‘No,’ he says, ‘they won’t. They’ve worked out that’s why I do it. Why are you angry with me?’
How can I tell him it’s because I was stupid enough to think he might actually like me? Or explain why I’m angry with him because he doesn’t? When I think about it, I can’t even explain it to myself. ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘Why would I be angry?’
‘Exactly what I thought. Good then.’
We both know it’s not. All I can think about is how I leaned against him, waiting for his arms to go round me, for him to kiss me back like I thought he wanted. I can see the look on his face all over again. ‘I told you. I’m not angry. Forget it.’
‘Clearly you haven’t. Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong.’
I walk on. Surely he can’t be that stupid? ‘If you must know,’ I finally tell him, ‘I feel ridiculous! I thought you liked me. And then you didn’t want to know. I just feel stupid, not angry.’
We walk in silence. The clump of our feet on the pavement is the only sound. It’s a moment or two before I realise I’m alone and when I glance back, I see Joe staring after me. His face looks waxy pale.
‘Are you coming?’ I demand, but he doesn’t move and in the end, I walk back. He’s breathing heavily, then opens his mouth to speak and shuts it again. Then, just when it looks like he’s about to say something, a couple of girls from school pass us and giggle. Joe walks on and I have to run to catch up.
He’s walking so fast and it sounds like he can’t breathe properly. I may be angry, but he’s just acting strange. We go all the way to school and there’s still no time to sort it out because there are two girls from our school coming towards us. One is Chloe Edwards from my class. She used to be a friend, but after Sam died she stopped talking to me, as though I’d done something wrong. Mum said some people just don’t know what to say, but she could have tried. The other girl I don’t know. She’s a Goth Girl in a long black coat, with two dark slashes across the top of her eyes. Her hair sticks up like she’s been electrocuted and she’s picking at a blue plaster that’s presumably covering a nose ring she’s refused to take out. Her face is white and tired.
‘Hey Joe,’ she says when they reach us. ‘Didn’t catch up on your sleep then? That was a good night Saturday, yeah?’
He glances at her and nods, then turns his head and lets his eyes wander over the school rooftops and the branches of trees – anywhere but my face.
‘I saw Joe at the Gloucester,’ the girl says to me. ‘You ever go?’
Her eyes keep flicking to Joe as if she can’t control them. ‘It was a good night, wasn’t it?’ she says.
Joe flushes, and I wonder why she doesn’t notice and leave him alone, but then realise it’s all for my benefit. She wants me to know they were out together. She thinks I need warning off. If only she knew.
‘It was okay,’ Joe says. ‘Not that good.’
The girl stares at him for a moment then shrugs and starts rummaging in her bag. ‘Okay then,’ she says, and pulls Chloe along behind her until Joe and I are alone again. He still says nothing, and for no reason I can think of, I tell him one of my secrets.
‘I would invite you round later if you insist on talking about it,’ I tell him. ‘But I can’t. I have to go and see this woman. She’s a shrink. What do you think of that?’
I know my face is red, I can feel the blood beating in my ears, but ‘Okay,’ is all Joe says. ‘Maybe another time.’
The pavement has emptied; everyone has gone inside. I hear Chloe laughing in the distance in a high pitched voice and Joe winces.
‘I hope everything’s all right with us,’ he says. ‘You’re the best mate I have.’
I think of Joe later, when I’m opposite the Shrink Woman. Today she’s gone Indian in a floaty top and bindi, and the whole room stinks of patchouli. She’s leaning slightly forward with a tiny smile on her face, inviting me to speak. I tell her about leaving my bag with Banks, about drinking with him and about what happened with Joe. She doesn’t say a word, just sits there with her unchanging face so that I’m tempted to tell her I actually went on a mass killing spree, just to try and change it.
‘What do you think about all that?’ she asks me, and I’m sure she’d say the same thing if I confessed to mass murder. ‘What do you think about all those bodies? Tell me about it.’
I ask her if she thinks what I’m doing is bad, and she asks me if I think it is. When I ask if she thinks Banks is too old and a drunk, she says it’s not about what she thinks – the question is whether I do. I feel like hitting her – at which point she’d probably just say, ‘How do you feel now that you’ve broken my nose?’
When I get out and Dad is driving us home through the dark, her questions come back to me and I realise that everything I ask her is something I already know the answer to. She just wants me to know that, and now I do.
I know the answer to the question about Banks: he’s too old, and a drunk, and even if it’s not bad, it’s not a good thing to be doing.
I remember something else then. There was someone else with us on the beach when Banks was walking me away, and now I remember what Banks said – at least I think
I can – ‘No,’ he said. ‘Keep away. Don’t make me stop you.’
I search the memory for a face or some other clue, but it’s like a dream. The more I chase it the faster it fades away.
16.
Thought Diary: If I painted my eyes black and wore clothes with holes in, would Joe want to kiss me? If so, would I do it? Yes.
The next day while I’m having lunch, Goth Girl brings her tray over and takes a seat opposite. She started the day as alternative as she could get with black eye make-up, purple lips, black nails and distressed hair – even a little net glove on one hand, but at some point they wore her down. The hair’s now dragged into a ponytail and her lips and eyes have been cleaned off; nails too. I can tell she’s already done a repair job though, with a little hint of purple lips and dead white skin. She doesn’t say anything, just looks up at me from time to time over her pasta.
‘What?’ I say, but she just keeps chewing until my tray is empty and I get up. Then she asks me if I’ve seen Joe. ‘Today I mean,’ she says. ‘Have you seen him today?’
‘No,’ I say, and then realise that I should have. ‘He wasn’t there this morning,’ I tell her, ‘where he normally is.’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘He was meant to come out last night and didn’t show. I rung but he didn’t answer.’
We size each other up across the table. Joe is the only reason we’re even talking.
‘I could call round,’ I say, ‘on my way home. What do you think?’
She shrugs. ‘Could do. You know his dad?’
‘Should I?’
‘You don’t know much, do you?’ she says. ‘I thought you were his mate.’
She gets her tray and stands up, so I do the same. ‘I am his mate,’ I tell her just so she knows. ‘If you’re worried, we’ll both go after school. We’ll ring him, and if there’s no answer, we’ll go round. What do you think?’
She nods and goes, as if she doesn’t want to be seen with me, and it’s only when she’s left that I realise I have no idea where Joe lives. Some mate I am. I text him as I leave the dining room, and three times under cover of my desk, but he doesn’t answer. This morning I just assumed he was staying out of my way, but now I’m wondering.
By the end of the day there’s still no word and Goth Girl’s waiting by the gate. It feels weird walking along with her. She doesn’t say a word or even look at me. I glance at her sideways.
Even under all the black and the sullen expression she’s pretty, I can see that. She makes me look dull. I don’t wear any make-up and I don’t do anything with my hair. Pretty boring, I suppose. Maybe she’s the reason Joe didn’t want to kiss me, but I don’t know her well enough to ask. She appears to have forgotten I’m even here, eating mints and humming a little under her breath. The only other sound is a rus
tling from inside the bag slung over her shoulder, which strikes her hip with each step. She reaches inside and does something that makes it stop then transforms herself as we go along.
First the ponytail is yanked out and she shakes her head, raking through the hair with her nails until it stands out in a black bush. Next to go is the tie and then the shirt, which she stuffs out of sight in her bag before covering her vest top with a huge black hoody. We have to stop for the next bit. In the doorway of a closed down shop she shoves her bag at me, pulls off her shoes and tights and swops them for a pair of purple and black leggings and some Doc Marten’s.
‘I’m impressed,’ I say, ‘you got all that in your bag. Does it matter that much? You’re only walking home.’
She looks at me as if I’m stupid. Her eyes scan my hair and face as if she can’t quite believe I’m a threat to her. I could easily tell her the truth, but I don’t.
‘Why aren’t you ever out with Joe?’ she says, reading my mind. ‘I see him out lots but never with you.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, and I really don’t. She’s right. ‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ I admit. ‘We’re just mates. I don’t go out much at all really.’
She looks at me and sniffs. ‘Why not? You mean not ever?’
‘Not really, no. I guess I lost touch, over the last few months.’
‘Oh yeah,’ she says. ‘I think I heard. Next time we go somewhere, you have to come. Give me your number and I’ll give you mine. Put “Raven”.’
Surprised, I look at the mobile she’s tapping my elbow with. She does look a bit like a bird with her black hair and sharp dark eyes. I take the phone, and as if this was some sort of bonding ritual, she suddenly opens up. ‘I like Joe,’ she says, ‘but I can’t work him out. I used to see him before he came to our school. I thought he was older – he looks about twenty don’t you think? Well sometimes. Did you ever see his face when it’s bruised? I have twice, but I don’t see him as the fighting sort, do you?’
She talks so much I don’t figure she wants an answer. We are quite a way outside town now and she’s still going, when suddenly my phone buzzes and she stops. ‘Is that Joe?’ she says.
‘Stop texting. It’s driving him mad.’
I show it to her and she stares at me like a confused ghost, chalk white in the cold air. ‘He must mean his dad,’ she says. ‘Best not go round then. Let’s go into town instead, unless you want to get home.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I say. ‘Why would texting bother his dad? How would he even know?’
Raven looks at me. ‘Don’t you know anything?’ she says.
I shake my head and we walk on, tramping back the way we came. All the time we’re in the shops I’m thinking about Joe and how I don’t know as much about him as this girl, and I know it’s my own fault. She takes me into all the weird shops she likes until, by the time we get out, I’m covered in black eye make-up and purple lips. It’s all wrong with my uniform but I can’t get it off. Raven laughs at me.
‘When we go out,’ she says, ‘you have to come round to mine first. You can’t go looking like you normally do.’
By the time we’ve finished, it’s dark. She takes her phone out to check she has my number and there’s the same message from Joe that I got. Her eyes light up but she pretends it didn’t mean anything and stuffs it back into her big velvet bag. ‘Something’s going on,’ she says. ‘But maybe he’ll be in tomorrow.’
Without saying anything else, she tramps away along one of the lanes until she’s swallowed up in people. I catch sight of my face in a mirror in an optician’s window. For a moment it doesn’t look like me. The black stuff makes my eyes miles bigger but the purple looks like someone punched me. In the end I leave it there; I think it’s okay.
17.
Thought Diary: ‘Covering the face with the pigments of the earth, hides the warrior from the spirits of the land, fooling them into thinking the person is one of their own; allowing the person to walk among them unknown.’ Shaman lore.
There’s no Joe in school the next day either, and at lunchtime I cut out too. Today is one of my ‘leeway’ days, and now I’m having less of them it feels like I’m on holiday. I walk through the shopping lanes and buy tea and sausage rolls for Banks. The black make-up is still visible even though I washed last night. It’s lined my eyes in a smudgy grey and this morning before I left I put on lip gloss as well. I feel pretty good.
I text Joe: ‘Where r u? Hate it w/out u…’
After a time, the answer comes back: ‘cant tell u. but im ok.’
I find Banks beneath the iron columns that run along the seafront. He sees me and lurches out into the road, forcing a line of three cars to stop violently. The first driver bips his horn and Banks slaps his hands on the bonnet, leaning forward to stare through the windscreen as if into a fishbowl.
‘Hey,’ I call. ‘Banks!’
He stops, turns his head towards me and pushes himself away from the car.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘What’s up?’
I take the sleeve of his coat and pull, so that he stays on the pavement. The man in the car looks out at me and drives off, shaking his head.
‘Can I let go?’ I say. ‘Will you stay out of the road?’
Banks doesn’t answer, just begins to roll a cigarette and we walk together. It’s really cold today and he looks pinched and sick. He doesn’t want the tea and sausage roll when I hold them out, which isn’t like him. There are no cuts and bruises visible and he smells all right, but he gives a horrible cough then spits downwind.
‘You could have been run over,’ I say. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘Are you my mother now?’ Banks says, and walks off, leaving me to follow in silence. When we reach the concrete in front of The Mansion, the old man with the Santa Claus beard is standing outside, shuffling from foot to foot. He has a bottle in his pocket and I wish I hadn’t annoyed Banks because now he might go off and share the disgusting thing – putting his lips on the top of it and swigging where the old man’s dribbly, scabby mouth has been.
Banks looks from me to the old man and back again, then sighs. ‘I don’t feel too good,’ he says. ‘Sorry. You wanna stay, you’ll have to come inside.’ Then he smiles. ‘You showed me your house, I’ll show you mine, right?’
The Mansion is a weird building. Its flat roof is a terrace where you can sit looking down, with another storey built into the tall sea wall that leads on up to Marine Parade. It’s weird to know there are cars and buses going past overhead. It’s like the promenade and the sea below are another world – a tank in the aquarium where we are the fish. Even with its peeling paint and gaping doors you can see how it must once have been – a bit like Banks. You could still just about put him in clean clothes and feed him up and he’d be like he always was; almost. He leads the way now and I have to follow. Foolishly, I feel like I should have brought wine or flowers – isn’t that what you do when someone takes you home?
We go in the black opening and as my eyes adjust I can see there’s a smaller room beyond littered with bottles and cans. Further back there are some coats, a sleeping bag and a giant cardboard box opened out. Banks sees me looking at it. I’m hoping he doesn’t sleep on it, it’s so disgusting looking. On another pile the old bearded man is now lying, in a long coat, grey trousers and a blue knitted jumper that is mostly holes. His feet have no socks and are squashed into a pair of trainers, which have the toes out. Sleeping, his skin sags downwards like melted candle into a thousand lines and crinkles that are brown like a Batik pattern. His lower lip dangles showing a red gum and two yellow teeth, and his horrible stomach spills over his trouser button, covered with white hairs like those on a dog’s chin. I realise I’m staring when I turn to see why Banks is so quiet. He’s waiting for me to stop looking.
‘That’s Old Man Harry,’ he says, sitting down on an oil drum in the central room. ‘He’s always drunk. Sometimes he sings, sometimes he cries, but he’s all right. He knows everywhere to go
– the flops, the crashes and the restaurants that will give you food. First Christmas I was here, he took me along to the Salvation Army for the dinner. Without him I’d have just sat here.’
It’s sweet the way he’s trying to make me like the old man, but useless – he just makes me want to be sick. I can’t imagine him ever being a boy, or someone with a job. It seems like he must have always been like this. I sit down next to Banks and shiver. ‘Don’t you get cold?’ I ask him.
‘Sure. Wouldn’t you? Winter, we have a fire sometimes but still…’
‘Why do it then? It must be awful. Can’t you go to the council and get a house or something?’
Banks carries on looking out to sea as if he hasn’t heard me, then sniffs and makes a face. ‘I had places. Well, rooms, you know, but something always went wrong. No rent money, or trouble, you know, of some kind. The places aren’t nice… for people like me.’
‘You said you had a house once, though. With your wife and baby – why can’t you again?’
‘That was back then. I was different; had a job an’ that.’
Behind us the old man shifts and belches. I worry he’s getting up.
‘She and me… she was really pretty was Lilyn… she got fed up with me.’
I look at him. He’s staring out across the concrete where a man with a little dog stares back.
‘There’s never only one way to go,’ I say, quietly, so the old man won’t hear.
‘She kept Jack y’know. Took him away to Scotland where her mother lives.’
I think of Banks kissing a wife goodbye, changing a baby’s nappy, leaning over a cot with the smell of toothpaste and coffee on his breath. His hair would be shorter; his fingers clean as they stroked the back of his wife’s head before work.
‘Couldn’t you call her?’ I say. ‘Or you could go to see them.’
‘Too far,’ Banks says. ‘I don’t see him now.’ He takes out his tobacco tin as if that’s it.
‘My brother had a job,’ I tell him. ‘He had a few. He’d always get drunk and screw things up –’
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