Emma
Emma reapplied the dressing. It was happening more and more. It was the murder, she knew it was. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, even dreaming about it. It seemed like every time she turned on the television or saw a paper, there was something there about Jason Barnes and Luke Murray. She knew what she did was sick, but she couldn’t stop. She’d never forget the first time: her eighteenth birthday.
They’d bought her a mobile phone, one with a camera on. It was lovely. She put her home number in, and her aunt and uncle’s, and the hairdresser’s. Then she took the money her nan had given her and went into Birmingham and trudged around New Street and up Corporation Street looking for a dress to wear for their meal out that evening. She tried on dozens, her arms aching and the hangers biting into her fingers as she browsed the rails. There were so many different styles: minidresses with bold prints, floaty romantic styles, metallic sheaths. She finally settled on a sleeveless maxi dress with an empire line and a full skirt; it was giant paisley in greens and browns. It hid her legs, which was good. The neck was scooped and quite low, but she had a green necklace at home that might look okay with it. She wasn’t sure about how it made her arms look, but by then she was too tired to try anything else, and she couldn’t go home empty-handed.
She got ready in her room, curling her hair and putting on green eyeshadow to reflect the colours in the dress. Her mum called to her when they were ready, and she went down and waited in the lounge doorway. Her mother smiled and nodded. Her father turned and did a mock double-take. ‘Gordon Bennett – what is it wearing?’
‘Roger!’ her mum protested.
‘That’s bound to frighten the horses. Whoever flogged you that was having a laugh.’
‘I like it.’ Her voice shook.
‘Well, you’ve never had a clue.’
‘Roger, don’t.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Emma demanded. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. Her mother shot her a warning glance, but it was too late.
‘Where shall I start?’
‘If we don’t go now, we’ll be late,’ her mother said.
‘You look like you’re wearing a tent – Jolly Green Giant, that’s it. We could all go camping.’
‘Don’t!’ Her mother moved towards Emma, frowning.
‘I’m only being honest. Do you want her to be a laughing stock?’
Her mum sounded really cross. ‘It’s a perfectly nice dress and you’re not being honest, you’re being mean.’
There was a silence, heavy, dangerous. Emma filled it, stammering over the words. ‘Well I like it and it’s my birthday, it’s my money. Shall we go?’
She braced herself for more from him, but he just gave a dry little laugh and scooped up the car keys.
At the restaurant, Emma chose the most expensive dishes: tiger prawns, fillet steak. She swallowed mouthful after mouthful. Her father made a fuss about the wine being undrinkable. and the waiter had to bring a different bottle.
She went to the toilet before dessert; the place was empty and she stuck her fingers down her throat and made herself sick. She felt raw with emotion, a bleak pain that threatened to drown her. She washed her hands and rubbed water on her teeth. She looked in the mirror, loathing her reflection: her upper arms like pasty white balloons, her podgy face, the colours in the dress sickly under the fierce lighting, her dangly earrings tawdry. The idea just came. She took one of the earrings out. Returned to the stall and locked the door. She drew up the dress and opened out the wire hook of the earring. Pushed it against her inner thigh, increasing the pressure until it pierced the skin and she felt it sting. She pulled the wire out and watched the bead of blood swell. A berry. She did it again. And once more. She closed her eyes and savoured the new feelings, the throbbing pain and the tide of relief that moved through her.
Then she wiped the blood away, replaced the earring and went to eat her Double Chocolate Hot Fudge Sundae.
The next day she surfed the internet and found a temporary job vacancy at an insurance company in Manchester. She applied online, having to retype much of the form because her fingers were shaking. She had an interview first thing the following week. She was sure she’d made a complete idiot of herself, stammering and blushing and getting muddled up, but they asked to start immediately. One of the managers gave her a number to ring for a vacant flat in the same block as his brother. He could give her a reference.
