Marie almost changes her mind when she hears the music pumping out on to the street. She can see through the window that the living room is already full of people. Laughter escapes through the open front door. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts outside and down the path to the front gate.
‘Oi, out the back, I said.’
She recognises Anne’s voice. Smiles. Glad that her friend is managing to keep things under control. But it’s only nine thirty – still early. If it’s anything like the party at Jack Henderson’s, it’ll be barely kicking off yet. She takes a breath to calm her nerves. She feels sorry for Graeme, wants to help him. But she’s scared. She’ll let him stay one more night, and then she’ll call the hospital. Get them to come and pick him up. Davie doesn’t need to know any more about it. No one does.
She feels bad about how she’s treated Davie. Eventually he’ll guess that she slept with Sam. He’s no fool. But she’ll talk to him. She’ll sort it out. She’s had a blip. Messed up. He’ll understand, won’t he?
She slides the half bottle of rum back into her handbag. She’s only had a few nips, but she feels the comforting warmth of the alcohol hitting her bloodstream. Her cheeks have grown pleasantly hot. She feels calm.
She takes the rum back out of her bag and takes another small swig. The bottle is half-empty. She’s fine now. Warm. Relaxed. As she slips the bottle back into her bag again, she feels her phone vibrate. New message. It’s from Davie. She hesitates. Doesn’t want to get involved. Not tonight. She’ll reply saying she’ll see him tomorrow.
She opens it: ‘Marie, I think you should look at this.’ There is no kiss. Just a link and ‘Davie’. As if she didn’t already have his number in her phone. As if she didn’t know who he was. Maybe it’s spam? Her finger hesitates over the link.
‘No,’ she mutters. ‘Tomorrow.’
Nicely buzzed from the rum, the house feels like a welcoming place. She sees plenty of people she recognises – a lot of regulars from the pub. People nod, raise their glasses. Their cans. A few shout ‘All right, doll!’ She smiles back. Feels herself sway, just a little bit. She’s up for it. She’s going to enjoy herself.
Ian appears from the kitchen. ‘Hey, you!’ He leans in to kiss her on the cheek. ‘No Davie?’
‘Working,’ she says. Shakes her head. She squeezes his arm and shifts past him before he can ask her anything else.
‘Marie?’ she hears him say behind her.
She pretends not to hear. She’s too busy trying to make her way through the ridiculous number of people crammed into the small space. People try to talk to her, a hand on her elbow, a hand on her back. She feels like she’s not really there. Observing from afar. Looking down on it all from the ceiling and seeing herself shoving her way through. Someone grabs her arm, pushes her into the kitchen.
‘There you are,’ Anne says into her ear. Anne’s arms wrap around in a hug, but Marie’s return is lacklustre. ‘Ian says you’re being weird. Are you being weird? What’s up?’ Anne is trying to keep her voice light, but Marie can hear the questioning tone underneath. Anne is good at reading her. Needling at her. Buzzing around like a fly.
‘I’m fine. Just need to blow off a bit of steam. Gimme a break, eh?’ She can’t be doing with this. The doe-eyed concern. Marie nudges her friend out of the way and opens the fridge. Takes out a can of cider, pops it, drains half. Anne is staring at her. Waiting. Marie locks eyes with her. Doesn’t blink. Marie can hold a stare for as long as she can hold her breath. Something else she used to do with Graeme.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Anne says, eventually. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
‘Good. Don’t talk to me then. I can’t be fucking arsed anyway.’ Marie takes another can of cider from the fridge and pushes past Anne, walks out the back door and into the garden. Anne says nothing, but Marie knows she’s just storing it up to have a go at her later. ‘Tomorrow,’ Marie says. ‘Save it for tomorrow.’
She hears Anne swearing at her.
Feels like laughing.
Feels like crying.
The drink. It’s just the drink. She’d hoped she could just turn up and get quietly wasted without drawing any attention to herself. Why did people have to be so bloody concerned all the time?
‘Fuck!’ she shouts, out towards the grass. She’s trying to pretend that everything is OK, when clearly nothing is OK. Maybe nothing will be OK ever again.
‘All right, Marie? Someb’dy pissed on your chips, hen?’ It’s Scott. He’s leaning against the back wall of the house, smoking.
‘Got a fag I can have?’ Marie hasn’t smoked since she was eighteen, but as she’s already activated her self-destruct mode, what’s another vice to add to the mix?
He shakes the pack at her, letting a cigarette stick out from the top. ‘Couple of lovebirds down in the shed,’ he nods towards the bottom of the garden.
Marie glances at the shed, where a flickering light is visible through the plastic window. A candle, probably. She looks at Scott. Takes him in. ‘Where’s your missus, then? Thought you were on a tight leash.’
Scott laughs. ‘Just how I like it, doll. Nah. She’s working lates this week. Says she might try and nip away early. Tell them she’s got a headache or something. They always send folk home when they’re sick.’
‘What, is she a nurse or something?’
He chuckles. ‘You’ve met Leanne, haven’t you? Not exactly got a bedside manner. She works in a call centre for RBS. On lates, she basically answers the phone to drunk folk who’ve left their cards behind bars. She’s cancelled the wrong ones before – husbands and wives with joint accounts. Some of the stories . . .’
Marie looks away, bored.
‘Aye, well. Maybe it’s only funny if you work in financial services.’
Marie ignores him. Takes a final drag of her cigarette. Grinds it against the wall. She takes another swig of cider and feels it hit her stomach. She’s already quite drunk. Not really sure what she’s doing here. She slides the bottle of rum out of her bag. Grips it tight.
‘Oh, aye,’ Scott says, still trying to engage her. He’s lit another cigarette from the butt of the last one. ‘I had a good chat with your brother the other day. He was coming out of the front door just as I was coming in. Didn’t know who he was, so I just says “All right, mate?” and we got talking.’
Her hand tenses. Her fingers go numb. The bottle slips through her fingers and smashes on the paving.
‘Whoa!’ Scott says. ‘Watch yourself there.’
She doesn’t react, but she can feel herself shaking. ‘The other day,’ Scott said. Before she saw Graeme. Before he came down to her flat. ‘What did he say to you?’ she wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She’s too scared of the answer.
The door to the shed opens and Laura pops her head out. ‘Everything OK?’
‘You got a brush and shovel in there?’ Scott shouts. ‘If you’re not too busy . . .’
Laura reappears a moment later with a long-handled broom. She trots across the lawn, Mark following close behind.
‘Thought you weren’t speaking to him?’ Marie nods towards Mark. She is glued to the spot. Broken glass at her feet.
Laura scowls, but her expression changes as she gets closer. ‘You OK?’ she says to Marie. She starts sweeping up the glass.
‘Will everyone please stop fucking asking me that?’ Marie kicks at the head of the broom and shoves past, knocking Laura onto the grass.
‘Hey,’ Mark says.
‘Someone needs to take a chill pill,’ says Scott.
She heads straight for the downstairs loo. Locks herself in. Her heart thumps in her chest. The rum might be gone, but the night’s not over yet. Those fuckers out there. Pissed up, drugged up. What do they know about anything? She sits on the toilet, rummages in her bag. At the bottom, hidden under her purse, tissues, phone and all the other handbag detritus, she finds the plastic bag. The one she took from Harry at Jack Henderson’s party. Three capsules still inside. She takes one out, rolls it between her thumb and forefinger. Inspects it. Sniffs it.
‘Just one,’ she mutters. Harry took too many. So did Mark. Stupid boys. Too greedy. Just one, and this party might get started. She catches her reflection in the mirror as she lifts the capsule to her mouth. What are you doing, Marie? She glares at herself. Smirks.
Someone thumps hard on the door. Bang. Bang.
‘All right, all right. I’m coming,’ she says. Impatient bastards.
She drops the capsule back into the plastic bag. Scrunches it into a ball and shoves it to the bottom of her handbag. She flushes the toilet. Turns the taps on full blast. Maybe later.
She yanks the door open. She’s fired up. Ready to shout abuse at whoever’s outside.
He’s leaning on the wall opposite. Hands in pockets. Smiling. Waiting for her. Just like he used to do at school all those years before. That stare.
Eyes like glass.
‘Hey,’ Graeme says. ‘I think you forgot my invitation.’
24th July2015
Hi Marie,
Sorry for the delay. My friend in the office was on holiday for a few days and there was no one else to post the letters for me. I don’t trust anyone else. The doctor came to see me yesterday. Asked me if I was feeling myself, or if I felt like I was slipping away again. I asked him what he meant, but he couldn’t explain. He asked me all sorts of questions. How long did I sleep for? What did I do between breakfast and lunch? What was my favourite game? Did I want to do an Open University course? They’ve asked me that a hundred times over the years. I’ve always said no. Remember when we used to watch that on the TV? That bearded man in the lab coat talking about Newton and particle physics and stuff that you didn’t need to know about protons and electrons. Did you go to university, Marie? Did you meet boys there? I wish I could’ve been there with you. We could’ve shared a flat. One bedroom. One bed.
Me and you.
I’m still waiting to hear from you. I ask the girl in admin if I’ve got any letters and she always says no. But I’m starting to wonder if she’s lying to me.
It wouldn’t make sense, me writing all these letters to you, and you not writing any to me, would it?
I love you, Marie.
Graeme xxx