by Sara Barnard
When I find my way back to myself, I’m left shaking all over. My hands have balled into fists so tight, I’ve cut into my palms with my nails. But I’m breathing, I am me, I am fine. I sit on the toilet lid and breathe deeply in and out for a few minutes, touching my sleeves to my eyes to dab away the wetness so I don’t give myself away with big red blotches.
I’m fine.
I spread both hands over my knees, my fingers splaying out and then curling in again. I unclip my badge from my apron and then fasten it back. I stand up and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I smile.
I’m fine.
‘Where did you go?’ Jamie asks when I take my place next to him at the counter. There aren’t any more people in the shop than when I left.
‘That is a very weird question to ask a girl who just popped out the back for a couple of minutes,’ I say. ‘Where do you think I was?’
He laughs. ‘Sorry.’
There’s no trace in his expression or voice that suggests he can tell I was in such a state only a few minutes ago, so I relax, pleased with myself. If I can do nothing else, at least I know how to put a face on.
For the rest of the day I’m fine, which is a relief. I’m a little wobbly, but only deep, deep inside, and it’s easily ignored. What happened was just a blip, a slight but understandable overreaction to a news story, that’s all. I serve coffee and cake to strangers, laugh with Jamie, wipe the counters every five minutes. I put one of our staff playlists on over the main speakers instead of the radio. A customer complains about the amount of froth on his cappuccino. The day passes.
By the time I leave work, throwing my hood up over my head as the rain falls in half-hearted sheets, I’m fine. So fine, I decide it’s safe to do a quick search for ‘Kacie-Leigh Ryeland’ when I get home, just to get the facts of the case, that’s all. I sit on my bed with my phone and glance through the headlines of the articles that come up, some from today, but a few from a few months back, when she first died and her stepfather was arrested. I read the first one, from BBC News, thinking that I’ll choose the most sensible one and then leave it at that. But then I read a Guardian article. And then one from the Sun. And then the Daily Mail. I click, read, scroll. There are pictures of Kacie-Leigh’s beaming round face, too full of life to be dead.
When I’m done, it’s not by choice. It’s because I’ve run out of articles. I feel sick and sad and hollow all at once. I know more than any one person should know about Kacie-Leigh’s catalogue of injuries, especially someone who once had a catalogue of injuries herself. But that’s not even the worst thing. The worst thing is the things people say about Colin Ryeland. The various journalists have talked to next-door neighbours, colleagues, friends.
I always thought of him as a decent, hard-working man. Devoted to his family. This is just such a sad story, for everyone involved.
I can’t help feeling that there must be some mistake. Anyone who knows Colin would tell you, he loves those kids of his.
This is such a shock. I’ve always liked Colin and his family. He’s so friendly and generous, always willing to help out if we needed it. I’m so shocked this has happened.
I think: Of course he was friendly and generous. To you. Why do people think the way someone is outside of the house says anything about how they are inside it? Don’t they realize that people lie? People would have said exactly the same kinds of things about my dad if there’d ever been news stories like this about our family. I would have, too, if I’d only seen what they saw. But I had to see the other face, the real one. Just like Kacie-Leigh and Colin Ryeland.
I stand up and walk to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water just to have something to do. I’m fine, but my throat feels a little tight. Maybe I shouldn’t have read all those articles. I pull my phone out again and message my brother. Did you hear about Kacie-Leigh Ryeland?
He replies within two minutes. Yeah. Don’t read any of the stories, OK? They’ll just upset you.
Little bit late. I reply, Why? just to see what he says.
Brian:
You know why, that’s why you asked me in the first place. Just don’t read them. It’s a horrible story and I wish people would stop talking about it.
Me:
Have you talked to Mum or Dad about it?
What? No, of course not.
Can you?
Why??
I want to know what they say.
Fuck’s sake, Zanne. No. Look, this kind of story upsets me, too. It’s not just you.
Why are you snapping at me?
I’m not. Jesus. Sorry. I just don’t want to talk about this, ever.
Does it upset you because it could have been me?
It wouldn’t have been you.
The reply is worse than no reply at all, because it’s missing the point so completely, I can’t help but wonder if he’s done it on purpose. I put my phone down and concentrate on my breathing for a while, closing my eyes against the empty room. It works in keeping a panic attack at bay, but that’s all. Instead, I have the sudden, overwhelming need to not be by myself. It comes on strong, like it does sometimes, and the room is too small, there’s not enough air. The second thought, following on from the brain flare of See other people!, is that I don’t want to see anyone I know well, or even at all. What I want is to escape myself.
I change out of my work clothes into my favourite black skinny jeans and dark silver cami. I take my time, because it’s still early, painting my nails and sipping vodka straight from the bottle while I wait for them to dry. Tiny sips, barely enough to taste.
This is normal. People go out. Sure, it’s a Monday, but I live in a student city. There are always people around looking for a good time. All I need is a distraction, just for a night, to drain the weird, churny feeling from inside of me.
A new message comes in. Caddy. She’s excited because she’s got a job at a juice bar on campus. Eight hours a week. Good for you, I think, with a meanness she doesn’t deserve. I take another sip of the vodka and don’t reply.
I settle myself in front of the mirror, which is propped up against the wall, and lay out all of my make-up in front of me. I build up my face layer by layer, watching myself turn into someone else. Or not someone else, exactly. A different version of me. A better version. Maybe if Kacie-Leigh had had another ten years, she would have been able to do this.
Shit, messed up the eyeliner. Start again. Don’t let the hand shake this time.
When I’m done, I feel strong again. I put my hair up in a half-bun, carefully messy, and choose the right gloss for my lips. Perfect.
I head out into the cool air of the night. It’s barely past eight, which is just late enough. I’m not sure where I’m going, so I just meander towards town and stop at a pub I went to once with Kel, Caddy and Rosie over the summer. It’s a bit of a cross between a pub and a bar, with a couple of pool tables and a dartboard, and I remember Kel saying it was a popular student hang-out during term-time.
It’s pretty busy, thankfully, so I take a seat at the bar and order a lime and soda. The barman raises his eyebrows at me, and I smile. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ I say. Which is true, in a way.
It takes barely five minutes for that someone to arrive. He’s wearing a polo shirt and jeans, and he looks like every other guy wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He could be anyone.
‘Same again, please, mate,’ he says to the barman. And then he spots me, glances around and looks back. He smiles. ‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ I say. I smile a brave little half-smile.
‘You on your own?’ he asks.
‘I wasn’t supposed to be,’ I say. I look towards the door, then back at him, rolling my phone between my fingers like I need it to be close. ‘I think I might’ve been stood up.’
‘No way,’ he says. ‘Boyfriend?’
‘Tinder,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Oh, shit.’
‘This doesn’t usually happen to me,’ I say.
‘I b
et it doesn’t.’
‘I kind of … don’t really know what to do with myself now.’ I’m a bit worried I’m not being subtle enough, but one look at his face and I know there’s no need. This guy has already fallen way in. ‘I should probably go, I guess?’
‘No way,’ he says again. ‘Why waste a night out, right? At least let me get you a drink.’
Success. I’m so proud of myself, I have to bite my lip to stop the grin I can feel trying to spread across my face. ‘That’s so nice of you. Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, course.’ He puffs out his chest a little and says to the barman – who has arranged four pints on the bar in front of him and is waiting patiently, if a little pointedly – ‘Another one of –’ he glances back at me and points at my drink – ‘whatever that was.’
Shit. I look at the barman, who catches my eye and smirks. ‘Vodka, lime and soda?’ he asks.
‘Well remembered,’ I say, beaming.
‘I’m Jake,’ the guy says. ‘Listen, you want to come hang out with us for a bit? Just so you don’t have a wasted night.’ He gestures with his head over to one of the pool tables, where two other guys and a girl are clustered, arguing about where to put the cue ball.
I’m careful not to look too keen, swirling my straw in my new drink, nibbling my lip. ‘Is that … Would that be OK?’
‘Yeah, of course!’ he says enthusiastically. ‘Are you any good at pool?’
‘I’m not bad,’ I say. I’m actually great at pool. ‘I’ll be messing up your teams, though.’
‘We’ll figure something out,’ he says. ‘C’mon.’
Jake, it turns out, is average at pool in the way of a guy who thinks he’s amazing at pool, striking the balls too hard and making loud, meaningless comments about angles. I play down my own ability and miss shots on purpose, letting him give me useless tips for holding the cue, acting surprised when I pot a ball. I make friends with the girl, the girlfriend of one of the guys, who is sweet and shy but cheerful, and doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve gatecrashed her night out.
Everything is going right but I’m finding it harder than usual to play this game. Every now and then, the wobble comes back, catching me off guard, slipping the smile from my face. I push it down and away, willing myself to just be as OK as I want to be. It’s all a show, it’s just a game. I am fine.
I pretend, pretend, pretend until I finally hit the sweet spot of drunk where I no longer care but can still actually function, and then everything really is fine. This is exactly what I wanted.
Jake asks me to come to the club with them, and I don’t want to be on my own, so I say yes. We dance, he buys me drinks. He asks if I want to do shots, and I don’t want to be on my own, so I say yes. We dance some more. He kisses me, and I let him. I kiss him back. He says, ‘Want to come back to ours for an after party?’ and I don’t want to be on my own, so I say yes. The house is loud and there’s beer in big red cups. He takes me upstairs to his room, closes the door, asks me if I want to, and I don’t want to be on my own, so I say yes. His hands are gentle until they aren’t.
I stumble home when the sky is turning pink, find my way into my shower and sit there under the water until time blurs, the world fades and … I jerk awake, pruned and groggy. My head hurts, but a paracetamol or two takes that away. I go to work and the monotony of strangers is blissful until I have to leave. As soon as I’m out the door, everything rushes back, so sharp it takes my breath. I lean against the wall, cool on my shoulders, and close my eyes, concentrating on my heartbeat until it calms down.
I know I’m not in a good place. I can feel myself on the edge of something, but I’m weirdly separate from it. It’s hard to care.
So I do the opposite. I ignore all the calls and messages from the people who love me until they drain my battery dead. I go out again, but to a bar this time. The end result is the same. I stay out for as long as I can, long enough that I only have time to shower before I have to go to work. I drink three espressos and shake through my shift until it’s time for my break, which I sleep through. ‘Are you OK?’ Farrah, my favourite workmate, asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
I’m out again that night, sliding effortlessly into a group of strangers. Everything is fine, fine, fine. I’m pulling the same tricks but this time there’s a girl, older than me with searching eyes, who pulls me gently off the lap of the guy who’d been reading my palm and puts her arm around me. ‘I can see you,’ she says, and it makes no sense but I let her hug me and it’s the best thing. Somehow, I end up wedged between her and her friends, all girls, clustered around me like shields, and they’re telling me about their boyfriends, one story after another. The girl braids my hair absently as they talk and I forget about the palm-reader and it’s nice for a while, until one of them asks me what’s wrong and part of me breaks and I know they can tell and I say I’ll be right back and I leave.
I have to go home but it’s still too early, way too early, but there’s nowhere I can go, so I go home. I let myself into the building and dawdle there in the entrance. I look at Dilys’s closed door, imagine myself knocking on it. She’ll let me in. She’ll make me tea. She’ll tell me everything’s OK.
As I stand there, I know I won’t. How can I inflict myself on this woman? It’s after midnight. She’s asleep. And anyway I don’t want her to see me this way. The real me, the ugly, worthless real me. Wasted me. All the shine stripped away. I can’t even smile. Dilys deserves smiles.
I stand in the hallway, staring at the fire alarm, imagining pressing it and forcing everyone else in the building to come out, to be with me, just for a while. There’s a whisper from my rational brain, There are people who will help you, but I ignore it. I make myself go upstairs and open the door to my shitty, empty flat. I sit on the floor by the window, back against the wall, and smoke the entire bag of weed I’d been saving. Rolling, lighting, smoking, over and over, until it’s gone. When I stand up, I feel like I’m underwater and it’s disorientating until I pass out on my bed and it all goes away.
When I wake up I go to work, and Tracey’s there, and she looks at me, and she says, ‘Suze, you’re not working today. It’s Thursday. And it’s almost three in the afternoon. What’s the matter, Suze? Suze?’
Somehow, I end up back at Ventrella Road. I’m in Tracey’s car. She says, ‘I want you to call me tonight, OK? Call my mobile. If you don’t, I’ll come right back here to check on you. OK?’
I must say something back but I don’t know what it is. I walk upstairs, and I’m thinking that I won’t make that call.
‘Oh, Jesus, Suzie.’ And it’s Sarah, sitting outside my front door, looking all horrified, getting to her feet, reaching for me.
I say, ‘What?’
She’s taking my key from me, her hand is cupping my face. She’s asking, ‘When did you last eat? When did you last sleep?’ and I don’t know why she looks so worried. We’re inside my flat and she’s packing a bag for me, talking at me, opening my kitchen cupboards and shaking her head at empty shelves.
I let myself be led out of the flat and down the stairs, across the drive and into her car where I sit, silent, until we get to her street and the place I used to live. Inside the door, the cat, Henry Gale, mews insistently at my feet. Sarah scoops him up with her free hand and takes us both into what was once my room, now a guest room, and I break. I crumble. I cry.
‘Oh, Suzie, it’s OK,’ she says, but her voice sounds helpless and I don’t want her to be helpless, I want her to be sure. I want to believe that it’s OK, but it’s not, it’s not, it’s not.
The tears are overwhelming and they won’t stop. I can’t do anything except sit on the bed and cry. At some point I choke out, ‘Kacie-Leigh,’ and she lets out a kind of sigh-gasp and says something about how she should have known, should have checked, should have thought, but I can’t concentrate hard enough to listen.
The photo of Kacie-Leigh from the news reports is all I can think about. Her smiling, happy face. I say, ‘Sh
e was just a kid.’
Sarah touches my face. ‘I know, darling. I know.’
‘No one helped her.’
I think she might be crying, too. ‘I know.’
What I don’t say: It could have been me. Do you know how easily it could have been me? Another kid on the news to make people sad, the same people who ignore the kids with bruises and fake smiles, the same people who tut at the girls who grow out of being kids like that and turn into teenagers like me with detentions and suspensions and an attitude problem.
And it’s going to keep happening. Over and over and over. Angry men with flying fists and kicking feet and helpless kids like Kacie-Leigh and me.
So I cry because there’s nothing else I can do, and I’m so, so, so tired. I cry until I fall asleep.
12
‘This Time Tomorrow’
Trent Dabbs
I sleep for the next sixteen hours. What finally wakes me is the softest whump by my head, and then the light touch of a nose in my hair. It’s Henry Gale, settling himself on the pillow. I just lie there for a while, listening to his gentle purring, trying not to think about anything. I can hear the old familiar sounds of Sarah walking around the kitchen, and the feeling that I never really left this place is somehow both comforting and disconcerting.
After a while, she very quietly puts her head around the door, sees me awake and smiles. ‘Tea?’ she says simply.
‘I have to go to work,’ I say. My voice is gravelly.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I spoke to your manager. You’re not well and you need to take a few days to get better. She understands. Tea?’
I have tea. Actually, over the next few hours, I have multiple teas. Sarah brings in her laptop and chooses a podcast for me to listen to – Limetown, very weird but totally compelling – and I stay there in bed, listening and staring at the ceiling, drinking tea and petting Henry Gale. In the afternoon, I make myself get out of bed and have a long shower, so hot I’m breathing in steam, letting myself cry in the way you can in a shower, punching my knuckles against the tiles hard enough to hurt but gently enough so my skin won’t tear and Sarah won’t hear. Mini-shower-breakdowns are immensely satisfying, and when I turn the water off and stand for a while in the steam, I feel soothed.