Page 9 of Vying Girls
She’s got Tilda by the hand, the thing veritably swaying. If she was my girl, I would have taken her home by now. A sense of urgency claws at me. Any longer and she won’t be conscious for what I have to say. But I need her alone, away from Haz and Elly. No small feat.
I look up at the club, some small rock venue. Haz is right, they’ve locked up. Doors shut tight, no bouncers, no music. Looking around, I can’t really blame them. Someone must have tipped them off.
‘So, now what?’ Elly says.
‘Tilda, get your phone out,’ Haz orders.
Tilda does, but not before dropping it on the ground first. I shake my head. She’s fucking wasted.
She thumbs open the app, wiping away insistent raindrops. A group of boys boo loudly at the closed club, one throwing a plastic cup of beer at the barred windows.
Then the whole scene’s suddenly awash in blue flashing lights.
‘Oh, and here come the po-po,’ Haz says, loving every minute of this. She’s like a duck. Doesn’t feel the rain, never feels cold.I shiver in my hooded smock, growing more miserable by the second.
We’re moved on, walking aimlessly through dark streets in the vague direction of the ferry terminal. Nobody’s ready to call it a night, taunting the coppers with pig grunts and snide shouts. They’re itching to do something. I can see it in their faces. Apart from drinking in public, they can’t nick us for shit.
Be out by morning even if they did. Fina’s here. She’s good for stuff like that.
‘Here!’ Tilda exclaims, waving her phone at us. ‘The Hidden Library. Sweet, I love that place.’
I nod. It’s not bad, some underground venue, a defunct library replete with bookshelves and old banker’s lamps nailed down on tables.
The chants grow louder as we regroup, revitalised by the knowledge that the night’s not over.
We funnel in through the double doors, past the drenched bouncer who doesn’t seem fussed on IDs. It’s a long, dark way down to the bar. Tilda’s dead in front of me, risking her life by refusing to hold the handrail. She slips more than once; each time my treacherous hand reaches out to righten her. She shakes me off, making me want to push her instead. But that wouldn’t serve me. Not in the long run.
There are a couple of hours until the last ferry and everyone’s determined to make the most of it. They cram the bar, pits open on the dance floor, and there’s still the anticipation of the final Anarchy trick or treat.
I watch Tilda dance, makeup smeared, hair black with rainwater and foam. Will I be a trick or treat for her? We’ve gotten used to this. Months of mutual animosity. Keeping each other at arm’s length. There’s a comfort in it for both of us. Do I really want to demolish those barriers? It’s not so much a wantthan aneed.A need for culpability. Shared pain. A reckoning of sorts.
And it has to be tonight. The skies are shaking with it.
Doesn’t mean I can’t toy with her first.
There’s a stain on her t-shirt from where I bumped her earlier. My body still remembers the feel of her in the toilets, when she’d tried to shove me away. She’s prickly, like a bramble bush. And I’m a masochist for wanting to get caught on her thorns.
But she’s no different. New Year’s Eve, a night that still haunts my mind, she’d done exactly that.Daredme to kiss her. I hadn’t known what that was about; wasn’t going to let it happen. But it’s less the challenge she offered, and more the look in her eyes. I’d been distracted by those lips, so close to mine, cracked with lipstick. It’s only after I remembered how the rest of her looked. Defiant, sacrificial. She wanted me to kiss her because she knew I would hate it.
And I would. But only because I would have liked it.
I’m glad I walked away. The moment our lips grazed, a klaxon went off, acute panic flaring. She’s lucky I only spat on her. I’m a fire she doesn’t want to play with.
But the tables have turned tonight. She’s the fire I’m burning my fingertips on.
We’re dancing so close; we have no choice. It’s not a large club, too small for tonight’s turnout.
I don’t mean to spill drink on her this time, but of course she doesn’t believe that. She stops dancing, mopping at her top whilst shooting me daggers.
‘What’—she reaches out, shoving me hard—‘thefuckis your problem?’
Just one?
Doesn’t matter my intentions, I’m not sorry for it.
‘Just trying to jog your memory,’ I taunt. ‘Is it working?’
‘You’re fuckingweird.’
