by Alan Gibbons
‘No butter?’
‘Only that fancy marge.’
‘Oh, we’re not going healthy again!’
Jess was about to reply when her phone went. It was Eve. Oli could only hear one side of the conversation.
‘Don’t be silly, Eve. No, I don’t think you’ve been acting weird.’
She glanced at Oli. He was pulling faces. She pulled faces back.
‘Honestly, I hardly noticed. No, of course I’m not angry with you. Yes, see you tomorrow. Bye.’
She hung up.
‘What’s with Eve?’ Oli asked.
‘She’s acting weird.’
He laughed.
‘You just said . . . !’
‘I lied. You can’t tell your best friend she’s acting weird, even when she is.’
‘I always thought Eve was a nice kid, really level-headed.’
That made Jess smile. Kid! Oli wasn’t much older than she was.
‘She is. It’s got something to do with Anthony, I know it.’
Oli questioned her with a look then a one-word question.
‘Anthony?’
‘He’s new. He only started today.’
‘So what’s Eve got against him? Antennae? Webbed feet and a frog’s head? Oh my God, don’t tell me, he’s . . . a Southerner?’
‘I only wish I knew.’
She gave it some thought. Why was Eve so touchy? She mulled it over for a while, but was none the wiser. Eve had always been quite shy with boys, but she had never been like this. It was as if she knew something about Anthony, but how could she? Neither of them had set eyes on him before that day.
‘You don’t think she’s jealous, do you? I’ve talked to him a couple of times. Do you think that’s it?’
Oli pushed back his chair and considered her for a moment.
‘I’m afraid I left my mind-reading kit in my room, but it doesn’t sound like Eve. She’s a generous spirit, especially where you’re concerned. She’ll tell you when she’s good and ready.’
Jess smiled. Oli always seemed older than he was. He was the wisest person she knew, and that included her mother. He cleared his throat.
‘I’ve got some news,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell them.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure as I can be.’
Jess’s face was a study of conflicting emotions.
‘Are you going to do it tonight?’
‘No, over the weekend. There will be more time to talk.’
His words had an immediate impact. Jess laid her palms on the table, fingers spread, and blew out her cheeks.
‘There are going to be fireworks. They make out they’re pretty liberal and all, but something like this. Who knows?’
‘They’ve got to know sometime. It’s better this year, when I’m in Year 12, than next when I’m in the middle of my A levels. You know Mum and Dad. They’re bound to freak.’
‘Don’t you think you’re being unfair?’
He grinned.
‘You were the one who said there would be fireworks.’
She moved round the table, dropped her arms over his shoulders and leaned her forehead on the back of his head.
‘I love you, Oli.’
He laughed.
‘Back at you.’
‘No, I mean it, you idiot.’
He managed to be serious for at least a minute.
‘Don’t go sentimental on me, Jess. I’m going to need your support.’
‘You’ve got it always. You know that.’
He squeezed her hands.
‘Yes, I know.’
The house was empty when I got home. Six months on, I still hadn’t got used to the silence. Once it was full of questions and answers, squabbles, jokes, stories, laughter, all the things that go on in a family home. There were squeals of frustration when a shoe went missing, frantic searches for car keys when somebody was late for work, the tossing of cushions when the remote was nowhere to be found. Such a short time ago there had been four people in this house. Now there were two. Somehow four divided by two wasn’t two. It was nothing.
I tugged the key from the lock, pulled out my phone and texted Mum. A message pinged back instantly. She was picking up some shopping. She wouldn’t be long. I pocketed the phone and stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, gazing at Rosie’s portrait. It was Paul who’d painted the block print. It faced you as you entered the house, examined you as you climbed the stairs. I contemplated the impish grin, the small, bright features, the nose stud, the frame of lovingly braided hair. I saw the image every morning as I left the house, every afternoon as I returned. It was the first thing the house told you when you entered. Rosie used to live here. Once, not so very long ago, it rang to the beat of her rhythms, hummed with her earnestness and humour, but not any more. She would never rush out to college. She would never call out that she was home. The portrait told anyone who cared to know that her presence had illuminated this place, but her laughter would never be heard here again. She was gone and we who remained felt her absence like a gnawing pain.
I climbed the stairs, dropping my eyes as I passed Rosie’s picture. I crossed the carpeted floor and sat on the window seat opposite the door. It was one of the features that had persuaded my parents to buy the stone cottage overlooking the moors. All the bedrooms had broad wooden window seats. Mum in particular loved the idea of gazing out at the changing seasons on the unspoiled hills. She had grown up in a terrace where the only views had been of a tiny yard and a neighbour’s wall. The views answered a lifelong yearning. If you strained your eyes you might make out the white blades of a distant wind turbine. Otherwise the landscape was much as it had been for centuries.
The door went.
‘Hi, love.’
‘Hi, Mum. You OK?’
She set the shopping down on the floor. Our cats, Jem and Scout, scurried over to investigate, rubbed legs, mewed a greeting and vanished.
‘I’m fine. How was school?’
She sensed the hesitation as I jogged downstairs and followed her into the kitchen.
‘Eve? Something wrong?’
‘No, of course not.’
I grabbed a couple of bags and started putting things away. I could feel Mum’s eyes on my back. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that haste meant anxiety, but she didn’t press me. She knew I would open up in my own good time. That’s how it was with us. With Rosie and Dad gone, we had had to create a whole new set of rules. Slowly, tentatively, we were learning to live differently.
As we unpacked, Mum put a few things to one side: a packet of chicken, garlic, a tin of plum tomatoes, some dried oregano, a packet of fusilli, some chicken stock. She didn’t have to say what we were having. We had seven or eight regular meals. I got a couple of bay leaves out of the cupboard, which earned a smile. Mum cut the chicken with a pair of bright turquoise scissors, trimming the white fat. I peeled the garlic and sliced it finely.
Soon the pasta was boiling, steam rising into the hood above the cooker. The garlic sweated in olive oil. Finally, Mum added music to the mix. It was the White Stripes. Fell in Love with a Girl. I watched the sauce simmering away and felt a pang. Everybody used to fall in love with Rosie. Then somebody decided to hate her. I stopped, planted my hands on the counter and took a deep breath. It was time to talk.
‘There’s a new boy in school. Anthony Broad.’
Mum stopped stirring, stiffened and turned in my direction.
‘Say that again.’
‘Anthony Broad.’
There was no need to check his name. She knew every detail of the case inside out. She did it anyway. She went into the small adjoining room she used as an office. She dropped into her chair and moved the mouse round the pad to wake the computer. She clicked on mail and scrolled through her messages. When she found what she was looking for, she leaned forward. She had received a stream of these emails last August and September, straight after the attack. They’d been sent anonymously from people appalled by
what had happened. Most of them fingered the same five boys and a few others who hadn’t taken part, but had done nothing to stop them. Mum scanned the list of names. First the attackers. Then she started on the list of onlookers.
‘He’s there. Anthony Broad.’
Tears spilled down my face.
‘I knew it.’
He was there when they attacked Rosie. This new boy, this Anthony Broad, had stood and watched while they beat Rosie and Paul to the ground. He’d done nothing to help them. He was one of the ones who’d watched.
The night Rosie died.
I DO NOTHING
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
It had been three days and what had I done? Anthony Broad was walking the corridors of my school. He wasn’t what I had expected. He should have been arrogant. He should have walked with a swagger. But no, he was more like me, one of life’s observers. That didn’t change anything. His very presence at Shackleton was an insult to Rosie’s memory. What was he doing here?
The police said there were people in the park that night.
If anybody on this Earth should have been allowed to live her days in peace it was Rosie. But they came for her. The worst of people dragged down the best. They took her from the world and left it to people like me to fill the aching void.
Jess kept asking if something was the matter. Had she done something to annoy me? Was I upset, depressed? I told her to leave it. Over and over again I told her, no, there was nothing. She didn’t believe me. She knew me too well. Then she would drift off to flirt with Anthony, and what did I say? Nothing. What did I do? Nothing. It wasn’t Jess’s fault she liked him. She didn’t know, and I didn’t tell her. I was the worst kind of coward. Rosie was my sister and I was unable to summon the courage to confront him. Instead I stood, watching Jess and Anthony talking, growing closer. All I could do was look on, pleading inwardly for her to come away. But not once did I open my mouth. I felt as if I was killing my sister all over again with my traitor’s silence.
Anthony knew her name. It was Eve. Eve Morrison. This was no coincidence. She was the dead girl’s sister. He screamed inside. How could this have happened? His mother had planned their flight from Brierley so they could make a new start, untangling herself from her terrifying boyfriend, Roy Mosley, and untangling Anthony from the August night he couldn’t forget. They had lived in fear. What if Mosley discovered their bags? What if his snarling, possessive curiosity thwarted their plans?
But they had done it. Mosley hadn’t suspected a thing. That should have been it, the happy ending. Now here they were stumbling over another bed of hot coals, squirming on another skewer. Didn’t Mum think to check if Rosie had brothers or sisters? Didn’t she ask where the Morrisons lived? Maybe he was being unfair. They had fled, hurrying into the street, scrambling into a taxi with their hastily packed belongings while Mosley was out. They had planned for it, prepared for it. Even then, for all that, the last moments of their imprisonment had been raw with terror. They ran, but they hadn’t run far enough.
Anthony stood listening to Jess chatting away, but all the while he was flicking anxious glances in Eve’s direction. He would never have made the connection with Rosie. Rosie was petite, unforgettable with her dark, alternative clothes and the black hair framing her pale face. She had been like a shadow that night, a shadow with a face like a splinter of moonlight. Eve was taller with a fuller, more rounded face and figure. More importantly, she was conventional, devoted to the idea of blending in with the other girls, a follower rather than a rebel. The longer Anthony looked at her, the less he saw the family resemblance.
‘So what is it, yes or no?’
He heard Jess’s question as if it had come bubbling through water.
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
Jess wasn’t annoyed that he had become distracted. She had a sweet personality. Any other time he would have been basking in the attention of this warm, friendly, incredibly fanciable girl. But she hung around with Eve. That meant trouble. Eve was over there now, by the wall, watching them. He found her steady gaze unsettling. Why didn’t she ever say anything?
‘Are you on Facebook?’
‘Oh, no. I don’t really do the networking thing.’
There was a good reason. There were things he wanted to forget.
‘What have you got against Facebook? I’m always on it. Sometimes I use Twitter.’ She cocked her head. ‘So what do you do? What’s Anthony Broad’s life like when he’s away from school?’
‘I read, swim, play my guitar.’
He had her attention.
‘You play guitar! Are you in a band?’
‘No.’ He waited a beat. ‘That is, I was.’
‘What happened?’
Horror happened.
‘I moved. I lost touch with the other guys.’
Jess frowned over her smile. There it was again, the look that said his explanation didn’t make sense. Do people really lose touch that quickly?
Anthony knew he would never go back, not for a day, not even for a minute.
Jess waved at Eve to come over, but Eve stayed where she was. Jess waved again, but she got the same response. Eve refused to budge.
‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Anthony said.
‘It’s not that,’ Jess insisted. ‘She’s kind of shy. You’ll like her when you get to know her.’
Anthony didn’t see that happening. He knew her behaviour had nothing to do with shyness. It was down to who he was. What he was.
The knock came in the middle of the Art lesson. It was Mr Hudson, one of the Assistant Heads. Jess leaned into me.
‘I wonder what that’s about? Did you see the look on Anthony’s face?’
When I didn’t answer, she gave me a nudge.
‘Mr Hudson has taken Anthony out of class, Eve. Or didn’t you notice?’
‘Of course I noticed!’
She didn’t react to my raised voice.
‘So what’s going on?’
My instinctive response was to mumble that I didn’t know. Somehow, that was worse than silence. Mrs Carroll was starting to pay attention to us, so I answered in a whisper.
‘You tell me. You’ve been following him around for days.’
‘I was trying to be friendly.’
Mrs Carroll didn’t think we had got the message so she rose from her seat and wandered around the Art room, ducking under the mobiles dangling from the ceiling. But for her timely intervention we might have launched into a full-scale quarrel.
When the bell went, we followed the throng out into the yard. The Art department was part of a new block that houses Design and Technology, a drama studio and the music rooms. There were posters for a talent show. Predictably, it was entitled Shackleton’s Got Talent. How original! A sudden shower was sweeping across the school grounds. I hugged my blazer and sprinted over to the main building. Jess followed, her face stung by the whipping rain. She grabbed my sleeve.
‘Can’t we drop it, Jess?’
‘This has got nothing to do with us having words,’ she told me. ‘I just saw your mum.’
I stopped, suddenly attentive.
‘Are you sure?’
At the far end of the corridor, the Head’s PA was showing Mum into the waiting room.
I knew Mum would be waiting for me. She waved and Jess and I jogged over. Jess was the first to lean into the open window.
‘We saw you earlier.’
‘I’ve been in to see Mr McKechnie.’
Jess heard the note of finality and let it drop.
‘Would you like a lift home, Jess?’
Jess gave a kind of shrug, a small sign that she was disappointed to be kept out of the loop, and got in the car. Mum pulled away from the pavement. Nobody said very much. There was the beat of wiper blades and Whitesnake on the sound system. The terraced houses flashed by, the charity shops, hurrying people, the churches, open fields and patches of waste ground. We were soon outside Jess’s house, quiet beneath the thunder
of the worsening downpour.
‘See you tomorrow, Jess.’
‘Yes, see you.’
She stood watching us go, her hair already plastered to her face. Before long the grey mist swallowed her and I turned to Mum.
‘You went in about Anthony, didn’t you?’
The traffic had slowed and we were crawling through the congested High Street. Our entire area is a string of villages and small towns that punctuate the rolling countryside.
‘Mr McKechnie had no idea who Anthony Broad was.’
‘What’s he going to do?’
Mum was concentrating. I remembered how she had smashed into some bollards the day after the attack. The police had found her clinging to the steering wheel, great, hacking sobs tearing at her.
‘He wasn’t one of the attackers. He hasn’t been charged with anything.’
‘He didn’t come forward as a witness,’ I reminded her, as if she needed any reminding.
‘I know, love. He’s contemptible, but I discussed it at length with Mr McKechnie. I can’t force him to exclude the boy. There are no grounds. He’s got a right to an education.’
Something told me that was Mr McKechnie talking, not Mum.
We pulled up outside our house and sat there with the engine idling. Neither of us moved. The rain smeared the windscreen, making the line of the hills sway in the downpour.
‘What’s going to happen?’
Mum fought to control her voice.
‘You won’t be in any classes with him. I made sure of that. The situation will be explained to all the teachers.’
‘Are they going to say who he is, you know, to the rest of the students?’
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Did I want everybody to know?
‘No. There won’t be any big announcement. The school wants to keep a lid on this. I suppose I can understand their attitude. They want to avoid it turning into a point of conflict.’
Part of me wanted exactly that, a peaceful life, no trouble, nobody staring at me and whispering. All those weeks after Rosie died, I’d been a freak, the dead kid’s sister. I couldn’t walk along the corridor without people stopping and staring.