by Cat Clarke
Danni’s expression is disdainful to say the least. The tears have dried up. ‘No offence, miss, but you didn’t really know Tara either.’ I snort with laughter and try to mask it with a cough.
‘Well, of course, you’re right. But I—’
‘Please can we go now? We’re already late for history … Look, I promise I won’t take down any more flyers. Polly can do whatever the hell she wants.’
Daley sighs. ‘You can go. Just … remember, I’m here if you need to talk, OK?’ I nod, half-heartedly. Danni does the same.
The hallway is deserted. Neither of us speaks, until the silence gets too awkward and Danni says, ‘Listen, do you want to grab a coffee or something? I don’t think I can face history right now.’
I look at her to see if she’s joking. The idea that Danni Carrington would want to spend time with me out of choice is more than absurd. But she’s not joking. And I have to say yes.
24
We leave school through the front gates, in full view of Mrs Cronin’s classroom. Danni struts confidently, not even a little bit worried about being spotted. I sort of scurry, head down. I’m not used to skiving; Danni is clearly a pro.
She leads the way, and we end up in a tiny Portuguese cafe on some dodgy-looking side street. The waitress saunters over and Danni starts chatting to her IN PORTUGUESE. I don’t know why I’m so shocked. Lots of people can speak foreign languages. I’m just surprised Danni’s one of them. They babble away for a few minutes and I try my best to look perfectly at ease with the situation. Eventually the waitress heads back into the kitchen, laughing and shaking her head at something Danni said.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered for both of us. Tara used to love it here – the custard tarts are to die for.’ Her smile falters, and it’s obvious she’s regretting her choice of words. I know exactly how she feels. I was the same after Mum. OMG! It was so embarrassing – I almost died. Aw, man, I am SO dead. My heart would squeeze itself up into a hard little lump every single time. She’s dead. Gone.
I decide to help her out. ‘A custard tart sounds perfect.’
Danni makes a visible effort to pull herself together. ‘So … how annoying is Daley? As if anyone would ever talk to her about anything. Just how desperate would you have to be?!’
‘She means well.’ This is a stupid thing for me to say, because a) only old people talk like that, and b) why the hell am I defending Daley when she seems intent on making my life a misery?
‘If you say so. I suppose you think the same about Polly Sutcliffe?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You know the band she’s booked to play the dance? The Blackdog Sundays? That’s Jack’s band.’
‘I know.’
I fully expect her to ask how I know. But she doesn’t. ‘Do you think you’ll go?’
‘Dunno. Will you?’ This is my number-one conversation strategy. Always throw a question back at the other person. Put the focus back on them. It works every time.
Danni sighs a huge sigh. ‘Probably. It’ll be expected. I can’t not go, can I? I’m Tara’s best friend.’
‘I think people would understand if you didn’t feel up to going …’
She stops suddenly and turns to face me. ‘You have no idea what it’s like. Having people watching you every minute of every day. I can’t even smile any more in case people think I’m over it.’
I start to say something vaguely reassuring, but she cuts me off. ‘No, I mean it. I have to be in Grieving Best Friend mode ALL the time. There’s no escape from it, not even at home. My parents are driving me crazy. We never have conversations about anything normal any more – it’s all “Do you want to talk about it?” and shit like that.’
‘I know what it’s like. My mum …’ I don’t need to say the actual words before she gets it.
‘Ah. Yeah. Sorry.’
I shrug.
‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’
I nod.
‘It’s like, I do want to talk about it – but not like they think. Not some therapy-style bollocks. It’s just … the whole thing doesn’t make any sense.’
‘What doesn’t make sense?’
‘Tara going for that early-morning swim everyone keeps going on about.’
My breath catches in my throat and my stomach turns inside out. Luckily the waitress chooses this exact moment to bring our coffee and tarts. There’s more Portuguese chatter, which gives me the chance to concentrate on the food instead of what Danni just said. My stomach rights itself and I take a bite. Perfectly flaky pastry. Smooth, creamy custard. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve wolfed down the whole thing. And they haven’t even finished talking. There are some crumbs left. Not for long though.
When the waitress leaves, Danni gives me a knowing look – a very Tara sort of look. ‘Do you want another one?’
I shake my head and surreptitiously wipe a crumb from the corner of my mouth. Danni proceeds to sip her coffee and nibble her tart in a much more ladylike fashion.
‘So, as I was saying. Tara would have never gone swimming. I told the police, but that Marshall idiot doesn’t seem to want to listen.’
‘Why wouldn’t she have gone swimming? Tara loved swimming … didn’t she?’
Danni snorts and chokes on her coffee a little bit. ‘You have GOT to be kidding? She bloody hated it.’
‘But she was still on the swimming team.’
She looks at me as if my stupidity is beyond comprehension. ‘So?! I’m on the debate team, but you don’t see me arguing about euthanasia in the pub, do you? She’d have given up swimming years ago if it wasn’t for her parents. They’re all about the trophies.’ Tara’s parents have never struck me as particularly pushy, but I say nothing.
Danni looks around furtively, as if someone might be listening in. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ I nod, even though I’m pretty sure I could do without hearing whatever it is she’s about to say. ‘I think Duncan might have had something to do with it.’
If I had any coffee left I would probably be choking on it right now. ‘What?!’
‘Think about it. It makes total sense. You know something was going on with him and Tara?’
‘I thought she was making that up.’
‘She’d never lie to me about something like that.’ I’m pretty sure she’s wrong about that. ‘So anyway, what if Duncan is some psycho rapist or something?’ Like the psycho rapists we pretended to be that night? Christ.
‘I don’t think Duncan is a psycho rapist. He seemed … nice.’ Apart from the whole inappropriate-liaisons-with-schoolgirls thing.
‘Yeah, he seemed nice, but maybe that’s how he lures in his victims?’ Danni’s eyes fill up with tears.
I reach across the table and touch her arm. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
The tears spill over and trickle down her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more. I told the police my theory about Duncan, and they said they were “investigating all possible avenues”, but then they were on the news saying she’d drowned, and I just … can’t believe she’s gone. How can she be gone?’ And then she loses it completely, and I jump up from my seat and sit next to her and put my arms around her.
25
Danni was ridiculously grateful to me for ‘being so nice and understanding and everything’. She hugged me again when we said goodbye. She even asked for my mobile number. And I asked for hers too, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Anyone would have thought we were actual friends. It’s too weird to think about – how death seems to rewrite all the rules. People who never talked to each other can suddenly cry together. People who used to be close can hardly bear to be in the same room. Or maybe that’s just this particular death. It’s hard to tell.
When I got home Ghost Tara started on about me stealing her best mate. But as soon as I told her she was a figment of my imagination, she disappeared. I’m getting good at this. Maybe I haven’t lost my marbles after all. Or rather, maybe I did lose m
y marbles but I’m gradually finding them again, one by one. Of course, it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Jack called. He called! That is at least ten times better than texting.
It was the first time we’d talked on the phone and it wasn’t even awkward. He asked me about my day, and what I’d been up to since we saw each other. I lay back on my bed and rambled on, and he seemed genuinely interested in the banalities of my life. He got the edited version, obviously. I subtly (OK, not really) asked him about Blackdog Sundays.
‘We’ve booked another gig.’
‘Cool. I’d love to come. Where are you playing?’
‘Well, it’s actually a bit of a weird one.’ I fought the urge to shout, ‘Then why are you doing it?!’ down the phone.
‘Weird? How?’
‘Um … it’s at your school. Polly Sutcliffe asked us to play at a dance … in memory of Tara.’ There was a shaky sort of sigh, and I wondered if he was trying to fight back tears.
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, I know. I could hardly say no though, could I? Well actually, I tried saying no, but Polly went on and on at me. And it is for charity, I suppose …’
‘I think it’s the right thing to do.’ I thought this was what he wanted me to say.
‘Really?’ His voice was soft and hopeful.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Will you come to the dance? I mean, will you be there? Um … unless you’d like to come with me? Because that would be good too.’
‘I’d love to go to the dance with you.’ Which was not strictly true. I’d love to go almost anywhere with him. Except for the dance commemorating the life of his sister.
‘Awesome! It’s a date.’ A date! A real one. Not a trip to some musty fusty dusty museum. ‘But it’s sort of a long way away though, isn’t it? I’d like to see you before then. That is, if you’d like to see me too.’
‘I’d like to see you too.’ My cheeks flushed with heat. Thank God Jack couldn’t see me. Anyone would think I’d never been asked out on a real proper date before. Um. Yeah.
But there’s a catch: I’m going to his house. Tomorrow.
This should be interesting.
I don’t know why I agreed to it. The thought of being in her house … It’s almost more than I can deal with. But I’ll be with Jack. And being with Jack is exactly where I want to be.
I get a text from Cass just as I’m thinking that she must never find out about me going round to Jack’s. It’s like she read my mind from ten miles away. We’ve barely spoken since I lied to her about going to see Nan and Grumps. It’s not like I’m ignoring her or anything. We see each other at school and say hi, but that’s about it. I just … have nothing to say to her. There’s only one thing worth talking about any more, and I definitely don’t want to talk about that. And she’s hardly been bombarding me with texts and IMs, so maybe she feels the same way.
This is the real way a friendship ends. Not with some huge screaming row, but with a gradual withdrawal. You’d think it would be less painful this way. Of course, not many friendships have the added burden of a dead body to deal with.
The text message is a surprise: Hey, think we need to talk. After school tomorrow? My house? No ‘x’ at the end. Cass doesn’t go in for that sort of thing.
It’s much easier to lie in a text message than face to face: Sorry, can’t. Dad’s cooking a special dinner. He’s been planning it for ages. x. I sometimes play the ‘lonely Dad card’ when I want to get out of something. I’ve just never had to use it with Cass before.
She doesn’t text back, which is her way of telling me she’s pissed off without actually starting an argument. It’s a relief that she doesn’t try to fix up a date for this ‘talk’ she has in mind. One less thing to worry about – for now.
I spend the next day feeling mildly nauseous and strangely jumpy. I manage to avoid Cass by having lunch in the library. Eating in the library is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, but I’ve done worse things in my life. And it’s not as if I spill my Diet Coke on the carpet. Well, maybe I do just a little bit. But I scuff the stain with my shoe until you can hardly see it.
I make it home in record time, grab a slice of two-day-old pizza from the fridge and find myself standing in front of my wardrobe wondering why all my clothes are so boring. I really wish I was better at shopping. It would help if I actually enjoyed it, but I get hot and tired and impatient because nothing ever fits the way I want it to.
After careful consideration of my options, I pull on some jeans because I can’t think of anything else. For once I’m actually glad when Ghost Tara turns up. ‘I reckon you should show a bit of cleavage. Boys like boobs. Fact.’ Unfortunately my wardrobe isn’t exactly heaving with revealing tops. Eventually I find this old grey jumper of Dad’s. It has a deep V-neck, and I’ve never worn it without a T-shirt underneath. It looks good though. Sort of almost sexy in an understated way.
I go for a little bit more make-up than usual – nothing too full on. As I’m rummaging for one of Mum’s old bracelets I do my best to ignore Tara’s ring, but something makes me pick it up. A sudden flashback almost floors me. Tara’s cold hand slipping through mine. The sound of rocks hitting fragile flesh. It still stuns me just how physical the pain is. My heart hurts and my insides feel like they’re clambering over each other to escape from my body. Tears roll down my cheeks. I rush to the toilet, Tara’s laughter echoing in my ears.
By the time I’ve redone my make-up and am feeling vaguely human again I’m already late. I fire off a quick text to Jack, scrawl a note to Dad (telling him I’m off to the library), scratch Bruno behind the ears and run out the front door. I hope my eyes have lost their redness by the time I get to Jack’s. I’m so flustered and shaky and rushed that I almost manage to forget that it’s Tara’s house I’m going to. It’s only when I turn the corner onto the street that the memories come flooding back and all of a sudden I’m drowning.
26
We were eight years old and Tara and her family had moved here in the middle of the school year. Miss Murray gave me the Very Important Job of showing Tara where to hang up her coat and where the toilets were. Miss Murray made Jamilla move desks so that Tara could sit next to me. I was secretly pleased that out of a class of twenty-two girls I’d been chosen.
Tara was super-shy and only made eye contact when she absolutely had to. Back then her hair was a nondescript light brown and she always wore it scraped back in a ponytail. It was usually wet from her morning swim. Everyone thought it was weird that Tara had to go swimming before school. I couldn’t think of anything worse than crawling out of bed two hours early on a freezing cold morning in the middle of winter, but Tara didn’t seem to mind.
Her mum picked her up every lunchtime so she could have lunch at home. That made people think she was even weirder. I didn’t though. I would have gone home too, if Mum and Dad hadn’t both been at work.
It took a while to break through Tara’s defences and actually become her friend. She was so serious all the time – her brow scrunched up in concentration whenever the teacher was talking. She chilled out eventually, giggling at my stupid jokes and passing notes under the table. Sometimes I’d notice Jamilla staring at us from across the classroom.
Tara had been to my house four times before I got invited back to hers. She got on really well with Mum and Dad. Tara was parent-friendly to the point of ridiculousness. I used to tease her about it: How was your day at work, Mr King? … Oh, Mrs King, this pasta is delicious. It’s even better than the pasta I had in Italy last year! … Mr and Mrs King, don’t you prefer me to your not-so-perfect daughter? … Needless to say, Mum and Dad lapped it all up.
When Mum dropped me off outside Tara’s house for the first time, one look at the HUGE place she called home and I knew why she’d been so reluctant to invite me round. Our house was half the size of hers. There was a fancy black sports car in the driveway (a driveway!), parked next to a huge white 4x4. Mum’s Ford Focus suddenly seemed a little bit rubbish.
Tara answered the door and introduced me to her parents. I remember thinking they were shinier than my parents somehow – like someone had polished them up with a cloth. Before I had a chance to practise my parent-impressing techniques Tara dragged me away, pausing only to roll her eyes disdainfully at her grubby-faced little brother. Jack had a gappy smile and very messy hair. Not much has changed on the hair front.
Tara’s room was heavenly. The ceiling was painted to look like the sky on a summer’s day. The furniture all matched perfectly – white and artfully distressed. I thought it looked French, but that assumption was based on nothing whatsoever. The mantelpiece was crammed with trophies. Medals, mostly gold, hung in a row. Someone had put little hooks all the way along the wood to hang them on. Tara said she wanted to keep all that stuff in a cupboard but her mum wouldn’t let her. Apparently it was important for positive visualization or something.
We sat on Tara’s bed and chatted for a bit. Then she got this funny shy look on her face. ‘Do you want to see the most precious thing I own?’
‘Not that HUGE trophy in the middle there? It’s almost bigger than me.’ I giggled to show I was only teasing.
‘Urgh, no. Not that.’ She leaned over to her bedside drawer and pulled out a green velvet box. She opened the box ever so gently and held it out for me to see.
‘My grandma gave me it just before she died. She said that whenever I wore it, she’d be watching over me … keeping me safe.’
‘It’s beautiful. Why aren’t you wearing it now?’
‘Mummy says I should only wear it on special occasions,’ she muttered.
‘I think you should wear it every single day and never take it off. That way your grandma can be looking after you all the time.’