He laughs, thinking she has made a joke. You frown, surprised, and she sees it, makes a quick examination of the situation and changes her approach accordingly. ‘What’s your name?’
‘My friends call me Chubs.’
She nods, eyes flickering to you, as if to say, Aren’t I doing well, talking to your fat friend? Aren’t I lovely? You smile, fooled by her act.
I watch through my open window, the sound of your voice blowing in on the breeze, and I want to scream at you to turn your back and walk away. But you are smitten, and she won’t do anything to put you off because she wants you, John; she wants you more than she has ever wanted a boy before. I can see it in her eyes: lust, desire, a need to have you and to conquer you. Another notch on the bedpost. But you, my beautiful boy, you won’t be one of them.
Wednesday 15 May, 1996
Your parents found a way to work through their grief and the blame they’d assigned for the death of their daughter. They took a moment at the end of the day and told each other how they were feeling, and slowly they found their way. You were the one who suggested they do this, another facet of that wise old brain, and it was because of this they soldiered on. You know, I used to call you my wise old owl because you seemed to know what would help people. You knew how to cheer Chubs up when his parents told him he was a disappointment, how to mollify your father when he worried he wouldn’t be able to pay the bills on time, how to calm your mother when memories of Bessie made her sick with grief. You knew as if on instinct what to do and say and when to do and say it. My wise, wise boy.
You are sixteen years old and even now I can see vestiges of the boy you used to be shimmering beneath your face. It is there when you lift the cigarette to your lips and inhale, the wonder and excitement dancing across your features making me want to laugh. You pass the cigarette you snuck from your father to Chubby. He giggles like the child he still is and always will be, hopping up and down on one leg, fat juggling round his middle
‘Aw, this is awesome. Your dad doesn’t know you took it, does he?’
You shake your head, grinning. ‘No. I don’t think he’d mind us trying it this once anyway.’
Chubby’s eyes widen. ‘Cool!’
I smile, taking a turn with the cigarette. You watch me draw with big eyes, lips parted in awe, and I want to cup your face in my hands and kiss your nose. How beautiful you are.
‘So did you ask Ginger out this morning or did you chicken out?’ Chubby flaps pretend wings, clucking into your face.
You blush, suddenly finding an intense interest in the floor. ‘Oh, I did. She… she said yes. We’re going to catch a movie tomorrow.’
Chubby bounces on his toes. ‘So, do you think you’ll kiss her?’
‘I don’t know. If she’d like me to.’ I smile at this answer; so many boys would do it regardless of her wishes, but not you.
‘You’ve got to come round and tell us as soon as you do. I wonder what it’s like, like if it’s really wet and disgusting.’
You shrug. ‘Same as when your mum kisses you, I suppose.’
‘Eww, don’t say that. And especially don’t say it tomorrow, you’ll ruin the mood.’
You laugh. ‘Of course I won’t.’
‘You don’t think she’ll want more, do you?’ He raises his eyebrows, nudging you in the ribs. I want to hurt him when he does this; I want to thrust my finger into his eye and make him cry out.
The colour drains from your face. ‘Er… I don’t know. I… I think I’d like to get to know her first.’
Chubby nods. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever get a girlfriend. Do you think a girl could ever like me? I could lose some weight, comb my hair – Dad’s always telling me to.’
You wrap an arm round his shoulder. ‘Of course you will. Girls think you’re really funny.’
He grins, looking at me. ‘What do you think?’
‘You won’t have any problem, Chubs. They’ll be lining up at your door.’
If it wasn’t for you, I’d tell him that no one will ever look at him twice. I smile and nod, taking another drag on the cigarette before giving it back to you.
The cigarette makes two more rounds before it burns to the nub. You drop it on the floor and stamp on it the way you’ve seen your father do. We smile at each other, then we burst out laughing because it tasted awful.
Thursday 16 May, 1996
I brush my fingers across the tree trunk where you have cut both your initials. A splinter sinks into the soft skin under my nail. I wince and suck the blood through my teeth but the splinter digs itself further into my skin. I ignore the pain and follow the path you have made through the park, seeking out your size-six-and-a-half shoes. I can see you further ahead, holding her hand, laughing at something she said. I stop when you slowly lean forward and press your lips to hers. I feel as if you have just taken a pair of scissors and cut straight though my body, and in a minute the pieces of me will blow away like petals in the breeze. You are nervous, frightened even, of doing something wrong, but she does not care. She hasn’t noticed the way your hands clench, or how your neck tenses, the muscles bunching together. Her hands slip over your back, down, down, to the waistband of your jeans, her fingers exploring the length of you, as her tongue forces its way into your mouth. You pull away, surprised, give a nervous smile, then kiss her again. She presses her body against yours, running her hand through your hair, and it makes me want to be sick into the grass.
She lowers herself to the ground and pulls you with her. You are stiff, uncomfortable, but you are fascinated by the lure of something new and unexplored and she is the most beautiful girl you have ever seen. As she kisses you, I roll my tongue back and rub, imagining it is yours and you are doing to me what she is doing to you. She brushes her finger along your jaw and I do the same with mine, slow, seductive, for a single solitary moment the anger slipping into a pool of pleasure. But when I open my eyes and see her tug on your hair, I want to drag her off you with the back of her own hair. You deserve more sensitivity and tenderness. You are special and she is not worthy of you.
You walk back hand in hand when you have finished. She is oblivious to the fact that this simple act would have been enough for you. I follow behind, listening to her rant about the latest fashion trend, my body trembling when she calls you ‘babe’, as if you are her child, her possession, her thing. You are not, you will never be. You are special. You are more than she could even aspire to be. And you are mine.
Sunday 19 May, 1996
‘You do realise he isn’t going to sleep with you, don’t you?’
She looks at me in surprise. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘John. He won’t sleep with you. He’s saving himself for his future wife. You haven’t got a chance. I just thought you should know.’
Her mouth opens and closes, then her face wrinkles in disgust. ‘That’s so weird. Why would he do that?’
I shrug. ‘Who knows? He gets these ideas into his head sometimes and he just won’t budge.’
‘He told you this?’
‘Yeah. He tells everyone. He thinks it’s cool. Thinks it’s honourable. I don’t know, something like that.’ I shrug again, playing the nonchalant character I think she is most likely to listen to.
She pulls a face and walks away, swinging her hips to catch boys, lips pouting, chest pushed out to display her breasts like confectionery at the newsagent’s. She is walking, talking temptation and the game she plays is one of luring as many boys to her bed as possible. But not you. Not anymore. If she can’t win the game, why would she even want to play?
*
Your eyes are red, cheeks puffy, confidence broken with one fell swoop. You told me she turned up and said she didn’t want to see you again; had met up with an old boyfriend and realised she still loved him. You only knew her for a few days but she was the first girl you ever liked and she shattered your confidence like a ball thrown at a window. I hate to see how I have made you feel. I want you to be confident, happy, but not with her. She d
oesn’t deserve you. You are not a pawn to be used in a game. I can rebuild your confidence, brick by brick, just give me time.
‘I… I thought she liked me. She said she did. I don’t get it, what did I do wrong?’ You are staring at the floor, looking as if you are about to cry.
‘I don’t know. Just forget about her. She was a bit weird anyway.’
‘But what did I do wrong?’ You peer up at me, begging for an answer. I have none to give.
‘Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re better off without her.’
‘Yeah. He’s right, Johnny.’ Chubby fiddles with the yo-yo in his hand, nudging your foot with his own, trying in his little way to imbue a sense of confidence in you.
‘She doesn’t know what she’s missing.’
‘Yeah!’ Chubby punches the air. ‘It’s her loss!’
You smile, nod, thank us for coming round. We pat your back, taking turns to make you laugh. I can see it is going to take longer, more than a few jokes to build you back up again, though. But that’s OK. Unlike her, I know how to handle someone as precious as you. You’re going to be just fine, babe.
Chapter 50
John
Sunday 27 December, 2015
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even cry as he hands her the photograph.
Twelve cuts for twelve ribs.
Each one running down the side of her body, weeping blood.
Tears streaking her face like pen marks down a piece of paper.
Bones broken, skin torn, a scream for help.
On the back, a message:
I think she’s had enough now.
Chapter 51
Maisie
Saturday 30 January, 2016
‘Can you squeeze my hand, Tim?’ She rests her forefinger in his palm and waits. Nothing. His eyes rove around the room, flashes of emotion streaking across his face, disappearing just as fast as they came. ‘Can you squeeze my hand, please, Tim?’ She tries again.
Nothing.
She sighs, scribbling across her clipboard, then picks up a tennis ball and moves it from hand to hand in front of his face. His eyes fix on it for a moment and, for a handful of heartbeats, Maisie is overwhelmed with hope. But then his eyes begin another blank turn round the room.
‘Tim, if you can hear me, I need you to blink twice. Can you do that for me, please?’
Nothing. She makes another note on her clipboard, then throws back his covers and runs her pen down the sole of his foot. She is about to turn away when she sees his toes twitch.
She takes a breath to steady herself. Her pulse quickens. ‘Can you feel that, Tim? Can you feel it? Wriggle your toes for me, Tim.’ She runs her pen across his foot. Another twitch.
‘Oh my God.’
She drops the clipboard on the bed and bends over his chest, searching his face, her nerves on edge, as if an electric current has run through her body. She gathers a fold of his skin between her fingers, says a silent prayer, then pinches.
‘Lailah! Lailah!’
‘What?! What is it?’ She runs into the room, eyes wide, arms open. ‘Maisie?’
A bubble of joy bursts in her chest. ‘Watch, watch!’
She pinches his arm, again and again to be sure. When she looks up at Lailah, she is laughing. ‘He… he… did he just…?’
She nods and pulls Lailah into her arms. ‘Yes!’
Chapter 52
Miller
Wednesday 8 October, 1997
I see the way they look at you. All those wicked girls with their honeyed skin and bright eyes. They look at you the way Mother looks at the dress she wants in the window of Debenhams; they wonder how you would look by their side, and if they could make the other girls jealous. I’m with Johnny Graham. That’s right. He picked me. Me, not you.
You do not notice. There hasn’t been another girl in your life since Ginger; I think that still hurts you in a way. But just as I promised, I have built your confidence back up and now you walk down the street with your head held high. Chubby likes to pretend the girls are looking at him, likes to think he could make them swoon with just one glance.
The girls angle their bodies at you, licking their lips and flicking their hair. Times like these, I want to grasp your hand, a clear message in the touch: he’s taken.
He just doesn’t know it.
There is a new girl at school now. She moved into our village with her affluent parents, nice clothing and expensive jewellery, and although she has aimed a few curious looks at you, I can sense that, to her, you are not an object. Not an accessory to flaunt. I watched her in class the other day, you know, and I thought to myself, if you were ever to be with a girl, she should be the one. No one will ever be good enough for you but I want you to have diversity in your life, I want you to feel alive, I want you to be touched and kissed and treated well. I want you to live to the very extent of life. I want you to run and laugh and scream, but at the end of the day I want you to come home to me so I can mend your raggedy heart and kiss away your troubles.
Don’t forget you belong to me.
‘What do you think of the new girl?’ I ask, wrapping an arm around Chubby, so you can see I am bringing him into the conversation. Chubby thinks I am as kind as you, the best friend in the entire world, but I’m not. Not to him at least.
‘She seems nice. Have you talked to her?’
‘No.’ I snigger. ‘You should see the guys in my art class. They’re practically drooling. It’s disgusting.’
Chubby laughs, skipping along beside us. ‘She’s pretty. Do you think I have a chance?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Chubs. I’m not sure she’s into the whole dating thing.’
‘That’s probably a good thing. I’d only break her heart.’
We laugh. ‘What movie have you got that from? Chubs, you can’t bear to stand on an ant, so you’re not going to be able to break anyone’s heart.’
‘Has she even talked to anyone yet? The girl?’ you ask, and I have to look away so you can’t see my smile.
‘Whyyyy? Do you like her, mate?’ Chubs bumps your hip, grinning.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t met her.’
‘What about you? You’re in her class.’
I shake my head. ‘No, she keeps to herself.’ I plan to, though. I plan to smile my best smile and talk to her after class, laugh when she makes a joke, show interest when she talks about art. And then I’ll introduce her to you. And the rest will take care of itself. She won’t be able to resist you, John. And it’s better her – someone I have picked – than a girl like Ginger.
Don’t you agree?
*
You’d carry him home if you could. I know you would.
He is shuffling by your side, right arm hooked round your shoulder, left dangling to the floor. His face is bloody, nose slightly crooked. When you found him, you rushed to his side and cupped his head in your lap, patting his chest, asking him to look at you, to answer you. At first he didn’t respond and that scared you, didn’t it? But when he did, you sighed and looked to the sky as if in thanks to a hidden entity.
You think I have just spotted you when I come bolting down the street. It isn’t true, though. I’ve been watching you all day. And as I shout Chubs’ name and don a look of panic, I wrap his free arm around my neck and shuffle along with you both.
‘Chubs! Chubs, are you OK? What… what happened, John? What happened to him?’ I look at you imploringly.
‘Marcus and his band of idiots got him after school. I found him at the back. I think he’s OK. His nose is broken, though. Can you run and get his dad, mate? I think my knees are about to buckle.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ When I return with Chubs’ father, you are sitting with him on the curb, legs shaking from exhaustion, arms flopping over Chubs’ sobbing form. ‘Hey, hey, mate, come on. It’s OK. Everything’s going to be OK. You’ll see.’
He shakes his head, leaning in to you. ‘Everyone at school’s going to think I’m weak!’
‘They won’t. I promise. Why did they come after you?’
Chubs hiccups, snot running in rivulets down his lips. ‘They said I was fat. Said I couldn’t fit through doors properly. I can, though, I really can, Johnny. It’s not true!’
You pat his back and hold him close. ‘I know it’s not, Chubs. They’re just bullies. Don’t go anywhere on your own. Let’s stick together. It’s got to be harder if we’re together.’ You rest your head on his. ‘Does your nose hurt?’
A stupid question. And yet it makes Chubs chuckle just as you knew it would. ‘Yeah. A little bit. It was a lot worse a minute ago. Do you think I’ll look like that guy on telly now? You know, the tough guy with the bent nose?’ His expression brightens.
‘I think the doctor will put it back, Chubs.’
‘Oh, oh, yeah.’ He casts his eyes to the ground. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t call me Chubs anymore…’
You nod sadly. ‘OK. Good thinking, mate.’
He smiles, bumps you in the ribs with his fist. ‘Thanks for helping me home.’
You smile back. ‘No problem. We’ll always be there for each other.’
You stay with him that night, curled up on the floor of his bedroom, so when nightmares of Marcus come and scare our little friend, you can reach up and pat him on the back, reminding him he is safe. It makes me smile, you know, how thoughtful and considerate you are. When I go to bed, I smile because you are my special boy.
Special. Special special special.
Chapter 53
John
Tuesday 29 December, 2015
He’d always hated that red jumper; the only reason he’d worn it was because his mother bought it especially for him and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He can still remember the way it made his skin itch.
In the picture he’s standing with his two friends, Miller and Don, smiling, wishing he could rip the jumper off and throw it into his neighbour’s garden. His eyes flicker back to Miller and, with the weight of an anchor, his heart falls dormant to his feet.
Lies Between Us Page 20