Page 123 of Vying Girls

‘Wouldn’t get complacent.’ I stand up too. ‘Come on. My tent’s just up here.’

The forest is infinitely darker after basking in the trap’s backlight. I keep my torch pointed at our feet, but Tilda arcs hers around more fretfully.

‘I have a knife in my tent.’

‘Is that for me or him?’

I chuckle, stepping into the clearing where my tent is. ‘Haven’t decided yet.’

‘So, this is where you’ve been hiding.’ She looks around. ‘Not so close to the cliffs this time.’

She stands by the tent, peering at me as though waiting further instruction.

‘Go on then.’

‘What, you’re actually going to let me?’

I push past her with a shrug, yanking open the zip. ‘Walk back to the lodge if you want.’

She follows me in as I knew she would. It’s a two-man tent but with her inside too, it seems to shrink to the size of a thimble. She’s shivering as she looks around, balanced on her knees, trying not to touch my sleeping area. I flick on the LED lamp, doing my best to ignore how my skin crawls having her here.

‘Why do you always sleep out here?’

I pour some water into a pan, clanking it down on the tiny gas stove. ‘For the peace and quiet.’

‘Reminds me of our tipi,’ she says with a small smile. ‘Do you remember?’

I grunt in acknowledgement, pulling the tent flap wide so I don’t carbon monoxide us. Tilda rubs the goosebumps on her arms in silent protest.

Suppose that would put an end to all this shit. Not like that hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind these last few months. Might be bad taste to do it on our birthday.

Although—I smile grimly—she would probably see the poetry in that.

Once the water’s heated, I pour it into an enamel mug and hand it to her. She takes it gratefully, her entire body shuddering upon first sip.

‘Are you not having one?’

‘Only got one cup. Besides, it’s not me freezing to death.’

Ignoring the tenderness of Tilda’s smile, I fish around for something for her to wear.

I find my rumpled grey joggers and a hoodie, holding them out. ‘I’ve worn them a few times but better than sleeping in that dress.’

‘Thank you,’ she says quietly, pulling the offerings onto her lap.

I turn away, loosening my tie and waistcoat. The suit will do me. It’s comfortable enough. Need to go back to the lodge at some point to do a wash. Maybe stay a night or two. Feels like an age since I last hung out with the others.

I glance back just as Tilda’s fighting to get her feet into the joggers. The hoodie rucks up, baring her scars. Except they’re not scars, they’re stark and red and angry. I grit my teeth, blood simmering as it does each time I see them.

‘When did you start that?’

Tilda looks at me then down at her cuts. She sighs, yanking the trousers up to cover them. ‘A long time ago.’

‘And you still do it.’

‘Clearly.’

There’s a certain finality to her tone that I choose to respect. It’s past midnight now, no longer our birthday, but I’ve no desire to break this truce.