Something Wicked (23 page)

The journey out of the city, south through Cheshire, used to be familiar. Whenever Andrew and Keira were visiting her childhood home, they would ignore the motorways and opt for the country
roads. Manchester was a network of jammed inner-city highways and the M60 ring road. It was refreshing to get away from that into the hedge-banked narrow lanes.

Red triangle signs for ice and animal crossings littered the sides of the road, with black-and-white chevrons on the tight, dangerous bends. Masochistic cyclists blitzed their way along the
windy pot-hole-ridden roads, leggings and thermals practically sprayed on as drivers flashed alongside them.

The area near Delamere Forest was a collection of leafy hamlets and villages. The further Andrew got from home, the greater his sense of déjà vu. He’d been on these roads in
happier times, when car journeys with the woman to whom he was once married were spent singing along to the radio and discussing plans for the future. Now this
was
his future and he was by
himself, their ideas long since abandoned.

He followed the signs towards the little village to which she had once introduced him. As well as the picture-postcard bridge crossing the babbling stream, there was a country pub with a
thatched roof. The chalkboard outside advertised hot food and a friendly atmosphere, which sounded good – although Andrew didn’t know of any pubs who openly publicised cold nourishment
and a riot waiting to happen.

The village store was closed, with a ‘back at one’ sign pinned to the glass. Around the corner was the only cafe, a pretty little cottage with a brown picket fence and rows of picnic
tables on the lawn. Given the conditions, their placement was optimistic to say the least.

The bell over the cafe door tinkled as the waitress glanced up from her book towards Andrew in clear bemusement that someone had come in. She was the only other person there, a creeping smile
appearing on her face as if she’d forgotten what to do when customers entered.

Andrew ordered a cappuccino, treated himself to a shortbread slice, and then sat at one of the small round tables listening to the whoosh and burr of the coffee machine. He peered at the clock
over the front door; he was fifteen minutes early. After delivering his drink to the table, the waitress perched herself on the edge of the counter and started to talk about the weather –
every Brit’s get-out topic of conversation. If there was nothing else to blather about, the temperature and/or the rain was always a given. Andrew played along, before she returned to her
book. He sipped his coffee slowly, taking a newspaper from the rack near the front door and keeping a close watch on the clock.

At a minute past the time they had agreed to meet, the bell jangled again. Andrew’s eyes shot up expectantly from the paper but it was a mum with a pushchair, struggling her way inside. A
young girl clambered out of the buggy, staring at Andrew before her mother ruffled her hair and asked her what she wanted.

They stayed for twenty minutes, in which time Andrew ordered a second coffee, worrying if he was going to struggle to sleep because of too much caffeine. The coffee machine whooshed again, the
waitress continued reading, the mother and daughter left in a gust of freezing air blowing in from outside.

Tick-tick-tick.

Keira was late. Not just by a minute or two but by half an hour. Andrew looked at his phone. He hadn’t missed a call and there were no messages. He couldn’t blame her; he and his
ex-wife hadn’t spoken in almost eight years and now he’d called her after ten o’clock on a Sunday night asking for help. It was no wonder she’d fobbed him off with a time
and place to meet and then not bothered. What else did he expect? He deserved to be stood up.

Andrew left a few dregs in the bottom of his mug, finished off the crumbs of the biscuit, and then started reading the paper again. Five more minutes.

Which was what he’d told himself ten minutes ago.

He had reached the lifestyle section in the centre for a second time when the door rattled again. For a few moments, he didn’t dare look up, focusing on the newsprint but not taking in the
words. He sensed the waitress moving, heard the shuffle of feet and a woman gasping as she moved out of the cold.

Andrew finally allowed himself to peer upwards, taking in the silhouette of the figure in the doorway, making himself believe what his eyes were telling him. There were a few more crinkles
around her eyes, her hair was shorter and lighter – but it was undoubtedly the woman he’d walked away from eight years previously, lying that he didn’t love her.

Andrew Hunter sat at the table in the corner of the university refectory, drumming his fingers. The man opposite peered up from his baked potato, eyebrows raised.

‘Can you stop that?’

‘What?’

‘The finger-tapping thing. It’s really annoying.’

Andrew did as he’d been asked, not realising he’d been doing it in the first place.

His flatmate, Gideon, continued to shovel baked beans into his face, dribbling a trail of orange juice onto his black T-shirt. It dawned on Andrew that this was probably why no one bothered to
pay them any attention. Or, to be more precise, no
women
bothered to pay them any attention. If he’d been placed in halls with a potential rugby captain, an elite teenage specimen, he
could have ridden on that person’s coattails when they went out. Instead, he was stuck with Gideon, his posh accent, appalling dress sense, enhanced sweat glands, and disgusting culinary
habits.

‘Whrre jouff wannv gotooonicht?’

And he talked with his mouth full.

Andrew continued watching the door, wondering if someone from his course was going to come in. Anyone he might be able to have a conversation with that didn’t involve illnesses or diseases
Gideon had endured over the years.

‘Pardon?’

Gideon swallowed this time. ‘Where do you want to go later?’

Somehow, Andrew and Gideon had slipped into the routine of going to one of two pubs close to their halls pretty much every night. Both were dives, neither contained any interesting people
(girls) and the only thing they had going for them was that they were both cheap.

University really wasn’t what Andrew thought it was going to be. His course was dull, the only friends he’d made weren’t the sort of people he’d usually be bothered
about, the Manchester weather was awful, and he was haemorrhaging money.

Gideon scratched at his armpit, exposing a dark circle of sweat. ‘. . . I was thinking we could go to the union. They’re putting on a karaoke night . . .’

Ugh.

Andrew knew he was kidding himself, Gideon wasn’t the problem – he was. It wasn’t in his nature to go out of his way to talk to strangers. He’d never been good at small
talk, or making friends. The reason he hung around with Gideon was because they were so alike: both social misfits, awkward around both sexes, struggling to know what to say.

He stood abruptly. ‘I’m going to get something to eat after all.’

Andrew didn’t wait for Gideon to reply, making his way around the scattered chairs and picking up a tray. He headed to the back of the line, behind the exact kind of rugby-type he wished
he’d been placed in a room with. The student towered over him, bulky wide shoulders blocking the light. He was the sort of person who would know where all of the cool people (girls) hung
around, and it definitely wasn’t going to be karaoke nights at the students’ union. That had dregs of society written all over it.

The surrounding noise was almost overpowering: trays clattering, plates banging, cutlery scraping and the nonstop chatter, chatter, chatter of the massed students.

Andrew continued edging ahead as he felt a group of young women slot in behind him, moaning about one of their other flatmates.

At least it wasn’t just him.

He finally reached the front and opted for a potato with chilli. There weren’t too many other options – pizza, chips, some sort of brown sludge masquerading as a stew. It was like
being back at primary school but with higher prices.

Because there weren’t enough queues in the world, Andrew joined a second one, waiting to pay. At the front, a blonde girl was digging through a small purse, picking out coppers as she
haggled with the person on the counter about how much she owed. The rugby-type was already eating his pizza, munching his way through half a slice in two bites.

Andrew risked a small glance behind towards the women, peering over their shoulders towards the back of the refectory as if he was really looking at someone else. There were three of them, all
normal-looking – not the protesters with dreadlocks who sat outside the library banging on about some cause or another; not the giggly ones who’d be fawning over the rugby-type. Normal
was good.

He twisted back as the lad behind the girl at the front offered her ten pence to make up the difference.

‘Andy!’

Instinctively Andrew spun towards where the sound had come from. As he did, his plate skidded across the polished tray, flipping over the rim and slopping a large mound of chilli over the girl
standing directly behind him before smashing on the floor with a thunderous crash.

For a moment, everything stood still.

The student at the front of the line stopped counting her pennies, the mass of chattering voices was silenced, forkfuls of food waited in mid-air – and everyone turned to look.

The young woman behind Andrew stood with both hands in the air, mouth gaping in shock. She was wearing a fitted pink top that now had a trail of brown slurry dribbling down it.

Everyone stared.

Everyone.

If aliens had landed in the centre of the room and started performing anal probes, there would have been fewer people watching than there were looking directly at Andrew.

Then the chattering began again.

‘. . . Did you see that? . . .’

‘. . . Wow, what a dickhead . . .’

‘. . . Oh my God, I’m so glad that’s not me . . .’

‘. . . What happened? . . .’

‘. . . Who is that idiot? . . .’

‘. . . Did he just puke on her? . . .’

Then the laughing began.

The girl’s friends had leapt backwards in an attempt to avoid the splashback but she hadn’t moved, hadn’t even screamed. She had highlighted brown hair in a loose ponytail, big
blue eyes with long eyelashes and a yoghurt pot in her hand. She was also dripping with stinking brown chilli, staring at him, mouth still open.

Andrew stared back. ‘Er . . .’

‘You could start with sorry.’

Andrew reached for the pile of napkins on the counter, stretching towards her but stopping himself mid-reach when he realised he was about to start dabbing at her chest.

‘Er . . .’

One of her friends leapt forward, grabbed the paper towels and began patting away the worst of the spilled food.

Andrew finally managed a full sentence. ‘I’m really sorry.’

The friend with the towels turned to him, sneering. ‘What a complete prick. How clumsy are you?’

‘I know, I’m really sorry. It was an accident. I heard my name and turned and it just . . . went all over.’

The queue was moving again with people sliding around Andrew to get to the front, each glaring at him as if he was about to throw food in their direction too. From the kitchen, a haggard-looking
cook, who had likely seen it all before, shuffled out with a mop and bucket.

The young woman was still watching Andrew, mouth finally closed. There was a small dark dot of a birthmark next to the curve of her lips. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Andrew.’

‘Do you normally throw food over people?’

Over her shoulder, Gideon was peering around the corner, bemused grin on his face. Around the rest of the room, knives and forks were scraping again, chatter back to normal.

Move along, folks, nothing to see here.

It wasn’t the worst thing Andrew had ever done in his life. When he was seven or eight, his next-door neighbour had taken him, her own son, and half-a-dozen other children to the park on a
scorching day in the summer holidays. He’d run around, gone on the swings, climbed the frame and used the slide over and over.

Then he’d scoffed down two packets of Chewits for lunch.

After his neighbour offered to push them all on the roundabout, Andrew had staggered off, head spinning, stomach grumbling, and promptly thrown up all over the woman.

This was close but it wasn’t quite in the same league.

Andrew thought about her question. Usually he would apologise, tell her he definitely didn’t usually throw food over people, apologise again, and then slink off to his dorm hoping no one
he knew – or anyone who knew the people he knew – had witnessed it. Except for Gideon, of course, but that was unavoidable.

Instead, with the situation as bad as it could probably be, Andrew decided to do something he never did: say what was actually on the tip of his tongue, as opposed to what he thought the other
person might want to hear.

The young woman was still eyeing him, brown stain looking somehow worse now that the remnants of the chilli had been dabbed in by her mate.

‘I only usually throw food over people on the weekends.’

The food-slathered girl and both of her friends stared at him some more, mouths open – and then her face cracked and she laughed. She stepped over the broken plate and the mound of wasted
food and offered her hand.

‘Hi, I’m Keira.’

Sometimes, the nicest dreams are far worse than nightmares. In the unconscious imagination, the most wonderful things can be created: soaring, sweeping cliff faces; endless,
perfect beaches; gravity-defying waterfalls. But it is always the people that stick most strongly in the mind: imaginary friends, acquaintances, even lovers, who appear and then disappear alongside
the devastating realisation that they were never real to begin with. The only thing remaining is a struggle to remember what they looked like, why they were so appealing, and quite why an
insentient part of yourself felt the need to construct them in the first place.