Toxic

by Nicci Cloke

  Eventually I could ask what Hope had meant about the girl you met on holiday.

  ‘She was lovely,’ she said, not sitting down. Standing. Her shoulders and palms resting against my wall, eyes focused on her feet. She was too wired, she said. Couldn’t sit. ‘Emily. She’s still missing, you know. Her mate messaged me.’

  ‘What, and you think Zack had something to do with it?’ I couldn’t bring myself to think it. I wonder if that makes you feel better.

  Hope thought about it for a while. She thought about it for a long, long time, until the Goblet credits were running on the screen behind her.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not calling Zack a murderer.’ Her face crumpled. ‘Not that I’m saying she –’

  ‘She could be OK,’ I said, quickly trying to fill the gap.

  ‘Yeah, she could. I hope so.’

  We were silent for a minute. ‘That’s so awful,’ I said, and Hope nodded.

  ‘Ness said the police found CCTV footage of her getting in a car with some guy who worked at one of the bars. The theory is that they ran away together, but Ness says Emily would never have done that.’ She reached for my laptop and flipped it open, typing into the search bar. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘This is her.’

  My eyes flicked over the article, my heart sinking.

  British police have today combed a stretch of beach in Malia where Sussex-born tourist Emily Simpson was last seen [ … ]

  Emily, a well-known party girl, had enjoyed all of Malia’s attractions – including a booze-soaked boat party – during her week-long holiday, and witnesses said that she’d been seeing getting close to several fellow revellers over the days prior to her disappearance [ … ]

  CCTV footage showed Emily getting into a car looking very pleased with her companion for the evening, later identified as bar manager Thomas Kingsford [ … ]

  Emily texted pals: ‘Am safe. Love you.’

  [ … ] The whereabouts of Thomas Kingsford are currently unknown.

  I stared at the picture on the article, uniformed police huddled on an empty beach, a sun-lounger left abandoned on the sand. I tried not to let the words pierce me, but one by one they wormed their way in. party girl … enjoyed … booze …

  ‘They’re blaming her,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’

  After Hope left, I looked through the search results again, thinking of missing Emily Simpson. Did her parents think it was her daughter’s fault for getting into a car with a stranger?

  Do you remember when that girl from Abbots Grey went missing and people said how stupid she was for talking to strangers online?

  Everyone was saying it was my fault, what happened or didn’t happen that night at the Wheatsheaf. Your friends and your dad were saying it for you, the words flooding my social media feeds – needling words that didn’t mention my name but were meant for me anyway. innocent until proven guilty. It’s a shame sum1 has to tell lies cos they regrettin being a slut. All that weekend, the boys from your rugby team filled my inboxes, telling me that they saw me, that I was all over you that night. They called me heartless. They called me a slag. They called me a lying little girl.

  I wanted to reply.

  Instead, I lost myself in Hannah’s story again.

  WHEN MONDAY MORNING arrived, I was up and showered early, even though I was willing the hours to stretch and last before I had to go to school. I was restless, hadn’t slept well. I’d spent the whole weekend writing chapter after chapter, empty food packets and tea mugs building up in a tide around my bed. But as soon as Sunday evening rolled around, I couldn’t concentrate. A cool feeling of dread building, even though I wouldn’t let myself admit it or examine it. And then a night full of weird, half-formed dreams until I’d given up just after 5 a.m. and switched on the light to read.

  There were still forty minutes until Charlotte, who’d passed her driving test on Friday, was going to pick me up, so I opened my laptop and sat back down on the bed with it. I pulled up the homepage of StoryCity and clicked into my notifications.

  I was pleased with the work I’d done over the weekend. I’d lost myself in it, in being Hannah, thinking like Hannah, and somehow the story had flowed. A haunted house, a family troubled by what Hannah suspected was a poltergeist though I wasn’t sure how the story would pan out just yet. It had felt good though, describing plates smashing, doors slamming, furniture hurled to the ground. And being back with Hannah had felt good too. As her, I’d argued with Tobias and gone to a bar, trying to get inside information on the family who claimed to be haunted. I invented a new problem for her to handle – a film being made of one of her most famous novels, and the media asking awkward questions about the inspiration behind it. I stalked through streets with her and I worried about her worries and fought her fights and the weekend had disappeared, just like that.

  And people seemed to like it too, which was a relief. There were nice comments, including one from kcinthecity:

  yaaaaaaaay! welcome back trilby! SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS!

  I wished I could just stay in my room for another couple of days, carry on writing. I wanted to spend my time there, with those friends, with kc and darkangel and all the others, reading their work and losing myself in their worlds too.

  But then my eyes kept straying to the other open tabs at the top of my browser – all articles about Emily Simpson. I couldn’t stop myself from reading and rereading those articles, and the comments left beneath them by people who thought Emily Simpson had brought whatever happened to her on herself by going out, by drinking, by flirting.

  I closed my laptop lid and got up to pack my bag.

  I figured maybe it’d be good for me to get out of the house.

  THE DAY PASSED quickly, my busiest of the week with double maths in the morning and then biology and history in the afternoon. I spent the free in the middle trying to catch up on the biology homework I’d forgotten about, and trying not to google Emily Simpson.

  Char had a free at the end of the day, and so did Georgie and JB. They’d messaged, asking if I wanted them to wait for me, but it’d been a quiet day and I was feeling OK about things. It was warm outside and I told them I didn’t mind walking.

  I checked my phone. A message from Charlotte.

  Call me later if u want to hang out

  I hadn’t seen Hope since Friday night. We didn’t have any lessons together, and I’d stayed in the library for lunch, finishing the last biology questions with my headphones in. I hadn’t seen anyone, really, apart from Char in the morning and JB in biology. Maybe that was why things felt quiet.

  I was the last to pack up my things and leave the classroom, kids streaming out of the main school and flooding across the playground. I stuck my earbuds in and slid my sunglasses on, the wind skittering through the trees and sending dappled yellow light across the concrete. I walked slowly out of the gates, letting the crowds disappear ahead of me, turning my music up loud and letting my mind wander.

  ‘Hey!’ A hand on my shoulder made my heart jump into my throat. I yanked my earphones out and spun round.

  ‘Hi.’

  Nate.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Was calling but, you know …’ He gestured to his ears.

  ‘Yeah. Was a Beatles sort of a day.’

  ‘You heading home?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Mind if I walk with you for a bit?’

  I clicked my music off and stuck my earphones into my satchel. ‘Sure, why not.’

  We set off down the hill, my bag bumping against my thigh, Nate’s hands in his pockets.

  ‘So, Daisy, I know we haven’t spoken since the other night …’

  I glanced behind me, a painful jolt in my chest. I don’t want to talk about that.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, trying to stop him finishing his thought. ‘JB … JB told me. Thank you. For, you know. What you guys did.’

  Nate glanced sideways at me. ‘I overheard some of the rugby team at lunch. Have people been send
ing you messages?’

  I shifted the strap of my bag, pushed my sunglasses back up my nose. ‘It’s nothing. Honestly. It’s fine.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. That’s what I wanted to say to you. It’s not OK, and I won’t let it happen. Neither will Hope or JB, or your mates.’

  I swallowed hard, glad that my eyes were hidden behind my sunglasses. ‘Thanks. It’ll all blow over, it’s fine.’

  ‘Just so long as you know we’re here.’

  We hit the main road and waited for a gap in the traffic. And even though I’d meant to keep them in, the words drifted out.

  ‘How’s Logan?’

  Nate took a deep breath in, ran a hand over his short hair. He looked down at me. ‘I don’t think he’s doing great, Dais.’

  My voice came out smaller than I’d expected. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m trying, you know.’ Nate put a palm on my back, prompting me across the road. We had to jog to make it before a van rushed past. ‘Just have to keep checking in on him, trying to get him out, that kinda thing. But he’s in a bit of a dark place, I think.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  He shrugged. ‘I think we just all need to be there for him.’

  ‘Kind of hard when he won’t talk to me.’ And it was true – at least partly. I’d sent a couple of messages before school started, had even tried calling the night of the party at the Wheatsheaf when we first got there and the wine was first filling me with warmth. He hadn’t replied. But I hadn’t tried to get in touch with him since then either.

  Nate put an arm round me. ‘I’m gonna keep talking to him, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’ll keep trying too,’ I said, and suddenly I meant it.

  I LAY IN bed that night with my phone held up above my face, trying to compose a message to Logan. There were so many things I wanted to say; how I was worried about him, how I wanted us to be friends, to look after each other. But the truth was, I was still hurt by the way things had ended between us. By the way he had faced up to you, dismissing you and what you said – but still ignoring me. I wanted to be bigger than that, to reach out to him when he obviously needed a friend. But it hurt.

  In the end I settled for easy, for bland: Hope you’re OK.

  And then later, awake again, I gave in and typed the thing I really wanted to say.

  I miss you.

  The next day, I woke to a text from JB.

  Hey Dais. It’s my birthday today so a bunch of us are going to go to the meadow for lunch. Wanna come? x

  I sat up and smiled, typed back quickly.

  Happy birthday lovely! And yeah! What shall I bring? x

  I walked to school that morning too, stopping at the deli to buy a couple of cheeses, some of the good bread (and yes, of course I felt a pang then, remembering afternoons spent in the park with Logan – but my phone stayed silent, no buzz of a message from him) and a box of really good brownies. I’d paid and packed it all into a canvas tote and was getting ready to leave, when I heard a familiar voice in one of the aisles.

  ‘They don’t have it, Mum. I told you they don’t!’

  I moved carefully in its direction, my heart thudding.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, OK. I’ll go to the health-food place after school. No, I don’t mind.’

  I peeked around a shelf of olives, the tote on my shoulder catching one of the jars. I reached out to grab it before it could fall, and when I turned back, there he was. Looking back at me.

  ‘Hey, Dais.’

  ‘Hi, Dev.’

  He nodded at the phone in his hand. ‘My mum sent me to look for some random kind of pasta. What you doing here?’

  ‘It’s JB’s birthday.’ I touched the bag on my shoulder. ‘We’re going to the meadow for lunch. Cheese, beer, that kind of thing.’

  He nodded. ‘Ah yeah, forgot it was today. I should text him.’

  I stared at him. ‘You should come for lunch.’

  ‘Yeah …’ He glanced down at his feet. ‘Maybe.’

  I felt hot suddenly, the words boiling over. ‘What’s the problem, Dev? Me or JB?’

  ‘What?’ His eyes wide, hands held up to hide the lie. ‘There’s no problem, Dais. I haven’t got a problem with anyone.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ I turned on my heel and left the shop, trying to calm my heart.

  But Dev followed me. He caught up to me halfway down the road, outside the little crappy hairdressers my parents used to take me to when I was a kid.

  ‘Daisy, I know things are a bit weird at the moment but –’

  ‘You took his side,’ I said. I kept walking.

  ‘Zack’s my friend,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to stick by him –’

  ‘By calling me a liar. Me, Nate, JB.’

  ‘Daisy, nothing actually happened –’

  I stopped then; turned to face him, the bag of food dropped and forgotten at my feet. ‘Do you ever think for yourself, Dev? Instead of just parroting whatever Zack tells you to?’

  His hands were up again, his face bewildered like my words were silly, girly slaps he needed to fend off. ‘I dunno what you mean, Dais …’

  ‘Yes, you do. Agreeing with him that I was all over him that night when I know, I know, that you don’t believe that, Dev. Ignoring JB just because Zack feels uncomfortable about him being gay. And I bet you’re ignoring Logan now too, aren’t you? All because of Zack.’

  A funny thing happened then, Zack. Because Dev didn’t defend you. He didn’t try to explain it all away.

  He started to cry.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, turning away from me. ‘Shit.’ He pushed the tears away before they’d even really begun, and then he sat down on the edge of the kerb. And I sat down next to him.

  ‘It’s all a mess, Dais,’ he said, taking his Wayfarers from the neck of his T-shirt and pushing them onto his face. ‘The whole group’s fallen apart.’

  ‘It hasn’t. But you’re acting like you’ve chosen your side. How can you treat JB like that, Dev? You guys have been friends for so long.’

  ‘I know.’ He propped his head on his hand, turned his face to look at me. ‘I feel bad. I do feel bad.’ His voice wobbled, and he turned to look at the road again. ‘But Zack … Zack’s my man, you know? He’s always looked out for me.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Yeah, course. Like the time me and Mollie had a fight at that party in London and she went and stayed at her cousin’s without me. Zack paid for me to get a taxi all the way back here and stay at his.’

  I kept quiet. It was a nice thing you did, sure. But did it mean anything, really, to you?

  ‘You don’t get it, Daisy. You don’t know what it’s like.’

  ‘What what’s like?’

  ‘I’m … I’m not anything. Dhruv is the smart one, the one my parents are proud of. And then in the group, it’s the same. Nate’s the good-looking one, the one who gets all the girls. Zack and Logan are good at sports. JB’s the popular one, the funny one. I’m not … I’m not anything special. Do you know how lucky I am that Zack wants to hang around with me?’

  ‘Do you know how lucky he is that you do?’ I reached out and put a hand over his. ‘Seriously, Dev, is that really what you think of yourself?’

  He shrugged. ‘I had a good thing with Mollie, and I messed that up. I had a good thing with my mates, and I’ve messed that up too. My results are average, and I don’t really know what I’ll end up doing after this year – not like you, or Char, or JB, or Zack.’ He glanced at me. ‘I’m not trying to throw myself a pity party or anything, Dais. I’m just trying to explain to you. Zack’s been good to me; he always makes sure I’m included in stuff, part of things. You know? I know he’s not perfect, but he’s my mate. I’m not gonna just turn on him.’

  ‘But you must see that it’s not OK how he’s treating JB?’

  Dev bit his bottom lip. ‘He’ll get over it … I know he will.’

  I withdrew my hand, picked up my bag. ‘Maybe,’ I said, standing up. ‘But maybe, in the meantime, you need t
o do something more than just standing by and hoping things will all work out.’

  DEV DIDN’T MAKE it to the picnic at lunch; we didn’t see either of you in the common room that day. JB said Logan had texted to say happy birthday, but there was no sign of him at school either.

  But the rest of us walked down to the meadow together, stopping to pick up cans of drink and bags of sweets and crisps from the newsagents in town on the way. It was still stupidly warm, lazy like a summer Saturday instead of a Tuesday halfway through September. We climbed over the stile and walked through the long grass, JB, Hope and Nate up ahead; me, Charlotte and Georgie behind. Georgie was telling us about a party Josh had mentioned that was happening that weekend, Charlotte wondering aloud if Billy might be there.

  We found a spot in the shorter grass and Hope spread out the blanket she’d brought with her. I’d brought one too, and Georgie had a big scarf she’d found in her locker. I laid out the food I’d picked up from the deli, and Hope added a cake she’d made. Georgie had brought loads of sandwiches and some samosas she’d got from the supermarket, and Charlotte had brought a couple of posh bottles of cider she’d stolen from her mum’s fridge. Nate’s contribution was some paper plates and plastic cutlery he’d ‘borrowed’ from the canteen – and a bottle of champagne he’d hung back to buy from the newsagents when we weren’t looking.

  ‘Why not?’ JB said. ‘I’ve only got English this afternoon. Bit of booze won’t hurt when it comes to getting through Lear.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Nate said, popping the cork. ‘Hope Hunter lets me read Cordelia again.’

  Hope flopped onto her side, breaking off a bit of brownie. ‘I don’t. You were rubbish last time.’

  ‘So you’re eighteen, JB,’ Charlotte said, stretching out in the sun. ‘How’s it feel to be a grown-up?’

  JB took the bottle Nate was offering him and took a swig. ‘If being a grown-up means drinking champagne at twelve thirty on a Tuesday, I’m in.’