by Deborah Bee
Six weeks after the fire James Arney came back to school. Everyone thought he would go to a new school, a million miles away from here, cos of Kathryn Cowell. But apparently his mum didn’t wanna move. And he said he wanted to come back to be with his mates. He’s got no memory of the fire at all, apparently. That’s what everyone said. Couldn’t even remember going to school that morning. Or getting up. I don’t believe a fucking word of it. No one loses their memory like that, do they? Someone said that it’s like a thing your brain does to stop you being upset, so you just blank everything out. Someone said he’s glad he can’t remember.
Since the police had cleared out of the languages block, the council had been rebuilding it but with new bits, like a lift and a ramp at the front with like some kind of fancy handrail. Then it went round the school that James Arney was coming back in a wheelchair until the skin on his legs had come back and that the school had been forced to put in special equipment for him so he could get around.
In the end, Kathryn Cowell and her gang were only suspended from school for one month. That’s it. Even with the lighter the police didn’t have enough evidence and Wino’s dad made a lot of noise in the local paper about the rival gangs that met in the park right behind the school. So they came back off being suspended like nothing had happened. She had the fattest smile on her face. I’m not even lying. But underneath all the swaggering, the gang was like going round, trying to find out who planted the lighter. She’d told the police that she’d lost the lighter like ages ago. Said she’d dropped it in the park. That it wasn’t her fault if some wanker had come and nicked her lighter then chucked it over the wall. They all said the same. Wino and Rob and all that lot said the same. It was really only a matter of time before they worked out that someone must have broken into the locker and planted the lighter. And only a matter of time before Wino put two and two together and came up with me.
I was totally fucking paranoid. If I heard someone running at school I would like tense my muscles ready for an attack. Or if there was shouting, I’d look for somewhere to hide. Passing Wino walking down the street nearly did my fucking heart in. It would thump really hard, like I had just run really fast in a marathon or something. And I got super super hot and then I couldn’t see. It was like I was in a tunnel. And everything started whirling around and I couldn’t lift my feet up any more. Like they were too heavy.
Ask me if I totally fucking regretted ever having anything to do with Kathryn Cowell’s lighter.
I did then.
37
Sarah
Day Eight – 6 a.m.
‘I have gossip.’
I can hear.
‘What?’
I can hear but I can’t feel anything. My hands have gone again.
‘Pass me the chart, will you? Turns out the husband was an alcoholic. His liver was shot.’
‘What, Sarah’s husband? Really? Do you think she would have known that?’
Did I know that?
‘Doubt it, not about the liver. Not unless she had X-ray eyes. He wouldn’t have had any real symptoms yet – too young. His GP hadn’t seen him for four years and then it was for a chest infection. But she must have known he was drinking really heavily.’
‘Didn’t any of the family mention it?’
‘I guess we can ask the brother, since he’s here all the time. That Ashley. What a creep! If I find him in here again on his own, I’m gonna tell Langlands. It’s not right.’
Keep him away from me.
‘We should tell Langlands. It’s not normal.’
HE’S A FREAK. DON’T LET HIM NEAR ME. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
‘None of them seem to know much about Sarah, do they? Even her sister is pretty tight-lipped. Shame she doesn’t adopt the same approach to Sarah’s medical care and just let us get on with it.’
‘I’ll bet she knows more than she lets on.’
‘I don’t think Mum and Dad even know that things weren’t all hearts and flowers – even though they didn’t like him much. I think they all have just assumed that they’d only been married a couple of years. And newlyweds tend to still be nuts about each other.’
‘For at least a week!’
They’re both laughing.
‘So he was an alcoholic and they were in marriage guidance – well . . .’
‘Not the perfect couple, then.’
‘Is there such a thing? You never really know what people are like, do you? People never really let on.’
I do remember Adam drunk. We were at a party. A lunch party. It was summer. This was before we were married. When we were still in the flat in Camden. He had gone an hour or so before me to the party, because I had been cleaning. The hall floor always needed cleaning. It was white. He said it collected dust. That it needed to be cleaned once a day, at least. I asked him to wait but he wouldn’t. He wanted to get to the party. It was the weekend. It was Michael’s party. Michael was his best friend. Michael was doing well. When I finally arrived, Adam was already quite drunk. Not falling-down drunk. But as soon as I walked in I could tell. His eyes used to shoot off in different directions when he had had one too many. He was jabbing the air with his middle finger, a Marlboro Red in one hand, a can of Special Brew in the other. Chatting in a loud voice. Laughing with his head back and his mouth wide open. Eyes sparkling. Michael gave me that look that he always gave me when he was slightly embarrassed by Adam – slightly sorry and slightly guilty. When he saw me walk through the door, he shouted over the music. And he gave me a huge hug, like he hadn’t seen me for ages. And he introduced me to everyone as his fiancée even though I didn’t have a ring or anything. And everyone was cheering, saying they never thought Adam would settle down. And I must have special powers. It was only about half an hour later that I saw his mood had changed. I was talking to Michael’s university friend. He did amazing portraits. He’d won a prize at the National Photographic Gallery. He asked me out once, ages ago. Adam knew. Adam was still talking animatedly to someone but his eyes were on me. All the time. Watching.
I managed to get Adam out of the party. Quite quickly in the end. He was beginning to get really shouty. I don’t think he even realised that we were leaving. He was that off his head. He lurched against the walls of the staircase, like they had been built lopsided, and then he flung himself down the front steps and sprawled onto the pavement. He couldn’t get up. He was laughing and coughing and dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. He crawled over to a lamp post and clawed his way to a standing position. Then he leaned there, for ages, with one hand on the lamp post and the other propped on his knee. His head was bowed over as he threw up. And I remember thinking, ‘What am I doing here – with a drunk, bent over in the gutter? Why am I marrying him? Is this what my life is going to be like? Do I deserve this?’ I don’t remember how I got him into the car, but I do remember driving to a shop. One of those mini supermarkets, because he said he’d invited the entire party back to our house in three hours. Everyone. Like maybe twenty people. So I bought chickens. Three chickens. And some potatoes. And some lemonade, while he slept in the passenger seat. But when I left the supermarket, the car had gone. And I looked up the road and he was driving all over the place. Weaving like a lunatic in and out of the traffic. Thank God it was a Sunday. And I had these bags of chickens and potatoes. And our house was at least half an hour’s walk. And I thought he was going to crash. I kept waiting for the bang. And I ran down the street. And I ran and I ran. And I kept thinking, around the next corner I’ll see the crash. And he’ll be dead. And his head will be bleeding all over the steering wheel. When I finally got back to the flat, the keys were in the lock and the door was still open. And he was asleep on the bed. Just passed out completely. Face down. And I shouted at him but he didn’t hear me. I was hot. Crying. Crying from inside my stomach. When I’d stopped crying all I could hear was him snoring. And snoring. Like a pig. Like a fat, ugly pig. So I went to the kitchen and I took the chickens out of the bag and I put them i
n two roasting dishes. And I reparked the car, straight. I tidied up the flat again. When the smell of roast chicken started to creep into the sitting room, I realised that no one was going to come to a party that a falling-down drunk had invited them to. So I put away the potatoes. It was still Sunday and it was still sunny. So I thought I should do something. Something nice. I thought I would write a letter to my dad and tell him how lovely it was on a Sunday in Camden. And I could write to Sue, my friend in Israel who picked mangoes on a kibbutz, and Ian in South Africa who teaches blind and deaf children. But I couldn’t find the writing paper. I looked in the drawers and in the desk in the hall and it wasn’t there. And I thought, well, it’s getting late, he must be waking up now, so it won’t matter if I wake him up, and I went to the bedroom and I clattered around in the wardrobe looking for the notepaper and it wasn’t there either. So I looked in the chest of drawers and it wasn’t there. And then, just as the late afternoon sun started making geometric patterns through the window onto the bedspread, I saw that Adam was blinking awake. And I said, ‘Adam, do you know where the writing paper is?’ And he just made a noise. So I said, ‘Adam. Wake up! Can you just tell me where the writing paper is?’ And he groaned. And then I thought, it must be in his office. In the box of papers he keeps under his desk. So I went to the back room and I crawled under his desk. He has this box. A leather box, which I had been given as a leaving present from my last job in the magazine publishing house. It was black leather. From Heal’s. Nice. And I opened it and pulled out a load of photocopy paper and underneath was my notepaper. And underneath that were twelve porn magazines – twelve really ugly porn magazines. Not like soft stuff that you kind of turn a blind eye to but really awful, sad stuff. Stuff that you expect to find in a prison cell or in a murderer’s house or something. Not in my flat. Not in my home. Not in my life. And I was sick. Sick. SICK OF IT ALL. And I was so cross and so sick and so I-don’t-want-this-any-more. And I went back to the bedroom. Slowly. Deliberately, with all the nasty porn magazines. And I walked in and I threw them all at him. They landed half on him and half on the sunlight patterns on the bedspread. Various oversized breasts and bleached bumholes were bathed in a golden glow. And I said, ‘What the fuck is this, Adam? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?’ And he opened his eyes. And he moved his arm from under the magazines. And he looked at me steadily, not even at the magazines, just at me. And then, like out of nowhere, he leapt up off the bed. How could someone move that fast when they are drunk and half asleep? He grabbed me by my arm and swung me backwards against the chest of drawers and, as I fell, he grabbed my leg and like a sack of potatoes he threw me from one side of the room to the other. I just flew. And as I hit the wardrobe he fell back onto the bed. And as I slid down the mirrored door he fell back to sleep in the golden squares. And as I lay there on the carpet crying, wondering which of my bones were broken, he started to snore again. Like a pig. Like a fat, ugly pig.
The next day I got a taxi back from the hospital. They said I had to be collected by someone. That I couldn’t go home alone. He didn’t pick up the home phone. So I lied in the end and said Adam was just coming. He would be waiting outside in the car, I said. And the nurse let me off. I told her, Adam’s not the kind of guy to leave his wife stuck at the hospital, is he?
He acted like nothing had happened. Even though my knee was bandaged and my arm was in a sling. He didn’t say anything. And I didn’t say anything either.
He just smiled and put his hand into his pocket. And lifted out a tiny box. He said, ‘Let’s get married.’
And my heart skipped a beat.
Stupid cow.
38
Kelly
Day Eight – 9 a.m.
It’s Friday. An entire sodding week since I first went to wake Sarah up. And she’s still not fucking awake. I’ve loaded my iPod. If we are allowed to go in today, I’m gonna take it. Mum is waiting to hear back from Tea and Tampons.
To be honest, I don’t know what I’m most scared of. Without Sarah I’ve started to lose my fucking mind, let alone my balls. I’ve seen Wino going past a few times and that totally does my head in. Kathryn Cowell is larging it up at school apparently, off-the-scale thieving according to Laura Smith and Chloé Jeffries. Langlands is like a dog on fucking heat. Always marching up and down the street with his mobile stuck to his ear barking orders at fucking everyone. Every time he walks past our house he peers in our front window like he can see in. And Mum and I stand with our backs against the wall dunking our digestives into our tea. Meanwhile Adam’s brother, previously AWOL, has shown up out of the fucking blue and is quite obviously ‘up to something’ while Langlands is gazing in the opposite direction. And I can’t really ask about it because, if I do, they might wonder if I’m ‘up to something’. This would definitely have been a moment to talk to Clare. She would know what to do. She would’ve.
I didn’t tell you yet about Clare, did I? Not what happened in the end.
It was like a Thursday morning, just after French. It’s when we usually go down to Burger King. We go out the art block door, that leads onto this street at the back of the school, which runs down into town, and if we go during first break they don’t have a Year 13 on duty. We usually go at first break and get back in time for lunch. And then after lunch it’s General Studies afternoon, which is LOL shite, so it’s good to have something to look forward to before we have to sit in the main hall for like fucking hours listening to some poor, unfortunate twat go on about his loser life. We had this one guy in, a real god-botherer, who did this talk about drugs and how he had come off them and how evil drugs are and all that stuff, and he actually started crying halfway through his talk. I’m not even lying. In front of four hundred children he started crying. Awks. Even the teachers were like totally embarrassed. He cried and then he kind of pulled himself together and then at the end when we all clapped he started crying again. No kidding. They shouldn’t invite people who are mentally ill to give talks at schools. How does that show a good role model? If anything, it makes you think he should go and take a few drugs and get out a bit. I think I’m more likely to take drugs after seeing him. Anyway, I texted Clare as usual during French to say meet by the art block and she didn’t turn up. She’d gone a bit weird on me cos she said my hair was horrible now it was brown and what was wrong with White Platinum and I’d said, ‘Nothing, I just felt like a change’, and she’d said that I looked like Elly Nichols, who’s like this total spaz in Year 9, and I said she should go fuck herself. She wasn’t eating. That was her thing by then. Just Diet Coke. So she always said she didn’t wanna come with us. But, like I said to her, we don’t go down town for the food. We go for the fuck of it. Anyway, I thought she’d gotten over herself. So I texted her again and went and waited by the door. Then I sent a text to Hayley to see if she knew where she was and she said she hadn’t even come in today. So I sent another text and she didn’t reply so I went into prep for two lessons until lunch. The teacher overseeing prep was that English teacher Miss Broomfield who is such a fucking bitch. If she sees you using your phone she just takes it. She puts it in her bag and you can’t have it back for a week. A fucking week! My mum says that it served me right when she took my last phone. It should be illegal to take someone’s property for like a week. I bet it is as well. I mean what was I sposed to do without my phone? Cow. Anyway, cos it was Miss Broomfield I didn’t try and text Clare until on the way into lunch, and she still didn’t answer. Then I saw Camilla in the pasta queue and she said that Clare wasn’t in at all, which I said was totally fine, but she can still pick up her phone, right, even if she is ill? So when I got home I said to my mum that Clare was off sick and she made me sit down, in the kitchen on Billy’s stool, and she said that Clare wasn’t sick. She said Clare had been attacked when she arrived at school early this morning. And that she was alright but she was gonna move away cos her mum was fed up of the school and everything and something should be done about them kids going around bullying people. And I was like, ‘Wh
at happened? We all get bullied all the time. What’s her problem?’ And my mum said it was worse than that and I should just send a nice text to Clare and tell her I’d see her soon and stuff like that. Positive stuff rather than the ‘Where the fuck are you?’ that I’d sent like five minutes earlier. But I don’t mind saying I was pissed off. She was leaving the fucking school and she wasn’t even gonna tell me. Move away. Not a fucking word. I’ve been her best friend for like, what, over seven fucking years and she wasn’t gonna talk to me about it. Ask me what I thought. I was never gonna get my clothes back either. Though obvs later I felt bad about that.
Apparently an ambulance had to be called to the school for her, and the police had come in just in case there was any trouble, but there wasn’t. It must have been really early because the school managed to keep it quiet all fucking day. Things like that usually spread like fucking wildfire. There was no CCTV in the school. No proof of anything. And Clare wasn’t saying a word, apparently. We were all texting each other in the evening. And everyone said it was Wino. And when I thought about it, he was acting like he’d done something cos when I saw him after lunch he’d been laughing and shouting and going, ‘D’ya like my hair?’ at Kathryn and everything. She just stood there with her arms folded, like smiling – how lunatic is that? No one knew what the fuck. It was like a big secret.
I waited for Sarah to arrive back from work so I could talk to her about it. There was this man over the other side of the street. I’d noticed him before. A few weeks back. He kept staring at their house. I don’t know exactly how many times I’d seen him. Maybe four. I don’t know. He always wore this brown leather jacket and he smoked the entire time. Like he’d finish a cigarette and right as it was like nearly at the filter he would light a new cigarette from it and start all over again. Sometimes, when he came at night, all you could see was this orange glow from the end of his fag. When Sarah pulled up in her car, he waited until she was locking the car door when he suddenly walked out from the shadows, crossed the road behind her and pulled her by her arm. She jumped fucking sky high and dropped her bag. He shouted in her face something about Adam and she shook her head. She knelt down to pick up her bag, never taking her eyes off his face. He looked like Middle Eastern. Or Greek. Maybe Indian. He had a moustache and slicked-back hair. He must have been like maybe forty or something. Quite small for a man. Little hands. Stone-washed jeans. A gold chain in his chest hair. Yuk. You know the kind of thing. He said something else, then let go of her arm and walked off, along the other side of the road where the streetlights are broken. Sarah locked her car. As she walked down her front path she looked up at my window. She moved her hand to wave then looked up at her own bedroom window and must have seen something there that stopped her. She went inside and I thought it best not to go round. I guessed Adam was there. It was that same night that Sarah fell down the stairs.