The Eternal Return of Clara Hart , livre ebook

Little Island Books - Louise Finch

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123 pages

English

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You’re caught in a time loop and there’s only one way out. You have to call out your best friend.

Spence hates Anthony’s sexist jokes, but he never says anything. Anthony’s his buddy, and Spence doesn’t have many. One Friday, Spence finds Anthony assaulting their classmate, Clara Hart, at a party. Clara flees from the house, is hit by a car, and dies. But the next day, it’s Friday again and Clara is alive. Caught in a time-loop, Spence finds himself living the same 24 hours on repeat. Can he change Clara’s fate? And what if it’s not that simple?

There’s a body at my feet again.

The sky is pierced with stars and there’s glass littering the
ground. Cold, damp air and leaves on the verge. Blood on
the road, grit in her skin. My breath scratches my throat. My
knuckles plug my mouth and I bite.

What’s wrong with this day? Death’s strung through it like
barbed wire – the one from a year ago, and this one now. Five
is too many times to watch the same girl die.

There’s a body at my feet and her eyes are closed, but not
for long. A few more hours to go before she wakes up and we
do this all over again.

I’m sorry.

I crouch. Smooth her hair. Lean in.

Wake up, Clara. We’re in this together, you and me.

Sujets

Fiction Ado

Time Travel

Science Fiction

Young Adult Fiction

Imaginaire

Informations

Publié par	Little Island Books
Date de parution	04 août 2022
Nombre de lectures	3
EAN13	9781915071378
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0600€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE ETERNAL RETURN OF CLARA HART
First published in 2022 by Little Island Books 7 Kenilworth Park Dublin 6w Ireland
First published in the USA by Little Island Books in 2023
© Louise Finch 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means (including electronic/digital, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, by means now known or hereinafter invented) without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
A British Library Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.
Print ISBN : 978-1-915071-02-6
Cover title lettering by Holly Pereira Cover design and typesetting by Niall McCormack Proofread by Emma Dunne
Little Island has received funding to support this book from the Arts Council of Ireland
For someone so much braver than anyone should ever have to be
Contents
Introduction
The first time
The second time
The third time
The fourth time
The fifth time
The sixth time
The seventh time
The eighth time
The ninth time
The tenth time
Now
Acknowledgements
There’s a body at my feet again.
The sky is pierced with stars and there’s glass littering the ground. Cold, damp air and leaves on the verge. Blood on the road, grit in her skin. My breath scratches my throat. My knuckles plug my mouth and I bite.
What’s wrong with this day? Death’s strung through it like barbed wire – the one from a year ago, and this one now. Five is too many times to watch the same girl die.
There’s a body at my feet and her eyes are closed, but not for long. A few more hours to go before she wakes up and we do this all over again.
I’m sorry.
I crouch. Smooth her hair. Lean in.
Wake up, Clara. We’re in this together, you and me.
THE FIRST TIME
1.1
This day’s a thief.
People call it Mum’s ‘anniversary’. But nah, that doesn’t sound right to me. Not for a day like this. A date that’s been lurking on the calendar, stealing happiness day by day and preparing for the sucker punch. I’ve kept my head low – don’t look directly at it – but every morning wondered, is it here yet? Today?
How typical that when today finally arrives, this question isn’t the first on my mind at all. It’s this:
Did some prick just hit my car?
Bloody hell, this day’s fulfilled its destiny within seconds. Exceeded expectations. Of course, I don’t believe in destiny. Irony, though? Cheers, Universe, but really, you shouldn’t have.
I flick away eye-crust and yawn. Waking up in my car is a new low; my neck complains from a night against the door, my joints snap, tie’s too tight and mouth’s thick and grungy as dishwater. There’s a slice of school car park in the rear-view mirror. Ah, yeah, here, I remember. Tucked in the corner where the teachers won’t notice. Apparently neither did this idiot.
The car that hit me pulls into the next space over, some battered red Micra – another rare student driver, though I don’t recognise the wheels. I fall out my door, tuck in my rumpled shirt and stride down the side of the offending vehicle. I jam my body in the driver’s open door before they’ve got more than a leg out.
‘Oi,’ I say.
I clock her, Clara Hart. Black hair, pointy nose studded and ears to match, but a pristine uniform. Her lips are pulled together in her usual disapproval under narrowed eyes. No wonder she hit me – probably couldn’t see past her own inflated sense of superiority.
‘You’ve just hit my bloody car.’
‘Happy Friday to you too, Spence. You know you’re late for form room?’ Clara tries to squeeze by.
I grab her arm and pull. ‘Look here.’
‘Excuse me.’ She rips her arm free and shoots me a dirty glance, but follows me round the back of my classic MG . I jab a finger towards the shining silver rear and then stop. After hundreds of hours in a garage with that car, I know every inch better than the hands I worked on it with. And the bumper’s flawless. It’s damn perfect.
I say, ‘Bumper’s scuffed.’
‘Sorry, where?’
‘Right. There.’ Even to my own ears I sound unconvincing.
Clara squints, hands to hips. ‘There’s nothing. What would you like me to do about literally nothing? You want my insurance details?’
Her dark eyebrows are raised ready for combat. I slide my eyes over her dinged-up Micra. Slick my tongue over my teeth and feel the warm creep of embarrassment up my chest. Aren’t I the asshole?
I say, ‘Surprised anyone would insure yours.’
She holds up two fingers and folds the first one down. ‘Firstly, I didn’t even hit your car, look at it! Secondly, not everyone has a minted mummy and daddy to buy their cars.’
‘Don’t say?’ But my heart winces. Shows what she knows. Hardly minted. No mum.
‘Can I go now?’ Her second finger’s still pointed as if she’s forgotten it’s there. ‘Some of us actually have standards to uphold.’
‘You what?’
‘Did you sleep in a ditch?’ Her nose wrinkles.
‘You learn to drive in one?’
Jesus, drive in a ditch ? I ignore my own shit comeback and pop my boot to grab my bag. Can’t stomach the sight of Clara’s self-satisfied face. Sure, I might be hanging this morning, but at least I’m not smacking other people’s cars. That’s what I should’ve said.
Clara hauls her stuff from her car and stamps off, bag bumping her hip and black sketchbook wedged under one arm. She’s an over-stretched exclamation point, dark hair, navy uniform and black stompy shoes interrupted by the pastiest legs you’ve ever seen.
I’m gearing up to shout something witty and cutting after her when she throws ‘Take a shower!’ back over her shoulder. Her ankle rolls over and she stumbles, nearly falls. She doesn’t turn to see me creasing with laughter. Instant karma’s a bitch, Clara.
I trail her at a decent distance to make sure I don’t catch up. Wouldn’t bother with form room at all ’cept I know Anthony’d be pissed off having to stick it out alone. He’s sent a message asking where I am too and I reckon maybe he’s remembered the day, which is pretty touching.
I gurn apologetically at Mr Barnes as I slide into a chair. Anthony claps a hand on my shoulder and looks me over, frown deepening. Maybe I do stink. Hard to judge now I’ve entered Anthony’s Hugo Boss cloud.
‘Did you have a blow-out with your dad again?’ he says.
I shake my head, eyes on the desk. ‘Can’t fight if you don’t talk.’
Can’t talk if you don’t stay home. And I reckon Anthony’s about to acknowledge the day, but then he says, ‘Good, mate, good. Did you finish that philosophy essay?’
‘Sure.’ That memory’s somewhere in last night’s blur. Started the essay two beers down, but I could write unconscious and churn out something passable. Anyway, it doesn’t count for anything much. Few weeks till study leave and exams and then none of this will matter. Besides, I’ll proof it. Quality control and all that.
Anthony folds a paper plane and crashes it against my head. ‘Not just a pretty face, eh?’
‘Not even.’
Around us students are slumped to their desks, revision-sapped and Friday-feeling, waiting to tumble into the weekend. Clara’s a few rows over scribbling in a notebook. I stare, willing her to turn and be embarrassed all over again that she almost crunched my bumper, but she keeps her head down.
The bell goes. I stand with the crowd, but Mr Barnes catches me with, ‘James Spencer? A word.’ He shuts the door on a tangle of students waiting to take their seats for first period and we’re alone.
Barnes shuffles on the corner of his desk until he gets uncomfortable enough to blurt out what’s on his mind. His eyes go over my crumpled shirt, my wonky tie, my hair that hasn’t seen a shower in days. Here it comes:
‘Is everything OK, James?’
‘Fine, yeah.’
‘You were late again this morning.’
Yeah, obviously. He’s an all-right guy, Mr Barnes. Thin up to the ceiling and bald. Dressed in brown today with a lime-green tie to quirk up the look; his blazer makes my eyes itch. Don’t want to be rude, he gets enough of that, but Clara was late too and is she getting this third degree?
‘Fine,’ I repeat.
‘Your work is suffering too.’
‘Right, yeah.’
A pause. Maybe Barnes watches the top of my head.
‘You know you can come to me, or any of the teachers, if you need to talk? OK?’
There it is. Wondered when he’d get to the point. Barnes wants what they all want, only my deepest, darkest. Scrape out my feelings for him to examine then tell me they’re not as important as an A-star in my exams. No thanks.
‘Can I go?’
‘I’ll see you in philosophy. Try not to be late.’ Barnes folds his hands, presses his lips tight. Picture of concern. I know why, of course. They don’t want me crying, self-medicating or turning vandal on their watch. Don’t want another student statistic going off the rails; at least, not before achieving decent exam results to slap on their school record. Barnes is nice, like I said, but it’s better to remember none of them properly knows me. Don’t fall into that trap. I’m another kid on the conveyor belt. A job to leave at the end of the day.
I waste the first half of free period at the gym block getting showered. Body spray takes the edge off what’s lingering on yesterday’s shirt. Still looks slept in, but once the blazer’s on you couldn’t tell. Gum sorts my teeth. Two paracetamol tackle my clanging brain.
By the time I re-join my friends I’m halfway human.
Anthony and Worm are in the cafeteria where we fritter away free periods. The two of them look like dinner – an expensive slab of steak next to a piss-poor serving of skinny fries on the grey table. There’s a perpetual smell of overcooked veggies in the caf, but it’s better than the common room which is all a bit, well, common.
Anthony has his feet on a chair and a grin on his face. Worm’s wearing a pout. I’ve missed something juicy, but can’t summon the interest. The caf ’s nearly empty. Just occasional traffic for the vending machine. This is why Anthony, in particular, likes this place. He’s an avid bird-spotter.
‘Give us a smile, Mia,’ he shouts to the girl