Laine

My stupid pumps aren’t cut out for this weather. Cold water squelches

between my toes, and my breath is misty, wet hair like frozen straw against

my cheeks. I can hardly see through the rain.

Damn my birthday for being so late in November.

Damn me for not thinking harder about my wardrobe choices.

I wasn’t planning on being out this late, eighteenth birthday or not. I’m

dressed for a quick coffee on a cloudy afternoon, not for clubbing through a

stormy evening – leggings and a strappy cami under a fluffy teal cardigan

that holds more rain than it keeps out. This stupid scenario is all Kelly

Anne’s fault, insisting it wouldn’t be a proper birthday celebration unless it

involved getting trashed in some sleazy club in the backstreets of Brighton.

We’ll have a great time, she said, just a bus ride and a couple of drinks, she

said. Who knows, you may even meet someone hot and finally ditch the V

card, she said.

I have no intention of trading my virgin status for a drunken fumble in a

back alley with some random who barely knows my name.

And now she’s bailed on me, typical Kelly Anne style. Last I saw of her

she was lip-locked with some vest-top-clad hipster with thick-rimmed

glasses. Then she was gone, off in a puff of tequila-scented pheromones for

some bump and grind at hipster-guy’s pad, no doubt. Regular, except she

still has my phone, purse and keys in her handbag for safekeeping.

My own stupid fault for believing for one single second she’d take care

of them. Nothing is safe with Kelly Anne after a couple of tequilas, despite

what she’ll have you believe.

I root through my sopping pockets, nothing there but a couple of soggy

cigarette papers.

Idiot, I’m such an idiot.

I have no real plan for getting home to Newhaven. It’s the best part of a

ten-mile hike, and the odds of making it back without either succumbing to

hypothermia or stumbling into the sea are slim to nil. I’m sure I should be

more freaked out than I am, but I feel strangely nonchalant. Actually, it’s

more numb than nonchalant. Maybe I’ve had a few too many tequilas

myself, or maybe it’s the sorry knowledge that I have nobody who cares

enough to realise I’m stranded all alone without a penny in my pocket.

The fact that Kelly Anne is my best friend and the only real person who

gave a shit about my birthday says it all. Even if I do make it home tonight,

there’ll be nobody there. Mum’s away again, off in France with her latest

conquest. Denny, he’s called. He works over there, doing up properties for

rich folk, giving Mum the illusion that she’s one of them, and that’s all she’s

ever wanted. That and a man who’ll stick with her longer than it takes to

shoot his load. So far so good with Denny, six months and going strong. At

least she remembered my birthday enough to send a text this year.

I think I’m heading for the sea front, I hope I’m heading for the sea

front. They have bars there that stay open all night, maybe I can find

somewhere to hang out until morning, somewhere vaguely warm to pass the

time until I figure something out – except I don’t have my ID, that’s in

Kelly Anne’s handbag, too. Even if I had any money for a drink, nobody

ever lets me buy one without ID. I still get half-fare on public transport,

that’s how young I look. Kelly Anne says it’s because I’m so blonde. You

look like one of those creepy porcelain dolls, she says, but prettier. I guess

that’s supposed to be a compliment.

Maybe I should try to find a police station, explain my sorry situation

and hope they’ll let me stay until morning. Maybe I could face the ten-mile

hike home when the sun comes up, if it ever stops raining. Maybe I could

find a way to break in at home, or I could head over to Kelly Anne’s and

wait for her to resurface, give her a piece of my mind for leaving me up shit

creek on my own birthday without so much as loose change to my name.

Maybe her parents will be home, maybe they’ll let me dry off and wait it

out in her bedroom.

My numb feet splash through a puddle and it turns out they aren’t as

numb as I thought. My teeth are chattering, arms folded tight, my wet

cardigan so cold against my skin that it feels like an ice bath. Everything

seems darker here. I can’t hear any distant bass from nearby clubs, just the

occasional drone of a car and the drumming of the rain. The streets are

narrow, a rat run of back alleys, wheeled bins piled high with crap. It smells

rancid, and even though the dim lighting and the rain make it damned near

impossible to get my bearings, I’m sure this isn’t the way to the sea front. I

haven’t got a clue where I am or where the hell I’m going.

Shit, shit and more shit.

For the first time through this sorry mess I feel fear creeping up my

spine. I’m out of my depth, and the tequila is wearing off fast. Way too fast.

My nerves are chattering worse than my teeth. I would kill for a

cigarette, just to take the edge off, and as I turn the corner I may be in luck.

A solitary figure is propped in a shadowy doorway. He’s wearing a hoodie,

so I can hardly see his face, not that I’m looking. I’m far too focused on the

glow of the cigarette between his fingers.

“Hey,” I say, smoothing back the wet hair from my face. “Could you

spare me a smoke?”

He stares at me, I can feel it, but I can’t see his eyes in the shadows.

He’s big, much bigger than me. He smells of weed and stale body spray

mixed with sweat, but right now none of that matters.

I launch into a monologue, telling him my name’s Laine, and how I was

out with a stupid friend who took my phone and keys with her when she

left. I tell him it’s my birthday, that I’m having the crappiest night of my life

and he’d make it just a little bit better if he’d please give me a cigarette. I

realise how stupid I sound, how weak my voice is. How weak I feel.

How alone I feel.

But I’ve felt alone for longer than I can remember, this shit’s nothing

new.

He hands me the cigarette from his fingers, and even though it makes

me feel a bit icky, I take it from him.

“Thanks.”

“Past your bedtime from the look of you,” he grunts. His voice is thick

and raspy, and it makes me feel uneasy.

I press myself against the wall, trying to hide from the downpour and

protect the cigarette.

“Everyone says that.” I take a long drag. “I’m eighteen. Perfectly legal,

at least from today. Yesterday. It’s not even my birthday anymore. Talk

about celebrating in style, things can only get better, right?”

My stupid giggle and attempt at humour seem to go right over his head.

He grunts again. Perfectly legal. I regret my choice of words.

I keep puffing away, looking at the floor, concentrating on nothing but

the welcome rush of nicotine.

“All alone, then?” I can hear the sneer in his tone. He has an accent, a

hint of cockney. It’s gruff and deep and laced with the underbelly of this

place.

I realise the fine hairs on the back of my neck are standing up and it’s

not from the cold. I realise I’m in a dark street with nobody around besides

a man who makes me feel like a mouse in a trap.

I force a smile, gesture aimlessly at the road ahead. “My friend will be

along for me soon,” I lie. “She’s coming back, such a ditz.”

He laughs. “You just said she’d bailed. Make your mind up.”

“Figure of speech,” I lie again. “She’ll be back… anytime now…”

“Sure she will.” He takes a step towards me and I take a shuffle back.

“You can drop the lost little girl shit.”

“Sorry?” I keep my smile bright, even though my heart is thumping like

a bastard.

“How much for the works?” I feel his eyes on me, all over me. He takes

another step my way. “How much for a go on that cute little ass? Don’t be

shy now.”

“But I’m not…” I drop the cigarette. “I’m not a…” My eyes are wide,

but I still can’t see his. “My friend’s coming right now… she’s on her

way…”

He nudges the door behind him, and the stench of weed hits me. “Come

up, get warm. I’ve got weed, or stronger shit, whatever you want. You’d

like that, right? I bet you ain’t so fucking innocent as you look.” I can hear

his smirk in his voice.

I shake my head. “She’ll be here soon, and I’m really not… I shouldn’t

be here…”

“I bet you make a fucking fortune with that nice little girl shit.”

“I’m not playing…” I move away from him, but back into one of the

wheeled bins. Cardboard boxes fall to the floor and make me jump.

He laughs louder. “Come on, baby girl, don’t be such a fucking tease.”

His voice is leery, drunk. “Bet you sound real fucking nice when you’ve got

a nice hard cock in your snatch.”

My back is pressed tight against the bin, and he’s close, too close. His

breath is in my face. It stinks. He stinks. He smells musty and rank, like one

of mum’s old boyfriends… the window cleaner with the black tooth… the

one who slipped his hand between my legs when we were watching Disney

and never came over again…

“You want this… I want this…” His horrible laugh is right in my ear. I

feel his lips on me. “You’ve got me all worked up, baby girl… you owe me

for the smoke… you owe me now… what you gonna do about it?”

I look around, trying to catch sight of an exit, but there isn’t one. He’s

too close, too big, and even if I made a break for it, where would I go?

“Don’t…” I say. “Please…”

“Gonna warm you right up, make it feel real nice, if you’re a good girl.”

My chest feels tight, cold air hissing in my throat as I struggle to gulp it

in. My heart is racing, but I feel disconnected, as though I’m not here, as

though this is happening to someone else. I feel his breath on my neck, the

warmth of his fingers as they slip inside my cardigan. I feel like I should be

fighting, kicking and screaming and clawing at his face, but I’m so numb.

So scared.

His thumb brushes my nipple and it shocks like electric.

“Knew you fucking wanted it,” he grunts.

A strange sense of detachment washes over me, a sense of being sucked

into a pit, where there is nothing, where everything is easy, where I can hide

in the quiet place in my mind and pretend this is not me. It’s his tongue

against my ear that snaps me back to myself. It feels wet and hot.

“No,” I say, and my voice sounds stronger this time. I’m wriggling,

trying to bring my legs up, squirming away from his mouth.

“Chill the fuck out,” he hisses, and my heart pounds in my ears.

The rumble of cars at the top of the street spurs me on, and I lash out,

catch him hard across the face. He swears and stumbles, touching his cheek

for just long enough for me to kick out and make a run for it.

“HEY!” he calls. “GET THE FUCK BACK HERE!”