In The Dark

by Vikki Patis

  ‘So that’s why you spiked her drink that time?’ The words are out before Seb realises what he’s doing, before he even realises that the pieces are slotting together. ‘That’s why you shared that picture all over social media?’ His lips twist in disgust. ‘You were never her friend.’

  Sian looks shocked. Abby looks at him with wide eyes, cocking her head to one side. ‘We all know she’s an attention-seeker.’ She smiles then, a slow smile that looks almost like a grimace. ‘Who says she didn’t share it herself?’

  Seb walks home, hands stuffed into his pockets, a black cloud hanging over him despite the bright sun beating down from a clear blue sky. He thinks of Abby’s words. Izzy was totally up for it. Up for what? It was all drama, wasn’t it? Izzy was a drama queen, everyone said so. An attention-seeker. That’s why she took that photo, he thinks. That’s why she broadcast herself to the world, without a thought about how Seb would feel about it. Had she ever cared about him at all?

  They have known each other for so long, their formative years mingled with memories of one another. He thought they had a connection, something primal that recognised itself, two halves of a whole. And now she is gone.

  His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. He knows it will be one of the boys, asking if he’s all right after he left so abruptly. But he couldn’t handle Abby’s smug grin, the way they were still laughing about Izzy. He wonders if they will ever stop talking about her, ever stop looking at him with barely concealed pity and disdain.

  As he rounds the corner, he almost bumps into someone coming out of the shop, pulls up just in time.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, taking a step to the right as if to pass, but the figure reaches out a hand.

  ‘Seb?’

  He looks up, recognition dawning as he takes in the face before him. ‘Jodie? Bloody hell, I haven’t seen you in forever.’ He tries to remember the last time he saw her, and a memory pops into his mind, of when they were ten or eleven, still young and innocent, sharing sweets on a bench on the park before their paths separated.

  ‘Still a posh boy then,’ Jodie says, whacking his arm with her hand. Seb feels his cheeks flush, denial on his lips, until she laughs. ‘I’m fucking with you. How’s things?’

  ‘All right,’ he says, unable and unwilling to say anything else. ‘You?’

  Jodie shrugs. ‘Yeah, all right.’

  ‘You still live round here? I haven’t seen you in ages, I thought you’d moved.’

  ‘Nah.’ She grins, showing white, even teeth. ‘Well, I went to live with my dad in Enfield a few years ago.’

  ‘Oh. How is he?’

  ‘Dead.’ Seb blinks at her, trying to align her grin with her words. ‘Yeah. He was a dickhead. Heroin.’

  ‘Oh,’ Seb says again. ‘So you’re back?’

  Jodie sighs. ‘Yeah, for the time being. Till she chucks me out again.’

  ‘Your mum?’ Seb is taken aback. He’d always thought Jodie’s mum was nice, with their small, tidy flat and cat with the silky black fur.

  ‘Yeah. She got a new bloke, innit. He took a liking to me, shall we say.’ She fumbles in her pockets, comes up with a roll-up and lighter. ‘She didn’t believe me. Bitch.’

  ‘Is he still there? At your mum’s?’

  ‘Nah. He ran off with some younger bird last year, left her in a shitload of debt.’ Jodie blows a smoke ring and grins. ‘Suppose she deserves it.’ Seb doesn’t say anything. ‘Where you off to anyway?’ she asks.

  ‘Nowhere. Home.’

  ‘Nowhere. Home,’ she mimics, deepening her voice. She finishes her roll-up and flicks it to the floor, sparks connecting with the pavement. ‘You should come out tonight, in town. Unless you’ve got big plans.’ She whacks his arm lightly.

  ‘I’ve just come from there,’ he says. ‘I need to get home.’

  ‘Come on. It’ll be fun. We’ve got loads to catch up on.’

  ‘All right. When?’

  ‘Now?’

  29

  Izzy

  In the bathroom – her bathroom, she reminds herself – Izzy turns on the shower, steam filling the air as she takes off her clothes and steps under the water. Miranda has left out toiletries for her: a bar of fruity body wash on a wire shelf, bottles of shampoo and conditioner that have words like 97% natural and for curly hair. She closes her eyes and inhales the scent of the shampoo, her fingers scrubbing her scalp.

  ‘Your hair is beautiful,’ Miranda said when she arrived, engulfing her in a hug. ‘Your dad showed me a photo. I hope I’ve bought you the right stuff.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Curls are so in right now.’

  Izzy has never been in, not ever. But maybe she can be, here, now. Maybe she can be someone else entirely.

  She rinses and conditions her hair before opening the shower door, the mat soft beneath her toes, the towel fluffy and warm from the rail on the wall. She looks around the small room, admiring Miranda’s taste. The white metro tiles have been laid in a zigzag formation, the wall on the far side painted a light teal. The sink is a wide bowl, and the cupboard below contains everything you could ever need; bamboo toothbrushes, spare tubes of toothpaste, mouthwash tablets. A pack of razors.

  Izzy closes the cupboard door and wipes the condensation from the mirror. She uses the microfibre towel to squeeze the water from her hair and rakes through the curl cream Miranda pointed out when she gave her the tour. She vows to learn how to take care of her curls properly, instead of trying to tame them. Maybe she should stop trying to tame herself.

  In the bedroom – her bedroom – she opens the wardrobe and looks through the clothes hanging on the rail. She hasn’t unpacked yet, but Miranda has thought of everything, it seems, and Izzy looks through the rows of new leggings, jeans, pyjamas. She sees a maxi skirt and a few T-shirts, and a drawer full of underwear. She blushes, wondering how Miranda knew her size, before selecting a pair of leggings and a T-shirt with David Bowie’s face on and moving to the dressing table. She opens a tub of moisturiser and spreads it along her legs and arms, enjoying the mango scent and the soft, slippery feel of her skin. She feels pampered, relaxed.

  Dressed, she checks her phone for the time. Seven o’clock. She pads down the three steps separating her room from the rest of the first floor, then heads down to the kitchen. She can hear music drifting out of the open door, and the low hum of voices which stop when she enters.

  ‘Hey, Iz,’ Anthony says, turning from his place at the sink. ‘Dinner’s almost ready.’

  ‘Smells good,’ Izzy says. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, no,’ Miranda says, waving a hand as she stirs something on the hob. ‘You sit down. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Sure. Is there any Coke?’

  ‘In the fridge. Help yourself.’

  ‘I’ll have one too, please,’ Anthony says. ‘Diet,’ he adds when Miranda glares at him. ‘Trying to reduce the sugar.’

  ‘You know sweeteners are just as bad for you,’ Izzy says as she takes the cans from the fridge. ‘Our bodies can’t process them.’

  ‘See?’ Anthony grins as Miranda tuts. ‘I knew you’d come in handy. Grab me a normal one, will you? We’re celebrating, after all.’

  Izzy smiles as she sits at the table. Celebrating. A word usually reserved for birthdays and holidays and anything other than her just being there, just existing.

  ‘We’ll go to B&Q tomorrow if you want,’ Anthony says, drying his hands on a tea towel and coming over to sit opposite Izzy. ‘We can just have a browse if you haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘I think I found a grey I like,’ she replies. ‘Or maybe a dusky pink.’

  ‘Good choice,’ Miranda says. ‘I love a light pink. Have you texted your mother yet?’

  ‘Yeah. I sent her pictures of the room too. She said it’s the size of a studio flat.’

  ‘A bedsit in my language,’ Anthony says with a chuckle.

  ‘Oh, good,’ Miranda says. ‘I’m sure she’ll be missing you.’

  I’m not, Izzy thinks but d
oesn’t say.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ she asks.

  ‘Harissa cauliflower with potato wedges and salad,’ Miranda says.

  ‘We don’t eat meat,’ Anthony adds. ‘Sorry, I should’ve said before.’

  ‘We don’t mind if you do though,’ Miranda says quickly. ‘It’s not a problem.’

  Izzy shakes her head. ‘I don’t mind. That sounds really nice.’

  ‘Set the table, will you, Ant?’ Miranda says as she opens the oven door.

  ‘Oh, let me.’ Izzy jumps up, wondering when she was last this helpful at home, pushing the thought away. ‘Where are the plates?’

  Miranda points at a cupboard and Izzy takes three grey-rimmed plates down, setting them out on the table before going back for cutlery and napkins. The bi-fold doors are open and a cool breeze flutters through. It is colder down here, Izzy thinks, but pleasant. The weather has been unseasonably warm, and she hopes it holds for her first trip to the sea. She can’t wait to explore the city.

  Miranda sets out plates of food and sits down, pouring herself a glass of water. ‘Help yourself,’ she says, holding the bowl of cauliflower out to Izzy. She spoons out a portion before handing it to her father.

  They eat in companionable silence for a while, the food new and delicious to Izzy. She thinks of the effort her mother goes to cooking for them all and feels a pang of regret for not appreciating it more. For not appreciating her more. She will call her later, she thinks. She will make an effort.

  ‘I thought we could go out for brunch on Monday,’ Miranda says, laying down her cutlery and picking up her water. ‘While your father is at work. I’ve got a few days off.’

  ‘Where do you work?’ Izzy asks, stopping short of using the word Dad. ‘Mum said you used to be an artist.’

  Anthony laughs. ‘Used to be, yes. Now I run a gallery on the Barbican, showcasing other, more talented people than myself.’

  Miranda lays a hand on his arm. ‘Hush. You’re still talented. He painted that, you know.’ She indicates a painting hanging above them on the wall. Izzy looks at it, cocking her head to take in the scene. A large ruin stands on top of a cliff, the sea sparkling beyond.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s an old tin mine,’ Anthony says. ‘Over in St Agnes. Lovely place. We’ll visit sometime.’

  ‘I work in finance,’ Miranda says, making a face. ‘Not quite as glamorous. It’s mostly from home, though, so I can’t complain.’

  Izzy sips her drink. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asks. ‘This house is amazing.’

  ‘We moved in properly about two years ago,’ Miranda replies, smiling. ‘After the main renovating was done. We still lived in a bit of a building site for a while, but it was worth it.’

  ‘How do you like your room?’ Anthony asks. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  Izzy nods. She tries to imagine the father she knew when she was younger, but fails to conjure up an image. How could she have forgotten him so easily? Then she remembers: her mother. When she finally emerged from her depression, for Izzy recognises now that Caitlyn had been depressed, she had refused to speak of him again, taking down all photos and reminders of him. He had been erased, scrubbed from their lives and their minds for good.

  ‘It’s great,’ she says, trying to push away the guilt she feels. ‘It’s perfect.’

  30

  Caitlyn

  My feet pound against the floor, my ponytail swinging as I run. I listen to the story of a foundling hospital in the eighteenth century, losing myself in the mesmerising voice of the narrator. Michael is going away again tonight, and the house is empty, the silence too loud, and so I am running, breathing hard but steady as I navigate around the families picnicking on the grass, the dogs chasing balls thrown high into the air.

  I have kept tabs on Izzy’s social media since she left, watched with an ache in my heart as she explores Plymouth, double-tapped the photos of her bedroom and the kitchen in her new home, the beautiful fireplace in the living room. Miranda has good taste. I have checked her social media too, found her on LinkedIn and ran through her professional life. On paper – or rather, on screen – she appears to be a kind, intelligent woman with a good career. Pity she has such bad taste in men, but I can’t really judge her on that. Anthony was always charming, with his bright smile and eyes full of mischief, and who am I to say that he hasn’t changed, that he is no longer the man who walked out on his family because it wasn’t living up to his expectations. Because we were tying him down, too heavy for him to carry.

  I am not bitter. Things worked out, after the depression and the constant worrying about money and my health failing. I suppose it would make me a bad daughter if I said I was glad when my parents died and I inherited enough to silence those worries, but it’s true. Though glad is probably too powerful a word; it implies an emotional connection, something that tethered me to them. Relieved is probably the better word. After their funeral in Melbourne, which I did not attend, I’ve rarely thought about them. There had been so much distance between us throughout my life, their disappointment that I was not a boy to replace the son they’d loved and lost before I was born so great, it overshadowed everything else. I spent a lot of my childhood with my grandmother, a tiny woman with a fierce personality who I named Izzy after, and who she reminds me of more and more as she gets older. Isabelle the elder was a true matriarch, with very clear ideas on what she expected from people, and that is probably why her daughter, my mother, rarely spent any time with her, but she was also loving and kind. I enjoyed spending time with her. My parents were the kind of people who didn’t seem to like children, though I know from the stories and the amount of photographs they had of my brother that they had loved him. So perhaps it was just me they didn’t like, me who was the disappointment.

  If someone were to ask what my childhood was like, I would have to say it was quiet. Awkward. Disjointed. Laughter was scarce, love even scarcer. So it’s no surprise then that I escaped as soon as I could. My grandmother died when I was seventeen, and then I moved across the country for university, visiting a few times a year, then twice, then only at Christmas. And then I was pregnant, and the path I had so carefully crafted for myself was ripped up from beneath my feet.

  I slow down as I cross over the bridge, taking out my earphones and pausing at the end to watch a family of swans navigate the water below. The cygnets are grey and fluffy, tiny beside their majestic parents. A moorhen squawks from the bank and I start off again, walking this time, following the river as it bends around the perimeter of the field. It is quiet here, only the rushing of the water and the sounds of the cars flying over the A10 in the distance. My breath slows as I walk, my muscles tingling as they cool down. I perch on the end of a bench, popping open my water bottle and gulping the liquid down. I close my eyes and breathe in, inhaling the scent of the muddy riverbank beneath me, the freshly cut grass on the field. And then I smell it, the unmistakable scent of weed drifting towards me.

  I open my eyes. This area is popular with teenagers, hidden away from small children and inquisitive dogs. I wonder suddenly if Izzy used to come here, if she ever laid in the tall grass with friends, watching the clouds move across the sky. I haven’t always paid her the attention she deserves, haven’t always taken her sadness seriously. And then the bullying started, and I foolishly believed that it would blow over, that it was normal teenage behaviour and everything would work out. But then she started to hurt herself, small cuts on the insides of her thighs to begin with, hidden beneath her clothes. Clumps of hair in the bin, tucked beneath a wad of tissue. Packets of crisps and biscuits going missing from the kitchen, the sound of her throwing up in the middle of the night.

  I remember the first time I found her hastily trying to cover the gash on her wrist with a plaster. That was when I realised the true depth of what was going on. How much it was hurting her. She started going to counselling, and although she was still withdrawn, spending most evenings alone in her ro
om, I thought things were getting better. I thought she was getting better.

  At first, she refused to show me the messages she was getting. She told me she’d deleted her social media accounts, and then she started to stay off school, claiming she had a migraine. It all seemed to happen so fast, and yet, looking back, I can see so many opportunities for me to have stepped in. To change the course of events. And then maybe none of this would have happened. The photo, the suicide attempts. Izzy moving over two hundred miles away and leaving me feeling as if a part of me has been ripped out.

  Voices drift over to me, the words too muffled to make out. I decide to follow the river all the way around and cut through past the church. I pick up the pace, jogging along the path, narrowly avoiding a cyclist too focused on his phone to notice me. As I go through a gate and past another field, the voices get louder, mingled with music and laughter. Through the trees, on what I thought was private land, I see several figures lying on the ground, and a few seated on what looks like a bench beside a small brick building. Is it a public way after all? There are some cows in the field beyond, staring mournfully at the group, tails flicking. I hear the smashing of glass and slow down, peering through the growth. They are throwing bottles at the building, their laughter loud and raucous. Are they drunk? At this time on a weekday?

  I frown. I’m certain that this stretch of grass belongs to the farm across town, where I sometimes buy eggs and meat. They’re going to be very annoyed that a group of teenagers are smashing bottles on their property. I take out my phone, pausing as I think of Izzy, of what I would do if I found out she had been part of something like this, and decide that the parents of these teenagers, for they are surely teenagers, should know what their children are up to.

  31

  Seb