Rewind, page 6
“Nice?” Amy enquired pointing to Bridget’s glass.
“What is it?”
“Punch,” Amy answered.
In the past she’d decided to steer clear of the punch, yet here she now was with a glass of it in her hand. She hesitated, her lips hovering over the rim. Should she do this? She was tweaking the past after all, she’d never drank it in the previous play of events. What was the butterfly effect? A butterfly flaps its wings and causes a hurricane or something…
Was this one of those moments?
She’d already begun changing things… What was another…?
She sipped it.
“Fruity…” was the only word she could think of to say. She coughed a little, the alcohol was burning its way down her own oesophagus this time.
Jesus H Christ did it burn. Had they put an entire liquor store in it? She coughed again. Her eyes watering.
“Arthur’s coming tonight…” Amy returned to the subject.
Bridget’s expression dropped a fraction. She’d not even thought about that yet. Of course, Arthur was going to turn up. She was going to have a painful conversation with him. Oh no.
She was suddenly paralysed in thought. Did she want to go through that conversation again? It was one thing to swap drinks in this new take on time, it was another to completely avoid something. She needed to stay focused, saving Max from the deadly chain of events was all that mattered.
“It’s a good party, he’ll enjoy himself,” she answered vaguely. She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do, but she couldn’t miss her cue for the response. It was all starting to feel like a play, like they had lines to say and actions to do.
“That’s not what I meant…”
Bridget shrugged following her cue.
“He still talks about you,” Amy squeezed her knee in a friendly manner.
Bridget gave her the strange look once more. What was the point of saying that? The second time around it still sounded strange. Like she’d been probing for a reaction. She felt the urge to retaliate rise inside her. She needed to keep to the script, she needed to - “What the fuck does that mean?”
It had blurted from her mouth in a sharp and pointed tone.
Amy recoiled, wincing slightly.
It was too late to take it back. Shit.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that… I guess I’m just sad you two broke up, I thought you was good for him…” Amy apologised sheepishly..
“You’re sad because we broke up? I thought you’d be happy…” It was a nasty thing to say.
“Why would I be happy? You was good for him…” Amy argued.
“Obviously not good enough,” Bridget answered bitterly. Her mouth was running away with itself and she was very aware she needed to reign it in.
“You think I want him? I thought you understood we were just friends…?”
Bridget nodded her head, “I do understand, it was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry. I’m just pretty pissed off about it…” Bridget let out a defeated sigh. This was certainly not how it went first time around, she had a lot less dignity during this play-through.
“I know, I hate seeing you two like this. I wish I could make it better,”
“That sounds like you know what is wrong with it,” Bridget chuffed bitterly. She noticed Amy’s demeanour shrink. Guilty.
They had an unspoken moment for a split second, both of them aware suddenly of a secret between them.
“…What is wrong with it?”
“I can’t say…” Amy answered after a long torturous pause.
“He made you promise…?” Bridget pushed. Her tone was darker than she wanted it to be, but she couldn’t reign it back in. The seal had popped on the bottle of vitriol and she couldn’t plug it.
“Don’t make me do this Bridget, I don’t want to fall out over him. I don’t wanna pick. I like you, you’re my friend… Please…” Amy begged.
Bridget angrily turned her attention away. She wanted to punch her, which was irrational. It wasn’t Amy’s fault. She was Arthur’s friend, of course she’d side with him. The point was she didn’t want to get involved, she didn’t want to pick sides. Bridget would want exactly the same if she found herself in the same position.
Bridget couldn’t respond, she let the conversation hang. Let it hang till it died on the rope… She took a deep breath.
“Oh god…” Amy groaned.
Bridget had quickly clocked him. Jason had arrived.
It came flooding back to her. It had been buried but now it was sprung free from the dirt. He had raped Max. Max greeted him warmly, throwing her arms around his neck. The sight made Bridget feel sick. Max leant up, kissing him square on the lips. His bushy beard swallowed her face once more. Then she re-emerged and beamed at him. He seemed to be returning the gesture but it was still hard to tell. Bridget wanted to get up and punch him. No, she wanted to tear him to pieces.
The only thing that kept her rooted to the spot was the small rational voice telling her that he hadn’t actually raped her yet. He hadn’t done anything wrong, yet. If she went up now and beat the shit out of him, she had nothing. All she had was a story about some crazy jump back in time from a future where he rapes her best friend. That was crazy, crazier than the actuality of it being true.
Bridget watched him whisper something into Max’s ear. She recoiled and jabbed him in the ribs with a finger. Then she took hold of his hand.
No. This cannot happen again. She couldn’t let him take her upstairs and rape her, she could not stand by and allow it to happen. She knew what happened next. She knew that Max would die and she knew exactly how that would feel. She’d been given a second chance, a chance to redirect Max’s fate, and she was going to use it!
She stood up.
Max gave Bridget a little wave, Jason even extending a little hesitant shake of a hand too, and the pair of them began to head up the stairs.
“Max!” Bridget shouted, screaming to be heard over the music.
Bridget crossed the room, weaving through the ever increasing throng of party goers.
“Oh my god, love your dress!” a shabby Cleopatra stopped her.
“Thanks,” Bridget dismissed stepping around her.
If she hadn’t been in such a desperate rush to intercept Max she might have stopped and thought about how she kept rearranging parts of the original timeline. She might have mulled over how she kept altering the timings, yet some of the things ended up the same as before. She might not have wanted to consider the fact that she genuinely couldn’t change the fate, that Max was beyond rescue.
She hit the stairs, she grabbed the bottom of Max’s dress. She tugged forcefully enough to get her attention.
“Bridge?” Max shouted. She looked surprised, her best friend had been on the sofa seconds ago. Jason turned on the spot, his hand slipped out of Max’s and came to rest on his hip.
Up close he still wasn’t what she found attractive. She thought he looked like a caveman, all bushy beard and straggly strands of hair hanging from under his cap.
“What’s up Bridge?” Max stepped down the stairs a little, stopping between Bridget and Jason.
Bridget hadn’t really thought this through, she had no idea how she was going to manage to divert Max. The truth wasn’t exactly practical, she needed to think of something. Her mind went blank briefly, Max’s brow furrowed. “You okay Bridge?” she tested.
“You know you said if I needed you,” she couldn’t believe she was about to play this card. She had no choice, she had to get Max away from this party.
“…I kind of need you, I can’t handle this place…”
Max’s face softened as she realised what Bridget was fumbling around.
“But I just got here,” Jason reminded.
She turned to Jason, the conflict plastering over her features.
“I’m sorry Max, I just need… need you, I wanna go home,”
“I’ll take you home if you want,” Amy offered suddenly appearing from somewhere.
“Max, you know what day it is today,” Bridget reminded firmly. Her eyes were watering up, which was an unexpected bonus. She’d committed wholly to this charade, even if it disgusted her a little. She didn’t want to acknowledge the fact she was milking the whole ‘missing sister’ angle. She’d never used that to her advantage, ever.
“Ok,” Max nodded. She looked disappointed but she decided that Bridget needed her more than her desire to be with Jason.
“What about us?” Jason grabbed her arm weakly.
“Sorry, ‘ho’s before bro’s,” Max shrugged. She kissed his cheek and slinked out of his grip.
“Come on my little wall flower!” Max slipped her arm around Bridget and began leading her out of the house.
The evening air was cool, it greeted them like a slip into cold water.
Max went to lead her across the lawn but Bridget managed to steer her along the path instead. She’d sunk into the lawn once before, she wasn’t going to ruin her heels in this timeline as well. Max squeezed her around the shoulders, it made Bridget feel warm and secure. They hit the pavement and turned down the street. It was just like any other English street, a typical slice of suburbia. The girls glanced back, Amy and Jason were stood in the doorway watching them leave. They looked dumbfounded, a little lost.
They slipped round the corner, the volume of the party retreating into the quiet. Bridget faintly recognised that first note, that meant Arthur would be arriving at the party any time soon. This time she wouldn’t be there. She’d not planned for it, though she was certainly glad about it, she had now spared herself that painful conversation with him.
“Did you really just tell him ‘ho’s before bro’s?” Bridget giggled.
Max smirked. “Well it’s true, but yeah… I have no fucking idea where that came from!” she groaned.
Bridget laughed.
“Pizza and hot chocolate?”
Bridget nodded. It was their meal of choice whenever one of them felt low. She didn’t feel low, but the idea still appealed.
“I’ll get a taxi,” Max slipped her arm away and began rooting in her purse for her mobile phone. Bridget felt her attention drift to the street. She had only a vague idea of where she was, this was one of those many streets off the streets that you actually know. Unknown but slightly familiar.
A car turned onto the street.
Max was pacing in a lazy circle as she talked to the taxi operator.
Bridget shivered. She felt herself rapidly cooling.
The car approached.
Max turned on the spot, rolling her eyes upwards as she dealt with the operator.
Was that car familiar? Bridget prickled. Was that…?
It drove past. A black estate car.
Bridget watched it roll past and then disappear around the corner onto the street they’d just left. That was the car, she was sure of it. That’s the car that ran Max over.
She turned her attention back to Max, she had replaced her mobile phone and was now mid search for her cigarettes and lighter. She was still alive. Bridget had done it. She felt a wave of accomplishment roll up her.
“What?!” Max sounded perturbed. Her face had crunched down one side. Bridget realised she was smiling broadly. She opened her mouth “Noth-”. The world violently shook around her, like an earthquake had torn through her. She stumbled on the spot as the world rumbled around her for a split second, a loud thunderous crashing ringing in her ears. It reminded her of a mobile phone vibrating on a glass surface.
As quickly as it started it stopped.
Her ears popped and she blinked several times. A pulsing headache unfurled in her temples.
“Bridge?” Max approached concerned.
She could feel liquid on top of her lip. She wiped, unsurprised to see blood.
What the hell?
What the hell had just happened?
CHAPTER SIX:
00:33 am 28th October 2015
Bridget sat on the edge of her bed and sighed contently. Her stomach felt heavy with pizza and hot chocolate, her body was tired and aching. She felt for and found the zip on the back of her dress. She tugged it down and began the process of easing herself out of this garish monstrosity. It had attracted quite the few looks while they’d sat in the overnight café.
Her bedroom was warm, cosy and just what she wanted. Her double bed was practically screaming her name. The dress felt a lot tighter than it did earlier, she’d eaten too much pizza. Far too much. She slipped the dress down past her hips, she stepped out of it and headed for her wardrobe. She pulled a fresh T-shirt out, a punk rock band one. It would do.
Her room was neat but not obsessively neat. It wasn’t particularly big, in fact she had the smallest room. It still had enough room for her wardrobe, a double bed, a desk and several sets of drawers. That was it though, there would never be any additions to her bedroom furniture. It was all dark oak. Her bedroom walls were metal grey, a regrettable colour from her younger years. Her carpet was black, which sounded like a good idea but in reality seemed to show every speck of dirt. Her bedding was blood red, her lamp a similar red. If there was a motif of colour in this room, it was definitely red. The red lava lamp in the corner, the red TV adorned with hundreds of stickers, dark red curtains and her favourite belonging - a large vintage “Rocky Horror Picture Show” poster, big bold red lips on a black background.
She had decorated most of her room with posters from various movies, bands and video games. Any other space was dominated to artwork, things she’d been proud of. Like most artists Bridget quickly lost interest in her own accomplishments, she would critique them mercilessly. These paintings and drawings were no different, she would sometimes remove a load just so she could stop analysing them.
She was just clambering onto bed when she heard the familiar scratching at her door.
She sighed loudly and hopped back off her bed. She opened the door and Frank came waddling in. She hopped into bed and after a scratch of his ear, Frank made the mighty hop on too. Frank was a pug, a black pug with a grey and haggard face. He had also lost an eye. He was the strangest looking dog Bridget had ever met, but that did nothing to prevent her from loving him to death. She would often cup his flat face, noting how he looked like a haggard spider, before she showered him in kisses. He was fat, like a little barrel on four legs. He also snored, horrendous snores that sometimes even woke him up.
But there was just something about his pushy personality that just turned her to putty.
He wasn’t even their dog! He’d been Gran-Pat’s. They’d adopted him when Gran-Pat became too unwell to care for him. Sometimes Bridget would take Frank in to see her at the home but not very often, Frank wasn’t fond of walking and Gran-Pat couldn’t remember him anymore. How could anyone forget the one-eyed old fart who waddled everywhere! But then Gran-Pat wasn’t herself anymore. Dementia had claimed her.
Frank came in for a kiss, slurping the bottom of her chin enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes, yes I had pizza and I didn’t bring you any!” Bridget laughed. Frank’s little curled tail began wagging. She knew he wouldn’t leave her be till he had a fuss, so she flipped him onto his side and gave him a belly rub. He melted onto his back and stretched for full effect.
“Hey, how was the party?” her mother appeared at the door. She’d come home from work, she was still dressed in her uniform of grey slacks and blouse.
“It was alright,” Bridget answered scratching Frank’s belly with her nails. His leg began twitching.
“The dress go down well?”
“The twins loved it,”
“I showed the girls at the office and they were impressed. They said you’d done a good job,”
It had felt like a life time since she’d posed for a picture. The memory of pulling poses in her handmade dress felt it belonged to yesterday. Perhaps because she’d relived the evening twice? It was even harder to comprehend this morning had been the memorial service.
“You going in tomorrow?” Diana White lingered in the doorway. Her hand fiddling with the door frame.
Bridget nodded.
“Be home for tea?”
“Yeah, I got no other plans…” Bridget shrugged.
“You see Arthur at the party?”
Diana recognised the flinch appear on Bridget’s face.
“Yeah…” was the defeated answer.
Frank slipped out of Bridget’s arms and began digging at the duvet. He wanted in and under.
Diana didn’t know what to say so the moment just hung.
“Well I’m off to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow night. I’m in early but I’ll be back for tea…”
Bridget nodded. She flipped the duvet back and watched Frank burrow down the bed. She watched the lump under the duvet do a few turns before eventually settling near the bottom.
“Love you kid, you know that don’t you…” her mum hesitated.
“Yes mum, I do…” she smiled warmly. She had never doubted it, not once in her life.
“Night darling,” and Diana disappeared.
Bridget turned her lamp out and settled down.
What a day. She hadn’t had much time to process everything that had happened.
Where would she begin? She began unpacking her thoughts but sleep rose up and took her.
************************************
She kissed Gran-Pat as she passed her in the corridor.
“Thanks duck!” she croaked before she carried on trailing down the corridor. Bridget was a stranger to her grandmother, much like everybody else was. She was short but weedy, thin and skeletal but surprisingly strong. She shook; visibly shook on the spot. Parkinson’s disease was a bitch, not only had it claimed her beautiful mind it had also ravaged her body. Her basic motor functions were useless, she struggled to drink out of a normal cup so had to be provided with a cup with a spout. The care staff called it a “feeder cup” and initially Bridget had found it offensive, but after she began to spend more time in the home she began to realise it was a nice way to put it. There was a few things that had initially offended, or upset, Bridget at the beginning but now she understood.
