46 292
Adam Thorpe
46
sudden smoothness. The
first thing Jasper ever said
to her – or rather, shouted
– was in a club: ‘You look
like Amy Adams.’ ‘Except
that I’m a natural red,’ she
shouted back.
‘Please,’ Jasper complains,
now.
‘
So
sorry…’
She needs tea and a pack
of gingers like it’s an
emergency.
The girl has stopped yelling
into her mobile, though
she is still laughing. It is an
amazing laugh. Husky like
her voice and breaking into
bubbles, little chuckles.
It’s
like
a
firework,
spraying out at the top
of its arc. Then they hear
the girl say, ‘Been up since
five, hun, so don’t expect
miracles. No, I can’t make
a snowman. Wrong type of
snow. I’ll give him a shout
on Facebook, yeah? Speak
to yo’ in a bit. See ya!’
And then there is only the
sound of the train edging
through the snowy fields.
Edging is the word. Click-
uh-tee-clack. Ithasdecided
to go slowly forever, now.
Like a night bus between
Lincoln and Spilsby when
you’ve drunk way way too
much and you are literally
a candidate for A&E and
desperate for a piss and
you’re officially in Hell.
Now it’s because of the ice.
We can skid on the tracks
or derail, a little voice says.
There must be stretches
without ice, she thinks,
because now and again it’s
hurtled along as normal
through the pancake-flat
countryside. She could get
her own phone out, but
she’s too tired. And she’s
taken a vow not to use her
mobile so much. To read
books. Or just medidate.
Six years of addiction.