Shatter

13

There are girls playing hockey on the field. Blue-pleated skirts swirl and dip against muddy knees, pigtails bounce and sticks clack together. The word budding comes to mind. I have always liked how it sounds. It reminds me of my childhood and the girls I wanted to fuck.

The sports mistress is refereeing, her voice as shrill as a whistle. She yells at them not to bunch up and to pass and to run.

‘Do keep up, Alice. Get involved.’

I know of some of the girls’ names. Louise has the long brown hair, Shelly the sunshine smile and poor Alice hasn’t hit the ball once since the game began.

A group of adolescent boys are watching from beneath a yew tree. They are sizing up the girls and poking fun at them.

Every time I look at the girls I imagine my Chloe. She’s younger. Six now. I missed her last birthday. She’s good at ball games. She could catch by the time she was four.

I built her a basketball hoop. It was lower than regulation height so she could reach. We used to go one-on-one and I always let her win. In the beginning she could hardly sink a basket but as she grew stronger and her aim improved, she landed maybe two shots in every three.

The hockey game is over. The girls are running indoors to change. Shelly with the sunshine smile runs across to flirt with the boys and is shepherded away by the sports mistress.

I squeeze my fingers around a chalky stone and begin scratching letters on the stone capping on the wall. The powder sinks deep into the cracks. I trace the letters again.

CHLOE

I draw a heart around the name, punctured by a cupid’s arrow with a triangular point and a splayed tail. Then I close my eyes and make a wish, willing it to be so.

My eyelids flutter open. I blink twice. The sports mistress is there, holding a hockey stick over her shoulder with the colourful towelling grip squeezed in her fist.

Her lips part: ‘Get lost, creep- or I’ll call the police!’