Black Diamond. Havana Adams

      “Whatever you’re going to do, don’t do it. Please.” That last word stilled Lola for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of the boy that had trailed around after her one long, hot summer.

      “Lucas, stop trying to be my guard dog.”

      “I owe you, remember?”

      “You don’t owe me anything,” Lola answered as she slammed into her car and sped out of the driveway.

      “Southern Comfort, no ice.”

      The barman stared at Lola for a moment and then shrugged, pouring out a measure of the golden-brown liquid into a glass. He set the glass down in front of her, lining it up alongside the growing number of empties in front of her.

      “Are you OK?” he asked.

      Lola downed the drink in one and smacked the glass down on the oak bar.

      “Another,” she said.

      “I can’t. Should I call someone to come get you?”

      “Another!” Lola demanded, spitting the words uncaring that she was slurring, her eyes bloodshot, her hair a tangled mess.

      “I’m cutting you off,” the barman snapped, finally losing patience. He watched as Lola stumbled off the bar stool onto her feet. She swayed for a moment and he wondered if he would have to leap over the bar to stop her crashing to the floor.

      “Do you know who I am?” Lola demanded. “Another,” she snapped and she punctuated her demand by slamming her glass back down onto the bar, where it immediately shattered. At the smash of glass, Lola saw that two security guards were already descending on them. “Fuck you then,” she snapped and made for the exit.

      Lola slammed out into the cool night air. Her fingers shaking, she drew her keys out of her purse and prowled up the road.

      “Hey, you can’t drive,” The barman had followed her outside but Lola shook away the words as she saw her Porsche Boxster. “Hey,” the voice said again. “I’m calling the cops.” But Lola had already jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. For a moment she sat and let her head fall back against the headrest. She felt as though she was on the deck of a boat, on choppy water, rocking from side to side. Lola reached for her cell phone and keyed in her mother’s number.

      “I’m not here. Leave a message.”

      She wasn’t surprised when Scarlet’s voicemail clicked in. Scarlet never answered her cell, not even for her own daughter.

      “You paid NYU, you paid them. This was my thing and you had to fuck it up. Everything you touch turns to shit for me. Maybe you should have left me in that fucking orphanage, maybe you should have left me there to rot. You should have sent me back there when you got bored with me.”

      Lola threw the phone over her shoulder into the backseat and then she gunned the engine on. She slammed her foot down on the gas, barely acknowledging the screech of tyres as she pulled sharply into the road and cut in front of another car. Lola gripped the steering wheel and pushed down on the gas pedal, floored it, shooting down Santa Monica Boulevard like a speeding silver bullet. She was already past the red light when she noticed it. Her reactions, dulled by the alcohol, kicked in way too slow to make a difference.

      The bus seemed to come out of nowhere. Lola spun the steering wheel as she tried in vain to avoid the collision. She locked the wheel all the way left but suddenly she was out of control. She slammed into the central reservation. The car spun round and round. The Boxster flipped. Lola heard a scream that she realised was her and still the car was spinning and spinning and then coming to a halt, with a screech of metal in the middle of the road. Suddenly, Lola could see another set of headlights, another car heading straight for her. She was dead in the water as these white lights gained on her. She raised her arms up in front of her as though somehow this might save her from the imminent collision. And then, in a smash, she was thrown again, the Boxster was thrown up and she was airborne, hurtling towards she knew not what and then finally there was oblivion.

       CHAPTER 2

      Grace slammed into wakefulness with a sharp gasp.

      For a long moment she stared into the darkened room, the only sound her own rapid, shallow breaths. Her legs were tangled up in the sheets and after a moment she realised that her arms were raised up in front of her as though to ward off an onslaught. An onslaught from what, Grace wondered. She reached over to the bedside table and flicked the lamp on, bathing the room in a dull orange glow. Her room was a small rectangular shape and if she stood in the middle of the room and stretched her arms out either side of her, she could easily touch both walls. Along one wall her bed rested and on the opposite wall her desk with a neat pile of books and notebooks. Grace stared at the peeling floral wallpaper and once again wished she was allowed to cover them with posters, flyers, pictures, anything, but The Pastor didn’t permit anything like that. Once, she had placed a Boyz II Men band poster up on the wall but the slap she had received had quickly quelled any further thoughts of rebellion. The only decoration on her wall was a framed illustration of the Baby Jesus that The Pastor himself had nailed into the wall.

      Slowly, Grace lowered herself back onto the bed and stared up at the peeling paint and lines of damp on the ceiling. Her mind returned to the dream that had woken her up, but as was always the case, she could remember nothing. All that lingered was the same sense of anxiety and confusion that accompanied so many of her dreams. At least this time she hadn’t screamed. The nightmares were not new. For as long as she could remember, Grace had had trouble sleeping. She often woke panicked and in fear, with a bewildering conviction that somehow she had woken up in the wrong place. Grace glanced at the small clock-face beside her bed: 6 a.m. It was New Year’s Eve. She sighed and swung herself out of bed.

      Grace walked to her wardrobe and swung the door open to reveal a full-length mirror inside one of the doors. She stared at her reflection and a deep sigh rose in her chest. It was New Year’s Eve and she was eighteen years old and yet she wouldn’t be going out tonight, wouldn’t be ringing in the New Year with her friends. A ball of anger rose in her chest and she blinked back tears. A friend from school had got them tickets to an under-21s club event that night. For once, Grace had dared to hope, dared to dream that perhaps The Pastor might relent or maybe just for once her mother might champion her cause. The Pastor had glanced at the ticket and with a sneer he had ripped it cleanly in half and dumped the pieces in the dustbin. Grace knew she was lucky to have escaped with just the harsh look he had thrown her way.

      Grace turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror and a small angry snort of laughter burst from her. What was she thinking? Of course she wasn’t going out on New Year’s Eve. Look at you. Grace stared at her short Afro hair that had been shorn close to her head, when The Pastor had decreed that hairdressers’ costs were too high and that she had become vain with her love of her thick, loosely curled natural hair. Grace’s gaze travelled down her body and she felt a swell of despair rise in her. There was no other way to put it. She was fat. Not curvy or sassy. She had no discernible waist, her tummy jutted out like a pregnancy bump and her thighs rubbed uncomfortably together whenever she walked. She belonged at home, where no one would see how hideous she was. Grace’s eyes drifted up to her face. Her eyes had always been her best feature – an unexpected hazel colour that lit up her round brown face, and if not for the thick-lensed glasses that almost completely hid them, they might have drawn attention away from her spotty skin. Grace stepped away from the mirror and slammed the wardrobe door shut. Her eyes slid once again to the clock. It was almost time for church and in The Pastor’s house, no one was ever late for service.

      “You must give back to your community in any way you can. You must give back to your fellow man and woman. You must give to your Pastor. Give to your church.” With every phrase The Pastor uttered, the congregation nodded and the sound of their “Amens” filled the hall. From her seat at the back of the church, next to her mother, Grace watched as the collection baskets were passed around and the congregation dipped into their pockets and purses, quickly