W.i.p.

Ellie worked in a little café, because that’s where she figured an aspiring writer should work. It was on the seafront, and existed completely out of time: it came complete with cheap plastic seats, a clicking, whirring noisy heater and a constant faint smell of cigar smoke. Despite herself, she quite liked the place, and even her boss – a bitter, grey old woman who scowled a lot and made sarcastic comments that didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t a difficult job – mainly selling boxed sandwiches and coffee. There was an ice cream machine in one corner but, in all the time she had worked there, it had never been warm enough for someone to brave one. 1

The day, as most were at that time of year, was drab and colourless. People wandered in and out, and a pair of old men sat in the corner playing draughts, wearing identical looks of intense concentration, and baseball caps emblazoned, “Weston-Super-Mare”. Most customers bought a cup of tea, largely to warm their hands up, then disappeared back into the cold greyness. Ellie stood by the clunking heater and drank hot chocolate. At four, there was a small buzz of energy, as the fisher man who had braved the elements on the Victorian pier (mainly for the purpose of being seen to do so – it was accepted as impossible to actually catch anything there, but it proved the other fishermen of the town that you, too, were a fisherman) traipsed in for bacon butties, bringing with them a salty, fishy smell. Then it was quiet again, and Ellie drank some more. Her notebook remained untouched behind the counter, but she had brought it with her, so it counted. 2

She was a quiet girl, with quiet features. Her hair was a muted shade somewhere between brown and blonde, and her eyes were a nondescript green. She had a pixie like look to her face, which the first thing everyone said when they met her. Her uniform, which she wore then, consisted of faded jeans, sensible trainers, and a blue polo t-shirt with “Lara” written on the back, which was really not her name. She hadn’t had the courage to mention it to her boss, who never called her anything anyway, so it didn’t really matter.3

At six, her shift ended; as such, it was totally dark, daylight having comprised the time between 11.30 am and 1.00pm. The world was now back, not grey, but it was still bitterly cold, and the wind had picked up. The sea was in, and slapping against the wall that held the pavement above the beach and crept up the staircases that lead down to the pebbles and murky water. Little fairy lights, a remainder of Christmas, shone primary colours against the sky, and swayed back and forth, occasionally jolting violently at a particularly strong gust. The pavement was empty then.4

She had two options. Her little flat, a cramped thing with Ikea furniture and purple walls, could be reached by either of two ways. The pavement turned up a hill, headed into the wind. Whenever she looked at it, her eyes stung and started to water. It was not appealing. The other way skirted up through the town’s “Italian Gardens” and over the cliff top path. It was a very British Italian Gardens, about as authentic as the pizza from the local chippy, but the trees provided some shelter from the wind. It was, however, dark and deserted path, and quite B-movie-esque. A voice in her head – that sounded very much like her father – proclaimed it a bad idea. That decided it for her: she had never been in the habit of following her father’s advice, and wasn’t about to start now. She turned towards the path and started walking.5

She realized about three minutes into her journey that it was really, really dark. Her first thought had been “pitch black,” but that didn’t allow for the darkened figures of the trees silhouetted against the sky. She then realized that it was really, really creepy. She rolled her shoulders forward and walked quicker (it would not have occurred to her to turn back – she was singularly illogical, and would have walked through the gates of hell, had then happened to be in front of her).6

Once she had decided it was creepy, she started hearing noises she hadn’t noticed before. The rustling and animal sounds made sense, as did the whistling of the wind; but she hoped she was imagining some of them. She spent a few minutes stopping and starting fitfully, and eventually braking into a rather pathetic run – and then she realized that the footsteps she heard were her own, and slowed to walk and tried to look cool.7

She traveled on up the path, started up the cliff – then heard a distinctive leaf crunching sound and realized that someone was watching her.8

Lola was screwed. Capitalised Screwed. She had been in trouble before (habitually) and usually actually quite enjoyed it, but this was a whole new level and, hence, she was screwed. She thought this in the tone of someone joking with a friend – but knew, deep down, that she had gone too far.9

She was wandering aimlessly; she wasn’t sure if it was possible to hide, but it was worth a try. She was in a park, and in the dark she could make out shapes against the sky: four or five benches, with wooden slats in the backs; the skeleton of a Victorian bandstand, wrought iron swirls in the columns; branches of trees thrashing in the strong winds, the seagulls hovering on the wind currents, high above the ground; a rickety wooden fence, held together in parts by wire; and beyond that, the cliff falling down to the sea. She sat, briefly, on a bench, perching on the back and resting her feet on the seat – she looked down at the daisies, and grass, and cigarette butts. She took in her own reflection in a puddle on the wet grass.10

She didn’t look the way she remembered looking. Her red hair was lifeless and lank, and her blue eyes were cold and tired. It seemed as though her face had literally fallen – that the muscles had lost the will to hold her features in place, and she was looking at the remains of them. With a sudden burst of energy, she jumped up and splashed noisily and symbolically in the puddle. Then she headed down the cliff path.11

The dark didn’t bother her. If anything, it was a comfort, letting her forget reality. In the high wind, tress and plants were torn from one to direction to another, and the image of the all dancing in the same direction at the same time was eerie, in an entertaining way. The wind whistled the tune, and they danced.12

Such was her detachment form reality, she almost walked into the other someone on the path. She hurried to a halt, and watched the girl, and assessed her. She had a quiet face, and pixie-ish features. She was well wrapped up against the wind, a scarf around her face and the hood of her parka up, and she looked distinctly unhappy to be where she was. 13