Lifting | ONC 2024

The coach house still smells of Chinese food when I wake up, greasy and salty. There is a half-finished bag of prawn crackers on the table. I don't need to try one to know that they will have gone soft overnight.

Nathan is in the kitchenette, it is the sound of him rummaging in cupboards and putting dishes away that wakes me. It is like he is deliberately being loud, but when he notices that I am up, he starts making even more noise than before. He picks up a bottle filled with milk, powder, and a silver ball, and shakes it vigorously as he talks to me.

"Morning, Step-Hannie. You sleep okay?"

I slept as well as I ever sleep. My dreams followed me to Nathan's sofa, my constant nightly companion. Red lights, shattered glass, a lifeless Becca, blood on my hands. I could tell Nathan about the nightmares that still won't go away — that I doubt will ever go away — but it is easier to smile and nod. So, I smile and nod.

"Like a log." Like a log that is still haunted by its memories of the saw that cut it from its tree.

"Glad to hear it," says Nathan. "I spent my first paycheck on that sofa. I'd be disappointed if it wasn't good to sleep on."

He is still shaking his drink. It is turning a dirtier shade of brown with each passing second, and the metal ball clacks with each movement of the bottle. I have seen bartenders in cocktail bars make less fuss over mixing drinks, not that I have been to many bars since the night of the crash.

"Do you have to make such a racket with that?" I ask, my voice loud over the din.

"It's a protein shake, you have to shake it." Nathan raises his eyebrows. "Shaken, not stirred, remember?"

I roll my eyes. "Hilarious. How many times have you made that joke before?"

"Oh, hundreds. You want one? Help you get big strong legs for cycling."

"No, thanks. I still haven't got myself another bike."

"Why would you, when you could just keep on bumming lifts with me, you freeloader?" Nathan grins at me over the top of his shake, which he has finally stopped shaking. He takes a sip of it and makes a satisfied humming noise. I wrinkle my nose at the colour of the drink. "Talking of which, are you working today?"

"Sadly, yes."

"Great! Feel free to use the bathroom and let me know as soon as you're ready to go."

There is something in the way he talks with the bubbling enthusiasm of a naughty schoolboy and the secretive smile on his face that makes me suspicious.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're up to something?" I ask as I make my way across to the bathroom. Nathan shrugs nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly.

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not," he says.

He definitely is up to something, then. I double check that the bathroom door is securely locked when I step inside, and look around it carefully. There is no cellophane over the toilet, no signs that the shower head has been tampered with. I am safe, for now at least.

With no idea what he is planning on doing or when, I am on edge as we leave his house, as he locks his front door, and we approach his car. It is then that he turns to me and tells me, "Close your eyes."

I laugh in his face. "Absolutely not."

"You mean, you don't trust me?"

"Not when your face looks like that, I don't."

"Brutal. Steph, I swear, it's nothing bad."

Nathan uses his forefinger to draw a cross in the air over his heart. I sigh, and with one last sceptical glance at him, close my eyes. He takes my hand in his own and turns it palm up before pressing something into it. My heart sinks. I know what the item is without needing to look.

"No," I say, and I try to push his car keys back at him. He steps away from me, grinning. I don't smile back. "No, Nathan. I'm being serious."

"So am I."

I know he is, but that doesn't help. I shake my head. "Nathan, I can't."

"Why not? You did a great job in the car park."

"That was different."

"Hardly. You'll be fine. It's just up to the trading estate," Nathan tells me. "You know you want—"

"I really don't want to."

I'm being honest. The other night, the car was tempting me. Today, all I feel when I look at it is my blood running cold. Nathan isn't ready to drop it.

"Steph, you can do it."

"No, I can't."

"But—"

"I said I can't, Nathan!" My voice is shrill, tears are stinging my eyes. My hand is shaking so hard I struggle to keep hold of the keys. "I really, really can't."

"Why not?"

I take a deep breath. I'm going to have to tell him the truth. I owe him the truth.

"Because," I say, "I'm not allowed to drive anymore."

Nathan's eyebrows furrow. Is he really going to make me spell it out for him? I can hardly meet his eyes as I say it more plainly:

"I was the drunk driver that night."