Episode Four

Unlike so many of her friends, Envy found it easy to embrace the gloom of winter. Within its darkness, she saw opportunities to burrow deeper, creating a nest of warm lights and blankets where she might feel safe. Even with her acceptance of the season, however, early mornings remained a challenge for Envy. Outside, a sharp wind had spent the night charging at the walls of her student residence. In response, the cold permeated her room like a dull ache, and the allure of her bed had never been stronger. And yet, Envy begrudgingly peeled back the duvet; she had a train to catch. By the time the radiators turned on, she would already need to be halfway to the station, so there was little time to waste.

Nobody else was up yet - why would they be? 

Envy switched her bedroom light off before heaving the door open, just in case the light crept under the door opposite and woke Sadie. With a quiet struggle, she pulled the door to, and met the darkness of the corridor with some hesitation. Out here, it was somehow even colder. There were no windows as the student flat stretched on, but she could just about make out the five other bedrooms lining the corridor. Nobody had switched a light on – there was no glow leaking from beneath any of the doors – and so, emboldened, Envy began her next trial.

Without considering the early morning escape in advance, she had pulled out the carryall and stuffed it sleepily full of clothes the night before, without first removing the decorative chain that now tinkled and chimed as it spun and tapped against the wall of Sadie’s bedroom. Envy froze in anticipation of being caught, holding her breath as if it was a gale threatening to shake the others from their beds.

Nothing happened. Envy exhaled, squeezed between her courtesy and a deadline.

Further down the corridor, she reached the kitchen – a pale door whose laminate was swollen and chipped, inset with windows designed to withstand the antics of inebriated young people. Envy turned to look through the window, just as her hand reached for the front door of the flat. There had been no reaction from Sadie because she was there, in the kitchen, sitting in the dark. No, not sitting; slumped on the table, asleep. Peering closer, Envy could make out a bottle beside the slumbering girl. In a couple of hours, the others would be up, gathering breakfast from the cupboards and scrambling to get to lectures. Would they find Sadie like this? Would they be kind to her?

Envy’s fingers pressed against the kitchen door, ready to open it. But she couldn’t. A louder noise – louder than the chain, than her breath, than even the glaring silence – had started to overtake her calm. Envy’s heart was racing, slamming heavily against her ribcage. With each beat, a rolling wave of panic unfurled down her body, from stomach to toes. She could intervene, but maybe it was best she was never here at all.

A quick glance at her watch and Envy convinced herself to relinquish her touch upon the kitchen door, heading for the exit instead. Outside, the cold that greeted her and kissed her skin with wicked lashes couldn’t compare to the shivering shame running through Envy’s body.

The sky started to bleach without Envy’s notice. The promise of light turned the world beyond the train station from shapeless shadows into featureless silhouettes against paling grey. It was only when she pulled her eyes from the glare of her phone screen that Envy realised the intrusion of morning within the comforting blanket of darkness. Even wrapped in the combination of her favourite hoodie and denim jacket, Envy still felt overwhelmed by the cold. It had reached into her bones. By now, the radiators would have clicked on in her halls of residence, and her flatmates would be checking their notifications in the comfort of their beds, allowing the world to warm up around them before leaving for the day. She wondered if, by now, they had found Sadie asleep in the kitchen. Or maybe she’d been stirred awake by the carelessness with which the front door had slammed shut a little too loudly – a half-hearted compromise on Envy’s part.

There was something disquieting about witnessing the bleary-eyed commuters in this new light. Examining the tremor of familiar anxiety, Envy recognised where it came from: the memory of waking up early for school, the dread of having to get ready before the sun had readied itself to rise. Those were days Envy didn’t want to relive. But with the cold memories came warm ones: sneaking five more minutes in bed while listening to the roar of her mum’s hairdryer in the other room; leaving her uniform on the radiator before getting dressed in the hopes of soaking up some of the heat; joining Havannah and Claire on the walk to school, sharing notes on their homework while their breath curled into life in the cold air.

A sigh escaped the space between Envy’s lips without her permission – or her notice. A few feet away, a commuter looked up from his phone to trace the sound back to its source. Their eyes met for only a second before he shrank back towards the blue light in the palm of his hand.

With the paling sky came an increase in activity from the commuters. Many of them had been skulking on the platform almost as long as Envy had, concealed by shadows and content to be silently miserable and lost in their own individual worlds. Like flowers turning to meet the sun, however, they slowly seemed to awaken before the morning’s eyes.

One-by-one, they transformed from once-withdrawn dwellers in the dark to cheerful veterans who greeted newer commuters they recognised with a worn smile. Some of them had acquired coffee at some point, brought to them by a kind friend they only ever saw at this station for a quarter of an hour a day. But over the course of a week, all those minutes had added up into friendship, these people joined together by the shared misery of a breeze that ran through the station, and a train that never ran on time. In the safety of these liminal moments – the transition between their normal lives and who they pretended to be at work – the companions could talk about colleagues neither would recognise the name of, speak brazenly of annoyances with managers neither would ever meet, and share secrets with each other that neither would ever repeat. There was, Envy decided, something beautiful about that.

Somewhere in the distance, a delicate birdsong was interrupted by the sound of screeching brakes. For all the joy she took from watching those around her come to life, Envy still missed the night and the way the strangers murmured in disbelief to themselves when their train ran another minute late; this new bonhomie felt out of place on a cold winter’s morning. Or maybe, she relented, it was because their happiness was a levity she could not afford – not with Clayham-on-Sea waiting for her a few hours down the track.

There was some comfort to be taken in the notion that she would at least see the sun finish its glorious ascent once the train had shed the confines of the city and left the night behind them. It would be another half-hour until the rest of the shadows waned and a new burst of sunlight pierced the horizon; there was still time. 

Feeling the chill more in the seemingly premature light, Envy dug her hands even deeper into the pockets of her jacket. The black denim had started to wear in places, lightened patches betraying where the fabric was weakest. Still, the material felt thicker in the cold, as if holding a record of every winter day it had been worn since she bought it two autumns prior. Over time, it had become a noticeboard for her memories, patches sewn and stitched and stuck across the right breast and upper back. A collection of pin badges - started by a birthday gift from Havannah - crowded together on the top left pocket, clinking against one another if she moved too quickly. 

An electronic voice announced the imminent arrival of the Clayham-on-Sea train over the tannoy, and dread wormed its way back beneath Envy’s skin. University had changed her. This was a belief she repeated to herself, a mantra to shield her from the past. But had it changed her enough? The girl standing on a platform before dawn, watching the horizon blaze, felt only a second older than the one who had watched the pier burn. If she closed her eyes, Envy could convince herself that the heat had become trapped beneath her skin; that she might be able to reach out and feel the flames trying to meet her across the water.

This was a private wondering; nobody would understand. As predicted, the extraordinary event had been watered down into a thinly-spun tale people interrogated her about at parties. When ambushed with questions by students who had watched the events unfold through the safety of their televisions, Envy simply shrugged or nodded, before moving the conversation along, rather than dwell for a moment longer in a past she had hoped to keep at the water’s edge – far from where she was now. Interest had, however, waned quickly. Nobody asked her about it anymore.

All at once, a handful of commuters shuffled their way closer to the front of the platform. At first, Envy mistook the bright light flooding her vision for the bursting forth of the sun. Upon hearing the screech of brakes and metal on metal, however, she knew instead that it was time to face up to all that she’d left behind – to Claire, to the fire, to what she felt she owed Kristi. It was time for Envy to go home.

The train came to a complete stop and Envy embedded herself in the midst of the shuffling, shoving crowd as best she could. Despite the blue streak in her dark curls – placed there by a drunken friend as a dare – and the casual denim against a sea of smart jackets, Envy managed to become one of the commuters, just for a short time. 

She took a seat, smiled at a kindly office worker who shuffled in to claim the seat opposite and turned with great interest towards the window. Soon, they would be off and the buildings would shrink and fade, and the world would open up into fields and hills. Just beyond the station, the cold sky was beginning to singe, a fire catching from the horizon. Envy closed her eyes for just a minute and dreamt of the sunrise. And once again – just like every time before it – she was standing at the edge of the pier as it burned, feeling the inferno reach for her cheeks.

When she opened her eyes, the office worker was gone and the sunrise was done. All that was left behind was an empty seat and a tear Envy had shed in her sleep.

***

Upon returning from her morning swim – routine undisturbed by her guest – Havannah was greeted by the sight of Victor waiting by the kettle in his boxer shorts. Through snatched glances, she wordlessly contemplated his physique, watching as he yawned, stretched, and then returned to waiting for the water to boil. The stolen looks revealed two things: firstly, that he was much as Havannah had expected him to be under his clothes. His skin was milky white, save for the kiss of raspberry where warmth bloomed, which deepened the definition of his chest and stomach. He was a little shorter than Olivier, though still seemed tall in great part to the way he carried himself with pride. No, not pride…defiance?

The second revelation was about Havannah herself; the question of what Victor looked like undressed had never actually crossed her mind. Even the video of him and Kristi hadn’t been entirely clear, and her memory of it contained no reference to Victor’s body – only to the shape of Kristi atop him and the unexpected anger Havannah had felt on Claire’s behalf. In fact, Havannah realised, she had never really thought of Victor as anything more than a background actor. Their clash on the seafront the previous summer – him armed with the video, her with common sense – had almost elevated him to more than a footnote in a much greater story playing out all around them. But then he’d left without another word, as he had promised.

As such, Havannah felt she could look, could inspect, could commit to memory the definition of his body – because it evoked no deeper feeling within her at all. Ronan had been just as physically fit, though less pale and with biceps that made Havannah feel safe; Olivier’s canvas was similar, but thinner and painted in tattoos that told a story. Victor was just…Victor. And Victor – once an outside player – was now standing in her kitchen for the third morning in a row, arms folded but otherwise brazen in his own presence.

“I have a coffee maker, you know,” Havannah pointed out, throwing her towel into the dryer to the left of Victor’s leg.

“I wanted tea,” he replied, before quickly adding, “I can make you a coffee though? If you want?”

“That would be great,” Havannah said. The machine whirred into life, the oscillating thump of the soaked towel easing seamlessly into the background of their conversation. They both had bigger things on their mind.

Victor opened a cupboard, a spoon still held tightly in one hand. Havannah knew he was trying to be useful but he was looking in the wrong place and impatience got the better of her. She reached across to a different cupboard and handed him the coffee beans.

“Are you OK?” he asked, watching as Havannah pulled the coffee machine forward from the back of the worktop, unaware of the sting on Victor’s ego.

“I’m fine. I’m great,” Havannah insisted, prepping the coffee machine with a rough touch. Her movements were short, sharp, and forceful, as if this process – done a thousand times before now – was somehow of huge inconvenience.

Unconvinced by her answer, Victor leant against the right angle of the worktop, arms crossed tightly. Although biceps bulged where limbs squeezed together, they still didn’t supplant Ronan in Havannah’s mind; she spared them little more than a brief glance as the machine started to churn. She sighed, hit the button, and let the rattling and mechanical grinding of coffee beans join with the dryer’s erratic symphony.

“Sorry. It’s just…It’s all a lot to take in. What you told me. I’m still processing.”

Havannah let her gaze wander to the floor, then to her nails – anywhere but Victor, who continued to watch for anything more. 

Eventually, he spoke.

“No, I’m sorry. I needed to tell somebody, and you’re…”

“Stupid enough to listen?”

“Smart enough to.”

The words struck back at Havannah, her animosity rebounding against Victor’s defence. She reminded herself that she barely knew him, but there was equally a chance that she knew him better than anybody else. The privilege of such intimacy was slowly becoming more apparent.

“I appreciate you saying that.”

“It’s true,” Victor insisted, standing tall now. The kettle finished boiling, but he ignored it; there was too much ground being gained to be distracted now. “Out of all of them, you were always the most mature. You saw things they didn’t.”

“That’s the problem. You’re asking me to see something that’s…disturbing, to be honest. It challenges everything I know.”

“Does it?”

The coffee machine followed the kettle’s lead, gushing out steaming hot liquid before beeping and falling silent. Throughout its performance, the two humans stared at one another in a fragile pause. Only when quiet returned could they resume, though even then there was a reluctance to acknowledge that Victor might not be wrong.

“What do you mean?” Havannah asked, delaying the inevitable acquiescence.

“Come on, Havannah. It’s not much of a logical leap to think Claire – jealous, petty, angry Claire – could…” He hesitated to say the words aloud, checking their surroundings and quietening his voice before continuing, “...Could kill her sister.”

Victor stepped closer, his height almost casting a shadow over Havannah. Despite the closing proximity and the towering frame, there was no unease. A memory pacified her desire to stay safe: a young man afraid that he had been caught kissing another young man beneath the pier one hazy summer ago.

“Besides…if you thought I’d done it, you would’ve called the police by now.”

Havannah bit her lip. It wasn’t enough to keep her silent, however, and so she busied herself pouring milk and sweetener into her coffee.

Fearing a loss of support, Victor’s posture became more desperate, his tone more pleading.

“You don’t think that, do you?”

“I don’t know what I think,” she replied, focused on watching the milk blend and the coffee lighten with each revolution of the spoon. She sighed, sensing Victor’s wide, watery eyes staring. “I don’t think you killed Kristi, Victor. I don’t know why and I’m surprised at myself, in all honesty.”

The spoon – carelessly tossed with more emotion than Havannah intended to demonstrate – clattered onto the worktop, disrupting Victor’s slowly returning sense of ease.

“So, what do we do now?” she asked, clasping the mug with two hands. The warmth was a comfort, given the lingering chill of the sea’s embrace.

“We need the photo Claire took in the water that night.”

“We?” Havannah raised an eyebrow. She sipped the coffee. “You need that photo. I need to know who started the fire.”

“You already know that,” Victor scoffed. “You said it yourself: Damon had the most to gain.”

Havannah’s eyes narrowed.

“I need evidence. And you…you’re asking me to help you to destroy evidence.”

“It’s not evidence if it’s not true. I didn’t kill Kristi – you just said you know that deep down or whatever.” Victor could feel his hurt starting to fold inwards, turning into frustration. It was becoming possible that this – that coming to Havannah for help – was a mistake.

“Calm down.”

“Calm down?! How can I calm down when I’ve got this hanging over my head?!”

“Victor…”

“No! Why is it so wrong for me to be angry about this? Claire fucking killed her sister and I’m going to be the one who pays for it. It’s not…it’s not fair!”

The red flush under Victor’s skin settled around tear-filled eyes. Without a second thought, Havannah discarded the mug and drew Victor in closely for an embrace. With great hesitation, his arms finally reciprocated, any defences collapsing as the sobbing began.

“It’s going to be OK. I promise,” she said, pressing her fingers firmly against Victor’s bare skin. “We’ll fix this.”

At the sound of a small, whispered thank you, the gravity of the situation finally settled into Havannah’s bones. For the first time since his return, Havannah truly did believe Victor.

Eventually, he calmed and they parted. Ashamed, Victor’s eyes remained covered by a hand – until Havannah guided it away. Tears glistened on reddened eyelids, stuck shut by soaked eyelashes. Or perhaps he was trying to hide himself away in the dark space behind his eyelids. Either way, Havannah called for Victor to look at her.

“But I need something in return. You said your friend – Rahmon was it?”

“Rahim.”

“Right, Rahim. You said he saw Damon at Claire’s house. I need him to stay close.”

Victor sniffled and wiped his eyes with a piece of extra absorbent kitchen roll.

“You don’t think..?”

“That Damon knows? Maybe. Or maybe they both know what the other has done. It’s suspicious that he’s cosying up to her.”

“I know Damon had a thing for Kristi. Maybe it’s guilt?”

“Maybe…” Havannah pondered, though she hardly sounded convinced. “So, what’s the play?”

Victor let out a small chuckle and raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Pass. You told me I wasn’t smart enough to play games – and you were right. I tried reasoning with Claire, then I asked Rahim for help. I’m out of ideas.”

“Typical.” Havannah rolled her eyes. At the tall windows, stretching from sea to sky, she stared out at the waves. The water looked murky today, sand and silt stirred up by unrest. “This Rahim needs to stay close. He’s our ‘in’.”

Joining Havannah at the window, Victor caught a glimpse of his reflection and suddenly became acutely aware of being so close to naked. This felt at odds with the man staring back at him, a younger more vulnerable version of himself. 

“Welcome to the game, Victor. I hope you’re a fast learner,” Havannah said, sipping the coffee. Her reflection did the same.

“This isn’t a game to me,” he replied, a severity in the young man’s voice.

“You want to win, don’t you?”

Rather than staring back at themselves, their reflections looked at one another, two people wondering who they had become.

***

There was an inevitability – quietly ignored, but too loud to notice – that drew Envy to Number Thirty-Three, Bishop Close. It was, after all, the very reason she was in Clayham-on-Sea, skipping lectures and spending her previous student loan on train tickets. Even Mrs MacAvoy, relieved to see her little girl after an extended absence, had asked if she was going to see Claire. Envy could only sheepishly nod, before changing the topic with a strained declaration of how much she’d missed being home. Duped, mother embraced daughter and the subject was dropped. 

When it came time to head out, Envy shouted her intentions up the stairs, leaving before there could be any questions. The thought of turning up on her supposed best friend’s doorstep shouldn’t have seemed so overwhelming. And yet…there was little else she dreaded more.

Seeking comfort in the familiarity of the sea, Envy instead took the bus down to the shoreline. The gift shop where she had once sold plastic tat and novelty postcards to tourists was shut tight, cold and empty now. She supposed the owner must have given up after the fire, gathering up the nick-nacks and leaving the shelves bare.

Beacon’s fish and chip shop – still popular thanks to its proximity to those with a lunch break long enough for them to wander with a bag of greasy chips – was mercifully open, preparing for the midday rush. At the counter, Envy fished out some change from her tattered black purse, stained from marker pen and battered from years of being thrown into bags and squeezed into jacket pockets, and bought a portion to eat as she walked.

By her own admission, Envy couldn’t look at the pier directly – not at first, anyway. She needed to train herself, to ease her way into this new reality that she had spent the last few months running from. By the time she reached the gates leading to the pier, that reality had started to sink in.

Staring through the wrought iron curves, Envy stared at the pier’s burnt shell and remembered that night. The smell of salt and vinegar faded away, overtaken by the memory of burning wood and choking smoke. Somewhere nearby, shocked murmurs echoed from the past. 

Envy decided to move on before the past could drown her.

Further down the shoreline, she spotted Wonderland Arcade. There had been so many happy times there, all playing out among machines that promised riches but ended up swallowing countless two pence pieces instead. Near the back was a dance machine on which she and Havannah had once held the high scores; after that, Claire dissuaded them from playing on it without her. When it was clear that her coordination – all limbs and frustration – would always hold Claire back, she simply sulked. Eventually, they stopped playing on it altogether.

In the present light, the arcade seemed seedy. Perhaps, Envy argued, it was her age; those joyful days were gone, the friends they were shared with now distant. Or it could have been the pale winter light, bleaching the colour and joy until it just seemed like noise and irritation. Envy stuffed a chip into her mouth and tasted countless summers on the beach, but also dozens of drunken nights out with new friends in a city that still promised more to discover. Maybe she’d outgrown Clayham-on-Sea.

Deserted by hunger, Envy discarded the last of the chips in a squat black bin. She was out of excuses and distractions; it was time to visit Claire.

“This is Rahim. He’s been such a good friend to me.”

While the sting that accompanied Claire’s words was neither strange nor unexpected to Envy, their edges felt sharper. She had grown too used to the softness and care with which her new friends spoke to one another. Not willing to feel the same irritation that had plagued her teenaged years, Envy pushed the feeling to one side and followed Claire through the front door.

To her surprise, the house was clean, though Envy said nothing aloud. Rahim – the stranger surely responsible for this miraculous presentation – watched from the sofa, nervously smiling and raising a hand in a feeble greeting. Envy mirrored him almost exactly, and felt a little embarrassed that she could see herself in Rahim. Did Claire see it too? Is that why he was there? Envy imagined ten years down the line, Rahim knocking on the door to find he’d been replaced by a Colin or a Zara who reminded him of himself; the chain would keep on going, a legacy of doormats for Claire to walk across.

“Nice to meet you, Rahim. I’ve heard great things,” Envy tried.

“Ha!” Claire said, collapsing onto the sofa beside her new confidant. “You would’ve heard more if you ever picked up your phone.”

“Sorry about that. The signal’s crap in my student accommodation,” Envy lied. Claire had probably sniffed out the deceit right away, she thought, though not a word was said to counter it. Instead, Claire just folded her arms and turned her attention back to the television.

“Oh, are you at university?” Rahim perked up, watching Envy as she took a seat on the chair that completed the living room area, but which was so often left unoccupied. As youngsters, whoever had fallen out of favour had to sit on the chair, even though there was ample space on the L-shaped sofa. Still, blankets and cushions would shrink the space available, and the spare – usually Envy – would be left to feel isolated a few feet away.

“Yeah, I am,” Envy replied, trying to get comfortable on the chair. Despite their familiarity, it didn’t accommodate her in the same way as before.

“What are you studying?”

Rahim seemed genuinely interested, angling his body in her direction and dressing his face with a pleasant smile. He was, Envy decided quickly, a nice person; she almost wanted to save him.

“Photography. And film studies. Photography and film studies.”

Somewhere across the gulf of the living room, Claire rolled her eyes. Regardless, the distance felt bridged by Rahim’s kindness and Envy’s maturity.

“Oh wow! That sounds really cool. Have you been doing photography for long?”

“Yeah, a few years now. But I’m definitely an amateur.”

“So, do you think you’ll go into television? Or become a professional photographer?”

“I haven’t really thought about it yet, to be honest-”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Claire whined from her portion of the sofa, where she was now slumped like a stain splashed vertically across its surface.

Rahim – who had leaned a little closer to Envy – pulled himself away, a pet pulled back by a tug of its leash. Envy sensed her resolve harden. She was about to speak up in his defence when Rahim spoke again – this time, in a low voice.

“Are you coming to Yannis’ tonight?”

“Yannis from college?” Envy asked, directing the question towards Claire. To her surprise, she received a reply, though it was only a sharp nod. “Sounds like it could be fun.”

“Cool,” Rahim beamed.

Envy watched Claire, who she could tell was only pretending to be enraptured by the magic mop currently being showcased on the television.

“Can I speak to you, Claire? In private?”

“Whatever it is, you can say it in front of Rahim,” Claire responded, eyes still affixed to the screen. Rahim, meanwhile, shrank into the sofa at the mention of his name. Envy felt sorry for him, caught between them both. She kept from looking at him, ignoring the embarrassed flush on Rahim’s cheeks.

In her lap, Envy could feel her hands fidgeting. They felt like they belonged to somebody else, and yet she hoped they would clear a path for her regardless.

“I wanted to apologise for not being here,” she said, her voice wavering as if this was the first time she had spoken the words aloud; Envy had been practising for days – maybe even weeks.

“You weren’t a good friend,” Claire interjected without breaking eye contact with the too-friendly presenters. With her arms crossed tightly and face pouting, she resembled a sulking child. 

Envy had anticipated such a response and had prepared accordingly. Even so, she had to first fight the urge to roll her eyes before continuing.

“No, I suppose I wasn’t. And I know you needed me, but I wasn’t available to you. Even so, I can see you’ve made a new friend.” At this, Rahim seemed to panic from the recesses of the sofa. Admittedly, his presence wasn’t expected, but Envy improvised, turning to him and saying, “Thank you for looking after her, Rahim. Truly.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, quietly.

A pregnant pause followed. Experience told Envy to prepare – to brace herself – for Claire’s acidic comments, though they didn’t seem to come. The acknowledgement of Rahim had been shrugged off,  but Envy knew Claire better than anybody. Ready for the pause to end, she asked the one question sure to get a response from Claire.

“Can you forgive me?”

As predicted, a new fire lit within Claire. Her energy became impish, the sulking expression morphing from a pout into that of a trickster who had ensnared an unwitting victim in their joke.

“I suppose so,” she replied, labouring the suggestion that it was a difficult decision – though her broadening smile gave her away. Claire stood and Envy followed, and the two best friends embraced in front of the television. 

It was Rahim’s turn to brace himself. Sensing that he might have lost favour in the wake of Envy’s return, Rahim was all too ready for a fall from grace. To his surprise, though, Envy beckoned him up with a hand. He stood, hesitating for a moment, before Claire pulled him in tightly. 

The three of them stayed like that, arms wrapped around one another, waiting to see who would let go first. Should Envy loosen her grip before the others, she knew there would be accusations of abandonment; if Rahim pulled away, he would be sealing his fate as an outsider. Neither of them could risk being the first to move, and so Claire silently reclaimed her position on top; she would decide when enough was enough – yet another realisation that left Envy wondering if she would’ve been better staying away after all.

***

Despite the chattering groups gathering at the edges of Yannis’ living room and the smokers watching that their cigarettes didn’t burn his mum’s curtains as they leant out of the window, Envy felt like she and Claire were the only two people there. It was just like old times.

Their arrival had seen Claire promptly pull Envy into dancing, insisting on a provocative snaking of her hips so close to her friend’s body that Envy could do nothing but be hypnotised. 

Rahim went on without them, nodding and smiling at familiar faces as he shuffled between the bodies, clinging to a bottle of vodka and some cheap cola – both still wrapped in a plastic bag and both paid for by Envy – close to his chest. He hadn’t noticed that he had shed the other two until he reached the kitchen alone, and by then the gap in the sea of people had closed behind him. There was no going back the way he came. So Rahim unpacked the bag, searched for the last of the clear plastic cups, and listened to the song shift tempo. 

In the midst of what had become the dance floor – by day, the centre of the living room, usually marked by Yannis’ mum’s favourite rug, now rolled up and shoved under the stairs – a spotlight seemed to fall over Claire and Envy. Everything else was pushed into silence, save for a smile between them – shared for a song they both loved, dripping with slow riffs and promises of a broken heart.

Almost as Envy had pictured a thousand times before, Claire reached out to pull her best friend closer. It was a small comfort to suppose that, somewhere out in the vast universe – or perhaps in a world whose walls were pressed closely to their own – there was a version of this moment that mattered as much to Claire as it did to Envy.

She had to believe that, otherwise the hollow feeling growing inside of her chest would surely pull her entire being into itself. The closeness was a lie, she wasn’t naïve; Claire had no physical interest in women. There was, however, a desperation to her proximity and the way she draped her arms over Envy’s shoulders, crossing her wrists out of sight, almost as if she was holding on for dear life.

A bead of sweat threatened to give Envy away as her hands struggled to find ease with their placement on Claire’s hips. They swayed as she swayed, moving with her movement. To an observer, it might look like Envy was leading Claire’s hips, directing them to lean this way and that way in time with the slow, steady drawl of the song. In reality, it was as it had always been: Claire leading, Envy following. 

The thrumming of electric guitars poured themselves lazily over the rhythmic pounding of drums. All around them, the air thickened with music and errant smoke. Envy, keen to avoid looking in the wrong place, tried to show an interest in the other partygoers. It was a useful reminder that they weren’t in fact alone. Even so, everybody seemed to be moving much slower than the two friends, lost in conversations that Envy couldn’t quite make out. From his spot behind the decks and speakers – awkwardly placed beneath the white staircase that cut into the living room – Yannis was leaning back against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers. Envy quietly thought he looked quite cool.

Bright, colourful lights were blunted by the smoke collecting above their heads and around their bodies. They had become stuck on orange, pouring a fictional sunset over the room, leaving the party-goers to dance and laugh and talk as if in a hazy dream. The song suited the picture; it had soaked into the moment, timing Envy’s heartbeats for her.

She dared to look at Claire, whose eyelids were closed with a delicate lightness that could’ve been slumber, had it not been for the continuing movement in her body. The glitter brushed sparsely around her eyes glimmered in the light, as if marking where the Sandman’s lips had pressed against pale skin. 

To Envy, it was beautiful. Claire was – and had always been – proof that there was beauty in the plainest of places. Some part of Envy called out from the past, begging herself to be happy, to turn away from this hopeless idea of Claire loving her back. But she knew that wouldn’t be necessary. All around them, a perfect tableau had been carved out of the scenes taking place throughout the party, seemingly all in tribute to the two dancers. Yet, Envy was painfully aware that in a few more seconds, the song would end and time would move on; this moment would be left behind, and Envy would wake back up to reality. Before that happened, she would enjoy the last of her nostalgic delusion – lie to herself one last time – and then wake to reality.

In an almost cruel – but perhaps merciful – turn, Yannis grew bored and changed the music before the last sweet note could bitter itself on Envy’s tongue. She didn’t know the next track, and although it continued the recognisable feeling of being at a party long after she should’ve left, it was too fast – too frantic – to warrant continuing the dance. 

Claire must have felt the same, opening her eyes as if being pulled from some enchanted sleep, blinking back to life after receiving a kiss. She didn’t move her arms immediately, allowing contact to linger with her smile. 

The waking world was already intruding upon their once-frozen moment. The orange lights had switched now, cycling between blue, red, and green; idle observers let their conversations spill closer to the centre of the room, dancing and talking and stepping upon Envy and Claire’s privacy; Yannis had finished his cigarette and was lining up another song with yet another rise in tempo. And there was Envy, once again disheartened at her own lack of action. When would Claire’s lips be close enough to kiss again? Of course, doing so might have broken the spell too early, Claire pulling away in disgust. That reaction wouldn’t have been quite the balm her wounded heart needed, but it stung less to think of her own inaction as the safest means by which she had made room for her to live wholly within the lifespan of a song.

Claire’s arms retreated from Envy’s shoulders and the two girls found themselves standing awkwardly in Yannis’ living room. Their private world was suddenly more cramped and uncomfortable, sticky skin pressing against them as revellers closed in.

The pair shuffled their way towards the kitchen, where Rahim was pouring coke into the last of three plastic cups. It slipped a little under the weight of the fizzy drink, but was stabilised by Envy’s gentle grasp at its base.

“Thanks!” Rahim said, slowing his pour to allow the bubbles to die down. The music threatened to drown out his gentle voice.

“We should get a picture!” Claire yelled with glee as she pulled out her phone. 

“Just a sec,” Envy said, getting ready to position herself properly, but there was no time afforded to her. Claire took the photo, Envy’s face a slight blur, while Rahim’s glance at the camera had left him looking shocked, as if caught in some criminal. Claire, naturally, looked fine – decent, even.

“That’s so nice!” she declared, fawning over the photo, but putting the screen to sleep before Envy could inspect the result.

Rahim passed them both a cup and they toasted nothing in particular. When Claire drained her cup only seconds later, she passed it back to Rahim for a refill. As he poured, she whooped and shouted her greetings at familiar faces who spared her indifferent expressions.

“I’m just going to find the bathroom,” she half-shouted in Envy’s ear.

Envy nodded and watched until Claire had vanished into the crowd before addressing Rahim with gentle patience, delivered loudly to compete with the cascading beats of the music.

“Don’t let her take the piss.” She spoke with more confidence than even her wildest dreams could produce.

“What do you mean?” Rahim asked, squinting and leaning closer as he screwed the lid back onto the cola. The way he looked at Envy reminded her of a puppy, wide-eyed and worried about disappointing.

Envy’s eyes roamed away from him as she searched for the words to gently guide Rahim from becoming Claire’s dogsbody. It was during their exploration of Yannis’ small kitchen and the window that peered out into the primarily patioed garden that brought Envy to rest on the sight of Havannah and Victor mingling outside.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“What is it?” Rahim asked, now trying to trace her stare while clutching the oversized bottle close to his chest. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or distracted.

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll talk later. Can you watch my drink?” 

Envy didn’t wait for an answer, perhaps already too comfortable with the idea that Rahim would do as he was told. Reluctant to head down that path, Envy paused and added, “Please? Is that OK? I just need to speak to someone.”

“Sure,” Rahim replied, and Envy was gone before his smile could begin to fade.

Havannah saw Envy approach before Victor had even registered her presence, presenting the opportunity to brace herself for what would surely follow. Unfortunately, Gary – who had momentarily distracted Victor with his best joke – was unable to produce another laugh from his conversational partner. With his attention now roving, Havannah had lost the advantage of surprise. Noticing Envy, Victor leaned closer and hissed into Havannah’s ear, “Oh shitting hell. What’s she doing here?”

“Who?” Gary asked, scouting the cluster of partygoers spilling out from the kitchen.

“Never mind, just an old friend,” Havannah dismissed, silently panicking. She turned to the former schoolfriend and smiled her brightest, most charming smile. “Gary, it’s been so lovely catching up with you.” She patted his chest, just below his shoulder but above his pectoral, and let her fingers leave an unseen impression. Although he recognised his cue to leave, Gary could do so flattered at the acknowledgement – though the illusion would have been shattered had he noticed how quickly Havannah’s smile dropped once his back was turned.

“You’re too good at that,” said Victor, nervously, his mouth shielded by a plastic cup and the stink of cheap booze.

“It’s just… business.”

“That’s what I thought,” he smirked, crossing his arms as they both watched Envy draw closer.

Havannah glanced up at him briefly.

“No, Victor. It’s business. I asked Envy to come back. I just thought she’d be here tomorrow. I didn’t expect to see her tonight.”

“So she skipped her Friday lectures? Naughty girl,” Victor teased, the sentence becoming muffled by reverberations as his cup once again made contact with his mouth. He spoke into emptiness; the sticky liquid had run dry five minutes earlier.  Disappointed, Victor let the plastic cup crumple in his hand. Havannah just rolled her eyes. 

“For God’s sake, just…play it cool, Victor.” 

Her seriousness melted as Envy reached them, Havannah's face switching to an expression of relief at seeing a long lost friend. Victor shivered at the ease of her camouflage.

“Hey, Envy! It’s so good to see you,” Havannah said, raising the charm once again. She spread out her arms to embrace her old friend, but the reception was chilly, even for the smoking area on a late winter’s evening. Envy barely reciprocated, shrugging beneath Havannah’s grasp.

“Hi,” Envy replied, her eyes trained on Victor even as Havannah stepped back to address her old friend.

“What are you doing back so soon? I was expecting you tomorrow.”

Although Victor was too tall for her to block from sight, Havannah still thought it best to position herself between him and Envy. It felt – and looked – almost as if she was just passing through somebody else’s conversation.

“It sounded too important to wait,” Envy answered, finally peeling her gaze away from Victor. “Besides, I didn’t know what to expect, given the situation.”

“Why did you call?” Victor asked. He stared down at Envy, waiting for a sign that his words had penetrated the wall she had built over years, brick-by-steady-brick stacked and cemented with Claire’s lies and half-truths, and strengthened by their own shared animosity.

By the defiance with which she was displaying, it was clear that Envy was no longer the same person he remembered, sulking in the corner and lusting after Claire – loudly, but without words – every time they were drinking in the latter's bedroom or on the dance floor. He recalled wishing she would take Claire off his hands, freeing him of her grip – he'd even had a dream about it once, another world where things were different. But there was still something about other people wanting what small amount he had that made Victor hold on a little tighter, snarl a little more fiercely.

The imagined wall didn’t budge, Envy refusing to make eye contact even as she responded flatly, “None of your business.”

Shame and irritation bloomed under his skin. Victor couldn’t deny he’d had a role to play in stacking those imaginary bricks; he couldn’t expect Envy to spare him any kindness now.

“Hey now, guys,” Havannah interjected, raising her hands as if refereeing between two champion fighters. “We’re all grown-ups here. A lot’s changed in a short amount of time.”

She wanted to believe the words even as she spoke them, though the shiver that had started to settle in her bones made them less convincing than Havannah had hoped.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Envy shot back.

Before Havannah could make any other attempts to bring peace – and before Victor could worsen the situation – Envy buried her hands in the pockets of her black denim jacket and turned to leave.

“I shouldn’t have come back. I'll see you guys around.”

And with that, Envy left them both behind, shouldering past a group of girls squeezing their way into the garden.

Exasperated, Havannah massaged her temples in an attempt to knead out the knots before they could form.

“Well… that wasn’t supposed to happen. I was hoping she’d put some distance between Claire and Damon.”

“She’s a person, Havannah; not a pawn in your game,” Victor seethed, his eyes maddening and neck tensing. He wouldn’t tell her, but the anger was only partially some guilty defence of Envy; the rest came from knowing it was his presence that had ruined everything. Things might have been different, sure, but did he deserve to feel unwanted?

“Oh look who’s talking!” Havannah sneered, preferring to look down the length of the garden to where a huddle of eighteen-year-olds were lighting up spliffs beside the fence. Upon hearing Victor’s footsteps as he moved to follow Envy, however, she regained her own attention. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to talk to her,” Victor snapped.

Havannah opened her mouth to protest, but gave up; her words would be lost in the array of sounds – thumping music, endless chatter, occasional laughter – long before Victor could take his chance to ignore them. She sighed and gracefully sidled up beside Gary, inviting herself into the adjacent conversation instead, waiting for somebody to invite her to share an opinion.

The throng of people inside the house had swelled in size since their arrival, greeting Envy with a mass of swaying bodies and heads bobbing to whatever Yannis was playing on his impressively over-sized decks.

Still, she would not be intimidated by the sheer number of partygoers crammed into the semi-detached, nor by the blaring, thundering beats that sent a throbbing through her feet.

Unfortunately, even through the din, she could sense that Victor had followed her, his voice forcing its way through the noise while his looming form cast a shadow only she could feel.

“Envy, can we just talk?”

“Not if I can help it,” Envy retorted, throwing the words over her shoulder before continuing with her attempt to duck and weave and slide between flailing limbs and pockets of dancers moving at their own rhythm.

Where his words had failed to grab her attention, Victor knew his hands could succeed. He snatched Envy’s wrist, wrapping strong fingers around her jacket sleeve and pulling tight. 

It worked; he had her attention. But rather than calming the situation, the gesture had only served to draw Envy’s ire directly towards Victor. She rounded on him, demanding he let her go as she attempted to tug her arm free. Desperate to calm the raging young woman, Victor tightened his grip and pulled her closer to him.

“I just want a minute,” he pleaded, words punctuated by the struggle between them – which was far more spirited than he had anticipated. 

Suddenly, Envy stopped struggling. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped closer to him, almost convincing Victor that he should take a step back. He didn’t, but his eyes did drift down to the thick soles of her black boots, fearful that she might use them to dangerous effect at any moment.

“No matter what you say, you can’t convince me that you’re a good guy, Victor.” Despite the volume with which they were delivered and the fury that surged behind Envy’s words, her face didn’t betray any emotion; she gave nothing away except certainty – certainty that she believed everything she was saying.

“What did Claire tell you?” Victor asked, eyes widening with fear. 

There was, Envy would later admit to herself, a sadness – and a raw desperation – in how he asked the question. And yet…his face was intimidatingly close to hers, teeth bared and furious. Envy allowed her eyes to do the talking. They rolled in the direction of his pincer grip on her wrist. They would stay there, staring and judging until he let go.

He relented, freeing Envy’s wrist. With her other hand, she made a show of nursing where Victor’s fingers had clamped down on her skin. Victor’s guilt deepened. He tried to say he was sorry, but he spoke too quietly, the apology swept away by the rising volume of the crowded room.

“She doesn’t even think about you anymore, Victor. And besides…” Envy paused, puffing herself up, years of suppressed hatred suddenly making her presence so much bigger – more stern and noticeable and deserving of attention – than it had ever been before. “I was there, Victor! I watched with my own eyes as you belittled her and policed how much she drank. It was…it was unhinged! You’re unhinged.”

Behind Victor’s eyes, an apparition of the night on the pier started to form. There he was, so full of shame and embarrassment for a lie that Claire had propagated; and then he was a child, unbelieved when a window broke. The violence of his dad’s temper rippled through time. It echoed through the night of the fire and the conversation at Yannis’ and every sly remark from Kristi and all the untrusting looks from Envy and Havannah, until finally shaking him to his senses in the present. There were tears in his eyes, but worse still was the outrage that threatened to explode from his chest, that wanted the world to know how Claire had lied about him and lied about her sister; that wanted so desperately to be believed for once.

And then he could swear he heard the sea, the tide from the night on the pier, taunting him from across his own timeline. The usual feeling of a deep coldness flooded Victor’s veins, extinguishing fury and leaving behind only shame and misery.

“I don’t believe this…” Victor said, half turning away as he let his hands run across his hair and then cling to one another behind his head. Pacing helped in times like this, but there was barely room to stand, let alone walk back and forth. So he turned on his heel and turned back again, before finally snapping back at Envy,  “Someone had to police her drinking. Claire was out of control - and if you didn’t see that, then you obviously weren’t watching close enough. Or maybe you didn’t want to see that – you were too busy looking at her legs, you stupid dyke.”

The slap was muted by the furor of the party, though it still drew the attention of nearby members of the crowd, always vigilant to someone else’s drama. Whatever sympathy or pity Victor’s teary eyes had momentarily elicited from Envy was gone. 

A stunned silence followed, nobody knowing who would react first. At any moment, Victor’s bewilderment could become a clenched fist. Envy was more concerned about the music suddenly dying, all eyes turning on them. She decided to move on before that could happen, preparing to break the stalemate by disappearing into the growing tangle of bodies.

This time, however, Victor grabbed Envy’s jacket with clumsy viciousness, hauling her back towards him with a fistful of denim. Looming over her, he started to resemble the threat she had visualised so many times - a potential for violent anger, skulking in the corner of the room, whose threat wasn’t that it might happen, but rather that she would never know when to expect it.

“Claire’s a fucking mess,” he snarled. The words were sincere, but their edges were both cold and sharp, and yet ablaze with spite. “She always has been. If I didn’t pick up the phone, she’d be hammering on my nan’s door, plastered, singing and screaming in the street. Did you know that? Eh? Did you?”

As he demanded an answer, Envy shook to and fro, the strain on her jacket stretching the denim. This time, there was little room for bravery or fight - all she wanted to do was to escape him.

“She’s a selfish bitch who doesn’t care about anybody else - you included.”

Fortunately, the nearby cluster of unfamiliar faces threatened to turn their curiosity into action, inching towards the scene, ready to intervene. Their expressions betrayed both disapproval and annoyance; the novelty of gossip had faded.

Spotting her chance – too many eyes on Victor for him to hurt her – Envy made her appeal.

“P-prove it,” she said, desperately.

“Prove what?”

Victor had yet to recognise the growing focus on him. He shook Envy again, knuckles blanching as he clutched harder at the denim, demanding an answer.

“Prove you’re not what she says you are.”

Envy watched as the challenge stung Victor harder – deeper – than even the slap. His expression softened, eyes wide and sparkling with shame. Blood rushed back to his knuckles as he relinquished the grip and returned to his normal height.

“Is everything OK?” came a third voice. It shook a little, as if unnerved by the scene – the owner unaware that he had been the only one to speak up as the altercation had unfolded.

They both swung their attention to Rahim; Envy first, seeking safety in a familiar face, followed by Victor at a far slower pace. The noise was louder in his head, not just music now, but his father shouting, memories of being with Claire, a flush of heat beneath his skin as he imagined himself through Rahim’s eyes.

“Everything’s fine. Let’s just…get out of here,” Envy said, hurriedly. 

She turned her back to Victor, who skulked back through the crowd towards the garden, occasionally looking back to see the fear in Rahim’s eyes. How would he ever be able to look at him the same way again?

Free from Victor, Envy turned to Rahim. The crowd’s interest had faded, their approach easing off as they resumed their conversations and dancing. Left with Rahim, any bravery she had felt was crumbling.

“Are you alright?” Rahim asked, sympathetically. 

A tremble rocked Envy’s hands; her entire being wished to reach for the door and leave. But first, they needed to find their friend.

“W-where’s Claire?”

Although he opened his mouth to respond, the question was not answered by Rahim, but by the sound of cheering from the top of the stairs. There she was, arms raised, a shot glass held between the fingers of one hand, and a bottle in the other.

“Please, no,” Envy muttered under her breath, feeling her hopes of escape growing slimmer every second. There was, however, no room to accept that Victor’s account of Claire was in any way correct. It was a coincidence – and besides, she hadn’t been out in a while. Envy sighed. Even now, she was still willing to make excuses for Claire.

“I’m going to sort her out. She usually throws up after sambuca.”

“OK,” Rahim said, still holding Envy’s drink alongside his own.

“Sorry,” she added – and she genuinely meant it. “But then we should probably get her home.” 

Leaving Rahim to fend for himself once again, Envy weaved her way through the crowd, focused on the staircase and Claire. Rahim, meanwhile, stood and observed. That’s what he knew he was good at. Observing, but also listening. As he watched Envy try to usher Claire back up the staircase, Rahim heard words he didn’t know he’d ever hope to hear, slurred loudly enough to travel from Claire’s lips all the way to his ear: I can’t find my phone.

An excited jolt moved through his limbs, waking them up, readying him to move. Before disappearing onto the landing, Envy glanced back at him with an apologetic smile. He returned it, facial muscles straining to convey that he was fine, if only to hurry her exit. 

And then, they were both out of sight. 

The world downstairs had already forgotten about them. But Rahim? He was already working out how much time he had until his new friend came back. It was probably just long enough for what he needed to do.

***

Knuckles rapped against the bathroom door for the third time in five minutes.

“Give us a moment!” Envy yelled from the other side, too occupied with keeping Claire’s hair from falling into the toilet to care about other people’s bodily functions.

The acrid stench of vomit mingling with overly-potent toilet cleaner was all too familiar to Envy. She had played this exact role so many times in their late teenage years that rather than be disgusted, she found some strange comfort in the familiarity.

By the time Claire’s retching stopped, the loiterers had moved on, opting to piss outside or find somewhere else to hook up; Envy was too tired to care which.

She slumped to the floor and placed a comforting hand on Claire’s back.

“Better?” she asked. “Shall we get you some water?”

“I feel bad,” Claire mumbled, resting the side of her face on the rim of the toilet seat.

“It’s OK, the worst is over now. But we should get you home.” 

Envy almost believed what she was saying, convinced by her own confidence and soothed by the way her palm had started to comfort Claire with circular motions. Each rotation was marked by the bump of her spine and the rise of her bra strap, but it was all autopilot; this was how they had so often ended up. 

Discomforted by how little they had changed, Envy stood. She opened a window, hoping some fresh air might do them both some good.

“Not about this,” Claire slurred.

Envy peered down at her as she welcomed a cool breeze into the room, stirring up the scent of vomit before it could cling too tightly to the atmosphere. With her arms draped over the toilet bowl in such a dramatic fashion, Claire reminded Envy of some romantic character - a tragic figure, praying to an empty well for some impossible wish. Unlike the rosy-cheeked, pale beauties painted to life, however, Claire looked far from serene; the force of her cheek against the plastic seat was squashing her features together, while her lips were dry from neglect, even with the overproduction of saliva that had preceded her vomiting. Her hair, meanwhile, was a dull, greasy tangle – nothing like the golden tresses that cascaded over the shoulders of muses. And yet still, Envy couldn’t help but want to wrap her arms around her friend and deliver some comfort.

Opening the window had helped, though the chill would soon be untenable. Even so, Envy took her time sitting back down beside Claire, smiling sympathetically and unending patience as she did so.

“I kept bothering you while you were at university. I made you wait. I’m sorry,” Claire said, sincerity spoken by a drunken mind. As inelegant as the delivery was, Envy was willing to take this small gesture and keep it close to her. She smiled and freed a strand of Claire’s hair away from the sweat gathering on her forehead.

“I’m sorry too,” Envy began, before pausing to take a breath. The conversation – her confession – had been rehearsed a hundred times already, but she’d never believed it would actually happen. Now they were here, and it was too late and she was too far gone to turn back now.

“I kept away. I should’ve been here when you needed me. I’m sorry, Claire. I haven’t been a good friend to you.”

“S’okay,” Claire mumbled, her eyes growing heavy. Whether it was for show or a genuine expression of exhaustion, Envy was uncertain. Regardless, in that moment, they were kids again – best friends being warm and loving towards one another. Still, Envy knew that the relief was fleeting; she knew what Claire would ask before the question was even said aloud. “Why didn’t you call me back though?”

Envy brought her hands together, fingers playing with their counterparts in a ballet of nervous fumbling. They tapped and twisted around one another, each finger inspected by two of its colleagues before starting the routine all over again. It was this or biting the hangnails from her cuticles, and that hardly seemed like a sanitary alternative given their surroundings.

“I felt guilty. I’ve been feeling guilty this whole time.”

“What about?”

“About Kr–.”

Claire winced, her sister’s name threatening to deliver a punch to her guts. More bile rose to the back of her throat, but Envy watched her swallow it down again.

“You didn’t kill her,” Claire said, matter-of-factly. It didn’t seem unusual to Envy; this was Claire making sure that there was no mistaking the difference between the scale of their individual miseries. Claire would always be the winner here. She had lost a sister. But still, Envy had lost something close to a sister, and her role in Kristi’s death had plagued her dreams every night since.

“No, but she asked me for help.” Envy’s voice started to break. “And I think…I think I should’ve been kinder about it.” 

The tears that had stayed frozen behind her eyes this whole time finally started to thaw. At first, they just blurred her vision. But then, with the words unable to cross the great divide caused by the crack in her voice, Envy felt the full weight of her sadness pour forth through a broken dam wall. It threatened to consume them both, her sobbing a guttural sound that caused her body to convulse and her shoulders to shudder.

She tried to apologise, but the words wouldn’t come at all now. Resorting to hiding her feelings, Envy instead pawed at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, desperate to be rid of the water before she sank any deeper.

And then – out of nowhere and with no warning – Claire’s arms were flung around Envy’s body, cradling her friend tightly. The putrid breath made Envy wish for the embrace to end, but the comfort it brought convinced her to hold on even tighter. That way, neither of them would drown.

Eventually, she ran out of tears, and her errant voice returned just as Claire ended the hug, retreating to the toilet bowl. Slouched on the floor next to Envy, she looked even more tired than before.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Claire said, searching for her phone, hands moving clumsily as they scoured the all-too-shallow pockets of her jeans.

Crawling away from the toilet, she turned her attention to the cheap and glitzy clutch, whose imitation gold-plated chain was piled high like a coiled snake on the floor. There was only enough room in the clutch for her phone, a lipgloss, some receipts she always forgot to throw out, and her house keys. Everything was accounted for, save the phone.

“Are you looking for your mobile? You said you’d put it down somewhere,” Envy said, the edges of her gentle voice crackling with leftover phlegm clinging to her nose and throat.

Claire swore, her eyes widening mid-motion, one hand still inside the clutch. She paled even worse than before, and Envy was sure she was about to start vomiting again.

“It’s OK, I’ll go look for it,” she offered, easing her way up from the floor. “You probably just put it down somewhere when we got here.”

It was a habit that made Envy wince; so often, Claire’s mood had spun on a dime simply because she didn’t like how her friend had spoken to her. You’re so condescending, she used to say, leaving Envy wondering if it was worth opening her mouth at all. On this occasion, however, Claire said nothing, and Envy was left waiting for a backlash that never came. Unsettled by this, she reached out a comforting hand to cradle Claire’s elbow.

“Are you alright? I’ll get you some water while I’m down there. We’ll find your phone, don’t worry.”

Claire didn’t respond; she was staring intently at the bath tiles instead, deafened by the familiar sound of waves intruding upon her peace. Could she trust these rough seas to deliver her safely through the night? Or had the tide finally found a way to separate her from the protection afforded by a certain photo of a certain incident?

Only when Envy left, closing the door behind her, did Claire try to gasp for breath. There was no nausea left in her body, just the ice cold water filling her hollowed bones and the scent of salt burning in her nostrils. Each inhale was like trying to snatch a breath from the air with just her bare hands. 

But she could trust, Envy – couldn’t she?

Someone knocked on the bathroom door again, a cheery female voice asking if the current occupant would be much longer. Desperately seeking the stability of land to which she could cling, Claire reached for the door handle, if only to open it a few inches – to open a gap wide enough through which she could call for help.

Although it was clear she was trying to be polite by looking across the landing and away from the bathroom, the girl on the other side quickly spun into action upon hearing Claire’s gasping.

“Oh my God, are you alright? Do you need an ambulance?” she asked, dropping to a crouch. 

Claire clung to the stranger, her cold hands landing on bare skin. The girl’s voice sounded like she was underwater – or that Claire was the one submerged, being spoken to from the surface world.

“It’s Claire, isn’t it?” the girl asked. 

A fresh wave of panic rolled over Claire, flashes of a life she had no way of knowing intruding upon her vision. She saw the stranger reading all about her tragic loss, donating to her sister’s favourite charity, feeling pity when spotting Claire’s drunken stumble upstairs. None of it was real – not that she was aware of – and yet the imagined scenes fed her panic.

By now, no air could reach her lungs. She would drown here, far from the water and yet still dragged down to its depths by her sister, who was surely waiting for her with fury.

And then, Claire closed her eyes, and everything was underwater with her.

***

Rahim found Claire’s phone face down at the back of the kitchen counter, hiding between an empty bottle of lemonade and the dregs of a brightly coloured alcopop. It had gone unseen by any of the partygoers pawing at various bottles and cups, left to vibrate and call out to no avail. Some peach schnapps had spilt beside it, though the phone had been so thoroughly ignored, the offender hadn't wiped the case, leaving it sticky and smelling of sweet, artificial peaches. 

His first instinct was to dab cold water onto a wash cloth so that he might wipe any evidence of the spillage. As he was wiping the last of it away, however, Rahim remembered a promise he'd made – and the man in the living room who depended on him.

"Here," Rahim mumbled as he stood before Victor. Over the din, the tortured young man couldn't hear what was said, and so didn't look up and see the phone being presented to him.

Rahim delivered a light tap from the toe of his left trainer to the toe of Victor's right. Although gentle, the sudden contact jolted Victor alive again, looking up to deliver a ferocious grimace, a violent sunrise that immediately soothed itself at Rahim's presence.

He had been crying, though he had done so silently, head down, out of sight; nobody had seen and nobody had thought to ask if he was OK. The only evidence was a clearing of his throat and the roving party lights catching on the wetness under his eyes. 

"Sorry," Victor sniffed, trying to reclaim some semblance of being the man he hoped people saw him as. Weakness had never been tolerated.

"It's alright," Rahim said, taking a seat beside Victor. They were the only two sitting, the rest of the throng dancing in a messy roiling of limbs and awkward movements.

Rahim tried again, presenting Victor with the phone.

"Here."

Victor stared at it for a moment, a soft expression between misery and confusion painted on his stern face, an unfamiliar landscape which Rahim wished to explore with his eyes – but only when there was more time.

To save from his words being drowned out by the music, Rahim simply woke the phone and let the wallpaper speak for him. Claire, Havannah, and Envy stared back at them both, peering through time not in judgement, but in a promise of hope.

Victor's mouth fell agape, suddenly aware of the weight of this gesture. He took the phone with eager hands, pausing to look Rahim in the eye. He mouthed a thank you, letting his fingers brush against Rahim's as he relieved him of the burden.

The pin code was the same even after all this time: Kristi's birthday. Victor felt sick at the thought that Claire had trusted a date so personal yet so well-known to guard both their secrets.

Within a few thumb strokes, the phone would surrender its contents and Victor would be free. All he needed was to find the photo and delete it; the dagger dangling above his head would be gone, and the nightmare Claire threatened whenever she was short of money or attention would finally be over.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The question was blunt, but the voice with which it was delivered appeared to be sharp enough to cut through the noise. Victor and Rahim jerked their heads upwards, their collective gaze meeting Envy’s burning disapproval.

Without another word, she leaned forward and tore Claire’s phone away from the pair.

“Wait, Envy–,” Victor started.

“Oh, save it, Victor. And you,” she said, turning to Rahim, one hand on her hip. His mother posed in much the same way when a dressing down was incoming. He bowed his head in anticipation of the verbal bombardment. “Do you have any idea who this tosser is? He’s Claire’s ex-boyfriend – you know, Claire? The one who trusts you implicitly for God-knows-what reason. She thinks the sun shines out of your arse.”

Rahim stood in an attempt to explain himself at his own volume. Suspecting he would try to take the phone back, Envy moved her hand away to keep it from his grasp. Victor followed, but placed an arm across Rahim’s chest to bar him from trying again.

“Give me the phone, Envy,” he growled. “I need it.”

Rather than comply, Envy glowered, pocketed the phone, and turned to leave. Victor wasn’t done. For the last time that night, he grabbed her arm, only this time he yanked her back towards him with more force than intended. Envy stumbled in surprise, caught off guard by the show of strength.

“Victor, don’t,” Rahim pleaded, his voice a nervous chirp.

His words went unnoticed as Victor pulled Envy closer and closer, struggling for the phone. She attempted to keep it from his reach, passing it between her hands, stretching overhead, and clasping it behind her back.

“Are you being serious?” she scoffed, indignantly as Victor managed to snatch her hands.

As they struggled, his fingers attempting to loosen hers from around the device, the pair knocked into a group of partygoers, spooking them and drawing attention to the furore. Within moments, strangers were pawing at Victor, pulling him away from Envy and holding him back as he struggled.

“You don’t understand! Just fucking listen to me!”

A gaggle of tipsy, furious girls shielded Envy from Victor’s pleas, immediately jumping to her defence the moment there was a gap between the pair. They screamed and yelled at him, prodded his chest with sharp nails, and taunted Victor with sharper words. All the while, Rahim could do nothing but look on, frozen where he stood.

Envy turned away. The whole exchange had escalated so unexpectedly, she lost any sense of where to go and what to do. In her hand, the phone’s screen lit up by accident. She glanced back at Victor, being held on the sofa by some guys she recognised from their old college rugby team. The tallest of their number had only a hand placed on Victor’s shoulder while he dialled for the police, but it was enough to keep the leaner of the two in his place.

The glimpse was enough to distract Envy, and she found herself unbalanced as a throng of smokers squeezed into the living room to check out what was going on. She felt the phone slip from her hand, landing close to her foot. In the fuss, Envy struggled to retrieve the phone, people shoving and pushing to get a view of the former rugby team pinning someone to the sofa.

At last, the new additions calmed, messaging friends and recording the scene as Victor struggled as best he could. Envy took the opportunity to lean down and reach for Claire’s phone, but she was too slow.

Taking advantage of the surge in witnesses, Rahim – who had felt his senses thaw in outrage at Victor’s treatment – reached the device first, before making a hasty escape towards the front door.

Startled, Envy called out after him, straining to trace the glow of the screen as Rahim weaved between the partygoers. Yannis had ceased the music and was chastising Victor himself now, shaking his head. Not cool, mate. Not cool.

Meanwhile, the distraction allowed Rahim to close the gap between him and the front door, pulling it open with such force that it wobbled on its hinges. Only a few of the guests towards the back of the crowd noticed – or cared – when Envy caught up with him. She made a grab for Rahim’s hoodie, her fingertips making contact with the very edge of the hood itself, but nothing more.

Were it not for the cry for help from the stairs, she would have managed to get a hold on Rahim. Instead, he slipped outside as Envy turned, panicked, towards the new voice. It belonged to a girl with long brunette extensions whom she didn’t recognise, and who was now propping up Claire as she struggled to breathe.

“I think I need an ambulance! She’s having a heart attack!”

The rugby player responsible for calling the police pivoted to this new information, egged on by his friends for playing the hero, all of them too drunk to actually be much use.

“For fuck’s sake,” Envy seethed under her breath. She let Rahim leave, deciding tending to Claire was more important. She stomped up the stairs, meeting the brunette girl half-way, and snapped, “It’s a panic attack.”

Envy placed her hands on Claire’s shoulders, severing the stranger’s connection to the scene, and guided her friend into a seated position.

“Look at me, Claire. I need you to take a breath for me, OK?”

Claire looked up slowly. The familiar voice carried through the crashing waves and sense of drowning.

“I’m here,” Envy smiled, taking Claire’s hand. “I’ll breathe with you.”

On the front lawn, Havannah was blissfully unaware of all that had transpired inside the party.

Rolling her eyes at the inevitable disappointment, Havannah dialled Ronan’s number. When the ringback tone started, her stomach clenched in anticipation. Whether the sensation was too much to bear this time or she’d simply had enough of waiting for an answer, Havannah didn’t let it go past the third ring; if he wanted to answer then he’d answer, she told herself, ending the call prematurely.

Chewing her lower lip, she shivered a little in the cold. The warm haze of alcohol under her skin had started to cool itself, leaving Havannah vulnerable to the winter air. It seemed even more vicious than the sea’s morning temperament, and somehow lonelier. A few yards behind her, the music started up again. Unlike being alone in the sea, the presence of other people so near to her only served to provide a shore of a different kind – one against which she could more immediately measure her circumstances.

Another shiver. It was too cold to stay outdoors, but something told Havannah she needed to be close to somebody tonight. She hesitated, staring at the phone’s screen, trying to contemplate all the ways life might play out if she scrolled up and selected somebody else’s name. As much as she tried, however, Havannah couldn’t imagine more than the simple joy of another person’s warmth. She tapped the name and readied herself to listen for the ringback tone.

It only rang once, the hollow and tinny chirp seemingly relieved to be interrupted.

“Hello?”

Havannah’s breath caught in her throat for a moment. Swallowing her anxiety, she replied with a question.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not at all.” It was a lie, of course; she could hear the rustling of bedsheets as he sat up in bed.

“I guess I didn’t think you’d pick up,” Havannah mused aloud, twisting a braided length of hair around her finger – more out of uncertainty than girlish coyness.

“I’ll always pick up for you.”

The smile was audible in his voice, and it was brought to life on Havannah’s face, an infectious charm.

“You hardly know me.”

“Let’s chalk it up to a great first impression.”

Against her wishes and without her knowing, Havannah’s smile grew brighter. The smoky scent of winter air was momentarily replaced by the warmth of the shoreline in summer; the full moon overhead, peaking through clouds, was mistaken for the glow of the sun.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” It was a question asked tentatively but with absolute sincerity.

She shuffled uncomfortably, hoping he couldn’t tell – couldn’t imagine her body being awkward as it yielded so easily to his silken voice and cheerful charm.

As she stood, Havannah thought the question over, replacing her shuffle with a slow pacing along the grass between the front door and the street. That’s when she noticed she was entirely alone now. Even when the loneliness had felt most pronounced, there had still been others there, smokers and people chatting with their icy drinks and big winter coats. Without her noticing, they had filtered back into the house, the party deflating, losing all the ground it had gained.

“I suppose so,” Havannah relented, even as she recognised herself reaching through the dark to hold onto somebody consistent, reliable, good for her. Was she even sure he could be any of these things?

“That makes me happy.” The confession was followed by a smile, which was once again evident in the warmth of his voice. “Maybe we shou-”

Before the suggestion could be finished, Havannah’s attention was pulled away. Whatever had drawn the tide of people back into the house was now spilling out again, like the waves swelling upon their disastrous return to the shore.

“I need to call you back,” she said, quickly. “I’ll explain later.”

The first sign of the commotion heading in Havannah’s direction was the sight of Rahim running out of the front door. He crossed the threshold with a short struggle, only to break free.

“Hey. Hey! What’s the matter?” Havannah demanded as they almost collided on the lawn.

In his hands, clutched close to his chest, Havannah saw Claire’s phone.

“What’s going on?” she asked, stealing a glance at the mobile. 

“I-it’s Claire’s. Victor. There’s a photo of Victor,” Rahim panted, trying to catch his breath as adrenaline threatened to overtake him.

When her eyes drifted back to his face, Havannah finally recognised Rahim from the previous summer. It had been only the briefest of meetings, and his face had been draped in the shadows under the pier, but she was sure of it. Here in the dark, she could see him properly. Although she couldn’t quite name why in words, Rahim’s existence made Victor feel just that little bit more human in her eyes.

“It’s Rahim, isn’t it?” she asked, her face turning serious but her tone becoming kind. He nodded in reply. “Maybe you should give the phone to me so I can delete the photo.”

Havannah offered out her hands as if the device was some fragile thing made of china. Rahim hesitated.

“Oi!” Envy called out, scrambling to get past partygoers blocking the front door. “Give Claire her phone back!”

Behind Envy was Claire, pale and fragile – and seemingly unbothered by the events unfolding around her; she barely seemed aware that the whole drama was unfolding because of something she possessed. Rahim craned his neck to see Envy angrily charging across the grass towards them.

“Give me the phone, Rahim,” Havannah urged.

Before she could take it, he turned his entire body around, scrolling manically through the gallery, searching for the photo. With every swipe, he travelled back further in time – January, December, November, October, September – until finally reaching August, when the photo was taken.

There was nothing. August wasn’t there. Rahim kept scrolling down – July, June, May – and then tried scrolling back up, as if the missing month would suddenly reappear. There was no photo of Victor in the water.

“I don’t understand,” Rahim trembled, thumbing the screen up and down over and over again. He looked back at Havannah, hoping she would understand when he told her, “It’s not here.”

Seizing the moment, Envy slammed her palms into Rahim’s chest, winding him. He stumbled backwards, dropping the phone onto the grass.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she yelled, pushing him every time he tried to stand.

“Hey, Envy, enough. Cut it out,” Havannah interjected, sternly. She reached for the sleeve of her friend’s black denim jacket, only to catch Envy’s ire next.

“Stay out of this, Havannah. You’ve done enough,” Envy snapped.

A crowd had gathered just outside the front door, all of them watching the display unfold. Even the guys who had been holding Victor back had relented, and he joined them now, watching through the living room’s bay window.

“What does that mean?” Havannah replied, brow knotting in visible fury.

The two young women exchanged a fiery stare, but their dynamic was much clearer than that between Claire and Envy. The shorter of the two shrank back into being the quiet observer Havannah recognised from their youth.

“Forget it,” Envy mumbled.

“No, go on,” Havannah insisted, stepping in Envy’s path before she could retreat to a distracted Claire.

“Kristi died because of that fire. She fell trying to escape it. If your dad had–”

The slap echoed back to the baying audience, who had seemingly abandoned any notion of a party to watch the sport outside instead. Havannah’s palm stung and prickled, while Envy’s face was numbed by the shock and the cold. Still, she kept a hand pressed close to her cheek as she tried to process what had happened.

“I have to go,” Havannah stammered, tears threatening to pour from her eyes. She pulled her jacket closed tightly around her body with crossed arms and began walking away from the scene. Too stunned to react, Envy remained on the grass, watching her old friend go. The rest of her sentence hadn’t had a chance to leave her lips, and so she swallowed it, disgusted by the bitter taste of her own words.

“Is that my phone?” Claire slurred, suddenly appearing beside Envy. She was swaying, the fragility of her clear in that moment. Keeping her eyes on Rahim, Envy bent down to pick the device up from the grass. She wiped the dew from it on her skinny jeans, and handed it to Claire.

“I’ll call us a taxi,” Envy said, leading her best friend away so that they might wait somewhere quieter.

Rahim stayed rooted to the ground, hoping it might swallow him whole - that he might be able to simply wrap the very dirt around himself like a blanket and stay hidden there forever.

And then the shadow fell over him, blocking out the orange stain from the nearby streetlight. He looked up and saw Victor looming over him, concern painted onto his face. Any relief was short-lived.

“Did you find it?” Victor asked, desperately.

Despite the dirt and grass pressing against his body and the palms of his hands – despite the certainty that there was solid ground beneath him – Rahim felt the earth give way, his stomach plunging at the realisation that there was no helpful hand offered to him, no comfort for the hurt of the evening and the recent risks he’d undertaken to help Victor.

Rahim stood all on his own. The stains on his jeans – the mud, the grass, the patches of wet dew – told a story that he didn’t want to believe. All of this had been a lie. As Victor searched his face with hopeful eyes, Rahim could feel his own heart breaking.

“There was no photo,” he sniffed, holding the tears at bay.

Rahim felt Victor join him then as they both plummeted into the dark together, and yet so very apart.

“You lied to me. You used me and you lied to me.” Rahim’s voice was small, quiet, calm; if it had been anything else – if he had hesitated on the emotional tightrope for even a second – then he knew his emotions would win, and all the partygoers who had started to return to their merriment would turn to get one last look at the sobbing boy on the front lawn.

“No, I never–” Victor started, hoping for Rahim’s hand. He was denied.

Without another word, Rahim left the grass and crossed the road and turned down a nearby alleyway, where the darkness swallowed him from sight. 

With every step, Victor hoped he might look back and see him for what he was: scared and abandoned on an island in the middle of a great, black uncertainty. Rahim didn’t turn his head, not even once. And Victor was left all alone, wondering if there was anything else left that Claire might be able to take from him.

Perhaps it was time for him to go home, before it got too late.