Читать книгу Losing Juliet: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming - June Taylor - Страница 10

Bristol: 1988

The first lecture, French Literature in the twentieth century, was not until eleven o’clock. But Chrissy’s nerves were not prepared to wait and she set off much earlier than was necessary. New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ was thumping out from across the corridor as she stepped out of her room. She had no idea who lived there, or anywhere else on her floor for that matter.

The School of Modern Languages was housed in a series of grand old Victorian villas along Woodland Road. At nine thirty, she left her halls, Cliff Lawn Halls of Residence, down the hill, but with so much time to spare she decided to meander first. The sponge covers of her Walkman had been lost, causing the plastic to nip into her ears, but The Smiths was the perfect soundtrack for her mood.

A dense fog lingered in the air, giving the streets of Clifton an eerie feel. The way it clung to her was like a damp cloak, even entering her nostrils as she reflected on why she hadn’t yet clicked with anyone when she had been here for almost a fortnight. It wasn’t due to a lack of trying on her part. During Freshers’ Week she had joined the Film Soc, French Soc, been to Happy Hours with people on stage giving blowjobs to hotdogs, and drinking a yard of ale in their underwear. She had even forced herself to do the three-legged bar crawl and that hadn’t yielded anything either. To make matters worse, she had woken up this morning paralyzed by fear, convinced that all the other students on her course would have been to better schools and read far more books. Plus, that she had been given someone else’s A-level results by mistake and had no right to be here in the first place.

Dan assured her it was still early days and things would get better once lectures had begun. Speaking to him daily on the payphone downstairs she assured him she wouldn’t call so often once she had found a bunch of people to hang out with. Looking around her now as the tiered rows curving round the lecture theatre filled up and the noise level reached an almost deafening crescendo, she was not so sure she ever would. Everyone else was in full-flow conversation; she was the only person sitting on her own.

How many times could she lace up her Docs? Rub at the coffee stain on her stonewashed jeans? Or keep going over the date she had written in the top right-hand corner of her A4 notepad: ruled narrow feint and margin? The coffee stain was still wet and she could see her leg, red and sore, through the rip in her jeans. She had gone into the common room just before the lecture in the hope of meeting a few people off her course, but had to settle for the vending machine’s buzzing and clanking for company as it squirted a dirty brown liquid into a polystyrene cup. Then, whilst she was pretending to read the noticeboard someone had bumped into her without realizing she was even there. And no apology for causing her to tip hot coffee down herself either.

It was a relief when the lecturer walked in. The place fell immediately silent as a small, rotund man with a long beard, tweed jacket and yellow cravat, placed his notes on the lectern, sweeping his eyes over each student, already weeding out the Firsts from the Fails.

‘What is existentialism?’ his voice boomed round the lecture theatre. ‘Who wants to have a shot?’

There was no other hand up, only hers. Suddenly sixty pairs of eyes were upon her and she flushed, feeling like a swot. A phoney swot at that because no words were coming out. On the verge of putting her hand back down, she suddenly remembered something she had read.

‘A view of the world in which man is condemned to a life of freedom and has the full burden of responsibility?’

She felt her cheeks catch fire.

‘Meaning?’ said the lecturer.

Meaning? That was good enough, surely.

‘Erm, well, meaning that he can’t hide behind God or science but he makes his own choices about absolutely everything. Even under pressure, in a split second. I think.’

A commotion at the back of the lecture theatre, a latecomer, made everyone turn round. The lecturer was annoyed, it broke his flow, but then his face melted. Suddenly this student was the most important person in the whole room. Chrissy couldn’t help noticing this girl’s je ne sais quoi factor either, but she was furious with her for stealing her moment.

Most people would have settled on the first gap they came to at the end of a row, keen to end their embarrassment, but this girl had people moving bags, A4 files, coats, legs, arms, to let her through. And to Chrissy’s horror she was making for the centre of the middle row where there was an empty seat next to hers. Chrissy looked helplessly at the lecturer, feeling herself flush again, as though this was all her fault. The girl flipped down the seat and held out her hand, refusing to sit down until Chrissy had shaken it.

‘Juliet,’ she whispered, as she settled down at last.

Chrissy tried to ignore her as the lecturer resumed. She didn’t want him to think they were friends, especially as she had made an impression on him and she actually felt worthy of being here now. Juliet scribbled something on her notepad and pushed it towards her. When Chrissy paid no attention she received a gentle nudge in the ribs. ‘Qui es-tu?’ the note said. Realizing she would get no peace unless she responded she scribbled her name down quickly, still focusing on the lecturer and not prepared to engage any further.

When the session finished, Chrissy zipped up her bag and stood up.

‘Does my head in, all this existential stuff,’ said Juliet.

‘So what are you doing here then?’

Chrissy turned her back, ready to shuffle along the row.

‘Long story. I came to sit with you, by the way, because you looked like the least boring person in the room.’

‘Am I meant to be flattered?’ said Chrissy, half-twisting her head.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can borrow your lecture notes, is there?’

Chrissy pulled down the notepad that Juliet was clutching to her chest and saw it was full of sketches of what looked like fashion designs. She shook her head, turning away again.

‘You want to get a coffee?’

Even if this girl was rather irritating, and certainly not the sort of friend she was looking for, at least she was showing some interest. ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ Chrissy replied. ‘But thanks for asking.’

‘I don’t mean that shit from the vending machine either.’

‘I still can’t,’ said Chrissy, laughing.

Once she was out into the corridor, narrow with a low-hanging roof, it would be easier to lose herself in the crowd, she told herself. But she was wrong.

‘I like The Smiths, too,’ said Juliet, referring to Chrissy’s T-shirt and suddenly by her side again. ‘Saw them twice.’

‘Three times for me,’ said Chrissy. ‘Look, I can’t hang about. I’ve got to go and meet my tutor.’ She speeded up again, heading for the stairs.

‘You know, the reason I was late was because I saw a dog run over and I couldn’t decide if the dog had chosen to run in front of the car, or if it was just an accident.’

‘Really?’ said Chrissy, stopping.

‘Oh. Actually, no, I was trying to be existential. I slept in; I don’t have an alarm clock.’

‘Well maybe you should go buy one then.’ Chrissy carried on up the stairs, reminding herself to trust first instincts.

‘Do you want to come to a party?’

It was just loud enough to pick out above all the other voices. Chrissy reached for the handrail and turned round.

‘Fuck’s sake!’ snapped a girl with pink hair and alarmingly plucked eyebrows. ‘Do you have to stop on the stairs?’

‘When?’ shouted Chrissy, ignoring the complaints.

‘Wednesday. Bring a friend, or friends if you’ve made some. The more the merrier.’

She found herself going to claim the photocopied invite that Juliet was tantalizingly waving at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Where is it?’

‘Cowper Road.’

She was about to ask where that was when Juliet helpfully added: ‘There’s a map on the back of the invite.’

‘Aren’t you in halls?’

‘Stoke Bishop. Miles from bloody anywhere. Luckily I know a couple of people in Redland. Do you know it? Just head up St Michael’s Hill away from town. It’s not far. Where are you?’

‘Clifton,’ she said, tugging the piece of paper out of Juliet’s fingers, giving the map a quick scan. ‘I’ll find it.’ She tucked it into her jeans pocket and then found herself weakening. Handing over her lecture notes, she said: ‘And if you lose those I will kill you.’

‘You’re all right you are, Chrissy Wotsit,’ she heard Juliet shout as she galloped up the stairs, not wanting to be late for her tutor. She turned round and gave Juliet the finger.

But for the first time in days, she had a smile on her face.