Rachel didn’t give Aaron another look, just flung herself round and back up the stairs. Mia was out there somewhere, and she needed her mother.
Rachel moved more slowly than before. She had to be thorough. She found the flashlight on her phone and aimed it into every corner. Mia was somewhere. She was hidden in some nook; she just had to be found. Rachel examined classroom after classroom, with nothing but the sound of her own blood thumping, her own breaths shaking. Room after room. Geography classrooms with wall maps that could be crept behind, computer labs with tangles of cables and wires that seemed to writhe in the shadows, English rooms where handwritten poems rustled on walls in no breeze whatsoever. In the science block, only one room was open.
Mark’s classroom. It was still being used. Classes still needed to be taught. Electrons still carried negative charge. A body in uniform motion still stayed in that state unless acted upon by an external force. A stream of supply teachers was watching over classes as they ploughed through their workbooks. Everything of Mark’s was still in there: the framed infographics were still on the wall, the wooden in-tray still sat squarely on his desk, the metal pen pot, the Einstein quote above the whiteboard. Nothing happens until something moves. He had always been a good teacher. The faint smell of him persisted. Lemony and fresh, with a hint of something darker. Nicotine or tar. He was still in there. The ghost of him hadn’t faded. Rachel’s hundred days with him still had the power to destroy everything else.
Mia would be here, of course she would. Rachel called Mia’s name into the air. Those two neat syllables. Mee-ahh. Me. Ah. Nothing.
There was no hint of Mia anywhere, but particles of Mark must litter every surface. Invisible flakes of his skin, strands of his hair. The memory of his movements, of how he paced in front of the whiteboard, of his voice making the complex simple, decoding equations so they were clear. Every eye would have been on him. He would never enter that room again. He was behind steel doors and wire cages. A prison sentence was inevitable. A minimum of two years, surely, if he was lucky, if he kept his head down. If no one provoked him. It would be twenty-four months before he could walk out of there, before he could scream on a fairground ride or dance in a darkened room. Before he could dip his toes in a river. He would spend years only able to talk to his loved ones with supervision, clutching fingers, but not allowed to embrace, every action watched by someone primed to intervene.
Rachel would never go there. She would never drive the thirty-four minutes Google Maps estimated it would take to arrive at Banstead. It would surely be High Down. It was the right level of security; it was mercifully close by. She would never sign her name in the official books, and be escorted to see him in whatever secure space was given to visitors. She would never see him across the room, seconds before he noticed her, and take in his diminished frame, the pallor of his skin, the thinness of his hair. She’d never watch as he stood awkwardly, stunned at her presence. She’d never see the relief flood his face, never hear him whisper how sorry he was. She’d never lock eyes with him as she sat down. She would never reach across the pocked and pitted Formica table and grab his fingers in her own.
There were fewer rooms on the ground floor. When Rachel reached the main corridor, the busiest part of the school, the point where every thoroughfare crossed and every route intersected, she saw a light. The girls’ toilets. Not the flashy new ones near the main entrance, but the old ones near the walkway that led to the dinner hall. She’d looked there, briefly, and found them empty. But now, in the dimness of the corridor, light shone around the edge of the door, glowed like an alien craft. Rachel ran. She ran as fast as she was able in her stupid, spindly shoes; she ran down the full length of the hallway. She knew it was Mia. She knew Mia’s fingers had turned that light on. She knew her daughter was behind that door.
She was on the ground. As Rachel threw the door open, she saw Mia slumped beneath the sinks, her head on the white tiles, her hair no longer neatly styled but covering her face. Her legs were splayed at startling angles; Marianne’s black dress had ridden up around her thighs, her skin and the fabric both soaked.
‘Oh, God.’ Rachel was instantly on the floor, shoes off, kneeling, cradling her daughter’s head. Mia’s eyes were closed, her lips damp with frothy saliva. Rachel smoothed the hair away from Mia’s forehead.
‘Mia. Look at me. Look at me, Mia.’ Rachel tried to lift her eyelids. Mia opened her eyes briefly, but didn’t focus. Her body was heavy and limp.
‘Come on, darling. You need to get up. Sit up now.’ As Rachel heaved Mia upwards, her hand fell open. In the crook of her palm was a tiny, rainbow-striped pill. An unswallowed version of what she had surely ingested, of whatever Aaron had given her. Rachel steeled herself, cleared the foam from her daughter’s lips, made sure she could breathe freely.
‘Come on, Mia. Come on, love. I need you here with me. How many of these have you taken, Mia? Mia? Sweetie, how many did he give you?’
Mia was breathing; her mouth was moving, contorting into the shapes of words. She seemed to rouse herself. ‘ . . . hates me so much now.’
Rachel hoisted Mia until she was sitting upright, her back against the cool tiles. She kneeled in front of her, and held her eyes open, her fingers on her daughter’s lids. She tried to discern the danger. Mia had poison flowing through her veins. How much damage was it wreaking? On that damp and filthy floor, their faces were at the same level. They could look straight at each other.
Mia’s make-up had rubbed off; sweat or water had washed it away. There were no heavy brows, no sculpted cheeks, just Mia’s face, damp and pink. Rachel could see her daughter for the first time in months, and Mia could look right back. Neither was what the other had expected. Those hot days had contorted everything; melted it down and reset it into odd new shapes. They had no secrets left to tell. Everything was on the outside. There was no going back.
Mia tried to speak again. ‘Mum?’ Rachel felt her throat tighten. Slumped on the floor, Mia’s guard was down. ‘Mum? What will happen when I . . .?’ Rachel swallowed. She stroked her daughter’s sweat-soaked forehead. This broken girl still had the power to destroy her. Mia reached out and touched the ends of her mother’s hair, the blonde tips that fell near her hands. She twisted them in her fingers, stroking them with her thumb, as gentle as with a pet. When she spoke again, Mia’s words were thick and jumbled. ‘I’m so tired. And I just, I don’t know . . . I need you to . . .’
Rachel leaned in closer, her arms around Mia’s shoulders, her ear next to her mouth. ‘What do you need, my love?’
‘I need you to . . .’ Her words were choked by a sob.
Rachel held Mia against her, rocking her gently. She understood what Mia was trying to say. ‘I know, sweetheart. I know. I need that too. I promise.’
Mia’s eyes suddenly grew glassy again, and her head lolled on her neck as if it wasn’t fully connected. Rachel wanted longer to talk, to grab at the tangles of her daughter’s thoughts, but there was no time. As her head rolled forwards, Mia’s hair fell across her face again. Her limbs were loose, her joints fluid. Her hands and feet seemed too heavy for the bones that held them. Not a single muscle seemed tensed.
‘Shit.’ No one was around. Rachel lifted her head, tilted it backwards and yelled. ‘Help! Help!’ There was no point in calling out; her voice was swallowed instantly by the music coming from the assembly hall. Rachel’s mobile had no signal in that deep part of the school. Mia needed help now: there was no time to waste, no time to run, to find someone, to explain quickly enough. Rachel didn’t know what Mia had swallowed, didn’t know what damage it was inflicting as it tore through her body, but she knew that every second Mia didn’t open her eyes was dangerous.
They were almost the same height, the same dress size. Rachel hadn’t been able to lift Mia for nearly five years. But she had to. Resting Mia back on the floor, Rachel got to her feet, bent her knees and heaved her daughter’s body
onto her own. It should have been impossible, but Rachel’s muscles, her sinews, seemed to understand. Rather than scream out, they stiffened, enabling her to take the weight. Strength Rachel was unaware of came to the fore, strength that must have been dormant, poised for the moment it was most needed. Rachel held Mia as though she was a fairy-tale damsel, supporting her middle over outstretched arms, whilst her limbs flopped towards the ground. Like that, Rachel staggered outside, kicking the doors open as she went, her steps wobbling, each one risking a fall. She was grateful for every metre she’d ever covered on the treadmill, every second that had built her to be just about robust enough. Rachel reached the fire door that opened onto the car park and backed into it with enough force to push the bar down and blast it open.
It was darker outside than she’d expected. The sky was already milky. Rachel tried shouting again, hoping the cooler air outside might carry the noise better, but her lungs had little power left. Her arms were beginning to roar with pain, beginning to give way. She couldn’t hold Mia much longer. Her car was three roads away, tens of metres, hundreds of steps. It was impossible. Then the crunch of feet on gravel, a voice.
‘Here, let me take her.’ Graham. He reached down, knees bent, back straight, and lifted Mia from Rachel’s arms, carried her easily in his solid grip.
‘This way.’ He walked decisively. He knew exactly what to do. Rachel followed, scanning the car park. Mia would be mortified if she was seen, if her friends witnessed the state she was in. There was no one around. Even the wall Dominic had been sitting on was empty. They would all be inside, dancing with their arms raised above their heads, taking photographs of each other, laughing so everyone turned to look. Lily would be twirling in her silver princess dress, letting the others try on her tiara.
Graham was pounding across the tarmac, already planning their route. Rachel jogged after him.
‘If we call an ambulance it will take longer, the hospital is only a few minutes from here.’ He was opening the door of his car, gently lying Mia on the back seat. He knew what to do. ‘Get in the back with her, Rachel.’
Rachel watched her daughter. Mia’s head was in her lap. Rachel stroked the hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ears, stroked the skin of her forehead. All of Graham’s attention was on the road. He was driving fast, too fast, but with a determination that felt safe. Without shifting his eyes, he spoke.
‘Is she okay? How are you doing?’
Rachel looked at Mia. Her head was tilted so that her now-unclipped metre of hair waterfalled over the edge of the seat. There was no space for her to stretch out full length, but her limbs sprawled over the upholstery. Her crimson-painted toenails. The wingspan that seemed impossible. Her skin was smooth, as warm as honey, and there were no hairs on her legs, not even little golden ones that might glint on her thighs. Her dress was wet and wrinkled. Her hair was tangled. She looked perfect. Mia’s eyelashes fluttered for a second and she opened her eyes. This time they didn’t swim, but focused on her mother. She didn’t say anything, just looked.
‘I think she’ll be okay. I think so.’
‘We’re nearly there. They’ll be able to treat her, Rachel. She’ll be absolutely fine.’ She was more than fine. She was incredible. She was braver than Rachel had ever guessed. Rachel held that body she’d known so well. The clavicle she’d kissed so often. The ribs she’d once xylophoned.
Rachel pressed the button to wind down the window. The air it let in had texture. It was beginning to rain for the first time in weeks. Just a smattering, just a mizzle, but Rachel could feel it on her face. She pushed her head further out of the window, watching the houses speed by. They were no more than three roads from the hospital now. Only minutes at most. The rain became more insistent, drops fatter and faster. Everything, suddenly, was wet and clean. The tarmac reflected; the front windows were slick; the plants growing around the doorways were dripping. It all looked different. Light fell in new angles. When the pressure in her lap shifted, Rachel moved back into the car.
‘Mum . . .’
‘Darling, don’t talk, just rest. We’re nearly there, we’re nearly there, Mi.’ Rachel leaned over to whisper right into Mia’s ear, into that soft whorl of flesh. She stroked her hair as she spoke, breathing in the warm salt of her daughter’s scalp. ‘I’m here. I’m here, Meerkat, and I’m not going anywhere.’
The breeze from the window was bolder now, filling the car with cool air. Rachel sat up straight and turned her head to the outside, breathing great lungfuls of the earthy petrichor that rose from those familiar pavements.
Acknowledgements
Many magnificent people have helped me in the journey to creating this book. I am grateful to every one of them.
First, thank you to the incomparable Lucy Morris, who sent the email that changed my life. Thank you for your brilliance, vision and determination. There is no one I’d rather have on my side and by my side, and no one I’d rather do ‘Let’s go down the disco!’ dancing with.
Thank you to Luke Speed, and everyone at Curtis Brown, for your spirit and hard work.
Thank you to the extraordinary Frankie Edwards, for your incisive intelligence, sharp wit and deep understanding of what I am trying to do. It has been such fun to build this book with you. Thank you for always pushing me to be bolder.
Thank you to Jessica Farrugia and Jo Liddiard for your incredible ideas and energy. Thank you to Yeti Lambregts for such a striking and beautiful cover. Thank you to Bea Grabowska, and the whole team at Headline, for your enthusiasm and support. I couldn’t imagine a more fantastic team to guide me through my first novel.
Next, thank you to the Unruly Writers for your fierce brilliance. Especially the London contingent, without whom I would have abandoned this book long ago: Susie Campbell, Shahla Haque, Sarvat Hasin, James Ellis, Imogen Harris, Kiran Millwood Hargrave and Daisy Johnson. Your work inspires me every day.
To Curtis Brown Creative, where I realised what I wanted to write. Especially to Anna Davis for your constant support, and to Erin Kelly for your wisdom, perception and belief. Thank you also to my wonderful course mates who tirelessly read my words and gave such invaluable advice.
To those who taught me how to love words and how to shape them: Jude MacAdam, Sue Tomlin, David Bean, Stuart Pickford, Anna Beer, Julian Thompson, Clare Morgan.
To the friends who have shared my love of stories, and provided me with enough gossip to fuel my own: the Dunblane friends who shaped the glory of my early teens, the Harrogate drama queens, my magical Regent’s Park comrades, and the What If Wonders. Thank you to the Cultural Insight team, who had my back whilst I wrote this, and made me laugh and learn every day: Francesca Simon-Millar, Jessica Parr, Hannah Robbins, Lyndsay Kelly, Hari Blanch Bennett, Laura Tarbox, Tom Pattison, Ophelia Stimpson, Sarah Neary, Claudia Bhugra-Schmid, Eleanor Lloyd Malcolm, Helen Firth, Izzy Pugh, Cato Hunt and Paul Cowper.
Thank you to the friends who have loved me with such kindness and gusto. To Ruth Brock for simply being magnificent. To Carli Bean for your dramatic soul and those splendid days lost in words. To Mary Groom for sharing glittering nights, and for reading my words for so long. To Eiluned Jones for your luminous support. To Xavior Roide for sparkling conversation and total belief. To my Lincoln friends, especially Rose Mortimer, Shazeaa Ishmael and Tallie Samuels, for celebrating so generously with me. To Laura Wright, Beatrice Montedoro and Will Brockbank for thrusting me into whole new stories, and for making Oxford home.
Thank you to Katy John. For sparking my desire to write and for constantly fuelling it. For believing in me and pushing me. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Thank you to my family. To Elaine and Andy, and Wendy and John. To Ellen, Nathan, Christopher, Joshua and Henry. To Janet and Norman. For such inspiration, joy and belief. To Harry, and to my wonderful in-laws, Muriel, Bill and William, for support and love despite my lack of a decent service game.
To my parents, Linda and Glen, for teaching me not only how to read but, more importantly, why. Your enormous love of stories in all their forms is one of the greatest joys of my life. Thank you for believing I could create my own.
To Paul. For being there for every word. For holding my hand through every step of our strange and beautiful adventure.
Reading Group Questions
• We experience Heatstroke entirely through Rachel’s eyes. Do you think she is a reliable narrator? Why?
• ‘Rachel felt suffocated by the neat rows of buildings that inevitably spread out over every hill’s real prow.’ Discuss the presentation of suburbia in the novel. Could the same story have been written in a different setting?
• Heatstroke is a female-led narrative in which male characters generally appear only on the periphery. Did their absence impact on your reading of the novel?
• Throughout the novel, Rachel takes on various identities: mother, wife, colleague, teacher, lover. How do these roles interact with one another?
• ‘Act like you give a shit. This is real. Do you understand that? And if you just sit there and keep quiet, you are part of it. You are responsible.’ To what extent is Rachel complicit in Lily’s absence? How did you feel about her staying quiet?
• How does Heatstroke engage with questions about consent?
• ‘Suddenly, there were two women in the house.’ Mia and Lily are on the fringes of womanhood, trying to break free from the ‘restraints’ of being teenagers. How does the author play with notions of power and agency through her characters?
Heatstroke: an intoxicating story of obsession over one hot summer Page 24