“Tell me about your accident,” I say. He stares back at me, his clear blue eyes as black as ink in the failing light. “It wasn’t a hit-and-run, was it? Ellis came for you. He spent a week trying to recover from what you’d done to him, shutting out the world and everyone who loved him, but then, slowly, gradually, he began to re-emerge. El was never really the same again. I can see that now. Something was taken away from him that night, but you couldn’t eclipse him. Not totally. He was just too strong for you. Too bold and proud and brilliant. He came back to the world. Back to me. But before he could, he had to reclaim some of that power you’d stolen from him.”
For a second it looks like he’s going to start protesting again. But then his gaze shifts back to the coffee cup and something new enters his tone.
“Outside my house,” he says slowly. “He waited outside my house. New Year’s Day. It was still dark. I had to let my cat out and when I opened the door, he…”
“I know what he did to you,” I say. “I can see it.”
“He said he wouldn’t go to the police,” Denman says. “That they’d never believe someone like him. But he told me never to come back to Ferrivale High. That if I did…” He runs his good hand over that crooked claw. “So I stayed away as long as I could. I tried to respect his wishes.”
“You fucking liar,” I spit back at him. “You stayed away because you’re a coward.”
“But I had to come back,” he insists. “In the end, I had to. Because of my contract. Even if I wanted to go to another school, I needed to work out my notice. I had to live, Dylan. I had to work.”
“And your first day back was the day of the Easter dance. El didn’t see you until then because we’d taken the day off after Ollie’s video hit the internet. He had no idea you were back until he spotted you with the other teachers in the gym.”
I flash to you in the car, perfect pink lips trembling, your gaze flicking to the gym doors again and again. In those brief moments you couldn’t bear for me to touch you because my touch, any touch, would remind you of his.
I get it now. My own flashbacks have haunted me since the lake; I know how these trauma triggers work. Seeing Denman set you off, and although you had reclaimed so much of yourself since Christmas, just that glimpse of your abuser regressed you into a living nightmare. Your self-control, your amazing jackknife ability to shift your mood, pulled you back to me, but I wonder how long that would have lasted, if you’d lived.
“I thought he might have recovered,” Denman says. “Forgiven me, I don’t know. But that look he gave me? So frightened and hateful.”
“But it didn’t stop there, did it?” I say. “You knew from that look that Ellis would never forget or forgive. And so when we left the dance you followed us in your own car. Maybe you thought you could talk to him, get him to see things your way? But then fate gave you the sweetest chance. You saw us go off the road. You saw the car go into the lake. Your first instinct was to save us. You ran down to the shore, waded in, dragged me out. There was still time to save El, and you were halfway back to the car when you realized what an opportunity this was. El drowns, your problem disappears. You can go on teaching at the school, the hero who rescued at least one dying kid. Except you’d then have to explain why you were following us in the first place. Might lead to awkward questions. And so you just stood there and watched the car sink, taking your secret with it.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t follow you. I didn’t let him die. I’m not a monster. And I have witnesses. Everyone will tell you I stayed at the dance.”
“It was you,” I say. “It had to be. You had the most to lose if El lived.”
“I swear to you, it wasn’t.”
“You’re full of shit.”
But now he’s making excuses. He starts to blather, telling me he’d been suffering from depression for months leading up to that day; his partner of five years had left him the week before; he’d been put on these mind-altering meds by his doctor and wasn’t thinking straight. In fact, when he looks back to that night and imagines the person who did those awful things, it doesn’t seem like him at all.
He takes a step towards me, hand outstretched, almost pleading.
“You know what Ellis was like, Dylan. He was always so provocative, wasn’t he?”
I step back.
“Always teasing, always flirting.”
I don’t want this man anywhere near me.
“And you know something else?”
Denman’s lip curls. The coffee cup falls from his hand.
“Deep down, he wanted it.”
Suddenly he’s lunging at me, an awkward, loping thrust. That same unreadable face from your drawing has fallen like a mask over his features. He darts past me, kicks at the coffee cup on the parapet, sends it flying. I turn too late and watch the dark liquid arc into the air. Seconds later, there’s the crack of cheap china on the concrete below.
In the next moment, Denman’s good hand, surprisingly powerful, is shunting me backwards. My heels hit the parapet. I grasp at his face, try to tear the skin, but his attack has unbalanced me and I’m finding it difficult to breathe. Meanwhile he grabs my phone with his bad hand and sends it skipping across the rooftop.
He shoves again and the soles of my trainers teeter on the precipice. Grabbing my shirt with that strong right hand – a sculptor’s hand, used to moulding tough clay – he wraps his fist around the material and pivots me over the drop. My arms windmill. I hear trees rustle and the breeze snatches at my hair. I know if I fight him now, if I startle or hurt him in any way, he’ll let me fall.
His face swims before me, blank and hideous. I don’t want this to be the last thing I see. And so I close my eyes and let memories play in the dark. Not the horror show of the lake, but all the small and beautiful moments that were ours: a bonfire, a bookshop, a library, a bedroom:
Fingers trace the bridge of freckles across my nose.
“Who’s going to be first to sign my petition?”
Like electricity moving across my face.
“Friends until our dying day.”
The sweetness of your fingers.
“Be seeing you, adorable Frecks.”
Starburst-sweetness.
“Are you my boyfriend, Ellis?”
I stare out across the spaces between us.
“He wanted it,” Denman insists, invading my thoughts. “They pretend they don’t, but they always want it, in the end. I don’t even have to drug their drinks. Knew I didn’t have to with him anyway. As soon as I started, he wouldn’t struggle. And he didn’t, because he wanted it.”
“He didn’t want it,” I gasp. “He was scared. Traumatized by what you were doing to him. But he came for you later, didn’t he? When he was Ellis again, he came for you.”
Denman extends his arm and I pivot further over the edge. I don’t want to, but I have to open my eyes. I need to see that he understands this.
“Whatever happened that night at the lake, I want you to know that you killed Ellis.”
Movement behind Denman. The gentle opening of a door. I drag my eyes back to his; I keep him focused.
“You took a part of him. And although he was brave and clever and wonderful, he could never drag that part back into the light. I want you to remember that.”
Denman’s expression is impassive. No anger, no outrage, no lust. Just the deadness that I’m sure lies at the heart of him.
“I’m not a killer.” Tears swim in his eyes – pity, but only for himself. “I never wanted to hurt anyone. But I have my life, my job. Even my partner’s come back to me. Felt sorry for me after my accident. I can’t lose these things, Dylan. I won’t.” His grip on me begins to loosen. “I don’t believe you’re uploading that file, and even if you are, I’ll delete it before anyone finds it. So here we are. Do you know what everyone’s going to think happened here today?” A bead of sweat trickles down his brow as he strains to hold me. “They’ll say you jumped. Why wouldn’t they? Such
a sad and damaged little boy. What else was there left for him but this?”
“There’s justice,” I say. “Justice for El.”
A thick arm loops around his neck and Denman screams. In the next moment, he’s released me and I’m falling backwards. I grab at the air, frantic, because I want to live, El. I do. Even if it’s without you.
And then a hand snatches mine and I’m reeled away from the brink and onto the hard shingle of the rooftop. I fall with my rescuer, sprawling into him, knocking heads with him, then resting, face to face, breathing hard.
“Dylan!” Hands in my hair, hands cupping the back of my head, pulling me close. “Jesus, Dylan!”
Sprawled together, I lock eyes with Mike. He’s laughing hysterically and I can feel his heart slamming against my chest.
“You stupid, stupid prick,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
We rise together and watch as police swarm the rooftop. One officer shouts at Mike, reminding him that he was told to stay downstairs. Meanwhile Denman is face down in the gravel, a burly constable wrenching his arms behind his back and fitting the cuffs. His pale, sweat-soaked face turns sideways and the art teacher looks across at me, that emotionless mask firmly in place.
Suddenly I recognize the officer snapping the handcuffs. It’s PC Shit-for-Brains from the hospital and the cycle-safety assembly. He gives me a knowing grimace and a very official shake of the head. Another officer collects my phone from where it landed and I find myself babbling some explanation about the recorded confession.
Then a team of paramedics come over and Mike and I are separated. They guide me gently downstairs to an ambulance and I sit in the back, answering questions in a dull monotone. Through the open doors I see your rapist escorted to a waiting car. I won’t look at him. He’s nothing now. Meaningless.
And anyway, there’s another question that I’m only just starting to turn over in my mind.
It’s the last question of all, and for once, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
We sit side by side on our old swings in the Berringtons’ garden. Above us, through shreds of cloud, the moon rides high.
It’s been an hour since we got back from the police station. Our parents met us there after Denman’s arrest and stayed with us while we gave our statements. The inspector who interviewed me said they’d retrieved the audio file from my phone and that, together with El’s drawing, the fragments of coffee cup (which should retain trace amounts of Denman’s sedative), and the fact that Denman was caught red-handed attacking me, a conviction for rape and attempted murder is pretty much certain. When I heard this I knew I should feel elated, but all I could do was nod and thank him.
After we left the station my parents begged me to come home. I told them, very gently, that I wasn’t ready yet. That I might never be ready. My mum kissed my cheek and my dad said he understood.
And so here we are. After fussing around us and receiving a hundred reassurances that we’re okay, Big Mike and Carol have gone to bed and we’re alone.
Now it’s just me and Mike, facing truths that neither us want to face.
“There are still things that don’t fit,” I say at last. “Like, why did the journal-sender leave that page until last? Okay, it was an abstract drawing, he probably didn’t know what it meant, but it also hinted that something awful might have happened to El. Something worse than in any of the other drawings. So why not send this one first?”
I grip the creaking rope that holds my swing to the tree.
“Mike, when you called the police, what did you know?”
I turn to him. He has his head in his hands. His shoulders tremble. I reach for him and he pushes me away. When he finally looks at me, I know what he’s going to say. We’ve always been like that, me and Mike.
“It was me, Dylan. I let Ellis drown. It was me.”
I know it’s true but still I try to resist it.
“You had chemo that day.” I shake my head. “You were still at the hospital when I called you from the dance. You’d have been chucking your guts up, there’s just no way.”
“My chemo was cancelled,” he says. “Something went wrong with the hospital’s IT and all their routine appointments were called off for the day.”
Suddenly I remember the nurse who glued my head together. The gentle nurse complaining about the cyberattack and how all non-emergency treatments had been abandoned. And then that conversation with Mike in which he never actually said he’d been hooked up: “Yeah, today was all kinds of mad… I’ll tell you all about it later. Might make you smile or maybe burst a vessel.” And then Carol saying something about Mike not being as far on with his treatment as he should be, because the last cycle had to be rescheduled?
“After I spoke to you, I took Becks for a walk,” he says, getting slowly to his feet. “We’d spent half the day in the chemo suite waiting for nothing. It was draining, you know? You build yourself up to face it and then some lonely little dweeb in a basement sends out a virus and you’re back to square one. Waiting. Dreading. So we got home late and I just needed a bit of space away from my folks. The looks, the sympathy, the tiptoeing around me…it was like I couldn’t breathe.”
I can see him pulling on his hoodie, taking Becks’s leash from the hook by the door…
Carol asks if he’d like some company, Big Mike tells him to remember his gloves. Then the driveway, and Becks straining at his collar. Mike takes them on a winding tour through the woods, Becks snuffling out their path, Mike crunching slowly behind. The fresh air feels good against his skin, raw and real, not like the clinical, filtered air of the hospital. The dog keeps up a frantic pace, never tiring, and that suits Mike just fine. He has a million thoughts racing around in his head – concern for his best friend, anger at the video someone posted of Dylan and El, frustration that he isn’t another step along his road, and always the constant fear that that road might not be as long as everyone has promised.
He’s tiring. His heart is full. He thinks back to the conversation with Dylan. He’s not fooled by his best friend’s upbeat vibe. He knows the McKees and doesn’t believe that their acceptance of Dylan’s relationship with Ellis will stand the test of time. He starts to stumble over the uneven forest floor and decides to take Becks off the leash. Let the mutt run free. Lost in his fears, he doesn’t realize how far they’ve traipsed through the wood nor how close they are to the lake road.
Before he can call him back, Becks explodes through the trees.
A white blur, a dashing comet on the road.
He reaches the treeline just in time to see a car swerve across the tarmac. He stands frozen. All he can do is watch as the Nissan tumbles, smashing and reshaping itself as it hurtles down the incline towards Hunter’s Lake. He knows the car. He wants to move. He can’t. A frightened, whimpering Becks dashes back and twines around his legs, glimmering upturned eyes full of guilt. It takes a small nip at his fingertips for Mike to come round.
He starts to run.
“You know the rest,” he says.
“No,” I tell him quietly. “I don’t.”
“Are you going to make me say it?”
“I think you need to. For both of us.”
“I got you out. I dragged you out of there and I tried to go back. I did, Dylan. I tried. But I couldn’t.” It’s then that he breaks, roaring, slamming his palms against his chest. “Because I’m weak and I’m tired and I’m fucked! I wasn’t strong enough to save him.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I shout back at him. “I’d have understood.”
“No. No, you wouldn’t. Not then. Because you want to know the truth, Dylan? If El had been in the passenger seat and I’d saved him first, I would have found the strength from somewhere to get you out. I’d have killed myself trying anyway. But honestly? I didn’t love him as much as I love you. I couldn’t find that last bit of strength and courage and I wasn’t willing to die for him. I just wasn’t. And I knew that you would never forgive me for leavi
ng him.” He takes a breath, then plunges on. “And I thought maybe it’d be worse even than that.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, not wanting to know, but needing to.
“Maybe you’d think I left him on purpose. Because he came along at the time I needed you most and he took you from me.”
“Is that really what you felt?”
“No, Dylan. But it might have been what you thought, if you knew I hadn’t saved him. And I just couldn’t bear you thinking something like that.”
He reaches into his coat and brings out your leather-bound journal.
“When I heard the sirens, I crawled back into the woods. I could hardly stand at that point, but I managed it. And then I saw this, caught in the bushes. I took it on impulse, something I could give you later to remember Ellis by. But then afterwards, I couldn’t think how to do it without you getting suspicious. And then we had that moment after the funeral, in the memorial garden. I could see it in your eyes, Dylan. You wouldn’t ever let it rest. You had to find these people who you held responsible for El’s death.”
He passes a hand over his face and casts a look at the starless sky. “I could feel this hatred coming off you. For your rescuer. For me. I was scared, Dylan. I couldn’t lose you. Not now, when I need you most.”
“So you decided to use the journal to implicate other people. I thought the journal-sender was a friend trying to help me, but you used those pages to keep me guessing. And you what? Just pretended to see that mysterious person in the garden?”
He nods. “It all sounds so calculated, like it was some big plan, but it wasn’t, I swear. All through this insane week, it was just me desperately improvising, clutching at any possibility to keep you from the truth. Me getting more scared and more stupid and more desperate every time you came close. At first, I tried to talk you out of the whole thing. Even tried to play up the idea of the survivor’s guilt theory. But straight away I could see you’d never buy that. ‘I’m not letting this go, Mike. I won’t ever stop.’ That’s what you said. And so I used the journal. It made me sick, doing it, and with every page I sent, I hated myself more and more.” He covers his face with his hands. “God, Dylan, I didn’t know what to do.”
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