Vintage (18 page)

I think it's over.

The cab drove off, finding its way through people milling about in the middle of the road.

“Are you okay?” She put a hand up to touch his cheek, but Kyle flinched away.

“Thanks for that. You were brilliant. I'm okay. Saturday night. Can't let it get to you.” He touched the cheek himself. He looked close to tears. Marilyn held his hand, squeezed it.

“Saleem – Saleem helped. He was there. I thought he'd walked away.”

“He came through – for us – for you.”

“I don't understand any of this.”

“Welcome to planet earth, babe. Wherever you think you've beamed down from, this is the real thing.”

“He could have killed you.”

“I wouldn't be the first. How's your arm?”

Marilyn's arm was throbbing now, though the bleeding seemed to have slowed down.

“It's okay. I'll live.”

She couldn't believe how calm she felt now it was over.

The roads were empty now, except for police cars cruising and an ambulance that sped past them. The sirens were alien and forbidding after the familiar bell she was used to.

Kyle leant his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, one hand over his stomach where the man had kicked him. His make up streaked down his face.

“This is how it is here?”

Kyle turned his head slightly. “You've been acting so weird. But tonight you were back to normal, my Holly, out there taking action, not afraid of anything. I really thought before – I thought you'd lost it, seriously.”

And then the tears started running down her face.

Marilyn was glad Kyle couldn't see her. They sat in silence, their shoulders touching, Kyle's hand in hers.

When the cab stopped, Marilyn almost fell out, relieved to see home. But of course, it still wasn't her home.

She was still in the nightmare.

Turn over.

I can sleep now.

My arm's tingling.

Stinging.

Hurting.

Burning.

The cab disappeared on towards Kyle's. Marilyn watched it go. Kyle waved at her through the back window. He didn't seem to think anything was strange. All this was familiar to him. She got out her key and let herself in. There was nobody around. Two empty wine glasses were on the table in the front room. She crept upstairs and huddled into bed. But she couldn't get warm.

Never in her life had she confronted anybody. Not even her mum. But now she'd faced up to a man who intended violence. Faced up to him and stopped him. She knew she couldn't have done it on her own. She knew she'd heard a voice in her head that wasn't hers. She knew it must have been Holly's.

She couldn't sleep. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home so badly. That brought on the tears, and she wept silently into the pillow, until she cried herself into a deep, heavy sleep.

I wake up. It's still dark. Open my eyes. Close them again.

I try to go back to sleep. Sunday. No need to get up till lunch time. Kyle will text. We might meet up. Go to town or something. I can do my project. 1962.

I turn over. My right arm hurts. Stings. Nothing I can see. No graze or cut. Makes no sense. But nothing does. Where am I?

Remember where I am.

There's a sick feeling in my head. Like a hangover. Only orange squash doesn't work that way. Maybe I OD'd on sugar.

I'm still finding out so much. But I can't write any of it down. Because if – when – I get back I won't have the piece of paper. So I need to remember.

I think I'd rather do the research on the internet. This is a bit too much like real life.

My arm stings again, I could swear I'd cut it. Not that I do cutting, but this must be what it feels like. I always wondered. A sting, when I move. And when I don't move. Hold my hand over the place on my arm.

And remember the dream.

The man, in the shadows, outside the club. Kyle, on the ground. The man kicking out.

Shouting. At Marilyn.

I shouted at her.

And she heard me.

And she knew it was me.

The man slashed her arm.

My arm throbs.

Marilyn woke up late. The sun was streaming through the windows. She put her head under the duvet. It felt fuzzy, and there was a pain in the back of her brain.

She tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn't. Images of last night kept running through her mind. The dancing, the wonderful dancing. Then the girls, pulling at each others' hair and clothes. The man swearing at Kyle and swinging out at him. Kyle looking frightened and fragile. Saleem. Her own shrill voice in the middle of it all.

And the other voice, the one in the back of her head.

She heard sounds outside her room, a man's voice, then a woman's, whispering at him to be quiet. Then muffled laughter.

What was a man doing here? Holly's dad didn't live here for some reason. Then she remembered the man Holly's mum had been meeting, the architect. Perhaps he had slept in the spare room. But in the middle of everything that was happening, Marilyn wasn't sure. She understood so little.

There was a knock at the door, and Holly's mum came in, wearing the white dressing gown. She was smiling, looking a bit tousled.

“Morning love. Have a good night? Didn't hear you come in. You okay? Good time with Kyle? I wish I'd had friends like him when I was your age.”

Marilyn was used to Holly's mum not waiting for answers to her questions. She stayed under the duvet, pretending to be asleep.

“Hung over I suppose. Binge drinking, not good for you, you know that. Don't suppose I'll see you till lunch time. I'm going to have a shower, then I'm going out for breakfast, with Martin. He's a sweetie. See you later.”

Martin? Breakfast out? Nobody had breakfast out.

Marilyn sighed and turned over in bed. As she did. a piece of paper slid onto her hand. She picked it up. It was the paper she found behind the cupboard in the kitchen. She'd forgotten about it with everything that happened yesterday.

She opened it out and put her hand over her eyes so she could read it without her head hurting too much. She noticed a dull throbbing in her arm.

The writing was big and straggly. It looked like whoever wrote it didn't often write much down. Or it was someone who was upset.

Read the letter. Read the letter, you stupid cow!

Didn't you find it? In the kitchen? Behind the cupboard?

She must have. Unless someone else did. Mum maybe. My mum. My mum would chuck it away without even looking. Maybe she's missing me? But then I realise she doesn't know I've gone anywhere. She thinks Marilyn's me.

She probably likes her better than me.

Not that I care.

If I could get to Marilyn in the dream – if I can feel the sting on my arm, where she was stabbed, then we're connected. Somehow. I can't believe it. Can't begin to think how it's all going on. Does my head into try. But we're connected, I know we are. I just need to work it out. Work out how to make her listen.

Can't see why she should want to come back to this dump.

I'm not Marilyn Bolton. I'm Holly Newman. Holly.