“I don’t know how you’re being so brave.”
“It was a week ago and it’s been hectic since then. I had to go to Eberswalde for the funeral. I’ve been crying all week already and it’s like I don’t have any more to give. Sometimes when I’m in bed I get scared about the future. Like, who will look after me if something happens to Daddy.” She paused and took a breath. “Daddy isn’t well. Rachel booked him an appointment with the doctor because she thinks he’s suffering from shock, or post-traumatic stress or something.”
“Why, what’s he doing?” Danesha asked.
“Nothing… he’s not doing anything. He’s like a zombie. But he jumps at the sound of a car backfiring and he’s crying a lot… He’s sleeping on the sofa. When I asked why he said he’s too scared to go in the bedroom. He tried to tell me it reminded him of Mummy but he started crying before he could say it.” Jemima stopped walking and felt her face screwing up as she tried to stifle her own emotion. A surprise rush of pain at recalling her father too scared to open his own bedroom door. “He said he had to take Mummy’s clothes to the charity shop but couldn’t bring himself to open the door to their room.”
“Oh, look out,” Danesha pulled her to the side of the trail. “It’s Crazy Mary.”
Coming towards them was a woman in a black dress with a shawl pulled over her head. The girls stepped aside to let Crazy Mary pass them. Today she wasn’t wearing shoes.
To get to school, they had to travel along Parkland Walk. A nature trail that at one time had been a railway line. The tracks were long gone and the pathway had been allowed to become a forested corridor across North London, but there were still platforms, tunnels and bridges along the route to show it once had trains running through it. It was also the haunting ground of Crazy Mary. Nobody knew her real name. Nobody wanted to. She dressed like a witch.
Crazy Mary stopped walking and raised her shawl with two hands to look at the girls with a wrinkled, weather beaten face. Jemima’s gaze caught Crazy Mary’s and the stare gave her a shiver. Danesha linked Jemima’s arm and shuffled them both away quickly. “God, let’s get away,” she whispered, tugging her friend forward. “Let’s get away before she curses us.”
----- X -----
“Hey, Danesha,” said Stuart Beasly. “Look at this!” He jammed hardcore porn under her nose, a mobile phone video of two women holding a third in extreme lesbian bondage. Other boys around them laughed.
Danesha pushed the phone away saying, “Grow up,” as the boys giggled.
“You love this stuff,” Stuart said, still trying to show the porn on his phone.
“I’m not a lesbian, Stuart… I like porn of young Gayboys like you getting screwed by fat hairy men. Sext me a picture of you getting fisted and we’ll talk.” The boys around Stuart guffawed.
“Stupid lesbian bitch,” he mumbled.
The corridor outside their classroom was noisy. Lots of shoulders being rubbed. Lots of physical contact as the pupils moved en masse from the playground to their form classes.
“Hi, Jemima,” came a voice she didn’t recognise.
“Are you alright? How are you doing?” asked Nicole Webster.
“Oh, my God, Jemima. I heard you needed like, forty stitches,” said Gabrielle.
“I had four stitches,” she replied.
“Were you really in a coma?” asked an unseen boy. She didn’t answer.
Jemima and Danesha pushed into their classroom engulfed in noise and commotion, chairs being slid out, people finding their places. Laughter from Stuart Beasly and the porn addicts as they hid the phone from the teacher. “Jemima. Hello, welcome back.” Her form tutor, Mrs Woods said. “You’re to go and see Mrs Hoxton before anything.”
“Why?” she asked drawing out the word. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I think the school wants to know if there’s anything we need to do… Go and see her now.”
----- X -----
“Come in, Jemima. Sit there. Sit.” When she spoke, Miss Hoxton emphasised the sharp sounds of words. It wasn’t, ‘sit down’ as much as it was ‘sss-IT’.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Now… Let me look at you. What is this on your face?”
“Stitches miss. My eyebrow was cut,” Jemima said.
Miss Hoxton sat down. Today she wore a dark green dress and a string of pearls. Her face was sour and the skin of her throat was heavily wrinkled. Her black hair was cropped short in a man’s hairstyle and her lips were dry and thin. Hoxton wrote something on a notepad. “And have you any other physical injuries,” she asked, rolling the ‘R’ in ‘injuries’.
“No. Miss.”
Hoxton put the pen down. “Your father, or rather some lady who claimed to be associated with your father, called me last week to say you had been in an accident. Who was this lady?”
“Her name is Rachel, Miss. She’s my father’s secretary.”
“Whilst I am prepared to accept this person’s assertion at face value, I will need to speak to one of your parents to validate your absence last week.” she broke away to read a note. “Am I right to believe this accident involved a fatality?”
Jemima tried to say ‘yes’ but the word didn’t form and she huffed the air.
“Well?”
She tried again, inhaling deeply before saying. “My mother, Miss.”
“And what can you tell me about this accident?”
Jemima looked down and twisted her fingers together. There was a sudden feeling that if she spoke her emotions would burst. She turned her head to look at framed diplomas on the wall of Hoxton’s office. Her breathing became hard inhalations through her nose.
“Do you not wish to speak? It would seem not… I am watching you, Jemima Collins, to see how you express yourself. As an educator, I have dealt many times with grieving children; and whilst we at the school can provide some support, I will insist on certain behaviours. For example, I can see that right now you are in a state of emotional shock. You are uncommunicative and I will accept this for a short while. However, if you regress to immature behaviours, such as crying, or acting out for attention. I will remove you from school until you can show maturity… In the meantime, if you feel the urge to cry, you may retreat to the sick room and do so in privacy.”
Jemima whispered, “Thank you, Miss,” then screwed her face wondering why she was offering thanks. Hoxton had that effect on people.
The headmistress leaned forward across her desk and pointed a sharp wrinkled finger. “Do not, Jemima Collins, disrupt a class with grieving, or with immaturity.”
Jemima slowly lifted her head and felt tears running across her cheeks. She was grinding her teeth, her lips pressed as tight as her fists. “Yes, I understand,” she whispered.
Then in her head she heard a man’s voice state, “Ich möchte diese Frau töten.” It was the handsome man. His language was German. It was as though he was here watching; and his tone of voice showed he’d seen enough. Jemima bit her bottom lip and reached a hand between the buttons of her shirt to touch the locket.
----- X -----
Jemima arrived at her first lesson, Product Development.
“Take off your ties,” Mr Wilfred was bellowing. “We will use machinery today so take off your school ties. Wilfred was a tall thin man with grey, slicked back hair and a grey moustache. “You, girl,” he barked at Nicole Webster. “Come here and sit in this chair.” He pulled the seat out and held it until Nicole took the place. He always did that. He always forced people to sit in oddly random places. Then he saw Jemima and locked eyes on her for a few uncomfortable seconds until she had taken her seat and the class settled.
“What did Miss Hoxton say?” Danesha asked quietly.
“Not much… she just wanted me to feel miserable.”
The room was part classroom and part workshop. Mr Wilfred took his place at the front. “We’re going to continue with designs for your desk tidy. Open your folders and take out your drawings.”
&nbs
p; The pupils took out their work as Wilfred walked the room, staring down at their designs. The girls held their shirts at the neck as he passed. Wilfred had a habit of standing over girls and looking down their tops when they weren’t wearing their ties.
“Jemima, can I see yours?” Wilfred asked. She passed her design to him. He looked at it briefly then said to the room. “Everybody move to the band saw.”
The class moved to the equipment as Wilfred brought a block of wood across and carried Jemima’s design. He leaned closer to her. “I heard you were in an accident last week,” he said quietly.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Is that what is on your head?” he pointed to the plaster.
“Four stitches, Sir,” she replied.
“Take off your tie,” he commanded. He was stood a little too close as she unfastened her clothing. He was stood inside her personal body space. “And how are you feeling emotionally? Are you feeling lost or confused, or in any way weak or worried?”
Jemima took a breath. “Yes, Sir. All of those things.”
“I see… Good,” he said slowly. “Gooood.”
Good? Why the heck was it good?
Wilfred took her drawing and copied the curve of her design onto tracing paper to demonstrate to the class how the line of the design could be transferred to a block of wood. He asked Jemima to stand by the band-saw to cut the wood. He took a position behind to wrap his hands around her and guide her hands with the saw.
The machine was screeching as the blade rushed down and through the table. She was so frightened of the cutting blade that she leaned back to press herself against the teacher. His turn of phrase, ‘Gooood’ was still going through her mind.
With the block cut he ushered the class towards the power sander. The machine had a spinning sanding disc with a small fixed ledge to steady the object to be smoothed.
Wilfred started the machine. “Stand here. Put your wood here… Stand firm… Firmer. Open your feet wider apart so you’re standing firm.”
Jemima opened her feet wider. “Yes, Sir.”
“No wider. You need to stand firm against this machine to use it safely.”
Jemima opened her legs wider and slowly touched the wood to the disc. It began grinding with a delicate plume of sawdust spitting to the side. She’d expected it to be harsh and dangerous after the force with which he’d told her to position her feet, but the machine was easy to use. In fact, it was quite calming and relaxing to shape the wood. It was a mystery why he had demanded she open her legs. She wouldn’t have thought about it except for a feeling of radiated energy from the locket. There was no voice, but there was a sense of anger. The handsome man in the locket was communicating again, but this time he was doing so with a feeling of rage and frustration.
----- X -----
It was raining lightly outside for first break. Most of the pupils were underneath the alcove that at one time had been a covering for bikes. Almost all were on mobile phones and tablet computers. The boys looked at pictures of scantily clad girls with huge boobs. The girls looked at pictures of scantily clad girls with zero body fat. The boys were being motivated towards sex and the girls were motivated towards eating disorders; but whatever they looked at, it involved a manipulated image of a sexualised young woman.
“Oh, my God! Jemima,” the first voice came. “I heard what happened. Are you alright?”
“The stitches in your face? Did it hurt?” asked another voice.
“Did you see your mother get killed?” questioned a boy with zero diplomacy.
“Like, Oh, my God, that happened to my cousin Louise but she survived,” said a gossip monger. “You might have PTSD. You can get it later if you haven’t got it yet. Totally, you can get it at any time.”
She answered the straightforward questions. Nodded at the advice but mostly she was numb to the emotions. This happened, that happened and then the next thing happened in logical sequence that made more sense the more frequently she said it out loud; but there was no feeling to it.
“What was the scariest part?” someone asked.
“I was in the wreckage,” Jemima replied. “I couldn’t move because the seat belt was wrapped around my neck and the metal of the car was twisted over me. But I could smell petrol and I was afraid it might catch fire and I would be trapped… then there was… there was a little circle of light…” As she said it she heard her voice wobble. She could see her hand reaching into the coin sized spot of light and see blood on her fingers and the recollection brought with it a sudden rush of images. Monster Munch floating in the air. The nurse laughing at her in hospital. The truck lights blinding her before it crushed the car.
“You look like you’re enjoying the attention,” a voice said to snap her out of the flashbacks.
The group around them went quiet. “No…” Jemima whispered in a suddenly broken voice.
Sabina King and Kerry Powell pushed into the circle. Sabina was the tall and pretty girl who dominated by force of character. She put her hands on her hips and pushed her boobs forward; a show of authority by being a more developed thirteen year old than the other girls. “I can’t believe you. Your own Mum dies and you turn it into a sideshow, you should be ashamed, Collins.”
“Yeah,” said her sidekick, Kerry. “She’s loving the attention.”
“The heck is wrong with you?” Danesha said using herself as a shield between Jemima and Sabina. “Oh, my God, you’re such a bully.”
“Oh, look,” Sabina said. “It’s your girlfriend come to back you up.”
“Lezzers,” Kerry spat from behind. “Always touching one another up... Is she keeping you company, Jay?”
“Are you?” Sabina asked Danesha. “Are you sucking her nips to make her happy?”
Danesha pushed Sabina back with two hands and cried, “Hey!” as some laughter and sniggering broke out from the surrounding students.
Some chastising came from faceless kids. “Hey, you can’t say that,” a lonely voice said without impact.
“Her mum died. Leave her alone,” another said.
Jemima turned and ran. A whoosh of horrible emotion coming over her. Tears suddenly bursting out. She reached a hand into her shirt to grip the locket as she ran. She heard Danesha call her name as she entered the school building.
She ran straight to the sick room and stopped dumbstruck as she opened the door. The school nurse was already there. She didn’t know what to say and remained holding the handle of the door with tears running across her face.
“Are you Jemima?” the nurse asked.
Jemima whispered, “Yes.”
“Take a seat, Dear,” the nurse said as she handed over a box of tissues. “Is there anything you want to talk about? You can just let it out, you’re safe in here.”
Jemima shook her head. “No. I’m alright,” she said as she suddenly cried harder. She knew she wasn’t alright.
“Has something happened to trigger this, or are things just overwhelming for your first day back.”
“Overwhelming,” she lied.
The nurse nodded. “Well take your time. Don’t worry about going to your next lesson, just rest a little and compose yourself. There’s no rush… This will probably happen often over the next few weeks. It’s a process, not an event. It takes time to work through; but there are people around who can help if you want help.”
Jemima nodded. “I just need a break for a moment. A quiet rest.” She huffed and stuttered her breathing as she spoke. “Too… many… p-people… asking… que-questions.”
The nurse nodded and moved away. “Ah, I see… Well, take a seat here and let time do the healing. Call me if you want to talk.”
With the nurse out of sight Jemima purged harder as though trying to push all of the emotion out.
----- X -----
“Sabina got into big trouble,” Danesha told her over lunch. “People told Woods and she told Hoxton. Sabina and Kerry were pulled out of their lessons and are in seclusion.”
J
emima nodded and picked at her food. Cafeteria shepherd’s pie with vegetables.
The dining hall was noisy from a hundred chattering teenagers; they’d sat at the far end to avoid the rabble. Every time Jemima looked up she noticed people staring at her. “People are looking at me,” she whispered. Danesha followed her gaze and saw the same thing.
“Come on,” Danesha said as she pulled on her blazer. “Let’s get out of here.”
They went for a walk around the sports field. Jemima linking her arm with Danesha’s for moral support. Boys were playing rugby, practicing passes, running in a line and throwing the ball between them. One of the boys, William Warwick, missed the catch and fumbled the ball, knocking it towards them. The other boys laughed. It seemed like a ridiculous error. Jemima took the ball and was about to throw it back when William jogged over to collect it. “Hi, he said.” He stood with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily. His white shorts were tight against muscular legs. “You’re Jemima, yes?”
Jemima held the ball out but didn’t speak.
“Yes,” Danesha said. “She’s Jemima.”
William took the ball. “Thank you… Jemima.” He stood for a moment like he was trying to find something to say but his team mates were calling for him to pass the ball back. It was awkward for a moment, then he smiled. “See you, Jemima.”
He went back to his team mates and they continued their running and passes.
“Oh, my God… What’s this, Hi Jemima, see you Jemima?” Danesha asked. “He likes you.”
“No he doesn’t,” Jemima said, pushing her friend lightly.
“Oh. Hi,” Danesha said imitating a man’s deep voice. “I’m William and you must be Jemima. Can I have my ball, Jemima? Do you like holding my ball, Jemima? Would you like to hold both my balls, Jemima?”
“Shut up!” Jemima said with a laugh and a gasp.
Slenderman, Slenderman, Take this Child Page 5