Game Girls by Judy Waite Read Free Book Online Page B

Surbiton?
She did ask him but she's never any good at
remembering names of places. She wonders if
it's far away. Getting up, she pulls on her
dressing gown, the pink fleece all soft and
warm. She walks carefully – the night must
always be tiptoed through, she should never
disturb a guest. Soft-footed as a cat she pads to
the window.
    The river is oily black and its skin shivers in
the spittling rain. The green marker lights wink
on and off and a couple of houseboats are lit by
deck lanterns, but mostly everywhere is dark. A
gull skims past, headed for the sea, its mewling
call like a cry for help.
    Fern remembers the dog.
    She used to dream about it. Usually it was
the dream of what happened, but once she
dreamed that it came up out of the boggy
riverbed. It crawled into the house, slinking up
the stairs and into her room, dripping brown
ooze and scrags of weed down onto the carpet.
She knew it had been trying to find her. And in
her dream she might have felt sorry for it
except it suddenly broke out through its
slimed-mud skin and it wasn't a dog anymore:
it was a girl with her head thrown back in a
silent scream, tiny slithering eels all splattering
from her mouth.
    Fern shivers now and pulls the belt of the
soft pink dressing gown tighter. She shouldn't
be thinking of things like this. She wants her
head just flooded with Aaron. Conjuring up
the magic again, the memory of the evening
stirs round her. It has been beautiful. Brilliant.
Running back through it she makes it properly
hers; pinches it into the shapes she wants. He
chose to sit with her. There were other girls,
but he stayed with her and even when he had
chances to go, he stayed. A new mood bubbles
up in her. She wants to laugh and sing and run
outside in the rain and who even cares about
the boggy brown sludge.
     
    * * *
     
    When Alix wakes they are both gone. She sits
up slowly, remembering. Oh God. Oh no.
    Gripping the corner of the table to steady
herself, she pulls herself out of bed and stands,
wavering, on the crumpled Fern birthday dress.
    Struggling to keep her balance, she lurches
across to the mirror. Oh God. God God God
again. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the
most wrecked one of all? The glass answers
back with silent disapproval. Her hair is wild,
her skin blanched, her eyes hollow and
strained.
    Two guys. God God God.
    She gropes for her robe, pulling it from the
chair behind, wrapping herself up. The cool
silk is comfortless. The embrace of a stranger.
    Heading for the window she draws back
one curtain, squinting out at the day. It's dry
now, the rain all blown away. On the drive
opposite a man in a green jumper is pruning
bushes, the shears making a heavy click of
sound. Next door a woman pulls up in a black
BMW, gets out, fires her automatic key ring at
the lock. From across the rooftops church bells
chime madly.
    So much noise.
    Too much happening.
    And Tom's four-by-four is gone.
    Alix turns back from the window, the glare
of the day too light and too bright. She wants
shadows and blankets. Hot chocolate. Dark
corners.
    So they went. What did they think of her?
What does she think of herself?
    Walking unsteadily out through the
bedroom door, she checks the landing. The
spare bedroom. The bathroom. No sign of
anyone sleeping over. Not even Courtney.
    She used to like the quiet, but today she is
unsettled by it.
    Downstairs in the kitchen dirty glasses crowd
the worktop. Crumbed plates. A half-chewed
pizza. She opens the fridge door and a can of beer
rolls out. Someone has covered the chilli with
cling film and crammed it in awkwardly,
wedging it between a French stick and an unused
lettuce. The smell assaults her and she turns
away, all the plates and pots shuddering as she
slams shut the door. At the sink she runs the tap,
rinses a glass and then fills it with water. She
drinks thirstily, the cold kicking her awake. She
splashes her face, dampens her hair. More water.
She needs more water.
    Still clutching the glass she walks