The Girl Who Came Back

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I continue reading, sometimes venturing a little further into the papers to read the stories of the day. There are more black and white images in the paper than there ever would be now and, strangely, the paper costs a few pence more than it would now. I guess some things get cheaper over time. The hairstyles and clothes bear little relation to what people have now. There are movie reviews of new releases that have long since been relegated to being shown in the middle of the night on TV. There are stories about celebrities who’ve faded into obscurity, not to mention the Hollywood marriages that collapsed years ago. It’s almost as interesting as the disappearance pieces. A snapshot of a different time and a reminder of how quickly things change.

  I’m lost in the past but when the creak comes from the other side of my door, I don’t hesitate. Not this time. I’m on my feet in a flash and across the room in barely a second. I swing it open and almost fall backwards in surprise as Chris the barman reels away. He’s directly in front of my door and my first thought is that he was listening against the wood.

  I’m about to start shouting when he topples backwards, narrowly managing to catch himself on the rail before falling down the stairs.

  He’s still shaky as he gasps with surprise, eyes boggling as he pats his heart with his free hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. I’m far calmer than he is.

  Chris nods towards the boxes of crisps at the other end of the landing. He gulps and pats his chest once more but doesn’t actually say anything before heading back down the stairs, empty-handed.

  2010: Lily, 13

  ‘Are you going to be a good girl again tonight, Lils?’

  I have both hands on my hips as I stare up at my dad. We’re in the kitchen, arguing over the countertop. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you really want?’ I reply.

  The creases appear on his forehead but he doesn’t get angry. ‘You know.’

  ‘So why can’t you say it? All this “good girl” bullshit.’

  Even that doesn’t get a reaction. Not a proper one anyway. He stands a little taller and the creases deepen. ‘We’ve had this conversation, Lils. You’re not old enough to be using words like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  He sighs and rolls his eyes – which is about as angry as he ever gets. ‘Do you want me to cook you tea?’ he asks.

  That’s something which definitely defuses the tension. ‘What are you thinking?’

  He nudges a cool box at his feet: ‘Barbecue? I got about two hundred sausages from the farm shop for tonight. You can have first dibs if you like…?’

  We do this. Or, more precisely, I do this. Push as far as I can and then we end up friends a couple of minutes later. I follow Dad out to the backyard, where he’s done an awful lot of cleaning up. He’s laid out rows of garden chairs and has set up a screen against the house, with a projector facing it. It’s still warm, even in the shade.

  Dad connects up a hose from the gas canister to the barbecue tray and then pulls out a string of sausages from the cool box. It’s hardly health food but it’s nice to have him cook for me for a change. If tonight goes well, I might get back onto him about looking for work again.

  ‘Who’s playing?’ I ask.

  ‘Inter and Bayern Munich.’

  ‘I have no idea what that means.’

  ‘Italy against Germany.’

  ‘So why are you watching?’

  ‘Champions League final – annual tradition.’

  I shrug that off. If it stops him moping around the house during the day, then I’m all for it. He talks me through the array of sausages he’s bought and, even though he’s only going on about different types of meat and herbs, it’s nice to hear him enthusiastic about something.

  After dragging one of the lounge chairs into the evening sunshine, I put my feet up and enjoy the warmth. Dad hums to himself as he pokes at the fire and then double-checks that his projector set-up is actually working.

  I’m busy eating a brown-sauce-drenched sausage in a bun when the first of his friends show up. It’s at least an hour before the match starts and he’s early, arriving with a box of beer. I don’t recognise him but he pays me no attention anyway as Dad talks him through the projector. The screen is at least three times the size of our television and this is apparently incredibly impressive for Dad’s friend.

  I’ve almost finished eating when the next pair show up, each with more cans. Dad has seemingly forgotten me at the other end of the garden but I’m feeling incredibly self-aware when one of the men shouts ‘hi’ and gives me a wave. I don’t think I know who he is.

  There are four of them fussing over the projector now, each with a bottle or can in hand. Is this really how easy it is to please adult men?

  I say ‘goodnight’ to Dad and he moves away from his friends, rubbing my shoulder and whispering ‘thank you’ before saying that he’ll see me in the morning.

  ‘Can we do something tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Go out for tea?’

  ‘If you’re good tonight, I’m sure we can arrange something…’

  He pats me on the back but it’s more a way of telling me he wants me to go upstairs. I can already smell the bitter beer on his breath that wasn’t there before, which means I’ll be able to hear him snoring through the walls tonight. He’ll sleep in late as well, probably until lunchtime at least.

  He doesn’t drink like he used to, perhaps a couple of days a week instead of every day. He’s trying. I know that.

  I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. It’s no surprise that the top rack is full of lager but there is also a box of Coke cans. I lever myself out a pair, grab a banana and then step backwards.

  Then I see him.

  Alan is in the doorway to the living room, leaning on the frame, watching everything I’ve done.

  Uncle Alan.

  He’s bigger than I remember and he’s wearing what I’m pretty sure is the same red football top he had on last year. The hairs on his arms are growing over his tattoos and he has a thin bristle of a beard.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d be here today,’ he says. His lips twist into something close to a smile.

  I take a step away from him – but also a step away from the door to the stairs. A quick glance backwards tells me that it’s only us in the kitchen. Everyone else is outside. I don’t feel as helpless as I was a year ago but there’s still something I can’t describe stopping me from shouting for help.

  ‘I, um…’

  ‘You’re looking pretty again. Growing up so fast.’

  ‘My dad, he—’

  ‘How have you been? I don’t think I’ve seen you since last year. Are you getting on well at school?’

  He takes a step forward and I move backwards.

  ‘Hey… where are you going?’ His voice is kindly and soft but I know that’s not him. ‘I’m only trying to say hello. You remember me, don’t you? Your Uncle Alan.’

  ‘You’re not my uncle.’

  He stops and leans against the fridge, blocking any way I might have of getting to the stairs. I could go outside – but the door is closed. I could shout but what then? What would I tell my dad?

  ‘Not technically your uncle, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Little girls have lots of uncles.’

  ‘I think Dad said the match is starting in a minute.’

  He grins, showing those gleaming white teeth again. He’s probably had those implants that celebrities do. ‘So, how’s school…?’

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘That’s what all little girls think. School is the best years of your life. You should—’

  The back door squeaks inwards and it’s the sweetest noise I’ve ever heard. Alan stands straighter, no longer leaning on the fridge, and then I realise the door isn’t the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard; it’s my dad’s voice.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, surprised. He rests both hands on my shoulders, pulling me towards him. ‘You okay, Al?’

  ‘Just looki
ng for the toilet. Couldn’t remember where everything was.’ He sounds different now, stumbling over his words awkwardly, no longer purring and confident.

  Dad points towards the hall. ‘Last door on the right.’

  Alan turns and then disappears without another word. Dad releases my shoulders and asks if everything is okay. I want to tell him the truth but he’s already glancing backwards towards the garden, the barbecue and his friends. I’m not sure if he’d believe me anyway. Every day that’s passed without me saying something is a day that brings more doubt. If it was true, why would I wait so long? I can’t answer that because I don’t know.

  I tell him it’s fine and then don’t wait around, tearing up the stairs and slamming my door.

  I get on my knees at the end of my bed and tug it as hard as I can. It is made of thick wood and it barely moves a couple of centimetres. The carpet catches on the legs and the frame is a lot heavier than I thought. My arms feel as if they’re going to be ripped out of their sockets as I dig my heels in and pull. It takes a few efforts and a couple of minutes until I’ve moved the bed enough that I can get behind it and make the final push until the door is barricaded.

  There are thick indentations on the carpet from where the bed used to be, plus a trail of bristles angling the wrong way from where I’ve dragged it. I try opening the door but it instantly bashes into the wooden frame. There’s no way anybody could open it. If Dad checks on me later, he’s going to get a surprise – but being shouted at is much better than the alternative.

  It’s only when I’m lying on the bed staring up at the ceiling that I realise there are tears running down my face. ‘Not now,’ I whisper. ‘Not now.’

  2011: Lily, 14

  The trio of girls are like triplets as they waltz past me, long tanned legs strutting beneath their skirts which must surely break the uniform code. It’s a code which is seemingly only enforced when the teachers want it to be. Skirt that’s a bit too short: ignored. Lad with dreadlocks: sent home. Girl with dangly earrings: sent home. Boy with white socks instead of black: warned.

  It’s all about who you are, not what you do. These triplets are in the top set for all subjects and get good marks. They’re pushing up the school’s average for the league tables, so if their skirts are a bit short, no one cares. Well… the religious studies teacher definitely cares – let’s not pretend nobody’s noticed the constant sideways glances he makes in their direction when they sit in the front row of his class.

  The kids sent home for similar uniform offences are the ones in the bottom sets who get low marks. It’s one big corrupt system and everyone here knows it.

  But that’s not why I give the triplets my best ‘what-you-looking-at?’-stare as they sneer in my direction. None of them say anything as they turn forward and continue their march towards their next class.

  The hall bristles with students hurrying from one side of the school to the other. Chatter hums back and forth but I’m far from centre of attention. All I’m doing is sitting on a chair outside a door waiting to learn my fate.

  It could be bad this time.

  A minute or two passes and the hum quietens to near silence. Chairs scrape, classroom doors close and there’s a sense of peace that’ll last until the next bell in an hour.

  Still I wait.

  This is probably a tactic: leave me hanging until I’ve had enough. When I finally get to have my say, I’ll be so frustrated by the delay that I’ll let everything out.

  There’s a clock on the wall directly in front of me, one of those that actually ticks for each second. Tick-tick-tick, it goes, each one seemingly a little louder than the one before. Why would anyone in their right mind actually create such a thing? Is it so hard to make a clock that counts the seconds without making a noise?

  It’s probably another little thing to wear students down. The shaming as everyone passes by between classes, the lengthy wait to think over what’s been done, the tick-tick-tick of the damned clock.

  The door at my side opens sharply and I jump to my feet without thinking. Mrs Vincent is standing tall, arms behind her back, chin up.

  ‘Miss Armitage,’ she says, nodding into her office and holding the door open for me.

  There is a large photo of the school on the wall behind the headmistress’s desk, which must have been taken from a plane or hot-air balloon. The entire site is on show and every time I see the photo, I’m surprised at how much green surrounds us.

  Around that are certificates proclaiming various school successes, then there’s another large photo – this one of all the students lined up on the school field at the end of last year. The photographer had to climb high on a ladder to be able to fit us all into the picture.

  I slump into one of the two seats apparently on offer as Mrs Vincent sits in her large leather-backed office chair on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Did I tell you to sit?’ she says sharply.

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘So stand.’

  I do, giving it the full rolling-eyes treatment.

  ‘Please sit down,’ she says – so I slump with even more force this time, sighing as well, as if the whole thing has been a massive ordeal.

  Mrs Vincent looks to her computer screen and taps something onto the keyboard before turning to me. She’s sitting up very straight, fingers interlocked with each other. I’ve never been quite sure how old she is. Her hair is brown and in a neat bun but, though she looks young, she sounds like she’s been around for a long time.

  ‘Is it true?’ she asks.

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘Did you pull Jane Binny’s hair and then push her head into one of the girls’ toilets before flushing?’

  She has dark brown eyes that, if I’m honest, are terrifying far beyond anything my dad could manage. It feels as if she can see inside me, know what I’m feeling. It gives me chills and makes it impossible to do anything other than look away.

  ‘Is that what she said?’ I reply.

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘Jane’s a bitch.’

  A pause.

  I know I shouldn’t look at her again but it feels as if Mrs Vincent is pulling me with invisible strings. I can’t resist and, when I turn back, that stare is still there, willing the answer from me.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘She said my mum killed herself so she didn’t have to put up with me.’

  The headmistress nods ever so slightly. Not making a judgement, simply acknowledging what I’ve said.

  ‘I’m afraid the school policy is very clear about this,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to be suspended. That’s three days at home.’

  ‘So I don’t want to be at school – and your punishment is to give me what I want?’ I laugh at her but Mrs Vincent doesn’t react. She waits for me to stop, pauses for the silence.

  ‘I think you do want to be at school,’ she says. ‘I know you’re far cleverer than your grades might say. I know you enjoy books, that you pick things up faster than almost anyone else in your year. I also believe you do a really good job of hiding all that from your classmates.’

  She leaves it hanging and it hurts as much as if she’d struck me.

  ‘Shows how much you know,’ I scoff at her but it’s fooling no one, least of all me.

  ‘Ms Binny will also be disciplined,’ she adds. ‘I’ve got statements from everyone present. I know exactly what was said by whom and to whom. Let me be clear, though: violence will not be tolerated at this school – and it is certainly not an appropriate response to words you don’t like. That’s true in life as well as within these walls. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She relaxes a little, back not so rigid, shoulders not so tight. Then she types something else into her computer and stares at the screen for a few moments.

  ‘You know you take your GCSEs in
two years,’ she says without looking at me.

  ‘So everyone keeps saying.’

  ‘That’s not long. Your grades are declining at a time when they should be holding steady at the very least.’

  I shrug. What’s the point in arguing with something I know to be true?

  ‘Is everything all right at home…?’

  Mrs Vincent asks the question as if she already knows the answer – even though she can’t possibly. There’s something about her tone; that smug know-it-all voice she has.

  ‘What do you think it’s like?’ I sneer. ‘My mum died three years ago, my dad’s business went bust, we’re living off benefits and kids take the piss because I get free school meals.’ I get louder, finishing with a shout, almost out of my seat until I realise what I’m doing. I fall back into the chair and return Mrs Vincent’s stare with one of my own. I’m not going to look away first this time. No chance.

  And I win.

  She rests back in her seat and glances to the computer screen before turning back to me. ‘Don’t say piss,’ she says.

  ‘Why? It’s a word. Piss-piss-piss-piss-piss.’

  A pause and then: ‘Are you finished?’

  I tug at my tie, undoing the knot and dropping it into my lap. If I’m suspended, the uniform code no longer applies.

  ‘I’m here if you want to talk,’ Mrs Vincent says.

  I stand and pick up my bag, latching it over my shoulder and taking a step towards the door.

  ‘Lily,’ she says.

  I turn: ‘What?’

  ‘I’m here. Anything you want to say is strictly between us.’

  I pull up the hood on my jacket and dispatch the tie into the pocket. I take another step to the door. Pause. Think.

  Then I tell her to piss off and walk out without looking back.

  Fourteen