The odd guy who killed Tara in the local lake

Did you hear some guy held his girlfriend’s head underwater, and they cuffed him up as soon as he came out the lake? It happened over there by the gooseberries. They found her all bloated face-down in the reeds.

I pull my toes out of the water. Great way to start a date, Tara, I say. I swear to God. Every time.

What? The weed? And she licks the paper and plucks out strands of tobacco at the tip.

Hello Tara, extraordinaire. She can read words backwards and play bass forwards and upside down and warp time. Once she told everyone she ran a four-minute mile in her underwear because her flatmate Josh asked her to. Last week, she told me if she focused hard enough she could read minds. She didn’t fail exams: she was cheated of them. She remembers the future.

Tara shuffles her legs into a cross and chuckles. She rolls her head into my shoulder and passes her joint.

What? I’m just saying. It’s a cool fact. It’s history, like weed, like Egypt, innit?

So what was her name? The girl?

Tara leans back on her elbows and squishes her eyes. She exhales a long puff of air. Heather?

You don’t know, do you? History. You know Cleopatra’s name, but you don’t know the name of the girl who got killed here.

My mind is too clouded here, Tara says. Must be the girl’s spirit.

Oh bullshit.

I heard he was as calm as a cow when they got him. I think he used to be a singer in a band, back when that was cool. You know, with the skinny ripped jeans and spiky hair?

I splutter out smoke and Tara whacks me on the back. As my vision goes blurry, I see mist on the water that spirals upwards the way a bird shoots up into the sky.

Imagine thinking you’re cool because of the shape of your hair, I say.

Hey hey Tara, extraordinaire, who only hangs out with boys because girls are boring, but she hates how big her tits got when she turned fourteen and Suzie Yeller from fourth year threw water on her top and only the girls took photos with their phones.

Deeper into the woods, the weed hits enough to choke on my lips, and I think of eggs, and Tara takes my arm and points out all the genders of the trees. She says, I like this one! I’ll call it Wilf.

She runs her fingers along Wilf’s branch. Wilf is an ancient oak, she says. We should be proud. Go on, touch him.

I touch Wilf, and Tara says, I think that guy really loved his girlfriend. I think it was a crime of passion. Without passion, what’s the point?

What a date, I say.

Tara says, I like it too! Maybe next time we do this, you can wear something nicer. I think goth would suit you, don’t you? I can’t wait to see you in makeup.

Hi Tara, extraordinaire, who took two weeks off school after she cut her wrists deep enough to stain the classroom carpets and Mrs Cavendish called an ambulance because the school nurse heard the news and fled to the pub. When Tara came back, everyone told her she did it in the wrong direction. Tara told them, I know. I meant to do it this way.

In her short sleeves with her ancient oak tattoo covering the opening where all the blood dripped on Mrs Cavendish’s sociology class floor. She points to the scar and says, Look, it’s the same tree. It means a lot to me. Do you like it? How big are these woods? I ask. I feel we’ve walked miles. Are they different trees?

Tara says, I had this dream of you last night. You and I were in a fantasy land, but not the fairy woods or the mountains. We were slugging through the marshes and waist-deep in alligator-infested waters. Did you know it’s alligators in Louisiana, not crocodiles?

Sure.

Anyway, there we were, and in my dream I was leading. We both held candles as if they’d light the way. Somewhere down the line, I took a wrong turn but you grabbed my arm, and we found dry land. Afterwards we had tavern whisky in the local village, and my face went all large and puffy like a grape from Willy Wonka. Someone cast a spell on me! But everyone in the tavern laughed instead of helping, but you were there and I didn’t feel so wretched. In my dream, I said “Confound it! I feel wretched!” like those people did. It’s funny, right?

I sigh. Are we here because of a dream?

Of course not. We’re here because I like you and you like me, and it’s such a pretty forest filled with ancient oaks. I don’t worry about alligators or goblins or anything, because you’re with me.

I say nothing, and Tara says, I’ve had other dreams too, you know? One time I became the air, and my soul turned light blue, as if I shed all the weight on my back.

Goodbye Tara, extraordinaire. I wasn’t in the tavern with you, I don’t think I ever was.

Tara, Tara, Tara, I remember she could play the bass backwards and loved trees and dreamt of being rescued from a swamp by somebody she hardly knew. I remember her name, and I think of her reading minds, running a four-minute mile in her underwear or playing bass upside down, or backwards, however she did it.

Two months after I broke up with her, she fell in with her old childhood friend the indie singer, whose band played at small-town pubs. She followed him around and she took him out to the lake as well.