Lorna Dounaeva
FRY
Chapter One
“NO!”
I stamp hard on the brakes. She stares back at me, her eyes stricken with terror, but it’s too late for me to do anything. We brace ourselves for the impact.
A tomato flies out of the grocery bag on the back seat and splatters brutally against the windscreen. Its juicy pulp oozes down the glass as my car shrieks to a halt, just inches from her porcelain face. She slides down to the ground.
“Oh my god!” I tear off my seat belt, and in my panic, I almost forget to apply the brake. I leap out and rush round to the front of the car. “Are you all right? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
She looks up at me with strange, unblinking eyes. “Why would I need an ambulance?”
I laugh nervously. “I nearly ran you over.”
Slowly, she sits up. “No… no, it’s alright. I just need a minute.”
I kneel down next to her. “I’m so sorry, I just didn’t see you!”
I shake violently, my heart pounds in my chest. I feel guilt and shock and nausea in equal measure. “I just didn’t see you.”
I don’t understand what happened. Can’t understand it for the life of me. One moment she wasn’t there and the next she was. She was like an apparition, materialising in the middle of my driveway. I shake my head. It’s all too much. Maybe I should get my eyes tested.
“Would you like to come in?” The words force themselves from my trembling lips. “I… I’ll make us some tea. If you’re sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”
She pauses for a moment, and then nods thoughtfully. “A cup of tea would be lovely.”
I offer her my hand and she pulls herself up off the gravel driveway. I feel a surge of electricity as our fingers connect. She is very small and delicate, a woman in a child’s body. And yet she has an iron grip.
The keys jangle as I unlock my front door. For some reason it brings to mind the image of a jailer, unlocking a cell door. But my cosy, one bedroom home is anything but a prison.
“Fluffy?” I call, but my cat has gone into hiding. “Here, make yourself at home.” I clear a pile of laundry off the sofa so she can sit down. But she follows me into the kitchen, watches closely as I make the tea, as if she’s never seen it done before.
“Do you have any sugar?”
“Here, help yourself.”
She takes a spoonful and dumps it into her cup, then another and another. And another. It must be the shock.
“Come on, let’s go and sit down.” Nodding, she follows me back into the lounge, stopping to straighten a picture hanging on the wall. I couldn’t even tell it was crooked. “I really am sorry about nearly knocking you over. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine, though I’m sure I’ll have a bump the size of an egg tomorrow.” She pats the back of her head and giggles.
Why’s that funny? Hell, she’d better not be planning to sue!
“You hit your head?” I ask nervously.
“Only a little.”
“Would you like some ice?”
“Oh no, it’s fine.” She strokes the soft velvet arm of the sofa, as if it was a cat. She’s a bit younger than me, early twenties I’d guess. And waif-like in her long flowing skirt, her hair a tangle of wild black curls.
For a while, neither of us can find anything to say. She stirs her tea vigorously to fill the silence.
“What were you doing outside my house, anyway?” I finally ask.
“I was delivering leaflets.” Her voice is very squeaky. It reminds me of Minnie Mouse.
“What sort of leaflets?”
“These ones are for pizza. It doesn’t pay very well, but I’ve only just moved to Queensbeach and I haven’t found a proper job yet.”
“What kind of work are you looking for?”
“Whatever I can get. There doesn’t seem to be much going at this time of year.”
“Oh, well they need shelf stackers at Robertson’s. That’s where I work.”
“That’s that big supermarket, right?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you pop in tomorrow? I’ll talk to my manager. I’m sure I can get you an interview.”
“Wow, that’s very kind of you, thanks. I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name?”
“Isabel.”
“And I’m Alicia. Alicia McBride.” I get the feeling she wants me to remember her name.
She looks down into the bottom of her empty cup for what seems like an inordinate amount of time.
“Would you like another cup of tea?”
“No thanks.”
“Perhaps I should take you home then?” I don’t mean to sound rude, but we don’t seem to have any more to talk about.
“I don’t want to be any trouble…”
“No, really. It’s the least I can do.” I grab my jacket.
“Where shall I drop you?” I ask, wiping the tomato pulp from my windscreen. I’m a little nervous about getting behind the wheel again, but I suppose it’s best to get it over with. Alicia fiddles with her seat belt.
“The caravan park, down by the beach.”
“The caravan park?”
“You know it?”
“Yeah, I just hadn’t even realised anyone lived there out of season. I thought they were meant to be doing it up?”
“It’s just temporary, till I find something better.”
I am careful not to catch her eye.
The windscreen wipers screech noisily as I drive down the main Coast Road. It’s raining only lightly, but the wind dumps handfuls of sand over the car, making it difficult to see.
The caravan park is even more dilapidated than I remember.
“Thanks for the lift,” Alicia calls as she climbs out.
“No problem, and seriously – come over to Robertson’s in the morning. I’m sure we can sort something out.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s the least I can do…” my voice trails off as I take in the boarded up doors and smashed windows, not to mention all the rubbish strewn around. What a tip! I watch as she walks up the steps of a guano-splattered caravan. There is no one else about. The place is completely silent, save for the shrill of the gulls and the whistle of the wind. I find it a bit eerie.
Alicia watches me from her broken window as I drive away. I feel guilty leaving her there but what else can I do? I don’t want to invite her to stay with me – I need my own space. Besides, I’ve only got one bedroom.
I’m sure she’ll be fine, I tell myself. She can move somewhere better once she gets a proper job.
I switch on the radio and sing along on the short drive back home, try to get Alicia and that ethereal smile of hers, out of my mind.
“I’ll have a bottle of red please,” I tell the waitress as I sit down at my usual table, a couple of hours later.
“Anything else?”
“Um, maybe some bread and olives.”
“Coming right up,” she says, scribbling this down on her notepad. “Hey, your necklace is undone. Would you like me to do it up for you?”
“Would you?”
I pull my hair up off the nape of my neck and she reaches round to refasten it. Her head is bent over mine as my friends walk in.
“Told you,” says Deacon Frost, plopping down on the couch opposite. “Women, they’re all lesbians.”
“If you say so.” His brother Rhett carefully removes his designer jacket and hangs it on the coat stand.
“What are we having?” Deacon asks. “Red or white?”
“I’ve already ordered a bottle of red,” I tell him.
“Red it is then.”
Mustafa’s serves a hundred different kinds of mezzeraki but only two types of wine, red or white. As for the beer, it’s completely unpalatable to start with, but Deacon reckons it gets better, the more you drink. You’re probably wondering right now why on earth we come here – but it’s one of the few places in Queensbeach that stays open all year round, so we’ve come to get used to it.