Lines on Pages - Part Two

January 17, 11.00am

We’re going to get Charlotte out of the way before tonight. It was Susie’s idea, but we’ve all agreed to go along with it, even Justine. And Justine’s having a kind of a sulk about it, but she says okay, since she’s got it bad for Ian’s friend, also named Ian, – Also-Ian – I think I might start calling him that. She doesn’t want to babysit Charlotte.

Truth is, I think she regrets bringing her.

I could have told her it was a dumb idea.

#

I remember Charlotte. She was a year or two younger than we were, but she lived next door to Justine, and they’d sort-of, kind-of hit it off. At least for a bit. She was a twig of a thing, long-faced and shy, and always so neat. Even in a t-shirt and jeans she looked like she was heading into an office to work. Her hair was dark, in an immaculate French plait.

And Justine, who was brunette-bordering-on-redhead, alternating between brash and surly; while Susie was the daring one – even more so than me – and if I’m honest, I think she had a heart of granite.

Then again – and we learn these things later – rumours have emerged about her home life, how fucked-up-to-hell they’re saying it was. You grow a heart of granite to survive things like that.

 

January 17, 4.00pm

We did it! It worked.

We are the masterminds of cunning plans, so cunning you really could put a tail on them and call them a weasel.

Are weasels even cunning?

But Charlotte’s out of the picture, and it was so damn easy. I think there’s actually about five islands around here, in the shadow of this main one. Mostly tiny. But some of them have a little bit on them. And so the story was dead simple: we’re going to go over to that island there – it doesn’t have a name, I don’t think it has a name – there’s a whole bunch of birds that nest on it. We’ll see if we can find some. And rabbits and hedgehogs.

I knew it would work, because she loves animals. She’s a got a cat she’s always picking up and rubbing her cheek up against. She didn’t suspect a thing. We even sat and had a little picnic, and went to pretend to look for animals. There was a little cave, and when she went in first, we just had to wait until she was out of sight, and then we ran. Got straight in the boat, and fired up the engine. It felt like being in a movie. It was awesome.

She came running once we were too far out. She was standing on the beach holding her hands out like: what the fig? – she doesn’t get any more intense than that when it comes to f-words. She was puzzled. And the she started shouting at us to come back. We just waved and smiled.

Hey, we left her with food and water. And it’s only for one night. I feel like I should feel guilty or something, but I can’t. I figure this is like an experience that’ll shape her in life, and God knows her current life is so boring, just having this story to tell somebody might make her a more interesting person.

We’ll get her in the morning. She’ll be okay.

#

His footsteps. The cellar door. He’s carrying a bottle of red.

I look up, still bean-bag lounging. I tilt my head to see him standing over me.

“What’s that you’re reading.”

“A diary.”

“That’s private.”

“It’s mine, from 2012.”

“Oh?”

I fold the cover over. “Like you said, private.”

He sits down on the floor near me. “Do you even remember what was in it?”

“Some stuff.”

“About me?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Come on. What’re you hiding?”

I’m stupid. I don’t want him to read this. I don’t even know what I wrote. I don’t know if I wrote some horrible stuff about him or made some admission about something bad I did to him he might not remember right now. But there’s a glimmer of challenge in that question. And well, me and challenges: I flip the diary open again. “Go ahead.”

He settles beside me. Leaning on the beanbag. Like we’re a couple of kids again, reading over a picture book or looking at a photo album. “You had messy writing.”

Massive shrug: “Well, duh.”

 

January 17, 11.00pm

Oh my God! OMG! OMG!

This is soooo awesome. I’m pretty sure I’m drunk right now, and it’s the best. I feel like I’m walking on the deck of a ship and at the same time I can’t keep from smiling all over my face. I’ve got these cuts on my legs from the blackberries, and I don’t care a bit. Some of them look kinda deep, but I can hardly feel it. Walking on air, man. Whoa.

Duncan’s so hot.

And I got with him. I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he was into me. And I just sauntered up to him and slid my arm over his shoulder and told him I wanted to dance. I was so slick, so feminine, I had it all under control. And it was like I could have had anything I wanted from him; he was in the palm of my hand.

#

“Duncan Cox?”

“Yup.”

“You have to be kidding me.”

“I was fifteen.”

“You know he’s in prison right now?”

“Is he?”

“He got a year for blackmailing his boss.”

“Shit.”

“And you had a thing for him.”

“I was fifteen.”

Fifteen covers a lot of sins.

#

We went into the bushes together. I waved to Susie. She was dancing with her top off. She didn’t care. She waved back at me. She made sex gestures – you know, with finger and thumb, and then the finger on the other hand.

#

“Tell me you didn’t?”

“Didn’t?”

“Have sex with bloody Duncan Cox.”

“Well, since you ask, no. We made out. We felt each other up. We got scratched up with blackberries and nettles, that’s it.”

He leans over my shoulder.

#

Duncan’s a sloppy kisser. He was all over my face. And his hands were everywhere. He definitely wanted to go all the way. I almost did. It would have been epic. But he didn’t have protection.

#

“See.”

“Thank God.”

In hindsight, yeah, that’s a fair comment.

#

I just want to lie on the ground and stare at the stars forever. The way they move. I never knew before. I don’t want feeling like this to end. If I take a sip every four minutes I think that’ll be enough to keep me at just this level of drunk. No more, no less.

Note to self though: got to pick Charlotte up again tomorrow morning.

#

“Charlotte?”

Too late to close the book.

“Was she that mousy girl that came with you lot?”

“Yeah.”

#

January 18, 10:30am

We didn’t mean to do it. We didn’t know she was going to do that. How could we have? And it shouldn’t have been that big a deal, I mean it wasn’t all that far, and it’s not like there’s anything scarier than an eel or a trout in the lake. And it’s not like we were going to leave her there to starve to death. I don’t know what she was thinking.

All right, I guess this is a confession: we took the boat out to get her from the island. We figured she’d be mad at us and all, but there were the three of us, and one of her, and she’s not that big. But then we got to the island, and she wasn’t there. It’s not a big island. There aren’t that many places she could have gone. So maybe she was hiding, paying us back, and that would have kinda been okay. But she wasn’t anywhere. Not in the cave, or in the bush, nowhere. And we were calling for her, but she’d gone.

We didn’t know she’d swim. And we didn’t know she would panic. I’ve never seen anyone looking so scared. It took us half an hour to get her to stop clinging to that rock. To calm the hysteria. I don’t even know what got into her, why she was freaking that badly. I guess she’s more of a kid than I thought. But we weren’t trying to hurt her.

It seems cruel now, but we didn’t know how she’d react. We really didn’t.

#

Ian frowns: “it sounds like that kid could have drowned.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Or been mentally scarred or-“

“I get it already.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t even know it happened.”

“We calmed her down. And… we… warned… her not to say anything.”

“You can be a real shit.”

I want to smack him on the shoulder and tell him to leave off. Except of course that he’s right, and except what I remember:

Charlotte, half naked, on the beach of a second island, clinging to some jagged rocks, shaking and crying. Half dried vomit on her legs, in her lap. Just that look in her eyes. Nothing gets that out of your rear-view mirror.

I did that. That was me.

I look my brother Ian in the eyes. “I think there’s something I have to tell you.”

“What?”

“It’s about Selina.”

“What is it?”

“You can’t hate me for this.”

“You annoy me and exasperate me, but I’m hardly going to hate you.”

I can feel my face crumple. You are though. “Look. Last year. I was meeting Selina for coffee, and she was talking about this old friend of hers, who was coming to town. She was going on about him-”

“Him?”

“She was so animated and full of life. And there was this all-day music event that he wanted her to go with him to. Out on the domain. You remember… well, anyway, she didn’t know if she should go. And she told me, she told me she’d had this thing for this guy. And running into him had made her feel so alive…”

“And you told her: go for it.”

“It was just a concert.”

“It wasn’t though, was it?”

“She wanted to keep seeing him.”

“And you told her?”

Do this. If you don’t get it out of your system, it’s going to fester there for years.

“What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t mean that she should have an affair…” did I? what did I think she was doing with him, all these secret rendezvous, don’t-say-anything-to-Ians, all those times? “… I didn’t think she was going to leave you for him.”

There’s silence.

I make myself look up. I look up at someone who’s not my brother. I’m not kidding. There’s a look in his eyes like I’ve never seen. It’s colder than ice. And all I can think about is those quiet types, keep to themselves, quite vanilla, quite beige, and everybody says when it happens – we didn’t see it coming – it was like he just snapped.

My brother, that is, my brother.

But I’m looking at someone else. And this guy strikes something so cold and feral inside me. The bland chill of his face, the way he cradles that bottle in his hands…

I shove myself up to my feet, stumbling backwards. He smoothly keeps pace with me. I’m back against the wall, but he’s still inches close, and there’s still no words. Just that look. I slide at the door, grab the handle, and manage to stagger outside. The rain is heavier if anything, but it doesn’t matter. I simply start running. I can hear the door smack against the wall, I can hear the diluted growl that comes out between his teeth. I can hear the splash of his footsteps, coming after me.

Here, on this island, where there’s nowhere to run.

 

Picture credit: author's own work