PART FOUR

In the early days, though she would never have said it aloud, Claire had been content with their situation. That is to say, she didn’t mind it being just her and Kristi, even when people told her how horrible it must feel to have lost someone so dear.

It’s not that she wasn’t upset when her mother died – on the contrary, she cried for days and days, until her throat was hoarse. It was merely that the passing of her mother, coupled with her father’s absence, presented an opportunity: Claire was suddenly granted more freedom than her peers could ever attain without themselves courting tragedy.

There was nobody to nag at her for not cleaning her room, there were no questions about who she was hanging out with and where they had gone, and she had no curfew that Kristi could realistically enforce with her inherited responsibility. For an oft-overlooked quiet girl, the world had suddenly become available for her to gorge herself on – and she feasted willingly.

Beneath the plain veneer – and brazenly in sight of her sister – Claire was sampling all the delights she could find in the metaphorical garden, boldly vanishing for the night, eating whatever she wanted, smoking marijuana and drinking alcohol to the rhythmic sound of waves and her friends’ laughter beneath the pier, and frequently inviting Victor into her bed.

Kristi had done the best she could, of course, but she was still young herself. The eldest sibling had no shame in admitting to friends and neighbours and relatives – anybody that would listen, really – that she had no idea what she was doing, raising a sixteen-year-old at her age. They would all nod their heads and gently touch her shoulder out of reassurance. Out of sight, however, they would speculate on the condition of Kristi’s burgeoning stardom in this new status quo. To Kristi, raising her younger sister was a threat equivalent to a speed bump, rather than the command of a stop sign; she wouldn’t be deterred.

Then the opportunity came along…and that was when Claire’s newfound happiness first came under threat.

As Kristi got closer and closer to leaving Claire for the call of fame and the West End, the younger sister had found herself torn between watching Kristi succeed and desperately clinging onto everything – and everyone – around her.

Perhaps that was why Claire felt a sense of glee bubbling in her stomach as she pressed her ear to the gap in the door the day Kristi’s agent broke the bad news. The offer had been rescinded, the opportunity snatched away, and Kristi had only herself to blame. Or did she? Pressed against the doorframe, peering in to see Kristi pacing and hysterically trying to explain herself down the phone, Claire’s heart had started to pump faster and louder, and the beginning of a smile had stretched across her face.

Taking the sound of Kristi’s mobile phone thumping against the carpet as her cue, Claire had silently floated into the room and wrapped her arms around her sister, slumped on the floor in defeat. She gestured her sister’s head towards her own shoulder and watched them together in the reflection of the built-in wardrobe’s mirrored doors. Claire barely recognised the smile watching her back as her own, nor did she feel she knew the sobbing Kristi, surrounded by the shattered shards of her dream and the contents of a half-packed suitcase, strewn about the room in devastated rage.

Finally, after years of whispering curses into her pillow, Claire had what she wanted: Kristi wasn't going anywhere. In return, Claire would have to walk over the sharp debris left behind by Kristi's devastation, comforting her sister, worrying in tandem about money during the months when their father was too absent-minded to send them any, and feeling the guilt of letting her sister torment her best friend so as to divert her unhappiness from Claire.

In the days that followed, Claire looked after Kristi, watching on from the staircase as she desperately rang around for job vacancies and interviews, saying nothing when she heard Kristi sobbing in the bathroom, and returning a smile whenever her sister looked over at her from the other sofa with a pitiful expression that said ‘I’m trying – I promise. Everything will be OK’.

Despite the twisted knot she’d expected to feel in her chest and the financial concerns that sat above their heads, Claire found herself more content than ever.

Of course, there were sacrifices. In the process of keeping Kristi close by, Claire lost Havannah, but Havannah was ambitious and would’ve left sooner or later anyway, and some part of Claire – some desperate, nameless facet that was surely in the shape of a child grasping onto their toys – was happy to pay the price if it meant she could hoard Kristi, Victor, and Envy all for herself.

When Envy started talking about university, a sick feeling rooted itself in Claire’s chest. She would sit and listen in silence as Envy delicately raised the subject at first, growing bolder each time they talked about it.

One day, Claire had snapped. “Just go then, leave me here!” She had fled to the bathroom and slammed the door shut, though found that no actual tears showed no matter how hard she cried. As the sound of Envy’s soft, concerned rap at the door eventually faded, Claire was left alone to contemplate the chasm that had opened somewhere inside of her. One day it had been a twisting, then it had been sick anxiety, and now it was emptiness – the lonely gap spanning what she wanted and reality, with her conscience having fallen prey to the void between them both.

Envy soon acquiesced. A few days later, Envy had sat beside Claire on her bed and declared gently that she would be taking a gap year.

“Really? Promise?” Claire had asked, a little too eagerly.

“Promise,” Envy had replied, and Claire had noticed the weak smile on her friend’s face as her arms wrapped around Envy in muted excitement. She had clung on for a little longer, and their situation could remain largely unchanged. The chasm rumbled; it was not satisfied.

The promised year had slipped by too fast for Claire. As the summer had blossomed all about them, Claire found herself increasingly lying in her bed, wallowing in the feeling of isolation. The heat trapped in the room was suffocating her. She wanted to claw at her throat to open it enough to breathe, or to climb up to the windowsill over her bed, pull back the curtains, throw open the windows, and inhale deeply the sweet summer air – to enjoy it like everybody else was, triumphantly.

Instead, Claire could only pull the covers tighter around her, despite the stickiness and overbearing warmth. It made her feel sicker, the heat pressed between layers of skin, and she felt sympathy for her own plight. That gave her some comfort, but not enough. The chasm could not be satiated by her own self-sufficiency.

An arm slipped free of the duvet and clumsily retrieved her mobile phone from the bedside cabinet. Under the covers, the screen’s dull light came to life. Claire began to scroll mindlessly through social media, liking as many pictures as she could – old schoolmates on holiday together, her cousin out to dinner, promotional posts for Foxy’s and Dal Mar and Vista – adding inane comments just to prove she still existed, watching the world from what felt like a million miles away.

Then Claire saw Envy’s latest post – a photo of her best friend and her former best friend from a week earlier, laughing at the camera with their arms around one another – and she found herself counting the days since she’d last seen Envy in person. How many excuses for not hanging out were because Envy and Havannah had resumed a friendship without her? Claire threw the phone onto the floor and wrapped the duvet even tighter around her body; maybe she would suffocate from the trapped heat, and they could all mourn her, together. Claire straightened her body and brought her hands together over her chest, mimicking how she imagined her corpse might lie, invisible flowers grasped in two pale, cold hands. Behind tightly closed eyes and under clammy skin, Claire felt herself sink into this fantasy, surrounded by bright bouquets and weeping. The mourners would crowd around her coffin, sobbing onto her delicate face and wetting her pulled back, sandy-coloured hair, and they would be united in her grief. Maybe she would be able to open just one eye, unclasping it from death simply so she could see how they stayed by her side.

***

Downstairs, Kristi was already irate when Victor rang the doorbell. Even the loud chiming didn’t seem to rouse her sister, and so she abandoned her phone call – they were keeping her on hold anyway – to answer the door.

“Oh, it’s you. Claire’s still in bed,” Kristi said, curtly. She looked Victor up and down, the phone clutched to her breastbone as if they were simply taking a mutual respite from the call so that she could answer the door.

It was still early, and yet Victor looked harassed by the rising heat. The flowers he clung to had already begun to wilt, oppressed by the heavy air, and his forehead was painted with a dewy glisten of sweat.

“Can you give her these,” he asked, handing Kristi the half-dead flowers.

“If I must…” Kristi replied, taking them from him with two hesitant fingers.

They waited there on the doorstep for a moment, neither of them looking at the other. Victor’s eyes scanned the chipped paint that framed the front door, while Kristi stared at the fold of his t-shirt’s sleeves. One was folded higher than the other, and the asymmetry bothered her.

“Do you want to come in and wait?” Kristi asked, puncturing the awkwardness. She didn’t wait for an answer, instead just stepping aside. Victor wordlessly accepted the invitation and instinctively headed for the kitchen island.

Kristi threw the door shut and retrieved a vase from a cupboard by the sofas, letting it dangle precariously from one finger as she carried it, the flowers, and the phone to the sink.

“One of your sleeves is askew.”

The sound of water rushing into the vase followed, and Victor looked to each bicep to find the culprit. He adjusted the sleeve and watched Kristi carefully snip the stems and then arrange each flower delicately in the vase. It was too big, and the flowers all slumped to the edge of the glass, but he noticed how it didn’t deter Kristi from taking her time with a futile exercise. They would never stay put.

Somewhat satisfied with the arrangement, the vase was set down on the island. Kristi tidied the wrapping and washed the scissors, before finally turning her attention to Victor. She liked the idea of him stewing in silence, though she had plenty to say.

“What the fuck do you want with Claire?”

If the question took Victor by surprise - or if he was at all affronted by the confident demand of information - he didn’t let it show. He simply let his foot tap against the metal bar of the kitchen stool, hands clasped on the island's countertop, and looked Kristi directly in the eyes.

“She wants me around.”

Kristi had known that her first question would be shrugged off, but the second had come to her while she had attempted – and failed – to prop up one of the drooping roses in the vase. She had tried to let it go, leaving it to lie with the other flowers slumped against the edge of the vase, but her mind had wandered back to it and she was too curious not to ask.

“Do you want to be around?”

His response as the words landed gave Kristi the rare opportunity to spot the first crack she'd ever seen in Victor's façade. The tapping had stopped, his knuckles had whitened from the clasping, and his eyes seemed more focused than ever before.

There was no answer. Victor’s lips parted to give one, but the words would not pass his teeth, so he was forced to seal them back up within himself. He stood, pushing the stool back.

“I should go.”

Kristi and Victor had only interacted when necessity had demanded it, but she had seen and heard enough about him to know that a retreat was a rarity; as far as Kristi knew, Damon had been the only one to see Victor walk away. Tasting blood in the water, Kristi honed in, a shark sensing weakness in a predator. She stepped out from behind the kitchen island and grabbed his arm.

“If you’re not happy with her, you need to break it off.”

Victor pulled his arm free with a jolt, but rather than continue to the door, he turned to Kristi; rather than fury etched into his face, there was wide-eyed helplessness. His shoulders dropped.

“It’s not that easy,” Victor replied, breathlessly.

Kristi softened her voice.

“What do you want, Victor? Forget Claire for a moment. Forget the shit with dad and our mum dying. What do you want?”

Victor’s eyes dropped to Kristi’s lips, and they both noticed the sudden proximity between them. The heavy air bloomed with tension and possibility, and while Kristi didn’t get the answer to her question, she got an answer. It was still early in the morning, but the heat was palpable.

***

When Havannah frowned, her brow furrowed in a way that her mother used to call her daughter’s angry knot. It sat there, between her manicured eyebrows, pulling on the skin of her forehead and tightening her expression.

“I don’t understand. They were paid short?” she asked, the clipboard in its usual position, tight to her chest.

Debbie busied herself wiping the counter down, half-distracted. The smell of grease and disinfectant drowned out the sea air and flared Havannah’s nostrils.

“Aye,” Debbie replied, nonchalantly though Havannah could tell she had been itching to ask about it, likely pushed forward by the other staff, elected as their spokesperson.

When Havannah had first approached the hatch that morning, the conversation had been light and airy – about the weather, and the visiting family from the day and their screaming child, who had vomited on the Ferris Wheel - until Debbie had casually dropped the mention of owed money into the middle of things. It fell like a weight, awkwardly pulling all the focus to it, while Debbie continued to scrub. Havannah noticed the older woman hadn’t actually looked at her once during their conversation.

She was confused. Her own wages had arrived without incident, sitting in Havannah's own bank account just as Leanne - her father’s trusted assistant-stroke-accountant - had promised.

“I’m sure it’s just a glitch or something. Computers, eh?” Debbie said, casting a line into the water and waiting for Havannah to take the bait.

There was no nefarious scheme keeping the pier's employees from the wages - not that Havannah knew of - and so there was no great reveal to be given. The younger woman just took a note on her clipboard instead.

“I’ll find out. You're probably right - just a glitch,” Havannah offered her reassurances, though the knot on her brow showed that she hadn’t even managed to reassure herself.

“Or something," Debbie reiterated.

Debbie had stopped scrubbing now and stood tall, hands on her hips. Beads of sweat lined the redness of her flush face and she smiled sympathetically. It confused Havannah, and the knot refused to soften even as she smiled herself and turned away.

Ronan declared himself, jogging over from the game to where Havannah stood, frustratedly pacing along the pier's railings.

“Everything OK?” he asked, as she let out a low, frustrated growl at yet another unanswered call.

Havannah took her gaze out to sea and chewed her bottom lip.

“Hav?” Ronan tried again, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder. The cotton of her light blue t-shirt was soaked in the suns rays, soft beneath his fingertips.

“Sorry,” she said, jerking her head away from the sea - no answer to her conundrum forthcoming - to look at him.

At the sight of Ronan's beaming face, Havannah's frown eased. His skin had tanned in the sun, enriching its colour in all the exposed places. It suited him to have his flaxen hair contrast against his skin. She smiled, feeling herself return to the warm place they inhabited in each other's company.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” Ronan replied, his hand back by his side. "So, what's going on?"

“There’s been a problem with wages – some of the staff have been paid short. I’m sure it’s just a computer error though,” Havannah said quickly, hoping that one of two things would happen: either she would successfully start to believe her own recycled excuses, or that Ronan would recognise how little heart she put into the words and the way she rushed them, and knowing better than her, he would stop Havannah and untangle the situation for her.

He did neither.

“Oh. That’s a ball ache. What will you do?”

Havannah felt deflated at not having the answer readily brought to her by somebody else for a change.

“I need to speak to my dad or his assistant, but I can't get hold of either of them,” she explained, lifting the phone to gesture what she had been trying to do.

The frown had returned, pulling at her mouth; the knot was back too.

“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” Ronan offered, reaching out to squeeze her upper arm for comfort. The positioning of his fingers was much more welcome than the reassuring touch on her shoulder, and Havannah wanted so much to sink into the sensation before walking off the pier with him so that they might take the day for themselves.

“It's just...” she started, her frown softening once again. But the words came out regardless of how much she tried to swallow them down. “Something doesn't feel right. The answer's there. I just haven’t connected the dots yet.”

Ronan took his hand back and dug all ten digits into the pockets of his scuffed jeans.

“You’ll figure it out. I know you will. Or, maybe this is one of those things where you decide 'I, Havannah Shaw, don't have to fix this situation'. Let somebody else clear it up.”

“Do you want to do something this weekend?” Havannah asked, changing the subject quickly, before she could argue that there was nobody else to fix this situation, and people were relying on her.

If he cared about the interruption, Ronan didn’t show it. He smirked at the suggestion.

“One of these days, I’m going to be able to make the first move without you getting there first.”

“It’s the twenty-first century,” Havannah said, mimicking Debbie's advice with a raised eyebrow. “But if it means that much to you, go ahead and ask me out.”

“Oh no no! It’s got to be unexpected, hasn’t it? Spontaneous, like. This is a summer romance, after all.”

“Is it?” Havannah asked, her face betraying a little surprise and a lot more enthusiasm.

Ronan didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced quickly around to check nobody was watching. The pier was still empty, save for Debbie in her doughnut stand, Simon reading a magazine at the ring toss game, and the smell of chip oil wafting through the clear morning air.

Satisfied by his quick survey, Ronan stepped closer, rested a hand on Havannah’s face, and planted his lips against her own. A breeze trickled over them and Havannah felt the clipboard loosen in her grip. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel Simon in the distance roll his eyes – probably mouthing finally to nobody in particularly – joined by Debbie’s approving nod as she slapped the sugar from her fingers, and so clearly could she imagine the breeze teasing Ronan’s hair, a field of golden wheat swaying in time to the sky’s cooling breath. And yet, none of those things could be happening without her witnessing them, and she would be happy nonetheless just to share this moment with Ronan.

When the kiss ended, the breeze seemed to recede with it - had they both imagined it? - and they tuned back into the sounds of the world around them. They both smiled, squinting in the sun and the dawning of something new between them.

“I’ll get back to you,” Ronan winked, before leaving her where she was just as suddenly as he had appeared.

Havannah watched him go and let her top lip run along the bottom, if only to taste the sweet summer scent Ronan had left behind one last time.

The day rolled lazily along. By the time Havannah finished her shift on the pier, she still hadn’t found her father, nor had she been able to sneak away with Ronan for lunch. Instead, the sweltering heat had brought more visitors to the seafront than she had seen in the last two years. There was no time for anything but paperwork and odd jobs.

The latter duties were made all the more uncomfortable by how many of the pier’s permanent staff seemed to retreat from her; the arcade attendants who were usually excitedly recounting a player hitting a new higher score quietly leaned against the machines, chatty food and drink vendors dialled down their enthusiasm when they saw her approach, and even Ron skulked away from her behind the bar when she took shelter inside the cool mezzanine. The feeling was an unpleasant one, and despite the heat, Havannah started to feel the cold spectre of isolation stretch to the pier – her one safe place where her feud with Kristi could not tread. Once again, she had no control over its origin.

Dissatisfied with the day and the clinging of cotton against sweaty skin, Havannah hailed a taxi to take her home before she made her planned afternoon pilgrimage.

She emerged from the second taxi freshly dressed and dried, clutching flowers the driver let her stop to buy. The taxi performed a U-turn on the tight cobbled road, and drove away while Havannah was still hovering at the entrance of the graveyard.

Her mother was buried here, at the highest point of the town, overlooking the water.

“Your mother always loved the sea,” Patrick had said during their first visit after her burial. The dirt had still been fresh; it had rained and the cemetery had a wildness about it.

All around Havannah, graves sprawled out across the grass, all different shapes, sizes, conditions, and even angles; they were misshapen teeth jutting out of a place that would surely crumble into the sea in a few decades’ time. Havannah didn’t like to think about that though; learning about coastal erosion at school always took her mind back to the imagined horror of the ground giving way, coffins tumbling from the crumbling cliff, pale corpses bursting free like maggots as they rained down upon the shore.

She shook the gruesome image from her mind and felt her grip tighten around the flowers. One foot hovered on the threshold - as it had done every time before this one - only to finally land on the floor once she was sure the taxi had left and nobody could witness her enter. Hesitantly, Havannah repeated the action with her other foot and solemnly strolled along the worn stone path that wormed between the graves.

This wasn’t the first time she had visited her mum’s grave alone. Patrick had been as attentive as he could have been, but business apparently called him away from his wife’s graveside. His daughter knew the truth, however: he was too broken hearted to be there.

For Havannah, the cemetery was a place of peace. High up on the cliff, out of reach of the rest of the town, only the gentle rustling of yew branches disturbed the sacred silence.

Her mother’s grave was placed at the far edge of the cemetery. Overhead, a yew tree kept her company, its branches twisting against the sky in winter and offering plentiful shade in the summer.

Callie's was the most gleaming headstone in the most perfect spot – Patrick’s tribute to the love of his life, paid for out of money and guilt for all the late nights and missed dates. From this spot, Havannah could see the pier from over the crooked fence that precariously ran the perimeter, and it was only in this spot that she shuddered at the sight of it.

Havannah could still remember standing beneath the yew tree, holding Patrick’s hand the day they buried Callie and noticing not a single tear on her father’s face. It was only when they were at home and their well-wishers had left that she had heard Patrick sobbing with such force that she was sure any heart that heard such regretful tears would surely break by proximity alone.

When daughter had approached father to offer comfort, he had broken the façade parents erect to make themselves seem alien and adult, letting slip in a choking cry that he wished he'd told his beloved wife that he loved her more.

This memory drifted into Havannah’s mind on the returning breeze and left just as quickly. Crouching, she gently placed the flowers on her mother’s grave, kissed her fingertips, and touched them to the shining black marble where her name was engraved.

Callie Shaw. Beloved mother, daughter, sister, friend. Forever loved, always missed.

Few people knew that it was Havannah who had chosen the epitaph when Patrick couldn’t face the decision. Her fingers lingered there, pressed against the valleys of gold that made up the inscription. She ran her digits along the edges of each letter and smiled.

“I met a boy, mum. I wish you could meet him.”

There was no response, as much as Havannah wished that there was. A patch of sunlight danced against the grave, shaped by the branches it poured through. She knew it wasn't her mother.

Havannah stayed crouched beside Callie's grave for a little longer, until the pain in her heart felt a little too tight - a little too real. That meant it was time to leave. She stood over the grave and felt the swelling in her chest loosen in the peace of this quiet place.

The hardest part had been the day after Callie had died, when Havannah had woken to an empty house. Every day after that, the tightness had faded a fraction at a time. But here – so close to her mother and the sea – it felt like that morning all over again; the emptiness, the quiet, the loss.

Havannah wiped the tears from her eyes and said, “Bye, mum,” before turning to leave the graveside.

She noticed then that she wasn’t alone; another person was standing beside a grave that hugged the outside of the small church that lingered among the dead. Havannah recognised the mourner, not from their appearance at a distance, but from the placement of the grave. It was Claire.

Before she could decide what to do – approach and disturb a private moment or walk quickly to the entrance and ignore the interloper no matter how cold it might seem – Havannah was seen. Claire was watching her, reddened eyes peering out from blotchy skin. Claire had been crying; Havannah couldn’t leave her. She offered a strained, sympathetic half-smile and raised a hand in greeting. Claire echoed the action and turned her whole body towards her former friend. There was no leaving now.

Once-shy feet now moved on autopilot, walking Havannah over to Claire, who was wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. Please don’t make me regret this, Havannah whispered under her breath before she was within earshot. Claire didn’t hear, her gaze returning to the gravestone.

“First time visiting?” Havannah asked, based entirely on the other girl’s awkward stance, hands unable to rest comfortably anywhere - not on her hips or folded on top of one another or by her side.

Realising how her words might have sounded, Havannah quickly added, “God, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s OK. It is. My first time I mean. You?” Claire didn’t look at Havannah when she spoke.

“First time alone. I just needed a moment.” Claire nodded in understanding. “You wanted to be alone too, didn’t you? I didn’t mean to interrupt – I just thought…I’ll leave you to it.”

Before she could leave, Claire reached out a hand, fingers grasping for Havannah’s skin, catching on the sleeve of the light floral top she’d worn to visit her mother.

“Please don’t go. I’m not very good at this,” Claire said, pleadingly, eyes still cast down at the humble gravestone.

Patrick had, of course, offered to pay for Kate's funeral - she and Callie had been best friends, after all - but Kristi had forcefully declined the offer, leaving the friends separated by several yards, one in the glorious shade of an ancient yew tree, the other shivering in the shadow of the church.

Havannah smiled with pity and moved closer. Claire dropped her hand and the old friends hooked each other's index fingers together in solidarity, as they had done as children.

“What do I do?”

“Try talking to her,” Havannah offered.

“But she can’t hear.”

“I know, but it doesn’t matter, does it? That’s what graveyards are for: they make the living feel a little bit better about losing someone they love.”

Claire took the suggestion, dropping to the floor and resting on her knees. The shaded grass was unpleasantly cool against her skin.

“What do I tell her?”

“Whatever you want. Tell her how you’re getting on. How Kristi’s doing.”

A pause followed, pregnant with anticipation for Claire’s words.

“Victor and I broke up. I don’t think you ever liked him.”

Havannah’s skin prickled, uncertain of who the revelation - and the accusation - was aimed at. Claire continued, a slow hesitant pace at first.

“Kristi’s doing her best. She keeps calling her agent for an update. I think she wants to get away. Everybody wants to leave me.”

At this, Havannah felt her arm instinctively reach for Claire’s shoulder. She squeezed it, letting her thumb rub against the bare skin - still pale from summer days spent indoors - that lay either side of the string-like strap.

“I feel all alone, like I’m struggling to hold onto people.” Claire’s voice was wavering now, the confession spilling over so that Havannah was certain that she too was being addressed.

“You don’t have to be alone, you know,” Havannah tried when Claire paused expectantly.

She looked up with wide eyes and smiled her sweetest smile.

“You mean you still care?”

“Of course."

Claire jumped to her feet and threw her arms open. Although perplexed, Havannah still returned the embrace, feeling Claire squeeze her tightly around her middle. When they had held the pose for almost a minute, Havannah’s phone sang for her attention, and the girls parted, their sweaty skin unsticking from one another.

Claire glared at the phone as Havannah read Ronan’s message. Hi beautiful. Foxy’s, 8pm? A smile lit up Havannah's face, only to dim once she looked up and remembered where she was.

“I’m sorry, I have to go. But this was nice, right?”

“Yeah,” Claire replied pointedly, her own expression growing stormy.

Havannah took a chance and gave Claire one last hug, though it wasn't returned, the pale girl hanging her limbs limply at her side. Unwilling to ask for fear of being kept behind - and out of principle for the trouble Claire's sister had caused her - Havannah ignored the lacklustre reception to her affection and took her leave of the graveyard with nothing more than a 'see you around'.

By herself once again, Claire turned to the sad, worn tombstone that marked her mother’s resting place. She was brushing some debris from its surface when her own phone rang. It was Kristi.

“Where are you?”

“At mum’s grave," she mumbled in reply.

Kristi sighed.

“Is it so bad to visit our dead mother?” Claire snapped, poking a finger into the wound they both shared.

“No. It’s not. But two days in a row…Claire, is everything OK?”

She thought back to the embrace – a promise of caring – and looked towards Callie's grave. Claire stood and walked over, checking that Havannah was gone and that she was alone before picking up the flowers left by a grieving daughter for her mother.

“Everything’s fine. You worry too much. I’ll be home soon,” Claire replied, dropping the flowers at the foot of her own mother’s grave.

She heard Kristi sigh again, no time or energy to enquire any further.

“OK, good. I’m headed to work. There’s lasagne in the fridge.”

“Fresh?”

“No, microwave.”

“Oh, OK,” Claire replied, her voice dripping with disappointment. She knew it would make Kristi feel shitty, but she also knew it meant there’d be a crumpled twenty pound note waiting for her on the kitchen island, accompanied by a scrawled message insisting on her getting a takeaway. “Have a good shift.”

The call ended and Claire rooted in her bag for the hay fever medication that would finally sooth the redness of her eyes and the blotchiness on her face, and headed for the entrance feeling all at once accomplished and satiated. The growling chasm in her chest silently grew wider, and another piece of Claire crumbled and fell into the maw, lost to herself.

***

Havannah arrived first. Rather than wait outside Foxy’s alone, she crossed the road and found a spot along the seafront where she could lean against the stone wall and stare out at the water.

It was just after eight and the sun was hanging low in the sky, though not low enough to be any cooler. The cooling air that had gifted them small moments of reprieve throughout the day had dwindled, though Havannah didn’t mind this late in the evening. Soon the light would turn to gold, and the sky would be flushed with stars, a chance to cool-off.

At half-past, Ronan arrived, flustered from the bus journey and its lack of air conditioning.

“It’s really fucking hot,” he commented, and Havannah could only laugh as she surveyed the redness in his cheeks and the dishevelment of his hair; Ronan’s entire being was rebelling against the warmth. She took a chance, idly brushing his fringe away from his sweat-glazed forehead, where it clung.

“You ready to go in?” he asked, reaching for her hand before it could fully retreat. Even in the lingering heat, she warmed in some deeper place at his touch. But rather than take his lead, Havannah paused, swinging their arms playfully side-to-side.

“What’s wrong?” Ronan asked.

“How about we sit on the beach instead and watch the sunset?”

Ronan stepped closer and let go of Havannah’s hands, placing his fingers on her hips instead. Even through denim, she could feel his touch as if it was against her bare skin, and Havannah’s next exhale was full of lust.

“You don’t want to go in there, do you?”

Matching his own boldness, Havannah rested her arms on his shoulder, hands dangling behind him. They found themselves swaying gently together.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” her words trailed off, and Ronan knew where they led.

“I have a burning question, though feel free to tell me to mind my own business…”

“I can already tell what this will be about,” Havannah smiled awkwardly and prepared herself to feel his hands let go.

“I mean…that Kristi really fucking hates you. Right? I’m not just misreading that, am I?”

His face winced as he asked, as if to brace himself against the answer. It had to be asked; the question had sat between them this whole time, an unspoken aspect of Havannah's identity that he could barely trace the shape of. Curiosity had kept him up at night.

Havannah shook her head in reply. She was the first to let go, returning her hands to her sides.

“You’re not misreading it and it’s not your imagination. She really does fucking hate me. But she's probably right to. I don't particularly like her very much either.”

Sensing her movement and the passing of their sun-streaked moment, Ronan took his hands from her hips and let Havannah turn back to the stone wall that ran along the seafront.

“Can I ask why?” He took his place by her side, leaning forward so the stone dug into his exposed elbows. It was still hot from soaking up the sun, and he shifted to get comfortable.

“It’s a free country,” Havannah joked, worried her tone was too defensive. She didn’t look at him. Ronan went quiet. She nudged him and added, “You can ask. I’ll even tell you the reason.”

“Because you fancy me?” Ronan winked, bouncing back to his usual sense, like a flower that wilts in the shadow and raises its face again once the sun triumphantly returns.

“No, because I’d hate to see you left out. Most people here know the story. I’m not proud of it. You'll be in on the local gossip. You'll be one of us.”

"One of us," Ronan chanted in a mocking whisper, glancing about to ensure no locals heard him.

Detecting the hesitancy in Havannah's smile, Ronan stepped away from the wall and nodded his head in the direction of the steps that ran from the street to the beach, made from the same sun-kissed stone as the wall. This time, she followed.

They settled at the bottom step, Havannah discarding her shoes and burying her feet in the warm sand. Nearby, the pier towered over them, the dipping sun stretching the shadows of the structure across the beach. The tide would be completely in soon, though it would not quite reach them.

Ronan leaned casually back against the steps, as if to say Well? Let’s hear it then.

Havannah took comfort in the horizon burning across the water. Most of the beach had already vanished beneath the rising tide and Havannah was grateful; the tide was one of life’s few constants, a steady breath inhaling and exhaling against the shore. She inhaled in time with the water and began.

“Our mums were best friends – and I mean best friends. My dad worked a lot and their dad – Kristi and Claire’s – he'd left them a couple of years earlier. They used to do everything together: hiking, the theatre, drinking wine on the sofa. They were the first example we had of friendship and, in a way, I guess we tried to emulate that.

“Anyway, one night I was out with Envy and Claire. We’d snuck out to go to Foxy’s – we were still underage. Our mums had driven to the city for a concert. It was just like any other weekend to begin with."

Havannah paused thoughtfully, the sound of the water rolling onto the sand the only occupant of the silent space she'd left. When she was ready, she continued. "I was the first one to get the call. I was up at the bar. My dad was at the hospital, all alone...God, he thought I was at a sleepover. By the time we got there, Mrs Hallett had…gone. I’ll never forget Kristi’s screaming, or the look my dad gave me when he saw us dressed up for a night out. He was so disappointed and so heartbroken. But he still hugged me and I felt so fucking guilty, but for the briefest of moments, I kind of felt grateful too. Then my mum followed."

"What happened?" Ronan asked, now leaning forward to rest on bent knees. "Car crash. The vehicle was so mangled…there was no way they could’ve made it out.”

The dripping sun reached out and touched the tears pooling in Havannah’s eyes, creating diamonds from her misery. Havannah wiped them away and noticed Ronan shuffling to sit closer to her. His proximity brought more comfort than his lips or his hands. It was simply enough to have someone be close and listen.

“We buried them in the same graveyard, though not on the same day so we could attend both. It was like we were still trying to pretend their friendship was alive, pretending both families loved each other in the same way that they had done. We didn’t though. That became apparent.

“Claire started to get distant with me first, and then Envy followed and I had no idea why. Then I heard that Kristi had been blaming my mum, saying she was drunk behind the wheel and accusing me of convincing the other two to go out clubbing instead of being at home. We became the villains of the piece and a lot of people bought into it - some becaue they were scared of Kristi, others because the town had put her on a pedestal - first West End star from Clayham-on-Sea - and then there were the ones who actually fucking believed her. I went from being recognised to despised in the blink of an eye."

Havannah slouched forward, willing the tide to reach a little closer to wash the memories away.

“Eventually, I told my dad – we were both in tears, not for us but because of how it would’ve destroyed mum. It answered questions he had too: dog shit through the door, spray paint on the garage; he'd had it all quietly cleaned up. I never knew. We talked it out and I guess I thought I was at peace with where the blame fell. But I was still so angry at Kristi.

“Then I got the social media posts. I didn't recognise the email address, and I almost deleted it thinking it was spam or a joke. But there were screenshots attached, all from a private account Kristi must’ve forgotten about… They were vile: racist, tasteless, a couple of homophobic jokes thrown in. Maybe she really did feel that way – or maybe she was just young and stupid when she posted them. I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever know. But somebody made the call to punish her, and it was me.

“The problem is…Kristi was about to make it big. She’d caught the attention of some talent agent who thought the sun shined out of her arse. Within a few months, she’d got the offer to audition for the lead in a West End show, and she was supposed to pack up her life and go. I’m not sure what would've happened to Claire had she gone, but Kristi only ever really cared about getting out of here - even after her mum died.”

“I’m guessing she lost the job?”

Havannah nodded solemnly.

“She lost everything. Nobody would touch her. It made the news. She was tainted goods before she even got on the train to London. Her future disappeared in an instant and I’m still not sure if I’m supposed to feel guilty about it or not.”

“Well, why did you do it? Really?”

Havannah looked at Ronan with a quizzical look, unsure if he’d been listening at all. She knew what he really meant though. This question – this conversation – was defining Havannah Shaw in his mind, and she wouldn’t have the chance to rectify any misunderstanding. But Havannah didn’t want to lie either.

Once she’d measured her words and taken in the vision of his beautiful features and crown of golden hair lit up by the falling sun one last time - in preparation of him walking away from her for ever - Havannah confessed the sin that she had clutched to with heavy hands.

“Revenge.”

The taste of the word brought a sourness to her lips; she wasn’t supposed to be so petty. Havannah didn’t give Ronan a chance to react.

“I know, OK? I know it wasn’t noble or some grand liberal gesture to try and make the world better or why-ever-the-fuck other people do that sort of shit. It was a shitty thing to do and I can’t justify it beyond that. I’m sorry.”

The laugh caught Havannah by surprise. Ronan’s eyes were wide in bemusement, rather than narrow in disgust as she had feared they would be. His hand found hers and their fingers locked together.

“That was a lot to take in. I guess we don’t actually know each other that well,” he felt Havannah cringe and move to separate their hands, so hastily continued, “But, now I feel like I do know you, Havannah Shaw. In the moment, that probably felt like the right thing to do. Nobody can blame you for it – she made your life a living hell.”

Havannah swallowed some of the hot bile that had been steadily rising in her throat. He lifted their joined hands to his mouth and kissed the knuckle of her middle finger.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Havannah asked with far more desperation than she had meant.

“No, I don’t. I think you're courageous, dignified, smart...Plus she sounds like a bit of a dick and a little balance is good for the soul,” he mused, still holding her hand near to him. “Of course, I’m biased though.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you,” he smiled, “And I don’t know her.”

Havannah’s laugh was frayed by nervousness, but it eased her simply to know that he hadn’t stood and left.

Ronan shuffled along the step and let his lips approach Havannah’s. As the tide drew closer and the horizon gave way to a peachy glow, they kissed – and Ronan realised he’d never felt so close to anybody else before.

They stayed together, watching as the sky became parchment, scorched as its held over a flame, and Ronan realised he needed to catch his bus.

“I can walk you home first if you like,” Ronan offered, but Havannah declined.

“I’ll get a taxi, honestly, it’s fine. Thank you though. You’re a true gentleman. The very last of them.”

“A roguish one, I hope. That’s what I’m trying for,” He winked, drawing Havannah close for another kiss.

The sea sent a night chill across the waves and Havannah shivered.

“Go on, get your bus. My taxi will be here in a bit.”

Hesitant to relinquish his grasp, Ronan waited until he could stretch no further before releasing Havannah’s hands. As he walked along the seafront towards the bus stop, he continued to look back, blowing her kisses and waving, until at last he was out of sight.

Havannah meandered along the seafront as she waited for somebody in the taxi office to pick up the phone.

Eventually, she found herself passing the pier’s entrance, gate unlocked for the late evening walkers enjoying the encroaching darkness. She tried a different number this time.

“Dad! There you are. Where are you?”

“Sorry darling, I’ve been in meetings all day. I’m driving home now. Have you eaten?”

“No, I’m at the pier. None of the taxi companies are picking up.”

“Say no more, my sweet – dad's on his way. I’ll see you in ten. Maybe we can pick something up on the way home?”

“Sounds great. Thanks, dad.”

“Anytime.”

Havannah ended the call, replaced the phone in the pocket of her denim shorts, and sincerely wished she’d brought a jacket. The heat had been sapped out of the day, and a chill was smoothing the air. There would be a few more days of sunshine before a thunderstorm, she reckoned. They needed the freshness it would bring.

As she peered out along the edge of the pier and watched as it cut into the horizon, movement caught Havannah’s eye. She looked below, down on the sand that stretched beneath the pier and across the length of the seafront and spotted two men shuffling towards the shelter of the pier’s structure.

One of them examined the beach behind him with suspicion, hands in his pockets, and Havannah jolted backwards to keep out of sight. A giddy, childish laugh rose in her and she squeezed her lips together at the scandal. It was an unspoken reality that, when the tide was high and people were drunk on the lust that hangs in the summer air, their lust played out beneath the criss-crossing metal beams, against the sandstone wall. Gossip told how lovers would emerge quiet and distanced, their feet and the cuffs of their trousers wet from the water, making for many a ribbing among friends who may have wet sand stuck to their shoes. Havannah had never actually witnessed anybody going under the pier at night - until now.

Curious, she moved along the wall to the top of the closest set of steps. From the street, they turned to the left, then back to the right, allowing Havannah to spy from a vantage point closer to the beach but still sheltered from detection.

From that spot, she could make out the two men, one of them aggressively reaching for the other in a fierce embrace. Hands furiously wandered, lips clashed, and clumsy fingers struggled with belt buckles. Havannah was about to leave, a little embarrassed by what was unfolding, when she caught a flash of the instigator’s face.

“Victor…?” she murmured, though louder than she intended.

The men stopped their energetic exploration of each other’s bodies, with Victor pushing his companion away so he could clumsily fix his belt and tread hurriedly towards the interloper.

“Havannah, wait,” he said, desperately.

She had already stood up, however, averting her gaze while her mouth hung slack. As she climbed the steps, Victor rushed behind her and Havannah sped up.

“Havannah, fucking wait,” Victor repeated, grabbing her arm. Havannah swung around and instinctively slapped him away.

“I’m sorry, Victor. I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry,” she stammered, somehow more embarrassed than he was. And then she remembered what Victor was like, and who exactly it was she was facing.

“I…I won’t say anything.”

Victor stepped forward, face stony still. His hand reached for the already reddening cheek. Suddenly, headlights illuminated the pavement and a car pulled up beside them.

“Everything OK?” Patrick called out through the open passenger window.

“I promise. I’m so sorry, Victor,” Havannah said one last time as she felt for the door and got in. Patrick glared briefly at Victor from behind his round glasses. The younger man said nothing - did nothing - except continue to stand rooted to the spot, hand cradling the stinging soreness on his face. Patrick drove off with his daughter.

Panic rose in Victor. He clasped the back of his head and tried to breathe.

“FUCK!” he yelled, kicking a nearby bin.

Victor turned back to the seafront and scoured the sand for any sign of his friend - if he could call him that - but he was alone. It was a relief. Victor didn’t mind because nobody was there to see the tears and humiliation as he realised that his secret was no longer his own – and the panic that hid risen so suddenly became a deluge, threatening to drown Victor from within.

***

Kristi had walked the route from Foxy’s to her home many times before; she had trodden the path herself, wearing down layer after layer under her feet so that she could make the journey without thinking, following the worn path she'd made for herself.

In the winter, when the shadows seemed longer and cold sea air choked the breath from her, Kristi would occasionally splash out on a taxi or – if she had finished late or early enough – she would get on the bus up the hill into town, close enough to her house to walk the rest of the way, safe in the comfort of her own territory where the neighbours knew her.

It was summer, however, and Kristi felt bold. Besides, a roiling rage would burn at will just beneath the surface of her skin as she passed the time hosting imaginary arguments and alternative outcomes in her mind’s eye, sometimes catching her lips mouthing a response not spoken in this world, but out in another timeline far from this one where she didn’t have Damon’s watchful gaze burning into her.

It wasn’t too late to get the bus. They hadn’t been busy – hadn’t yet learned that the success of the preceding days had little bearing on how the next night would fare – and so Damon had released her from the bar early.

Approaching the bus shelter that sat at the foot of the hill, she could see the glow of bright orange digital text declaring that another bus would be arriving shortly at eleven-fifteen – the last one of the evening. Kristi looked at her watch and pondered whether to wait for the bus or walk the well-trodden route home. She was still wide awake. While the thicket of tiredness grew at the edges of her eyes like twisted thorns, something further back was alert and electrified. Her eyes roamed from the bus stop board, dangling from the shelter, to the nearby souvenir shop where Envy worked, emptied now save for the ghostly stares of untouched knick-knacks and soulless trinkets. She swore the Beefeater figurines and decorative dolls with legs dangling over the edge of the shelf were glaring at her.

There was nobody around, and in the absence of others, Kristi’s mind filled the gap with imagined frights. She looked at her watch again. It was eleven-oh-three. Her eyes cast one last glance, drawn to a flickering streetlamp, giving way to shadows. In the distance, the pier’s remaining lights danced on the waves. She didn’t want to wait alone in the dark.

Turning on her heels, Kristi started the walk uphill, wrapping her fingers around the strap of her handbag.

Although well-worn, this path still made her cautious. The steep incline was eerily quiet, and the only hope was the joyful sound of partygoers in the distance, the sound dancing down from the town centre. On several occasions, Kristi wanted to turn around and look back at the beautiful contrast of the seafront, the lights holding back the darkness that rolled in from the void beyond the pier – the vast emptiness that stretched on further than she could ever see. She didn’t. Instead, Kristi kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, keeping her feet in time with her rising breath.

Sometimes, when the weather was bad or he was feeling equally as guilty as the stormy skies, Damon would offer her a lift home. They would speed up the hill and through town and all the way to her front door in minutes, and Kristi would linger at the arrival, even as her hands clutched the door handle; she had expected he wanted something in return. He had never asked, however, only smiled and waved her goodnight.

As her thighs strained against gravity and the unforgivingly tight denim of the black skinny jeans she wore to work, Kristi wished she was in the car with Damon. This thought represented a threshold she so often came to, but refused to cross, pulling her thoughts back when they threatened to step through and answer the question Would it really be so bad?

Alone on a winding road with nothing to distract her and the adrenaline subsiding, however, Kristi couldn’t help but toy with the doorframe and linger a little too long in the threshold. She wanted to take a peek at the possibilities. What would lie beyond the door? Would it be so bad to choose Damon? He always promised to look after her, as if that unconditional – and unasked for – offer should be enough to woo her without really stating what he was after. Staying behind in her hometown would be easier to stomach if she had someone to look after her, on whom she could rely.

Maybe, in a timeline where Damon proposed and she agreed and they had children, Kristi could have some semblance of happiness, nurturing her talent into local fame – coddling a small flower out of the snow knowing that it would never grow any bigger than this single stem. Damon would bring the children to see her in the local theatre productions and maybe she’d sing in one of the clubs. She could be happy - or at least, happier.

Kristi only noticed the wetness around her eyes when a sea breeze blew on the freshness of her tears against flushed skin. That was not the life she wanted – it was small and full of compromises. But Kristi was angry at having the life she had planned for herself torn away by spite. Whether that spite was Havannah’s or her own, however, she was no longer sure.

Eventually, the darkness of the uphill climb gave way to the relief of lights and noise. The usual crowd staggered about, and Kristi returned smiles and small nods to those that recognised her either as the girl from behind the bar or from the year above at school or, in the worst cases, as the racist. The latter was a brand she couldn’t wash off no matter how hard she scrubbed, and although nobody seemed to say it to her face, the disappointment and disgust was evident in the narrowing of their eyes and the whispers, followed by howling laughter. Between them, Havannah and Kristi’s feud had silently divided the town – the Golden Daughter and the Rising Star duking it out in the streets over a tragedy that had torn into both of them.

This feeling of remorse sat uncomfortably behind Kristi’s chest, so often ignored except in the quiet moments at night when she let regret linger just out of sight, watching her in her bed.

Crossing the threshold of ‘what if’ had opened the door just a crack more, and she could make out a world where she and Havannah had grieved as one, woman to woman. Havannah was her sister’s friend, and yet Kristi couldn’t help but imagine Havannah being the one to support her, turning up for Kristi’s imagined debut, speaking highly of Kristi on the red carpets that were never to be. Yet another world was closed off to her.

The town passed behind Kristi and with the receding light, the cold crept back into her body. She pulled the door to all the lives that could’ve been shut tight. No, she imagined that it was Havannah’s hand pulling on the handle, golden claws gleaming as she smiled widely at the destruction she'd wrought with one email. Havannah had ruined it all.

Maybe Kristi could have said less about Havannah – her temper would’ve settled eventually – but she needed to take her frustration, her loss, out on someone. In a timeline where that could happen, Havannah would have left for university and Kristi would have left for fame, both having forgotten about each other and Kristi would have been able to grieve in the only way she knew how: fury. Screaming, wet, fury, belted in the direction of the heavens and all the gods gathered there who had seen fit to take her mother away...

She hated Havannah. The tide of it came sweeping back in and Kristi noticed how much she’d missed the certainty of that hatred.

So absorbed by the tumultuous imaginings in her head was Kristi, that she had let her awareness blunt itself. It was too late, then to notice the movement rippling in the shadows of the alley as she passed. In fact, she didn't register the disturbance until the darkness was given a familiar shape, lurching out of nowhere.

The pain came sooner than Kristi could react.