Needles & Pins
He pictures her face. Not the way it used to look, but the mask of Friday night, stretched and angry, teeth bared and nicotine yellow.
He remembers her spit hitting his cheek and feels the blood rush there again.
It wasn’t his Becky anymore. Not the girl he’d fallen for when Vince introduced them, or the girl he’d holidayed with in Bali last summer.
In that moment she became something else to him. Certainly not someone he could love.
“ Bitch .”
* * *
Vince and Julian already have their tents erected by the time he arrives at the campsite; Tom is still pegging his guy ropes as Gregory parks under the shade of some trees.
He watches them through the windshield, talking and laughing as they make camp.
They specifically asked for four plots together, and he sees they’re separate from the main body of the campsite.
Four young men camping together for the weekend; he knows what they’re imagining.
Julian waves, so Gregory opens his door and starts to unload.
They’ve left him the most uneven of the plots, beneath the shade of a thick old oak.
It looks half dead, its branches leafless and twisted, growing down low enough to reach.
The burrowing of the roots beneath the crust of earth has left it bumpy and cracked, like something is trying to emerge.
He doubts he’ll be able to hammer the pegs in.
“Hey-ho!” Vince calls, waving a mallet in his direction. “Last man has to build the fire.”
“Camp rules!” Tom shouts from somewhere behind his tent, and Gregory winces. His head hadn’t seemed too bad while he was driving, but the pounding is back now.
“Okay,” he says. “Tent first, then I’ll get to it. Traffic was murder.”
He thinks he sees Julian and Vince share a look, but he can’t be sure. Vince’s Abby went to school with Becky; she’d be part of the gossip network. He thumps the tent bag down harder than he needs to.
“Any of you found your beers yet? Mine are at the bottom of my boot somewhere. Wouldn’t mind one after the drive I’ve had.”
As suspected, he bends four pegs before he gives up on the rest. It isn’t windy; with his bags inside, the tent isn’t going anywhere.
Taking a gulp from a can of Stella, he checks the poles one more time then hauls his gear inside.
It’s dark. His phone tells him it’s gone seven already; he hadn’t realized how much time he’d lost on the motorway.
In the sterile glow of the screen, he hunts out his hoodie and a fist-sized box of fire-starters.
They’ll need to get the fire made before the sun goes down.
The idea of drinking with his mates by firelight is just about the only thing getting him through this weekend.
When he emerges, the three of them are sitting in their camp chairs around an empty fireplace. Only ashes; nothing that will burn.
“Come on, fire boy,” Julian shouts, raising his can in mock salute. “Night waits for no man. Get a shift on.”
They laugh. Gregory smiles too, then he drains his beer and sets off for the site office.
He’d seen the lights when he’d driven past, the board out front advertising basic supplies and fresh coffee until eleven a.m. Now the lights are off.
Peering through the window, he sees that everything is shut up.
He pushes the door a few times as if that might make a difference.
It’s as he starts back down the path that she rounds the corner. Early twenties, probably, and pretty. Brown hair tied back with a rubber band, sharp cheekbones that give her slight dimples as she smiles.
“Hello. Were you after milk? Mum’s closed up for the night but I can probably get you some.”
Her voice has that thick Welsh rise and fall to it. He has to concentrate to make out her meaning.
“No, not milk. Thank you, though. We just…do you have any firewood to sell? Only we haven’t brought any, and with night…’
She smiles, and Gregory is suddenly aware of how drunk he feels. He’s only had one can, but he hasn’t eaten since lunchtime, and he hardly started the day sober. His head swims upstream as he tries to pull himself together.
“Course, not a problem. I’ll bring some round in a few minutes. One load or two?”
“Two, I think. We’re here for a couple of nights. Thank you. Do we pay you?”
“Mum’ll sort it out,” she says, turning to go. “I’m Manon, by the way. I’ll be there in five.”
When she’s gone, he realizes that he hasn’t told her which plot they’re on; he didn’t even tell her his name.
* * *
The sun is almost down by the time Manon comes calling.
The guys had given him grief when he returned empty-handed, and still nobody has mentioned what happened with Becky; nobody has talked of her at all.
He’s fairly certain they know. Vince says that Abby’s had a hard week at her school, then he glances Gregory’s way.
Tom’s brought a packet of hotdog buns and a jar of franks for dinner, and Gregory half considers eating one cold. His stomach’s awash with booze.
Finally there’s a trundle of wheels on the path, and Manon appears out of the gloaming. She pulls a rickety metal trolley with two bundles of split wood on it, and as she draws close Gregory feels the beer rise in his throat. He swallows it back down as he gets unsteadily to his feet.
“Here you go. These should see you through tonight. Tomorrow too, I’d say.”
She looks even prettier in the half-light.
“Be careful of splinters, won’t you,” she says, smiling. “They can be little buggers. Can’t tell you how many I’ve had to pull out with a pair of tweezers.”
He makes a joke about having thick skin, but it doesn’t come out right; he’s barely sure it makes sense at all. Still, she grins and helps bundle the wood into his arms. She’s close enough that he can smell her hair, something like pine needles and salt.
“You boys have a good evening, won’t you,” she says as she gathers the handle of her trolley again and pulls it back between the trees. “Don’t be getting up to any mischief.”
When Gregory sits back down, he can feel the others’ eyes on him.
“Pretty girl, that,” he says, if only for something to say. “She helped me up at the office.”
“They build them that way here in Wales,” Julian says, and laughs. “Just be careful, mate. They’re crafty ones round here. She’ll twist you round her little finger if you’re not watching.”
* * *
Gregory falls into his tent a little before midnight.
The others helped build the fire in the end; his box of fire-starters had got it roaring.
He can smell the accelerants on his clothes still, a harsh chemical note beneath the woodsmoke.
The frankfurters had tasted of it, but he’d been too hungry to care.
Too drunk, too. He undresses in the dark, feeling his way to the zips and buttons, sliding into his sleeping bag in only a T-shirt and boxers.
It’s cold. He checks his phone before putting his head down to sleep, and sees he has two messages: one from his mum, the other from Becky.
He can’t face the first, but he opens the second with a groan.
She’s been round to the flat and taken her clothes; her pans and utensils from the kitchen, as well.
There will hardly be anything left. Of the two of them, she was always the cook.
His mouth is wet with saliva, and without thinking he holds up her message and spits onto the screen. Serves her right, stupid cunt. She’ll get as good as she gives. He passes out within moments of dropping the phone.
* * *
When he wakes it’s still dark. One of the roots beneath the groundsheet is digging into the side of his head; another nudges his ribs like a lover’s knee.
There’s a solid line of pain above his eyes and his stomach is roiling like he’s been downing shots of bleach.
Pushing himself up, he struggles to tug down the zip on his sleeping bag.
He barely makes it outside before his gut clenches and starts to spasm.
He vomits at the base of the oak, not four feet away from his tent.
He’ll have to rinse it away in the morning.
The night air is cool and fresh, a welcome tonic.
He feels better now his stomach is empty.
Thirsty, though. Stumbling over to their cooking station, he finds the five-liter jerry can and twists open the cap.
He barely manages a couple of mouthfuls before his stomach complains, but it helps.
Taking a few deep breaths, he sets it back where he found it.
It’s then that he hears the noise. A splash, followed by laughter.
Not close, but near enough. When he concentrates, he can hear voices, speaking low.
His first thought is that someone has fallen in.
He’d spotted a stream through the trees on his way to the office; not wide, but with steep banks and a steady flow.
It would be all too easy to take a wrong turn.
He considers waking the others, but he isn’t so drunk that he convinces himself that’s a good idea.
Best scope it out first. Doesn’t sound like there’s any need to raise an alarm.
It’s dark away from the glowing embers of their camp, and he hears something fluttering overhead.
He wishes he’d grabbed his hoodie; the front of his T-shirt is wet with water and vomit, clinging like ice to his skin. He shivers.
Despite knowing it’s there, he almost falls into the stream.
The only indication that he’s reached the bank is when the trees in front of him suddenly clear.
Stopping, he reaches forward with his toes.
After a few inches they meet only air. He’d intended to call out once he got closer, but something stops him.
The voices don’t sound panicked. There’s laughter again, and someone says something too low for him to hear.
A woman’s voice. Another laugh, and then more splashing, as if someone is intentionally slapping the water.