‘Tasha’s parents are pretty nice,’ Becca said. Even now, she was still defending her.
‘I’m sure they are.’
‘But you’re right,’ Becca conceded. ‘She’s got them wrapped round her little finger.’
‘Not just them.’ Miss Borders leaned back slightly on her stool. ‘I never understood why you two – and then Jenny – were so in awe of her. She didn’t strike me as being all that much to write home about. You and Hayley, well, you were proper kids. And there in the middle was Natasha. So contained.’
‘I don’t really remember,’ Becca said. ‘We were just kids.’ She didn’t look up from her painting but she had a feeling Miss Borders was giving her a Yeah, right kind of look.
‘She was very pretty, though. So was Jenny, when she turned up. And Hayley had that cool beauty of hers. Long before any of you noticed, it was there bubbling under her skin waiting for her cheekbones to rise to prominence. I would love to do a portrait of Hayley.’
‘You probably could now. It’s not like her schedule’s that busy.’
‘Cattiness doesn’t suit you, Rebecca.’
‘After what she did?’
There were a few moments’ silence after that, and at first Becca thought Miss Borders was feeling awkward, but then she realised she was still drifting through her memories, sifting and sorting them.
‘Hayley was so upset when you all fell out.’
‘Not that upset,’ Becca said, and shrugged.
‘Oh, she was. It was the only time I saw her stand up to Natasha. No one else ever did.’ She looked at Becca, a warm smile on her face. ‘Not even you. Everyone just followed her around. But when you fell out and you started sitting in Art on your own, and little Jenny was in your seat, Hayley was upset. She tried to make it better but Natasha wouldn’t allow it. I used to listen to them at lunch, Hayley pleading for you. And then one day, I think Hayley just gave up. I saw her crying in the corridor and asked her what was wrong but she wouldn’t say. I asked if it was to do with you and tried to talk to her about friendships but she said I didn’t understand. After that she became cooler. In all senses of the word. The start of the Hitchcock blonde.’
Becca didn’t know what a Hitchcock blonde was, but she knew what Miss Borders meant: the start of the Barbies.
‘Brains, beauty and sex, those three together. Quite something to watch them growing up.’
‘Yeah,’ Becca said. ‘I guess.’ She was starting to feel disgruntled. Even Miss Borders was infatuated with the Barbies.
‘Ah,’ the teacher said, picking up on her mood, ‘but those traits aside, they are – they were – absolutely contrived, while you are your own creation. You’re who you’re supposed to be. Your style is your own. There’s more to admire in that. It’s artistry. It’s probably why Natasha gravitated back to you when she lost her memory. People need truth.’
Becca listened carefully for some edge of pity or condescension but couldn’t find it. These were the kindest words someone who wasn’t family had said to her in what felt like forever.
‘I’ve been thinking about them since all this happened. Well, them and you. And through everything – and it’s a terrible thing to say – I find myself feeling sorry for Hayley more than Natasha.’ She got to her feet. ‘I guess I still see that gangly, awkward little girl sobbing her eyes out in the corridor. Funny how these things can affect us for so long.’ She paused. ‘I think you were actually lucky you got away from them.’
‘Well, being dragged back in certainly hasn’t done me any good.’ Becca tried to smile. Dragged back was an exaggeration and everyone knew it. Becca had launched herself at Tasha, whether she’d admitted it to herself at the time or not.
‘She’s always been so controlling,’ Miss Borders mused, stretching a little. ‘Some women are game-players and Natasha Howland was born to it. You were taken off the board and Jenny brought on.’
‘Like a new queen in chess,’ Becca said.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The Art teacher picked up her cup. ‘But I suspect that in Natasha’s eyes, everyone else on the board is a pawn. She’s replaced her friends quickly enough.’ She put her hand on Becca’s shoulder. ‘It must not feel like it now, but all this will fade.’
And there it was. The adult moment. Becca smiled and then put her paintbrush down.
‘I know. You’re right.’ She didn’t know that at all, but it would make Miss Borders feel better if she said so. ‘I think maybe I’ll clean this up and head out for some fresh air.’
‘I’ll take care of it. You go. A walk will do you good.’
The smile felt like a grimace on Becca’s face but she kept it up, despite wanting to scream, ‘No, what would do me good is for my boyfriend to come back and everyone else to realise that none of this was actually my fault!’
‘Thanks, Miss,’ she said instead as she grabbed her coat and bag. Suddenly the warmth was claustrophobic and her favourite teacher was irritating her. Adults couldn’t put anything right with words, with that smug when you’re older you’ll realise shit they always churned out. Becca sometimes wondered if maybe they’d all forgotten what it was like to really feel stuff. This wasn’t just a playground spat. People had died.
With at least half an hour to go before the final bell, the playground was empty and there were no reluctant teachers doing their duty at the gates. Becca didn’t look back as she walked through them, barely around the corner before lighting the leftover half of her earlier cigarette. She had no idea where to go. It was great to be out of school and away from all the bitching, but she didn’t want to go home, either. She had some money but no desire to go and sit in Starbucks on her own, and anyway, within an hour people from school would arrive, and she wasn’t in the mood to stare them down.
She walked idly, not really paying attention to where her feet were carrying her, her mind mulling over what the Art teacher had said. Becca hadn’t realised Miss Borders paid them so much attention when they were small. How weird that she never liked Tasha. Something about that unsettled Becca – shifted the sands of her memories – and she wasn’t sure why. She knew Tasha could be a bitch. Or could be back then, at least, so no surprises there. Maybe it was hearing how upset Hayley had been all that time ago that made her feel strange.
Maybe.
But something else was wrong. Something more recent that Miss Borders’ words had brought almost to the fore of her memory, but which she couldn’t quite grasp. Like Tasha clutching at the branches in the river, only in this case whatever was bugging Becca was sucked back down into the depths every time she was close to seizing it.
Maybe it was nothing. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be that important. She checked her phone, for the thousandth time, to see if Aiden had texted, but of course he hadn’t. A small flare of anger burned inside her. That was just rude, wasn’t it? How hard could it be to send a short thanks or something? He was probably working, her rational brain tried to tell her, but she shoved it to one side. Aiden was a shit. That was all.
She froze when she saw the three For Sale signs standing rigid, wedged together as if jostling for best position, on the front lawn. She hadn’t realised she’d walked this far. She’d been looking at her feet and lost in her own thoughts. Why had she come here?
She stood on the pavement and stared at the house. Hayley’s house. It looked tired. A faint tint of red marred the white garage double doors, as if some paint had been scrubbed off them. Maybe it had. The recycling box outside was filled with wine and spirit bottles. It wasn’t just Jenny’s mum who was drinking too much these days, then. The curtains were pulled tightly across all the windows, both upstairs and downstairs. Would it be the same at the back? Were Hayley’s family living in darkness, waiting for someone to buy their house and let them get away from here and start again? Judging by the number of estate agents’ boards, they weren’t having any luck.
; Becca was suddenly sad, her body filled with a heavy, weighty ache like first-day period cramps. Maybe Aiden wasn’t the only shit. Maybe she was one, too. She hadn’t spared a single thought for the fallout Hayley’s family faced. Or Jenny’s mum. Had she been rehoused by the council? Had she moved from booze to drugs? It’s not like she didn’t know how to get hold of any. Like mother, like daughter. If Hayley’s parents were getting through that many bottles in a week then anything could have happened.
She wanted to cry. For the millionth time she wondered how any of it had come to this. Tears blurred her vision and she didn’t even notice the front door opening.
‘You.’
The word was acid and Becca jumped, wiping her tears away quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I was just—’
‘Just what? Come to gawp?’ Hayley’s mum, her body scrawny-thin under her baggy jumper and jeans, threw the black bag into the wheelie bin in the drive. ‘Maybe spray some more poison on our house?’
‘I haven’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . I’m sorry—’ Becca’s face burned. Why had she come here? Why did Hayley’s mum hate her? It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t. She hadn’t done anything. Hayley’s mum stormed over until they were face to face and Becca recoiled slightly, her breath coming fast. Was she going to hit her?
‘I’m sorry. I—’ Not knowing what else to say, she asked, lamely, ‘How is Hayley?’
Mrs Gallagher let out a bitter half-laugh. ‘Like you care? Or now that you have no other friends, you suddenly want her again?’
Becca stepped back a little, shocked.
‘Oh yeah, I hear things. My little girl’s not the only one hated on Facebook, is she?’ Hayley’s mum’s eyes were red-rimmed and dark circles hung so heavy from them they were saggy bags sitting on her thin cheeks. ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue for once, Miss Detective? You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Well, look at what you did. Jenny’s in the mental hospital and my Hayley’s broken. She’s on drugs, you know? Did you know that?’ She pointed a skinny finger at Becca. ‘She’s broken.’ She tapped her chest. ‘In here. She barely makes sense any more, just sitting there slurring her words together. She talks about you and Jenny, though. Still cares about you. After all this. And now she won’t even see me any more. She says it’s no use.’ She reached out and gripped Becca’s arms, shaking her until her bag slid down from her shoulder. ‘Do you know how that feels? Do you know how helpless I feel?’
The fight suddenly went out of her and she started to sob, hard, angry sounds, coming from deep inside her chest. She slid to the ground, a heap on the tarmac, her loose fingers trailing down Becca as she crumpled.
Becca glanced around, helpless. She felt sick and didn’t know what to do. In the end, she crouched beside the fragile woman. ‘You should go back inside,’ she said, as gently as she could. She wanted to put an arm around her but was scared she would lash out. ‘Can I help you inside?’
‘She says Jenny’s right.’ She was staring into some private hell, and Becca wondered if she was already drunk. Maybe. ‘She says it is all her fault. She shouldn’t have thought they could make it okay. And now Hannah and Peter Garrick are dead.’ Her words were barely more than a mewl. ‘And she won’t explain it to me. She just says no one will believe her. She won’t see anyone.’ The sobs came harder, tearing from a deep well. ‘And I’m so afraid she’ll die in there.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Becca said again. She didn’t know what else to say. She wasn’t sorry about Hayley, not really, but sorry for all this pain. She stayed where she was in her crouch, her legs starting to get pins and needles, until Mrs Gallagher’s tears slowed. She let out a long, raggedy breath and wiped her nose with the back of her hand before looking up. She was weary, as if this kind of emotional breakdown was happening too often these days.
‘I hated you,’ Hayley’s mum said, sitting back on her heels. ‘I think maybe I still do.’
Tears stung Becca’s eyes then. Adults didn’t hate teenagers. They weren’t supposed to. And Becca hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘She doesn’t, though.’ The woman hauled herself to her feet and Becca did the same, until they were facing each other once again. ‘She thinks about you more than she thinks about me.’
Becca shook the tears away. ‘What do you mean?’ Why would Hayley think about her? Was she planning some kind of revenge?
‘She won’t let me visit any more.’ The grief was threatening to overwhelm her again.
‘What does she say about me?’ Becca pressed.
Hayley’s mum started a slow shuffle back to the front door. She paused after a few feet and turned. ‘She just says, She used Becca, over and over.’ They stared at each other, and the woman shrugged before turning away again. ‘But maybe it’s the drugs,’ she said, the words drifting back. ‘I don’t know what to think any more. But I don’t want to think about you.’
Forty-Eight
She half-ran all the way home, her head on fire somewhere between anxiety and hurt. She needed a quiet, private space to think. Seeing Hayley’s mum like that had been horrible. She was more damaged than Amanda Alderton was at the funeral and her daughter was actually dead.
Hayley. The tree-climber. The ice-cool blonde. The killer. It sounded like she was going into a total meltdown wherever they had her locked up. Was it easy to get drugs in prison? Maybe. But why would Hayley lose it now? Becca remembered her so calmly climbing the ladder to adjust the stage light. No nerves then. Maybe none of it had felt real at that point. She thought of Miss Borders, quietly documenting the death of their friendships, and she felt a sharp pang for the simplicity of those early days at school. What had happened to stop Hayley defending her when Tasha replaced her with Jenny? Why had Hayley been reduced to sobbing in a corridor?
Why do you even care? she asked herself. It was all a long time ago. You don’t need anyone. You’re fine on your own. Screw them. The words were tough, and sometimes she half-believed them, but they were hollow. They were easier to believe when she had Hannah and Aiden, and when being in the cool gang was just a very distant memory. These days were different. She had fresh wounds to nurse. It was like being in Year Seven all over again, but way, way worse. But did she remember their childhood friendships as they really were? Miss Borders said they all just did as Tasha told them – is that how it was? Yes, Tasha had always been the central one, but how had Becca felt about her, really?
Her head started to throb. Her mouth was dry and she needed some water, but she didn’t want to risk bumping into her mum downstairs. Instead, she tugged a piece of gum from a crumpled packet in her pocket and chewed on it, then opened the window. In the drawer by her bed were the last of her Marlboro Lights, the straights she now saved for special occasions, and she took one out. The smoke tasted good, not the petrolly head-spin of the filterless roll-ups, just warm and woody. It reminded her of Aiden. She checked her phone again. Still no text.
Bastard.
The delicious cigarette in one hand, she went to her overcrowded and untidy shelves and yanked out her old photo albums, forgotten and almost falling down the back. She hadn’t looked at them in ages. But there was still something niggling at her, something half-remembered, and maybe a dip into the past would jolt it free. She turned the cardboard pages, the photos stuck to them behind cellophane. It was good to see proper photos that were hers alone, not shared with the world on Instagram and Facebook.
Grinning childish faces – hers a lot rounder then than it was now, but also a lot happier. Terrible clothes. The three of them together. A day at the beach – whose parents took them? – she couldn’t recall, but she remembered the ten-penny machines they played and never won on. The gap in Hayley’s front teeth while she waited for ever for the new tooth to grow through. Becca’s sixth birthday party – not so smiley because she’d been forced to wear a purple dress she hated because her green dress got ruined and—
—and t
hen she froze, her hand still touching the photo. Her green dress. How had she forgotten her perfect green dress? It had got ruined. Natasha had ruined it and she’d blamed Hayley.
She felt sick and her head swam slightly as she sucked in more smoke. The green dress had been a long time ago. It couldn’t have any relevance to Tasha and Hayley now, surely? It was just Tasha being a spoilt child. But still. It was a jagged piece of jade lodged in her mind. It meant something. It wasn’t so much what Natasha had done back then, but how she had done it.
She looked at the beautiful soapstone chess pieces on the board pushed to the back of her small desk, patiently waiting for the next move in the unfinished game. They’d been evenly matched when Tasha stopped playing. Now their kings were almost forgotten, staring at each other from behind their defences.
Chess.
The itch at the back of her mind came back. The sense that she’d missed something important. Something right under her nose. Chess. She looked again at the frozen pieces, the worm of memory wriggling through the mud to reach the surface. The chess set. The funeral.
Suddenly it was there. Clear in her head. What she’d overheard.
Natasha chose them herself, you know? Those girls were her best friends.
Is that really what Mrs Howland said? Or was her memory playing tricks on her? There was only one way to find out.
She checked her watch. If she was fast she could get to the Howland house before Natasha finished school. She lobbed her cigarette through the open window without bothering to stub it out, then rummaged in her cupboard until she found the item she needed: a red cashmere sweater, bought for her by an aunt at Christmas and definitely a size or so too small. Perfect.
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