Torn

by Cat Clarke

Polly looks at the ceiling, her lips pursed. I wonder if she’ll be able to fit me into her newly jam-packed social life. ‘Yes, that could work. I think I’m free tonight.’

  ‘Why don’t I come round to your house around eight?’

  I’m ridiculously relieved when she shakes her head. ‘No, not there. It’s … too far for you to come. Tell you what, why don’t we meet here? Mrs Flanagan’s given me special permission to use the media lab after hours. I’ve got a key and everything. The security guard will let you in if you tell him you’re with me.’ The word ‘smug’ doesn’t go far enough to describe the look on Polly’s face.

  ‘Great. Um … perfect. I’ll see you there at eight.’

  Polly’s phone suddenly blasts out a tinny rendition of a song I can’t quite place. ‘Oops, that’s Stephanie. I’m so late! Must dash!’

  And she’s gone. And I am freaking out. What have I done?

  It’s not till later that I realize that Polly’s ringtone was ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’. The song from Tara’s memorial service.

  Dad and I have an early dinner.

  I manage to somehow give the impression of eating without actually ingesting much of anything. Normally Dad would be on my case, persuading me to have a second helping. He never did that before Mum died. Now he says things like, ‘There’s nothing of you,’ and, ‘You’ll disappear down the plughole if you’re not careful.’ But not today. He’s quietly eating his noodles and reading the recipe on the bottle of soy sauce. Five minutes later and he’s still holding the bottle. I think it’s safe to assume he’s somewhat distracted.

  ‘Dad? Earth to Dad?’ I wave my hand in front of his face and he blinks and puts the bottle down.

  ‘Sorry, Al, I was miles away.’

  ‘Really? I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘Enough of that sarcasm, young lady.’ Dad can’t stand sarcasm. He gets really cross about it sometimes; I’m pretty sure he just doesn’t get it. I must have got all my sarcasm genes from Mum.

  I look at Dad, and for the first time in weeks I really see him. I haven’t been paying him much attention recently. I’ve been so completely wrapped up in myself that we haven’t talked in ages – not properly anyway. Unless you count exchanges like, Will you take Bruno for a walk? Aw, Dad, can you do it? I’ll do it tomorrow – I promise. Dad’s looking kind of old. A few grey hairs are sprouting at his temples. I wonder when they appeared? Maybe they’ve always been there and I just haven’t noticed. And is it my imagination or does his face look sort of grey? Fear body-slams me and suddenly I’m sure he’s ill. Cancer. I bet it’s cancer.

  ‘You OK, Dad?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He shovels a huge forkful of noodles into his mouth.

  ‘Is that “Mmm, yes” or “Mmm, no”?’

  ‘It’s “Mmm, I’m in the middle of eating, but yes, I’m OK, thanks”.’

  ‘So you’re feeling OK? Promise?’

  He gives me that sympathetic expression I’ve come to know so well. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation. Dad got used to my paranoia a long time ago. ‘Yes, I promise. I’m fine. Tip-top, tickety-boo, fine and dandy.’ Exactly the same words he always uses.

  ‘And you’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You know I would,’ he says as he reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’m fine, kiddo. Strong as an ox, healthy as a … dolphin …’

  ‘Dolphins get trapped in tuna nets all the time, you know.’ I give him a sly look.

  ‘OK … how about healthy as a highland cow?’

  ‘That works for me.’ I quickly stack Dad’s empty plate on top of my full one, just in case he decides to go all Food Nazi on me after all.

  ‘Leave that, Al. I’ll stack the dishwasher in a minute. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’ Dad coughs and twists his paper napkin in his hands.

  ‘Can it wait? I’m in a bit of a hurry. Got to head back into school later to help with the yearbook.’

  He doesn’t comment on the fact that I’ve never so much as mentioned the yearbook before, which adds to the evidence of him being massively distracted. ‘This won’t take long. It’s … um … a bit of a sensitive subject, really. I need to ask your opinion on something. And I want you to know now that I’ll listen to what you have to say, so don’t you worry about that …’

  ‘Dad, what are you on about?’

  Dad winces, takes a deep breath and speaks really, really fast. ‘I was wondering how you’d feel about me going on a date. With a woman.’

  Not what I was expecting. At all. Weirdly, the idea doesn’t horrify me as much as I would have thought. I’ve been dreading this day for years, and now it’s here I feel kind of OK about it. It doesn’t seem that big a deal.

  ‘I think you should go for it, Dad.’ And the look on his face is one of such relief that I can’t help but pat myself on the back for my generosity. ‘Are you thinking of trying Internet dating? I’ve heard that’s a good way for old people to meet each other.’ He doesn’t admonish me for calling him old, and that’s when a tiny needle of worry pierces my brain.

  ‘I’ve … er … already met someone.’ The needle gets a little bit bigger. ‘It’s your … It’s Miss Daley. Daisy.’ He says the word ‘Daisy’ like it’s something nice to savour – a toffee bonbon, perhaps.

  The needle morphs into a whacking great sword. All I can think to say is, ‘Daisy Daley is a ridiculous name for a person to have.’

  ‘Alice! Don’t be so rude! So … what do you think?’

  ‘No.’ The word pops out of my mouth before I know it. The wounded look on Dad’s face is horrible to see, but I won’t take it back. I can’t.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No, I’m not OK with it. Isn’t there some kind of law against going out with your kid’s teacher? I’m sure there is.’ I sound like the snottiest little brat imaginable. But how can I tell Dad that I was OK with the idea of some mythical future woman, but the thought of a real, live, present-day one that I actually know makes me want to cry.

  ‘Don’t be daft! There’s no law against it. But … it’s OK. I just wanted to see how you felt. I’m not going to do anything you’re not one hundred per cent happy with. It’s fine. It was a silly idea, really. I’m happy as I am. We’re happy, aren’t we? Us against the world, remember?’ His voice is extra-bright, like the fluorescent lighting in the hospital.

  ‘Yeah, us against the world,’ I say. Now I’m the one doling out a reassuring shoulder squeeze.

  Dad gets up and starts busying himself around the kitchen. He puts the radio on loud. I sit at the table and try not to choke on guilt. The fact that he didn’t fight me on this, that he didn’t even try to change my mind, makes me feel terrible. At least if we’d had a blazing row I could have mustered up some righteous indignation. I think he was expecting me to say no. Which makes me feel even worse. I have lived down to his low expectations of me.

  I can’t stand the thought of him and Daley together. It’s so many different kinds of wrong I can’t even begin to count them. Daley is not good enough for Dad. I mean, she’s fine when she’s just being a teacher and staying out of my business. She’s kind and clever and sort of pretty if you think pretty = dainty and weak-looking. But Daley’s like a wishy-washy yellow carnation from the garage. Mum was a prize rose – deep, gorgeous red.

  The clock on the oven reads 7.06. I’ve got to get ready. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  He turns and flips a dishcloth onto his shoulder. ‘What are you thanking me for? You’re the one who cooked.’

  ‘I know.’ I shrug, not sure what to say. I can’t bring myself to say the words he so obviously wants to hear, so what’s the point of saying anything at all?

  Dad purses his lips and nods. ‘It’s OK. Really. Now, you go and write some scandalous article to put in that yearbook. “The dark truth behind the friendly facade of Bransford Academy.” I can see the headlines now!’ He laughs easily and loudly and he’s trying so hard to be a good fathe
r that I can hardly bear it.

  The dark truth behind the friendly facade of Bransford Academy is darker than he could ever imagine.

  43

  I don’t really have much getting ready to do so I lie on my bed and try not to hyperventilate.

  I’m scared. Polly Sutcliffe scares me. How can I be scared of Polly Sutcliffe?

  What the hell am I going to say to her when I show up without Jack’s song lyrics? And why exactly am I doing this again? I’m hit with a sudden desire to stay home and forget all about it. Erase the knowledge from my brain. Go on living my life and avoiding what’s ugly and real and impossible.

  But I have to go. I need to hear what she has to say for herself. I need to convince her to do the right thing. Rae was right. We have to go to the police.

  I lean over and reach into the drawer beside my bed. The ring feels warm to the touch, but maybe I’m running a fever or something. I look at it closely. It looks like an ordinary ring – nothing special about it whatsoever. But to me it has a sort of power. I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. Perhaps Tara’s grandmother will keep watch over me. Somehow I doubt it.

  A scenario plays out in my head. I enter the media lab. It’s dark. There’s a huge leather chair at the other end of the room, facing a big console with lights and screens and stuff. I approach with extreme caution. The chair turns around to reveal Polly sitting there in a sharp black suit. Her hair is scraped back from her face and she’s wearing red lipstick. She strokes a fluffy white cat on her lap and arches an eyebrow, ‘Ah, Alice, I’ve been expecting you.’ And I know I’m in deep shit.

  The reality is slightly different. My footsteps sound ultra-loud, echoing around the deserted corridors. This would make the perfect start to a horror film. Suddenly I feel icy fingertips dancing down my spine and I’m sure that someone’s watching me. When I look over my shoulder the corridor is empty. But someone could be watching from one of the darkened classrooms and I’d never know. Being at school is creepy enough in the daytime; at night it’s just plain terrifying.

  I’ve only been in the media lab once – when Mum, Dad and I came to visit the school before I enrolled. I remember being very impressed with all the flat-screen Macs that made our crappy old PC look like a remnant from the Dark Ages.

  I glance through the little window in the door and see that the room is mostly dark. But Polly’s not exactly looking like some budget Bond villain. She’s leaning over a plan chest, with one of those desk lamps that look like an alien arching over her head. Her hair hangs in front of her face like a curtain.

  I take a deep, unsteady breath and open the door.

  ‘Alice, hi! Come and look at this – tell me what you think.’ She waves me over and moves aside so I can see the yearbook pages in all their glory. There are pictures of Tara everywhere. All the photos from the dance, as well as some I’ve never seen before. One of her in her swimsuit holding an enormous trophy. I don’t think she’d thank Polly for choosing that one. Her legs look mottled, exactly like the night she died. The other girls in the swimming team stand behind Tara, grinning and clapping. I look for Cass but she’s not in the picture – maybe she was the photographer.

  There’s a photo of Tara, Danni, Gemma and Sam. Tara and Danni are in the middle, with the other two acting as bookends. Tara looks knowing and powerful somehow – like she’s been given the key to the universe. She looks like a born winner, ready for whatever life can throw at her.

  ‘So what do you think? Not bad, is it?’ Polly’s standing way too close, so when she turns her face to look at me I have to take a step back.

  ‘I think it’s a lot of pictures of Tara.’

  ‘It took so long to sort through them all. Her parents have hundreds of photo albums of her. Well, maybe not hundreds, but a lot. There were three albums of her at various swimming competitions, if you can believe it.’

  Tara’s dad used to take his camera with him everywhere. I found it kind of creepy, and Tara hated it – back then anyway.

  ‘Polly, why are you doing this?’

  She shakes her head and frowns. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘This. The yearbook, the dance, the society. All of it.’

  Polly shrugs and meanders round to the other side of the plan chest, her fingers trailing around the edge. ‘Because I think it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ It’s like an elastic band has snapped inside me. I wasn’t expecting this to happen. I was planning on being calm and reasonable and other sensible things like that. ‘You can’t possibly think that! Can’t you see how twisted this is?’

  Polly blinks so slowly that I can see the unevenness of her eye shadow. It’s much darker on the left than on the right. ‘It’s nothing of the sort. It’s … I think of it as penance.’

  ‘For killing her, you mean?’ There. It’s been said. The words are out there.

  There’s a sudden stillness in the room and it scares me. ‘Have you got the song lyrics from Jack?’

  Now I’m the one shaking my head. ‘What?’

  ‘The song lyrics you were bringing me. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’Her voice is sugar-sweet and coated with a thick layer of insincerity.

  ‘I’m here to talk about Tara.’

  Polly leans her elbows on the plan chest, hands cupping her face. The light from the alien lamp makes her look ghoulish. ‘OK. Let’s talk.’

  ‘What happened that night?’

  She laughs as if I’ve said something hilarious. ‘I think we both know what happened, Alice.’ She clocks that I’m not smiling and carries on. ‘It was an accident. A terrible accident.’

  ‘An accident.’ This whole confronting-the-villain thing always looks a lot easier on TV.

  ‘Don’t be so suspicious, Alice. All I’m trying to do is make things right.’

  ‘And how exactly are you going to achieve that? Tara’s dead, in case you hadn’t noticed. And so is Rae. There’s no possible way to make things right, and you know it.’

  ‘Well, no. I’m not talking about bringing them back from the dead or anything.’ The sound of her girly giggle makes me want to throttle her.

  ‘This isn’t a joke. Look, I know.’

  ‘Know what?’ she asks, but from the look on her face I think she might have an idea.

  I speak quickly and quietly, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible – like ripping off a plaster. ‘You gave Cass the idea of how to get back at Tara, and you knew Tara had asthma, and you have your inhaler with you all the time but you didn’t give it to her. You stopped Cass giving her mouth-to-mouth – I thought you were supposed to know first aid.’

  ‘Wow. That’s … interesting.’ Her head is down and I can’t see her eyes – they’re hollow black sockets. The effect is monstrous. She rearranges the yearbook pages between us so that they line up with the edge of the plan chest.

  ‘Polly, I know you didn’t mean for this to happen.’ I don’t know anything of the sort, but I have to hope it’s the truth. If it’s not, then I’m alone in the dark with a complete psychopath. ‘You made some mistakes; we all did. But we have to tell someone. We have to go to the police.’

  Polly finally looks up at me and her expression is hard to read. ‘OK, now you’ve told me what you supposedly know, how about I tell you what I know? No one would believe that I came up with a plan like that – not in a million years. And traumatic circumstances can make you forget your own name, so it’s hardly strange that I’d forget about my inhaler, or forget that Tara had asthma, or even forget my firstaid training. If I told Cass not to do mouth-to-mouth, it was only because I was scared out of my mind.’ There’s no smugness in her voice or on her face – there’s nothing there at all.

  I open my mouth to speak and then promptly close it again. She’s right. I mean, she’s not right. But that’s how it would look to an outsider. That’s how it would look to the police.

  ‘We’re not going to go to the police, because if we do, Cass is the one who’ll get t
he blame. She’s the one who organized it all. She’s the one who’s always hated Tara. I was Tara’s friend, remember?’

  ‘Lapdog, more like,’ I mutter.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You weren’t Tara’s friend. Tara despised you, and you know it. She humiliated you.’

  Polly shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter how she felt about me. All that matters is that I liked her. I looked up to her. That’s what people think, and that’s what really counts here. Why else would I be doing all this?’ She gestures at the pages in front of her.

  ‘How can you be so calculating?’

  ‘I’m not calculating – just pragmatic.’

  I walk away from the pool of light around the plan chest and slump in a chair in the darkness. My head is in my hands and I’m trying to keep it from exploding. This cannot be happening. This CANNOT be happening. My new mantra.

  I hear footsteps and I think – hope – she’s leaving. But the footsteps get closer and closer until they stop right by me. I hear chair legs scraping against the floor as she sits down next to me.

  ‘You have to understand that not everything in the world is black and white. Things are hardly ever that simple.’ She sighs. ‘I didn’t plan for Tara to die. I just wanted to humiliate her the way she humiliated me. She deserved it. I didn’t think she’d die though. And I can’t tell you why I didn’t help her. I … I don’t know. But I’m not going to lie to you, Alice; I’m glad she’s dead. She was a horrible person and you know it. So many people are better off without her.’

  ‘What about her parents? Jack? Danni? Are they better off?’ My voice is dull, lifeless – defeated.

  ‘Maybe not. But it’s done now. And no one’s going to benefit from knowing the truth.’ She sounds so reasonable I can almost believe she’s right.

  ‘What about Rae? Did she deserve to die too?’

  ‘That was … unfortunate. But for all we know she would have ended up killing herself over something else. All that depressing music, those weird goth clothes. Suicide is practically a religion for those people.’