Page 13 of Vying Girls
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 nother.’
‘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 façade, 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 longerthis.We’ve never beenthis,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.’
