This Is It (ch39)

              start of  ***THIS  IS  IT***

🚑Sitting slumped on the edge of the bench, wind sweeping her hair forward, her cheek still throbbed from Neil's slap. It was the only part of her that radiated warmth; the rest of her body shaking through cold and shock. Yet the urge to defy him and make for his flat was pushing hard, despite knowing he'd never allow concierge to buzz her into the building. Sense should have dictated that the best thing to do was go home, but she decided she'd use her motel booking under the remotest chance that he might still just seek her out, knowing how near she'd be.
   Dragging herself against the facing breeze, doing her best to ignore the coldness whipping round her legs, she'd tied the belt of her thick furry gilet tighter into her waist, picked up her bag and headed for the off-license; if nothing else she could at least seek warmth from some alcohol. 

   People blurred past her, absent and insubstantial as the only thing etched across her brain was not letting go. With him, she'd gone from fear and avoidance, to guilt that was suffocating. She still needed him, wanted him. Seeking a way back to friends and a life most young people live felt impossible. Not now, not ever; she'd tried and failed.

   Saskia entered the off licence they frequented, and it felt gauche without him there. But the owners knew her face fairly well and the younger assistant behind the counter couldn't help but stare at her ruddy complexion and dried-in mascara streaks.

   'Bottle of red wine, please, a good strong one - doesn't matter what kind.'  She fumbled in her gilet's pocket for her purse when the notion hit her. 'Actually... scrap that, make it a bottle of Jack Daniels instead.'

   The older Asian gentleman with the perpetual smile, turned to change the bottle and replaced it on the counter.  'Planning a preasant 'h'evening?' he asked her - as he did with most customers - with redeeming quality through his native accent. 

  But a very disgruntled Saskia wasn't up for pleasantries right then - knowing she looked anything but pleasant. Snatching the bottle off the counter, she slapped down £30 and told him to keep the change, marching off indignantly. The old man's son stood shaking his head at him, calling him, in his native tongue, a witless fool.

  
Returning to the almost-vacant motel (bar one other guest), the same bespectacled young desk attendant was leaning over the same newspaper as when she'd checked in. Surprised to see her back so soon, his smile dropped when he saw her face.

   'Key for room six, please,' she asked quietly. 
   Reaching under the desk and into a box, his eyes kept fixed on her. Clutching the key into his palm, he asked concernedly,  'Are you okay, miss?'
   'Yeah, I've ah... just had a bit of bad news, that's all.' 

   He frowned; since when did bad news leave finger marks? 
   'Sorry to hear that.'
   'Happens,' she shrugged.
   'Can I get you some water?' he asked, noticing just how flushed her face seemed.
   'No, thanks, got that sorted.... ' she said, swinging up a flash of her bottle.
   'Sure you're okay?' Silence. 'Anything at all I can do for you?' Like phone the police, he omitted to say.

   'Yes, you can give me the bloody key to my room!'
   'Oh, yeah... sorry,'  he said, not quite expecting to be shouted at. 

   Slowly dangling it from a finger, she grabbed it and scurried up the narrow stairs, and he waited until he heard her room door close before saying aloud, 'Snippety bitch... you probably deserved it.'

The heating in such a small room hit her the second she walked in. Throwing the fur from her body onto the bed, she sat on top of it and planked the bag down next to her. With no glass in the room, she would have to tank the Jack Daniels straight, so she scrunched round the top foil and screwed off the lid.  After a sniff and slight hesitation, she took a 'here-we-go' brace, lifted the bottle and took a hefty glug. Vile. But ever so warming, ever so him - spreading right across her chest in ripples. All it took was another brave gulp before her phone was out. 

  Sitting the bottle at her feet, she hit his number and as expected it went straight to message mode, disappointing her. But she took small comfort in that, as yet, he hadn't re-blocked her number. 
  Rising, she went to peer out the low-ledge window, and felt pissed off by the smiling contentment on faces as they passed by while she was trapped in turmoil. Swiftly turning, she perched back on the bed's edge, switching the TV (one with a screen that's no size at all these days) promptly on and off again; as if some antique refurbishment show or cookery programme would distract her sufficiently enough to forget how surly her night was going. Taking a far bigger swallow this time, she tried calling again. 

   'Christ, Neil, just pick up!' she shouted at the phone.

   This heavy-duty alcohol started to hit her hard and fast; fuzzing her mind and wavering her vision until she had no trouble in pressing the bottle to her lips. Instead of tasting acrid it tasted of his lips.

Laying fully along the bed, she rolled to face the wall, knocking her foot against the bag, spilling its contents onto the carpet.  As she crawled to the foot of the bed to gather them, she saw it. Stuck on the top inside of the bag was the little 'winner' crazy golf sticker from Father's day - the one he peeled from his jumper and secured onto his wallet, the one he said he'd cherish forever.  Closing her eyes, she recalled the elation on his face over a silly circle of sticky paper commemorating his first ever Father's Day.

  Unprepared-for panic waved through her,  'No, no, I'm not giving up, no way, Neil... '

   Sitting upright she she swiped open her phone. She'd try a million ways to say she's sorry, pull out every effing stop she could think of to bring him back. She'd give him one hour to answer her, then it would be a trip to his complex. She wouldn't allow pessimism to rush to the fore; nothing was over yet, and especially not while drink was there to ply more encouraging thoughts. 

  Savvy enough yet to judge out a none-too-desperate timescale, (a high number of misspelt, desperate texts would do her no good, despite knowing every passing minute of this timescale would feel much longer to her) she popped in her earphones and found feelgood music to help counter any negativity and after every second song she'd check for texts after every second song, lest a direct caller interrupted the music. 

Hugging herself, bottle in hand, she swayed along with the music, taking the emotional pathway of the soul that certain songs leads to.  The first two songs brought no reply, nor did the end of the second two. But just as she expected no reply for a third time, her phone pinged that a text had just arrived. 

                          ' On my way to the motel if you're still there? I'll be around fifteen minutes.'

 She read the words aloud, mimicking them in his Scottish accent.  No kisses, no emoji, no term of endearment, but they were the sweetest words she'd drunkenly ever read and replied succinctly.

                           'I'm still here.'

 A relief so strong engulfed her, made the Jack Daniels taste of candy floss as the room took her on a carousel ride. The words may have been brief and his intentions unclear, but they were bringing him to her. She reckoned he had vented his anger, ranted and torn her to shreds enough; surely he was bringing some forgiveness along? Even a smidgen would be a start.  But this very second she was happy; jubilant and gloriously happy. In ten minutes he'd be with her. She rose to her feet, chose a playlist from her phone and dropped it back into the chest pocket of her dress, allowing herself this time, a quick victory dance.  

  As her favourite song boomed away in her ears, evoking feelgood positivity, she made mad, jumpy, random moves, the bottle as a dancing partner, singing along loudly and very much out of tune.  Underneath her room, the young man at reception cringed at the screechy voice and foot thumps. Had there been any more guests in the place he would have to have a word but decided to let the mad cow get on with it for now - his shift would be swapping over soon. 

   Her movements had also caught the attention of two lads around fifteen years old, mucking about at the canal lock. From the other side of the narrow water, one of them had climbed up to the middle bar of the gates, with his phone pointed at the window of Saskia's room. 
   'What you doing, Cammy?' his friend asked, intrigued.  
   'Some girl's bopping about in a room and one of her tits keeps popping out!'
   'No way!' he called. 'Are you getting it? Zoom in, zoom in!'
   'I bloody am!'  This was far too good to miss.
   Unbeknown to Saskia, the boy was filming as much of her frantic dancing by the window as he could. The low neck cowls on her powder blue dress was exposing a little too much on some of her more robust moves, but feeling this elated she probably would have felt felicitous enough to give them a free flash anyway.

The middle eight of her song was her favourite part, and consumed by all this music and hope, she lifted her arms outwards, spinning on one heel time and again, before starting to make tiny jumps as she always did at that bit.

  Backing up unsteadily, the sole of her shoe stepped upon on the wires leading to the television, rolling and twisting awkwardly, round her high-ish heels, and made her lose her footing.  Her vision wavered, hands scrambled for balance as she felt her head drop back, rending the window's glass. The crack rang out loud in the quiet evening air; Saskia had plunged backwards through the window, with an avalanche of pointed daggers and shards accompanying her down. On landing, the back of her head cracked and bounced off rocks that grouped there. Although gravel covered most of the space below, she was unfortunate enough to have the only bedroom window directly above the huge cluster of boulders.  

   The bottle of Jack Daniels broke on contact with the hard surface, and the top half somehow wedged most of its jagged self near Saskia's right hip. The ear-pod's wire had ripped from the phone, one still remarkably remained in her left ear.  She didn't even have time to scream in the descent that twisted her hip into a formidable angle.

   'Jesus fuck!' Young Cammy called out loud. 

   Running across the bridge, the two boys split up, one of them heading to alert the hotel by front entry, and one to Saskia. Getting to her, Cammy recoiled in horror at the jagged end of a broken bone jutting just under her exposed hip, her dress having ridden up. The scene was shocking, sending the young lad's mind reeling, almost unable to comprehend or process the image by his feet. Blood from the cracked skull was running free in scarlet streams, soaking the right side of her face, matting her hair - its red colour in vile contrast to the platinum blonde. He'd been on the phone as he'd ran.

   'Ambulance, please! A girl's just fallen through a window at Mossroad Hotel... yes, that one. Her head's smashed in... no, no response, she's out cold... right... please be quick, she might even be dead! No, I can't... please don't ask me that!'

 Shaking with nerves, he looked down at Saskia, and bravely followed the actions given for the head wound until he heard others approaching, but before anyone came into sight, he bent down to neaten her.  One of her breasts were exposed, and he felt the need to pull her dress over to cover it before the guy from the motel started chest compressions. 

Neil walked briskly, spiked with guilt and seeking some kind of ludicrous assurance she was going to be okay. He might just be making the most idiotic move of his life, but he was prepared to give her just a few minutes in small recompense for the slap. 

   The flash of blue and yellow lights hit him the second he turned the corner. An ambulance and police  had arrived quickly and simultaneously, while a crowd gathered at the side of the hotel, people tiptoeing and shoulder jostling for a good viewing point.  His step quickened as did his heart-rate. This wasn't good. Joining the crowd at the back he asked a woman what was going on. 

   'They say a young blonde girl jumped from a window! Terrible... ' This false and dramatic assumption that ripped through the crowd stunned him, and he immediately started to tear a pathway through the onlookers in heart-filled panic, struggling to the front in no time. Hauling up the police barrier tape to go under, a young policeman did his best to stop him. 

           'Sir, you have to step back!'

   But Neil kept repeating that he needed to get to her, so a policewoman joined in to try calm and detain him from his side-stepping and dodging.  In one strong tug he freed himself from the young officer's hold, shouting back in desperation as he propelled himself to the ambulance,

       'She's my daughter, for fuck's sake!' 

   Running straight to the scene, he slid dead in the gravel just as the paramedics were loading Saskia into the ambulance. He was temporarily incapacitated, unable to comprehend what had just occurred.  All he could see of her on the stretcher was blood-covered eyes and head above the oxygen mask, and supports and padding all around her.  

   The police had caught up with him in seconds, but instead of pulling him away, they informed the ambulance crew that he indicated he was her father and could be vital for information. The crew nodded to each other and asked him again to reiterate it.  In a rather pitiful voice, he said yes.  It was the first thing he thought of to be able to accompany her and was beckoned aboard the vehicle;  he could deal with the lie afterwards. Before stepping in, he saw the blood on the rocks and gravel, and the shattered remains of a Jack Daniels bottle.  
   'What had you done, kiddo....' he whispered 
   In a matter of moments the ambulance took off, sirens ablaze. The crew put him in the picture as much as possible, filling him in on her extensive hip injury as well.  Her bloods and oxygen levels were dangerously low and there was no guarantee she'd pull through. 

             end of  ***THIS  IS  IT***