Page 109 of Tricky Girls

Unlike us, Tilda does knock. She enters with a smile and a plate in her hand, those tiny shorts of hers doing nothing to hide her scars. I flit my eyes over them. No new ones.

‘Looks like I’ve been beaten to the punch.’

‘No problem, we accept late arrivals. Especially if they look like you.’

Tilda holds out the plate with a flourish. ‘Here you are, birthday girl.’

‘Fuck, Tilda.’ Haz sits up to take the offering—all her favourite cooked breakfast foods. ‘Marry me?’

Tilda chuckles. ‘Just for today.’ She returns to the door, eyes bouncing to me then quickly to Elly. ‘There’s enough for you guys too. Beans are still on the hob.’

‘Fuck, yes.’ Elly jumps up, smashing Haz’s wrapping paper into a ball with her hands. ‘Tilda, you’re a fucking legend.’

I rise more slowly. ‘Don’t be getting food all over the house, people.’

Haz snorts, shovelling in her beans. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘You know there’s literally going to be no one at Vipers later?’ Tilda sips from one of Haz’s beers, the can bright yellow anddepicting the Grim Reaper. ‘Everyone’s pretty much gone home already.’

We have the fake fire on, the widows shut tight, a video of a Christmas scene on the telly.

Bunch of damn old biddies.

Though it pisses me off, Tilda’s made a good day of it for Haz. We weren’t sure what to do with her until tonight but Tilda managed to fill the gap with attention, jokes and hugs whenever Haz demanded them.

For Haz’s sake, I’m thankful to her.

‘Yeah, that’s the point,’ Haz says. ‘We have the whole place to tear up. It’ll be fun as fuck.’

She pitches forward to grab another beer from the box but is stopped by Tilda.

‘Haz, you can’t.’ At Haz’s incredulous look, she says, ‘Not until later.’

‘Can’t drink on my own motherfucking birthday?!’

‘Seriously, you can’t drink anymore until after your surprise.’

That seems to assuage her.

‘Alright.’ She flops back on the sofa, pulling Tilda to her. ‘Do I get another birthday treat instead?’

Tilda puts her hand flat to her chest. ‘You’ve already exceeded your monthly allowance for that.’

Whatever that means.

When five o’clock rolls around, we’re traipsing through the forest, light bouncing off pine trunks from the headtorches Tilda insisted Elly and Haz will need.

‘Some kind of ghost tour?’ It’s about the billionth guess Haz has made.

‘Nope,’ Tilda says. ‘Though I’d be down for that. My birthday maybe?’

‘When’s that?’ Elly asks.

‘Not until next year.’

Yeah, still know that one. It’s the same as mine. Some weird synchronicity we’d been thrilled to discover as kids, but now just feels like a cosmic joke.

She leads us around the edge of campus, on paths that have seen better days. In the distance there’s the bobbing of other headtorches and the thrum of quad bikes.

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