by Sara Foster
Zac tries to bite his tongue but he can feel the anger rising. In truth he doesn’t think his parents monitor his internet activity much nowadays, but he couldn’t be sure.
Cooper is watching Zac. ‘Believe me, even if they do check up on you they’ll probably be relieved if they find you doing stuff like that. It’s pretty much expected of us at our age.’
‘You don’t know where any of those pictures are from,’ Zac bites back, feeling himself redden. ‘Those girls might be drunk or on drugs. They might not even remember doing that.’
Cooper screws his face up as though he’s eaten something sour. ‘Don’t be sick,’ he says. ‘Those women are all porn stars. And don’t ruin it for me. Guys like us, that’s all the action we’re likely to be getting for years.’
Zac pulls a face. ‘Thanks a lot. I tell you, they’re not all porn stars. Don’t you remember what happened last year at school . . .’
‘Of course I do – I’ll never forget that! All stored up here,’ Cooper laughs, tapping his temple.
Zac rolls his eyes. ‘You’re an idiot.’ Before he can help himself he has thrown a pencil at his friend, managing to catch Cooper in the eye.
‘Ow!’ Cooper’s hand flies up to protect his face.
‘Sorry,’ Zac mutters. When Cooper tries to open his eye it is already red and streaming. ‘Go and rinse it, it’ll be okay.’ He feels guilty now, but he can’t deal with Cooper any more tonight. ‘Then maybe you should go.’
Cooper gets up and grabs his bag. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about Georgia, I hope she’s okay.’ He leaves the room and a moment later Zac hears the front door open and then close.
Once Cooper has gone, Zac reopens his laptop and hits restore on the browser, bringing back all his research as well as the page full of naked women. He hesitates, unable to help himself, his eyes lingering over them, scrolling down a little further. His body begins to respond; his cheeks burn. He sighs and closes the tab.
He can still see her, too, if he shuts his eyes. Verity Parker, a popular girl in his sister’s year, photographed naked and unabashed in a variety of increasingly explicit poses for her boyfriend, unaware that he was sharing these texts with a group of friends, who in turn were sending them on to others. By the time one of the other girls had openly called her a slut, most of the school had seen the photos. Verity had been shepherded into the headmaster’s office, distraught, and no one had seen her since. Her boyfriend stopped coming to school soon after – the rumour was that he had been expelled.
What bothers Zac now was how little he had been troubled originally. Verity had appeared to be enjoying herself in all the photos he’d seen, and that had been enough for him to take pleasure in looking at them. Yet over the following days a special assembly was held at which the students were warned of dire consequences if they were found to have explicit images on any electronic devices. Some people left the hall openly deleting items from their phone, but Zac waited until he was home. Even now, he occasionally catches himself wishing that he had saved them to his computer first, as he knew a few others had done.
Then came the inevitable discussion with his mother. Asked directly if he had seen the photos, he felt unable to lie, so he had just nodded while staring at the floor. ‘Don’t be embarrassed, Zac, it’s perfectly natural to look,’ she’d said, which didn’t make sense considering the school was treating them as criminals. ‘It might seem funny at the time, but it’s not,’ she’d told him. ‘It gives Verity a reputation she’ll find very difficult to escape. The girls need to understand the dangers of this; and the boys need to be mature and responsible enough to protect them. If these images make their way onto the internet it’s almost impossible to stop them from spreading. Imagine if Georgia or Sophia, or even Maddie, got caught out like this,’ she’d added. ‘One mistake can impact the rest of their lives.’
Whether his mother realised it or not, the mention of those three names had compounded his feelings of shame. Particularly where Maddie was concerned.
Zac and Maddie were in the same year at school, good friends as well as step-cousins. Sophia and Maddie’s father had left before Maddie was born, and Zac’s Uncle Liam had married Auntie Helene and taken on the role of dad to the girls when Zac was still a baby. The kids had grown up together, and just as Sophia and Georgia had been close for as long as they could remember, so had Zac and Maddie.
For a long time Maddie was all tomboy – perfectly happy to race him on his bike or go frog fishing. It was only a year or so ago that he had noticed the first changes in her body, the curving of her hips and chest, and since then he hasn’t stopped noticing it. Over the summer, Maddie’s legs have suddenly grown a whole lot longer – helped by the fact that her skirts have grown shorter – but, to his extreme discomfort, she is now a couple of inches taller than him.
What must Maddie be going through? Zac jumps out of his chair and finds his phone in his coat pocket, quickly texting: What’s happening? How’s Sophia?
He’s not sure if he’ll get a reply. He fears Maddie may be beginning to see him in a new light. When it’s just the two of them they get on as well as ever, but if the families are together she now prefers to spend time with Georgia and Sophia, even though he can see that the older girls tolerate her rather than enjoy her presence. Whenever he messages her nowadays, she takes longer and longer to respond.
Still, Zac is pretty certain that it is his friendship with Maddie that has stopped him from being branded a total gamer at school. Fairbridge is renowned for its sports program, and many of the boys already have pumped chests and six packs. Zac is just as strong as them but he is wiry with it. A ‘lean bean’, his sister sometimes teases. He doesn’t think he’s bad looking, but his body is pale, and he is alarmed at how hair is growing in patches and in weird places – in circles around his nipples rather than on his chest. His leg hair is so downy that he has copped a few jokes about shaving.
And, worse, he doesn’t spend all his spare time typing sex slang into the internet, or imagining how the girls at school would look naked. He has a mobile phone because his mum insisted, but he doesn’t really like using it. He is as likely to be found riding his bike or playing on the Xbox. When he hangs around with Cooper and the other lads at school he understands the lingo, but words that roll comfortably from their mouths become sticky and alien on his tongue. He is pretty sure they would laugh at him if he tried to join in.
These thoughts are uncomfortable and Zac needs a distraction. He remembers his mother’s request, and tries his dad’s mobile, but it goes straight through to voicemail. He debates calling the rescue station to pass on a message, but imagines his dad stuck on the fells, receiving bad news in the middle of a rescue, and decides it might be better to wait.
He goes and sits in front of his computer again and starts a game of Black Ops, shooting his way absentmindedly through a couple of levels before the splatters of blood and crumpling bodies of those he despatches begin to make him edgy in a way that has never happened before. He switches the screen off and hurries out of his room, along the landing to Georgia’s bedroom, snapping on the light. He wouldn’t dare enter uninvited under normal circumstances – no one in the family would – but he needs to feel closer to her somehow, until he is sure she is okay.
It is fairly tidy in here except for a huge heap of clothes on a chair in the corner. There is a stack of books on her bedside table and he glances at the spines. He hasn’t heard of any of the books, nor has he seen her reading them. He looks at the papers on her desk – a project about Norway. He wonders what else she is studying at school, and realises he isn’t even sure what her favourite subjects are, aside from sport.
He sits on the bed. He might have idly wished he were an only child a few times, on days when Georgia had been particularly moody or condescending, but he has never considered it seriously before. They don’t spend much time together nowadays, but occasionally Georgia will do something totally unexpected to make him laugh – clamping Weetabi
x to her ears and chasing him round the house as Princess Leia, or making faces behind their parents’ backs as they give debriefings on weekly chores. For a second he imagines drifting around the darkened house with just his mum and dad for company, and the vision is so horrifying that he lies down on her bed and curls up on his side. He presses his thumbs into his eyes hard to stop the tears that are threatening, until he can see bright red swirls behind his eyelids.
He rolls onto his side to get up, and sees there is a book wedged down the side of the bedframe, pinioned between the pinewood and the wall. He pulls it out, and stares at the cover – an old-fashioned black-and-white picture of a couple kissing at a train station, with the year scrawled across the top. It’s a diary. As he leafs through he sees that many of the days are empty, but now and again Georgia has kept a bullet-point record of significant events.
There’s something loose in there too, one white corner jutting out from the inside back cover. He flips the book open to push the item back in place, and finds it’s a photo.
To begin with, the picture doesn’t make sense at all. And then, as the image begins to spin and coalesce in his head, a story forms – one so completely insane that it cannot be true. He jumps up, slams the diary closed and throws it on to the bed, staring at it as though it might bounce up and bite him. But there it lies, innocuously, with its secrets so fiery that he is surprised it isn’t smouldering. He reaches forward and pushes it back into its hiding space, wishing it were so easy to cover up the knowledge that now sits like a brick on his shoulders.
3
ANYA
Callum still isn’t home, even though I have now left him half a dozen messages asking him to call me. By the time the police leave it is well after midnight, and I can see that for Georgia the shock has given way to exhaustion. I begin to follow her up the stairs but she scurries away, calling behind her, ‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll be okay,’ and I understand that it is her way of telling me not to come any further.
I ignore that, and traipse up after her. ‘You need to take it easy for a few days,’ I say to her back.
She swings around. ‘I can’t. I have the race on Saturday.’ And she waits, daring me to respond.
The interschool fell-running championships. My heart sinks at the thought of Georgia taking on a gruelling eight-kilometre run in less than forty-eight hours, but I catch her expression and manage to stop myself from saying anything. The race is the culmination of a year’s hard work, and Georgia could be the first girl ever to take the title three years in a row. If she does, there’s a sponsorship deal waiting that will take her to the British championships, possibly beyond. I’m in awe of how seriously she takes her training – how can I tell her not to run? But at the same time, allowing my injured, traumatised girl to take part is hardly responsible parenting.
I have no idea what to do. All I know for sure is that I don’t want any arguments with her tonight. I just take in as much as I can of her beautiful, sorrowful little face before she closes the door on me.
Once Georgia has disappeared into her room, I knock softly on Zac’s door. After seeing his sister was all right he had disappeared with barely a word. When there is no answer, I peep in to see he has fallen asleep on top of his covers with his clothes on. I feel guilty for not checking on him earlier. He had looked pale and out of sorts when we’d first come in, but of course he did, he’s had as big a fright as the rest of us.
An hour ago I had perched awkwardly on the arm of the sofa and listened while two female police officers quizzed my daughter. I was so proud of Georgia as she answered their questions quietly but articulately, only getting upset when she described seeing Sophia unconscious on the road. Georgia had barely glanced at me, except when she admitted she had been drinking. I could tell she felt guilty, but I wasn’t cross at her answer, only indignant at the question. I had almost asked how that was relevant since they were the victims, but then I realised it might make them less reliable witnesses. I’d spent the next few minutes trying to catch Georgia’s eye so I could smile reassuringly and show her I wasn’t angry, but she wouldn’t look my way.
A few minutes later, the two policewomen had asked me, very politely, to wait in another room. I could have made a fuss – technically she’s a minor – but I knew that would embarrass Georgia, and they were only doing their job. Perhaps they had always had questions in mind that would preclude me, or maybe they sensed a change in the atmosphere. But the message was clear: There are things Georgia might not say in front of you.
I would lay down my life for her, and yet I know she finds it difficult to talk to me. When had it begun, that disparity? The highs and lows of our relationship were easy to recall – the celebrations, the arguments, the bereavements. But it’s more than that: the connection between us has stealthily shifted within a million small moments, in ways only visible in hindsight.
She’s in shock, I tell myself. Of course she is. I have to give her some space. And yet I can’t help but hope for more. Even though my work is all about breakdowns in communication, for a long time I couldn’t help but be smug enough to think it wouldn’t happen to me. I had the utmost confidence that what I couldn’t combat through professional training, I could vanquish with the all-encompassing scope of motherly love.
Reluctantly, I had headed to the kitchen as the officers requested, and as soon as I’d gone I regretted it. Something was niggling at me about the accident, but I couldn’t locate the source of my discomfort. I was forced to wait, staring blankly at a crack in the ceiling, straining to eavesdrop, itching to grab a glass from the draining board and hold it to the wall. The only thing that stopped me was imagining Georgia’s horror if she found me like that. So, I sat quietly, while my mind blazed through a series of doubts and what-ifs. I kept reminding myself that my child was safe, but I couldn’t settle. Whenever I pictured Sophia’s face, I could barely keep it together. While I waited I had left messages for Callum, and for Liam and Helene, but there had been no response. Now the kids are asleep, I grab my phone and try Callum again, but it goes through to voicemail and I leave another message telling him to come home. It’s so typical that Callum isn’t here, I think, a familiar burst of anger rising in my throat. When is he ever home nowadays? I have grown used to eating dinner while we both direct our conversation towards our children. Where I would once catch my husband’s eye when the kids were young and share a private joke, now I keep my head down. Callum has a predictable routine: finish his food, get up and wash his plate and cutlery, set them to drain. Then he gives each one of us a cursory peck on the head and disappears, the front door opening seconds later. At this point, my children bolt their food a little faster if they haven’t yet finished, then take their own cue to leave, jumping up and racing out of the room as fast as they can in the hope that I won’t call them back to help with the chores.
Seven days a week, if Callum is not at the office, there is always something to do at the Mountain Rescue Depot. Since he became team leader for the region his responsibilities have multiplied, and even if he isn’t out on a rescue he is busy with administration or talking to the press or members of the committee. I’m pretty sure he racks up more hours volunteering there than he does at Shipton’s, the electrical engineering company that has paid him a wage for the past fifteen years. When Callum first joined the rescue team I admired his passion. I never imagined that he would become so absorbed, but the work never ends. Those who visit the Lake District to experience the postcard views don’t always consider the loose rocks, the gullies, the treacherous rain, the fog or the cold. Until Callum began volunteering I had no idea how many people got lost or stuck on the hills, but of course we live in an area that has built an industry around traversing the landscape. I’ve since learned that rescues often take hours, and there’s no convenient time to get stuck on a mountain. Callum’s pager doesn’t give two hoots about our plans.
The silences crept into our conversations a little at a time. Stealthily, so we almost didn’t n
otice. While we don’t argue, at least a fight might be some kind of attempt at communication. Instead it feels as though I’m standing on the sidelines while in the ring my marriage flounders against the ropes, stumbling and staggering, beaten to a pulp by all the doubts, the indecision, the things we cannot say to each other. I am waiting for the moment that one of us will step in and stop this, but it never seems to arrive. I’ve become too frightened to move, wondering whether I can save it, or if it’s already out for the count.
In an effort to evade my marital dilemmas I switch the television on, but it’s impossible to settle enough to watch anything. I try Liam and Helene again, but their phones are switched to voicemail. It’s agonising to be cut off from them when they may need us more than ever before. Our families have been through so much together – countless meals and celebrations, hikes and picnics, the heartbreak of losing parents, the nervy first days of school. It was Helene who brought me meals after an operation on my knee, who took my children when I needed to grieve for my parents, who plies me with wine every New Year’s Eve. And while Liam and Callum can be fiercely competitive, Liam is always the first at our door if we need help with odd jobs, or to mend our recalcitrant thatched roof.
If our daughters had swapped places tonight, then our roles would be reversed. The abrupt chasm between our circumstances consists entirely of luck, and that’s enough to make me shudder. My mother-in-law used to tell Helene and me, ‘Just you wait until they’re teenagers,’ and we would roll our eyes behind her back, not believing anything could be harder than the toddler years. How wrong we were. Back then we were only looking forward, towards an endless plateau of possibilities. Then life took over, constricting us into one narrow pathway that was slowly overlaid with a movie reel of memories, the film eroding in places, our choices blurred with our forgotten dreams, our triumphs and our regrets.