The ending of this one is the most frustrating thing ever. I apologize now.
Ashley.
They’d found his body. His last needle still jutting though his flesh, cold blood beading on the soft skin of his inner arm. The one tragic love of Cheryl’s young life. Sirens screaming though the night. Rushing to save a boy whose heart could not be shocked back into a rhythm. A boy who had poured his future into a needle laced with heroin. His final sin. His final betrayal. Later, when I heard what had happened, I called her. She didn’t pick up. She already knew, of course. That last phonecall. Her brother telling her something was wrong. I called her too. I didn’t leave a message. I couldn’t say anything. And I didn’t sleep that night. My eyes dry, my body stunned by wave after wave of cold shock. And grief too. A numbing grief, that he was really gone. Because whatever his faults, whatever his sins, it shouldn’t have ended in that way. With a needle and shaking hands and chocking vomit.
And it’s seven days later. A week of sleepless nights and cold fear. Every phone call a glimmer of increasingly desperate hope. Every meal, every mouthful a fight. Every breath a struggle, a silent battle. A war I can’t win. And now it’s seven in the morning and cold light is creeping through my window. Seven nights without her. Beside my bed, my phone rings. I twist in the cold sheets, my hands frantic, scrabbling to accept the call. I already know who it is.
“Is she there? Have you found her?” I know how desperate I must sound. But it’s a double-edged hope. It’s been seven days. If they found her, would I even recognise her now? Would I want to look at her for one final time, or should I remember her how she was? Grinning over her shoulder, my world at her feet as she faded seamlessly into the night.
“No. You haven’t seen her then? Can you call me if you do?” Her mam’s voice is straining to keep cool. Calm. Because there’s still a glimmer of hope.
“Of course.” I whisper. There’s a silence. A silence that makes my heart beat double, triple time. Because I know we’re both thinking exactly the same thing. And then I hear her clear her throat.
“Thank you.” The line goes dead. I drop my phone. It plummets to the grainy carpet.
I roll onto my back, staring blankly at the white ceiling. And my eyes are dry. I want to be able to cry, I want to be able to scream and sob and feel. Feel something, anything. Anything but this cascading numbness.
I close my eyes and imagine that I can feel her. Here with me. Her hot body heat. Her skin that felt like burning gold and crushed cashmere. Her hair that smelt of smoke, sex and heaven. Her lips that tasted of fireworks and cherries and her last cigarette, still lacing through her breath.
And I open my eyes.
And I’m alone.
And maybe I always will be.
Because they found her shoes.
Her shoes. Those scruffy hi-tops that left tiny, size three footprints all the way across my heart. She’d worn them the first time I ever saw her. She’d worn them as we raced across the beach. She’d worn them as we walked together for the last time, down to the river. Because I was last person to see her. The last person she spoke to. The last person she ever kissed. And that makes me feel cold all over, as though the warm lips I touched for the last time were already bloodless and blue. As though her icy tendrils were already creeping through her hot blood. Pulling her away from me.
They found her shoes an hour before dawn, on that last night. When the night was darkest, just as the eastern sky began to blush pink. Reflecting over the inky black North Sea. They found her shoes. They were placed carefully together, her socks stuffed into the toes. Her jumper folded neatly on top of them. Her phone, turned off and balanced next to them. Neat. Methodical. Piled on the concrete beside the green wrought iron railings of the bridge. The bridge. The endless, black water far below. Oil slicked on the dark surface, thick with grey scum. How far is the drop? A hundred feet? Maybe more.
