Authors: Laura Jarratt
Skin Deep
First published in paperback in Great Britain 2012
by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street, London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2012 Laura Jarratt
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 5672 8
eISBN 978 1 7803 1079 4
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
For Mum, who taught me to read and so gave me the key to a bottomless casket of treasure.
The stereo thumps out a drumbeat.
Lindsay yells and reaches into the front of the car to turn the volume up – it’s her favourite song. The boys in the front laugh and Rob puts his feet up on the dash. I smile like I’m having a good time, squashed in the middle of the back seat with Lindsay dance-jigging around on my knee and Charlotte and Sarah on either side of me. I wish Steven would slow down because the pitch of the car round the country lanes makes my stomach lurch and I don’t think he should be driving this fast.
Charlotte’s giggling and rubbing Rob’s head over the back of the seat. She likes him, I can tell. He rolls a joint and takes a drag, then passes it to her. She inhales the smoke right down. I shiver inside. Mum and Dad would go crazy if they knew I was in a car with people taking drugs, and if they saw me in Lindsay’s halter-neck top and short skirt. Charlotte passes me the joint and I shake my head. She shrugs, her face scornful, and Lindsay grabs it and takes a few puffs before passing it on.
The car careers round another corner like we’re on a track ride at the funfair.
I sort of wish I was at home, tucked up on the sofa with Mum and Dad and Charlie watching TV. But when the bottle of cider goes round the car, I drink as much as the others so they don’t laugh at me for being the youngest. For being a stupid little girl. My eyes feel funny and heavy with the mascara Lindsay brushed on them earlier. I don’t know who this girl is. It’s not the me who stacks the dishwasher every night for Mum and helps Charlie paint his Warhammer figures at the kitchen table.
I drink more cider, but that doesn’t give me any answers, just makes me feel a bit more like throwing up.
Lindsay leans forward and kisses Steven on the neck. Open-mouthed. Sucking hard. He’ll have a bruise there tomorrow.
Rob laughs. ‘Get a room!’
And Steven waves to him to take the wheel while he cranes round to catch her mouth.
The car swerves and my stomach clenches.
Sarah’s quiet, probably miffed that Charlotte’s after Rob and there’s no one for her.
Lindz whoops as Steven takes the wheel again and floors the accelerator. The car surges forward and hurtles faster and faster down the road.
We hit a straight stretch and Steven spins the wheel from side to side, hands in the air, steering with his knees. Us girls scream and laugh all at once. I force my giggles out.
Something white swoops low in front of the car. Steven shouts out and the car veers towards the hedge.
An owl!
He grabs the wheel and we shriek with relief. My heart steadies again though I feel sicker than ever.
‘Fairy!’ Rob jeers at him and Steven’s face sets harder in the rear-view mirror. His eyes glitter and he slams down on the accelerator.
We’re moving rally-car fast. The January frost coats the hedges in the headlights’ beam as we flash past.
We wheel round another bend into the dip down to Harton Brook. Another twist in the road, and another.
The needle on the speedo reads 70 mph and the girls and I are really screaming. Steven’s knuckles are white on the wheel and even Rob takes his feet down off the glove compartment.
We shoot over the bridge into the bend straight after it.
The stereo bass batters my ears.
And then . . . then the car feels different underneath me. The wheels . . . they glide and spin.
Bumps in the road . . . I can’t feel them any more.
We’re floating.
And I remember. Remember how Mum always nags Dad to slow down here. ‘It’s a frost pocket. There’s black ice here,’ she always says.
Suddenly Rob starts to yell and Sarah shrieks. And I know why the car feels funny. Why it’s skating on the road.
Steven cries out, ‘Shit! Shit!’
The car spins off the road, crashes down the steep bank into the field below.
We’re not gliding any more and my bones shake like they’re falling to pieces.
Thump . . . thump . . . thump from the stereo.
Screaming.
So loud.
I’m thrown upwards as the car turns over.
Then sent slamming down again.
The car rolls once more and my head hits the roof.
Blackness.
Dark.
So dark.
But it’s not safe like it is when I’m snug in my bed. In my own little room.
This is choking dark.
Through it, the screaming reaches me again.
Deafening.
It won’t let me stay, pulls me back to the sound.
I open my eyes.
I’m pressed up against the roof of the car. It’s upside down. Charlotte’s hanging over the back seat, her head half out of the rear window. Blood drips along the shards of the broken glass. Her legs pin me to the roof and I can’t move. My arms are trapped under her. I shove, but she doesn’t move.
There’s a sharp, bitter smell in my nose. I recognise it, but I can’t remember what to call it.
Lindsay’s not on my lap any more. She’s in the front between the seats. Her eyes stare up, wide and glassy. Lifeless.
