Page 6 of Vying Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #2)

‘Guys…’ Elly looks at me almost pleadingly. Tilda’s too gone to be swayed at this point. Yeah, well, me too. I’m fused to the wall, pinned by this hellcat.

‘Elly!’ Haz shouts irritably, joining the swell of other students.

Elly gives us one last look before sighing. ‘Look the hell after her, Nic.’

She joins Haz who pushes her along. ‘Just fuck, you’ll feel better!’ she shouts to us.

I look down at Tilda. Haz doesn’t know how far off the mark she is with that one.

There’s not much to do but wait out the rain. It reaches its peak, so clamorous Tilda wouldn’t even hear a word I said anyway.

She’s not looking at it. She’s still pressed against me. Think she’s using me for body heat at this point. Don’t know if she’s even aware of it.

There’s no scowl on her face now, but something equally as conflicting. I wait it out, wanting to hear whatever spills from her mouth without her usual walls up.

‘You’re not even ugly,’ she says eventually.

My eyebrow twitches. I try not to smile. ‘Neither are you.’

She pushes me gently. ‘You hurt me.’

‘What?’

‘Earlier.’ She frowns down at her arm. ‘Look, I have a literal bruise.’

I eye the small mark. ‘Why are you showing me? Need me to kiss it better?’

She drops her arm, regaining some fire as she balls her fists. ‘Be a bruise today, but something else tomorrow.’

I knit my brows, not keen on that insinuation. Hadn’t meant to hurt her. Not like that. Pisses me off that I did.

I take her arm, turning it round to see better. Her skin’s cold, slippery. The mark’s only a tiny thing. Maybe it’ll bruise, maybe it won’t.

I release her. ‘You’ve always bruised easily.’

She shakes off my perturbing comment. Because how would I know that? Come on, Tilda. Fucking see me. My heart beats quicker, a defence against this cold.

‘You don’t get to hurt me,’ she slurs. ‘I’m not her.’

‘Who?’

‘Mum!’ Sudden tears flood her eyes. I stand straighter, the sight calling me to attention.

‘What about your mum?’

She shakes her head, swiping at her face.

Jesus, she’s a wreck. Exactly how much of that black moonshine did she have?

I consider her words. Not talking about Dad, is she? He never hurt her. Never did half the shit Tilda claimed he did.

‘Callum,’ she whimpers.

I frown. ‘Who?’

She sighs, swaying in her little checkered canvas shoes. ‘Just a fucker.’ She looks behind us at the ghostly sound of the ferry horn. ‘We’ve missed the boat.’

‘Seems so.’

‘So, what, we just die then?’

‘As if we’re that lucky.’ Seeing a lapse in the rain, I push off the wall. ‘Come on. Let’s find somewhere dry.’

It’s not a pretty building, doesn’t even pretend to be. But it’s close to the ferry terminal, the rates are cheap and they’re not picky on boarders.

‘Tide’s Edge?’ Tilda says.

We stand under a tree as I finish my latest cigarette. I know Tilda hates them so I took great pleasure in lighting it up. Plus, it makes me feel warmer. An illusion, probably.

I eye the brick facade, three storeys high, as wide as it is tall. It hugs the corner of a defunct warehouse, the pavement outside littered with soggy newspapers and stray plastic wrap.

‘Isn’t it supposed to be, like, super haunted?’ she goes on. ‘People have killed themselves and stuff.’

The cig burns down, heating my fingertips. I ignore the pain, dragging until there’s nothing left. Prolonging this moment. Because the second we get inside, we’re no longer this. We’ve never been this, only Tilda hadn’t known.

‘Either that or a bench somewhere.’

She doesn’t argue further. She looks done to be honest, swaddled in my smock because I’m a fucking gentleman.

‘You look like a damn toddler,’ I scoff.

She only looks at me with tired eyes. The fight’s seeping from her; I need to claw it back.

‘Reminds me of that dress.’ I eye her carefully. She’s looking at me but nothing’s clicking, nothing ever does. ‘Your mum’s. The black one. With the lace. Spiderwebs, remember? You used to say that.’ I walk my fingers up her shoulder, the canvas of the smock cold and wet. ‘I was your spider.’

There’s a slight furrow in her brow. Her mouth parts, maybe to say something, but she’s interrupted by the drunken screams of other students. As wet as us, those useless white t-shirts clinging.

‘There you are. We’re not the only ones to miss the ferry.’

Tilda turns back to the inn. ‘I can’t afford a room.’

I chuckle, encouraging her on. ‘My treat.’

She’s like a puppet, moving where I make her, those dull eyes blinking at nothing. I snag us a room easily enough, student discount and everything.

I pull Tilda up the stairs, the old, worn carpet the colour of blood. We’re on the top floor, up a tiny staircase that’s probably caused more than a few broken bones. No matter. There’s a nice sea view to compensate.

Apart from the wind shaking the windows, the patter of rain on glass, it’s dead silent in the room.

Like Tilda’s not even here. Knees pulled to her chest on the bed, silent as a mouse.

If I turned my back, I can almost pretend I’m alone.

I do just that, not afraid she’ll run now. She’s mine until morning.

I get the shitty electric heater going, trying to peel off my jeans. Wet denim’s just fucking awful. I drag over a chair, not trusting the heater not to catch my clothes.

I’m down to my underwear when I feel eyes on me, body goosebumping under her gaze.

‘You don’t wear boxers?’

I frown. ‘No. Don’t like them.’

She rests her head on her knees, still watching. But it’s a vacant kind, devoid of consequence. ‘How come you aren’t cold all the time? Being that skinny.’

‘Magic.’

She blinks blearily, watching me hang my clothes. Just in my briefs and bra now, both damp and itchy as fuck.

‘Do you believe in magic?’

I huff out a breath. The significance of that question, she has no idea. She taught me magic, that pragmatic, sullen kid who saw the world in only shades of grey. Tilda was a rainbow, showing me colour and glitter and a love I’ve both been running to and away from ever since.

‘Once upon a time.’

‘Same. As a kid.’

I catch her eyes. ‘I know.’

‘What?’ Rubbing her face into her arms, she groans. ‘Fuck, my head is killing.’

I nod to her hair. ‘Take that thing out.’

‘What thing?’

‘This.’ I lunge over the bed, yanking the scrunchy from her high ponytail.

‘Ow! Fuck.’ She reaches a hand to her scalp, face creased in pain.

‘That used to work on you as a kid too.’ I smile at her confused expression. ‘Magic and scrunchies.’

‘How do you know anything like that?’ Before I can answer, she blows out an explosive breath, legs jiggling. ‘I’m so fucking cold, I can’t concentrate.’

‘Take your clothes off and get under the covers. I won’t look. Not like your buddies.’

‘They’re not my buddies. They’re my…well, Elly’s my girlfriend.’

She trips over the word, the fucking het. Swear to God, if she breaks Elly’s heart one of these days…

‘Does she know that?’

‘We’ve not talked but…I know she feels the same.’

‘And Haz?’

Now she frowns, closing her eyes to my probing gaze. ‘Why do you care? Just stop saying stuff. You’re not my mum.’ She lets out a weak giggle. ‘Not like she’d care.’

No, I bet. She hadn’t much back then either. Can’t remember a single conversation I had with the woman apart from when she was mining for shit on Dad.

She was pretty, like Tilda. All tattoos and long, black-dyed hair. It wasn’t just that Dad was interested in, it was the rest of it. The poverty, the broken image. He always did like a project. Should have left that one well alone.

The heater’s burning me now but I’m reluctant to venture to the bed. Nowhere else to go that’s not the toilet. Can’t call it a bathroom; there’s not even a shower.

Tilda raises her head suddenly, looking around. ‘Are we staying here all night?’

‘That’s kind of the point. Next ferry isn’t until eight.’

‘Eight?!’

‘It’s a Sunday, Tilda. Keep up.’

She sighs, burying her face back in her arms. I watch her, blood boiling. I’ve not got long until she crashes. If I’m still going to do this.

But then she starts shucking her clothes, and it’s me feeling like a ghost in the room.

‘My bra’s soaked so I’m taking it off.’

I shrug and turn away. ‘You do you.’

I listen to her rustling, her muffled curse when she sways into the wall. My mind supplies me with images I’d rather not have. Maybe I can camp on this chair until morning. Away from Tilda and her rain-slicked flesh.

I chance a look when all falls quiet. She’s huddled beneath the duvet, watching me from slitted, makeup smeared eyes.

‘You really hate me that much?’

It sounds like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down. I approach the bed like I would my execution.

‘Get the light.’

She moves up and flicks it off. It takes her to the edge of the bed, facing away. I hug the other edge, closing my eyes. I feel like a cat, sleeping but not. Aware of everything. Ready to run.

My body still thrums from all the sugary shit I’ve drunk tonight, ears ringing from the loud music. I release a slow breath, valiantly trying to ignore Tilda’s violent shivering.

After five more minutes, I’ve had enough.

‘You’re pissing me off. Stop shaking the bed.’

‘Can’t warm up,’ she gasps out.

‘Fuck off and run some laps then.’

She lets out a shuddering breath, quilt pulling as she curls into herself.

God, I’m going to throw up. It’s like being on the fucking ferry.

Gritting my teeth, I flop over. I can just about see her. There’s a streetlamp outside and the curtains aren’t exactly blackout. She’s practically beneath the duvet, just her damp little head poking out.

‘Tilda.’

‘What?’ she replies irritably. ‘ Shit.’

I let out a frustrated sigh. It’s not like I care for her, but she’s not exactly amenable for information in this state.

I inch over, recoiling when I meet her body. ‘Jesus. You’re like a corpse. It’s not that cold out.’

‘Always had temperature regulation problems,’ she says shakily.

‘Always? Don’t remember that.’

She moves to turn over but stops at the feel of my arm coming around her. So fucking cold…so naked. I swallow when I graze the underside of her boobs.

‘How are you so warm?’ she whispers. ‘Also, isn’t this like killing you?’

‘Shut up.’

I keep my eyes closed, my breathing shallow. I’m struggling to take in air, my extremities tingling with it. Gonna pass out if I don’t get it together.

‘Haz would beat your ass if she saw you doing this with me.’

‘I said shut up.’

‘Elly would probably just be happy. She really wants us to be friends.’ Tilda chuckles at the impossibility of that.

I watch the window over her shoulder. The streetlamp enlarges the raindrops on the window. They look sentient, wiggling across the glass. Like those squiggles you see when you close your eyes.

We’ve done this before, me and Tilda. Maybe not the cuddling, but the bed sharing.

We did it a lot. Endless sleepovers in that tipi Dad made for us.

She was a child of habit. Always wanting to do the same shit over and over again.

Her little rituals and comforts. The talk of magic reminds me of something, a long-lost memory resurfacing.

‘Do you remember how many times you made us watch The Secret Garden?’

I see it in my mind’s eye. She’d sit so close to the TV, remote control clasped in her hand. Fast-forwarding and rewinding, fast-forwarding and rewinding.

‘The bit where the kids did their spell. You were obsessed. You made us reenact it all the time.’

I hold my breath. Tilda’s still, too still. She cranes her head, drinking me in, her face a mask of confusion.

‘What?’

‘I think my favourite spell was to get rid of our parents.’ I smile at the memory, tightening my arm as Tilda fights my hold. ‘You wanted your mum’s jewellery, and I wanted Dad’s computer. You drew up a list of everything we were gonna do once they were gone. Guess that spell went a bit awry, hm?’

Tilda stares at me. It’s coming together, I can see it. She’s resisting, but it’s there.

‘Nic.’

‘Mm?’

‘What...?’ She shakes her head, mouth opening and closing like a fish. At least she’s warmer now. Adrenaline must be wracking her too.

She glances at the lamp but I don’t let her get it. I don’t want her looking at me. Would she still see a stranger? Or would she see her, that brown-eyed quiet girl who basked in her shadow like she was the fucking sun?

‘Or what about that cat?’ I grin, remembering so clearly. ‘You stole it from next door for me. Said if I wanted to be a witch, a proper witch, I needed a familiar like you had. Me. I was your familiar.’

‘Nic, you’re weirding me the fuck out.’

She tries pushing me away, but I squeeze harder. We’re chest to chest. She’s so cold, it’s like holding a cadaver.

‘And if it wasn’t for this’—taking her hand, I guide it to my leg—‘I wouldn’t have been allowed in your little witch club at all, would I?’

I graze her fingertips on my birthmark, the brown blemish a lot more stretched than it had been back then. But it’s still there, the two circles, one smaller, one bigger. The sun and moon, she used to say.

Her breath stutters. I remove my hand, letting her explore. Letting her remember.

Against her lips, so close to mine, I gust the words, ‘Do you remember me now?’

I don’t even need to see her face to know she does. It’s there in the hitch of her breath, the way her body’s stopped shivering, the hushed, incredulous way she whispers, ‘Oh my God…Nicole.’