Cloud 9

by Alex Campbell

  Her

  ‘I am happy. Very.’ Oh, dear, how do I steer this? ‘I believe you will be happy again soon, Tom. I really believe that.’ I smile broadly.

  ‘My dad had an affair, got found out, killed himself,’ Tom says as if I’ve just contradicted him.

  I keep my smile taut as my stomach stirs with some kind of dread. Is this the feeling Tara meant? About feeling scared for no reason? It doesn’t help that the trees have become denser. Daylight banished, grey shadows loom all around us, the kind I’d imagine into the shapes of witches and ghouls as a child. It’s colder in the shade; my hand’s frozen from the lolly. I can’t let Tom’s mood affect mine, disrupt my dose. I start making harder strides towards the light, crunching twigs underfoot as I finger through the index of Leata messages I have saved in my head. Which one’s most appropriate? I’ve not faced suicide before. Anyone on Leata wouldn’t have to.

  ‘The thing is: to think only happy thoughts, none of this “wasteland” – Negativity’s a disorder,’ I finally say, regretting it as Tom’s face zips back up.

  He bares pink teeth. ‘Calling me a NAD, is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Okay, well, how about … maybe we can just hang out. I mean …’ I breathe out of my nose. I think of my blog. Tom, my case study. ‘Be friends. Again.’

  He looks like he’s about to choke, or laugh. It’s hard to tell which. ‘You saying you want to go back to playing Star Wars and eating tea in the treehouse, Hope?’

  ‘No. I don’t mean …’ I don’t like his tone. ‘Not like before.’ No way, like before. ‘You know, chatting occasionally. Maybe a feelgood film now and again?’ Which thankfully is all that’s being released these days. My blog and I totally backed last year’s campaign for production houses to cease making feel-bad films. Funding’s already been pulled on lots of horrors. And I heard that film where those boys make a suicide pact has totally flopped. I mean people dying in films is fine, as long as it’s filled with hope and happiness for life. Die with a smile! People just don’t want to see stuff that makes them sad. That’s not what entertainment is for!

  ‘Friends again? Really?’ Tom’s muttering away to himself, wiping his mouth like he’s just been sick. He discards the rest of the pink foot into the undergrowth. A pigeon shoots out, flapping its way to the canopy above. Tom looks like he wants to follow it.

  ‘I wasn’t the one who stopped being friends in the first place, Hope. Adios.’ He stalks off, raising the back of his hand in a wave of bye.

  ‘Yes you were,’ I whisper after him, before I’ve even realised the words have left my mouth.

  4

  If you don’t have bad thoughts, you can’t have bad feelings

  Leata

  Him

  Tom stands, frozen in the all-white, light-filled atrium, either side getting pummelled by passing students. His head’s hazy from the glug of whisky he poured into his coffee this morning. Dad: three days buried. It’s how he thinks of time now, like he hears mothers talk about their babies, ‘five weeks and two days old’. So his dad is eight weeks and four days dead. The ticking clock of remembrance fills the future too. Dad’s birthday. Christmases without him. The anniversary of his death.

  Someone shoves him with their school bag; Tom’s woozy legs lose balance. He stumbles towards the wall with its big banner thanking PharmaCare for this atrium. ‘Build better lives with Leata’. Maybe he should just turn round and go back home – Nathaniel’s driving back to university, his mum’s returned to work. The house to himself, he could just get steadily drunker. A group of girls stare back at him, their mouths forming whispers to one another. He sees it in their eyes – the latest label stuck to his forehead – ‘The boy whose dad shot himself’. He’s already seen the virtual nudging on Facebook. He’s found it a strange distraction, to hover ghost-like at the edges of online conversations, watching virtual unknowns discussing his dad and why he did it and what an idiot he was, cos he didn’t take Leata.

  And now here Tom is, in the flesh for them all to see and discuss. Pushed onto the stage. The freak show more like. Shit. He was going to try and wait till lunchtime, but … He tugs out the Ribena bottle from Dad’s ancient Puma record bag, taking a sip of the whisky he decanted inside.

  ‘Hey, you’re back, mate!’ Tom almost spits it out again as Pavlin’s arm slings round his shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Hi, Pav … Not sure for how long …’

  ‘It’ll be all right – Lower Sixth, we get study rooms, remember? Away from the insanely happy riff-raff, yeah? ‘N I bagged us a good one: Daisy, Alfie, Lyn-Mei. Miserable misfits together. It’ll be cool. So you put a lot of thought into your first day of non-uniform, I see.’

  Tom looks down at himself. He hardly recalls getting dressed. His green skinnies are stained from god knows what or when. The checked shirt smells of mothballs. The white T-shirt underneath yellowed from age; the ‘i’ and ‘v’ of Nirvana almost rubbed away. ‘The top half’s Dad’s. Is that weird?’

  Pavlin laughs, flicks his shoulder. ‘Nah, you look cool. Retro, yeah? Anyway, here.’ Pavlin pushes forward a thick, dull silver bracelet. ‘From my dad. You know Mr Balil, not a man of words, but he wanted to show, you know, his sympathy, and all that. It’s a Kara. You wear it on your right wrist. In our religion it protects you from evil,’ he winks.

  Tom blinks fast, busying himself putting the bangle on so he doesn’t have to say anything. Kindness from Pavlin’s taciturn dad touches him more than those semi-strangers pumping his hand at Friday’s funeral. He fingers the chiselled black inscription.

  ‘Punjabi,’ Pavlin says.‘“There is no beginning. There is no end.”’

  Tom tightens his neck. ‘Tell your dad, thanks,’ he says, his voice thick.

  They start walking towards the sixth-form block. Suddenly it seems possible to carve a path through all these people now he’s got Pavlin by his side. ‘And thanks for coming to the funeral, Pav,’ he says looking ahead.

  Pavlin wafts a hand in the air. ‘Like I wouldn’t.’

  Tom turns, his whisky-clouded eyes trying to focus properly on Pavlin: smooth brown skin, dark eyes; the patka he wears despite its beacon for bullying. ‘I respect my parents more than any nut-heads,’ is how Pavlin sees it. That’s why Tom’s dad always rated him.

  Something hard takes a punch at his stomach. He brings the Ribena bottle fast up to his lips.

  Her

  ‘I don’t understand why we can’t do Hardy any more.’

  Ms Shone makes a tense shake of her head, her brown frizzy hair staying stiffly in one place. Millie’s forever mouthing ‘straighteners’ behind her back.

  ‘It’s out of my hands, Fran.’ Ms Shone blows her nose; the tip’s red as if she’s been crying. ‘The new A-level curriculum was approved at the end of last term by the Education Minister. It stresses that more optimism is needed in literature and the arts.’

  I’m surprised she’s still got this gig; Beaton High has so much funding from PharmaCare now it’s hypocritical for any teacher to turn their nose up at them.

  ‘It doesn’t stop you reading Thomas Hardy out of class, Fran. Independent bookshops are your best bet. I doubt you’ll find him at the libraries these days.’

  ‘Don’t encourage her, Miss,’ Millie shouts out. ‘You need to get your head out of The Bell Jar, Fran, not further into it.’

  ‘Enough, Millie.’ Now Ms Shone really looks like she’s about to cry. ‘I want it known, I categorically don’t agree with censorship.’

  Trust Frigid Fran to start a row in our first English A level class. I tune out, not wanting to listen. I’m refuelled on feelgood. My blog was great this morning even if I say it myself. I wrote about NAD Boy who I’m determined to help out of grief and guide into positive thinking. And NAD Girl I’m going to set him up with. Can I convert them AND bring love into their lives? I asked my followers.

  If anyone can do it you will, Hope.

  You’re so kind, Hope x


  U put others before urself, that’s why I LOVE U

  I tune back into Millie’s Shone-baiting. I take it on myself to end it. ‘It’s not censorship, Ms Shone,’ I pitch in politely, smiling sweetly so she can’t take offence. ‘It’s merely taking out novels that are too bleak. Life is about hope and enjoyment. So our books should mirror that.’

  There’s a ripple of applause around me. I catch murmurs of, ‘You’re so right, Hope.’ ‘I’m with you, Hope.’ ‘You always nail it.’ Maybe I should take over the class.

  Ms Shone snorts into her tissue, mumbling to herself as she starts distributing copies of Persuasion. Millie leans over to me. ‘Skinny jeans, my blazer. Casual smart, neutral colours on your face.’ She’s still answering my question from earlier. What to wear Saturday with Seth.

  ‘Cleavage,’ she grins cheekily, pushing out her chest as I fidget awkwardly in my seat. ‘Oh and green sparkle eye shadow,’ Millie continues. ‘In fact I’ll give you a whole truckload for free and you can guest post about it. I want to promote JOLIE to get more freebies from them.’

  ‘I have to be ethical, Millie,’ I state precisely, a little louder: others in class might be listening.

  Millie makes an ‘o’ with her mouth, ‘It’s called consumerism,’ she says, rolling her eyes. The face of an angel, Mum says. The face boys fall for. Millie. Me. Bels. Kat. Tara. It’s a ranking we’re all fine with.

  Speaking of which, I turn round to smile at Tara, getting out the spare box of Leata I brought for her. My smile grows as she reluctantly takes it.

  Yeah, the thing is to accept where you fit in life. Aspiration’s the key. That’s my fit. That’s what I offer people. Hope!

  Him

  Tom returns from Economics to the shared study room. Someone’s stuck a piece of paper up on the door: ‘Warning: NADs bite.’ He rips it off. Sometimes, BDD, he used to wonder whether it’d be easier just to give in and take Leata, be forced to smile more and fit in. It sucks being in a minority.

  Everyone’s inside for lunch; better that than the PharmaCare- subsidised canteen menu: ‘Healthy leads to happy!’ He loiters at the door for a little. Trouble is, he doesn’t even feel he fits in here any more either. Pavlin, Alfie, Lyn-Mei and Daisy – they have both parents still. He’s gone into another sub-group all of his own.

  He moves past to the corner desk he bagged. Lyn-Mei’s on the phone; Alfie is playing some black-listed game on his pad. The government’s on a mission to ban violent gaming, but Alfie still finds them. Daisy and Pavlin are chatting serious-faced over her laptop. Besides Alfie’s new earring and Lyn-Mei’s choppy cut, the only other thing that’s new is that Pavlin’s become some superhero hacktavist over the summer. He’s even wearing a PAL badge, Power Against Leata.

  ‘How’s Hari?’ Tom asks, noticing they’re on the home page of OpenFreeNet – the platform Pavlin’s cousin’s part of. In his final year at Bristol University, Hari shamed his family by spending last May in prison for leaking classified information on how the government sold-off all Mental Health Trusts to PharmaCare without a proper bidding war. Tom’s dad got involved campaigning for Hari’s eventual release.

  ‘He has to keep his head down till he finishes his course. Which means he’s relying on the PAL network to spread and share the news OpenFreeNet find, before they release it. That’s what Daisy and I are doing now – OpenFreeNet have uncovered this story on how the government is covering up an increase in student suicide. They’re passing deaths off as accidental rather than – ’ Pavlin stops abruptly, eyes turning regretful. ‘Oh, sorry, mate, I didn’t think.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it.’ Tom tries to break a smile. Fails.

  ‘We can work on a different story if you want to join us,’ Daisy says, earnest eyes under a thick dark fringe. They went on a few dates BDD. The way her mouth tugs at the corners, Tom supposes he should tell her he’s no longer interested. But he hasn’t got the words for that either. If he just stays quiet, hopefully that’ll be message enough.

  He mumbles a ‘no, you’re all right,’ sitting down and unscrewing his Ribena bottle. He drains the last of it back till his body grows sluggishly warm. He already fell asleep in Economics. Mr Jones must have noticed, but he said nothing. He closes his eyes. People are generally keeping their distance. He can’t blame them.

  Her

  ‘I despise trolls. Have they nothing better to do with their small lives?’ Millie sniffs, swiping through comments from her morning vlog. ‘Can’t they see, I change people’s lives for the better!’

  I peer over her shoulder. Most of Millie’s comments are giving her love, telling her ‘you’re so beautiful.’

  I wait for Tara to catch up, looping my arm through hers to walk down the corridor to the dining hall. ‘As long as you don’t think bad thoughts, you’ll be fine,’ I tell her.

  She nods. ‘Mum’s looking into the PharmaCare Health Farm my GP recommended,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Yes!’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘Remember how Eliza Jenner went last year. She’s not had a panic attack since.’

  ‘She looks spaced out.’

  ‘She looks happy,’ I beam. We catch up with the others as we join the dinner queue.

  ‘How could anyone find fault with your saying JOLIE Plastic Pink makes you happy every time you apply it?’ Kat’s widening her eyes, ‘I mean OMG!’

  ‘Some people just get off being nasty,’ Bels shrugs. ‘Implying you get paid to promote JOLIE make-up is pure evil.’

  Taking a tray, I agree with Bels. Even though, okay, it’s true. JOLIE do pay Millie to publicise their products – but hey, Millie’s still spreading happiness even if she does get a salary out of it!

  Millie pouts, puts her phone away, starts applying more Plastic Pink. ‘Why can’t people see we do it for them? To make others happy.’

  ‘Sure, you’re Mother flipping Teresa reincarnated.’

  ‘NAD! Take that back!’ Millie slams her tray heavily against Fran’s chest behind us. ‘You’re probably one of my trolls! The look fits!’

  Fran whips Millie round, pinning her against the metal counter. Millie’s pink gloss mouth starts chomping, as if she’s trying to get to a piece of Fran to bite. It would be humorous if it wasn’t so hateful. ‘Stop it, Fran! Millie!’ I exclaim. Students are stopping to watch. No! Someone’s got their phone out. I can’t have a photo of me next to this!

  ‘Tell your dog, apologise, Hopeless,’ Frigid hisses. She looks close to crying.

  ‘Fran, don’t be like this,’ I say. I smile because another girl looks like she’s taking a video now. I step closer to Fran. ‘Listen: I saw Tom and he would love to see you. Let Millie go and I’ll tell you more.’ Operation Love Match might as well continue now.

  Fran’s looking at me suspiciously. But it works. She loosens her grip on Millie, and Millie fidgets free, catapulting into Bels and Kat.

  I pass them a look for ‘rejoin the queue’, pulling a reluctant Fran away.

  ‘Really. Tom would like to see you again. He remembers how well you got on, when you came round to mine those times. Doesn’t that make you feel better?’ This will make a good piece for today’s blog. From violence to victory.

  Frigid’s still passing me a look of disbelief, but I recognise it in her eyes. Hope.

  Now I just need to convince Tom he wants to see Fran.

  Him

  Shit, he’s glad that’s over. Tom stumbles home with a hangover. His head bowed, working out ways to leave school altogether, he doesn’t see him until he’s almost at his front door. Small and slight, with tight black curls and a leather-tanned face.

  ‘Mikey?’ Mikey: the ex-convict, with a past more colourful than the Kray twins, transformed into a man who lives to help others.

  ‘Tom!’ Mikey starts towards him, limping. ‘I was shot by a mafia man,’ he told Tom as a wide-eyed ten-year-old. When his dad worked at the Daily Herald, he wrote loads of stories on the plight of the homeless. That’s how he and Mikey met. Religiously, Tom and his dad
would serve food at St Patrick’s homeless shelter every Christmas and Easter. His dad said it made more sense than sitting stiffly in a pew mouthing Hallelujah.

  Mikey grips a strong hand around Tom’s arm, pulling him forward to slap his back. Tom inhales the familiar scent of tobacco. It instantly makes him want to cry.

  Pulling back, Mikey’s wizened features turn sympathetic. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I’ve not called to pay my respects before … or come to the funeral … personal reasons,’ he says in his gruff voice. ‘But … I thought you’d want Matt’s stuff back.’ He stares down at the grey holdall by his dusty black boots.

  Straightaway, Tom recognises it as his dad’s. ‘How come you’ve got his bag?’

  Mikey rubs the stubble on his chin. ‘Didn’t Matt say? ’E’d been stayin’ with me the week before ’e died. Only just come across ’is bag in a locker ’e were usin’ at St Paddy’s.’

  ‘You saw him then?… Before …?’ Tom’s throat thickens, his voice coming out choked. ‘How was he?’

  Mikey takes a roll-up from his top pocket, leaving it unlit in the corner of his mouth. ‘He was a mess, Tom,’ he sighs. ‘Cut up over ’im and yer mum.’ Mikey pans callused hands. ‘I couldn’t even offer ’im a bed. Only floor space. We’re chocka right now – all these cuts the Progress Party are makin’ to benefits and fundin’ – lots of other shelters are closin’.’

  ‘The Progress Party sucks.’ Tom gives in. He crouches down and unzips the holdall, his stomach aching like it does whenever he sees Dad’s belongings. His dad’s favourite khaki army jacket is packed on top; it jolts him away again.

  ‘Aw, I’m sorry, Tom.’ Mikey screws up his face. ‘Your dad was one of a kind, you remember that. These days, no press will cover issues like ’omelessness like Matt did. Cos papers have their Pharma-bloody-Care advertisin’ revenue to think of.’ He lights his roll-up, taking a deep drag. ‘Bloody government would ship every ’omeless person on a boat to Australia if it were still a colony.’