I pulled my jumper over my head. ‘No. She keeps saying soon. She said in the new year. Now she’s saying her birthday. I think she wants to see what he gets her.’
‘What’s that got to do with you meeting him?’
‘Well, if he buys her a CD and takes her to Pizza Express, then maybe it’s not that serious and there’s no point.’
‘I like Pizza Express!’
‘Me too. But they’re old. They can afford posher places.’
‘So if he buys her a diamond necklace and takes her to the Merchant Hotel then it is serious and you can meet him?’
‘Well, yeah. I suppose. Something like that. Not that she’s exactly the diamond necklace type.’
‘So d’you reckon they’re having sex yet?’
‘Becca!’ I threw my shoe at her. ‘Stop it! Yuck!’
‘You’re being quite cool about it, though, aren’t you?’
I remembered the first time I’d heard about Brian. Then pushed the thought away. ‘I suppose.’ I picked up my bag and pulled back the curtains of the cubicle. ‘OK. Shall we go and buy this dress, then?’
Chapter 33
DECLAN
‘Right, Declan?’
‘Oh, hiya, Cathal.’
Great. Reduced to walking into school on the first day of term with Cathal Gurney. Between sniffs he tells me about the Xbox 360 he got for Christmas. ‘And I’ve got all these new games, so I have.’
It’s easy to zone out, keeping half an ear and both eyes open for Emmet McCann. I’ve kept out of his way all over Christmas but I haven’t forgotten what Seaneen told me.
Mr Dermott rubs his hands together. ‘Well, 12D.’ He’s even more all bizz than usual. ‘New term; new challenge. All ready for your mocks?’
A lot of groaning and ‘Aye right, sir’, and ‘No way, sir’. It’s only our year doing exams. Everyone else has normal classes while we go to the assembly hall. There’s desks laid out in rows. One for everyone in Year Twelve. It looks sort of important and scary and real.
It’s not though. It’s just the usual crap. Write a letter to your French pen pal inviting him/her to come and stay at your house. Tell him about all the local attractions! I can just imagine some poor frog arriving at 13 Tirconnell Parade.
Monday, Tuesday drag by. This is the first time in my life I ever did any revision but it doesn’t seem to make much difference. By Wednesday afternoon the assembly hall stinks of deodorant and stale farts. School ends early because of exams and I’ve been making myself head straight home – see if I can catch her before she starts – but I know I’m being stupid. Last night I found a bottle in the cupboard under the stairs. She never used to hide them before.
She hasn’t been falling down, passing out, throwing up drunk – not since New Year’s Eve anyway.
She hasn’t been crying, pyjamas all day, bad-tempered drunk.
She hasn’t been on a bender, round at the Bastard’s flat, lost weekend drunk.
But she has been drinking.
Last week I thought Mum going back on the drink was the worst she could do. But it’s not.
‘Oi Kelly!’ It’s Emmet. I swing round but there’s no one else in sight. I don’t think he’d jump me without a couple of mates.
‘What?’
‘See your ma?’
I look round. ‘No. Where?’
Emmet yanks my bag off my shoulder. ‘Don’t try to be clever, Kelly. You tell your slag of a ma to keep away from my da. Get it?’
I grab my bag back. ‘Look, McCann, if you think I want my ma anywhere near your da –’
‘Yeah, well tell her! She better keep away. My da was all right when she was locked up. Then the minute she’s out, she’s sniffing round.’ His voice rises to a high-pitched whine. You’d nearly think he was going to cry. He’s pushed his fat face so close to me that I smell cheese and onion crisps. His nose is so squashed that his forehead seems to jut out further than it.
‘Piss off, McCann.’ It’s just words. I can’t really be bothered. And all the time I’m trying to block out that ‘she’s sniffing round’. I wish Emmet would just deck me one and get it over with and preferably knock me out for about a month.
He doesn’t. He just says, ‘You watch your back, Kelly,’ and slouches off in the other direction, trying to look tough.
* * *
‘Here’s your tea, son.’
‘It’s half four!’ She’s got that jitteriness that means she’ll fight with you as soon as look at you. Three or four glasses, I’d guess. She’s got lipstick on and her big gold hoop earrings. That means she’s seeing him.
‘Och, sure I knew you’d be hungry after your exams.’
Not chicken kiev and chips in the middle of the afternoon hungry.
She hovers round the table. ‘What are you up to tonight, son?’
‘Nothing.’ I push chips round my plate. I spear the chicken and a gush of snot-coloured garlicky mush spurts out. I saw this thing about chicken farms on TV. It would put you off. I set my knife and fork down.
‘Are you wasting that good food?’
‘It’s not good food. It’s crap.’
‘You wee frigger. I stood and made that for you. Many’s the one wouldn’t have bothered.’
‘Aye and many’s the time you didn’t bother.’
‘Your trouble is you got spoiled at Colette’s.’ She lights a cigarette with a shaky hand. ‘I should never have let you go there, getting stupid ideas on the Malone Road.’
‘Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly in a state to do much about it, were you?’
She goes on as if I never said anything. ‘You’ve been a miserable get since you got back from there. Sitting up in your room, sulking. God knows it was bad enough when you were running wild and up to all sorts. Now I suppose you think you’re too good for round here? Just like her.’
‘That’s not fair. Colette was dead good to me.’
‘Oh, I bet she was. Easy for her, isn’t it?’
I get up and scrape the food into the bin under the sink. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way when Barry comes round.’
‘Oh, so that’s what all this is about? Look, what’s he ever done to you?’
I rub the scar on the back of my hand. That’s the only mark that ever showed. He did it cause I told the peelers it was Emmet driving the car. I thought it would get me out of being sent away but it didn’t work, though I only got two months. Emmet got three and his ma kicked him out. I reckon that’s what Barry has against me – having Emmet living with him cramps his style. And he dumped Mum cause I squealed. I can’t believe she went crawling back to him but she’s totally stupid about him. Of course he’s never laid a finger on her. I’ve heard him often enough: ‘I wouldn’t hit a woman,’ like he thinks this makes him Mother fucking Theresa.
And now she’s standing here with her make-up on and she won’t listen to a word against him.
‘I just don’t like him coming round here.’
‘Well, maybe I’ll go to his, then.’
I shrug. ‘Go ahead.’
At least when she’s fighting like this she’s not crying and clinging. ‘Fine,’ she says. She grabs her bag. ‘And maybe I’ll not rush back.’
‘Good.’
* * *
I hate this, waking at four or five. That’s the hardest time to not think. It’s freezing. I roll over to look at the clock radio and realise what’s happened. The electric’s off. I noticed last night it was nearly out of credit. I throw off the duvet and head to the window. It’s grey and damp but it’s not getting-up-time dark. I should have set the alarm on my phone. But I don’t bother with my phone much.
Last time I went out and left her sleeping it off… My stomach lurches. I make myself push her bedroom door open. The room’s empty. She hasn’t stayed at Barry’s for ages. But I knew last night – that’s the way she goes when she’s gearing up for a serious bender.
Breakfast is a dead loss. The milk’s OK but there’s only a few cor
nflakes left. The bread’s a bit stale – it would be OK to toast but that’s no good without the toaster working.
There’s no hot water, of course. I give myself a bit of a sniff to see if I should have a cold wash or go to school the way I am. It would founder you in the bathroom so I just fire on some extra deodorant under yesterday’s shirt.
Dermott’s on late duty. ‘Come on, Declan!’ He gives me a funny look. He’s been doing that a lot. ‘Everything OK, lad?’
For a millisecond I wonder what it would be like to be the sort of person who could say, ‘No, actually. Nothing is all right. My mum’s on a bender with a psychopath. I’ve wrecked my whole future. I’ve nearly killed a horse and I can’t stop obsessing about it. And I can’t stand it any more.’
But I’m not that sort of person. ‘Slept in.’
‘OK. Straight to the hall. English first, isn’t it?’ He’s not really listening. He’s looking behind me. ‘Shelley McIlroy! This is the third time this week!’
Everyone in the hall turns and stares when I walk in. Payne and Sykes are invigilating; just my luck. Payne gives me the third degree then walks me down to an empty desk like I can’t be trusted. It’s right beside Emmet McCann.
Sykes heaves her fat arse off the chair at the front and grumps along the aisle with a paper. ‘You’ve lost fifteen minutes,’ she hisses.
Like I care.
I dashed out so fast I forgot my pencil case. All I can find is a buggered biro and when I try to write my name on the page it comes out scratchy. So I have to put my hand up and ask for a pen.
‘I am not a stationery supplier,’ says Sykes. ‘It is your responsibility to come prepared.’
I push my chair back from the desk. What’s the point? I’m about to stand up and walk out when a pen slides onto my desk from the person on my other side. ‘Here.’ It’s Seaneen Brogan. The pen’s pink with a fluffy pompom on the top but it writes OK.
There’s the usual stupid comprehension thing. An advert saying Portrush is class and we should all go there. Then a letter to the Belfast Telegraph – but you can tell it’s only made up – saying Portrush is a dump. And you have to compare them. I don’t know, never been there. It looks OK in the advert. But I suppose that’s the point.
Section B. Writing to inform, explain and describe. Usual shite. Describe your proudest achievement. Now which of the many could I possibly choose? I could make something up about scoring a winning goal in football or something. But I don’t think I can be bothered.
I can’t do this.
I sigh and look round. Beside me Seaneen’s scribbling away, her curls bouncing on her neck. The tip of her tongue is resting on her spiky little teeth. Not in a Cathal Gurney sort of way – it looks cute. I wish I hadn’t told her to piss off.
Emmet McCann snuffles like a pig. He can’t breathe properly ever since I broke his nose. Every few seconds he gives a big rattly snort. It’s minging.
‘Eyes on your own work!’ barks Sykes. Yeah, like anyone’s going to copy off Emmet McCann.
I start doodling on the back of the paper. A blob. Then it turns into a dog, or maybe a horse. ‘This is the best work experience report I’ve ever seen,’ said Mr Dermott. ‘You should be very proud.’
And I was. I’m not now. But for that time – what was it, two weeks? – before I wrecked it … I close my eyes and see the stable yard. Not the road outside and the car and the blood and the people shouting. I’m looking over the half-door at my first halfway decent attempt at a bed. ‘Aye, you’re not the worst,’ says Jim. Flight’s breath frosting the spotlit evening. The fat weight of a well-stuffed hay net. The happy munching of a yard full of contented horses. The soft shine of clean leather.
My eyes are open now and the pen is covering the page faster than I’ve ever written before. I don’t do what Sykes always tells us and check my full stops and paragraphs and that. I just write. Smells. The tickly, sweet smell of haylage. The salty, damp tang of a tired, sweaty horse. Even the steamy, rich smell of a fresh heap of dung.
And the hot stink of the blood pulsing out of Flight’s leg, pooling on the road –
Stop it! You weren’t that close. You couldn’t smell it. But I can now. Like that mad old bitch Lady Macbeth. Here’s the smell of the blood still.
My hand shudders to a stop, suddenly so sweaty that the pen skids out and lands with a thud beside Emmet’s foot. I grab it. Payne’s head jerks up from the crossword.
For the first time I look at what I’ve written. My breath shivers. Cam. Kizzy. Flight. No way can I let Sykes see this. Scrunching up the paper is so quick I don’t even know I’m going to do it till it’s done.
‘What the … Declan Kelly! What are you doing? Give that to me.’ Payne’s beside me, grabbing for it.
I close my hand tighter round the ball of paper. Sharp edges dig into my fingers.
‘Fuck you!’ I push the desk away. It overturns, crashing into Kevin Walsh’s in front. He swings round. ‘Oi! Watch out, Kelly!’
Still gripping the exam paper I kick the chair over and run out of the room.
Chapter 34
VICKY
Fliss lent me a lovely silvery pashmina for the formal and Becca tried out different hairstyles on me every breaktime until Mad Max chased us out of the toilets.
‘God, you are so lucky,’ Fliss sighed for the hundredth time on Thursday morning at the lockers. There was no sign of Becca. ‘Does Rory have any nice single friends?’
‘I haven’t met his friends. You have to remember it was the shortest relationship in history. And,’ as Fliss opened her mouth to argue, ‘we are just friends.’
‘But he’s asked you to the formal. He must want to get back with you.’
‘He probably just doesn’t know many girls.’
‘So, have you seen him since he asked you?’
‘No, they have their A2 mocks. That’s weird, isn’t it – exams all week and then a formal on Friday?’
‘I suppose it stops them obsessing all week about their fake tans and their hair appointments,’ said Fliss wisely.
‘I don’t think boys are like that,’ I said. ‘They just wear tuxedos, don’t they?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Boring. I’d hate to be a boy.’ I thought of the fun I was going to have getting ready for the formal with Fliss and Becca to help.
‘They do look gorgeous, though, don’t they? You’re so lucky.’
And we were back where we’d started.
Becca dashed in and dumped her bag just as the bell clanged through the corridors.
‘Hi babes,’ said Fliss. ‘Thought you weren’t coming.’
‘Got my report. The postman came dead early. Mum wouldn’t let me leave till she’d interrogated me about that B in Maths.’
‘Oh God, reports.’ That gave us something else to obsess about, for a few minutes anyway.
The envelope with the school crest was still on the doormat when I let myself in after school. It was addressed to Mum, but I didn’t think she’d mind me opening it.
She didn’t, especially when she saw it. I thrust it at her as soon as she got in from work. All As and a couple of A stars. It was my first ever A in Science, thanks to Rory’s private coaching. Though of course it could well be the last.
I watched Mum’s face as she read down the grades and comments. ‘Victoria is an able pupil who has applied herself diligently to her studies. This excellent report augurs very well for June.’ I bet Mad Max hated having to write something nice.
‘Good girl,’ said Mum, giving me a hug.
I decided to cash in on her approval. ‘Mum, d’you think you could take me up to see Flight tonight? Just for ten minutes? Please?’ I did puppy-dog eyes.
‘I’ll take you after tea.’
It was pretty decent of her, I thought, as I sat beside her in the car watching the wet hedges blow and scratch against the windows. I was glad Flight would be tucked up warm in his nice stable. He was munching his haylage but turned round to look a
t me when I slipped into the barn.
‘Poor old fellow; he must be bored,’ I said, scratching behind his ears the way he loved.
‘He’s more settled,’ said Cam, who was doing her evening rounds. ‘And look, see how well his wound’s closing over.’
He nuzzled at me. ‘He’s way more affectionate,’ I said.
‘It’s because you’re spending more time just being with him,’ said Cam. ‘And he’s definitely making good progress. Though of course it’s early days.’ She looked at my face. ‘Don’t look so scared, Vicky. I’ve got a good feeling about him.’ This was the most she had said to me since the accident. I leaned my head against Flight’s warm neck and wished I was brave enough to confess about threatening Declan.
Mum offered Flight a treat, warily. ‘I still don’t understand how it happened,’ she said. This was the first time she’d seen Cam since the accident.
Cam sighed. ‘No. It must have been just a moment of madness. It was so unlike him, though.’ Then her voice hardened. ‘First and last time I’ll take anyone on for work experience.’
‘I’ve been expecting him to get in touch with Vicky to apologise,’ Mum said as if I wasn’t there. ‘But so far …’ She shrugged. ‘And he owes you an apology, too,’ she went on. ‘I mean, this isn’t the sort of thing that does your business much good, is it?’
‘Well, it happens. All too often, unfortunately, with the roads getting so busy. Flight’s not the first horse to dump his rider and run over that road. We’ve just been lucky up until now. I’m going to get a gate put on. I meant to before, but you know what it’s like – it takes something like this…’
On and on they went until I could have screamed. All this obsession and speculation about what he’d done and why he’d done it. And all the time I was the only person who knew why. I looked at my poor, damaged showjumper resting his mangled leg and tried to filter out their voices.
Driving home I kept the conversation firmly on the formal. Starting with the need to get out of school early. ‘Rory’s picking me up at quarter to seven,’ I reminded her. ‘And there’s no way I could get ready in three hours.’
Taking Flight Page 20