The Argument (ARC)

by Victoria Jenkins

  Miss Johnson flashes him a stare that doesn’t go missed by Hannah. Whatever they are here for, she wants to omit the small talk and get straight to the matter in hand.

  ‘We have some new concerns about Olivia, I’m afraid, Mrs Walters,’ Mr Lewis says, as though reminding himself of why they’re there. ‘Miss Johnson has brought a couple of things to our attention.’

  Hannah looks at her, waiting for her to explain what these couple of things are. ‘Shall I make tea?’ she suggests.

  Miss Johnson doesn’t answer, but Mr Lewis accepts the offer, so Hannah sets about filling the kettle and taking mugs from the cupboard. She glances at the two teachers sitting at the table and catches a look passed from her to him. Whatever they are here for, this doesn’t bode well for any of them. If Michael were here now, how would he deal with this?

  ‘There was an incident during Olivia’s English lesson on Monday,’ Miss Johnson says, as Hannah goes to the fridge to take out the milk. ‘One of the boys made a derogatory comment about Olivia, suggesting she might be able to explain the behaviour of Curley’s wife in the book we’re studying.’

  Hannah pours water from the kettle into each of the three mugs before adding milk. ‘What sort of comment?’

  ‘Well, the character is accused of being a-’

  ‘What did he say, Miss Johnson?’ Hannah says, her back still turned to both teachers. ‘What was the comment?’

  ‘We were talking about why the character behaves the way she does and one of the boys said, “Ask Olivia, she’ll be able to explain it.”’

  Hannah carries the three mugs over to the table and puts them down before sitting opposite them. ‘That doesn’t say a lot. What’s he suggesting, that Olivia is bright and might be able to answer the question better than anyone else?’ She smiles thinly. ‘Sounds like a compliment to me.’

  Miss Johnson returns the same smile, its corners hard edged. ‘I wish that were the case, Mrs Walters, but unfortunately I think there was more to it than that. The character in the book is considered…promiscuous, shall we say. The boy in question made the suggestion that Olivia might behave in the same way. Olivia looked very embarrassed by the incident.’

  The party, Hannah thinks. Something happened at that party last Friday night, something the whole school no doubt knew about by Monday morning. Whatever it was, Olivia obviously didn’t learn from it, not if Wednesday was anything to go by. She knows the book well enough to know that the character Miss Johnson refers to is generally considered a tart. Just what the hell else has Olivia been up to?

  Mr Lewis picks up one of the mugs and takes a sip of tea. ‘One of the girls made a comment then, something Miss Johnson only picked up on as possibly relevant after Wednesday’s incident.’

  Hannah looks at Miss Johnson expectantly. ‘And that was?’

  ‘She said the character behaves that way for attention.’

  Hannah raises her arms. She knows she is being patronising, but she cannot help herself, not when this is such a waste of everyone’s time. ‘An accurate analysis, don’t you think? I’d say you’ve done an excellent job, Miss Johnson, it sounds as though your class is well prepped for the exam.’

  Miss Johnson purses her lips, making no efforts to hide her annoyance. ‘The girl was looking at Olivia when she made this comment. This other girl, Olivia’s classmate, I think she was making a comment about Olivia rather than the character in the book. What happened on Wednesday, don’t you think that was maybe a cry for attention?’

  ‘She certainly got plenty of attention,’ Hannah says, not bothering to try to keep the sarcasm from her voice. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Johnson, but I’m not sure what you’re trying to get at here. Olivia is fifteen years old. It’s not the easiest age, you’ll know that. Her behaviour recently has changed, but it hasn’t been significantly different to that of any other teenager. She’s hit a rebellious phase, that’s all. They all do it.’

  ‘Olivia has lost a lot of weight. Quite a dramatic amount in such a short time.’

  Hannah sighs. ‘I discussed this with Mrs Parker. Lots of girls Olivia’s age are conscious of the way they look, there isn’t anything unusual there either. Now, I appreciate your concern for my daughter’s well-being, but this really is a waste of everyone’s time. What happened this week has obviously been difficult for the whole family, I’m sure you’ll appreciate it, but it won’t happen again, I can assure you of that.’

  Miss Johnson is riffling through her bag for something. Finding it, she slaps a photocopied A4 piece of paper on the table between them. ‘Exam practice,’ she says. ‘The students had to pick a title and spend forty minutes writing a story. Olivia chose the title The Visitor and wrote this. Go ahead,’ she adds, pushing the paper nearer to Hannah.

  Hannah takes the piece of paper, feeling anticipation peak in the pit of her stomach. Everything that Olivia does recently seems designed to cause maximum mayhem, and she doubts that this will be any different.

  * * *

  The Visitor

  * * *

  There was once a girl who lived in an ordinary house, on an ordinary street. Her world looked normal, much like anyone else’s, but normal can be deceiving and can wear a misleading costume. Like everyone else her age, she went to school, but this was where the similarities ended. No one at school liked her; they thought she was strange. She was strange: she dressed differently; her hair was different; she didn’t seem to fit in anywhere and wouldn’t if she tried.

  One Friday evening, this girl went to a party. She had never been to a party before and it was exciting and loud and scary in all the best sort of ways. She didn’t know what to do or how to behave, so she had a drink to calm her nerves. It tasted sweet and horrible, but she drank a bit more when it started to make her feel better. She danced. People laughed at her, but she didn’t care; this was the best night of her life so far and it didn’t matter what they said about her at school on Monday.

  A boy asked her to go upstairs with him, so she did. They kissed. Then he asked her to do something to him, something she’d never done before. She wasn’t really sure about it, but she knew that some of the other girls in her year had done it and she thought that she might like it if she tried it once. She didn’t, but it didn’t seem to matter at the time. She was starting to live.

  * * *

  Hannah stops reading, though she is only midway through the story. She doesn’t want to read any more, but she knows she must reach the end. Her stupid, reckless daughter, she thinks – is that what her idea of living is? Giving blow jobs to strange boys in strangers’ houses? Hannah despairs of what Olivia has become, not knowing what she is going to do with her. She feels her face flush with the shame of it all, knowing that both Mr Lewis and Miss Johnson are watching her, waiting for a reaction to what she has read. She feels sick at the thought of how Michael will react to this, not wanting him to know what has become of their daughter. Perhaps now he might start to accept that there are things about Olivia, these ways she has, that are beyond either of their control.

  When she glances up, the English teacher’s eyes are focused on her, accusing her with a silent stare. Hannah feels like reaching across the table to slap her.

  * * *

  By Monday, the whole school knew what she had done. She heard them talking in the corridors and whispering behind her back in assembly, calling her names she’d only ever heard said about other people before. She knows she should care more, but she can’t, because whether rightly or wrongly, people are starting to notice her. She needs someone to notice her.

  She goes to the beach and stands on the pier, breathing in the cold air of the sea. It feels nice on her lungs, fresh and new. She has never been to the seaside before; she didn’t know that it was there all along, that close to her home. She watches the birds as they circle the sky overhead and she thinks about what it might mean to be able to fly, to just spread her wings and take off from the ground, leaving her life behind her and flying to a new one, wherever it mi
ght be.

  Because behind the doors of this girl’s normal home and the appearance of her normal life, things happen to her that she realises now are anything but normal. She isn’t allowed outside, not unless it’s in the garden or to school, where her mother still walks her every day as though she is still seven years old. She isn’t allowed friends or contact with the outside world. She can watch television sometimes, but only when and what her parents decide she is allowed. She can read, but every book that comes into the house from school must be checked over by one of her parents first. There are locks on the windows to stop her trying to escape, and if she breaks her parents’ rules there are handcuffs on the bed that are locked around her ankles, and - when they’ve decided she’s been really bad - sometimes around her wrists.

  She doesn’t believe in God, but the girl prays that a visitor will come one day, someone who will knock at the door unexpectedly and find what no one else has seen, things that she can’t say aloud to anyone because she is scared and she doesn’t want to lose her sister. Perhaps a teacher will come, she thinks, someone she can trust and can rely on to help her and her sister escape their prison. Please, she thinks, send help. Come quickly.

  * * *

  Hannah sighs and looks up from the page. ‘It’s well written isn’t it? What would it get in the exam?’

  She doesn’t like the way Miss Johnson is looking at her. Beside her, Mr Lewis is looking at his hands, his face flushed pink, too embarrassed to make eye contact with either of them.

  ‘It’s a strange interpretation of the title,’ Hannah adds, when neither teacher answers her question. ‘My daughter is certainly imaginative.’

  ‘Is there nothing you find worrying in this?’ Miss Johnson asks.

  ‘Plenty,’ Hannah admits, ‘but once again, you know how dramatic teenagers can be.’ She stops to gauge the teachers’ reactions. ‘You’re not suggesting that any of this is based on reality, are you?’ she says, passing the story back to Miss Johnson. ‘Please,’ she adds, gesturing to the door. ‘Go ahead…be my guest. Take a look around, if you’d like.’

  The two teachers glance at one another, and Hannah sees the slight shake of the head that Mr Lewis offers Miss Johnson, as though warning her that this charade has gone far enough. ‘I can’t tell you how insulting this is,’ she says. ‘My husband and I are beside ourselves with worry about Olivia’s behaviour and now you come into my home and accuse me of…what, exactly? Imprisoning my own daughter?’

  For the first time, even Miss Johnson has the good grace to blush. Beside her, Mr Lewis looks as though he can’t wait to be away from this room and from this house. Hannah is surprised he has allowed himself to be dragged here on this fool’s errand, as it is obvious whose idea it was to come here this afternoon.

  ‘Let’s call him,’ Hannah says, standing and going to the far end of the kitchen to retrieve her mobile from the windowsill. ‘My husband,’ she adds, pulling the charger from the phone. ‘I’ll call him for you.’

  She finds Michael’s number and puts the call onto loudspeaker, allowing them all to hear the ringing and wait for an answer. It rings through to answerphone, and Hannah cuts the call at the sound of his voice introducing himself. ‘He’s probably left his phone in the car,’ she says, putting the mobile into her pocket. ‘You’re welcome to wait for him to call back, if you like.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mr Lewis says, standing. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Walters,’ he adds, though his colleague stands without speaking, not hiding the look of contempt she offers Hannah as she leaves the room. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand our need to follow this up.’

  Hannah nods. ‘Of course. I’ll be speaking to Olivia about it as well. There’s no one more worried about her behaviour at the moment than I am.’

  They leave without further comment, and Hannah closes the front door too heavily behind them, her heart pounding at the exchange that’s just taken place. She stands with her back to the door for a moment, feeling her body shaking, desperately trying to compose herself.

  After a minute, she goes upstairs and into Olivia’s room. Her daughter is lying in bed, her mouth still stuffed with a rolled-up pair of socks, the first thing that had come to hand when Hannah heard the knocking at the front door. Her face is red with frustration and wet with tears; there are welts and blood on her wrists where she has fought to free herself of her restraints.

  Ignoring the muffled cries that Olivia desperately tries to expel, Hannah takes her mobile from her pocket and calls Michael’s number. She waits again for it to ring through to the voicemail service, this time listening to his message and speaking after the beep.

  ‘Her teachers have just been here. What we’ve talked about, about sending Olivia away. We need to do it. We need to do it soon.’

  * * *

  Twenty-Two

  Olivia

  * * *

  Olivia doesn’t know where her mother is, whether she’s at home or has gone out somewhere, though she doubts she will have gone anywhere with her still here in the house. She has stopped struggling against her restraints, having realised that her efforts are futile and are only serving to heighten the pain that fills her arms. She is used to the cuffs that lock her ankles to the bedframe; her parents use these often, and quite regularly at night. Olivia has tried to escape before, once, but they made sure she hasn’t been able to do it again. They don’t usually restrain her completely, but when her mother heard the door she must have looked out from the front window and seen who was there. She told Olivia to keep her mouth shut, though she’d not been given the chance to do anything but that.

  Olivia cried when she heard Miss Johnson’s voice at the foot of the stairs. She had read her story; she knew what was going on. She fought desperately to make herself heard, but the more she tried to scream the more her mouth dried up around the socks her mother had put there, and the more her throat burned with the effort of trying to make herself heard. Her mother has never gone this far. She was panicking, surely realising that she and Michael can’t keep this up forever. It is the only thing that has kept Olivia going. For a while – for too long – she believed that this would be forever. Now, she understands that sooner or later, she will escape this hell they call a home.

  She wishes now that she had spoken to someone ages ago, when she first realised that the way her family lives isn’t the way everyone else’s does. Once she started at the secondary school, things started to look a little different, though Olivia had put most things down to the fact that she knew she was a little odd, a little out of touch with the cooler, more streetwise kids. By the end of year nine, she understood that it wasn’t just this, that there was far more to the situation than simply her own detachment. Yes, she was different, but her parents had made her so, keeping her trapped in this house like a prisoner, segregated from the outside world and blind to everything it might have to offer.

  She has missed out on birthday parties, school trips, days out at the seaside, all the things she realises now make up part of a normal childhood. They have been on holiday, twice, but Olivia suspects that these two isolated occurrences were more about presenting an appearance of normality to the outside world than they were about actually spending time together as a family doing normal family things. The last holiday was six years ago, when Olivia was too young and too naïve to see what was going on. She wonders if either of her parents noticed the point at which it no longer became safe for them to play out the pretence in public.

  They want to send her away because they know they are beginning to come undone. Her parents think she is stupid, but Olivia understands far more than they give her credit for. They think that by sending her to one of these so-called boot camps they will make anything Olivia might claim there incredible, because who will believe the words of a girl who is so wayward and out of control that her own parents have relinquished responsibility for her and admitted defeat when it comes to her behaviour? They think that no one will believe her whe
n she tells them about what happens here, that she is a story-teller, a fantasist; a dangerous child who wishes to wreak destruction upon her family’s reputation.

  She wants to feel sand between her toes. When she looked at the sea earlier that week – when she stood on that pier, not realising what was just a couple of miles from where she lives, having been there all this time – she felt something stir in her, some longing that her mother has described as a restlessness. She has made her feel as though she is ungrateful, undeserving of all that her parents do for her, yet all they have done is keep her trapped. She wants to breathe in cold mountain air. She wants to swim with fish in a bottomless ocean. She wants to walk through a shopping centre in the same way anyone else might, an act apparently so mundane and every day to everyone else, yet so alien to her.

  Olivia had thought that Rosie had yet to realise how different their lives are from the other kids at their schools, though their conversation on Wednesday night suggests she sees and understands more than she has been letting on. She is so much more aware than Olivia was at her age, and now she realises just how much she has underestimated her younger sister.

  It has been the fear of being separated from Rosie that has kept Olivia from confiding in anyone from the outside world. Nearly two and a half years ago, when she first questioned her parents about the way they live, they told her that if she was ever to tell anyone what went on in the house that she and Rosie would be separated and would never see each other again. Though Rosie is able to wind Olivia up more than anyone else in this world, Olivia loves her more than she loves anyone. She is all the family she has.

  In more recent times, with Olivia growing increasingly questioning and challenging of her parents’ behaviour, they told her no one would believe what she says. Who would believe the stories of a girl known to be a troublemaker? The break-in at the house last Saturday night, the faked phone call from Rosie’s school…these are all now ammunition to their claims that Olivia is out of control. They have set her up in the worst of ways, the cruellest and most twisted they could have possibly imagined. But why wouldn’t they? Cruel and twisted are what her parents are.