‘Come on,’ Joe mutters in my ear and he sneaks out for a cigarette.
‘Who’re the girls?’ We stand in the shadow of the barn as Joe lights up.
‘Couple of people’s sisters or girlfriends, or friends of the family. They left the lads to it for a while so Matt could acclimatise a bit at a time.’
I nod. ‘He looks like he’s enjoying himself.’
‘Yeah. Maybe Mum was right about this taking his mind off what he can’t do, but equally he just likes seeing his old mates again.’
‘You said he was your best friend before he went away. Has he changed much?’
Joe takes a drag on the cigarette and thinks about it. ‘No. He’s just as ready to rip me and all his mates as he always was. And he always was confident and sure of what he wanted. But there are changes too. He’s more tolerant since he joined up. I noticed it even before he went out on tour. Last time he came back to visit, my granny was here. She drives us all crazy with her nagging when she comes to stay and he put up with her way better than the rest of us could. And he’s not as quick to be down on people as he was. He told you he hated school and he gave the teachers a hard time back then, but I don’t think he’d be like that now.’ He pauses and takes another drag. ‘But since he lost his legs? I think he’s trying really hard to be who he was before it happened and I can’t tell yet whether he is or whether he’s pretending. So much of who he is was wrapped up in being active and able to do physical things that I can’t see how he can ever be the same. But he’ll fight to be the person he was before – that’s what he’s like.’
The back door opens and Matt shouts out into the yard, ‘Come on, slacker. Dad wants you in the front room now.’
Joe groans.
‘What’s up?’ I ask as I follow him back in.
‘You’ll see. Just don’t laugh too much.’
The front room turns out to be a large rectangular room with sofas and chairs and not much else. I think there’s a TV in the corner, but if there is it’s tiny and my view is blocked by some men about Joe’s dad’s age who are sitting on wooden chairs. One of them has a violin under his chin and as soon as I see it, I have eyes for nothing else.
He’s tuning it and I watch as he twangs the strings and makes the minute twists to the pegs, then runs the bow across the strings to check the tuning has held. I listen as he warms his fingers up in a quick scale and feast my eyes on the curves around the chin rest, on the coils of the scroll. I’m dying to touch the sleek wood.
Joe’s dad is organising people into a group near the violinist. I tear my eyes away to see that the man next to him has a flute, and another has a tin whistle. A younger man is strumming a guitar; Joe’s mum is tuning a mandolin. Another woman is positioning herself as if she’s going to sing. Joe perches on the edge of a wooden kitchen chair with some kind of drum and a little wooden beater.
The man with the guitar plays a few chords and then nods at the others and they break out into some kind of folk song. I don’t recognise it, but after a few bars it’s surprisingly infectious. The crowd from the kitchen have come in to listen and I’m drawn to the violinist’s fingers flying on the strings, although I should call him a fiddler really.
Then I hear it . . . a soft drumbeat, like a heartbeat at first. Missing every few beats and picking up on the fourth.
Soft and slow, soft and slow.
Then faster as the tune picks up pace and the drummer hits more of the beats.
When the singer – who actually isn’t at all bad – moves into the main rhythm of the song, the drumbeat speeds up into a pace so fast I can’t believe there’s only one. I look at Joe, whose hand is flying so fast I can’t see how he’s hitting the drum, except his wrist is flicking the double-ended beater back and forth so quickly that it’s a blur.
People’s feet are jigging in time now, mine too even though I’m not generally into music like this. But hearing it played live is different and the beat catches at my breath, especially as the singer pauses and the fiddle plays a solo and Joe backs it up with the little drum. I begin to realise this is really a duet between the fiddle and the drum. And Joe’s hitting the beater on the skin, on the wooden rim, and a couple of times for comic effect off the chair leg beside him, as the duet turns into a duel of who can play fastest. The fiddle wins in the end and Joe laughs as the crowd breaks out into applause. Then he goes back to the gentler beat as the vocalist takes up her part again.
The group play another song after that with the tin whistle taking centre stage this time. The fiddler makes that instrument sing and I wish I was him. I realise I miss playing my violin so very much. And the drumbeat makes me jig my foot and tap my hand against my leg like I’ll never stop. The vibrations hum through the wooden floor and up through my feet, making my heart go, ‘Play, play, play.’
When they stop, the fiddler grins at me and holds the fiddle out.
I shake my head and take a step back, surprised.
‘Ah, go on,’ he says. ‘I think you know how to play this thing.’
‘Yeah, go on,’ a voice shouts from behind and I turn to see Matt wink at me. ‘Give it a go. Even if you’re bad, the view’ll be better than watching that old goat.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I know anything –’
‘You can’t refuse a wounded man now . . .’ He’s grinning like it’s just a scratch again.
But he’s right. I can’t. How do you say no to him when he’s sitting there laughing at himself like that with no legs, and looking so like Joe.
I take the fiddle and think desperately what I can play. Then Joe hums a few bars of something I recognise from a film and raises an eyebrow in question . . . What about this? Yes, I nod.
He smiles and settles back to his drum. He beats a few soft strokes to lead me in. I tuck the fiddle under my chin and feel it become part of my arm, my shoulder.
It’s been so long.
And then it’s like yesterday.
I find the tune and my fingers know where to go and the bow glides on the strings, and I’m home.
How did I ever give this up? Why did I ever think it was a good idea to let this part of me go? Let it die?
As I get more confident, and I can hear the audience liking what we’re doing, I pick up the tempo. Joe matches me and works up and down the drum. It’s that subtle change in the drum’s tone that makes what he’s doing special and I begin to appreciate how much skill that takes. He catches the drum on the rim to make a clack that’s perfectly in time with my up-bow. Matt yells some appreciation, and I get lost in what we’re doing until the last bars of the song.
When I stop and open my eyes, the fiddler is beaming at me. ‘Well, that was worth listening to and then some!’ And he pats my arm as he takes his fiddle back.
Now Joe’s on his feet waving at Matt to come forward. He shakes his head until Joe yells something that makes him laugh then he moves his wheelchair alongside his brother. He grabs the tin whistle and launches into a fast jig that has Joe biting his lip in concentration to keep up.
I’ve never met a family like this.
I smile to myself, looking at the two of them – so alike and yet so different. This music gets to you in the right atmosphere and I guess this is how it was always intended to be played, by amateurs in crowded rooms. That’s where it has magic.
At the end of this piece, Joe passes the drum to his dad and beckons me out of the room. He goes to the fridge and hands me a can of Coke, popping the tab on one himself. They’re playing again in the other room, but we sit on the kitchen table and listen from a distance.
‘I didn’t know you played the drum.’
I don’t quite understand his reply and repeat what I’ve heard.
‘Bough-ran?’
‘That’s what it’s called. Spelt B-O-D-H-R-A-N. My dad taught me. And I didn’t know you played the fiddle.’
I swig some Coke because my mouth’s suddenly dry. ‘I gave up.’
He looks at me, puzzled. ‘Why? You lo
oked like you love it.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘I can cope with complicated.’
‘I lost my violin.’
He stares at me. ‘Don’t treat me like an idiot.’
‘No, I did lose it. And afterwards I lost myself too so I decided to live without another violin because it was easier not to be me without the music.’
‘But you miss it. I could see that when you were playing.’
‘Yes. I didn’t know how much until I saw that man –’
‘Uncle John.’
‘Oh, until I saw your uncle playing, and . . . yes, I missed it. A lot.’
He frowns at me. ‘Start playing again then.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe after the exams.’ After the trial . . .
People begin to leave at half nine. Matt’s trying not to yawn. His eyes look heavy, reminding people that he’s not long out of hospital. Joe gets his own way and walks me back home up the footpath. He doesn’t talk much and there’s a moment when we get to my front door where he pauses and gives me a strange look.
Before I have a chance to wonder what’s up, he mumbles, ‘See you tomorrow then,’ and hurries off.
I feel . . . disappointed?
Do I?
Why?
Maybe I do know the answer . . .
I don’t finish that thought, but I’m surprised by the flutter of something inside my stomach.
It takes me a while to drift off to sleep. The ghost of the fiddle haunts my hands – I can still feel it there, the smooth wood and the curves, the rub of the metal strings on my fingertips, which are slightly tender from playing again after so long.
Yes, maybe after the trial I can get another violin. Start to play again. Because I realise now what it was that stopped me – fear, plain and simple. Not disguising my identity, or making it easier to be Holly. But stupid, illogical fear. I dropped my violin the night They took me and I’ve been too scared to pick one up since. In case somehow it brought them to me.
But after the trial . . . yes, then . . .
Lucy alerts me to it – she texts me the link to the Facebook page. Maybe she felt guilty or something or maybe she just didn’t like what Camilla did. Or they all wanted me to know because it was less fun if I didn’t and this was part of Camilla making sure I found out. Yeah, that’s her style – I’ll vote for that option. All the same, when I open the Facebook page and see what Camilla’s done, I don’t care why. I just want to kill that little bitch.
It’s a hate page called ‘Holly Latham is a Ho’. She left it open for anyone to view, answering one question – she wanted me to see it.
I taste acid in my mouth as I read it.
At first there’s only posts from Camilla. Stuff like how I love myself and what a bitch I am. Then other people join in. Gemma’s one of them. Fifty-three people have ‘liked’ it. Fraser’s one of them, Lucy tells me, though he hasn’t posted anything.
I throw the laptop down on the bed and run to the bathroom. Leaning over the sink for support, I splash cold water on my face with shaking hands.
Why?
I mean, I know she hates me, but why do that? I don’t get in her way. I don’t talk to her or her friends. There has to be another reason.
I dry my face and walk back to my room slowly. The page is still open. I don’t look at it, but I sit carefully on the bed first, back against the pillows, and get myself ready. Then I pick up the laptop again and take a closer look.
As I saw at first, her opening posts are about what a stuckup bitch I am with nothing to be stuck up about, and how weird I am too: how I’ve got no Facebook or Twitter, how none of my old friends seem to keep in touch with me because I never mention them, so everyone where I used to live must hate me too. And then, like a joke, but I’m not sure she is joking, there’s a post: ‘Reward for information – can you dish the dirt on Holly? Post what you know. Virtual cookies for the juiciest.’
It’s pathetic. I stop feeling sick and just feel angry. Stupid, pathetic girl. What is her problem?
I read on. There’s a bunch of answers saying how strange it is that I don’t talk about old friends, and more speculation. It’s after that the photos start.
She’s been stalking me around the village and taking photos on her phone when I’m not looking, and getting other people like Gemma to do the same in school. They’ve got some kind of uber-loser competition going on for bitchiest caption for the photos.
Well, Crudmilla, you picked the wrong girl to bully. Because all this? I just don’t care. It shows just how sad you really are. And when I count, I see there’s only about six people posting with her. Even her best friends can’t be bothered with it.
I ring Joe and tell him to look online . . . and then there’s a volley of swearing down the phone.
‘Yeah, I know, I know. No, I’m not upset. I mean, I was shocked, but it’s too . . . oh, I dunno the word . . . to get upset about.’
‘Puerile!’ he spits down the phone.
I laugh. ‘Yeah, that. Anyway, what do you think I should do?’
‘Nothing. She’d just get off on that. I’ll report it as abuse and it’ll get taken down. It’ll bug her more if you don’t say or do anything.’ And then there’s another torrent of swearing while he rants.
I grin, despite it all. He’s just what I needed.
‘Why she’s so bothered by me anyway?’
‘Your loser ex, that’s why. She’s obsessed with trying to get into his pants.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not seeing him any more so what’s the problem?’
‘He’s obviously not taking her up on it. Maybe she thinks he’s still into you.’
I shake my head. ‘I just don’t get it.’
‘I know,’ he answers and I can hear a smile in his voice – weird.
It’s only afterwards, when we’ve made each other laugh and bitched long and hard until we’ve put it all to rights, and he’s rung off, that a cold little chill creeps up my spine. A thin, icy shiver along each vertebra in turn, deathly slow.
My picture is out there on the internet, along with my new identity . . . This isn’t supposed to happen. Ever.
I ought to call witness protection . . . but Joe said he’d report it, get it taken down. And the thought of telling Mum and Dad, and them seeing how someone hates me so . . .
They’ll care. Mum will cry, I know she will.
So I choose the most dangerous option. I turn off the computer and try to forget about it.
I gamble.
Please, you up there, whoever you are, let me win . . .
Hey Tasha,
This is going to be my last message. I’ve been thinking about it and I’m really not supposed to be doing this. I’ll miss talking to you massively and one day I hope I’ll be able to get in touch again, but right now I’m risking too much. I should never have started this. Please promise me you’ll delete my messages. Don’t mail me back as I’m not going to open my Facebook account any more.
Love you xxx
It kills me to close things off with her, but right now it’s too dangerous. I said I’d do anything to stop them finding us. No matter how much I try to justify it to myself by saying it’s Tasha and she’d never tell etc, I’ve still put us at risk and that’s so wrong. I have to stop it now while no harm’s been done.
The thing with Crudmilla brought me to my senses. I was lucky – two days later the page disappeared. My gamble paid off. But I’m not taking any more chances so shutting Tasha out is the only thing I can do.
The doorbell goes and I shout to Katie. ‘Come on. Time to go.’
Joe’s dad is driving us to a nearby country park for an Easter egg hunt. Apparently it’s an Easter Monday tradition and Joe and Matt always went when they were kids. They thought Katie might like it too and I think Matt wants to get out and about from what Joe said.
We hop into the Land Rover. Matt’s in the front and we squash in the back with Joe and the wheelchair. It’s not too far.
/>
Maybe we all need a day doing something like this.
Their dad drops us off and tells Matt to text when we want to come home. Matt sets off towards the registration stand, propelling himself in the wheelchair. I shake my head – it’s as if he took off in a rush before we could push him. I’d never attempt to push Matt. I’d be too scared. He’s so together it’s not real.
He fills the entry form in and we hover behind. Katie’s hopping on one foot with excitement. The woman at the counter takes the form back. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she booms at him.
He scrunches his face up at her. ‘I’m in a wheelchair, love, I’m not deaf.’
I wince for him. He doesn’t appear to be anything other than slightly irritated and turns his chair round to hand us the maps. Joe’s scowling at her from under his fringe of hair and I pull him away before he has an outburst. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he mutters in my ear as we follow Matt towards the start.
Katie’s looking at her map, though she doesn’t understand it, so she hasn’t seen Joe’s blacker-than-black expression as he takes in how many people are staring at Matt as we pass. ‘They don’t mean anything,’ I whisper to him.
Joe snarls suddenly.
I follow his line of vision and I see Camilla standing at the start, staring at Matt. She’s with Gemma, who’s also staring with her mouth open. Matt stops the chair a few metres from them. Cam looks lost for words. She doesn’t notice the rest of us at all. Her eyes are fixed on where Matt’s legs aren’t and revulsion spreads slowly over her face. Gemma’s almost in tears.
‘Hi,’ Matt says tonelessly to both of them and then he turns to Katie. ‘Are you ready? Fastest one to that tree over there! Come on, race you!’ He sets off before he’s finished speaking and Katie squeals, taking off after him. Cam turns and walks quickly in the opposite direction, with Gemma following, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
‘What was that about?’ I ask Joe, who’s looking like he might explode.
‘Last time he was home on leave, Crudmilla tried it on with him. She was all over him, even though she knows that mate of hers had a crush on him. Matt blew her out. She’s not his type. But I think she just made it clear to him that he isn’t hers any more.’
By Any Other Name Page 17