This is day 18 of @mydivathings's #365daysofwriting challenge. Every day she invites you to write a short story based on the image she chooses. Today's image (below) is a Photo by taylor hernandez on Unsplash
Find out more about the challenge (you can join anytime!) here @mydivathings/day-18-365-days-of-writing-challenge
This story is part three of a longer story. You can read this part as a standalone piece or you can read part one here: @felt.buzz/reunion-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge and part two here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-2-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
Al was in France when Justin had The Accident.
It was August and his girlfriend’s family had invited him to their ‘little place’ in the south of France for a couple of weeks. He had been seeing Amy for about four months - they had hooked up just before Al turned 17 - and, at the time, he thought he was in love.
The ‘little place’ turned out to be huge: a villa three times the size of the pokey little council house that Al lived in with Mamie and Justin. Mitch had moved out the year before, flat sharing - squatting - with some long haired student types he had been hanging out with for a while. Mamie had said they were no good, drug dealers she said, a bad influence. Al thought they were nice enough. Nicer than Mitch, anyway. If anyone was a bad influence it was Mitch - by this time he had a record. Minor stuff, but a criminal record, nonetheless. It all blew up, one day, when Mamie came home early from work, and found them all smoking dope in the Front Room. The Front Room was never used, not really. It was for best, for special occasions: visitors from Out Of Town and birthdays. Mamie lost her rag and told Mitch to get out!. And take your friends with you! They're not welcome! I’ll not tolerate drugs! Not under my roof! Mitch had said, fine. If they weren’t welcome, neither was he. He had packed his bag and left.
Al wasn’t sorry. He didn't like Mitch, very much these days.
Justin took it badly, though.
The villa, large enough that Amy and Al had their own wing, sat in grounds bigger than the village green, and had a swimming pool and a hot tub. Amy’s mother and father were the cool type of parents, that Al had heard people talk about but never really believed in. Tim and Babs - as they insisted Al call them - didn’t seem to get stressed about anything. You wanna come to France with my daughter? Go ahead, you’re more than welcome, Al. You wanna share a room, share a bed? No problem: just be safe! You’ll find a packet of condoms in the bedside table.
The hot tub was tucked away behind the villa, shaded from the sun, and the view of anyone unless they were going to the tub.. There was even a wind chime that hung on the corner of the villa, that anyone approaching aggravated viciously in order to alert the hot tub occupants of their presence. There was a loose rule that Tim and Babs had the tub in the evenings, it was free for Amy and Al to use all day.
Al and Amy spent a lot of time in that tub.
Al was in love. He hadn’t said it, yet. But he felt it. He could imagine their future selves with their future children in their future house. He would have a good job, he would work hard to provide for his family. He would be there for them.
They were comparing shriveled skin on their hands when the wind chime danced its song of warning. They started guiltily, even though, this time, they weren’t doing anything. They were even wearing appropriate swimwear.
Babs appeared, a worried look wrinkled her face.
“You have a phone call,” she said to Al. “It’s your mother.”
In those days, before mobile phones, when the cost of international calls were prohibitive, certainly to the likes of Mamie Dixon, such a call could only mean one thing: An Emergency.
Al jumped out of the tub, and ran back to the villa. On the other end of the line, his mother was sobbing.
“It’s Justin,” she said, eventually. “He’s been involved in a car accident. Oh, Al, he’s in hospital. He’s in a dreadful state. They don't know if he's going to pull through. And the police are there. They want to talk to him, when he wakes,” another sob. “If he wakes up. They say he stole a car, Al. They say he was involved in a hit and run. What's that? No, I’m not alone. Mitch is here. He's come home. But Al you'd better come. Please come.”
Somehow, even back then, standing there shaking with emotion, water dripping on to the cold tiled floor, Al knew.
Somehow, in some way, Mitch was involved.
...
You can find part 4 here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-4-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge