by Serena Lyons
Professor Headley pinkens. “Well, this should smooth the ice between you two, one hopes.” Her explanation is pathetic. I thought university tutors were meant to be the smartest of the smart.
“What happens if you’re not satisfied with my essay?” The question hadn’t occurred to me yet—I wrote the first essay, and I’ll damn sure write an even better second version—but I deserve to know how serious this is.
“Well hopefully it won’t come to that.” She giggles, even though it’s not funny.
“See, the cheater’s running scared,” Callum practically spits his words out.
“I am not a cheater, it’s just this is quite an… unusual set of circumstances to write in, I want to know the stakes.”
“Hopefully they’ll expel you.” His eyes look dark grey instead of their usual blue and it’s obvious he truly hopes that.
“Callum, please!” Professor Headley shakes her head. “As I said, hopefully it won’t come to seeing a difference in quality, but if we do, then we will consider it your first warning strike. Get another and we’ll have no choice but to expel you.”
Fucking typical. The hypocrisy of it all makes me want to scream. “Well it’s not going to come to that, I’m going to write an even better essay than I wrote the first time.” I pull back my shoulders. “Where am I supposed to sit?” The only desk in the room is Professor Headley’s, and all the other seats are comfy slouchy things, perfect for debating in tutorials, but not for handwriting two thousand words.
“You’ll take my desk, I need to go and chair the department meeting, I’ll be gone for at least two-and-a-half hours, and you have three. That’s why we needed Callum here to supervise you.”
I debate arguing that I’m scared of him, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me say that, so I simply sit down at her desk. “Excellent, let me know the title and then I can get started.”
“Callum chose it. It’s ‘What is truth’.”
“I thought it was very apt.” His dark eyes bore into me; cruel, taunting, testing.
Oh, I can rise to this challenge. My pen is already scratching across the paper when Professor Headley starts the timer
I lose myself in writing the best argument I’ve ever written, even managing to forget that Callum is in the room. I’ve always been able to do this, to move myself in to self-preservation mode so nothing around me penetrates the shell keeping me safe. Gran tells me it started when my mum still lived with us, that I’d zone out colouring or pretending to read my books when she was acting up.
Not that I can remember her as anything more than a tall, shadowy blur with waist-length dark hair who was able to make Gran sob for days when she ran off in a storm of fury and tears. She was always leaving us, until the day we found out she would never be able to come back or abandon us again.
“All going well here?” Professor Headley whispers to Callum, but it makes my head jerk up.
He nods, a surly expression somehow making him look even more attractive than usual.
“Ten minutes left, Faith.” She says and walks over to her bookshelf. I take a deep breath and flex my cramping hand—I’m not used to having to handwrite for this long—then tie up my remaining arguments
“Time’s up,” Professor Headley speaks at a normal volume this time.
I finish my sentence, wishing I’d had an extra five minutes to really amp up my closing argument, then lean back, stretching out my aching back muscles.
“So I can go?” Callum’s already jumping up to his feet.
“Not at all,” the archness of Professor Headley’s voice surprises me. “It’s because of you we’re all here, I’m reading the essay first, then you’re reading it next and we’ll put this behind us once and for all.” She strides over to her desk and I realise she wants her seat back.
I tidy the reams of handwritten paper into the right order, then squeeze out of the far side of her desk. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”
She nods as if I’d asked for permission. Callum continues staring straight ahead, determinedly not looking at me, although the fact he’s not playing with his phone tells me that’s he’s not really occupied with something else.
I don’t really need the bathroom, I just need to stretch my aching limbs and get out of that damn room. I think I did a good enough job, I hope I did, but it’s hard to tell. But if Professor Headley decides it’s not good enough, I don’t know how I’ll find the strength to carry on. Life here will get even more stressful with the threat of expulsion will become just one strike away.
Something tells me Callum Carter-Wright would be looking for every excuse possible to make sure I struck out for a second time.
I take my time in the bathroom, leaning to the small, stained mirror and considering myself. My roots are showing through, dark and angry. I probably need to get my hair dyed again even though it goes with the slightly punk look I have going on, and my dark eyes and eyebrows. Give it another week or two and I will look trailer trash terrible. I pull a lipstick out of my bag and smear red on my lips. Whatever they think, I am good enough for Westforde, and I’m going to look the part too.
I open the door to the room gently. They’re both reading. I hover by the door, wondering what to make of it. Professor Headley is chewing a pen and writing notes on a lip-shaped post-it note that is completely at contrast with the staid décor of the rest of the room. Whenever she finishes a page, she silently hands it out to Callum. He takes it carefully, his firm fists and furrowed forehead showing he’s properly reading, not just skimming my work.
Ugh, it’s like they’re seeing me naked, I’ve never handed in such an important piece of work without triple checking my spelling, grammar and logic. A hysterical giggle threatens to escape me when I remember that Callum has actually seen me naked.
“Done!” Professor Headley exclaims in an upbeat tone that must be a positive sign.
“What did—”
“Shh,” she raises a finger to her lips. “Let’s wait for Callum to finish.”
I can’t stand watching him read, so I look outside her window instead. It’s a beautiful Indian summer day, even it’s already November, and groups of students are strewn across the grass, laughing and chattering, like this is the golden time of their lives. Their days will never be so long and luxurious.
A pang of envy makes me shudder. Why is it never me having fun and living worry free? Am I always going to be struggling when the gilded elite just glide through life.
“Wow,” Callum’s voice makes me spin around. He’s staring down at the paper, wide-eyed. “Can’t say much for the handwriting, but the quality of thought is impressive. Really first class.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Professor Headley beams. “Faith, I think this is better than your first effort. I don’t think there’s anyway that you’ll miss out on the scholarship now.”
“So, you admit that I didn’t—.”
“Now, now, why don’t we let bygones be bygones?” Her face goes the tiniest bit pink. “I hope that you can both put this behind you.” She stares at Callum for longer than is strictly polite, then turns her gaze to me. “A fresh start and no more squabbling.”
“Sure,” I say at the same time as Callum nods.
Our eyes meet, his stare is back to pure ice. Well that makes two of us. I’ll never forgive him for Millie. There’s no way we’re putting this behind us.
29: Faith
Passing the essay test feels like a hollow victory as soon as I leave Professor Headley’s office. There’s absolutely no one that I can share my performance with. Everyone in college hates me, I’m not on the cheer squad anymore and the only person in the world who gives a shit about me is my Gran.
I wish I was back home. I wish I’d never started any of this.
“This is only a temporary reprieve.” There’s a nasty hiss in my ear, and I spin around to see Callum glaring at me. He looks as handsome as ever, but his face is pure evil: eyes glittering with anger,
lips an angry snarl.
“I could say the same to you.”
He sighs and rubs his face. The tattoo on his arm shows as his t-shirt sleeve rides up. The tattoo that spells out the day Millie died in roman numerals.
My resolve hardens; he won’t get away with this. “It’s only a matter of time until I prove what you did. Whether I’m a student at Westford or not, I’m not letting you get away with this.”
“For fuck’s sake, I don’t know why I even speak to you. You’re crazy.” He shakes his head, staring at me like I’m the one in the wrong, then storms off.
I watch him leave, the swagger in his walk that never goes away, the casual greetings he exchanges with other students. He’s acting like he’s innocent.
“Bastard,” I hiss under my breath, then head to the lodge to check for any messages. As I walk into the reception area, I sense everyone pausing their conversations to look at me. Nothing new there
There’s a poster of my face, done in the style of an eighteenth century wanted poster. The text reads ‘Wanted: for trying to sabotage the varsity rugby match’, then all over the poster people have scribbled insults with a variety of different pens.
Slut.
Bat-shit crazy.
Northern whore.
Psychopath.
Selfish c**t.
Tears well in my eyes, and I can’t focus enough to read any of the other insults. Laughter peels all around me as the crowd realise what I’m looking at. I want to run away and never come back.
“Just fuck off,” I yell, glaring from person to person. “You’re all weak and pathetic bullies, I don’t care what you think about me.”
“Ooh-er, someone’s got her knickers in a…” Someone cat calls, but I’ve stepped out of the door from the quad into the street and slammed it behind me before they can finish whatever they were saying.
I don’t have to be here. I can leave whenever I want. If I call Gran, I can be home by the evening. She’d welcome me back with open arms.
An idea starts to form, I could take the train up this weekend and visit her. I pull out my phone to check the times. A hug from Gran would make everything feel better.
Then I remember why I can’t go home; she’d go ape-shit is she saw my head. It’s still a patchwork of angry bruises even though I was attacked over a week ago. I call her instead, needing a fix of love.
“Faith, sweetheart, isn’t this a treat?” Gran’s warmth eases my chest slightly and I decide to keep on walking through the city rather than going straight to my room. “How’s your week going?”
“Not the best.” It’s a bit of an understatement, but I don’t want to worry her too much.
“Is the course tough?”
“No.” I wish that was my problem. “Actually, I aced an important test today.”
“Of course you did, you’re my wee genius.” I can picture Gran puffing up her chest like she always does when she boasts about me. None of her friends ever seem to mind, they know how hard she had it with my Mam.
“But I—.”
“I’m so proud of you, Faith. This is it your shot for a life that’s miles away from mine. You don’t how much comfort it gives me knowing you’ll always be able to take care of yourself with that degree from Oxford under your belt. I can sleep easier at night, knowing you’ll be fine after I’m gone.”
Ice floods my veins. “Is something wrong? Are you ill?”
Gran’s rich laugh fills the phone before she answers. “Sorry sweetheart, that sounded a bit maudlin didn’t it? No, I’m fit as a fiddle still, but I am pushing seventy, I’m not going to be here forever.”
“Yes, you are.” Tears of relief well in my eyes.
“I never want to leave you sweetheart, but Lord if it doesn’t make me feel better knowingly that if anything does happen, you’ll always be able to fend for yourself.”
I stay silent. There’s no way I can tell her I’m considering dropping out now.
“Next step will be getting you a nice family of your own, so I know you’ll be loved when I’m gone.”
“Gran! I’m eighteen, I’m not settling down for at least another ten years.”
“No nice boys at college?” I can hear the excitement in her voice.
The words on the poster earlier fly into my mind; slut, whore. Courtesy of the opposite of a nice guy. “None whatsoever.”
“Are you okay love?” Gran sounds concerned, like she heard the raw pain in my voice. “There’s no buy treating you bad, is there?”
“No,” I lie, closing my eyes. “No nice guys, but no bad guys either. You know me, I’m too busy focusing on my studies to be distracted by a man.”
“That’s my girl.” My gran sound approving, then moves on to discussing the gossip from her friends in the village, their children, their grandchildren, their siblings and all of their progeny. It’s boringly mundane chatter, and I love it. By the time we end the call I don’t feel sad anymore, Gran always cheers me up.
My heart skips a beat as I see that I’ve got a message from Nina. I swallow deeply, could she be reaching out to be my friend again?
Nina: Maybe you’ll believe Callum when you see this.
There’s a link to a Daily Mail article underneath her message. I click on it instantly, stopping walking dead in the middle of the street.
The page loads achingly slowly—I get better signal in the village—but just the title makes me feel a bit sweaty: Like father, like son: Carter teenager’s wild orgy in Ibiza, 28th September 2018.
28th September 2018.
XXVIII. IX. MMXVIII.
The date of Callum’s tattoo.
The night Millie died.
Oh fuck.
I read the article about Callum attending a swanky closing party in Ibiza the night Millie died and all the witnesses who interacted with him there. The excited couple he gave a half-full magnum of champagne to. The partygoers who saw him on the ‘No Restraints’ VIP area where everyone ‘either gives or receives at least one orgasm’. The older woman he had a ‘public sexual encounter’ there with.
Heat makes me unzip my jacket despite the cool November air. Have I spent the last two years plotting revenge against someone who wasn’t guilty?
I think of explanations for this. It could be false. He could have paid the newspaper to change the date on this story. God knows, he’s rich enough and his parents could easily sweeten the deal with an exclusive story.
Or maybe he just set it up so Millie would die while he was abroad to make sure the finger was never pointed at him.
I don’t quite believe myself though. Have I made a colossal mistake?
30: Faith
Hammering on my door wakes me from a nap.
“Hang on!” I shout out, reaching for my mobile. It’s already eight-thirty, it’s not like me to miss dinner. Food beats bed, but I can’t face the stares at hall these days. I wipe my face and stumble to the door.
It’s Nina.
“Hey…?” Part of me wants to slam the door in her face, after that showdown with Callum last week and the Halloween party, I can’t imagine she’s gotten anything nice to say to me. He bloody well deserved it. I wouldn’t change what happened I enjoyed wiping that smug smile off his face.
“I’ll make coffee, get dressed and come down to my room. We need to talk.” Nina spins on her heel, turning away before I can reply.
What has happened to the shy person I befriended? She ordered me about like the angry coach for the football team I used to cheer for.
I quickly shower to wake myself up, then go down to Nina. There is no question that I should. It’s not like I can avoid her when we live on the same staircase. Well, assuming she’s moved back.
“You look good,” I say then I wish I hadn’t as soon as I walk into the room.
Nina stares at me, witheringly.
“You look different,” she replies. “Is this the real you?” There’s a hint of pain in her voice.
I look down at my trackie bottoms a
nd shapeless t-shirt, she’s never seen me in anything so relaxed before. “You’ve only met the real me, just with a slight make-over.”
“A make-over designed to seduce Callum. My brother.”
“I swear Nina, I didn’t know he was your brother. But I wouldn’t change it anyway, I had to do what was right by Millie.”
“You’ve got him all wrong, you know. I know you think that I’m just saying that. That I’m his sister and too blind to his flaws. But I know his flaws Faith, and I know they’re nothing like what you think—he’s a good guy underneath it all. He wouldn’t have hurt Millie.”
“So I’m making up all the times she cried on me because he stood her up last minute?”
“Yeah, he likes to party, and he did treat Millie pretty appalling as a boyfriend, but he didn’t have anything to do with her death. He was in Ibiza when it happened, that article proves it.”
“I know.” I do, there’s too much social media proof once I got the club name from the newspaper article for it to have been faked. All of a sudden I’m crying. “It just doesn’t make any sense, she wouldn’t have done that to herself. Someone definitely pushed her on.”
Nina smiles sympathetically. “It was probably just a momentary act of madness. I’m sure she didn’t mean to follow through, it was just sucky timing and sucky luck.”
She looks so genuine, and I’m never going to get anywhere on my own. “But I know she wasn’t alone.” I hesitate, do I really want to share this? “She sent me a letter the night she died.”
“A letter?”
“My gran works in their house, she’s their cook. It took her a few days to find it, stuffed down the pocket in the front of her apron. I tried taking it to the police, but they just thought I was some crazy teenager trying to get some attention after the tragedy. Her mother never trusted me, and she told them that Millie and I hadn’t been friends.”
I remember my deep shame when the police accused me of making up sick fantasies.
“What does the letter say?”
“I’ll go and get it.” Now I want to share it. The idea of unburdening this weight I’ve been lugging around for the last two years to another person is seductive. The only other person who ever believed me was Gran. She found the letter, she knew I hadn’t put it there. But her first instinct was to protect me, not to help me try to find out the truth.