Heatstroke: an intoxicating story of obsession over one hot summer Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Hazel Barkworth

  The right of Hazel Barkworth to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Headline Review

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  First published as an Ebook in 2020 by Headline Review

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Extract from ‘Mirror’ from Collected Poems

  © Estate of Sylvia Plath and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may

  only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means,

  with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of

  reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences

  issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard to reproducing

  copyright material. The author and publisher will be glad to rectify

  any omissions at the earliest opportunity.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 4722 6563 0

  Cover design by Yeti Lambregts

  Cover images © Tara Moore Getty Images (girl on bed)

  and Maxim Kostenko/Shutterstock (window)

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  About the Book

  The summer burns with secrets . . .

  It is too hot to sleep. To work. To be questioned time and again by the police.

  At the beginning of a stifling, sultry summer, everything shifts irrevocably when Lily doesn’t come home one afternoon.

  Rachel is Lily’s teacher. Her daughter Mia is Lily’s best friend. The girls are fifteen – almost women, still children.

  As Rachel becomes increasingly fixated on Lily’s absence, she finds herself breaking fragile trusts and confronting impossible choices she never thought she’d face.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

  About the Author

  Hazel grew up in Stirlingshire and North Yorkshire before studying English at Oxford. She then moved to London where she spent her days working as a cultural consultant, and her nights dancing in a pop band at glam rock clubs. Hazel is a graduate of both the Oxford University MSt in Creative Writing and the Curtis Brown Creative Novel-Writing course. She now works in Oxford, where she lives with her partner. Heatstroke is her first novel.

  @BarkworthHazel

  @hazelbarkworth

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Acknowledgements

  Reading Group Questions

  Heatstroke Spotify Playlist

  For Paul

  ‘It’s always been, so it’s no surprise.’

  ‘Cola’, Lana Del Rey

  ‘I am important to her. She comes and goes.’

  ‘Mirror’, Sylvia Plath

  1

  Languid. The word that formed in Rachel’s mind was languid. The figure on the lawn was languid. Its limbs were loose, its joints fluid. Its hands and feet seemed too heavy for the bones that held them. It was draped over the sun lounger, dripping from its edges. Not a single muscle seemed tensed. Rachel knew she was staring.

  The sun was so high that everything in the garden was bleached. The grass was brittle and the patio slabs blinding white. Rachel’s feet were cool against the kitchen tiles and it felt indulgent. It had been too hot for days but was only mid-June; there were still five weeks until the school holidays began. The temperature had crept into the high twenties every afternoon, and Rachel had woken tangled in the sheets every morning.

  She stood at the sink, squeaking a dishcloth into mugs. One by one, she rubbed the stains from their nooks then placed them on the draining rack. The outside brightness made the inside gloomy. She leaned forward, her eyes never leaving the torpid figure. Even this close to the window, Rachel was still in the shade. There was no way she could be visible from the garden.

  A towel made the lounger soft. Rachel had owned that beach towel for eighteen years. She remembered buying it in a Cornish surf shack she’d felt too hip for. It bore a now-faded dreamscape, a technicolour sunset with Aloha Hawaii scrawled in pink. The towel was three years older than the body that lay on it. There she was, in her lime-green bikini. Her head tilted so her metre of hair waterfalled over the side of the lounger. Her drink was only an arm’s length away, but she moved so slowly it seemed to take enormous effort. Just reaching down to the grass was apparently enough to exhaust her.

  As Mia settled back, the left strap of her bikini top fell from her shoulder. There was a shock of white where the material had been. The rest of her was slick with lotion, but turning a warm pink that would blossom to brown. She was baking her body perfectly. She stretched to her full length; the wingspan that seemed impossible, the bubble-gum painted toenails. Her eyes would be closed behind those plastic sunglasses. She arched her back, forcing her breasts upwards, pouting as if she was being photographed.

  Rachel stepped further back into the dusk of the kitchen. The window would form a mirror in the sunlight. Mia slouched back again. Supine on that towel, nothing could be troubling her. There were no hairs on her legs, not even little golden ones that might glint on her thighs. Not a single bristle would snag any palm that stroked them.

  Rachel found her eyes lingering on the shadow where those green bikini bottoms met the skin. It was just as smooth there. Rachel wondered what blade or wax or lotion had removed the hair. Had Mia holed herself up in the bathroom and waited whilst noxious cream burned every follicle away? Had she held the skin taut and dragged a razor against the grain? Had she booked an appointment to have it ripped out of her? Rachel wanted to know who it was designed to impress. Who else did Mia expect to see that patch of flesh? Rachel longed to hold that body she’d known so well. The clavicle she’d kissed so often. The ribs she’d once xylophoned.

  Mia lifted an arm to swat something from her thigh, some insect or pollen spore, some floating dandelion seed that had dared to tickle her. Rachel worried it was instead her own gaze made solid. She worried her daughter knew she was watching.

  The stillness didn’t last long. As the sun began to ease, the house began to fill and, by six, the kitchen was crammed with teenage bodies. Mia was playing hostess. Three girls arrived, laden down with sleeping bags and backpacks. Between them, there could only possibly be eight arms, but they flailed into every corner. It was incredible they didn’t cause damage. The pizzas Rachel had bought were wolfed straight from the oven.

  ‘I’m such a cow.’ Ella
’s voice rose above the others.

  Keira deepened hers. ‘Ah, la vache!’

  ‘Accurate.’ As perfect as their eyeliner flicks were, as dainty as their ankles might be, the girls ate like boys – folding slices, dipping them in ketchup, then gulping them down in seconds, standing up.

  Rachel hung back, eager not to look eager. They all knew her from school. She’d taught half of them, and wanted to avoid anything that might smack of desperation. She kept her greeting swift.

  ‘Evening, ladies.’ A curt nod in their direction, then she lingered in the garden – tilting her head backwards, pretending to relish the early-evening sun, miming the bliss of it seeping into her skin – and let them colonise the living room. They’d scoured Netflix and chosen a film that had been popular when Rachel was only a few years older than they were now.

  ‘Shut up. He’s totally cute. He is!’ To hear them watch it felt like mockery. Teenage laughter crescendoed into hysteria so easily; that wracking wheeze. Don’t, don’t. To them, it could only be ironic to lust after that stubbled actor, to crave those clothes, those hairstyles. How Rachel had coveted Winona’s full-length floral dress, her clumpy Mary Janes. She’d never tell them to quell that laughter. In a year’s time, they’d be deep in the mire of their GCSEs, and this lightness would be a memory.

  Rachel’s hands itched to open the bags of popcorn she knew were in the cupboard. She could pour them into pastel plastic bowls, then perch on the arm of the sofa, chipping into the edges of their conversation. She resisted. Methodically, she tidied the carnage of the kitchen – rinsing plates for the dishwasher, folding the pizza boxes into neat piles for recycling. She was grateful for the plausible occupation. Afterwards, she settled at the kitchen table with the few remaining slices, nibbling the crusts as she worked through a ream of marking, leaving greasy fingerprints down the margins of essays. She was used to eating alone, but leaned upon the companionship of work. The girls were on their feet now, dancing to a song from the film. The living-room door was open, and she could see them wiggle their heads in pastiche as they sang. Running down the length of my thigh, Sharona. They stumbled over the lyrics of a song they’d never heard before, rewinding to shriek it again.

  The girls had risen early. All four of them had showered, dressed and left to catch the bus before Rachel ventured downstairs. Mia had sent a text rather than call out her goodbye. Gone to town, back by four-ish. Then the emoji of a steaming coffee cup. There were too few words to interrogate.

  After the thrilling whispers that had punctuated the night, the house felt hollow. Rachel poured a cup of tea. They’d be in Starbucks by now, cooled by the air-conditioner breeze, each making a Frappuccino last for two hours. They’d be squealing at the slightest quip, posing in case boys they knew walked by, still young enough to glean sophistication from their drink’s Italianate name. They’d be sipping at their green straws, tasting a coffee with no hint of bitterness.

  Rachel wandered back upstairs. Mia’s usually immaculate bedroom was in disarray. Three sleeping bags still crosshatched the floor. Their sleepovers were usually for five. It was rare to see the group divided, but Lily hadn’t been able to make this one, cancelling at the last minute. Rachel assumed only illness could keep them apart. The bedding swallowed up every nook of the room. When Rachel lay down, Mia’s duvet was still warm, even warmer than the air. She nuzzled her face into the pillow, wriggled her limbs right down, soaking up the heat that had been left. If she placed her head on the dent where Mia’s head had been, she wondered if she would hear the thoughts that had formed there.

  Rachel inhaled, trying to catch anything of the remaining scent, but there was no human smell there, no sweat or spit, just the synthetic honey they all loved so much. Those girls were like hummingbirds; they had to swallow twice their body weight in sugar every day just to survive. Their tongues must be thick with glucose. They sipped Diet Coke every second they were allowed to, popped Haribo, sprayed perfume that smelled of an opened sweet jar. Rachel breathed it all in. It made her light-headed, dizzy with that vanilla.

  Rachel wanted to open the window, to shake their crumpled sleeping bags until they were crisp and clean, but she moved nothing. The five girls had formed a tight circle before they started school. They’d already clocked up a decade of fierce loyalty. Whatever sticky truths they’d breathed into that ether were safe.

  The mornings were a brief respite from the heat, but Rachel was too late. The sun had already hit the exact angle that flooded the back of the house, turning the kitchen into a greenhouse and thickening the air. The stack of essays wouldn’t diminish by itself, but Rachel couldn’t settle. She couldn’t bring herself to sit down in the blazing light and work through them. Tea was too hot to drink, ice cubes vanished before they could be any use, and her phone was silent. Rachel composed messages, trailing her fingers over the screen, letting the technology predict her words, but never pressed send.

  She hadn’t arranged to see anyone, and the sun was too bright to contend with. There was no other pulse in the house, and her breaths were all that stirred the air. That black slab was her only portal. Rachel toyed with it, passing it from hand to hand, coaxing it to bleat. The tiny green light would change everything. But Tim wouldn’t call. She could fathom the time difference without arithmetic now. She didn’t even need to check the digits. He would still be asleep.

  The telephone rang at exactly two. Rachel was cross-legged on a kitchen chair, a slice of avocado inches from her lips. The shrill ring made her start. Not her mobile, but the landline that lay dormant in the hallway. She didn’t want to answer, but the bleats were so demanding. The receiver felt alien in her hands, heavy, and seemed to require a different sort of greeting. Hello, Rachel Collins speaking. It was Lily’s mother, Debbie.

  She’d never called the house before. She had Rachel’s mobile number, her email address – they were linked through a WhatsApp group of mums – but she’d chosen the landline. The number must have lived in an address book, a floral Christmas gift from years ago.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Rach. I just wanted to check that Lily was still there.’

  ‘Lily? No . . .’

  Debbie’s voice cut her off, her tone too bright for the shadowy hallway. ‘She said she’d be home a few hours ago, but I know how these things can be. I wondered if she maybe needed a lift, or something.’

  The words were out before Rachel considered how to form them. ‘No, Debs, Lily couldn’t make it. I thought she was with you.’ The syllables hung in the air, sounding stupid at first, then – as the silence ticked into full seconds – horrifying.

  Rachel could hear Debbie swallow on the other end of the line. ‘No. No, she walked round yesterday afternoon. She said she’d be home in time for lunch today.’

  Rachel knew she should say something, but her mouth jarred. She was caught in a spasm. It would fade. In a few seconds it would fade; they’d realise their silly mistake and get on with their day with just the memory of that shudder to haunt them. It happened all the time when you were a mother. Facts got mixed, confused, terrifying. It never lasted.

  Before Rachel could exhale, Debbie made a small noise. A hiccup. A yelp. Then a gush of words. ‘I’ve been trying her phone for the last few hours, but it keeps going to voicemail, I thought it had probably just run out of charge, she never remembers to plug it in and they have such short battery lives, don’t they? I was going to try Mia, but I didn’t want to seem like I was nagging. I’ve left Lily messages, but she hasn’t got back to me yet. I’m not really sure what to do.’ The last words trailed off.

  Rachel grabbed her own mobile. ‘Mia will know. Mia’ll know where she is, Debs.’ Her numb fingers were somehow able to unlock the phone, to manipulate its digits. It seemed wilfully capricious. That was why Debbie had chosen the landline. Mobiles were tricksy; always at risk of being lost, silenced, ignored. If the robot voice spoke instead of the person you wanted, you
could draw no conclusion. It could be out of range, drained of energy. Rachel’s thumb dialled Mia’s number. It only took a few swipes; her daughter was nearly at the top of her favourites list.

  The metallic ring pulsed, the seconds between each burst stretching longer and longer. Debbie was silent on the end of the landline. Rachel held both receivers to her ears, clumsy and ridiculous. Their weight doubled, tripled, straining her wrists. Mia answered after five rings, achingly long given her phone was never more than an inch from her hand. Her voice was thick with irony. She’d seen the caller ID; she was playing to the audience around her, poutingly put out at the interruption.

  ‘Hey, Mother. What is it?’

  Rachel slid the untouched rump of avocado into the mouth of the Brabantia bin. There was nothing else to do. Mia was being dropped home by Keira’s dad. There was no use in all the parents driving to town to pick them up. They’d be better off together. They’d be scared. Mia would be home in twenty minutes, twenty-five at the very most. Rachel wiped the kitchen surface with a dishcloth, then wrung it out under the tap, wrenching so hard her fingers turned red, then white. The tap was streaked, blotchy with the dull breath of limescale. Only bleach would lift it. There was a bottle in the cupboard beneath the sink, and Rachel poured a viscous line down the stainless steel. Her eyes watered, but she left it to work its enchantment, to make the silver pure again.

  The gleaming taps cast the rest of the kitchen into relief. How could she have ignored the watermarks on the hob, the sticky patches and drips on the cupboard doors where they’d been careless? Rachel began to scrub. Lily would call home soon. This awful hour would become the stuff of stories. Lily was probably with a boy, some smarmy twat in the year above who had persuaded her to go to a party. She might be feeling worse for wear, but nothing a long bath and a Nurofen wouldn’t sort out. Teenagers could be like this. No one ever said otherwise.

  Rachel scrubbed the wooden units with a sponge scourer, digging her fingers into the forest-green bristles, feeling them force their way under her fingernails. Mia would be home soon. Inside, safe from anything that might snatch or lure her away. Rachel scrubbed hard, pushing down into the grain, into the pebble pattern of the kitchen surfaces. Once they were clean, she scrubbed the grey slabs of the kitchen floor, the ones she and Tim had chosen when they’d moved in. They were the first owners; they’d selected the shade of every carpet, every detail of the finishings. Mia had hardly known any other kitchen floor.