‘Are you okay, Tom?’ Slowly, that adopted toothpaste- advertisement beam grows. As if she’s in pain or needs the loo. The smile she’s learnt like piano or advanced French at that exclusive school of hers. Nothing like the lopsided grin from when they were friends. In a flash the memories all fizz and dissolve.
Fuck it. Tom’s fingers tighten round the hip flask. That version of Hope left as abruptly as his dad.
‘Best of luck with today!’
Tom feels his face stiffen instantly. ‘You what?’ he shoots back. He removes his glasses then replaces them. Really? Did she really just say luck? He shakes his head quickly, breathing hard. Go away; get lost. ‘Don’t try talking about things you know nothing about, hey, Hope?’
It’s the most he’s said to her in five years. And it offends her – those Disney-wide brown eyes tell him that. Never hold back from speaking your mind. He hears his dad. If the truth hurts that’s their problem, not yours.
Hesitantly, she wanders off. Tom draws his hip flask up again. Tips it back, staring over it at the panther-sleek cars. The two Dickensian-dressed men inside – they appear like apostles of Death itself.
2
Pull a mental fortress down against bad thoughts
Leata
Her
My phone’s vibrating in my bag as I pass through the wide glass doors into a swell of all-girl maroon. It rarely stops. Comments being made on my daily blog, or my last vlog; or a Facebook share or a like on Instagram. Retweets galore. And that’s before we get started on emails and texts.
Having a Leata-sponsored blog means being on call 24/7 to check what people are saying. It’s no different to being a doctor or something.
There’s a tug on my elbow. ‘I loved your blog over the holidays on starting Year Seven, Hope.’ It’s a newbie, wide eyes and fresh new uniform. ‘It really helped.’
‘Well, good,’ I say, giving her The Smile. The one I’ve perfected for my audience like you practise an autograph (I’ve done that too. Well, you never know. Blog today. Book deal tomorrow).
Newbie’s eyes turn more adoring. I toss my hair back. I get lots of comments from parents thanking me for helping younger kids find ‘happy’.
‘You know I wrote that post because when I first started school I found it REALLY hard.’ Emphasis in your voice helps too. Make like you’re singing almost! Spreading positivity isn’t that hard, see! ‘Poor me – only a few from my primary class came with me to Beaton High.’ Not that I’d been friends with many others anyway. At primary, it had always been enough – me and Tom.
Tom. Oh, I could curse myself for bringing him to mind again. That fist is back in my stomach. Will his dad be buried by now? Tucked up in a box like some fairy-tale princess; except he won’t be woken up by a kiss. I blink rapidly as if that might wash the image out of my mind.
‘Gotta go!’ I say brightly to the Year Seven. ‘Tell all your friends to follow Livelifewithhope!’
I carve a path through girls squealing over new haircuts and holidays, past other sixth formers slouching in, proud and powerful in own-clothes. More voices send out praise for Livelifewithhope. I try and bask in it but my breath’s still catching. See – proof why it does no good to entertain these kind of thoughts. Deep breaths. I’ve really got to get on top of this before I see the others. Millie especially can sniff out an off-mood like a foul smell. I start another countdown of positive things in my life. By one … I’m fumbling in my bag for the stash I keep there. Quickly break one out. I hear someone else doing the same near me. The snap and crackle of Leata; sometimes it’s the only sound on a quiet bus or in a class test. It’s a reassuring noise.
I swallow it back, skirting round the queue from the school nurse’s office for the students whose parents don’t trust them to take their Leata pill themselves. Honestly, some people really can’t see what’s good for them.
More shouts follow in my wake, ‘Hey, Hope!’; ‘LOVED yesterday’s blog!’ I catch more newbies doing WOW-eyes at me. A group stage-whispering, ‘It’s her, it is … life with hope girl. I recognise her from her picture.’
It’s warming me back up. That and the extra Leata of course. I cast my smile about as a universal greeting back. ‘Pull a mental fortress down against bad thoughts’.
Maybe I will do like the American President. Multiple dose for a while. After all, I have the same responsibilities to other people like him.
Just until all this death is over.
Him
Early autumn trees surround the cemetery, their traffic light colours providing a garish frame for the assembly of grey and black on the other side of the hole to him. All of them: clasped hands and sorrowful, blank expressions, as if they’ve been choreographed that way.
Only Nathaniel and his mum have cheeks marked with tear stains. Even his grandmother’s old milky blues remain dry, though she keeps dabbing at them with a tissue all the same: the loving mother. No one would guess she’d hardly spoken to his dad in a year.
Tom pulls at his tie. It’s like he’s a stranger at his own dad’s funeral. There are cousins he hardly recognises; Dad’s stockbroker brother, who they only see at weddings, still wearing his I’ve done better than you face. Today he has. He’s alive.
At the back is a man he doesn’t recognise. Broad-shoulders and broken nose, he’s standing next to DS Miles, the detective who’s paid routine visits since Dad died. Somewhere in his late twenties, Miles belongs in an HBO police drama rather than the British beat. And doesn’t he know it, the way his handsome features sit comfortably on his face, like they’re relaxing on a summer’s day. What’s he come for? To celebrate case closed?
Closed. The familiar storm swirls in his stomach. Tom presses a hand against it. He can’t run for a toilet now.
The vicar drones on. A light wind blows, causing the tree branches to creak and bow as if they’re in mourning too. More empty words fill the sombre, warm air. July in September, his grandmother had muttered to them when they met at church. As if the weather’s a more important topic.
Tom’s eyes return to settle on Pavlin’s bowed head. He’ll admit it – after pushing his friends away these last two months, he’s glad Pavlin’s here, relieved for the comfortable familiarity of his friend’s kind dark eyes; his long hair brushed and held tidily into a navy-blue patka. It’s the first time he’s seen him since before Dad died. BDD: Pavlin and him, watching films, talking music, slamming the school Neanderthals bothering them most. Right now, that version of his life feels like some grainy film he watched years ago.
More tears sting his eyes; he presses the heels of his hands into both, staring back at blackness. Dad would say, let it out, but he doesn’t want to – he makes furious swallows to try and shrink the lump growing tumour-like in his throat – not here.
The vicar’s tone hints at an end. Tom blinks open his eyes. A black crow squawks angrily overhead. A few people gaze up, as if relieved for a diversion, before a chorus of murmured Amens ripple through like a Mexican wave. Next, flowers and soil drum onto the coffin below. As if it’s a curtain-call – Dad’s last performance. Which makes them the backstage line-up. People start shuffling over. White noise of consolatory words begins, as if they’re getting passed baton-like down the queue. ‘Everyone reads from a script’; he reckons Dad would sigh if he were here. Tom’s hand gets stroked and patted as if he’s some stone deity. A few dare to add a Leata-inspired quote, a ‘life is for the living’ here, a ‘bury your tears with your father’ there. No one stops and asks, ‘but why would he do it, Tom?’
Really: why, Dad? A silent scream winds itself tightly for release: WHY?
In a breath the image starts to form, etch-a-sketch slowly, until Tom sees it in full. The picture DS Miles drew for them in politely professional, carefully approved words eight weeks ago.
Dad: found by some middle-aged dog walker; lying in a coppice, a gun they never knew he owned by his side. He had shattered his skull as families picnicked nearby and walkers paused to ta
ke in Richmond Park’s brochure view.
He jerks his hand back from the next mourner pawing him. ‘If you can smile your emotions will catch up.’ Glancing up – it’s the Wrights – he grimaces, Hope’s mum and dad. Standing assuredly, as if they’re the hosts at this death party.
Why are they even here? Jack Wright hated Dad. Dad hated Jack Wright more. As lawyer for PharmaCare, he led the team that sued Dad and the Daily Herald over his story five years ago. Ultimately ruined Dad’s career. ‘Hope not with you?’ Tom asks facetiously; meeting their eyes like his dad instructed him to (‘eyes hold the lies behind the version of truth people want you to see’). Right now, Mr Wright’s gaze tells Tom he’s only here for appearance’s sake; Mrs Wright’s – for the sandwiches after. Glamorous, but well padded, she’s steadily put on weight since he’s known her.
‘It’s not a place for a teenager,’ Mr Wright answers, his eyes trailing off to the car park. Promptly, they steer off in that direction. Their vacant space immediately filling.
‘Ralph,’ Tom breathes out. Finally – a face other than Pavlin’s Tom is glad to see. His godfather is probably the only person around this grave who was a real friend to his dad, going to university then the Daily Herald together.
Ralph’s wife, Molly, stands neatly beside him; a pained expression tightening across her dark skin; her black hair twisted up tightly. They haven’t brought their children either, though they are around Tom’s age. Parents protecting their offspring. As if there’s a sudden chill in the air, the thought makes Tom clutch his arms tight around his sagging suit jacket. ‘Can I talk to you in private?’
Molly presses Tom’s arm. ‘I’ll go and wait in the car,’ she says to Ralph in a hushed voice as if they’re still in church.
Tom draws Ralph back towards the older, moss-ridden graves in the cemetery. He’s hardly spoken with him since Ralph accompanied Mum to identify Dad’s body.
‘You hanging in there, mate?’ Ralph says, his faint northern twang trying to find a way out from the well-spoken London accent. His hair is just as red and thick as in the framed photo where he holds Tom, infant arms flailing, over the font.
Tom shrugs, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Why d’you think he did it, Ralph?’
Ralph wraps a hand over his mouth, ‘Tom, Tom, you’re not still torturing yourself with whys …’ He narrows his grey eyes with sympathy. ‘Your dad was a mess … last time I saw him he was all over the place … nervy, paranoid …’
‘I don’t remember him being particularly nervy, paranoid,’ Tom says quietly. Why doesn’t he remember that?
‘And nor should you. Hell, you only show your children the good stuff, keep your worst side hidden,’ Ralph answers, pushing out each word like he’s squeezing from a spent toothpaste tube.
‘I knew Dad.’ The hole in Tom’s chest grows bigger.
‘Oh, Tom, I didn’t mean that. It’s just … So you’re seventeen in a couple of weeks, but you’re still Matt’s kid. Always will be –’ Ralph sighs.
Tom bites his lip; the mourners have almost all left now. He can see his grandmother hobbling off on his uncle’s arm, chatting away like she’s leaving some jolly birthday party.
‘If you want a reason – look to his work. The stories he was covering. “Nativity plays” or “20 is plenty” or “Not in my backyard”. Matt never got over the fact none of the national papers would touch him after he got stung for that Leata story. You know this.’ Ralph folds his mouth like he needs to tread gently.
‘But he’d been doing articles like that for five years. He was frustrated yeah, but he was happy.’ Tom shakes his head. He can see his dad clearly, playing video games with him, lounging around watching films together, kitchen dancing to The Stone Roses while he cooked dinner. ‘He was happy.’
Ralph is staring at him with the same tired eyes as the school’s career counsellor. ‘Tom; don’t. Don’t try and understand it … None of us can get into another’s head.’ A sharp gust of wind whistles round them. It lifts Ralph’s dark red fringe, revealing a purple-green bruise the shape of India.
‘You hurt yourself?’ Tom peers forward.
Ralph lifts a hand gingerly to his forehead. ‘Yeah, the classic: walked into a door. Clumsy,’ he mumbles, hesitating before he adds, ‘It’s knocked me for six too … your dad.’
Tom nods, this time he can’t control the thickening of his throat; wetness slides down his face. ‘I have to understand why he did it, Ralph, have to,’ he gulps between tears, ‘… otherwise –’
‘I’m sorry, Tom, I really am. It’s not fair, and I miss him too,’ Ralph cuts through him, a consoling hand squeezing Tom’s shoulder, ‘… but we need to live, don’t we … and the best kind of living is moving on.’
The tears slow. ‘Isn’t that a Leata slogan?’
‘Is it?’ Ralph laughs, rubbing a palm over his mouth. ‘I dunno, maybe it is. Their messages are everywhere I suppose; they sink into your sub-conscious.’
‘It doesn’t mean you have to repeat them.’
Ralph opens his mouth, letting out a short, rueful laugh. ‘You sound like your dad. Come on.’ He starts walking away. ‘We need to get back.’
‘But don’t you think it’s odd?’ Tom shouts after him; he really doesn’t want this conversation to end. Ralph’s all he’s got to talk to, to try and work it out. His mum isn’t capable of it; Nathaniel doesn’t want to. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that his laptop and mobile disappeared from where he died? All his emails deleted? Like dad wanted to keep something from us?’
‘Tom …’ Ralph collapses his head to his chest. When he lifts it, his expression’s considering something. Glancing over at Tom’s mother, he steps back towards him. ‘We all have our secrets, Tom.’ He expels a short burst of air. ‘Maybe – try asking your mum what your dad’s were.’ He holds Tom’s eyes, ‘I am truly sorry,’ he says – but this time, the smile of sympathy, it seems to imply he’s sorry for something else.
Her
After History, I find the others hogging the Leata-freebie yellow and blue beanbags in the Year Twelve common room. Millie and Bels and Kat. Hair long and L’Oréal full; faces perfectly made-up from Millie’s haul. Tara’s sat off to one side. Her auburn bob looks greasy and she’s not got a scrap of make-up on. I put my smile on full-beam for her benefit especially. Return to the hive.
‘What took you so long?’ Millie punches me on the arm. It’s her routine greeting. One day I will tell her it hurts sometimes, occasionally even bruises. But I don’t like exchanging negativity.
Millie swings her hair round, exuding some flowery scent. ‘Have you told the others about meeting Realboystuff?’ she says aloud; she’ll want the others to know I told her first.
‘You’re meeting Seth finally?’ Bels squeals. Kat copies. ‘Ask me anything you want to know,’ Bels says suggestively. She’s been sleeping with Sam for a year now.
I screw up my nose. ‘I don’t take advice, I give it,’ I say. Besides, I don’t need Bels’ kind of advice. I mean, I can go back to his place just to kiss and hold and talk – can’t I? My stomach skips – I can’t tell if it’s with excitement or nerves.
I edge over to Tara, bending low beside her. ‘Hey, Tara, wassup!’ I say in my sparkliest, life’s the best, voice. ‘Isn’t it great to be in sixth form!’
Slowly she turns to face me. Her eyes appear nervous.
‘Tara, are you even taking your Leata?’ I cut to the chase.
‘Leata won’t help.’ Her voice is strained. She pulls at her top; her nails look bitten raw. ‘I need something else.’ She looks like she’s about to cry. ‘I just want to stop feeling scared all the time, for no reason.’
‘But there’s nothing to be scared about, silly!’ I put an arm round her. Now and again I tackle this kind of issue on my blog. The fact that doctors are fazing out prescriptions of anti-depressants or talking therapies. ‘You need Leata, Tara. It’s been proven to help with any emotional and mood issues. That’s why there
is no need for anything else. And if you still want extra help then you get signed up for a PharmaCare Teen Health Farm – that will sort you out. Placing you back on the path to happiness,’ I recite the Health Farms’ TV slogan.
‘That’s what my doctor wants me to do. He says it’s all in my mind. I’ve just got to cheer up.’
‘Then follow your doctor’s advice.’
‘Oh lookey what we have here.’ I trail Millie’s eyes. Frigid Fran has come in. It looks like she’s pond-dipped her black hair over summer. The ends have this bluey-green hue to them.
‘Has no one told you, Frigid? Halloween’s not till next month?’ Millie shouts after her. Everyone except Tara laughs. Though Kat and Bels stop when they see I’m not joining in. I never would – I am so not a bitch. Plus Dad’s told me to be friendly to Fran again. I’m honoured he’s asked me. Like he did when Fran first moved here from America, last year of primary. Fran’s mum is Dad’s contact at PharmaCare. ‘Nina Mitchell is worried about her daughter,’ he said at the weekend. ‘She wants you to look out for her. We do as my clients ask.’ And err, yeah – I’m not surprised Fran’s mother’s worried. If I think Tara is bad – Fran virtually walks around in a sandwich board shouting: NAD! Negative Affective Disorder – the diagnosis of all non-Leata takers. It’s no wonder she’s ostracised.
Millie shouts out another insult as Fran takes a seat closer to us. It’s the only one free; well, it was till two girls move away (hanging out with Frigid is not a good look). She does nothing to help herself – I mean, she could try colour? And does a smile cost anything? Hence the name see: Frigid’s expression never changes from ice-cold miserable – it’s not because we know anything about her sexual prowess (though Millie claims to, ‘well, really, would anyone ever want to sleep with her?’).
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