The Bone Dragon

by Alexia Casale

  Jenny looks down at her own. ‘I know. But Fred’s not really like that when he’s not with Sonny. He’s just . . . He’s got this thing about being loyal to your mates, even when you don’t think they’re being very nice. He keeps going on about not judging people . . .’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Phee says. Jenny stares at her. ‘Everyone judges everyone all the time. And we should too. How else do we pick who to be friends with? If you think someone’s a nasty little git, shouldn’t you judge them on that?’

  Jenny pouts out her bottom lip in the sulky way that means she’s actually thinking it over. ‘I guess,’ she says then shrugs. ‘Fred’s not really sure about the whole thing. He just thinks it would be a bit rotten to start ignoring Sonny right when everything’s going wrong for him. I think that’s kind of . . . sweet. Fred really can be, you know.’

  Thankfully the bell rings before Phee, Lynne or I have to find something to say about Fred’s sweetness.

  It’s art next: the final lesson in the pencil-case series. And hopefully the end of Mrs Poole’s dreaded textiles projects now that it’s time to start on our GCSE coursework.

  We all lay our creations dutifully out on the tables and then walk around them in a big circle, admiring each other’s work. Several people snigger and point at my black rubber disaster. But that’s fine with me: I’m with them.

  Mrs Poole has a clipboard. We all try not to laugh (well, those of us who don’t really care about Mrs Poole’s pet obsession with sewing – Lynne is straining forwards, looking anxious) as Mrs Poole bends over each pencil case in turn and inspects it closely. Her glasses slip closer and closer to the end of her nose each time she bends down to peer at a new person’s work. There’s a collective sigh when she pushes them back up. Phee and I had been making Smartie-packet bets about whose pencil case they’d fall off on.

  Then Mrs Poole tries to get the class discussing the merits of the different pencil cases awarded the highest marks. Phee folds her arms on the table and drops her head on to them. That would be too uncomfortable with my ribs (I still can’t bend forwards very far), so I just slouch down in my chair and let my thoughts drift.

  Then, to my great delight, we have a fire drill. Phee and Lynne spend it debating which of the sixth-form boys they’d be willing to snog and which they’d consider doing even more with: they have this whole system worked out for what stuff they’d be willing to do with boys once they’re fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . . When they asked me, I just said that I’d worry about figuring it out when I met someone worth doing things with.

  The sixth-formers troop past on their way back to class, to much giggling from Phee and Lynne.

  ‘Do you honestly not like any of them, Evie?’ Lynne whispers when I fail to offer even a single comment on which of them has the nicest butt.

  I shrug. ‘Not really.’ Then, because we’ve been so close lately and the last thing I want to do is emphasise what we don’t have in common, I add, ‘I mean, what’s the point of thinking about it when none of them have the slightest bit of interest in me? It’s kind of depressing.’

  Lynne sighs. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to turn fifteen next month without ever having had a proper boyfriend.’

  ‘I can’t believe Jenny’s got a boyfriend and we don’t,’ Phee replies. ‘Then again, Jenny’s got Fred, so I can’t really be jealous. Now if only Marcus Gilman were in our year . . .’

  By the time we get back to the classroom, the lesson is about to end. Lynne is feeling hard done by and hungry. She doesn’t think much of our lack of appreciation for the importance of sewing. (‘It’s a really important life skill, you know, and don’t think you can just come to me for the rest of your lives when you need help with loose buttons or taking up hems!’) She stalks out ahead of us when the lesson ends. Phee rolls her eyes.

  ‘I’ll see if Mrs Poole has something I can cadge as a snack for her,’ I say. ‘You go and tell Ms Winters I’m in the loo. She won’t mind.’

  Mrs Poole smiles a little nervously as I hover at the end of her desk while she finishes congratulating Jenny on her pencil case. ‘Lynne’s not feeling very well,’ I say as soon as Jenny leaves, because Mrs Poole is going all apologetic and I really don’t want her to feel bad for giving me a low mark on my horrible pencil case. ‘Is there something I can take her to eat?’

  ‘Well, you’re not really meant to eat in class, dear, but I did think Lynne was looking rather pale. How about a little piece of cheese? Very good for when someone’s blood sugar is low.’

  While Mrs Poole cuts and wraps up the little block of cheese, I fish in my coat pocket. Usually we’re not allowed to wear coats to class but because of the ribs I’m meant to stay wrapped up when it’s cold.

  ‘There you go, dear. And well done for looking after your friends so nicely.’

  ‘Here,’ I say in turn, holding out the big, blunt needle. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed it. I don’t need it any more.’

  ‘Oh that’s absolutely fine, Evie. It’s wonderful that you’re . . . you’re so . . . determined to finish what you start. Very commendable. And very commendable that you’d bring this back safely.’

  ‘All you need now is determination,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Oh,’ says Mrs Poole, blinking. ‘Well . . . Well, yes, dear. I suppose you could say that. After all your trials lately, I suppose you really could say that.’

  ‘I got it as a motto in a fortune cookie a few weeks ago,’ I explain.

  ‘Well, that’s wonderfully appropriate! Now, that gives me an idea,’ Mrs Poole says, staring off at the wall. ‘Yes, what a lovely idea. We could all make fortune cookies and write some mottos . . .’

  ‘Bye,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes goodbye for now, dear.’

  Ms Winters gives me a little nod as I sidle into the room and slip into the seat Lynne and Phee have saved between them. Across the classroom, Sonny Rawlins is glaring at the blackboard. He doesn’t even look in my direction. Fred is giggling softly with Jenny, so no one comments on whether I was late on purpose to show how special I think I am. In fact, no one says anything.

  I take the cheese out of my pocket and press it into Lynne’s hand under the desk. ‘Eat it,’ I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. ‘You’re being a grump and you know you’ve walked off the calories already.’

  Lynne shoves the cheese into her mouth. ‘Maybe that article was just a load of rubbish. There was one on that site the other day about computers giving you cancer. Maybe it’s another one like that.’

  Phee and I exchange a grin and high-five under the table.

  Amy and I are in the kitchen making shortbread, while we sip from mugs of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream, when the doorbell rings.

  Phee is standing on the step, white-faced, tear-streaked and shaking.

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  ‘My mum’s got cancer,’ she says.

  I don’t usually hug people, though I don’t mind so much any more if they hug me. But today I step forward and put my arms around her. She puts her head on my shoulder and leans into me, sobbing hot, wet air through the weave of my jumper.

  ‘Evie sweetheart, who’s . . .’

  I look over my shoulder to see Amy come into the hall, drying her hands on a tea-towel. ‘I’ll make some more hot chocolate,’ she says, and leaves us alone.

  Eventually Phee raises her head from my shoulder. Her face is red now and sweaty. She brushes damp hair off her forehead and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. I leave her standing by the foot of the stairs long enough to grab my hot chocolate and the fresh one for her, then tug her up to my room. I push the clothes off the chair by the window and manoeuvre her into it, then settle on the edge of the bed.

  Phee looks down into her mug. ‘I . . . I wanted to ask you about your mum, Evie. I know you don’t talk about her, but I really need to ask you some stuff.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  Phee starts and looks up at me, staring int
o my eyes. ‘My dad didn’t come and pick me up from school yesterday,’ she tells me. ‘He just forgot. And I sort of get it. They’ve obviously known about it for a week or so. They said they just wanted to get a bit more information before they told me so that they could explain it properly. And Mum says that the doctor thinks she’ll be fine. She told me all about what’s going to happen and how long it’s all going to take.’ Phee takes a sip of her hot chocolate, then blinks, looking down at the mug as if she hadn’t even realised what she was doing.

  ‘And I don’t want to sound like a brat, because I know Dad has a lot on his mind, but I just keep thinking . . .’ She sighs and her face twists. ‘Well, about your ribs. I mean, I know it happened on the way back from going to the hospital with your mother . . . and I know that she was very ill so everyone was really distracted, and then when you all walked away from the crash everyone just assumed you were fine too, but . . . but didn’t your grandparents realise how badly hurt you were? I mean, I could sort of understand it if it was just for an hour or two or even a day, but how could they not notice at all? And so . . .’

  She leans forwards, hunching over her mug, and I know that what’s coming next is the thing that’s really bothering her. ‘I’m worried that my dad’s going to get like that too,’ she says, running the words together so fast it takes me a moment to grasp what she’s saying. ‘I’m worried that he’s going to keep forgetting me and . . .’ Her face screws up and the next words jerk with the hiccups of suppressed sobs. ‘And I know I’m b-being s-silly because it was j-just once and it w-was only p-picking me up from school but . . .’

  In my pocket, my hand closes around the Dragon.

  ‘Your dad’s not going to be like that, Phee. He loves you.’

  ‘I know,’ Phee says, screwing her face up even further and licking snot off her lip.

  I pass her the tissue box, taking her mug while she blows her nose then mops her face.

  ‘I know my dad loves me but your grandparents loved you too and I know old people are a bit dippy sometimes but . . .’

  I lean forward and press the mug back into her hands. She frowns at me as she sips. ‘Your dad isn’t anything like my . . . like Fiona’s family,’ I say.

  Phee doesn’t get it of course. She frowns, and draws in a breath, and her shoulders go up as she prepares to get angry at me for being confusing.

  ‘I didn’t hurt my ribs in a car crash,’ I tell Phee. ‘One day . . . one day I’ll tell you about it. You and Lynne. But you’ll have to promise you won’t tell anyone. I mean, I won’t care if you tell your parents, but you’ll have to promise not to tell anyone at school. Not anyone at all.’

  ‘What do you . . . ?’ Phee starts, looking even more confused.

  It makes me smile, even as I ache. But I’m glad that Phee doesn’t get it. She’ll probably guess later, but it’ll take her a while. And I love that it will, even though it makes me feel . . . I don’t follow the thought any further.

  How I wish I could un-know all the things that make me so very different from Phee and Lynne. Sooner or later, they’ll have to learn about those things too – at least learn about them through other people’s stories. But not yet. And I wish that even though I can’t un-know any of it, I could at least remember what not-knowing was like.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not important now,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter today. The important thing is that it wasn’t my . . . it wasn’t Fiona getting ill that stopped them from taking me to the hospital. It wasn’t an issue of what they realised and what they didn’t.’

  Phee has gone rather still. ‘Evie . . .’ she says.

  ‘Not today, Phee,’ I say, and find that I’ve pushed aside my envy and my longing and that it’s not as hard as I would have thought to say what Phee needs to hear. ‘I know you’d listen, but not today. You can ask me all the questions you want about Fiona being sick, but I’ve told you all you need to know about the fact that your dad will notice if you come home ill or hurt: if anything happens to you, he’ll notice. He might forget to pick you up a few more times, but you can always just come home with me or Lynne a bit more often.’

  Phee leans forwards then and puts her hand on mine, weaving our fingers together.

  ‘I need you to remind me how lucky I am, Evie,’ she says in this strange tone that’s all urgent and soft at the same time. ‘I need you to remind me that my parents are great and so are my aunts and uncles and my grandparents. I’ve got lots of people who love me and would give me a new home if I ever needed one. And I’m not even going to, because my mum’s going to be fine and anyway I’ve got my dad.’ She gives me a smile that is weary with tears, but her eyes are calm and wise. ‘I need you to remind me, Evie. Lynne will fuss when I need someone to, and God knows my aunts will smother me. But I need you to remind me.’

  I don’t think I can speak.

  For a moment, the relief is scalding: I’m not so different and distant from Phee and normal people after all.

  Then it runs cold.

  Because I am different. Or I was, until a few minutes ago.

  All I meant to do was help Phee to understand: to give what was in my gift . . . But Phee didn’t know what she was asking. And I did. Because that is the difference between us. Or it was.

  People get it wrong when they talk about innocence: they think it’s something to do with ignorance about the facts of sex and all the nasty things that happen in the world. But facts don’t change people: it’s understanding how the facts feel that does.

  Only stupid people think innocence is some weird state of not-knowing that children grow out of once they start to understand innuendo. Or maybe it’s not that they’re stupid: maybe it’s just that in some weird grown-up way they are still innocent. Because otherwise they’d know better: they’d understand, even if they couldn’t really explain it, that innocence is so much bigger. It’s every aspect of the life you have before you know how precious and wonderful it is to be ignorant. It’s all the time you spend rushing, rushing to know, never expecting to find grief waiting beside knowledge.

  I just wanted to help.

  But suddenly Phee and I aren’t quite so different any more. I’ve closed the gap between us – at least a little – in trying to be kind.

  I don’t know why I am drawn back to the graveyard tonight of all nights, but I’m not even halfway across the golf-course green opposite when I hear shouts and see torch beams darting in the darkness. I hurry to the wall. Peering past the yew tree, I wonder if I dare move closer to find out which grave they’re celebrating over. I’m almost tempted to go and ask . . .

  No, commands the Dragon, breath warm on my ear. We must not be seen.

  Still, I creep over to the gate and stare down at the mechanism, trying to figure out if I can open it without being heard. Only I realise then that the other people are in a different bit of the graveyard from last time. A completely different bit from where Adam and Aunt Minnie and Grandad Peter and Nanna Florrie’s graves are . . .

  Flash!

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  I’m crouching behind the cover of the wall, gripping the edge of the gatepost with one hand and staring through the bars, before I’ve even registered the need to move. The Dragon’s claws prick the skin over my collarbone.

  The shouting is panicked now, fearful and angry.

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  Camera flashes, I realise. Someone’s taking pictures.

  But it’s not part of the group who were shouting earlier. They’re running now, those people. Running and cursing. One of them has dropped his torch. In its light I see a man in a red bomber jacket snatch at the sleeve of a man in a black hoodie.

  ‘There’s only two of ’em! Come ’n’ help me get them cameras!’ the man in the red jacket is yelling, the beer bottle in his hand streaming glowing liquid as he gestures.

  ‘We’ve called the police,’ someone shouts from the darkness.

  The man in the black hoodie curses, shrugging off Red Jacket�
�s hand, and lumbers away across the graveyard.

  Red Jacket stands swaying for a moment, then flinches away as the cameras flash again. He hurls the beer bottle wildly into the darkness. I hear it smash against a gravestone between the curses Red Jacket screams into the night. I watch him turn, slipping in the mud and falling to his knees before he finally scrambles away. The gate on the other side of the graveyard clangs.

  The men with the cameras have turned their torches on now and are playing them across the ground as they move closer to where the group was sitting.

  Flash! Flash!

  A sigh. ‘Doesn’t look like that bottle’s done any damage at least,’ one of the cameramen calls.

  Flash!

  ‘Just the torch and some spray-paint cans here. They obviously didn’t have time to really get started,’ says Uncle Ben.

  I can see it’s him now in the light of the torch the vandals dropped.

  I watch, frozen, as Paul joins him and together they stare down at the mess between the graves.

  ‘Let’s go, just in case they decide to come back,’ Paul says after a moment. ‘We don’t want to lose the photos now.’

  But they don’t make any move to go.

  ‘I don’t like to leave it like this, even for the police,’ Uncle Ben says, casting his torch about the ground. ‘When you call the vicar to tell him not to clear up until the police have been, make sure you say I’ll get them down first thing when I go to drop off the cameras. And tell him I’ll stay after to put everything to rights.’

  They sigh in unison.

  ‘Right then,’ says Paul.

  I watch them turn away, the light of their torches fading. I listen for the sound of car doors slamming, an engine starting up. Only then do I set off down the path. My feet went numb while I was crouching by the gate and now, although I know I should hurry – should be sprinting back home as fast as my legs will carry me – the best I can manage is a shambling trot.

  Finally, finally, I can see the garden through the woods and . . . Yes! The kitchen light is off! No Paul and Uncle Ben at the table under my window . . .