‘So, what’s your name, pretty lady?’ Carl’s smirk was lopsided, his eyes deep set.
She thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Seriously? That’s your best line?’
He laughed. ‘Oh come on, give a guy a break.’
‘You’re really not my type.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t waste your time.’
‘You’re gay?’
‘So I have to be gay not to fancy you?’ She knocked the lid off a bottled lager and handed it to a worse-for-wear customer who was leaning on the bar holding out a five-dollar note.
‘So what will it be?’ she said, eyes back on Carl.
‘Lager,’ he said, pulling himself onto a stool.
‘Coming right up.’ She bent to get one from the fridge.
‘So when did you arrive?’ he asked, as she handed him the cool bottle. ‘I haven’t seen you around.’
‘Two weeks ago,’ she said, watching as he parted his lips and took a long gulp.
‘Staying at the Bristol?’
She nodded.
‘You like it there?’
‘Yeah, it’s cool.’ She moved away. She really wasn’t interested. And anyway, Bronwyn fancied him.
During the evening, women gravitated towards him, and he ended up at a table with an attractive blonde who seemed to fuel his ego and kept him topped up with drinks. His laugh was loud and confident, and Isla found herself watching him, despite an inner instinct not to. She watched the way he leant forward to listen, attentive as the woman spoke, the way he rested his tanned hand over hers, so it became invisible.
‘There’s a fucking dancing possum in here,’ yelled the drunken bloke at the bar, snapping Isla out of her dream world, as he fell off his stool. ‘Did you see it? Did you see it? It’s wearing clogs and a pink hat.’
‘Oh, Ernie, you’re imagining things again. You need to give up the amber nectar,’ she said, coming out from behind the bar. Despite her small size, she pulled him to his feet. ‘You’ve had enough, mate,’ she continued, escorting him across the bar, and out through the door. ‘Now go home to Mrs Ernie.’
‘Chucking out the drunks again?’ said Bronwyn, appearing through the night, and following Isla back into the bar. ‘So how’s it going?’ she continued, her friendly Irish lilt just one of the things that made her so likeable.
‘Yeah, I’m good; be glad when I’ve finished,’ Isla said, hurrying back behind the bar.
‘I’ll have a wine, please,’ Bronwyn said, tipping coins from a tatty zip-up purse onto the bar. She sat down and dragged her fingers through her red, layered hair. She was eighteen and travelling alone, but seemed to have an aura that said ‘don’t mess with me’.
‘Good to see you, my little Irish beauty.’ It was Carl approaching, after leaving the blonde woman alone. ‘I’m loving the cut-off shorts.’ He ogled her thighs, and then lifted his eyes to meet Isla’s, holding her gaze. Isla looked away, annoyed with herself for getting drawn in by his game playing.
‘I’ll have another lager,’ he said to her. And once she’d handed it to him, he lifted Bronwyn from the stool, and carried her, her legs gripping his body, her lips on his, to a table in the corner. Her giggles were almost childlike.
***
‘He asked me out,’ Bronwyn told Isla later, as they walked back to the hostel. ‘Says we should have some fun together.’
‘Did you say yes?’
‘Yep, I like fun. My mums have told me since I was a little girl that I should get as much out of life as possible. And he is pretty gorgeous, don’t you think?’ She skipped ahead, and turned to face Isla, continuing to skip backwards, her skinny body being swallowed by the darkness.
‘Bron,’ Isla called after her, when she’d fully gone from view. ‘Wait up.’
‘I’ve told him I’m not sticking around here for too long,’ Bronwyn called out.
‘And he’s OK with that?’ Isla called back.
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
The darkness was suddenly total, the silence only punctuated by Bronwyn’s distant footfalls, and the intermittent sound of an owl hooting. ‘Bronwyn, please wait up,’ Isla called, picking up speed. ‘Bron? I’m knackered. I can’t be arsed to run.’
‘Ahhh!’
‘Bron!’ Isla called out, grabbing her torch from her rucksack and searching the darkness. ‘Bronwyn, are you OK?’
‘Over here,’ Bronwyn called out, laughing. The beam of Isla’s torched picked her out among the trees. She was sitting on the gravelled earth, brushing down her knees. ‘Lost my balance,’ she said, her face spreading into a wide, intoxicated smile. ‘Should have been looking where I was going.’
Now
‘Get out of my head,’ Isla cried, burying her head in her hands, tears burning. The appeal had got to her more than she realised. ‘You can’t hurt me any more, you bastard.’
But she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even close her eyes.
Wednesday, 26 October
Water streamed from the shower over Isla’s hair, and soapy bubbles slid down her back. She could have stayed there for hours, washing away her tiredness, the harshness of the journey home and the awful unease of the night before.
She turned off the water, reached out for a fluffy towel to wrap around her, and stepped onto the mat in the steamy bathroom, determined she wasn’t going to let Carl Jeffery ruin everything. In fact, the smoothness of the water had already worn away the sharp edges, perspective almost restored. The person in the sports car could have been anyone visiting the apartment block, she told herself, and she wasn’t even sure the buzzer had been activated.
The door nudged open, and she looked up from rubbing moisture from her hair with a hand towel. ‘Luna.’ The cat ran towards her, meowing, and Isla crouched and tickled her ears. ‘I’ve missed you so much, my little angel.’
‘I hope you missed me too.’ It was Jack, outside the door.
‘Hey, you,’ Isla called.
She smiled as a head of wayward dark hair appeared, along with a familiar smile. He crossed the bathroom and took her in his arms. ‘So all went OK in Canada?’
She nodded. ‘It did, yes.’
‘You should feel pretty pleased with yourself.’ He touched her hair and leant in to kiss her lips. Luna mewed and made a quick exit, as he began trailing kisses down Isla’s neck. He went to unhook her towel, but she flinched and pulled away.
‘What’s up?’ he said, his eyes wide and hurt.
‘Nothing. Sorry.’
He went to reach out to her once more, but she stepped away. ‘Have you been smoking?’ she said.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Just the one. It was bloody stressful with my mother.’
‘Oh God, yes, sorry.’ A pang of guilt. ‘Is she OK?’
‘Heart attack.’
‘Jack, that’s awful.’
He