Oh, fuck you! Fuck you!
Samara faced the shelf and slammed the book back between its neighbours. The back cover opened and bent back, the thick novel refusing to slip back into place. The teenager cursed and pulled the book back out, straightening the cover, trying to ease it back home on the tightly packed shelf.
“Samara?”
She ignored her mother, determined to return the book to its rightful place without ripping it. She’d be back for it in time.
“Samara!”
“What?”
“What’s that on your arm?”
Samara froze and glanced down at her sleeve. While struggling with the book, the loose fabric had slid down her arm, gathering by her elbow, revealing the pale skin of her wrist and forearm.
Her mother stepped forwards, reaching for the exposed arm.
Heart racing, Samara spun away from her, darting around the far side of the bookcase, running for the door.
“Samara!”
She passed the confused assistant behind the counter and bolted out into the shopping centre. People stopped to watch her run from the bookshop, her mother’s calls echoing after her.
6.
Samara looked up and met the girl’s eyes. There was precious else to look at. The void consumed them from every side, bar the worn table that formed their battlefield. And such a worn theatre of conflict, appropriate for the head-to-head taking place. Initials of lovers branded into the smooth wood, long burned by all manner of metal implements, heated to almost glowing by cheap Bic lighters, confessions of love marked for all to see. Band names. Band emblems. Ainscough is a nobbish cunty twat painstakingly etched in the wood. Marks awarded for creativity, bonus points for taking the time to scribe such a sentiment. Poor Ainscough, whoever he may be. The couples. The bands…probably all broken up by now. Torn asunder by life, by time. This was less a war table, more a record of relationships lost.
She sat opposite. Long, dark hair, scalp spilling ink down to her shoulders. Fingers gripping the edge of the table, the surface as familiar as the cracks in her bedroom ceiling.
Samara stared across the flat landscape.
The locale was perfect. The comfort from the reassuring proclamations burned or carved into the table, the silence, the endless dark that surrounded them. Above and below. A perfect vacuum of sensation. No sight, sound, or smell. A sensory void. Nirvana for addressing purpose.
The girl smiled, raising a forefinger that predictably began to elongate, the tip protruding, a dark hook, an insectile stinger. She placed it on the tabletop, upon which a grid of black and white squares had appeared, burned into the wood. The tip of the claw penetrated the beer-stained surface, scratching up years of accrued company as it advanced, making its move. Her opponent grinned, only her slack mouth visible through the black veil.
Samara contemplated her decision, studying the board. In an endless dark abyss, she was free from any distraction. She lifted her hand from the table, flexed her fingers, and selected her piece. A shot glass, filled to the brim with a flat, ruby liquid. She considered the possible moves and determined, slid the piece forwards.
Her opponent showed no signs of concern or confidence, rigid in her contemplation.
Samara grinned, her finger still tight around her last move. She lifted the shot glass from the board, almost toasting the spectre that sat before her.
“Check.” Samara raised the glass to her lips and tipped the fiery contents into her mouth. She swallowed, relishing the lava burn down her gullet to the glow in her stomach. It stung like mouthwash, and she quickly inhaled cold air over her teeth.
Her opponent remained transfixed on the game.
The lights slowly began to rise, and Samara slumped back against the rear of the high-walled wooden booth with a giggle.
The front door slammed open, and everyone looked to see who had entered. Everyone knew everyone.
“I thought it was Dale,” said Lily, sitting opposite. She looked back to Samara and frowned. “You okay?”
Samara had called her friend from the nearest public phone. Lily, of course, had immediately obliged to a night of fun. She’d just been paid from her weekend bakery job and was even funding the evening.
Samara grinned and slammed the glass down on the table. “Fucking grand. So I’m not normal.” Her fingers hovered from the spent shot over to the neck of her bottle of Metz. She lifted the chilly lemon drink into the air. “This is more fun. To you, dear mother.”
Lily swept up her own drink, a half-pint of snakebite and black, and chinked the glass together. “To your mum!” She declared, and after sharing a quick glug, winked at Samara. “Hey…when’s your sister joining us?”
Samara leered over the bottle. “I believe she’s too busy fucking herself. Perfect couple!”
The girls laughed and struck their glasses together a second time.
“Hey,” said the tall guy sitting beside Samara. “What we celebrating?”
They shared their booth with a couple of guys who had bought them more than a fair shout of drinks. The tall guy, a dark mop of hair on his very high head, seemed nice enough, but was either drunk, stoned, or an imbecile… Lily had already staked her claim. If he was in proportion…
His friend sat in the corner of the booth, not just watching his current company, but the rest of the growing populace of The Scholar. He acted like his friend’s keeper, owner of the big, dopey dog, correcting him and ushering him to quell his enthusiasm.
“Easy, Kieran. Leave the girls alone. They’re having a moment.”
Samara smiled at him over the neck of her bottle. Fuck proportion. Just because Kieran was a good head and shoulders above his mate…that wasn’t all that mattered. The way Mike was so laid back, the way his friend seemed driven to appease and yet he could sit back like he didn’t care.
“My mum wants me to be normal,” said Samara.
Mike contemplated this for a second before sitting up in his seat. His fingertips explored the surface of the table. “Then fuck your mum.” He picked up his empty bottle of Holsten Pils by the rim. “I’m out. Anyone else need one while I’m going?”
Samara surveyed the battle ground once more and swept up her bottle of Metz, the opaque plastic cover hiding the remaining drink. “I could go another.”
Lily peeked at Samara and the bottle in her hand. “I’m good,” she said. “Sam, you want to go the bar with Mike?”
Samara sipped at her drink. She’d have to get a move on to finish it before the next, but this was the night for fast drinking. Was Lily trying to get time alone with big boy Kieran? Or was she trying to allow Samara a moment with Mike?
Did it matter?
“Come on,” said Samara. “Lily, shift out the way. Let him through.”
As Mike struggled to move along the narrow bench, Samara downed the rest of her drink. She paused, her narrow fingers gripping the cool neck of the bottle.
The front door slammed open, and everyone looked to see who had entered. A table at the back of the room cheered, and the new face grinned, pointed a happy finger, and headed through.
From the front of the warm room, her pale face hovering on the other side of the glass, the girl watched through the window. The slight breeze ruffled her dark hair, sending it across her face in ebony spider webs. Black, hungry eyes watched Samara. The figure sucked in the cold night air in long, lingering gasps, yet no fog clouded the cold glass.