Rewind, page 2
“No, sit!” Diana ushered her to the abandoned camping chair nearby.
When mother and child were comfortably perched on the chair conversation resumed.
“It’s so peaceful here,”
“Isn’t it nice,” Diana agreed enthusiastically.
It was a welcome distraction from home. A welcome distraction from marking days off the calendar till her baby girl, her best friend, entered into mainstream school. It sounded stupid but she was worried about being left at home with just Christine. The child she had nothing in common with. Darren had offered that it might improve the relationship, some one on one time might do them both the world of good. Diana agreed, yet she couldn’t muster the enthusiasm for it.
Shit mother of the year material right there, she’d concluded.
“It’ll be nice to spend time with George… I just see the back of his head all the time,”
She didn’t sound bitter but she definitely sounded lonely.
“Marking?”
Amanda nodded.
Diana could relate. Marking season was the worst. Darren would be holed up in his office for hours upon hours, marking sheet after sheet. Concocting syllabuses, making class notes. There was a lot more to teaching than just moulding minds.
“I know I shouldn’t moan…”
“…But you feel lonely right?” Diana finished for her. Amanda let out a defeated sigh in response. Diana had been there, oh boy had she been there.
“We’ve been trying again…” Amanda alluded with a cock of her head.
“Oh…” Diana winced. That was a bad idea. She knew that from personal experience too. Babies didn’t fix failing marriages, they just made them worse. She’d done it with Christine. She’d been feeling lonely, Darren thought another child would help her. She’d originally not wanted a second child, she’d been content with just one. Darren did though, he wanted another child. Secretly he’d wanted a son. They had a baby for him, not for her.
It nearly broke them up. The bad pregnancy another pressure on a pressure cooker situation. Little Christine didn’t know it but she was almost the cause of a divorce.
“…I’m still using the pill…” Amanda confessed.
Oh. Diana recoiled. Her attention turned slowly to Amanda who looked guilty. She didn’t know what to say. Should she congratulate her on the idea, praising her for making the intelligent choice? Or should she condemn her for betraying her husband?
It was a tough call…
“MUMMMY!!!!!”
The scream froze Diana’s insides instantly. The reverberation turning every fibre of her soul into ice. She threw her attention backwards.
“MUMMMY!!!” Bridget was screaming, her finger pointed into the lake. She was wet, shiny and sodden with water.
Diana stared for a moment, knowing there was something wrong with the picture yet she couldn’t it. Her stomach turned and she couldn’t fathom it. She couldn’t focus on it.
Bridget was crying and screaming, her pretty voice suddenly hoarse with the violence of the pitch.
“CHRISTINE!” Darren roared breaking into view. A cardboard box tumbled carelessly out of his arms as he tore towards the lake.
It instantly snapped into place. Christine was missing. Now the picture before her made sense. Christine was in the lake. She’d disappeared into the lake!
She watched Darren charge forward, bursting into the water after his daughter. She couldn’t move. She was paralysed, with fear.
Bridget was sobbing as she began charging forward.
“MUMMY!”
It was the ignition she needed. She threw herself onto her feet, the maternal compulsion to protect taking over her body. She scooped Bridget up, meeting her half way. Darren dove beneath the water.
He emerged a few seconds later. He was empty handed.
“CHRISTINE!” He roared.
It hit Diana like a truck, she crumpled to the floor in terror. Oh god, where was Christine…?!
She pulled Bridget close, nearly crushing her little body with fear.
“I can’t get signal!” George shouted appearing from the corner of her sight. He threw the mobile phone to the floor as he tore into the lake himself.
He dove fully clothed into the lake and joined his best friend.
Lily began crying hysterically from nearby, but Diana was barely conscious of the sound.
All she could hear was the thumping of her heartbeat in her ears.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
Darren erupted from the water, taking a huge gulp of air.
There was a confusing moment in the water and then she realised he was climbing out. Their daughter was in his arms.
Christine was limp, lifeless like a doll.
George emerged alongside him.
Diana’s hands instinctively curled around Bridget’s head. Covering her face and preventing her from seeing the events unfolding.
Darren made it to the embankment, he crashed to the soil beach. He begun resuscitating their daughter, making firm compressions on her chest and following with breaths.
“Hello? Hello?! Can you hear me?!” Amanda shouted into her mobile phone, competing with the screaming child attached to her hip.
Transfixed and paralysed, Diana remained locked to the spot.
“Ambulance!” Amanda roared.
Again and again Darren pumped their little girl’s chest. Trying to work her back to life.
“Please… please don’t be dead…” Diana’s voice croaked out of her throat. She wasn’t even aware her thoughts had finally been turned into sound.
The maternal instinct that Diana had felt she’d lacked burst into action. She felt nausea sink its wicked hooks into her stomach, she felt that metallic taste in the back of her throat.
Then Christine coughed, arced upright and spluttered for air.
Their daughter was alive!
CHAPTER TWO:
15:11pm 26th October 2015
Bridget White was idly doodling on the corner of her sketchpad. Some sort of skull with a tribal inky aesthetic, she didn’t really have any plan. It was a truly idle doodle. Around her the classroom was quietly buzzing with hushed conversations, it amounted to nothing but a quiet background hum. The tutor was out of the room, having appeared to set the class off and then promptly disappearing. It subsequently resulted in very little work being done.
The class of artists were mostly procrastinators anyway, they needed little excuse.
The task was: an ink rendering of a dream/nightmare.
It was the kind of stuff that Bridget thrived on. Watercolours were her thing, there was something about the watery hues and unpredictable nature of the paint that inspired her. Her art style was not about precision, it was about an impression. She would’ve died before using the term “impressionist” as a description though.
She’d made a couple of attempts already, digging into Google and emulating ink blots. So far she’d not found anything to latch onto, no striking idea had come to mind that would propel her to the top of the class once more. She just couldn’t concentrate, “it” wasn’t there.
There was too many other things on her mind, too many emotions clouding her mind’s eye. So instead she was doodling skulls in her sketchpad with her beloved black marker pen.
If Bridget was a stereotype she’d be one of those punk-ish vamp girls that emerged unscathed in a horror movie, or one of the girls who became a witch. She was blonde, a bottle blonde. A harsh abrasive yellow that brought her already natural blonde hair into the world of complete blonde. Her fringe was a neat straight line across her brow. The length of her hair fell around her shoulders. Today she was wearing a thick black headband above her fringe. It was her go-to look. Her eyes were smudged with black make up, giving her that gothic twinge she felt drawn to. Her cool blue eyes were distant, occupied and saturated with thoughts. She didn’t wear any other make-up, her complexion was good. She’d suffered the occasional break out of spots but she’d never been cursed with acne. She’d look at the few who’d fallen foul of that curse and pitied them. Not only was it socially shunned but it looked pretty sore too. Bridget could only wonder how they felt.
Bridget had felt people’s judgement a few times herself, she could empathise. She’d been bullied briefly, mostly because of her intelligence. Thankfully it didn’t last long and had not really caused her any great harm. It just made her aware that there was always someone insecure who was desperate to poke holes in your life. She’d spent a year or so being teased for her body shape too; she’d gone through a particularly ugly duckling phase in her early teens. The year she developed breasts is also the year she piled on a few extra pounds, she went from being pretty slender to considerably-not-so. She’d also cut her hair short, which made her rather broad shoulders looked even broader. She’d heard people whisper how she looked like a butch lesbian. Then the next summer, the extra pounds just seemed to fall off and she grew her hair back. She returned to school and nobody discussed her body ever again. She’d never actively dieted so where the extra weight went she didn’t know. It just fell off.
Now at the age of 17, she was pretty desirable. She’d heard a guy once bandy her name around with the prettiest girls in college. It had been an ego boost for sure but she didn’t really care. Her little taste of bullying had taught her to simply “not give a fuck”. She’d learned to be comfortable in her own skin and that’s exactly how she remained. That wasn’t saying some days she never got up and hated some part of her body. She wasn’t perfect by any means.
Being freed of the shackles of school and entering college had also undone the shackles on her personality. She was finally permitted to dress just the way she liked.
Today she was wearing a white blouse, open at the top by a few buttons. Over it she wore a man’s jumper; two sizes too big and a rich deep blue. It was her father’s, she’d procured it from his wardrobe one day. She’d stretched it out so it hung off the shoulder a little and the sleeves were distorted and baggy. She spent majority of her day rolling them back up, her black bangles and bracelets clanging together as she did so. Her father had originally been unimpressed that she’d borrowed his jumper, and then ruined it - but she’d countered that she’d never seen him wear it. It still had the tag on it when she’d removed it from the wardrobe.
He’d said he would eventually wear it one day, she told him that the shop he’d bought it from had been long shut. Woolworths hadn’t been open for years, that’s how old the jumper was. Her mother had finished the argument, stating that it looked better on Bridget than the hanger.
For Father’s day she bought him a new jumper, one of similar style and colour as the one she’d stolen. He’d never worn it, it hung on the hanger in the wardrobe and Bridget was somewhat convinced he was doing that to prove a point.
She was wearing a black mini skirt. A pretty short one but not completely devoid of taste. Her father had remarked it was almost a belt, so she’d given him the obligatory eye roll. This was longer than mid thigh, hovering just above her knees. She finished the look with long black stockings and boots. Thick steel toe-capped boots. It was the only item of clothing her father liked but he only liked it because it was a form of self defence. He was a worrier.
Her denim jacket was draped on the back of her stool. It was stone wash denim and it had been expensive. She’d customised it with a plethora of badges, mostly bands and rock music symbols. By all appearances Bridget was a rock chick only it wasn’t very true. She had a great appreciation of rock music, but she had a great appreciation of music in general. Her favourite band was Placebo but that didn’t mean she didn’t indulge in the cheesy 80’s or swing around in her bedroom to the sounds of the 60’s. Bridget’s idea of good music was finding the unknown gems, going to gigs where she had no idea what to expect. She’d had some of the best moments of her life at these random gigs. Being invited backstage at an indie festival and meeting Steve Carell of “The Milk” fame was definitely the highest point.
Bridget loved SoundCloud, she could lose herself for hours just rooting through all the unknown people just listening to their music. Listening to their soul, listening to their pain.
“You okay?” A female hand enveloped hers. The milky hand encompassed her own. Bridget was struck for a moment by how pretty the nails were. They were all painted different shades, but not in a trite rainbow kind of way. Bridget had opted for black herself.
“Yeah, I’m cool,” Bridget answered lifting her gaze from the skull to her friend.
Max smiled warmly at her but she didn’t look totally convinced.
“You alright?” Bridget enquired. Max hesitated for a moment, she was still deciding whether Bridget truly was ok. Her dogged loyalty was one of her most amazing attributes. She was the best best-friend you could ever want. Loyal to the end. That meme on social media was true, your best friend was the person who’d help you bury a body. Max would, Bridget knew that without a doubt.
She was short, a little overweight. Not fat, but definitely not a twig. Most girls would be unhappy with their body at Max’s size, yet she was quite happy. As she happily concluded once, “I exercise, I’m active. I don’t smoke. If I want a fucking pizza I can… I’d rather eat pizza than be fucking miserable,”.
She had a light brown bob, with an off centre parting. It was so sharp and angular that Bridget had described it as a footballer’s wife haircut. Max had immediately knew who she meant and had nearly died of laughter. She now made a point of making duck-pouts just like the celebrity. That was the beauty of their friendship, they were on the same wavelength. Often they could finish each other’s sentences.
They should’ve been born sisters.
Max was rocking jeans, t-shirt and a blazer today. It was one of her favourite looks, in her words it emphasised “the junk in her trunk,”. Indeed her ass did look good, even Bridget who was definitely a heterosexual woman would be mesmerised by it sometimes. If only she had an ass like that, she sometimes wished. “You got the tits,” Max would say.
It was true, Bridget had the cleavage.
It was a mixed blessing, it was nice to have a good “rack” but it was pretty disappointing when most guys talked to it instead of you.
Max had finished her look with a touch of eye liner and her practicing had paid off. She was rocking a sultry pair of cats-eyes. Bridget had often tried to push Max into make-up artistry, she was unbelievably talented with it. Max however didn’t quite think herself good enough, so she’d opted for the decidedly safer option of “chemistry” and the indulgence of “Art”.
Bridget had chosen “Art” and she’d also chosen “English”. She was torn which way she wanted to go. She enjoyed the art but she enjoyed writing too. It was like choosing between your left and right arm. Or favourite child.
“Max, I’m alright…” Bridget answered definitively, “I was just having a moment,”
Max nodded willing to let it drop.
She dragged her stool up to Bridget’s desk. Scraping the metal legs on the floor as she did so. The sound did not go unnoticed.
“Your ink blot not going well?” Bridget remarked dropping the permanent marker in her pencil case. Max shook her head and sighed, she leant up and appraised Bridget’s idle doodle. Bridget’s mother had warned that the pair of them taking the same class might backfire on them both but it hadn’t ever become a problem. If anything Bridget was the bad influence upon Max. Max could often concentrate in class, it was very rarely she left her desk.
“It’s shit. Fucking shit.” Max shook her hands dramatically. People had often said that Max had a bad habit of swearing, that she should tone it down a bit. Bridget however adored it, she found the coarse language charming. Just like the faint little cockney twang still present in her voice. She had moved from “darn sarf” almost a decade ago, one day appearing in Bridget’s class out of nowhere. By the end of the week they were best friends. They had remained like that ever since, of course they’d had a few spats. The odd week of silence when one of them, full of hormones and grasping a wrong end of a stick, got a bee in their bonnet about something. They always made up eventually.
Max was very much a different breed of fish up in the northern sleepy town of Wintervale. It was what Bridget loved most. Without her she was sure she’d have fallen into a coma long ago.
“We still getting our noses pierced for your eighteenth?” Max began rooting through Bridget’s pencil case.
Bridget nodded. She wanted her right nostril piercing, she’d fallen in love with the idea of having a small silver hoop through it. Her parents weren’t that thrilled by the idea but they were just grateful it wasn’t a tattoo. Bridget desperately wanted a tattoo but she couldn’t find the perfect thing to have inked onto her skin. She was rightfully picky about it.
As Max removed a yellow felt tip pen and began drawing a flower in the corner of Bridget’s sketchpad, Bridget studied her face again. Max had a long face, a little oblong. Her nose was small and pointed. Would the piercing look right? Bridget wasn’t so sure… She’d resigned herself to the fact she might have to nudge Max in a different come the day they went to the parlour. All she could see was this harsh angular bob and a bulbous diamante stud. She would look…cheap. Bridget obviously hadn’t said anything yet, but she was determined to guide Max discreetly. That’s what best friends were for, tweaking those god-awful ideas. Her original plan was to get a “Monroe” piercing. That had to be immediately put to rest, Max did not have the cheeks for it. Or even the face. She loved her best friend and there was no way she was going to let her fall down the path to cheap trash.
“What about tongue…?” Bridget offered aloud. She sounded like she was wondering about it. Max slowly lifted her eyes. She’d been down this road before. It hadn’t been that long ago that Bridget had wavered over her nose or lip. Her expression was definitely one of bemusement.
Max shrugged. Bridget made a dramatic face that read “I just don’t know!”
“Tongues are pretty good…” She added. She watched Max. No flicker of interest.
