Dead Girls

by Abigail Tarttelin

  Hattie puts her Nano Pet on the ground with her lunch box. Even Hattie seems a little shaky as she says, “You know what perverts do, Thera.” Then she spells out the word rape, mouthing the letters without saying them. R-a-p-e. Afterward we all shiver, as if a cold wind has blown through the playground.

  “We don’t know that’s what happened to Billie, though,” I say quietly.

  Poppy replies with a hushed voice, though. There is a sense from all of us that we shouldn’t be talking about this; that we should miss Billie without speaking about what happened to her. “I think it did. I heard my parents talking about it.” My cheeks start to heat up. “I hope she wasn’t in too much pain,” Poppy adds.

  I scoff. “Any pain is too much pain.”

  “I meant…” Poppy shakes her head.

  We are silent for a minute, and then Hattie murmurs, “My mum and her boyfriend said Billie got killed because she was the prettiest.” She looks at Poppy and me. “You know, of all of us. I heard them talking. They said it was a shame she was so pretty, because that’s why he took her.”

  Poppy picks her nails. “I guess I’m glad I’m not pretty, then.”

  There is an awkward pause. “You are pretty,” I tell her. But Poppy is definitely not anywhere near as pretty as Billie.

  “No, I’m not, I’m fat,” Poppy says quickly, and pokes her belly.

  Hattie kicks a pebble and looks out over the playground. “You can’t argue over whether you’re pretty or not, you just are or aren’t.” She says this absentmindedly, without her usual venom. “Billie was so pretty, with her long blonde hair. You are quite pretty, Poppy,” she adds.

  I hesitate. When I was in Year Four, a boy two years older than us kissed me on the cheek for a dare. His friends must have thought I was ugly if they dared him to kiss me. And the pervert didn’t choose me, did he? The evidence speaks for itself. “Nathan Nolan said that too, about being pretty. He said all the girls who are our age who get killed are pretty.”

  Hattie frowns. “You’ve been talking to Nathan Nolan? Why?”

  “He asked me to play football with him.”

  She makes a face. “I wouldn’t go talking to Nathan. He lives next to the woods. He could have killed Billie.”

  “No! He…Nathan’s nice,” I say uncertainly, thinking back to my conversation with him in the graveyard. He knew things, like the fact that I didn’t “finish her off,” and that it was a pervert that killed her.

  “You don’t know him. He’s rough.”

  “He’s just a boy.”

  “Um, yeah.” Hattie is still muttering, but her usual mean tone is coming back, like she thinks I’m an idiot. “A boy, i.e. a man, i.e. a possible pervert and killer of Billie.” She shrugs. “I’m just warning you for your own good.”

  “Well…you’re wrong.”

  She shrugs. “Okay, fine, hang out with him, then.”

  “He has an alibi, anyway,” I say, remembering. “He was at home, playing cards.”

  “That’s not an alibi—not if he was alone. Was he gambling with other people?”

  “Like his friends?”

  “No, like with the other gypsies from the park.”

  “Nathan isn’t a gypsy,” I say, then, frowning, “Is he?”

  “Duh. He lives in a trailer. Also, Mum said his dad’s in prison.”

  “Why’s his dad in prison?” asks Poppy.

  “Mum won’t tell me, but he’s been in there for a really long time, so…you can guess.”

  “D’you think he could have killed Billie?” I ask nervously.

  “No, he’s still in prison. But…”

  “But what?”

  “You never know. Like father, like son.”

  I shake my head, but I feel frightened. “He didn’t kill Billie. He wouldn’t. He likes me and she’s my best, true, forever friend.”

  “Anyway,” Hattie continues darkly, “Nathan wanted to meet up with me, but Mum won’t allow me to, because he’s rough and older. He asked me, though. So he must have moved on to you.”

  I blush. I wish Billie were here. But then, she never did hear it when Hattie was mean. Billie’s not mean at all, so she doesn’t understand it when other people are. Didn’t. “I bet he only asked you first because you live near the trailer park, and because he was finished with your sister,” I whisper.

  “She was finished with him,” Hattie says. “Did he tell you he was finished with her? Don’t be nuts. Anyway, it’s obvious why he’d prefer to spend time with me than you.”

  “Why is it obvious?” I say, my voice getting louder. “I’m much better at playing pretend and football and playing games than you are.” I drop to a mutter again and say to myself, “Billie always thought so.”

  Hattie rolls her eyes. “You’re such a child. No one our age but you makes up things, or has imaginary friends, or plays anymore.” She uses bunny ears when she says “plays,” like it’s not a real thing. “That’s not why boys ask out girls. Nathan obviously asked me first because I’m prettier than you. And if Billie was here…” She presses her lips together.

  “If Billie was here, what?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  I look down at the ground, feeling tears coming. “You’re not prettier than me,” I whisper. But maybe she is. I haven’t thought about it before.

  “Yes, I am. I’m the next prettiest in the group, after Billie. That’s why Mum says I have to be really careful about the murderer too.”

  “It’s not a competition to see who gets killed first! The murderer could come for any of us.”

  “Yes, but he’s more likely to come for me. Or maybe Poppy, but she’s flat-chested.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Hattie looks at Poppy and they both snicker, like they have a secret I don’t know about.

  “He could have taken Billie because she was funny, or kind,” I say quietly. “It’s not always about being pretty.”

  “Er, yes, Thera,” Hattie says. “With the male species, I think you’ll find it is.” She looks tired, as if our conversation has exhausted her. I know she is thinking about Billie, and that she misses her too, but she can’t overlook the chance to be mean. She turns to Poppy. “Nathan’s going to be running back to me after hanging out with Thera. She clearly doesn’t know anything about men.”

  Just then the bell rings, and we have to go in. I stand up and look down at her. “You’re trying to make fun of me, Hattie, but men aren’t a species. So clearly you don’t know anything either.”

  “Oh god,” Hattie exclaims, and drops her head into her hands, like she has given up on me. Poppy giggles uncertainly, always trying to keep on Hattie’s good side. I walk away on my own.

  We have reading time in the afternoon. I go in the library, where it’s nice and snuggly, and bagsy a beanbag. I feel awful inside, but outside I try not to show it. I think about my dad, and how he always says I should be brave when I fall over or cut myself.

  But then I think about rape. It’s sex. But the man forces the woman.

  Sex is what mums and dads do.

  It’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do too, like Hattie’s older sister and her new boyfriend. Hattie told us they had already done it. Did she do it with Nathan too? I shake the thought away.

  What if the girl doesn’t want sex? What if the man just goes ahead and rapes her if he wants to?

  I wonder if Nathan was a rapist, if he would rather rape me or Hattie.

  And then…do you die from it? Or do they kill you after? Do they kill you ’cause they think it’s sexy? How long after you’re raped do you die?

  Boys prefer girls with big boobs. Billie didn’t have big boobs. But that’s why a pervert is a pervert. He likes children. Right? Or is that a pedo?

  I’ve read every book we have in the library. I finishe
d all the reading stages and went on to Free Readers when I was still in Year One. I have been bringing my own books into school since I was in Sam’s year group. Now I’m reading Anne of Green Gables.

  I open the book and pull out the bit of paper from automatic writing. It’s all mumbo jumbo. I haven’t been able to work it out so far. I look at the last line.

  A G S T T C P R A O E E Y O U T M S E N J T N H I E

  I pull my pencil out of my pocket and circle the letters P R A and E. Then I reorder them to spell “rape.” I stare at the rest of the letters. Suddenly I start. I circle the letters S T T C O S H I, and reorder them to spell “Scottish.” Jenny Ann Welder was Scottish. I asked Hattie about her. She brought the paper in to show me. It was comparing Jenny’s disappearance to Billie’s, and it has Jenny’s picture in. Jenny’s body was never found. After “Scottish,” I’m left with:

  G A E Y O U T M E N J T N E

  I play around with the letters a bit, and then I write down:

  Jenny

  Get

  Me

  Out

  (spare A)

  I don’t know what that means. Then I realize. It’s “Get me out Jenny.” Maybe the A is supposed to be a comma. It was all quite scribbly. I work on the first two lines, now I’ve figured out they are anagrams. After five minutes, I sit back, satisfied, and spooked. The message reads:

  I want to go home

  He said he wouldn’t kill me

  Get me out,

  Jenny

  Maybe the ginger girl’s name is Jenny, and she’s a spirit, stuck somewhere she shouldn’t be. Like, on earth.

  “Thera?”

  I jump and shut the book on the paper. “Mrs. Adamson!”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Reading.”

  Mrs. Adamson oversees the library for reading time. She always used to plait Billie’s hair at reading time, and sometimes Billie braided hers. Mrs. Adamson always has her hair in a ponytail. It’s ginger, like Jenny’s. Mine and Billie’s hair was the same, long and blondey-brown, but hers was silky and mine has loads of knots in it. I hesitate. I want to ask Mrs. A something, and I think I trust her, although she can be lame sometimes. But she’s a teacher, and she really liked Billie too.

  “Mrs. Adamson?”

  “What is it, Thera?”

  “Do you watch the news?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Is it definitely a pervert who killed Billie? I mean…did he do things to her?” I shift my bum uncomfortably. It makes me feel physically ill to talk about this.

  “Oh my God, Thera,” she whines. “Why would you ask me that? There are some things you don’t need to know.”

  “But…if Billie knew those things maybe she’d still be alive.”

  She looks at me sideways. “What?”

  “Maybe all the dead girls would.”

  Mrs. Adamson stiffens. “All of them?”

  “Yeah, Jenny Ann Welder, and the one last year in pieces in the rubbish bin. Other…other ones,” I say, thinking of the ghost girls.

  She gives me a strange look. “Why are you thinking about them?”

  “Is the killer definitely a pervert?” I ask. “Based on the news?”

  “Well,” she says sadly, “it certainly seems like that’s why he was interested in her, doesn’t it?”

  “How can you tell a pervert from just a normal man?”

  She blinks at me. “You can’t.”

  “Not at all?”

  She thinks. “No.”

  “Would all men kill a girl if they could get away with it?”

  She sighs. “I think people do what they can get away with, and I think men have a voracious…a voracious…appetite. But you learn to make allowances. Sometimes the compromise, to be with the man you love, is a big one, but I know I…I couldn’t live without my husband.” She shakes her head. “I couldn’t live without him.”

  “What?” I say, confused.

  “Oh, nothing.” A tear falls out of her eye.

  “Are you sad because you miss Billie?”

  She wipes her cheeks with a tissue from her pocket and is silent for a while. Finally, she says, “Yes, that’s why.”

  I hesitate. “There was a walker that we met while we were out. Do they think he killed Billie?”

  She looks at me. “Have you been watching the news?”

  “No. I’m not allowed.”

  “It’s probably someone who was passing through, Thera, like a long-distance truck driver. They probably won’t catch him now. He’ll have left the area.”

  “But…but it’s their job to solve crimes! How can anybody ever be safe if he’s not caught?”

  “The police aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, Thera. But don’t tell your parents I said that. Anyway, you’re just a little girl. You shouldn’t be asking or thinking about anything like that—men and everything. You should be playing. I’ll tell your parents if you keep on this tack.”

  “Can I just ask one more question?”

  She sighs, like I’m really annoying. “What?”

  “Um…How does a pervert kill a girl?” I ask, as politely as possible. Mrs. Adamson always rewards politeness. That’s another reason she liked Billie. Billie would go along with anything with a smile and a happy attitude. “You know,” I say, “after he…touches them?”

  Mrs. Adamson is staring into the middle distance. She doesn’t answer.

  “Mrs. Adamson?”

  “Get back to your book now, Thera,” she whispers. “And stay away from men. They’re all bad for you, one way or another.”

  I am about to ask what she means, but then there is a sudden creak at the door and Mrs. A and me look up quickly.

  Mr. Kent smiles at us. His head extends into the room, like a lizard, and he licks his lips with his gross, meaty tongue. “Just checking in on you,” he hisses softly, his eyes darting from me to Mrs. A and back again. “Just seeing how you both were.”

  “What do you want in your sandwiches?” Dad asks after school. He is next to the counter, buttering bread, and Mum is stood next to him reading a letter. Our dad is the best, and the strongest man I know. He works in the village. He has his own carpentry workshop, and at home he does the washing up, mending stuff, and cooking. I wonder if he could ever be a rapist. Mrs. A seemed to say all men would be, if they could. The thought makes a big knot in my stomach. I wonder if rape looks different from normal sex. It’s a lot more violent, I guess, which is horrible to think about. Maybe that’s how you die? Also, I wonder if you can get a baby from rape. You must be able to, if it’s sex. Is that why it’s better to die of it, because you’d be pregnant? Billie and I always thought babies were gross. I close my eyes as it hits me—again—that she’s not here with me anymore. Well, not alive, anyway.

  “Thera?”

  “Beetroot, mayonnaise, and cheese,” I say.

  Sam nods. We are sat squashed on the little sofa in the kitchen next to the back door, shoes shined, hair spat down, and ready to go to the memorial. “Me too. Is that your favorite sandwich, Thera?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Mine’s tuna with onion and lettuce.”

  “That’s a good one. What are you having, Mum?”

  “I don’t know, Thera.”

  “Are we having a roast tomorrow, when Nan and Granddad are here for tea?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can we have chicken kievs?” Sam asks.

  “We should have fish in a bag,” I say over Sam. Neither of us like roasts much. Broccoli tastes exactly like dirty, lukewarm dishwater.

  The real question is: If the killer wasn’t the walker, could Dad have raped Billie? When I asked him where he was that Saturday, he said he was in the pub the night she died, but I haven’t actually checked to see if
anyone saw him there. If the only reason for being a pervert is being a bad man, and nobody can tell a bad man from a good man…It could be any man at all. Or boy, like I thought with Nathan. I look at Sam. How young does that go to? I’m pretty sure it means older boys. Like Nathan’s or my age, and up. I can’t imagine anyone younger than me would know how to rape someone.

  Dad puts my sandwich plate on my lap and I pick up a square and take a bite absentmindedly. Dad always cuts our sandwiches in squares, and Nan does triangles. I don’t know which I prefer. I guess squares. I keep jiggling my leg. I think both Sam and I are nervous about tonight. We have been talking nonstop since we got home from school. I don’t know what will happen at the memorial. Will I have to get up and make a speech about Billie? I don’t think I could do her justice. I don’t want her to be disappointed in me.

  “Can I have a Club as well as a sandwich, Dad?” Sam asks.

  “If we’ve got some left.”

  “Me and Thera had three each at the weekend and there are ten in the packet, so that leaves four.”

  “Dad, are you ever violent?” I ask.

  Dad looks at me weirdly. “What makes you say that, Thee?” Dad calls me Thee. He always says Thera is too long, but he’s joking.

  “I’m just checking.”

  He puts Sam’s sandwich plate on his lap and fetches him a Club chocolate bar. He puts it on the counter. “For after,” he says to Sam. Then he turns around and starts making his own sandwich. “All animals have the capacity for violence. But I believe a civilized man should never partake in such base behaviour.”

  Dad’s clever. So is Mum. They didn’t grow up with as much money as we have now, so they are a carpenter and a businesswoman. Sam and I have a better start in life, so we can be anything we want to be. Sam wants to be a baker. He loves iced buns. I go back and forth between astronaut and pop star like the Spice Girls.

  “So it goes against your beliefs?” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  Mum leaves the room.

  I swallow a lump of sandwich, watching her go. Dad is lying to me. He is violent, sometimes. One time he shoved me into my room when he was grounding me. Another time, he banged on the table really hard when Sam and I were arguing in the living room. He argued with Mum once, and he smashed a lamp, and she came and got Sam and me out of bed and put us in the car and drove off. She parked the car on the road and we were crying really loudly, so she turned around and came back, and we went back to bed, and there was no more arguing.