‘Have you actually made a picnic?’
Mark grins. ‘What, as opposed to going and buying pre-packed sandwiches from the Co-op? Yes, of course I’ve bloody made it!’
Laura is impressed. Mark gives the impression of being a bit of a lad, but underneath he’s nothing of the sort. He’s funny – of course – and he’s gorgeous – no question about that. But, most importantly, he seems to like her. A lot. Laura’s cynical demon tries to butt in, suggesting that he’s only being nice to get into her pants. Half of her wouldn’t mind that much. Only another year and she’ll be leaving for university. He’ll been leaving to do the same, then he’ll go off and find his job in London. Would it be so wrong if it were only a summer fling? Surely they could manage to avoid each other after the holidays, if things don’t work out. She’ll be too busy with her exams to worry about stupid gossip. On the other hand, her last year at school might just be a million times better if she had an actual boyfriend to hang out with.
Laura doesn’t feel the draw of London. She plans to study in Edinburgh and stay there afterwards. She has her heart set on one of those cute little cottages they call the Colonies – pretty rows of old workers’ cottages, with postage-stamp gardens and cul-de-sac streets where they still hold street parties. Really close to the centre of the city, too. She just has to find a way to be able to afford one. She imagines Mark living in some new build high-rise in the Square Mile, all glass and security entry systems and space-age furniture. It’s funny, she knows they want completely different things, and at sixteen she knows they’re far too young to make any compromises to stay together, but she has a feeling that their relationship, no matter how long it lasts, is going to be something significant for them both. Even the stupid fortune teller hinted at that. She’s hasn’t told Mark what the woman said about something bad happening. He’ll only say he told her so.
Mark swings the rucksack onto his back and takes hold of Laura’s hand. Laura notices that a blanket has been rolled up and slotted through the straps at the back. He’s put some effort into this. She has a sick feeling for a moment, wondering how many other girls he’s made special picnics for.
‘Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?’
Mark squeezes her hand. ‘Did you bring your cossie?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Well then,’ he says, looking up at the sky – which is a clear, bright blue, peppered with a smattering of fluffy white clouds – ‘let’s hope it stays warm enough for you down at Digby’s Deathhole, eh?’
Laura laughs. ‘Oh. How romantic.’
Digby’s Deathhole is the name the locals have given to a wide section of the river where a deep cavern has become a popular swimming spot. There are various rumours about kids having drowned in there, sucked down by a mysterious vortex . . . or if you listened to some people, the ghost of Digby himself, who likes to grab onto people’s ankles and drag them down into the depths – never to be seen again. Laura asked Davie about the place, wanting to know how much was true and how much was legend. Davie told her at least another three legends, before he told her the truth. One person had drowned in there, back in the 1950s. A local tradesman called Daniel Digby had taken a shortcut along the river after a day out at the festival raft race, where many bottles of beer were consumed. He’d fallen in and because of the river being low from a summer drought he hadn’t been able to reach the bank to pull himself back out. They found him the next morning, washed up on the edge of the weir about a hundred feet downstream from the hole. His jacket was washed up on the bank there, snagged on a tree, looking like it was trying to climb out.
Laura shudders, thinking about the man, and how scared he must’ve been in the cold, dark water. His screams of help disappearing into the trees.
The thing about this part of the river is that it is perfect to swim in, and it’s sheltered amongst the trees – so it’s a popular spot for couples, even during the day – although the skinny-dippers usually wait for dusk, at least. Laura wonders if Mark has brought condoms. She thought about buying some herself, but the idea of going into the local pharmacy and having to take them to the counter where someone’s mum was likely to recognise her was as appealing as having her eyeballs removed with a spoon.
‘Any preferences? Shade or sun?’ Mark drops the rucksack on the ground and pulls the blanket from the back. He shakes it out.
‘Shade, I think. Maybe with a bit of sun poking through.’ Laura looks around, trying to find the perfect spot. ‘How about there?’ She points over at a small clearing, where the trees seem to form a perfect circle. Sun glints through the gaps in the top of the canopy, casting starbursts of light on the mulchy forest floor.
Mark shakes out the blanket again and lets it fall softly onto the patch of ground. He kneels down and starts to unbuckle the rucksack. Laura drops her own bag on the blanket and kicks off her sandals. She walks over to the water’s edge and, bending to lean one hand on the ground, sits down with her feet hovering just above the water.
‘It looks freezing,’ she says, turning back to look at Mark over her shoulder. He’s laid out Tupperware boxes, cans of drink, packets of crisps. Something wrapped in foil sits on a floral patterned plate. He’s brought plastic cups, napkins and cutlery. ‘Wow,’ Laura says. ‘You’ve got a picnic set. How sweet . . .’
‘Don’t take the piss,’ he says, pulling up a weed in a clod of earth and aiming it at her head. She ducks, and it misses, but it takes her concentration for a moment and her feet splash into the water.
‘Aargh! It is freezing, you bugger!’
Mark grins, and takes off his shoes and socks. He jumps up from the blanket and barrels towards her, grabbing her and pushing her towards the river. She shrieks, and he pulls her away just before she slides off the bank and into the river. Then the two of them tumble back, Laura’s feet still dangling over the edge, Mark straddling her, pinning her arms behind her head.
‘What am I going to do with you, eh?’ he says, his voice softening, cracking. He leans down and kisses her, and Laura feels like she is going to melt into the earth. Sunshine dusts her bare feet, and Mark’s weight and warmth press down on her. The tingle starts again and she can’t bear it any longer. She can feel his hardness, pressing into her. He pulls away, sits up. Gazes down at her before climbing off. His face is flushed. He looks like he’s about to say something, but changes his mind. He crawls over to the blanket and sits down.
‘I could do with a drink. Want one? There’s Coke or Fanta. Or water.’
Laura sits up. ‘You didn’t have to stop,’ she whispers.
He smiles a half smile. ‘I didn’t want to, Laura. Christ.’ He shakes his head. ‘I want this day to be special. I don’t just want to . . . you know.’
Laura smiles back. ‘I know.’
16th July 2015
Dear Marie,
I don’t know how long it takes for a letter to arrive these days, but I’m hoping you’ve read the one I sent you yesterday, and that the reason you haven’t replied yet is that you’re busy with work. That’s understandable. The people who work here are always so busy. Running around like blue-arsed flies, most of them. With some of them, I wonder if they just run around so much to avoid having to do any of the difficult stuff. It can’t be easy working here. Some people are extremely difficult to get along with. You’d laugh at some of them.
Do you still listen to Billy Idol? I remember you dancing to ‘White Wedding’ and pulling your lip up into a sneer like Billy. You liked him, didn’t you? You had a poster of him on your wall – right opposite your bed. He must’ve been the last person you saw every night before you went to sleep.
You were always the last person that I saw before I went to sleep. I’m not sure if you know that.
It was me who ruined that poster, but I’m sure you guessed that. Why didn’t you say anything? Were you worried that Mummy would ask us why?
I’ll write again soon, Marie.
I hope you’ll have some time to write back.
Lots of love,
Graeme