Only We Know

by Simon Packham

  So I creep upstairs, still shivering even though I’m not cold any more, past the paintings of horses and ballet dancers and a photo of a cute little Izzy with an owl on her shoulder.

  Knocking softly on the first random door, I turn the handle and push it open.

  A ten-year-old assassin, who’s far too young for China Lake grenade launchers, is communing with his Xbox. ‘Oi, piss off!’ he screams, which is exactly what I do, as a barrage of Lego and Hula Hoops drives me back into the hallway and through the door opposite.

  They may call it the smallest room in the house, but this one is bigger than my bedroom. Down at the far end, some beautiful highlights are slowly disappearing down the toilet. I guess that’s my hostess.

  ‘Hi – Izzy, are you okay?’

  Somewhere between puking and sobbing she manages to get most of a sentence out. ‘I’m fine. Just leave me alone — plurgghh …’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  I exit the bathroom. But I can’t go downstairs again. Not yet anyway. I need a few minutes on my own to regroup. This time I’m more careful, listening at the next bedroom first, before venturing in. And it looks promising: soft lighting and a huge double bed with a pile of coats on it. But my heart plummets like a learner swimmer in the deep end when I see who’s stretched out alongside them.

  ‘All right, Dizzy? What’s up?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  The straw trilby is exactly what I’d expect from Conor Corcoran. But what’s he doing with a biro in his hand? ‘Well, it must be your lucky day then, because now you’ve found me.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean —’

  ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just you?’

  ‘Yeah, it is quite war— Oh … right.’

  Conor Corcoran brushes aside a trio of Parkas and pats the bed. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’

  ‘No thanks, I … What are you doing anyway?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I found this. It’s a right laugh.’

  He appears to be scribbling in some kind of scrapbook. I edge nearer to see what he’s up to. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Yeah, brilliant, isn’t it?’

  It looks like a picture of Izzy in a lacy white dress. On closer inspection I realise it’s her mum and dad’s wedding photos. Conor has given the bride a beard and glasses and is about to start work on the groom. ‘You can’t do that, Conor! Stop it.’

  ‘Oh come on, it’s only a bit of fun.’

  I grab his biro. ‘You shouldn’t mess about with photos. Photos are important. They’re all that people have to remember stuff by.’

  ‘What about the wedding video?’

  ‘You can’t just walk into someone’s house and start defacing their property.’

  ‘Oh come on, Dizzy, I was enjoying that. Give us my pen back.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  He jumps off the bed and steps towards me. ‘All right then, if you’re really that bothered about it, how about we get a bit more creative?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Here’s a clue then. If you were a burger I’d call you McBeautiful.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leave it out, Dizzy. You must know I like you.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry about that because —’

  ‘It’s okay, we can just talk if you like. Why don’t you tell me about your old school?’

  ‘No, I … it’s too boring anyway. You don’t want to hear about that.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s something else we could do,’ he says with a massive metaphorical wink. ‘You never know, you might enjoy it.’

  And I’m looking around for a football to curb Conor’s enthusiasm when in walks the deputy head student with a crash helmet under his arm.

  19

  A LITTLE TOUCH OF HARRY IN THE NIGHT

  ‘Talk about bad timing,’ says Conor Corcoran. ‘Bloody hell, Hazzer, don’t you ever knock?’

  ‘I need somewhere to put my helmet,’ says Harry.

  ‘Well, chuck it on the bed and do one, eh, matey? Me and Lauren want some quality one-on-one time.’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Harry, rearranging the coats into a straight line.

  ‘Yes,’ says Conor, grabbing my hand. ‘We’re an item, aren’t we, babe?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘And can I have my hand back, please?’

  ‘I think you’d better let her go, Conor,’ says Harry.

  ‘Oh come on, Hazzer, give us a break.’

  ‘I said I think you’d better let her go.’

  ‘Yeah all right,’ says Conor, releasing my hand and slumping back onto the bed. ‘But I still reckon we could be good together.’

  ‘Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and everything, Conor, but I think I’m going downstairs.’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  Back in the kitchen, they’ve abandoned grape-stuffing for chilli powder and Tabasco cocktails.

  ‘You okay?’ says Harry.

  ‘Yeah, fine. It’s just a bit hot in here.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Conor. He’s an idiot sometimes, but I think he actually likes you.’

  ‘Is that so hard to believe then?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ says Harry. ‘I was trying to make you feel better.’

  Skinny jeans really suit him, and so does that blue checked shirt. ‘Yeah, I know … Thanks.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink or something?’

  There are so many questions I’m burning to ask him, so many things that I just can’t say. ‘I think I’d better call my dad.’

  ‘You can’t go yet,’ says Harry. ‘It’s not even ten.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could stay for a bit.’

  ‘Great,’ says Harry. ‘What do you want to do?’

  And then I have an idea. ‘The music’s a bit crap, but we could go and have a dance if you like.’

  ‘I don’t dance,’ says Harry.

  ‘Really?’ H used to be into some weird hard-core stuff. Maybe it’s for the best.

  ‘But I know what we can do.’ He takes a paper plate and piles it with pizza triangles. ‘Pepperoni, right?’

  ‘How did you —’

  ‘Everyone likes pepperoni. And if you look under the sink, there’s a plastic bag with some cans in it.’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘Me neither, so you’d better bring that bottle of Diet Coke.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Shh,’ says Harry, pushing open the back door and stepping into the night. ‘We’re not supposed to be out here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Izzy’s dad’s a bit of a gardening freak. Breathe on his roses and you’re dead.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We went out for a bit. Me and Izzy, I mean, not me and her dad. That would be weird.’

  ‘Right, yeah.’

  There’s enough light from the conservatory to guide us across the decking and out onto the lawn, past a trampoline shrouded in black netting and safely round the fish pond. But as soon as we slip through a gap in the hedge, the darkness takes hold.

  There’s a definite whiff of compost as Harry reaches for my hand. ‘Watch out for rabbit holes. You don’t want to twist your ankle or anything.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ says Harry.

  And I’m trying to work out what it means, the hand-holding (does he really care about my ankles?), when we come to one of those fancy sheds with a proper slate roof and a veranda.

  ‘What do you think?’ says Harry.

  ‘It’s nice,’ I say, half wondering if I’ve done the right thing.

  ‘Hold this pizza a minute. I need to find something.’

  ‘Are you sure we should be doing this, Harry? Won’t somebody wonder where you are?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, feeling under a flowerpot and pullin
g out a key. ‘None of the others know about this place. Well, only Izzy. And I don’t think she’s up to hide-and-seek right now.’

  ‘We don’t want to get into trouble, do we?’

  Harry laughs. Not the polite deputy head student chuckle designed to show Mrs Woolf he appreciates George Bernard Shaw’s ‘hilarious’ phonetics gags, but more of a sarcastic hmphh, more like the H I once knew.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, fumbling for the light switch. ‘It’s just that I don’t do trouble any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not that kind of person,’ he says, dragging a couple of sun loungers to either side of a wooden picnic table and fiddling about with them until he gets the angles right. ‘Bit boring really.’

  ‘Maybe we should go back to the house.’

  ‘We’ve only just got here. Sit down for a minute and I’ll get things sorted.’

  It’s pretty posh for a garden shed: three times the size of my bedroom with an embroidered wall-hanging of a poppy field, fifty shades of electric gardening tools and even a fridge.

  And I take back what I said about the crap music. That’s my favourite Beatles song wafting down the garden. I relax back onto the musty-smelling lounger cushion and hum along with the chorus.

  ‘How about a bit of atmosphere?’ says Harry, laying out a symmetrical grotto of scented candles. ‘Now where are those matches?’ He roots around in a bucketful of golf putters and pulls out a box of Swan Vestas.

  ‘Are you sure that’s not a fire hazard?’

  ‘Of course – I’ve done it loads of times,’ says Harry, putting the flame to the one in the middle. ‘And anyway, we should probably switch the light off – just in case.’

  An unexpected pang of jealousy ambushes me in the candlelight. It’s completely bonkers, of course, but I hate it that Harry and Izzy had a secret place too.

  ‘This is good,’ he says, taking a piece of pizza and stretching out alongside me. ‘And about time too.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We keep bumping into each other, don’t we? But we’ve never had time for a proper chat.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘You always seem in such a hurry.’

  It’s true. Every time I see him in the corridor, I put my head down and keep walking. ‘You know what it’s like. I’m still settling in really.’

  But what harm would it do? As far as he’s concerned I’m a total stranger. Would it really be so terrible if we were ‘just mates’?

  I study his face in the flickering half-light. He looks back for a moment, before turning his attention to his feet.

  We both speak at the same time:

  ‘So what’s it like being—’

  ‘I was just wondering how —’

  ‘No, you go first,’ I say.

  ‘I was just wondering how …’ Halfway through the sentence he seems to change his mind. ‘How you’re getting on at school.’

  ‘What are you, my dad or something?’

  ‘Only asking.’

  ‘I know, sorry, it’s just that no one in my family can go ten seconds without asking me the same bloody question.’

  ‘So what’s that all about? Did you have a bad time at your last school?’

  ‘Why? Should I have done?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought if your family are so paranoid, you might have had a few problems.’

  ‘No, not really,’ I say, grateful that he can’t see my face changing colour. ‘Let’s just say they weren’t exactly the happiest days of my life.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’

  And now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘You’re not seriously telling me you don’t like school, are you, Harry? Mr Big Shot Prefect and everything. I’ve seen you standing at the front of the stage ordering kids about. You love it, you know you do.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he says, taking a slug of Diet Coke. ‘Life is good. Well, most of the time.’

  ‘And I bet it’s nice to be popular.’

  ‘You’re actually quite popular yourself, Lauren.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m dead serious. Why do you think Magda wants you in her little extravaganza?’

  And I’m almost starting to enjoy myself when Harry makes his move.

  ‘You know if you pull the armrests, like this, it makes the whole seat go down.’ My sun lounger tilts backwards like a dentist’s chair and suddenly I’m flat on my back with Harry standing over me.

  ‘Hey, you know what we should do?’ he whispers.

  There was definite chemistry between us before, but it was more the kind of chemistry that made explosions. This is different.

  ‘No, what?’ I say, half closing my eyes.

  ‘We should play this game I invented,’ says Harry, disappearing into the shadows for a moment and coming back with a huge sack of daffodil bulbs. ‘See that watering can hanging on the wall? It’s five points every time you get one in. First to fifty. Loser has to do a forfeit.’

  As soon as we start throwing bulbs about, the conversation starts to flow. No difficult questions, just a list of our top ten favourite movies, a slight disagreement over possible music for the fashion show, a brief rundown of his football team’s defensive problems and a debate about whether being able to eat as much pizza as you want and not put on weight is actually a superpower. Half an hour later, the floor is strewn with bulbs like the aftermath of a gardeners’ orgy, both of us are breathing harder and I’ve thrashed him 50–10.

  ‘In your face, “Hazzer”.’

  ‘So come on then, what’s my forfeit?’

  The first one that springs to mind is instantly quarantined. ‘Don’t know really. I —’

  ‘You’d better think of something. This is a “for one night only” chance in a lifetime, Lauren.’

  My top lip curls upwards into a sly smile. ‘Okay, then. How about this? We’re going to bounce on that trampoline while you sing me a song from The Lion King.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Harry.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s cold out there. And someone might see us.’

  ‘That’s why they call it a forfeit, moron.’

  ‘Okay, but we’d better tidy up first.’

  ‘We can do that later.’

  ‘No, I just —’

  ‘Come on,’ I say, grabbing his hand and leading him up the garden path. ‘Not chicken, are you?’

  ‘This is such a bad idea,’ says Harry.

  ‘It’s a great idea. I love trampolines.’

  ‘Yeah, but you haven’t heard me sing.’

  (That’s what he thinks.) I pull aside the black netting and start climbing in.

  ‘Take your shoes off first,’ says Harry. ‘Izzy’s dad would go apeshit.’

  ‘You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’ says Harry.

  We lay our trainers side by side. If it was Conor Corcoran he’d be making comments about the size of my feet by now. But Harry’s not like that. We wobble our way to the centre and start bouncing.

  ‘Well, come on then, sing!’

  If anything, his voice is even worse: deeper now, but still so glass-shatteringly terrible that the only ones feeling the love in the air tonight are probably double-glazing salesmen.

  ‘Okay, okay, stop, please. That’s enough, Harry.’

  ‘Told you I couldn’t sing.’

  But we carry on bouncing, so close that it’s impossible to avoid the occasional meeting of random body parts – or maybe one of us has stopped trying.

  Harry takes out his phone. ‘Hey, Lauren, what’s your number?’

  ‘What do you want my number for?’

  ‘In case I need to call you. Or the other way round, of course.’

  ‘Why would I need to do that?’

  ‘Any number of reasons – a fashion show disaster, you might need some advice on your terrible taste in music, or who knows, maybe y
ou’ll get this uncontrollable urge to hear me sing again.’

  ‘Okay, fine, it’s …’ I call out my number.

  Two seconds later my phone rings.

  ‘Hi, Lauren.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ says Harry.

  ‘What do you want anyway?’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘Don’t do that – you might hurt yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, funny.’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, it’s …’ He stops bouncing. Both of us wobble, but we don’t fall down. ‘It’s half-term next week, Lauren. Would you like to … do something?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We could go and see a movie – or you could come round mine if you want.’

  ‘What do you mean, like … like a date or something?’

  ‘No, yes … I mean, maybe, I don’t …’

  Tell me I’m wrong, but we’re not talking ‘just mates’ here, are we? ‘It’s probably not a very good idea, Harry. You see, I’m not really ready to —’

  I ought to feel flattered. Two guys have come on to me in the space of an hour. Unfortunately, it’s a bit more complicated than that.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Harry. ‘There’s no pressure or anything. I mean, we could just take it really slowly and … and see what happens.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I say, struggling out of the black netting and scrabbling around beneath the trampoline for my trainers. ‘My dad’s waiting. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ says Harry. ‘I was only —’

  Katherine says she’s a far more tragic female role model than Lady Macbeth, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Cinderella. And that’s who I feel like, as I limp across the lawn in only one shoe.

  20

  TEA IN A CHINA CUP

  ‘Let’s go round the back,’ says Dad. ‘I’ve got a key. No point ringing the bell. It’s like trying to wake the dead.’