Okay so — the quarry. Everybody knows this one. Denny Okafor, the summer we were maybe nineteen, bets his brother forty quid he'll dive the deep end at Cressly Quarry, the one they'd fenced off twice. And he does it, comes up laughing, except the part everyone forgets is he'd already broken his wrist that morning falling off Ana's bike.
No, he hadn't broken his wrist. That was the Tuesday before, when he was trying to impress that girl from the bakery, not the morning of the swim. He went in with a bruised rib, sure, Ana's bike slamming into his side, but his arm was fine. You're mixing up the timeline, Nell. And it wasn't forty quid, it was fifty. Denny's brother, Gavin, wouldn't have taken forty. He knows the score. Anyway, the fence wasn't up yet, just the old warning sign rotting in the weeds. We were talking about the silence after he surfaced, remember? That terrible quiet before the cheering started. What were you saying before we got stuck on the details? You almost mentioned something else. Something worse.
Fifty, right, that sounds like Gavin. And yeah — the quiet. I was gonna say what everyone else there swears happened, which is that the quiet lasted way too long, like nobody breathed for it, and somebody's mum started walking toward the edge before Denny even came up laughing.
Anyway forget that part. The bakery girl — was that Priya? I always thought it was her cousin, the one who worked at the counter Tuesdays.
Priya? No, definitely not Priya. Her cousin was the one who worked the till, yeah, but the girl he was trying to impress was Sarah, the one with the red hair who lived on the ridge. Priya was just there selling scones. You're confusing the cousin with the baker, Nell. Sarah was the one who laughed when he crashed the bike into the fence, not Priya. And that silence? That wasn't just "too long," it was like the water held him. I told you, Gavin was the one who started walking toward the edge, not his mum. He had the rope in his hand. Stop mixing up the girl with the counter clerk, it changes the whole dynamic of why Denny jumped.
Rope for what, though — that's the bit that never made sense to me. If Gavin trusted the jump he wouldn't have brought rope down there in the first place. Feels like you're rewriting it so he looks heroic instead of just standing there useless like the rest of us.
And Sarah didn't laugh, she flinched. I remember because Denny went red before he even hit the water, embarrassed, not from the bike — from her face.
He didn't bring the rope to catch him, Nell, he brought it to tie himself up if the water got too deep and he needed to signal. It was a safety measure, not a rescue mission. He wasn't trying to look heroic, he was being paranoid. And Sarah? She didn't flinch. She was looking at her phone, completely bored. That's why he went red. It wasn't embarrassment for her sake, it was just the cold hitting him before he jumped. You're making up a drama that wasn't there. She barely looked up. You're insisting she had this moment of horror, but it was just... silence. Cold water, maybe. You were saying something about the water before, something about the depth being wrong?
Right — the depth. Everybody says it was forty feet 'cause that's what the sign said, but the sign was from years before, before the flooding shifted the whole quarry floor. Someone dropped a plumb line in the spring before and got sixty-two feet, way past what any of us should've been jumping into blind like that, which is maybe why—
Actually never mind. Doesn't matter now. What happened to the rope, did Gavin ever say?
Sixty-two? No, it was fifty-eight, Nell, I told you, we measured it with the fishing line, not a plumb. You're drifting again. And the rope? Gavin didn't say anything about it. He just cut it. That's the part you forget. He took the knife from his pocket, sliced the end off, and let it sink. Said it was dead weight. We were standing there watching it drop, and then Denny surfaced, laughing like an idiot with his wrist supposedly fine. You're obsessed with the depth now, but the rope was the real story. It vanished. Just like Sarah's laugh. You were saying something about the silence right before, something heavy? You trailed off again. What was it?
Just that Gavin never owned a knife that sharp — that's a Swiss army thing he borrowed off his dad and probably still hasn't given back. That's the heavy part. Not the water, not the rope. The fact he's had a stolen knife for what, six years now, and nobody's said anything.
Anyway I'm starving, we still meeting at the place on Renner Street or did that fall through again.
Renner Street? That place closed three years ago, Nell. They demolished it for those flats. We're going to the pub by the station, the one with the broken window you hate. And you're wrong about the knife. Gavin owned that Swiss Army, his dad didn't even know he had it. He stole the box from his dad's drawer, not the knife. You're so focused on the theft that you miss the point: he kept it because Denny never said thank you. Just like you keep forgetting the date. We're meeting in twenty, stop worrying about the knife and get there.
Twenty minutes, fine — but I'm not apologising for the knife thing, I'm right about that even if I've got the box backwards. And it's the broken window pub, not Renner, obviously, I know that, I was just seeing if you'd bite.
Don't order without me. Last time you got the wrong pint and pretended it was mine.
I never pretended, I drank it because you were late and I was thirsty. You'd have done the same. And stop with the knife, it's a red herring. The box was red, the handle silver, you're mixing up the colors again. I'm already inside, the door's open, don't keep me waiting. And if you want to argue about the Swiss Army, do it with the bartender, not me.
Fine, fine — save me a seat near the window, not next to it, near it, last time I got glass in my sleeve for a week off that thing.
Give me ten, not twenty, I'm already halfway down the hill.
Ten? You're lying, you're probably still at the top by the old gasworks. I'm sitting by the window now, so you'll have to squeeze in. Don't make me get up, the glass is still sticky from last time. And if you say "near the window" again, I'll tell everyone you're the one who broke the thing. Get a move on.
Sticky glass, brilliant, that's exactly what I want to sit next to. Fine — near it, then, close enough to blame someone else if it happens again.
I'm past the gasworks actually, cheeky. Five minutes. Don't let Gavin order for me if he shows, last time he got me the thing with the olive in it and I nearly walked out.
Five minutes? You're always past something when you say that. You missed the gasworks by ten minutes. And Gavin won't show, he's working the night shift at the depot. No olive drinks, I promise. Just the usual, something you can actually finish. Stop stalling, the window seat is getting cold. If you're really past the gasworks, you should be here now, not telling me you're five minutes away.
Alright, alright — I'm at the corner now, I can see the broken window from here actually, don't wave, I already see you, stop making that face at me through the glass.
I'm not making a face, I'm just waiting. You're the one who looks like you're about to run again. Come on in, the door's not locked. And don't blame the olive incident on Gavin, he was trying to help. You just hate anything that isn't a pint of lager. I'll order you a glass of water, fresh, not sticky. Hurry up, the rain's starting.
Rain, great, perfect timing. Fine, coming in — but I don't "run", that's Sarah's thing, not mine, don't start putting words in my mouth like Gavin did with the knife story.
Water's fine. Don't gloat about it though.
Sarah ran, you hid. Different things. Don't pretend you weren't the one who ducked behind the dumpster when the cops came for the sign. And I'm not gloating, I'm just ordering water before you get soaked. You're dripping on the floor already, stop acting like a martyr about the rain. Just sit down.
The sign, right, forgot about the sign — that was self-preservation, not hiding, there's a difference. You'd have ducked too if you'd nicked council property at seventeen.
Anyway I'm sitting, stop narrating my dripping, it's embarrassing. Just get the water before I change my mind about the whole olive thing.
It wasn't council property, it was a rusted wire fence. You had no right to nick that either. And you're not dripping, you're leaking. Like a sieve. Stop moving. The water's coming, no olives, no drama. Just drink it before you decide the table is too sticky. You're making a scene just by sitting there.
Sieve, charming. Coming from someone who once cried over a scone, so.
Just give me the water and stop watching me like I'm gonna do something to the table. I'm fine. I'm sitting. Order the actual food menu before Gavin's shift ends and he comes in demanding chips off my plate again.
You didn't cry over a scone, you choked on one. Big difference. And I'm not ordering food yet, I'm waiting for you to stop breathing down my neck about the menu. Gavin won't be here for hours, his shift doesn't end until midnight. He's not gonna steal your chips. Just sit still. The water's here. Drink it. And stop looking at me like I'm the enemy.
Not the enemy, just the one who always orders wrong on purpose to spite me. Fine — water first, chips later, midnight rule for Gavin, noted.
Sitting still. See. This is me being still.
Don't look at me like that either, you've got the same face Sarah had, the bored one, before all that with the quarry.
It's not a bored face, it's just tired. You're seeing ghosts, Nell. Sarah looked bored because she didn't care about the quarry, or the bike, or you. I'm just waiting for you to stop fidgeting. And don't compare me to her. She left town, I'm stuck here with you and the sticky table. Eat the chips when they come, or don't, but stop talking about her face. It's getting dark outside anyway.
Stuck with me and the sticky table, tragic. Fine, dropping Sarah, dropping the quarry, dropping all of it — for now.
Chips when they come. I'll behave. Mostly. You're the one who brought up the water first, remember, don't act like I started this.
I didn't bring up the water, you asked for it. I just didn't argue. And you say "mostly" like that means anything. You'll probably try to eat the chips with your fingers and get grease on the tablecloth again. Stop trying to rewrite history every time we sit down. The chips are coming. Eat them. Don't make me wait for a lecture on etiquette.
Fingers, obviously, how else — nobody uses a fork for chips, that's Gavin's thing, and look what happened to him and the box.
Fine. No lecture. Chips, water, quiet. For once. Though you started the history-rewriting the second you moved the quarry to fifty-eight feet.
Fifty-eight is the measurement, not a rewrite. You're grasping at straws again. And if you use your fingers, don't blame Gavin for the box. He kept it because he's paranoid, not because of forks. Just eat. The waiter's coming. Stop looking at the door like it's about to swallow us whole.