Losing Juliet: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming. June Taylor

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       CHAPTER 2

      Bristol: 1988

      The first lecture, French Literature in the twentieth century, was not until eleven o’clock. But Chrissy’s nerves were not prepared to wait and she set off much earlier than was necessary. New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ was thumping out from across the corridor as she stepped out of her room. She had no idea who lived there, or anywhere else on her floor for that matter.

      The School of Modern Languages was housed in a series of grand old Victorian villas along Woodland Road. At nine thirty, she left her halls, Cliff Lawn Halls of Residence, down the hill, but with so much time to spare she decided to meander first. The sponge covers of her Walkman had been lost, causing the plastic to nip into her ears, but The Smiths was the perfect soundtrack for her mood.

      A dense fog lingered in the air, giving the streets of Clifton an eerie feel. The way it clung to her was like a damp cloak, even entering her nostrils as she reflected on why she hadn’t yet clicked with anyone when she had been here for almost a fortnight. It wasn’t due to a lack of trying on her part. During Freshers’ Week she had joined the Film Soc, French Soc, been to Happy Hours with people on stage giving blowjobs to hotdogs, and drinking a yard of ale in their underwear. She had even forced herself to do the three-legged bar crawl and that hadn’t yielded anything either. To make matters worse, she had woken up this morning paralyzed by fear, convinced that all the other students on her course would have been to better schools and read far more books. Plus, that she had been given someone else’s A-level results by mistake and had no right to be here in the first place.

      Dan assured her it was still early days and things would get better once lectures had begun. Speaking to him daily on the payphone downstairs she assured him she wouldn’t call so often once she had found a bunch of people to hang out with. Looking around her now as the tiered rows curving round the lecture theatre filled up and the noise level reached an almost deafening crescendo, she was not so sure she ever would. Everyone else was in full-flow conversation; she was the only person sitting on her own.

      How many times could she lace up her Docs? Rub at the coffee stain on her stonewashed jeans? Or keep going over the date she had written in the top right-hand corner of her A4 notepad: ruled narrow feint and margin? The coffee stain was still wet and she could see her leg, red and sore, through the rip in her jeans. She had gone into the common room just before the lecture in the hope of meeting a few people off her course, but had to settle for the vending machine’s buzzing and clanking for company as it squirted a dirty brown liquid into a polystyrene cup. Then, whilst she was pretending to read the noticeboard someone had bumped into her without realizing she was even there. And no apology for causing her to tip hot coffee down herself either.

      It was a relief when the lecturer walked in. The place fell immediately silent as a small, rotund man with a long beard, tweed jacket and yellow cravat, placed his notes on the lectern, sweeping his eyes over each student, already weeding out the Firsts from the Fails.

      ‘What is existentialism?’ his voice boomed round the lecture theatre. ‘Who wants to have a shot?’

      There was no other hand up, only hers. Suddenly sixty pairs of eyes were upon her and she flushed, feeling like a swot. A phoney swot at that because no words were coming out. On the verge of putting her hand back down, she suddenly remembered something she had read.

      ‘A view of the world in which man is condemned to a life of freedom and has the full burden of responsibility?’

      She felt her cheeks catch fire.

      ‘Meaning?’ said the lecturer.

      Meaning? That was good enough, surely.

      ‘Erm, well, meaning that he can’t hide behind God or science but he makes his own choices about absolutely everything. Even under pressure, in a split second. I think.’

      A commotion at the back of the lecture theatre, a latecomer, made everyone turn round. The lecturer was annoyed, it broke his flow, but then his face melted. Suddenly this student was the most important person in the whole room. Chrissy couldn’t help noticing this girl’s je ne sais quoi factor either, but she was furious with her for stealing her moment.

      Most people would have settled on the first gap they came to at the end of a row, keen to end their embarrassment, but this girl had people moving bags, A4 files, coats, legs, arms, to let her through. And to Chrissy’s horror she was making for the centre of the middle row where there was an empty seat next to hers. Chrissy looked helplessly at the lecturer, feeling herself flush again, as though this was all her fault. The girl flipped down the seat and held out her hand, refusing to sit down until Chrissy had shaken it.

      ‘Juliet,’ she whispered, as she settled down at last.

      Chrissy tried to ignore her as the lecturer resumed. She didn’t want him to think they СКАЧАТЬ