The Black Sheep

by Sophie McKenzie

  I shrug. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Well, drink something at least,’ he says.

  I glug a few gulps of water. It glides down my throat, smooth and silky. I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was.

  For the first time in hours I feel a glimmer of hope. Dex is with me. He will help me get through what now needs to be done: I must tell the police everything. Let them find and demand answers from Perry and Graham.

  It’s the only way.

  I offer Dex the bottle of water.

  ‘I’m good,’ he says.

  I take another few sips. ‘Where’s this station then?’

  ‘Two streets away,’ Dex says. ‘Don’t worry, I know the way.’

  I settle back in the seat. Dex has put the heating on and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. It must be the stress and, now, suddenly the knowledge that I can let other people help me.

  I close my eyes and offer up a silent pledge.

  I’m coming Ruby, I’m getting help.

  The tiredness is all-consuming. I try to open my eyes but I can’t. The effort makes me feel sick. Dex. I’m trying to speak, but my mouth won’t make the words.

  What is happening to me? An alarm sounds, deep inside my brain. Something is wrong. Very wrong. I can’t sleep. I need to talk to the police. Ruby needs me to stay awake.

  ‘Franny?’ Dex is calling me. He’s in the driver’s seat, right next to me, but it sounds like he’s at the other end of a vast, echoey hall. The heat is overpowering, my muscles immovable. I try to answer but I can’t. I’m slipping down a dark hole, away from everything and everyone. Deep inside me fear coils itself around my heart. What is happening?

  And then I hear Dex’s voice. He’s speaking to someone else. Not to me. About me.

  ‘Yeah, I’m telling you, Franny’s out of it. No . . . no, it’s fine. I don’t really have the kids, that’s just what I told her. Nobody knows where . . .’ A pause. ‘Stop being so hysterical, will you?’ Another pause. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  Silence. A flicker of light passes across my eyes. I fight to hold on to consciousness. To make sense of what is happening. He has drugged me. Dex, my cousin, my friend, has knocked me out. He is taking me somewhere that is definitely not the police station.

  Thoughts whirl around my head, images of Dex and Harry and Caspian and my dad. I’ve been tricked and lied to and I don’t understand. Where is Ruby?

  I need to get to Ruby.

  I have to save Ruby.

  I make a final, enormous effort to open my eyes. But the darkness presses down. Too big, too heavy.

  My last thought before I lose consciousness altogether is that Ruby needs me.

  And that I have let her down.

  LUCY

  You call me to tell me you have Francesca.

  And despite my frustration and my loathing my heart still skips a beat when I hear your voice.

  Dex.

  It’s you.

  It was always you. You’ve been here from my beginning. And I mean my very beginning: I have a photo of you holding me in your arms a few hours after I was born. You were five and a half, just a couple of months younger than Francesca, and extremely cute with your dark hair and green eyes and long black lashes. In the photo you’re sitting back in a big hospital armchair and beaming at the camera: half shy, half proud, totally sweet. It’s the same utterly charming smile you still have. I, on the other hand, look revolting – all red and ugly and scrunched up in your arms. Of course Francesca is in the picture too. You always preferred her, the best of friends growing up and close even now.

  Anyway. When I say I’ve known you my whole life it is literally true. This fact notwithstanding, it is also true that during the long summer at the end of your a-level retakes, just before you went off on your travels around Australia and Thailand when I was thirteen and a half, you were round at our house practically every day and you barely noticed I existed. Devastated, I pined, tortured and alone, hugging my misery around me like the security blanket I still (in a secret known only to my mother) sometimes used. Eighteen months passed when we didn’t see each other at all and you faded to the back of my mind as my friends and my school life took centre stage. Until the December just after I was fifteen.

  Mummy and Daddy’s pre-Christmas party was underway. The first guests had arrived downstairs but I was still in my bedroom, fretting over what to wear. Nothing fitted. After two years or so of feeling like a lumpy sack of potatoes in everything the weight had suddenly dropped off me, leaving me with long skinny legs and – to my horror – large breasts that stuck out in front of me like party balloons. I’d finally got rid of the braces on my teeth, which was good, obviously, though I hadn’t yet stopped covering my mouth every time I opened it. The acne that had plagued my skin for ages had disappeared too, except from my forehead, which I kept hidden behind a thick fringe. Looking back I can see that I was prettier than I realised – my face fuller and fresher than it is now and my hair a mass of natural blonde highlights – but also gut-wrenchingly timid. In all the photos from that time I look permanently startled, as if I’d had a glimpse of adult life and found it terrifying. I don’t remember if that’s exactly how I felt, though I do know I was intimidated by my parents’ friends and in awe of my outgoing sister and her uni mates.

  I also know that I was obsessed with the fact that you were going to be at Mummy and Daddy’s party that particular Christmas. Francesca had arrived home from uni for the holidays and several of her friends, including you, were coming over for part of the evening. You’d all be going off clubbing later, which Mummy and Daddy would hate, of course. So there’d probably be a row, though if anyone could diffuse the tension it would be you. Mr Charisma. Francesca just wound our parents up back then, but you were always charming. At least you had been in the past.

  Nobody knew how I felt about you, how I’d always felt for as long as I could remember. I still had that picture of you holding me in your arms the day I was born. I hadn’t looked at it much for the past few months but that evening, knowing I would see you soon, I got it out along with a load of other photos from our shared past. I pored over these alone in my room, until Mummy barged in, wine glass in one hand, pearls wound around the other, telling me that the guests were ‘flooding through the front door, darling’ and urging me to ‘get downstairs, now!’

  Francesca was already there, in a black mini-dress that I knew Daddy would think was far too short. He’d always been very strict with us about clothes. I never minded, but Francesca was forever rebelling against his orders. Now she was away at uni he couldn’t control what she wore any more and he knew it. I was sure that’s why she did it. I, on the other hand, followed my parents’ dress code as I followed pretty much everything else they laid down the law on – including their religion. Francesca, naturally, had refused to be confirmed but I had dutifully gone through the motions just a few months before.

  I stood in the hall with the rest of my family, politely greeting guests and taking coats while Mummy sparkled and Daddy charmed and Francesca entertained all their middle-aged friends with her confident smile and her far-too-short skirt.

  Well, she managed about fifteen minutes of that and then her own friends started turning up and Francesca vanished into another room. I clung to Mummy, feeling shy as one guest after another commented on how much I’d grown. Quite a few of the men glanced at my chest. Even Uncle Perry clocked it – not in a lecherous way. But I saw him notice and it filled me with embarrassment. It wasn’t really their fault. My hideous balloon boobs swelled out, tight against the navy wool of the dress, even though Mummy and I had bought it only a month earlier. The dress had a long, pleated skirt that stuck out from my waist. It was kind of old-fashioned and middle-aged and – apart from the inadvertent tightness across the bust – actually very modest. Still, it was also too old for me and though inside I was all adolescent excitement at the prospect of seeing you the dress must have added to the impression I was obviously giving
of being more mature than I was.

  Or maybe I’m making excuses for you. Even now. An hour or so passed and the party was in full swing.

  I had slunk into the shadows of the kitchen, ostensibly to help the caterers but really in order to snack on the canapés and sip at my Coca-Cola. I could have tried to sneak a glass of wine I suppose, but it honestly didn’t occur to me. At school there were girls who were out every weekend drinking and smoking but I was scared of such things. I was scared of everything, pretty much. I was definitely scared of upsetting my parents, especially Daddy, who I idolised at the time.

  I heard Francesca shrieking with laughter out in the hall.

  ‘Dex!’ she cried. ‘That’s so cool!’

  So you were here at last. Mouth dry, heart pounding, I peered into the hall. I didn’t see you at first. Francesca and her uni friends were huddled together looking at something. Then one of the girls moved and I saw they were looking at a man’s forearm, holding it between them, examining a swirly tattoo which I later discovered was the yin/yang symbol from Taoist philosophy – or heathen flim-flam, as Daddy would have said.

  ‘What does it actually mean?’ someone squealed.

  ‘Balance, opposites attracting, stuff like that.’ It was you, your voice as familiar to me as my own. ‘I got it done in Thailand, couldn’t understand a word the guy said, so it probably means something rude too.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Francesca laughed. ‘Like “I am a pretentious arse”.’

  More laughter, including yours. I moved closer, eager to see you. As I did, two of the girls drifted away and you came into view. I melted on the spot, you were even more gorgeous than I remembered. I soaked up your face: your dark hair curling over your collar, the dimple in your chin, the rash of stubble over your cheeks. As I stared, you looked up and met my gaze. You blinked. Did a double take, then waved me over. You said something I couldn’t hear to Francesca. She shrugged, then turned to Uncle Perry who was behind her and suddenly, out of nowhere, you and I were face to face in the middle of the busy hall and there was music in the background and chatter and the sound of glasses clinking but all I could see or hear or think was that you were still looking at me with those wonderful sea-green eyes of yours as if you were just now noticing me for the first time in your life.

  ‘Lucy?’ you said, and the world’s most beautiful smile curled around your lips. ‘You look amazing.’

  ‘Oh.’ A soft sigh escaped from my mouth. I must have looked as frightened as Daniel when the Angel Gabriel appeared to him. I certainly felt it: my heart pounding, my throat too dry to speak.

  And still you gazed at me. ‘Hey,’ you said, lowering your voice slightly. ‘You know what you look old enough for?’

  I shook my head.

  Your smile widened and I swear I almost fainted.

  ‘You look old enough for a drink,’ you said. ‘And I’m going to find you one and take you somewhere you can drink it where your parents won’t see. How does that sound? Like a plan?’

  ‘Plan.’ I gasped out the word.

  ‘Follow me.’ And with a wink, you turned and threaded your way through the hall. For a second I stood, too stunned to move. Then I hurried after you, through the kitchen – where you picked up a carton of orange juice from the stocks on the counter – and out into the back garden. Uncle Perry and one of Daddy’s friends were on the patio, whisky tumblers in their hands, deep in conversation about the right tactics to use in the pro-life debate.

  ‘Logic and humour, dear boy,’ Perry was saying as we passed. ‘Give them a bit of Reagan’s “I’ve noticed everyone who is for abortion has already been born” reasoning. It’s impossible to contradict, but it keeps the lines of communication open.’

  Neither man glanced at you as you strode past and on, across the lawn and into the trees. You were heading in the direction of the summer house. Was that where you were planning to take me to have a drink? and were we really just going to have orange juice? Unsure whether I was relieved or disappointed by this I slunk around to the side path, then crept along past the bushes where you had disappeared and through the trees.

  You were waiting for me in the clearing by the summer house, emptying some of the juice onto the ground. Mystified I watched you crouch down in the moonlight, your shadow like a beckoning finger across the grass. It started to rain, a light drizzle pattering onto the dark leaves. I glanced back through the trees at the lights that glowed inside the house.

  ‘Hey, beautiful.’

  I turned towards you as you straightened up. You were smiling and my stomach somersaulted. I was so nervous I almost felt sick.

  You held out the carton. ‘Would you take this for a sec?’

  I crossed the grass – my legs trembling – and took the carton as you fished a flat glass bottle from your jacket pocket. ‘Hold it steady,’ you ordered.

  My hands were shaking so I gripped the carton tightly, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

  ‘God, but Uncle Perry’s a smug old queen,’ you said, unscrewing the top of the glass bottle.

  ‘He’s gay?’ My mouth fell open. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘For sure.’ You gave a world-weary sigh. ‘Made a pass at one of my friends last week. Perry was round for dinner with Mum and apparently there was a “moment” outside the upstairs bathroom.’

  ‘No.’ I was genuinely shocked. And not fully convinced.

  ‘Anyway I don’t care whether he’s gay or straight or whatever, I just wish he’d stop being so pompous. I mean, did you hear him back there? I know you guys have a soft spot for him, but really . . .’

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I’d always been fond of Uncle Perry. He was kind when I was ill and tried hard to be jolly whenever he came over. He was, like Mummy and Daddy, a devout Catholic. I knew he had never married, but the idea he might actually be homosexual was beyond shocking.

  I privately decided your friend must have got the wrong end of the stick and pointed to the bottle in your hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ I whispered. The rain was growing stronger, drops trickling from my hair onto my face and shoulders.

  ‘Vodka.’ You held the top of the glass bottle over the spout of the carton, then put your other hand over mine. Gently you tipped the vodka into the juice. ‘God, you’re freezing,’ you said.

  I glanced behind you at the summer house. ‘We could go in there,’ I suggested, amazed at my extraordinary daring.

  ‘Good idea,’ you said, righting the vodka bottle and screwing the top back on. ‘Key still in the usual place?’

  I nodded, my mind going back to the year we moved here. Back then the garden had seemed massive to me. The day we moved in Francesca whispered in my ear that the summer house in the middle of the forest (in reality a small copse of trees) was the house where Hansel and Gretel’s witch had once lived. For a week I refused to set foot in the garden until Mummy unearthed what was troubling me, a revelation that led to Francesca being sent to her room and Mummy patiently accompanying me as I examined every inch of the summer house and the clearing in which it stood. When the warmer weather arrived, she decked out the summer house and surrounding area with fairy lights and that part of the garden quickly became my favourite place in the entire world. Francesca, you and I played out here all that summer. Mummy sat on a lounger just a few feet from where we were now, watching as I splashed about in the paddling pool. You spent a lot of time here then. Your parents had just split up and you wore a slightly haunted look, smiling less than you did before. Sometimes you and Francesca – though of course she professed herself far too old for ‘playing in baby pools’ – would join me in the water. Francesca often got annoyed with me and would kick water in my face but you would always stop her. ‘Lucy’s just a little kid,’ you’d say.

  My mouth felt dry as I followed you over to the rockery surrounding the summer house. You went straight to the white-painted stone where Mummy kept the spare key. All my life you had seen me as that ‘little kid’. But now, here I wa
s, just fifteen and about to drink vodka and orange juice with you.

  You passed me the carton as you reached for the key. It was wet from the rain. ‘Give it a good shake,’ you instructed.

  I did as I was told while you opened the summer-house door. Tiptoeing inside it smelled musty from all the garden furniture stacked away for the winter.

  ‘Guess we better not turn on the light,’ you said with a chuckle. ‘Don’t want your dad finding you boozing.’

  The thought of Daddy knowing what I was doing right now made me shiver.

  ‘Yeah, it’s still cold, isn’t it?’ You slid off your jacket and placed it carefully around my shoulders. The damp of my dress pressed onto my skin. ‘Now let’s have a drink.’

  You took the carton from my hands, released the cap and tipped it back. I watched, enthralled, as you glugged what seemed like a huge amount.

  ‘Your turn.’ You handed me the carton.

  Hoping in the dark that you wouldn’t see I was still trembling, I tried to copy your tipping action. Liquid streamed out, sweet but with a harsh edge that burned my throat. I managed to get down some of it, but I’d taken too much and the excess dribbled out of the sides of my mouth. Mortified and choking, I backed away, wiping my lips.

  ‘Whoa, steady.’ You laughed.

  I coughed, my face hot with humiliation. ‘Sorry,’ I said, taking another, more modest sip. This time, though the harshness was still there, it didn’t hurt. The scent of the drink filled my nostrils. ‘It tastes like Mummy’s hairspray,’ I said, then blushed again, fearing I’d sounded stupid.

  ‘You know, I’ve always thought that’s exactly how it tastes,’ you said, taking the carton and having another expert swig. ‘Is this the first time you’ve ever had vodka?’

  I looked away, torn between my desire not to lie to you and my embarrassment at being fifteen and such an alcohol virgin. ‘It’s my parents,’ I said. ‘They’re so anti-drinking.’