by Juno Dawson
We walk through the forest in amiable quiet. Our hands swing so close together that it seems unnatural for me to not take his hand. He squeezes it for a moment, but then pulls his away. ‘I can’t,’ he says. He puts his arm around my shoulder in a bro move. ‘You know, I so wish I could fall in love like normal people can, but I can’t. If I could just date and watch movies and hold hands on the beach, I would. Like, I don’t fall in love, I go nuts. I wish I could make people understand what it’s like.’ He doesn’t sound maudlin, just defeated.
‘So try,’ I say.
‘I once told Goldstein it feels like the forest fires in Cali. When I love, it starts like a little bonfire but within days it’s all-consuming and out of control. It’s an inferno and it levels everything in its path.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s an addiction like any other, and it’s as harmful as any of the other shit I was doing.’
I don’t want to tell him about Kurt. I don’t want to tell anyone about Kurt, because every time I do it comes out sounding sordid and seedy, and it wasn’t. I don’t think. But yes, absolutely, I was hooked on Kurt. ‘I think . . . yeah, I know what you mean.’ That’ll do for now.
He lets out a big sigh. ‘I hope one day I can do all that stuff – popcorn and ice-cream and stuff – without losing my shit.’
‘You will,’ I say, and I really mean it. I want him to get better more than I want myself to get better. I want to rescue him.
I give Storm a pat. I managed to tame him, I want to tame Brady, but who’s gonna tame me?
When will you acknowledge, Miss Volkov, that your actions have consequences?
I remember Grafton’s disappointment. On that occasion, we’d just got back from a trip to Paris. We were meant to be sketching in the Louvre, but I’d convinced Nevada and Genie to escape the Renaissance and come with me into Montmartre to find absinthe. Antonella stayed in the museum because she seemed legit into the wallpaper or something. Anyway, a few hours later Genie got so shitfaced she had to have her stomach pumped en Français. It was pretty funny on reflection.
When we got back to London, I was dragged before Grafton because Sir Randolph, Genie’s dad, tried to pin the whole episode on me. Yeah, babes, I basically held a funnel in the silly bitch’s mouth. Grafton’s office is teak-panelled and musty. It smelled of shelves and shelves of old, leather-bound volumes of dead-white-guy poetry I can’t imagine she ever reads.
‘Alexandria, what’s going on?’ The headmistress changed her tone, taking off her glasses and her crow’s feet deepening. ‘I’ve known you since you were eleven and this isn’t the girl I used to know.’
I uncrossed and crossed my legs. I said nothing.
‘I know little girls become young women, but this . . . attitude lately . . . just doesn’t seem like you. I know for a fact Antonella shares my concerns too.’
That was a cheap shot. Interesting though. I wondered, at the time, if Antonella didn’t like Kurt. We’d been dating a few weeks at that stage and she seemed, at best, lukewarm towards him. I figured she was jealous because I’d got a cool, older boyfriend and she hadn’t. I looked through spiky black lashes at Grafton. ‘I think Antonella’s good enough for the both of us.’
‘Is that it? You think you’re the bad twin?’
I hid a smirk behind my hand. Competing with Antonella was as futile as racing Usain Bolt. You’d only ever come second at best. ‘No,’ I said.
‘Well then what is it, Alexandria? You had such phenomenal promise.’
God, what did she want from me? Please Ms Grafton! I need help! I’ve sinned terribly and seek redemption! ‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘None of this really matters, does it?’
Grafton pursed her lips and reclined in her leather chair with a creak. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that when you come to realise it does, it’s not too late.’
Goldstein mirrors her expression now. Brady and I stand before his desk, metaphorical caps in hand. ‘Do you have any idea how concerned we were? We were seconds away from calling the coastguard.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, and then Brady jumps in.
‘I took Saif’s stash,’ Brady says, ignoring the minor detail that he was nowhere near Saif’s room at any point. ‘Lexi came after me to stop me using. She was too late. I did some coke. I’m back to zero days clean.’ He toes the carpet like a little boy. ‘We threw the drugs on the fire. They’re all gone, I swear.’
Goldstein’s icy glare defrosts a little. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘at least that explains where his drugs went. I shall have to tell the police, Brady. You know that, right? Those drugs were evidence.’
He nods.
Goldstein rubs his beard like a wizard. ‘Relapses, as you know, aren’t the end of the world. It’s understandable – with sudden access to drugs – and the impact of Saif’s death, that you’d make questionable choices.’
‘I feel like shit,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry I was an asshole.’
Wait wait wait.
‘I can’t let Brady take all the blame,’ I say with an almighty sigh. ‘I took the stuff from Saif’s room when I found him. I have no idea why. Brady took it off me so I wouldn’t get in trouble.’
‘Did you also use?’
‘No. Honestly, no.’
‘She could have, but she didn’t,’ Brady adds.
Who knew? Honesty feels pretty good. They should put that on the packaging.
Goldstein sighs an even bigger sigh. ‘Well, it’s been a bad enough day without me having to deal with you two. Go to dinner. But,’ his eyes fix both of us, ‘before you do, do I really need to spell out how ill-advised it is to form romantic relationships while in recovery? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen co-dependency build a solid foundation. Focusing on someone else’s needs is a hugely efficient way to ignore your own.’
‘I know,’ Brady says immediately. ‘That’s not what this is.’
Wow. That stings like a wasp.
After a very sombre dinner, we’re gathered in the drawing room where we have a very special edition of Group. Kendall cuddles up against Brady on the sofa and I don’t mind – there’s nothing between them; he comforts her like a brother. I’m with Ruby on the other one. Sasha plays with her braids in front of the fire. Our group feels a lot smaller. Now, with all the drama spent, we’re left with an empty armchair.
Goldstein enters with a tray of hot chocolates that we all probably wish were something a lot stronger.
‘Thank you,’ Guy says, taking a mug. ‘Are you allowed to tell us what’s going on?’
‘Thank you for your patience.’ Goldstein hugs a cup of mint tea in his paws. ‘And yes, you have a right to know what’s going on. Saif’s body has been flown back to the mainland and Dr Ahmed is meeting with his parents tomorrow. They’re flying over from Dubai as we speak. The police have left for the day but they’ll be back tomorrow – they might want to speak to some of you about how the drugs got on the island.’
With time tick-tocking at a vaguely normal pace, it kicks in properly. Saif is dead. Dead dead. Never coming back, never-gonna-walk-in-again dead. He was a bit of a cock, sure, but he’s dead. He was only a year older than me and that’s it. No wife, no kids, no car, no job. Ever.
Antonella.
I feel sick. I swallow hard and take a slow breath through my nostrils. Dinner was hoisin duck and rice noodles. I feel it all churn in my stomach.
‘Did he do it on purpose?’ Kendall asks, eyes pink-rimmed. I focus on her and the urge to vom passes slightly.
‘No. We don’t think so.’ Exhausted, Goldstein sits next to Sasha on the rug. It reminds me, really, that he’s just another one of us. Another fuck-up. ‘The problem is that Saif didn’t think he had a problem.’
‘Isn’t that a cheap shot?’ Ruby says. ‘He’s not here to defend himself, Doc.’
‘But you are,’ Goldstein says and I glimpse a spark of anger. ‘So listen up all of you. If dead addicts could speak, do you know what they’d say? They’d say “I didn’t think it’d happen to me”. Sound familiar?’
It’
s not like any of us need to put our hands up; it reads all over our faces. Dying is for losers, for homeless skagheads in doorways and tunnels. If only that were true.
‘It’s called “Unrealistic Optimism”,’ Goldstein goes on. ‘The addiction reassures us we’re in control, that we can stop any time we like, that it’ll never be us. Until it is.’
It’s quite embarrassing. I really thought that Kurt and I were somehow different.
Kindling crackles and snaps in the hearth. The flames glimmer in Sasha’s eyes. She seems a million miles away. It’s interesting that she didn’t grass on me or Brady. Why not? I’ll bet she was saving it – something to use against me when the time was right.
Goldstein goes on. ‘Saif came here under duress. I don’t think he had any intention of stopping. He was very young and thought he was immortal. He was only eighteen. It’s a terrible waste. And that’s addiction all over.’
There’s another stifling silence until the door to the drawing room opens and Elaine enters, more smartly dressed than I’ve ever seen her, wearing a grey boat-neck dress and court shoes.
‘Ah, Lady Denhulme, thank you for joining us.’
Shut. The. Front. Door.
I look to Brady and he frowns too. Elaine is Lady Denhulme? No way! She crosses the room and gives Goldstein a tender hug and kiss on each cheek. ‘Not at all, Isaac. I came as soon as I could.’ She turns to us. ‘Good evening. Some of you I’ve met at the stables . . . some of you I’ve yet to meet and I apologise for that. I try to meet every young person who comes to Clarity.’ She looks at each of us in turn. ‘Sasha, it’s good to have you back again.’
‘Is it though?’ she says. She doesn’t look up, still twirling a braid around her finger.
Elaine continues as though she hasn’t heard. ‘If we haven’t met, I’m Elaine Denhulme and this was my residence once upon a time. I founded the Clarity Centre just over ten years ago when my youngest son, Sebastian, died of an overdose.’ She doesn’t pause for dramatic effect; she just ploughs into the next sentence. ‘It’s unspeakably sad that a young person passed away here today. The sole aim of this centre was to prevent addiction and mental illness from claiming young lives. This will have been a terrible shock to you all, but while the investigation is ongoing I truly hope you can support and help each other through this. It’s comforting, at least I think, that we aren’t ever alone on the island. We have each other, if nothing else. It’s easier said than done, but try to not let this affect your own recovery. We will grieve for Saif, but we are very much still here.’ She pauses to compose herself. ‘All I ever wanted was to give you the future that Sebastian didn’t get.’
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. She blinks the tears back and smiles tersely. ‘Thank you all. I’ll let you get back to your evening.’
I look around at the others as she finishes speaking. A circle of scared faces, apart from Sasha, whose head is still clearly somewhere else.
The worst part?
It’s still there: the voice in my head.
And it’s saying:
‘Yeah, but it wouldn’t ever be you.’
Jesus knows we need something to lighten the mood, so before bed we watch Zoolander 2 in the lounge. Kendall gets the hump because she says it’s transphobic. Goldstein stays with us too. I can’t deny I feel safer with him around tonight.
I’m restless though. I don’t want another cigarette, but I can’t sit still. ‘I’m going to make some more hot chocolate. Does anyone want anything?’
Guy wants some tea but I say I don’t need any help. Next to the dining room there’s a ‘kitchen’. It’s not the main kitchens where our dinners are made, more like a tea, coffee and snack area with a fridge. They keep it full of fruit and chocolate and stuff for when the kitchen staff aren’t in.
I turn the kettle on and go to the fridge for milk.
‘They was strangling me,’ a voice in the dark says.
I yelp and drop the jug. It shatters and milk sprays over the tiles to where Sasha is squatting in the corner, illuminated by the fridge light. Around her feet are her braids, coiled like dead snakes. She cuts away at them with a pair of craft scissors.
‘Jesus, Sasha, what the hell are you doing?’
I didn’t even realise she wasn’t in the lounge. She must have slipped out while we were watching the movie.
‘Cutting away the oppression, Blondie. You should think about this. I’m taking away the value the patriarchy assigned to beauty and femininity.’
The scissors are blunt (in case of occasions like this, presumably) so she’s sawing, hacking away at her hair. What’s left on her head is a fuzzy, uneven mess. I step around the milk. ‘Sasha, stop! Your hair!’
‘You Photoshopped idiot – this ain’t even my hair. It’s some polyester shit I got in Brixton. Proud black woman conforming to ideals as white as this milk. Semi-skimmed, pasteurised beauty. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and the beholder has a dick, Blondie. We cater ourselves on silver platters for them, to be desired and accepted. Pretty little canapés.’
I could argue that I just like to look the way I wanna look, but, judging from the mania in her eyes, it’s totally pointless. She’s not gonna listen. I crouch next to her. ‘Sasha. You need to give me the scissors. If they catch you with them, they’ll put you in the isolation room again, you know they will.’
‘Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe I’m safer in there.’ She leans closer and whispers in my ear. ‘He touched me, you know?’
What? ‘Who did?’
‘Marcus. He felt my tits while I was sedated. Thought I didn’t know. But I felt his cold hands on my breast, fingering my nipple like this. Do you know what I think? I think all men are capable of fetid wickedness when they think no one’s watching. Even your boy Brady. Especially him.’
I choose to ignore that last part. ‘Jesus. Sasha, if that’s true then you have to tell someone. I’ll come with you, we . . .’
‘Oh, she’s as fucking vacant as she looks, is this one! Who you think they’re gonna believe? Him? Or me?’ Another braid tears off. ‘So I remove beauty. I reject and rescind and renounce beauty. I am a blank slate: tabula rasa.’
I hear footsteps. ‘Who’s in there?’ It’s Joyce. ‘Sasha?’ She pokes her head into the kitchen. ‘Oh, Lexi dear, have you seen Sasha? She went to the bathroom a while ago and . . .’ She finally sees the hair swimming in milk and enters properly.
What else can I say? ‘It’s . . . Sasha.’
The manic glare dims and I swear Sasha smirks at me. Like I did what she was expecting me to do or something. Almost like she was playing with me. If she was, I think I just lost. ‘Oh my days! Sasha! Get up now! What have you done?’
‘I am a danger to myself and others. I was just about to cut Lexi’s throat. It’s a good thing you came along.’
‘Put the scissors down. Look at your hair! Now, are you coming with me or do I need to call for help?’
Sasha walks through the milk. ‘Oh, I’ll come.’ She lets the scissors fall. ‘I’ll come.’
Joyce leads Sasha away by the elbow. As she goes, she casts a look back over her shoulder and smiles at me again.
I’m deep, deep in a warm, porridgey sleep when I wake up. At first I don’t even know why I’m awake until there’s another delicate rat-a-tat-tat on the door of my suite. It’s still pitch black outside the French windows and my body clock tells me dawn is still miles away.
I wonder if I’m hallucinating. I unfurl from my duvet and pad to my door. ‘Hello?’
‘Lexi, it’s me.’ Me is Kendall.
‘What is it?’ I ask through the door.
‘Come with us.’ I open the door and see everyone – except Sasha – lurking in the corridor. ‘We’re going on an adventure,’ she whispers.
‘Are you insane?’ I look directly at Brady. ‘Like we’re not in enough trouble already.’ When has that ever stopped me before? ‘Whatever. I’ll get dressed.’
‘No need,’ Kend
all says. ‘Just put something on your feet and meet us in the lounge.’ She hands me a woollen blanket. I quickly grab the Vans and shove them on with my pyjamas. I meet them back in the lounge and Guy presses a finger to his lips, indicating that we follow him.
The mansion is seemingly deserted but there will be a nurse on duty somewhere, ready to spring out and bust us. We walk the halls in silence, on tiptoes. I realise Guy is leading us out of the front exit. ‘What if there’s an alarm?’ Ruby asks.
‘There isn’t,’ Kendall says, and I realise she’d know from her midnight exercise sessions.
‘There’s CCTV,’ I whisper, and wonder if Kendall has learned a route without cameras. I bet she has.
‘Why would they check?’ Guy suggests, hustling us out on to the grand stone porch.
The night is crisp and cool; my breath hangs in the air. The stars are almost tacky, like a drag queen’s been at the sky with Swarovskis and a glue gun.
‘Wait,’ I say more loudly now that we’re out in the open. ‘Do you think we should get Sasha?’
‘God, why?’ Ruby says.
‘It feels shady to leave her out.’
‘She’s in Isolation,’ Guy says. ‘It’s right next to the nurse’s room. I don’t think we can bust her out.’
I nod and we set out across the lawn. It’s wet underfoot. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Wait and see,’ Guy says. He’s wearing some hugely dorky pug slippers, which is kinda cute. ‘This is gonna blow your mind.’
I’ve never been to this part of the garden. Sweeping stone stairs lead down to an ornamental garden and rockery. It’s like a viewing platform looking out over the sea, over the treetops. There’s two wrought iron benches to sit on.
‘Is this it?’ Kendall asks.
‘Just wait,’ Guy says. ‘I get insomnia. On top of everything else. Sometimes I come out here and wait for sunrise. The sun comes up in the east. Right over there. I thought it’d be a nice thing to do, you know, for Saif.’
We don’t say anything. Yeah, it’s pure fromage, but Guy’s heart – as ever – is in the right place.