The Wicked Girls (14 page)

‘Don’t.’

‘We have to see,’ says Jade. ‘We can’t just leave her.’

Chloe lies like a rag doll, her legs still in the water. Bel feels as though she’s wallowing beneath the surface. Jade’s voice
comes to her distantly, through the sound of rolling waves. She looks again at the small body, its face pressed into the riverbank
where they turned it in a last despairing hope that the water would somehow drain out. ‘Let’s turn her over,’ she says
.

It’s worse when they can see her face. They know she’s really dead now. There’s mud, got into her eyes. They lie open, unblinking,
staring at the sun through a film of dirty brown. The face is a mosaic of mud and gravel, of leaves and tiny petals; a string
of duckweed tangled in hair that itself resembles weeds and string
.

Oh God, her eyes, thinks Jade. I will remember this. I won’t forget this, the way her eyes look, for the rest of my life
.

He is giddy with outrage, white-hot in the head and unsteady on his feet. His brain seethes as he strides down London Road
from the Wordsworth to the centre of town, his vision so impaired by the tunnelling effect of adrenalin that twice he lurches
on the pavement and feels the scrape of his nylon sleeve against the plate-glass windows of sleeping shops. Amber Gordon.
That fucking bitch Amber Gordon. Who does she think she is? And she pretended she didn’t even know me.

It’s all clear to him now, clear as day. Amber Gordon is the reason why Jackie has cut him off. She’s Jackie’s boss, he remembers
that. And she’s Vic Cantrell’s –
something
. Because there’s no way that hard-faced bitch could fool anyone that a man like Vic is interested in her for anything other
than what he can get from her. You just have to look at her standing next to him – the cheap dye job, the leather jacket that
must be twenty years old, that fucking mole in the middle of her face – to know that they’re a mismatch.

But Jackie? He understands now; at least partially. Jackie’s weak, she’s greedy, she’s a coward – but the power behind the
throne is Amber fucking Gordon.

His blood has turned to ice. He elbows his way through the queue outside DanceAttack, barely hears the cries of protest that
follow in his wake. I hate her, he thinks. She’s not worthy. I don’t know why I ever thought she was.

The girls are out in force tonight: another Whitmouth party night. Blond and black and neon-red, their hair is piled up, hauled
straight, built out and supplemented. They swish improbable nylon tresses into his face as he passes, clutch Primark purses
to diamanté belly buttons, slip credit cards deep into their padded bras for safekeeping. And as usual he is invisible. All
these girls, looking for excitement, and not one of them so much as glances at him.

Who is she? Who the fuck is she? Who the fuck does she think she is?

He despises her, now he knows. She’s not his chance at salvation: she’s a weak, greedy slag. I don’t know why I ever thought
that she was different, he thinks. I need my head examining.

She has to pay, he thinks, though he’s not sure which ‘she’ he’s thinking of. I have to make her pay.

He’s too wound up, his muscles aching with adrenalin, to go home, to lock himself inside those enclosing walls and pace the
cluttered floor while the party goes on outside. He feels isolated enough on a normal night; on a night like this he feels
like it will drive him mad. He’s uncomfortably aware that his rage has given him a flabby, half-hearted erection. It throbs
awkwardly against the front of his trousers as he walks, anorak-pocketed hands crossed in front of him to hide it from the
people who are no more looking at him than they are wondering what their mothers would say if they saw them now. His temples
pump with frustration, with rejection, with rage. He can’t go home. The walls won’t let him breathe.

He checks the contents of his pocket, finds fifteen pounds and a handful of change. Not enough for any of the nightclubs –
even Stardust is twelve pounds to get into these days, and a glass of Coke alone costs three. I’ll get some chips, he thinks,
and take them up on the war memorial. It’s quiet on Mare Street at this time of night. Maybe if I’m there long enough, the
noise will have died down a bit by the time I get home. And if Tanqueray
Tina is up in her usual spot, I might be able to parlay something out of my tenner.

At the death-burger van he buys a saveloy, its brazen tumescence mocking the half-formed thing inside his Y-fronts, to go
with his chips, snatches up a chip fork, a little devil’s prong of plywood, and a handful of napkins and hurries off across
the Corniche.

Mare Street, as he had expected, is almost silent, the sounds of the crowds behind him quickly fading away to film-soundtrack
level. Now the centre of town has been pedestrianised, the road leads effectively nowhere, and no one much comes up here once
the shops have closed. He idles his way along the pavement, feeling the heat of his food emanate through its polystyrene tray,
and turns the corner into Fore Street, suddenly longing for the salt-and-stodge mouth-feel of fried potato. He stops by the
old horse trough and pulls open an edge of the bag. He won’t unwrap it fully now; hates the sight of people eating while they
walk. He just needs to get it open enough to access a morsel or two.

Someone coughs, up ahead.

Tina stands half in the shadows at the mouth of an alleyway: mini-skirt, denim jacket garnished with studs and fringing, white
stacked heels, no tights. She carries an oversized black bag, the sort of bag you’d expect to find on a mother. He can’t imagine
that a bag like that could house any load other than baby wipes and half-chewed rusks. But there it is, hanging off the shoulder
of an alky grandmother looking for trade.

‘Hello, love,’ she says. ‘Haven’t seen you up here for a bit.’

Martin feels a rush of irritation at the familiarity. It doesn’t matter that he’s been forced to use her services before;
he feels affronted that she should treat him like a regular. But he tucks his chip fork back into his palm and goes to meet
her.

‘Aah,’ she says. ‘You brought me some chips.’

He doesn’t reply; clutches the bundle of food closer to his chest.

‘You after some fun tonight, then?’ she says.

Martin looks at her. Thinning scarlet hair scraped back into a high ponytail, thyroid eyes and lines like gouges on her forehead.
He can smell the gin fumes rising off her, even from four feet away. And yet. The insistent, angry pulsing in his crotch is
still there, and he fears he’ll never have peace till it’s gone.

She steps towards him, reaches out a hand and lays it over the bulge. ‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘Looks like you are. Give us a chip.
I’m ravishing.’

‘Not opening them yet,’ he says.

‘Whatever. So what’s it going to be, then, Mart?’

How does she know my name? I’ve never told her. I’m sure I’ve never told her. He feels his anger rising again, deep and itchy.
It’s a network of witches. They know fucking
everything
.

He shakes his head, tries to walk on. But she tightens the grip on his crotch, squeezes in a way that both enrages and engorges.
‘Come on, honey. You don’t want to waste it. I can make that better, quick-time.’

Oh God. Those fingers, with their chipped scarlet nails, an inch long and sharpened for fighting, are frightening, but the
thought of them pumping up and down around his cock, of the pull and squeeze and professional twists of someone else’s hand,
is too much to bear. ‘I don’t have much money,’ he says.

The grip loosens. She steps back.

‘How much?’

‘Thirteen quid.’

‘Thirteen quid?’

He nods feverishly. Knows that even to someone as far gone as this, thirteen quid is a pitifully low offer.

‘Never mind,’ he says. Starts to walk on, though his cock seems to have taken on a life of its own now. There won’t be anyone
up at the war memorial. Needs must, he can relieve himself quickly up there, use the napkins for clean-up.

He gets five paces along the pavement when he hears her ‘Oi!’.
Stops and turns and sees that she’s got her hand on her hip and has hoisted the bag further up her shoulder like someone who
means business. ‘Thirteen quid and some chips,’ she says, ‘but you don’t get no French for that.’

Martin follows her up the alleyway.

She leads him deep into the dark – further than he thinks is necessary to hide them from casual eyes – and steps in behind
a dumpster. Smiling, he deposits the chips on the lid, steps forward wolfishly and leans a hand, still gripping the chip fork,
on the wall behind her shoulder.

‘Come on then,’ she says, and yanks at his buttons.

Martin doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see that raddled face, the inch of roots on the hair that’s bent towards
him. He looks up, stares at the patch of grey night sky between the gables, and feels her hand delve into his pants, the grab
of flesh on tender skin. Yeah, he thinks as she hauls his member into the damp night air, spits on her palm and starts to
work it. Thirteen quid well spent. I don’t need Jackie Jacobs. What made me think I wanted her and her—

A flashback. A car park, Jackie tugging at him like this woman’s doing, frustration mounting, a tipsy swearword falling from
her lips.

His cock goes soft.

‘What?’ says the woman. ‘Come on, lover. I’m not going to spend all night.’

Martin feels his cheeks begin to burn. It’s gone. There’s no more feeling in it than if it was someone else’s. The woman yanks
at his flaccid organ like it’s a cow’s udder, pulls harder, gives the head a couple of backhanders and gives up. Lets out
a laugh.

‘Better luck next time,’ she says. ‘Quickest thirteen quid I’ve ever earned.’

He’s outraged. ‘You what?’

‘I’m not bloody staying here all night,’ she says.

‘You don’t think I’m going to pay you for that?’ He’s hot with wasted ardour, with humiliation. Walks backwards, tucking the
useless appendage back inside his damp pants.

‘Course you are.’ Her voice starts to rise. ‘I done what you wanted. Not my fault you can’t bloody keep it up.’

‘Course I couldn’t,’ he grumbles. His fingers have turned to thumbs, fumble at his buttons like they’re anaesthetised, the
chip fork hampering his efforts. He’s angry again, disappointed. Had needed the relief of quick, dirty ejaculate and is livid
with frustration. ‘I saw your fucking face, didn’t I?’

He turns and starts to walk away towards Fore Street.

‘Oi!’ she shouts again.

‘Fuck off,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘You got your chips, didn’t you?’

There’s a moment’s silence, then the woman lets out another squawk of rage. ‘Oi!’

Unsteady footsteps clatter up the alley behind him. Martin whirls to face her, raises a fist, chip fork sticking out from
gripping palm, towards her face. She halts, abruptly. Stares at him in alarm for a moment, then sees the weapon he’s wielding
and bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, you sorry little fuck,’ she says.

His erection is back. He can feel adrenalin like speed in his blood.

‘Don’t laugh at me,’ he threatens. ‘Don’t you fucking laugh at me, or I’ll—’

‘You’ll what?’ Wide-eyed with mirth, she motions at his fist. ‘You’ll stab me with a chip fork?’

Martin looks over at his raised hand, sees his plywood weapon. Thinks vaguely, as though the thought were coming from far
away, yeah, what the fuck?

He punches it into her neck.

He steps back, shocked at his own strength. Tenses in preparation for a fight, because he knows one will be coming now.

The woman slaps her hand to her neck like she’s been stung by a wasp, feels the plywood handle protruding from her flesh.
Looks astonished, then outraged, then blackly furious. ‘You little fuck!’ she says. ‘You bloody little fuck.’

She feels her way round the handle, grips it between thumb and finger and pulls it out. Brandishes it at him, lips drawn back
over yellow teeth. ‘You little fuck!’ she shrieks again. And then she notices the blood that spurts across the pavement, that
hits the wall, and understands the truth.

‘Oh fuck,’ she says, and clamps a hand over the wound. It’s a stupid wound, a tiny double puncture, but the skin is ragged
and her carotid ripped. Her hand is immediately slippery with blood; it gushes out from between her fingers, pours down her
neck. Quickly, blackly, soaks the stonewashed denim on her shoulder.

‘What have you done?’

Martin stands there and watches. This wasn’t what he’d expected, but now it’s happened, he feels a rush of startling pleasure;
a sense of power he’s never felt before. Look at her. Look at the silly bitch, she’s all over blood. I did that. I did that
to her.

‘Fuck, help me,’ she says, and puts the other hand up; pleads with her eyes, understands that no help is going to come. ‘Jesus.
Oh Jesus.’

She takes a step towards him, and he sees it turn into a stagger. She can’t be bleeding out yet, he thinks. It must be panic.
She’s scared. Yes. The fucking bitch is scared. I did that. Me. She’s scared because of something I did.

‘You’ve got to call an ambulance,’ she says. ‘I’m really hurt.’

He’s cold all over, but his cock is magnificently, triumphantly hard. He shrugs indifferently. ‘Got no phone,’ he says, and
walks away.

She’s never unlearned the habit of hope. Ever since she can remember, Amber has woken with the same thought: today will be
a good day. She learned the practice in her stepfather’s house, clung fast to it at Blackdown. Has marked her life out in
small milestones of happiness – the dogs, Vic, her home and its improvements, birthday parties, small gestures of friendship
– and refuses to dwell on negatives.

She lies on her back, arms spread across the empty bed, and stares at the daylight leaking past the curtains on to the bedroom
ceiling. Day workers are beginning to come home; she can hear engines and car doors and bellowed greetings out on Tennyson
Way. The bed is hot, the room frowsty. She throws off the covers and lies there, cooling off. The sun has obviously come out
while she’s been asleep. She’s missed another summer day. But thank you, thank you, for giving me summer. It’s going to be
OK, I can feel it in my bones. I worry too much, that’s the problem. Nothing bad can happen, I’ve come too far.