Game Girls
Authors: Judy Waite
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Family, #General, #Juvenile Nonfiction
GAME GIRLS
GIRLS
Judy Waite
For Elaine and Maidy
Special thanks to my agents Jenny and Penny Luithlen, for their
support and encouragement, and for their overall faith in the idea.
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781849398268
Version 1.0
First published in 2007 by Andersen Press Limited,
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
www.andersenpress.co.uk
www.judywaite.com
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Copyright © Judy Waite, 2007
The right of Judy Waite to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
ISBN: 9781849398268
Version 1.0
B
EWARE. Be aware. Fern is always aware
of danger.
Across the road the sea is ruffled by a sharp
breeze, white foam chopping onto the shingle.
On the beach people stretch on towels, drawn by
the unexpected heat wave. Two women wade
uncertainly out into the water, stopping at thigh
deep and bending to splash their arms and
shoulders. Watching them through the pub
window, Fern thinks that, in spite of the heat, it
is
October. The water won't be warm. She can
almost feel the sea-bite of cold on their skin. Still,
that won't put them off. Fern knows about the
holiday crowd – the way they must always grab
everything. Every last snatch of sand and sun and
sea. Or in this case, stones and sun and sea.
They won't be thinking about the danger
either. The council have the warning flags
flying, exposing secret currents more deadly
than sharks, but there are still some swimmers
out there. Tourists never care.
Fern cares though. She knows the tides, and
all their moods.
Turning away, she empties a sachet of sugar
into her cappuccino. She's arrived too early.
Stupidly. Alix would say it's not good to be early
and blokes will take advantage if you look too
keen.
It's shabby in here. Shabbier than Fern had
expected. The Sea Horse Bar back in Long
Cove is smart – fresh and clean – but here there
are stub marks like small round scabs on the
table where she's sitting, and an ashtray –
unemptied – where soft grey flakes float in a
puddle of beer.
She shuffles her chair forward, resting her
elbows on the scabbed table. The place is busy.
Mainly blokes. They sit in groups. Smoke. Read
newspapers. Fern doesn't think any of them are
Steve. He said he would be wearing a khaki-coloured
jacket. She didn't click to see his photo
– you had to join up to do that – but she's already
got a picture of him in her head, just from the
things he said in the chat room. He sounded
gentle. Caring. She thinks he'll have curly hair
and friendly blue eyes. He won't be any older
than twenty.
Steve
Regular Guy.
Solvent. Own car. New to area. Into Clubs.
Music. Art.
WL2M 18+ for drinks and friendship.
Maybe more.
Fern is hoping she can pass for eighteen plus
in Alix's hand-me-down high-heeled shoes. It
was the art bit that drew her to him mostly –
they'd at least have something in common. And
the promise of friendship is like a hand
beckoning.
'Hello – excuse me but – are you Honey?
My name's Steve . . . '
She startles round, her cappuccino sloshing
into the chipped china saucer. She'd forgotten
she'd given him a false name.
'Hi.' She makes nervous dabs at the spilt
coffee with her napkin and struggles to smile.
He must be pushing forty. And he's almost
bald.
'Can I get you another coffee? Or something
stronger?'
She stares at him. 'Um – yes. I'll have . . . a
Bacardi Breezer please.' She wouldn't normally
drink in the day, but she tells herself she needs
it, just to get through the next half hour.
'I'll be back in a jiff then, Honey. Don't go
anywhere, will you?' He weaves his way
between the tables.
She watches him as he reaches the bar,
thinking this might be her chance to run. His
back is slightly hunched, the khaki jacket
baggy round his shoulders. She pictures him
putting it on, checking what's left of his hair,
making sure he hasn't forgotten his money.
And she knows she can't do it. Can't leave him
standing stupidly with her drink by an empty
table. He dreamed of friendship through a
Lonely Hearts website. Half an hour isn't going
to hurt.
She counts the scabs on the table while she
waits. Seventeen. A scab for every year she's
been alive. She wonders about the people who
crushed their cigarettes down onto the wood
and thinks, without wanting to, about stub
marks on homework. An exercise book filled
with clumsy unreadable writing, burning in a
bin in the park.
'So – what do you do?' He is back, putting
her drink down and sliding into the chair
opposite.
'At Art College,' she says, picking the
Breezer up and sipping it straight away. She
had battled to prepare this eighteen-plus
fantasy person, and anyway, it's not too much
of a lie. It's where she will be next year,
provided she can scrape a pass in English. She's
not much good at English, though. You need to
be able to read properly to be good at English.
And to write. She's always been in the 'specials'
class for most subjects. 'I do things with clay
mostly. It's what I'm best at.'
'I would've loved to have done art.' He
smiles across at her. 'Graphics probably.'
She tries not to notice that his teeth are
stained. 'Why didn't you then?'
He looks away for a moment, something
lost in his eyes. He has a nice face – in between
the wrinkles. 'My parents couldn't run to it.
They needed me to get out and get earning.'
Fern nods. At least she's with him on this.
It's going to be a struggle for her mum and dad
too. Dad's not earning. Mum does her best.
She's holding them all together but the
guesthouse needs masses of work because of
last year's floods and storms, and they're so
squeezed by council 'dos' and 'don'ts', they're
shelling out more than they bring in just on
ticking over.
He leans back in his seat and rolls out a
conversation about life as a pharmaceutical
salesman. It may not sound that exciting, he tells
her, but he gets to have a go-faster car and a
chance to travel and has she ever been to Japan?
'Japan?' Fern laughs suddenly. Him asking
her if she's ever been to Japan is like him asking
her if she's ever been to the moon. She's never
been anywhere. Well – visits to Gran and
Gramps in the cold of Scotland. Or out of
season weeks away to resorts even grimmer
than this one.
'There's a great sushi restaurant at the other
end of the town. Morimotos. You sit on rolled
bamboo mats to eat. We could go there?'
'Now?' Fern almost chokes on the Breezer.
She pictures herself sitting on the floor. She'd
have to take off her too-high hand-me-down
heels.
'Not now. No. But maybe next weekend?
Saturday?'
Fern blinks across at him. All this is going
too fast. How can she get out of it? She's never
been any good at saying 'no.' 'I'll . . . I . . .
maybe,' she stutters.
He is watching her carefully. 'I'll get in some
more drinks,' he says as he takes her empty
bottle and heads for the bar again.
Across the road, on the beach, a couple are
packing up. The girl – about Fern's age – leans
into her boyfriend, who wraps a vanilla yellow
towel round her shoulders and kisses the top of
her head.
Fern looks away quickly. She forces a smile
as Khaki Steve puts the new Breezer in front of
her. Maybe she
could
go out with him. It might
be all right if it's just a meal. It's Alix's birthday
next Saturday but when Fern asked her about
it she just went vague and said she thought her
mum would fly home and they'd probably go
out for 'posh nosh'. Fern wanted to believe
this, but a nagging doubt scratched at her.
Maybe she'd set something up with Courtney
Benton-Gray? Alix has just got to know
Courtney, and Courtney would be someone
who didn't want Fern around.
It's one of the reasons Fern made herself go
through with this whole internet date thing.
She wants to do something secret – to impress
Alix. Something to surprise her with later.
She takes a fierce swig of the Breezer.
Khaki Steve is smiling the stained-teeth
smile. 'Tell me more about yourself. Where you
live, for instance.'
Where she lives? This is fine. Safe. Safe-ish
anyway, as long as she doesn't tell him too
much. She wouldn't want him appearing on the
doorstep. 'We're by a river – it feeds into the
sea. It's all salt water, so it's got a beachy feel.'
'A tidal river?' He leans closer across the
table. 'It sounds like an interesting place to live.'
'Partly, yes. But it's dangerous too.
Sometimes.'
'Dangerous? Why?'
'There are really strong currents, with sort of
boggy black holes beneath the riverbed. If you
swam in the wrong bit you could get sucked
down. There are signs up so nobody does, but I
saw a dog get out there once and it didn't stand
a chance.'
She fingers the rim of her bottle. This is
another memory she doesn't want to have. The
flailing, bulge-eyed dog, and the screams of a
headscarfed woman. Fern had been hosing
down the dinghy when the dog came hurtling
past. It was chasing a wing-damaged gull that
half flew, half ran, out onto the water. She tried
to dive in front of the dog, but she was too
slow. There had been a few frenzied splashes; a
brief spluttering, and then nothing. Only the
gull flying raggedly away.
'You OK?' Khaki Steve reaches across and
touches her hand. She lets him take it and they
sit, holding hands across the table. Her head
suddenly feels all muzzed and muddled and she
doesn't know if everything in life is very funny
or very sad.
'Drink up,' he says. 'We'll go for a drive.'
She is aware that she sways slightly as she
stands and she lets him steady her and leans
into him, remembering briefly the girl in the
vanilla yellow towel.
'Don't forget your bag,' he says.
'Ooops. Brain's gone.' She picks up the soft
leather handbag, another of Alix's hand-me-downs,
and he steers her to a Go-Faster car
which is parked just round the corner. She
knows she is supposed to be amazed by how
red and sporty it is and she knows that she is
supposed to not get in because she must always
be aware of danger, but her head is fuddled and
she's feeling strange and they've been holding
hands across the table.
'I know somewhere,' he says. 'It's not far.
We can sit and watch the water together.'
And he turns a CD on which plays 'Sinking'
by the Blades and she lets the idea of him swim
around her again, thinking maybe he isn't even
that old if he goes for bands like this.
Maybe the Japanese sun has just dried him
out a bit.
They slide into the traffic and nudge
through the town which is as crowded as the
beach.
Fern feels tired suddenly. She wonders if
Khaki Steve would mind if she closed her eyes.
She wonders if she looks stupid when she
sleeps.
The engine changes tune and, struggling to
sit up, she realises she'd dozed off. They are
pulling into a car park. There is a low wall and
a strip of beach all straggled with seaweed and
rubbish. She thinks that the council should sort
that rubbish out. It's all wrong, in a tourist
town. People should complain.
The sea sloshes in. Lazy. Indifferent.
Khaki Steve stops the engine. The Blades are
still playing. Break-your-heart words bleeding
out through the speakers. 'The Way it Began'
.
She can't have been asleep for long.
He undoes his seat belt.
He undoes hers.
'I like you, Honey,' he says, nuzzling into
her neck.
In front of them, along the strip of beach,
three boys run and dive into the indifferent sea.
Their voices carry back to the Go-Faster car,
high and happy and playful as seals. The sun
streams down round them, glittering the tips of
the waves.
Fern feels Khaki Steve take her hand and
move it to the bulge at the front of his trousers.
'Please, Honey. I like you. Please.'
He has undone his zip and he pushes her
hand inside and moves his own hand on top of
hers, making her rub.
She wonders what Alix would do.
She wonders if this is normal.
She's never been any good at saying 'no'.
The windows of the Go-Faster car are
steaming up but she keeps looking out ahead
and he still keeps making her rub him and rub
him; his breathing is strange and he is
groaning. The happy-as-seals boys have found
a stick or a shoe or something. They are
throwing it and leaping after it and throwing it
again.
It is over very quickly.
Fern takes her hand away.
Khaki Steve slumps for a moment, his eyes
shut, and she knows this is her moment to get
out of the car and run.
'That was good.' His voice is flat now. 'Shall
I see you again?'
'I . . . ' She needs a reason to get away and
the truth is the best she can dredge up. Will he
try to stop her if she reaches for the door
handle? Maybe he's locked the door from the
inside. '. . . I'm not as old as you think I am.'
'Shit. How old?'
'Seventeen. Just.'
'Shit.'
This is all her fault. She lied to him. She put
herself here. 'It's fine.' She edges sideways
slightly, leaning away from him. 'But I want to
go now.'
He grabs hold of her arm and his grip is
tight and she winces. Now she's scared.
His other hand is digging in the pocket of
the khaki jacket. 'Look – take this. Forget it all
happened.' He is holding the wallet and pulling
out a wad of notes which he pushes into her
bag. 'Can I drop you anywhere?'
'No. Everything's fine. How does this
handle work?'
He doesn't answer but she gets the door open
anyway and stumbles out, not shutting it behind
her. Not looking back. For a moment she can't
think where to go, but then runs down onto the
strip of beach; her too-high hand-me-down heels
slide into the crunch of sand and shingle and she
is like a person in a dream – in a nightmare –
running and running but going nowhere.
Wrenching off the shoes, she drops them down
amongst the seaweed and the rubbish that people
should complain about, then races like a
maddened thing, heading back towards the
town. The shingle bruises up into her soles and
tears her tights, and a new wind spins against her
and the sea has lost its glittered shine.
