The Suicide Club

by Rhys Thomas

  My school is a very good school. It is eclectic, which means it has a nice mix of people. Rich people. Firstly, it’s a private school, so you have to pay to go here. My dad’s an air traffic controller and my mother’s a private doctor so we have a lot of money in my family. Both my parents inherited a lot too. It’s not a fair system but it’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t choose to go to the school – my parents sent me.

  Secondly, the school is right next to an American airbase so there are a lot of American kids who go here which means we have a fairly transatlantic vibe going on. Whatever’s big in America comes to my school first.

  Thirdly, because it’s such a good school, lots of parents from all over Britain want to send their kids here and so it is also a boarding school, which means that some of the kids actually live here, which is a concept beyond my understanding.

  But don’t think for a second that my school is like one of those old buildings with old trees and leafy paths because it’s not like that at all. You’ve got wholly the wrong idea if you thought that. Many of the buildings at my school were put up in the seventies and are quite hideous.

  ‘He’s a new kid,’ said Clare, hooking her arm under mine and leaning her head on my shoulder. ‘It’s his first day. Did you see him? He was awesome.’

  I had to admit that he did handle the situation well. He may well have saved the boy’s life, which was quite a thing to do on one’s first day at a new school.

  ‘He’s really good-looking,’ she said.

  Another fact that I had to corroborate. He had Chiselled Features, which I realize is cheesy, but it was true. He was one of those people whose hair always looked cool. It was quite long, nearly down to his shoulders, but he definitely wasn’t a goth because it was healthy and curled intellectually away at the ends, like my little brother’s. I’m not bad-looking at all but he was much better-looking than me.

  ‘Have you met him?’ I said.

  She was staring at him, not even listening to me. If I’d known then what I know now about Freddy, I’d have told her to snap out of it. It was like she was in a trance. I dread to think what was going through her mind – it was probably pretty dirty. She’s done some wild stuff. I always tell her that it’s because she hates herself and we have a good laugh about it. We laugh at psychotherapy because we consider it to be a pseudo-science.

  Anyway, all of a sudden a gurney was being rolled out of the front door, on top of which lay Craig Bartlett-Taylor. He had a drip in his arm but we could all tell that he was alive. For a second there I started feeling a little bit dizzy. All of my excuse thoughts drained away and my worry about Craig returned. I was suddenly struck with a feeling of inconsolable sadness. I started wondering how his parents would feel when they found out that their son had tried to kill himself. Again. Then I started to think that Craig Bartlett-Taylor was a selfish little shit. He always wore long sleeves, even in summer, because he used to cut himself. He wasn’t trying to hide his cuts out of shame; everyone knew that long sleeves in summer was a sure sign of a self-mutilator. He wanted people to know because it’s kind of cool to do that stuff, not that I ever would. It appeals to intelligent teenagers because we understand drama and romanticism, but have fucked-up hormones.

  The paramedics hoisted him into the ambulance and I felt Clare’s head lift from my shoulder. We looked at each other and smiled a little in a rubbish attempt at reassurance that Craig would be OK. I unhooked her arm and put mine around her. She rested her head back on my shoulder and we didn’t say anything as the ambulance pulled out of the yard and started up its chilling sirens.

  Soon it was gone and the teachers were saying things like ‘OK, everybody back inside’ but Clare and I waited for a moment, staring at the autumn leaves scuttling and hopping across the dry ground. I shifted my eyes to the kid who had saved Craig. He was on his own with his hands in his pockets. Suddenly my gaze was being returned and we stared at each other from across the yard. I smiled to him and nodded my head and he smiled back. There was a brief moment between us and I found myself pulling Clare closer to me. Then Freddy went inside.

  2

  I WALKED HOME on my own that night. I was conflicted. On the one hand I was happy and excited at the prospect of receiving my new My Chemical Romance album from Play, but on the other, Craig Bartlett-Taylor had tried to commit suicide.

  Although I felt bad for Craig, what he had done had annoyed me more and more as the afternoon had passed. If he wanted to kill himself then fine but he should have thought about his parents. Imagine it. Imagine going home and finding your mother dead on the floor. You’d always thought she loved you but how could she if she was prepared to leave you? If you’re a parent reading this, imagine being told that your son was dead – and through his own choice. It would be like having metal rods at the centre of your skeleton and having them ripped out by a giant magnet. Yes, I felt sorry for Craig, you don’t do something like that lightly, it’s just . . . I don’t know.

  I checked the post but my MCR album hadn’t turned up. I heard noises coming from the kitchen and as I walked along the hallway I tried not to think about Craig.

  My house is like a typical suburban English house. My mum likes to keep it neat and tidy, although my room is a bit of a mess as she’s not allowed in there (even though I know she goes in there because she stacks my mess into neat little piles). We’re lucky because the rooms are quite big but other than that it’s just normal. Actually, I have an en suite bathroom in my room which I guess is not normal, but hey-ho. Apart from that though the only big difference between my house and other houses is that the fairly long hallway is full of books. Not just a few books, I mean hundreds of books. My mother’s obsessed with them.

  I like books and I don’t like books. Books are certainly good as storytelling devices because you can get really involved with one. But people whose houses are lined with books I think should spend more time living and less time reading, you know? It’s like they have books instead of walls and they think it’s really impressive, but it doesn’t impress me. I’d rather be fooling around with a girl than reading a book.

  In the kitchen, my nine-year-old brother Toby was sat at the big pine table. The sun had nearly set because it was October. As usual, Toby was drawing a picture with his coloured pencils. All he did all day was draw pictures and write poetry. He didn’t have any interest in sports whatsoever.

  ‘All right, Tobe?’ I asked. I noticed that his feet didn’t get to within a foot of the floor because he was so short.

  He looked up. He had blond hair that curled at the ends like Freddy. It wasn’t curly, apart from at the ends.

  ‘Hiya, Rich,’ he squealed.

  The trouble with Toby was that he was just so tiny. His body was so frail that if he ever got hit by a car he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I spent a lot of my time worrying about him getting killed in an accident. I WCSed it all the time, but I won’t go into it here. It’s awful. But I knew that it would happen. I could just tell that he was the type of kid who would get himself killed somehow – one of those people who you can imagine being gone from the world with a bang of tragedy. Some people you can’t imagine being not there – but some people you can. When I was out with Toby I always kept an eye on him.

  ‘What are you drawing?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, it’s just a Christmas picture that I’ve knocked up.’ He spoke with a maturity beyond his years, he really did.

  I went over to the table. His picture was actually pretty good. It was a bird’s-eye view of a lake that had iced over. Snow-covered pines grew all around it. And on the lake were lots of tiny little people, each of them meticulously laid out with colourful little hats and scarves. Some were throwing snowballs, some were skating and one guy in a corner was actually ice fishing!

  ‘Oh my God, Tobe. This is awesome.’

  He beamed. He loved it when I said nice things to him, and I always said nice things to him when he deserved it, which was a lot of the ti
me.

  ‘Thanks, Rich.’

  ‘I’m not kidding. This is really, really good. Have you shown it to Mum yet?’

  ‘She’s not home.’

  ‘You keep this up and you could be an artist when you’re older. How’d you like that?’

  Toby shrugged.

  ‘You could hang in the Louvre.’

  ‘I’m not that good yet.’

  I sucked in air through my teeth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘This is a nice piece.’

  ‘I know you’re joking.’

  ‘You just stick to your dreams, Tobe. If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.’ And I ruffled his hair. I was trying to be inspirational. I swept out of the room, deliberately leaving my pearls of wisdom dripping off the air.

  I went to my room, got undressed, had a shower, went back to my room, locked my door (I felt so much more secure behind a locked door), turned on my laptop. Clare was already on MSN (which is a free software package from Microsoft called Messenger that allows you to talk to your friends online in real time which is VITAL), along with my best friend, Matthew, so I asked them what they were doing:

  Smackdown Kid [Me] says: Zup peeps.

  Little SubPop [Clare] says: You’re home then.

  Smackdown Kid says: Yeah, just got home.

  I waited. Matthew was typing a message. He always took ages. I swear to God I don’t know what he was doing on his end. Just then, my phone beeped with a text message. Weirdly it was Clare: Can I come over yours tonight?

  I quickly tapped into the computer.

  Smackdown Kid says: What r u doin?

  Little SubPop says: Just play along.

  It was strange because Matthew obviously had no idea what the last two lines meant. Finally:

  Matt says: I’m completely fucked. My parents are going crazy on me because they think I shouldn’t go out every night. r u lot out tonight?!?

  I was already replying to Clare’s text: Wot time? I don’t actually like abbreviating messages because it’s not good grammar but sometimes there’s just no time. We first started using text speak to mock people who used it non-ironically, but we used it so much that in the end it just became normal, which is quite depressing really. The minute I sent the text, another one came through: Soon . . . Then I was back at my keyboard because I don’t like predictive texts as much as typing.

  Smackdown Kid says: Why r u doing this Clare?

  Matthew, as usual, spent ages writing his reply. Just as the message flashed up my phone bleeped again.

  Matt says: What r u 2 on about?!?!?!?

  Smackdown Kid says: Meet at the war memorial at 7.30?

  Matt says: I’m there.

  I looked at my phone. I just want it to be me and you. No Matt.

  My heart started thumping. All of a sudden I didn’t know what to do. I felt bad for Matthew being left out of all this, and because I was about to fob him off for a girl. Nowadays boys hang around with girls all the time – it’s not like it used to be – but it’s still bad to sly on a friend. Clare always came over to my house and I always went over to hers, but something was different this time. I texted her back: I’ll call you in a minute.

  I logged off without even saying goodbye, which made me feel guilty. I might have texted him later, but I didn’t. Then, seconds later, Little SubPop went offline as well, which must have looked incredibly suspicious because we had both come off at the same time. Matthew must have been sat in his room feeling ostracized to hell because he knew what was going on – he was just as clever as everyone else in our group.

  I turned my computer off, picked up the house phone, and called Clare.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said. She sounded out of breath.

  ‘Hi. So what’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me now?’

  She got annoyed at this, in that way that girls do.

  ‘God, I said I’d tell you later.’

  There was a pause. I could hear ‘Planet Telex’, an old Radiohead song, playing in the background. Clare had excellent music taste because she had an older brother who taught her everything.

  ‘You’re a really good friend,’ she said at last. You know that feeling when at the other end of the line the voice sounds tinny and resounds with silence and drama? Her voice was like that.

  I knew what was happening. It was Craig. Back in the yard when I had my arm around her had meant as much to her as it had to me.

  I could feel a bond of friendship burning gloriously out of the ether and into life; a shared experience and feeling that connected us. Whenever I make a bond with somebody I imagine a golden rope running out of my chest and into theirs, connecting the two souls. It burns up out of nothing and is just there, linking you to that person, your two souls glowing white-blue in bright orbs. The rope thrums with energy and makes your whole body tingle. It’s amazing how people can react to one another, you know, the feelings that come from it.

  ‘You can come over whenever you want,’ I said quietly. It was one of those times when you know the other person is feeling the exact same thing as you. It’s the best thing in the world when bonds are forged, don’t you think? It lasts for ever if you do it right.

  The end strains of ‘Planet Telex’ were washing into the line, that bit which sounds like an alien message, or radio static. It was really bizarre.

  ‘I’ll be there soon.’ And she hung up.

  I got changed into my jeans and pulled on my white Lost Prophets T-shirt. This was a band who all the Californian Girls loved because they were really big in LA at the time. I looked OK in my T-shirt.

  I’m quite lucky because I have an athletic frame. I’m not muscly, but I’m not skinny either. I have brown hair that’s a little bit wavy and which I grow quite long on top but quite short on the back and sides. My friend Matthew says that my hair looks a bit like a bicycle helmet, a cruel criticism, but one I accept with both grace and dignity. People tell me that my face is ‘cute’ or ‘mischievous’ but really it looks like it doesn’t quite fit on my skull, but in a not-bad way, I guess. It’s my big eyes that make people think I’m cute but sometimes they get too big, like when I’m surprised, and then I just look like a spaz. All in all I’m pretty happy with the way I look, which is an oddity for teenagers.

  I could hear my parents downstairs but I didn’t want to see them. They must have heard about what Craig Bartlett-Taylor had done by now and I really didn’t have the energy to speak to them about it – my parents have this uncanny knack of bringing my true feelings up and it freaks me out a bit. On my CD player I started playing my Damien Rice album, which I love. It’s a bit depressing but it’s perfect for times of reflection.

  My parents split up when I was thirteen. It was THE most terrible thing that could have happened. In the months leading up to it they would scream at each other late at night. They thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. Sometimes I would get up early on a Saturday morning and hear them downstairs, already going at it hammer and tongs.

  ‘You never even fucking loved me,’ she would scream, her voice all warbly. It is such a shocking thing to hear your own mother using the F word.

  Then my dad would say something calmly which was too muffled to decipher and then you’d hear a mug smash or something and my mother would be crying, shouting, ‘I hate it here. I fucking hate it.’ She’d say the F word quietly sometimes.

  She’d run out and I’d hear her car drive off and when I got up nothing would be mentioned. I still don’t know why they split up. I think my mother thought my father was having an affair, but I know that he’d never do that. Not to me.

  The emotions I went through at the time were all over the place. But I never thought it was my fault, which can happen sometimes; the kids think it’s their fault. My tutor at school would say, ‘It’s not your fault,’ and I’d say, ‘But they were happy before they had me,’ because I was making fun of him.

  Of co
urse I felt bad for my parents. I hated seeing them so unhappy. But I also wanted them to stay together and in that respect I was conflicted – I wanted them to stay together but it was their staying together that was making them unhappy, you know?

  Anyway, one night my dad came into my room and sat at the end of my bed. He gave me a long speech about how they’d decided to go their separate ways and that it wasn’t my fault. I snapped a little bit and told him to stay, not to leave. I was crying my eyes out like a baby, I really was. And I meant every tear. I was being torn apart.

  By morning I felt a little better and in less than a week I had concluded that it would be better this way because their happiness was the most important thing. The next feeling I had was embarrassment and it was far worse than the original grief. In school, I felt like a leper or something. Everybody knew what had happened and nobody said a word. It was just the most awful thing. Nothing was ever mentioned, not even amongst my best friends. The only person I spoke to about it was Matthew. It really was embarrassing. I don’t think I ever really recovered from my parents’ split, even though they got back together a year later. I developed a lovely little fear of commitment – and I was only fourteen!

  There was a knock at my door. It was Clare. I made sure that the back of my jeans dragged on the floor underneath my bare feet because I thought it looked cool.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘Why have you got your door locked?’

  ‘Because I was—’ I almost said something really crass but I hemmed it back in just in time. It would have been inappropriate. We always said shocking things like, ‘Jesus Christ, I hope your parents get cancer,’ but we didn’t mean it. We’re just pushing against a tide of political correctness. When you can’t say anything at all, sometimes it all comes flooding out when nobody’s around. Floodgates and all that. But saying something crass then seemed out of place.