Certainly not prize-winning material. Art needed layers.
Done cleaning her face, Samara turned her back on the chattering quartet to once again study her own creation. Standing a few metres away, even she failed to see the presence, the dark facet of the girl, contained inside. Only her pain.
Weeks of work. Months of her family telling her it was all a waste of time. A lifetime of questioning stares from across the room.
It didn’t speak to her from the canvas. It wailed.
She picked up her brush once more, flicking bloody droplets from the bristles.
“I don’t get it,” said Samara, gesturing as she spoke, waving her cigarette like a magic wand. “If I had a group of friends in there, Jones would kick us all out straight away. But they’re always there. Never shut up.”
Lily, sitting beside her on the low wall outside the main college building, nodded, pinching her own cigarette. She wore violet woollen gloves against the growing autumn chill, with fingers crudely cut free, so she could still smoke.
Night had already begun to descend. Lights blazed on the upper floors, mostly the science departments. Those who strode past on the way to the bus station were wrapped up in thick coats. Lily’s copper hair, not short enough to be boyish but short enough to make her mother cry, was hidden under a knitted cap.
Across the road lay a wide playing field behind an empty church, a short cut to another area of the college. Come lunchtimes, the worn patch of green would be occupied by students seeking to escape their readings and assignments by kicking a ball or basking in the sun in June. No games were played this late in the dying afternoon.
Samara squinted through the murk, staring across the wide, grassy area. Rows of windows shone on the far side; classrooms still holding their captives. They threw enough light across the playing field to reveal a lone figure, standing in the centre circle of an impromptu football pitch. A girl with long dark hair, black clothes, barely visible in the creeping night.
Samara took a long drag of her cigarette, savouring the rich, dark taste, the slight chemical tone beneath, and turned back to her friend. She loved this time of year, and not just because of Halloween, no matter what her parents thought. The one night of the year she passes as normal! her dad often joked. The early darkness and the tightening cold were festive. So many celebrations to look forward to. The usual Halloween costume party at The Scholar pub just down the street, bonfire night, Christmas… The hint of smoke on the breeze at dusk as those with fireplaces lit them up. People grew closer as winter started to rear its head.
She glanced back at the playing field. The girl remained.
“You think your final piece will be ready for the show?” asked Lily, casting a nod at Samara’s sketchpad that lay between them on the wall. Her friend studied languages and knew little about art. She, of course, loved every sketch and painting of Samara’s, and even had one of her more bizarre pieces on her bedroom walclass="underline" a soul-consuming digital spider traversing a web of colourful wires, diodes, and twinkling LEDs. It meant the world to Samara that Lily enjoyed her work. “Only a few days left.”
“Doesn’t need much more now. Mostly background work, but I’m not quite decided what I want.”
“Blood!” cried Lily. “Guts! More maggots! Go all out. Really fuck with them.”
“You can’t just throw that stuff in,” said Samara. “Not without reason.”
Lily sucked in the remains of her smoke, stubbed out the butt on the brick wall, and tossed it over her shoulder onto the college lawn. “Which bus you getting?”
Samara gripped her sleeve and checked her watch. It showed a little after five. Kelly would have been back from high school for about an hour, taking up residence on the sofa, claiming the television until their dad returned and took charge. Then the house would be filled with the sounds of football commentary. Or rugby. Or cricket. Whatever he could find. Mum would finish her shift and come home harried, slamming into the oven what she’d grabbed on her way out of the supermarket. Samara had aimed to get the first bus back and watch Outside 2 again, uninterrupted from start to finish. Fat chance of that. Having the worth of her work dissected over an oven-ready pizza would be the agenda for the evening.
She followed Lily, finishing off her cigarette. “Not in the mood for going home. Not after last night. I left early this morning so I wouldn’t have to speak to any of them.”
“So what are we doing?” said Lily. “Go to The Scholar for an hour?”
Samara stared across the road, seeking out the sole figure waiting out in the darkness. The girl had vanished, probably driven on by the cold, or given up with those she waited on. Probably for the best. Not the wisest place to be, out there on your own as night draws in.
Samara shrugged and scooped up her sketchpad. “Go on. Where else do we have to go?”
They hopped down from the wall and side by side, headed up the road to the welcoming sight of the student pub, all windows a glow, distant silhouettes of early drinkers behind the glass.
Samara wiped her lips and chin, making sure all traces of the paint were gone. Under the glow of the streetlight as they passed beneath, she examined the smudge of black on her fingers.
They reached the corner, and needing to cross the road, Lily hit the button at the crossing. Cars had the nasty habit of turning through the crossroads too quick once the lights changed.
“You reckon Dale will be in?” said Lily, watching the static red man. “Got a new car I bet he’s dying to show off.”
“I don’t give a shit if Dale is in,” said Samara. “He’s a wanker.”
She looked back and forth, checking for traffic, her breath starting to fog beneath her cold nose. She could almost feel the warmth of the fire in The Scholar.
To her left on the other side of the street, by the hedge that bordered the playing field, the girl with the long dark hair peered out between lampposts, standing in the sea of shadow between the two islands of light.
“Fuck this,” hissed Samara after a moment, turning away and hooking her friend’s arm. She walked into the road. “Nothing’s coming. Too cold to be standing around.”
A car horn blared, and both girls shrieked, jumping back onto the safety of the pavement as a white van hurtled past.
“Jesus,” cried Lily. “How fast was he going?”
“Fuck!” said Samara, pulling Lily close. “I nearly killed us, didn’t I?”
3.
They played tug of war with the temperature: relishing the heat that drove the chill from their cheeks as they entered the pub, already sweating and gasping for breath by the time the barman noticed them. Shedding layers, they ordered two ice cold bottles of Metz to restore the balance. Agreed without a word on the matter, the girls crossed the creaking wooden floorboards across the main room to their usual booth in the corner, thankfully free. A few of the larger tables were occupied by groups of thirsty students.