Taking Flight

by Sheena Wilkinson

  ‘In a year! And not definitely.’

  ‘Oh honey, nothing’s definite. For the moment just be glad he’s alive, eh? Look, it’s nearly seven. Rory’s due at eight.’

  ‘I told him I wasn’t going to the party!’ It was nearly a scream.

  ‘He still wants to come and see you. He must really like you. Now why don’t I run you a nice hot bath?’

  I sat up and sighed. Rory would really need to like me to be able to fancy me like this. But somehow it seemed totally unimportant.

  * * *

  ‘You shouldn’t miss your party,’ I said. ‘I’m not exactly much company.’ We were in the little den at Dad’s – a small room full of Molly’s toys and bits and pieces of mismatched old furniture living out their days. Fiona had lit the fire for us and it cracked and sparked in a friendly way but it couldn’t stop me shivering. Dad had even given me a glass of brandy to calm me down and warm me up but all it had done was make my head ache.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Rory took my hand and began playing with my fingers. It was strangely soothing. ‘As if I would. There’ll be other parties.’

  Tears pricked the backs of my eyes at the thought of how much this would have meant to me last week and how little I cared now.

  ‘I just feel so …’ but I didn’t have a word for it.

  Rory traced a tear down my cheek and I thought how ugly I must look. ‘Tell me exactly what you think happened.’ I could imagine him as a doctor, caring for his patients, listening to them, never hurrying them.

  ‘It was Declan. I told – asked him to put Flight out and he, he must have, I don’t know, just taken him. We reckon he took him onto the farm trail, fell off and then Flight r-ran across the road.’ I bit my lip to stop the sobs that threatened to burst out every time I thought about Flight lying in front of the car.

  He stopped playing with my fingers and his face got serious. ‘Vicky, it doesn’t make sense. I saw Declan the other week with that runaway horse. He was so responsible. Like he would have done anything to make sure the horse was OK.’

  ‘So? What’s that got to do with it?’

  He sighed. ‘It doesn’t add up. Why would he just take him?’

  ‘You don’t know him!’ I was shaking with rage. The little voice inside that had always kept Nasty Me well hidden when I was with Rory was silent now and she was having her chance. ‘That – that bastard nearly kills my horse and I’m the one getting the third degree! If he was so responsible why did he steal my horse?’ I could hear hysteria surging into my voice and Rory was looking at me like he didn’t recognise me. ‘Why did he just run home to his drunk mother and his joyrider friends? He didn’t even care enough to stay around! I told everybody what he was like and no one would listen! Well, I was right!’

  ‘Vicky! You’re acting like you hate him!’ Rory pulled away.

  ‘I do hate him! I’ve always hated him!’ Rory looked more and more horrified as words spewed out of me. ‘How could you expect me to feel anything else?’

  ‘But he can’t have meant it! It was an accident!’

  ‘It still shouldn’t have happened.’

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he said, ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘Say?’

  He shook his head. ‘Listening to you like this … You’re so full of hate. I just don’t think you’re telling me everything.’

  ‘God, Rory! You’re like everyone else! They all take his side! C-Cam and Fiona – and, and Mum –’

  He stood up. ‘Have you ever thought everyone might be right?’

  ‘Wh-what do you mean?’ I swallowed.

  He rubbed his hand over his hair and spoke as if the words were hard to say. ‘Look, Vicky, I don’t know what happened. But I do know there’s more to this than you’re letting on. And I’m sorry. I liked you and everything but I … I can’t …’ His voice trailed off.

  Suddenly my mind snapped into focus. ‘You’re finishing with me? Because of him?’

  ‘No.’ My heart rose, but fell at his next words. ‘It’s not because of him, it’s because of you. I knew you were a bit jealous; I worked out you were a bit of a princess – I’m sorry, but you are – but I didn’t know you were so vindictive. I can’t … I can’t just sit here and hold your hand and tell you how sorry I am when you’re like this. You need to grow up, Vicky.’

  I watched him leave. Another scene in the nightmare.

  * * *

  I thumped my pillow and tried to find a cool, dry spot on it. I knew if I cried out loud Fiona or Dad would come in but I couldn’t forget Rory’s words. Grow up, Vicky. So I’d lost him as well. It’s Declan’s fault; it’s all his fault – my friends, my boyfriend, my mum, my horse: all gone because of him. That’s what I wanted to think. God, to offload it all on him – it would be so easy!

  It’s not because of him, it’s because of you.

  For hours Nasty Me and Nice Me fought it out. And I knew Rory was right. No matter how wrong Declan had been, taking Flight like that, I knew he would never have done it if I hadn’t made that threat. But I wasn’t really going to tell her! Yes, but he didn’t know that. He believed I would. And why did he believe that? Fresh tears ran down my face. Because I’d been such a bitch; he had every reason to believe I was capable of taking it one step further.

  And now – oh, I was pretty sure I’d got my wish. I couldn’t see him turning up at the yard again. Flight wouldn’t be rubbing his face against him and nickering at him and closing his eyes with pleasure while Declan groomed him. I didn’t need to worry about that any more.

  But Flight might not be doing all those things with me either. Not if he was dead.

  Chapter 29

  DECLAN

  You can’t put a dead horse on top of the wardrobe. It’s too big.

  Every time I close my eyes the scene plays across my eyelids like a film. I want to press stop but I can’t. The car with its wing all smashed in. Flight down on the road. The blood – oh Christ, the blood. People standing around, shouting – but there’s no soundtrack. Just their mouths opening and closing. Cam. Vicky. The man in the car. In the next scene Vicky’s lunging at me but Cam pulls her back. Flight. The blood. The car.

  The next few scenes are in fast forward. The ones where I’m going home. Running. Then walking. I don’t even know if I’m going the right way, but then there’s a scene where it’s dark and I’m limping down Tirconnell Parade. I see my hand turning the key in the lock. See my hands yanking off my new boots in the hall and throwing them into the corner.

  From somewhere Mum’s voice comes at me, ‘What time do you call this? … worried sick … dinner’s ruined …’ See Mum taking a plate out of the microwave. Her face – worried and pleased with herself at the same time. Me sitting at the table looking at a plate of bones and blood. My throat closes. Why can’t she see? I can’t tell her but I want her to know without being told.

  Then it flashes back to the road. Flight. The car. The blood. Over and over.

  * * *

  ‘Thought you were working Sundays as well?’ Mum leans against the kitchen doorframe, yawning. She pulls her dressing gown tighter round her.

  It’s after one o’clock. She was up until three. I heard the TV. I’ve been up for hours. I put the heating on but my insides are full of ice. I ache everywhere from the fall and the long walk. But it’s not enough.

  I shrug. ‘Nah. Don’t think I’ll bother. You were right. It’s too far away.’

  She feels the kettle, switches it on and yawns again. ‘Aye, you’re right, son. Better sticking round home. I mean, horses!’ She says it like it’s something ridiculous. ‘Not really you, is it?’

  I shiver at the word ‘horses’ and she gives me a funny look. ‘Are you sickening for something?’

  I shake my head.

  The phone rings in the hall and she shuffles out to it. Our phone hardly ever rings. Except – oh God, it’ll be Colette. I make Mum a cup of tea, trying not to listen.

  She comes back in. ‘
Mrs Mulholland. Do I want anything from Tesco’s? Her Mairéad’s taking her. She’s one nosy cow.’

  I grab this harmless subject. ‘Och, Mum, she’s just being nice.’

  ‘Nice!’ She humphs around a bit, looking for a lighter. She takes her tea into the living-room, switches on EastEnders, and lights a cigarette.

  I hover in the doorway. ‘Mum? Are you not getting dressed?’

  ‘Jesus, Declan! It’s Sunday. Would you give my head peace? What does it matter?’

  ‘D’you want me to go to the shops for you?’

  ‘I don’t need anything at the shops! Why is everybody obsessed with the bloody shops!’ But she laughs. I haven’t heard her laugh for ages. I want to ask her if she’s happy being home. I want to ask her if she still feels like drinking.

  I don’t want to be here if Colette phones.

  In the end the weather decides it, flinging rain at the windows in bucketfuls. I go upstairs and lie on my bed listening to it until the room grows dark around me.

  * * *

  The park shuts at teatime in winter but it’s easy to shin over the broken-down side of the fence. I sit on the swing, pull my coat round me and unwrap the vodka bottle from its brown paper bag. They don’t ask for ID in the offie on the main road. It’s the cheap stuff, a half bottle; didn’t want to use all my birthday money. ‘Happy birthday, Declan,’ I say and unscrew the lid. Not much of a taste, not like beer or whiskey. But if it does the job for Mum – or did – there must be something in it. I’m not drinking it for the taste.

  Cold at first then, as I start downing it faster, a tongue of fire reaches down into my stomach and licks. But the bottle stays cold in my hands. I scuff my feet against the ground to push the swing and I wait to feel something. Or not to feel. That’s what I’m after. Stop feeling. Stop thinking. Stop the film playing. It’s been four days now and I can’t make it stop.

  At first all I feel is the drink swishing up and down with the movement of the swing. The more I drink the horribler it tastes so I down it faster, even though my throat gags, just to get it down.

  And wait to start not feeling. Swinging and waiting. How long does it take? My hands freeze on the bottle so I gulp down the dregs and fling it away. Hear it smash on the ground behind me. Loud in the empty park.

  I stuff my hands into my pockets and lean back on the swing and look at the stars. Then I lean too far and have to grab for the chains to stop myself falling backwards, and they’re even colder than the glass so I start to laugh cause I’m being so stupid. I catch myself on – sitting on a swing on my sixteenth birthday. ‘Wise up, Declan,’ I say out loud. My voice sounds stupid. The hot tongue has stopped licking me and I’m shivering inside and outside.

  I stand up and the ground tilts and it reminds me of the first time I got off a horse and my legs buckled. So much for not thinking. If you could just wipe your head clean. Better still, wipe out what you did. How far back would you go? Last week before you took Flight? Or before that? Last month, fighting Emmet? Last year, leaving Gran and getting into that car?

  If you could make it all not have happened.

  ‘Fuck this!’ I shout. I wait for an echo or something but there’s just the empty park. I have to get out but I can’t find the broken-down bit of fence and when I do, it seems to have got harder to climb and I nearly wreck myself trying to get over it. Then I have to lean against it for a bit before I can start walking. Down the main road past Barry’s flat. I must have got out over the wrong bit of fence. Shouldn’t be round here.

  My ma’s going to kill me, I think. But how can she kill me for being like her? Colette said you didn’t have to do the same as your parents but Colette’s wrong.

  A wee old man gives me a nervous look and steps aside to pass me even though he has to go on the road for a few steps. ‘Never worry yourself, granda!’ I shout after him. ‘I’m just like my ma,’ and start laughing again except this time it turns into heaving, tearing sobs and I can’t stop.

  Until I see who’s coming up the road towards me. Emmet with a couple of his mates. He’s got his head down, texting, and he doesn’t see me, but he might look up so I juke down the alley beside the bookies but then I know he’s going to come down here too. I don’t know how I know but I do so I start to run and the alley’s full of dogs’ piss – at least I hope it’s only dogs’ piss – and more broken glass and I’ve got a stitch and I have to stop and lean against the wall and then the sobbing in my throat turns into retching and I’m puking my guts up.

  And the stupid thing is, he never followed me. He probably didn’t even see me.

  The other stupid thing is that the film never stops. I’m on my knees in a pissy alley puking and crying and wanting to die and the film just plays on and on and fucking on.

  * * *

  ‘Kelly? Kelly!’

  Behind me, Seaneen gives me a poke with her ruler. I open my eyes and glance round. Everyone sniggers.

  ‘What? Oh – sorry, sir.’

  Payne looks up at the ceiling and sighs. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, Kelly.’

  I squint at the board. A meaningless jumble of numbers. My headache beats out my pulse and my mouth’s so dry that my ‘Don’t know, sir’ only comes out at the second go.

  ‘“Don’t know, sir.” If I’d a pound for every time …’ Payne gives an exaggerated sigh. ‘Thought your newfound work ethic was too good to last. OK, Walsh. What can you do with it?’

  Maths lasts for years. I go to the toilets on the way to History, splash cold water round my face. At least there’s nothing left to throw up.

  When I come out Emmet McCann’s blocking the corridor. ‘How’s the gee-gees, Kelly?’ he asks with a smirk.

  ‘Piss off, McCann.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he goes on, all conversational. ‘Must run in the family. Riding. I suppose your ma can give you tips, can’t she? Being the expert. Or should that be sexp –’

  I have him up against the wall so fast he doesn’t have time to get the last word out.

  Dermott’s door flies open and he pulls us apart.

  Emmet yanks at the V-neck of his jumper. ‘Sir! He just grabbed me for no reason!’

  I don’t say anything. My breath comes fast through my nose.

  ‘Right. McCann – off with you. Kelly – in here now.’

  Dermott’s never called me Kelly before. In the classroom he leans against his desk, folds his arms, and looks me up and down. ‘Well?’ He’s got green ink smudged on his shirt sleeve.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were meant to be staying away from him.’

  I shrug.

  ‘So what’s the story?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Declan.’ He sighs. ‘Look, whatever’s got into you this week – don’t think I haven’t noticed – you need to sort it out.’ His voice isn’t cross any more. It’s sort of kind. I clench my jaw so hard it cracks and the pain is welcome. Sort it out. I start to make for the door, but he holds me back. ‘Not so fast. I’ve something here that might cheer you up.’ He rummages in a pile of papers on his desk. ‘Where is it? Ah yes.’ He hands me out a leaflet. It’s about getting a grant if you go to college away from home.

  ‘Oh.’ I look at it in disbelief. It belongs to another life. I start to tell him it’s OK, I’ve changed my mind, I won’t need it, and then I think of all the hassle of explaining to him. How can I tell him I’ve wrecked everything? How can I tell him I’ve killed a horse?

  Him with his leaflets and his downloads and his bloody enthusiasm. So I just go, ‘Thanks, sir.’

  On the way to History I shove it in the bin in the corridor. I stick it right down into it so he won’t see it.

  * * *

  ‘Kevin told Sean that Emmet McCann told him he’s going to get you,’ Seaneen pants, catching up with me at the end of Tirconnell Parade.

  ‘Do I look worried?’

  ‘Just telling you. Here, hang on.’ She drops her bag and grabs my arm while she stands on one leg, takes off her shoe
, fiddles with it a bit and then puts it back on. ‘That’s better.’ She doesn’t take her hand away.

  ‘Can I get my arm back?’

  She flounces away. ‘God, Declan, you’re hard work. I don’t know why I bother with you.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘So what did you do to Emmet McCann?’

  ‘Got him against the wall. Then Dermott came out.’

  ‘He’s a nasty get. Like that da of his. D’you know what that Barry said to me last week in the chippie? “God, those are quare tits, love.” Perve.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I don’t want to get into a conversation about Emmet. Or Barry. Or anything. I just want to go home and sleep.

  ‘Hey, there’s your Colette’s car.’

  ‘What? Oh, shit.’ I scudder to a halt. My insides turn to stone. Then ice.

  Seaneen gives me a funny look. ‘What’s wrong? Last week you couldn’t wait to get home and see what she’d bought you. Hey – when is your birthday?’

  ‘Dunno. Yesterday.’

  ‘Declan.’ She stands in front of me, blocking my path. ‘Come on. Tell me what’s happened. Last week you were all bizz about everything and now – it’s like somebody’s dead.’ She puts her hand on my arm again.

  I let out a long, shuddering breath. It’s like when Dermott was nice to me earlier. I can’t stand it. ‘Piss off, Seaneen. I never asked you to hang round me.’ I shake her hand off.

  She turns without another word and marches away.

  I try to sneak into the house and up the stairs but Mum catches me in the hall. ‘Colette’s here. Come and say hello.’

  I grit my teeth and push open the living-room door.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ Colette says. She looks the same as always. ‘Why don’t you come out to the car with me? I’ve got Christmas presents for you and your mum.’

  I’ve no choice but to follow her into the street. She waits until she’s handed me the plastic bag. Then she looks me right in the face and says, ‘You haven’t told your mum, have you?’ And I see that she doesn’t look the same as usual, that her face is as cold and disappointed as her voice.