walk was for polite chats with other owners as the dogs raced through the woods and parkland. The mornings were his own. It was his routine, clockwork, never broken for the weather, only rarely for illness. Rise at five, even if he hadn’t finished recording until two a.m. One coffee. Leave at five-twenty on the dot. This morning, however, they had been a rare five minutes late. Biscuit had hidden his collar, finally found under the sofa. Then across the meadow and past the meandering river, an hour or so in the woods, and after that he’d fetch the papers on the way home to read over breakfast. If they were ready, he’d have a warm croissant from the bakery, too. This time was sacred and belonged to only him and Biscuit; extra hours of precious life. Sometimes he called his little sister in New York – catching her before she went to sleep and checking that her world was still turning in the right direction – and they would have a bitter-sweet moment before the river of her own life reclaimed her and swept her away from him. Some mornings she surprised him by being the one to call, and those were the best.
The marbling hand twitched again and suddenly he felt the cold on his skin and his heart beating and could hear Biscuit’s bark loud and clear and then the phone was at his ear and his voice added to the clamour. When he was done, he threw the phone down and pulled off his coat. The river would not claim this girl before her time.
*
The rest was a blur. The cold water on his legs that knocked the air from his lungs with the shock of it. Slipping. Almost submerged. Gasping. Numb fingers pulling her to the bank. The heaviness of her soaked clothes, the unexpected heaviness of his. Wrapping his coat around her limp body. The crispness of her soaked hair. No warm breath from her mouth. Talking to her through chattering teeth. Biscuit licking her frozen face. The sirens. The blanket wrapped round him.
Come with me, please, Mr McMahon, that’s right, I’ll help you. It’s okay, we’ll take it from here.
Pulled up onto legs that wouldn’t quite work and led to the ambulance. But not before he saw the grim faces. The shake of a head. The defibrillator.
Clear!
The dreadful quiet as they worked. Him, the world, nature: all frozen. But not time. Time had ticked on. How many minutes? How long had they sat on the bank with her not breathing? How long before the ambulance arrived? Ten minutes? More? Less?
I’ve got a pulse! I’ve got a pulse!
And then his tears, hot and sudden, bursting up from deep inside.
Biscuit, beside him, pushed his stinking damp fur closer, paws scratching at his face, tongue on his cheeks, licking, snuffling and whining. He wrapped his arm around the dog, pulled him under the blanket and then looked up at the winter sky which was neither truly night nor morning and thought he’d never loved it more.
Saturday, 09.03
Jenny
ur not picking up. Pick Up! OMFG.
09.08
Jenny
ur fone on silent? WAKE UP!
09.13
Jenny
I’m freaking out. My mum is crying. Think she’s still drunk. Wants to go to the hospital. WTF??
09.15
Jenny
FUCKING PICK UP!!!!!
WTF is going on?
09.17
Hayley
Soz dad was in here!!! Woke me up. I’m fucking shaking. WTFWTFWTF?? Will call from shower. Delete txts. Yesterdays 2. FUCK??
09.18
Jenny
K.
09.19
Hayley
DON’T SAY ANYTHING.
‘Rebecca!’
Her mum’s voice, loud and demanding, was a thorn in the meat of Becca’s brain, and she pulled the duvet over her head to block it out and sink back into her half-sleep. It was Saturday. It was too early.
Whatever
time it was, it was too early. It was also cold. Her toes felt like ice and a draught was creeping through the gaps between the covers. She hooked them closer with her foot, cocooning herself.
‘Rebecca! Come down! It’s important!’
She didn’t move. Whatever it was, it could wait. Five more minutes at least. She breathed shallow, not wanting to come up for air. Her hair stank of smoke and her head ached slightly, a parting gift from last night’s weed and tobacco. If it was before midday she was going to kill her mum. Saturdays were hers. That was their deal.
‘Now! I mean it!’
She pushed the covers off and sat up, angry. What the hell was so pressing? She scanned her bleary memory. No late-night snacking so no pizza boxes or Coke cans abandoned in the kitchen. No TV left on. She’d double-bolted the door. All she’d done was come home, go quietly to her room and smoke one last joint through the window before passing out in front of some shit comedy on Netflix. She wasn’t even home
late
. She glanced at the open window and sighed.
Good work, Bex. No wonder it’s like Antarctica in here.
At least there was no trace of stale smoke in the air.
‘Becca!’ A pause. ‘Please, darling!’
‘Coming!’ she shouted back, voice like gravel, head pounding with the effort. No more straight cigarettes, she thought, tugging on her joggers and pulling last night’s sweatshirt over her head. Her chest felt like shit. Her room was ice-box cold and goosebumps shivered across her skin. Juice. She needed juice. And a cup of tea. And a bacon sandwich. Maybe going downstairs wasn’t such a bad idea. At least it would be warm. But still, conversation with her mother first thing in the morning was not what she needed
ever
. She preferred to get up when they were all out. Have some quiet time that didn’t require locking herself away in her room. Two more years and then she could escape to university. Out of this house, out of this suffocating town, and onward to freedom. London, maybe. A big city, definitely. Somewhere Aiden could come with her and work on his music career.
They would live like bohemians and eventually, one day, magazines would write stories about the successful couple who once lived on Ramen noodles in a run-down (but still cool) grimy flat somewhere while they followed their dreams. That’s how it would be. But there were still two
long
years to get through before that would be anything more than a stoned fantasy.
She scraped her hair back into a semblance of a ponytail, sprayed it with deodorant and shuffled out of her sanctuary, grabbing her phone from the side of her bed. She pressed the home button for the time. Ten thirty-four.
