by Alan Gibbons
I hated seeing her like this. I hated the misery that was choking her. She had ridden rapids of despair in the past year. It was as if she was being made to go through Rosie’s death over and over again. There was no peace, no closure.
‘Eve, I needed to make her understand. I told her I had lost a child. I appealed to her as a mother.’ Her chin quivered. ‘She wouldn’t listen to a word I said. All she could see was a woman who was putting her son in danger.’ She started to sob. ‘She threatened to call the police. After everything I’ve been through, she was going to call the police on me.’
‘Oh, Mum!’
I did my best to comfort her, but I had to sit beside her while the past continued to torture her. That’s when I remembered the way Jess had stood in front of the whole school and testified for Oli. Suddenly I knew what I had to do. From that moment I started to plan.
HAVING A PARTY?
Wednesday, 12 March 2014
Mr Hudson announced the winner of the Great Debate at morning assembly. Anthony barely registered a word. Jess was two rows ahead and three seats to his left. She led the applause for Oli, her whole body shaking as she clapped her hands. Anthony watched the way her ponytail bobbed up and down.
Why couldn’t things be different? She was everything he wanted in a girl. She was bubbly, friendly, intelligent, attractive. He imagined the scent of her hair, wondered what it would be like to spend a whole evening with her, talking about all kinds of dreams and nonsense. That would have been possible but for what happened in Cartmel Park on a hot, savage night in August.
A twist of fate meant they could never be together. Eve’s mother had seen to that. He couldn’t believe she had come round again, pursuing him, pushing him into Mosley’s path. What if he found them? Him and Mum? What if it all started again? Eve’s mother was never going to let it go. The feelings she stirred in him went beyond fear. Shame, guilt, humiliation all came shrieking out of the past to haunt him. She could not even be hated. She could not be scrubbed from his conscience. Her cause was too just.
Mr Hudson closed the assembly and people started to file out, form by form. Jess was in front. It took Anthony a moment to force himself to touch her arm as she went to follow Eve outside. The shudder when she realised whose hand it was, the blaze of contempt in her eyes, told him she knew all about Cartmel Park.
‘Jess, can I talk to you?’
Her face was a mask, her features set against him, hard, cold, unresponsive.
‘You’ve got a nerve! I know what you did. I know all about you.’
There were a few glances from the passing students, but few showed any particular curiosity.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘I’m not going to make a scene. The school wants this thing kept quiet. Eve has her reasons too. Fine, I’m not going to rock the boat. But don’t come near me ever again.’
‘Jess . . .’
He was aware of Eve watching him. She had her mother’s eyes. It wasn’t just the colour. It was the quality of accusation in them.
‘I don’t want to hear it, Anthony. First you stand by while those animals attack Rosie. Then you follow Eve here . . .’
He couldn’t let it pass without protest.
‘It wasn’t like that! If I’d known, I would never have let Mum choose this school.’
‘Finally,’ Jess continued, dismissing his objections, ‘you let me make a fool of myself.’ She dropped her voice to an outraged whisper. ‘You don’t say a thing even though you know what it must be doing to my best friend to see us together.’
He wanted to explain. If only he could make her see that the picture she had of him was false.
‘What kind of person does that, Anthony? I’m going now. Don’t you dare follow me or I’ll scream the place down.’ She jabbed a finger in his direction. ‘And I know you wouldn’t want to attract any more attention to yourself.’
He watched her go. Every word had drawn blood.
Mrs Rawmarsh looked up when she heard the knock.
‘Come in.’
She saw who it was and closed the lid of her laptop.
‘Has something happened? Is this about Eve Morrison?’
‘In a way. It’s about Jess.’
He had her attention.
‘Go on.’
‘Eve’s told her. We . . . we kind of had words.’
‘Oh, Anthony.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Did many people overhear this conversation?’
‘I saw a few people look our way, but I don’t think they stopped to listen.’ A pause. ‘No, I don’t think that’s a worry.’
‘So what do you want, Anthony?’
‘I can’t do the song tomorrow.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It doesn’t seem right. I mean, I don’t deserve to be there.’
She told him to sit down.
‘You’re a talented lad, Anthony . . .’
He interrupted her.
‘I can’t sing in front of all those people. I’m ashamed of what I did . . . what I didn’t do.’
‘Mr McKechnie spoke to your mother at length, Anthony. We all understand what happened. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.’ He knew that wasn’t even remotely true. She hadn’t been there.
‘I don’t know. What if Eve comes?’
Mrs Rawmarsh turned to her laptop.
‘I can soon check. I’ve got the list of ticket sales. Let’s see. OK, Jessica and Oli are here. They are coming with their parents.’
He cleared his throat.
‘What about Eve?’
Mrs Rawmarsh checked twice.
‘No, Eve isn’t coming. Anthony, you’ve got a great choice of song and you perform it well. Don’t drop it on a whim.’ She leaned forward. ‘This might be just the thing to help you finally settle in at Shackleton. You want that, don’t you?’
Of course that’s what he wanted. He could barely imagine what that would feel like. He’d been walking on a road of shame and the tar stuck to his shoes.
‘Yes, but Jess is going to be there in the audience, staring at me, knowing what I did.’
‘You can’t keep running all your life, Anthony.’
He failed to meet her gaze. Finally, he nodded.
‘OK, I’ll play.’
I wanted to do it then. I wanted to bring the school to a halt, march into the middle of the yard and demand everybody’s attention. I wanted to draw their eyes to me, just as Jess had done when she silenced the dining hall. She stood up for her living brother, but here I was letting Anthony spit on my sister’s grave.
He had to understand the pain that drove Mum to his door. Did he know shame? Did he have a conscience? I held myself in check. What was the point of anger, of emotion? I would only shout and scream and crumple into helpless tears. My weakness would be his strength. I imagined how I would stumble through a sobbing, incoherent tirade that nobody heard or understood. I didn’t have Jess’s composure.
I had to find another way, one that would allow me to walk tall. I had to summon a ghost and stand inside her translucent presence. I had to be an avenging Fury exposing the wrongdoer.
I went as far as the Wizard’s Lair, moving fast, feeling my shoes thud on the pavement. All those days I shrank from responsibility. Now I was purposeful, my rage shaped and fashioned into a weapon, a tool of revenge and testament.
One section of the shop hired out fancy dress, mostly of the macabre variety: zombies, vampires, demons. There was a back room that stocked vinyl records and CDs. I knew some of the bands but not all. There were albums by The Velvet Underground, Buffalo Springfield, Jefferson Airplane, Deep Purple, Country Joe and the Fish, Lindisfarne, Wishbone Ash and Cream, among others. There were artists like Gil Scott-Heron, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Melanie Safka, names that would mean absolutely nothing to Rehana and Hannah. I wasn’t interested in the fancy dress or the shelves of retro music. None of it meant a thing to me. It was the third section of the shop
that I had come to explore. It specialised in theatrical make-up and prosthetics, grotesque noses, fake scabs and scars, green, warty noses and goblin ears. I finally found what I was looking for and paid for the small, plastic bottle.
‘Having a party?’ the guy behind the counter asked.
‘Mm,’ I answered, ‘something like that.’
The timing worked out perfectly. Mum had a meeting in Preston.
‘We can get leaflets and videos done professionally,’ she said in the brief few minutes we had together before she rushed to the car and sped towards the motorway.
The idea was that speakers were going to go into schools and tackle prejudice. This sort of thing happened all the time. I’d lost track of the number of newspaper and TV interviews she had done. No way could I ever be like her, but I could do something. I was going to do something. Anthony would never forget that he had stood by while Rosie was destroyed.
I thought of my brave mum standing in the street pleading with him and his monster of a mother. All this time I had been numb. I had never once offered to accompany Mum to a meeting, to address envelopes or attend a fundraising gig. The more she threw herself into organising the campaign, the more I shrank.
I wasn’t going to sit still any more. I opened the door to Rosie’s room. Her stuff was everywhere. I opened the wardrobe doors and sat on the edge of the bed. I was taller than Rosie. I would have to choose the right set of clothes. The image had to be perfect. It had to burn itself into the minds of my audience.
I was patient. I tried on the skirts, examined myself in the mirror. I narrowed the choice down to two. Now I had to find a matching blouse. That was harder. Finally, I found one that fitted. It looked sleek and dark, exactly what I wanted. I found the lacy, fingerless gloves she liked. I zipped up the skirt and buttoned the leather boots. I looked at my reflection.
That’s when I discovered my biggest problem. How could I slip into the skin of my sister with my long, straight hair? What could I do that would remotely compare with her mass of black and scarlet dreads? I started tugging at drawers, frantically rummaging through her belongings.
I glanced at my phone. I was running out of time. Then there it was. Of course. How could I have forgotten? We did this amazing road trip through France and Spain a few summers back. One day, in a small town in Andalucia, Rosie squealed with delight. There was a stall selling mantillas, the light veils that traditionally covered a woman’s head and shoulders. She put together a collection over the years, some white, mostly black. I scraped back my hair so severely it was painful. When I peered at my reflection wearing the mantilla, the transformation was complete. I spent a few minutes making up my face and smiled.
I was ready.
The spotlight picked out Mrs Rawmarsh.
‘Your votes have been counted, ladies and gentlemen. Behind me are all our talented entrants.’
There was some shuffling of feet.
‘In a moment I will announce the three finalists. They will perform again then there will be a ten-minute intermission while you vote for the very last time. After that we will have the winner of Shackleton’s Got Talent.’
She gave her broadest smile.
‘In no particular order,’ Mrs Rawmarsh began, ‘our first finalist is . . .’
She beamed through the long pause.
‘ . . . comedian Shaun Carrick. I am sure Mr Hudson enjoyed the Godfather joke. Our second finalist is . . .’
She took even longer over this announcement.
‘ . . . yes, it’s Isobel Hammill.’
‘Our third and last finalist is . . .’
Anthony held a fixed expression. He was determined not to show any pleasure or disappointment.
‘ . . . guitarist and singer Anthony Broad.’
The strength of the audience’s reaction made him favourite to win. The contestants who had not made it to the final left the stage to applause.
‘OK,’ Mrs Rawmarsh said, ‘let’s hear it for our fabulous finalists.’
When the applause died down, Anthony and Isobel left the stage.
‘You’re going to win,’ Isobel said. ‘You can tell by the response.’
‘You’re really good too, you know.’
Isobel laughed. ‘And you’re a gentleman.’
Anthony edged along the curtain and searched for Jess. She was in the third row with Oli and her parents. He fought to control his nerves. His mother was there somewhere. It was only now that he realised he wanted to win for her. Life had been kicking her around for so long, she refused to believe it would ever get better. They still lived in constant fear of Mosley. It was time she had something to smile about, even if it was something as stupid as a school talent show. Shaun gave him a nudge.
‘They called your name, Anthony. Wake up.’
He passed Isobel as she made her way off stage.
‘Break a leg,’ she whispered.
He perched on a stool. Mrs Rawmarsh was opposite him, her fingers hovering over the piano. He took a deep breath and used his plectrum to tap out the intro on the body of the guitar. Mrs Rawmarsh came in after a few seconds and he started to sing. It was good to perform in public again. He had missed the band. He didn’t look at the audience. He wrapped himself in the song, eyes closed as he hit the top notes. He raised his hand to stop the piano accompaniment and finished it a cappella. There was a moment’s silence then applause engulfed him. As he left the stage Isobel gave him a hug.
‘You smashed it, Ant. Nice touch at the end.’
He frowned.
‘Nobody’s ever called me Ant in my life.’
She smiled.
‘There’s a first time for everything.’
It took him a few moments to locate his mother in the crowd around the refreshments. People were putting their voting slips in the ballot boxes to the left and right of the catering tables.
‘That was the best yet,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to win.’
He noticed a couple of sixth formers collecting the ballot boxes and taking them over to a trestle table to be counted.
‘You would say that. You’re my mum.’
He was aware of Jess over to his left, watching him. She seemed curious about his mother. Was it possible, even now, that she would make some kind of scene? He felt his stomach knot. Somebody flicked the light switches a couple of times.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Mrs Rawmarsh announced. ‘Please take your seats. We are ready to announce tonight’s winner.’
Just a few more minutes, he thought. Please Jess, he prayed silently, don’t say anything. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. When they took Rosie’s life, they took mine too. Let me have this moment.
I walked down the Manchester Road, surrounded by the kind of deep, quiet blackness that wraps you in its folds. The moon flitted in and out of the clouds, glimmering briefly before sinking back into the heavy gloom. Soon, I followed the line of bleary lights up the hill towards the school. There was a shout from a passing car.
‘Mosher. Weirdo-o-o-o.’
There was a burst of laughter before it was lost in the hiss of traffic. I almost turned back at that. This was the flaw in my plan. I had thought through everything except the long walk across town. How did Rosie do this every day? I felt so self-conscious and vulnerable. I had climbed into her skin in more ways than one.
I wasn’t easy with what I had to do. Once I was in the school grounds I slipped past. There was nobody in the school foyer. I breathed a sigh of relief and edged towards the hall. I could hear a female voice. Peering inside, I recognised Isobel. Then there he was, up next, Anthony. His voice was clear, his singing controlled. I froze for a moment. That song . . . He was good. I pressed my fingernails into my thigh, pinching away any possibility of sympathy.
I would not be a frightened, anxious sixteen-year-old. I would be an avenging angel, taking wing on behalf of my murdered sister, my tortured mother. I felt the bottle in my hand. The timing had to be right.
Anthony finished t
o thunderous applause. They liked him. I felt every whoop of appreciation as a barb, an insult to Rosie’s memory, a slap in my mother’s face. Mrs Rawmarsh was on stage, holding the golden envelope in her hands. Here it was, the announcement. There was no longer any doubt. He was going to win. I had planned for this moment, rehearsed the timing. I would let him have his moment of glory. Let him gloat. Let him think there would be no consequences for his actions. Let him believe.
‘The winner of Shackleton’s Got Talent,’ Mrs Rawmarsh announced, ‘is . . .’
The drumroll of stamping feet followed. Jess looked away, disgusted. That’s when she saw the figure gliding towards the stage, the gash of scarlet that ran from black lips onto ashen skin. Other people had seen her too. There was an undercurrent of murmurs rippling through the expectant silence.
‘That’s Eve!’
‘The winner,’ Mrs Rawmarsh repeated, building the tension, ‘is . . .’
She was oblivious to the dark ghost closing on Anthony. Eve had reached the steps at the side of the stage. Mr Hudson at last noticed her and stumbled forward, making a grab for Eve’s sleeve.
‘ . . . Anthony Broad.’
The wave of cheering and applause swept away the voices of concern.
‘Anthony’s prize is a gift voucher for £100. Let’s hear it one more time for our amazing singer and guitarist. Anthony Broad.’
Jess was scrambling to her feet.
‘I know what she’s going to do!’
I don’t know how I reached the stage. I didn’t see the audience. I felt the bottle in my hand. I squeezed off the stopper and dipped a finger inside before running it along my lips, freshening the smear I had already applied. I felt a hand on my arm and shrugged it away. Somewhere in among the darkened rows of faces my name was called.
‘Eve!’
Anthony registered my presence. He had a smile on his face and a gleam of pride in his eyes. His life was ahead of him. He would know other triumphs. Rosie would know none. She would fade until people struggled even to remember her name.