I like Philippa. She’s very easy to get on with, and we’re much the same age. Unlike Oxana, she has keen antennae for my feelings. She seems to know instinctively when not to probe too closely, while at the same appearing interested and sympathetic. And she’s a terrific cook. God, it’s good to becooked for by someone who really knows what they’re doing. Oxana could put a meal together if pushed, but it was always a bit of a performance. Her heart was never really in it. I haven’t questioned Philippa about the witchcraft stuff, although I’m curious about it. At least quite curious. The paraphernalia makes me think of terrible rock bands and tacky occult shops selling incense and crystals. And perhaps even of my own teenage goth and punk days, although that was always more about buying neon-pink hairspray and black nail varnish from Claire’s Accessories than actually living the lifestyle. That said, I did shoplift a DVD ofThe Craftwhen I was twelve. Probably the most transgressive thing I’ve ever done, apart from killing people with Oxana.
How strange, and how coincidental, that I should meet an actual witch just a couple of days after seeing that summer solstice ritual on the Heath. It’s as if the two events are linked somehow, although of course they can’t be. It felt unsatisfactory to walk away from that pagan ritual, as if it was in some sense intended for me. But I can’t just let go. I’ve got too much to hide. I’ve got to be careful with Philippa for the same reason. I have to watch what I say.
Where’s Oxana now? At the flat, in bed? Or out in the London night, doing God knows what. I miss her dreadfully. I can conjure her up as if she were lying in bed next to me. I can feel the smoothness of her shoulder against my cheek and mouth. I can run my thumb along the scar on her cheek. I can touch the bump on her upper lip where a dog bit her when she was a child. I can smell her hair, with its residues of shampoo and sweat. I can feel the sway of her back and the muscled curve of her bum. I can hear her snore, and the faint whistle as she exhales. And yet here I am alone, in a narrow single bed in the attic of a 400-year-old house in a town Oxana has never heard of. What have I done? What the fuck have I done?
At some point, late in the night, Eve’s wakened by the slam of the front door, an angry yowling from Pye, stumbling feet on the stairs, and the sound of retching. A voice, recognisably Tom’s, mutters ‘fuck’ several times. Eve guesses that Philippa must be used to this sort of stuff, because she doesn’t intervene. Perhaps she doesn’t even wake up. After a time there’s the sound of another door being roughly pulled shut, and then silence.
7
‘You were up early,’ Charlotte says, as Oxana peels off her sweaty T-shirt.
‘I went for a run.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. It’s beautiful by the river in the early morning. I ran for miles.’
Georgie stares at her. ‘What time did you get up?’
‘About five.’
‘Fuck me. You’re keen.’
‘I like to keep fit.’ Oxana twists her hair into a ponytail. ‘How long ’til breakfast?’
‘Five minutes, tops,’ Charlotte says. ‘You have to get to the dining hall early, otherwise the good food runs out and there are just scraps and dregs left.’
Oxana frowns. ‘Can we go down now?’
‘Not like that,’ Georgie says. ‘It’s full uniform at meals.’
‘Can’t I go in a tracksuit?’
Georgie and Charlotte glance at each other nervously. ‘Puss would skin you alive,’ Charlotte says.
‘Puss?’
‘Miss Catley. She’s a stickler for uniform. And hair. You have to have a proper bun.’
‘Atbreakfast?’
Both girls nod.
‘Can you show me?’
As Georgie de-pills her regulation cardigan with a LadyShave razor, Charlotte addresses herself to Oxana’s hair. ‘The bun has to be low, and in line with your ears. Georgie, pass me some kirby grips, and see if you can find a blonde hairnet.’ With practised fingers she whips the arrangement together.
‘I have to do thisevery day?’ Oxana asks.
‘Yes. And this is just the basics. You can put slides and combs in, but they have to match your hair. And I’m afraid those ear studs will have to come out. You can put them back in in the evening, after tea. Otherwise it’s flesh-coloured underwear only, 15-denier beige tights, flat shoes…’
Gradually Oxana is made presentable, and when both girls have submitted her to a rigorous inspection, the three of them make their way down to breakfast. ‘Cereals over there,’ Georgie says. ‘Tea and coffee over there, and if you want hot food, join the queue.’
When Oxana reaches the cereal table, she discovers that the cornflake packets are empty. At the far end of the dining room a tough-looking young woman has a packet under her arm, and as Oxana watches, she sits down and heaps cornflakes into her own bowl. Crossing the room, Oxana draws herself up beside her. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘May I have some of those.’
The student frowns. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Not yet.’