by Wendy Clarke
He notes down the time on the clipboard and she sprints away from him, wondering if he’s guessed it’s Ethan she’s waiting for. She’d hoped he’d be training this evening, but it’s clear he isn’t. The disappointment is immense. Over the last couple of weeks, she’s let herself believe that they might, just might, be more than just running partners. That he actually likes her. Each night in bed, she’s imagined what it would be like to kiss him – telling herself she hasn’t imagined the way he looks at her.
She knows he isn’t ill. She’d seen him and Freya walking out of the English room at break earlier that day. They were in front of her in the corridor and Freya’s head was close to his, her hand cupped around his ear. He’d stopped in his tracks at something she’d said, his face registering surprise, staring after her as she’d walked away. Then, after a few moments, he’d run to catch up with his mates, leaping onto the nearest one’s back, looking excited.
Kelly feels uneasy remembering it.
She’d ask Freya what was going on, only she isn’t talking to her. Since that afternoon at the rifle range, she’s tried to avoid her as much as possible. Despising herself for having been scared of her. It’s just that she’s sick of never knowing which Freya she’s going to get from one moment to the next: the one who tries to be her mother’s best friend or the one who’s slagging her off. Whatever role she’s playing, the perfect sister, the perfect daughter, she plays it to perfection. Pretending to be so flawless when nothing could be further from the truth. In the last couple of weeks, her dad’s been around more at the weekends, having breakfast with them and coming home earlier from work. There must be something he sees in Freya that he never saw in her. Something that makes him want to be a proper father.
As Kelly starts the ascent up the hill, her legs are heavy and her throat feels tight. If it wasn’t for the thought of seeing Ethan, she would have given tonight’s session a miss, but she didn’t want to lose her chance to be with him on her own. She’s got used to him running beside her as she’s tried to orchestrate a seemingly accidental touch of hands when they reach a narrow section of path. Now she’s running on her own, the others way out of sight, and she doesn’t like it.
The circuit they’re running today climbs high above the village, following the horseshoe-shaped ridge before descending to the town on the other side of the valley. She’s halfway up the ascent and struggling already – her chest tight, her lungs finding it hard to pull in enough air. By the time she’s reached the top, she’s fallen behind the others. Even if she finishes, her time will be way short of her target. As she’s been running, the sun has disappeared behind the hills and the air has grown colder. What had at first been a general ache in her legs has now turned into needles of pain running from thigh to ankle. Her head is throbbing too.
At the next waymark, Kelly stops, her body bent at the waist, her fists pressed into her sides, trying to get her breathing back to normal. Far ahead, she can see the snake of runners as they cut down the grassy slope on the other side of the small valley. If she carries on after them, it will be dark before she gets back, and she’ll never hear the last of it from Peter.
She looks at the footpath sign. There’s nothing for it; she’ll have to take the shortcut back to the village. A path she hasn’t run before. She’s avoided it because it passes close to the disused rifle range – the short woodland descent opening out onto a ridge above the markers’ gallery, before joining up with a track that will take her back to the village. But she has no choice. Not if she wants to get back before it’s dark. The path is steeper than the one she should be taking, but it will mean she should be back around the same time as the others.
She begins to run, taking the right-hand fork through the trees, thankful that the path is dry and reasonably clear of brambles. It’s only when she starts her descent, leaving the main path behind, that it occurs to her that no one will know she’s gone this way. She slows to a jog – the last thing she needs is to fall and twist her ankle. Everything is aching. Her legs, her head… even her back. She longs to be home in her warm bed with a mug of Lemsip. It was stupid to think she’d be able to run today and it’s not even as if Ethan is here to spur her on.
She’s walking now, forcing one foot in front of the other, her teeth chattering even though it’s not that cold. Pulling up her hood, she makes herself carry on and is relieved when she’s out of the trees, the valley stretching out before her towards the village.
Below her is the rifle range and she knows that if she looks between the silver branches of the birch trees that cling to the edge of the slope, she’ll see the rusty target frames rising from their concrete holdings. She doesn’t want to look, though. She’s had enough of that place.
The sound, when it comes, is like someone in pain. Kelly freezes. The blood draining from her face.
It comes again. The same noise. It’s deep, guttural and this time she thinks it must be an animal. Fear squeezes her stomach. What is it? It’s coming from below her. From the markers’ gallery. Too scared to see what it is, she hurries on, trying not to make any sound. The path arcs round and she follows it, then, without warning, the trees clear.
A gasp escapes her, for directly below her is the graffiti-covered wall she was sitting against the other day, Homer Simpson’s giant belly nudging up against the Gemini symbol Freya had sprayed on its surface. But it’s not that she’s looking at. It’s something worse. So much worse.
She knows now what she heard. The animal sounds she couldn’t place.
Freya is up against the wall, her face pressed against the brickwork, and someone is pushed up against her, his trousers around his ankles, his pale buttocks moving in a frantic rhythm. Again and again. With each thrust, he lets out a grunt, but Freya is silent. Her eyes closed. Her face impassive.
Kelly’s rooted to the spot. Horrified at what she’s witnessing, yet unable to make herself move away. In the growing darkness, she can’t see clearly, but there’s something that’s draped over one of the target frames that makes her want the earth to open up and swallow her.
Ethan’s leather jacket.
36
October 20th
It’s funny how everyone just automatically presumed they’d get on – even you, I expect. Now they’re older, though, their differences are becoming more obvious. I’m sure things will blow over, but at the moment, it’s not the easiest of relationships. Unequal, I’d say. I’d love your opinion, but as we both know, that’s ‘not allowed’.
All the best
37
Kelly Before
When Kelly gets back, all she wants to do is go to bed and never wake up. Everything is ruined. Freya has taken away everything that she’s ever wanted.
The shivers are coming in spasms now and a bone-chilling coldness has wormed its way under her skin. She knows she must have a temperature, but the paracetamol is in the cupboard above the microwave and her mother is in the kitchen. She doesn’t want to have to answer her questions or let her see her red eyes or her tear-stained face.
She’s just climbing the stairs when her mum calls out. ‘Kelly, is that you?’
Kelly hangs her head. Scared to ignore her but not wanting to answer.
‘Kelly, come in here. I’ve something important to tell you.’
Reluctantly, Kelly retraces her steps, stopping at the hall mirror to wipe away the mascara that’s pooled under her eyes.
‘What is it, Mum?’
She’s at the kitchen table, her laptop open and a pile of leaflets beside her. Picking up one, she waves it at Kelly. ‘I have some wonderful news. I was going to tell you when your dad got home but,’ she glances at the clock on the wall and then back down, ‘I’m just too excited to wait.’
‘What is it?’ Kelly’s head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool. Pulling up a chair, she lays her head on her crossed arms and closes her eyes, but not before she’s seen the freshly washed floor, the worktops that have been cleared of clutter and the smell o
f baking bread. She didn’t even know her mother knew how to make bread. Freya’s return to the fold has worked wonders.
Her mum’s voice is sharp. ‘I’ve something important to tell you and the least you could do is have the decency to give me your attention.’
With great effort, Kelly raises her head. ‘I’m not feeling well.’
Ignoring her, her mother takes Kelly’s hands and squeezes them between her own. She’s smiling and her eyes are shining, just like they were the day Freya first arrived all those years ago. ‘Your father and I have decided that we’re going to start adoption proceedings.’
Adoption proceedings? She wants to ask but is scared of what she might be told.
‘Freya will be your sister,’ her mother cuts in. ‘Isn’t it just perfect!’
Kelly pulls her hands away, placing them over her ears as the enormity of what she’s just been told sinks in, but it’s too late to block out her mother’s monstrous words. ‘But you can’t. Please, Mum, don’t do it.’
The smile drops from her mother’s face and she stiffens. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fed up with your jealousy. It’s taken me a long time to find someone your father loves as much as I do. Why can’t you just be happy?’
‘Because you’ve got me. You shouldn’t need anyone else.’
With a scrape of wood on tile, her mother pushes back her chair. ‘I won’t hear any more of your nonsense. It’s happening and I won’t let you spoil it for me.’ Getting up, she grabs her mobile from the table and looks at it before throwing it down again. ‘Where the hell is your father?’
Lowering her head onto her arms again, Kelly’s thoughts race. There must be something she can do to stop this awful thing happening. Images gather in her head. Ethan’s white buttocks… the gross sounds he was making… Freya’s empty expression.
Maybe there is something she can do after all. Something that will get rid of her for good.
‘Freya’s been having sex with a teacher,’ she blurts out. ‘I’ve seen them in the maths hut after school and they’re up at the rifle range now.’
38
Kelly Now
‘I don’t know if I can do this, Mitch.’ I smooth down the lapel of my black jacket and check how I look in the long mirror that hangs on the inside of the wardrobe. I haven’t worn the trousers that go with it since before my pregnancy and the waistband is too tight. It’s the only thing I have that is suitable, though.
The children are downstairs playing and Noah is in his bouncy chair, crying.
‘Are you sure you can manage?’ I think of the bottles of expressed milk in the fridge and the instructions I’ve left. My breasts are sore from the pump. ‘I don’t have to go.’
Mitch puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. ‘Stop worrying. Of course I can manage.’ Bending to Noah, he lifts his little top and blows a raspberry on his stomach. ‘Once the girls are at school, it will be all boys together. Won’t it, mate.’
‘Are you sure?’
He looks up at me from his crouched position, his head shining in the overhead light. ‘We’ll cope and so will you.’
‘Will I?’
I think of the village, the school where I’d not exactly excelled, the long walk home down the dark and rutted lane. Alone. Always alone… apart from a few short weeks. Getting by as best I could. Trying to find a way to be like everyone else. To be normal. I don’t want to go back. After all that’s happened recently, I’ve become more anxious – like a cord stretched too tight that’s beginning to fray. I’m scared that if I see my mother, I might somehow turn back into the person I was then. The one who lied. The one who made terrible things happen. What if she tries to find out more about my life? Will I give away the fact I have children? The thought of my mother infiltrating my life again makes my stomach give a fearful twist. When I’d packed my things and left my parents’ house for the last time, I’d vowed I’d never go back.
But it’s not just that. I’m scared to leave the children. Fearful that it’s only me who can protect them. What if I’m right and someone is watching us? What if it’s not my imagination?
Mitch smiles. ‘It’s only a few hours and one day you’ll look back on today and be glad you went.’
I wonder.
If I go to the funeral, I can see for myself that my father is dead. That my mother is living her normal life rather than trying to infiltrate mine. That the past is where it should be… in the past.
‘Maybe you’re right.’ Forcing a brave face, I look at my watch. ‘Make sure you leave plenty of time to get the kids to school. It takes longer than you think to get Noah ready and sometimes Sophie needs a lot of coaxing to go into class. Oh, and don’t forget their book bags.’
‘Bloody Nora. I’m not a complete idiot.’
‘I’m sorry. I know you’re not. It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve left them all day and it’s not even as if I want to go. You can’t blame me for being a bit on edge.’
I think of the girls downstairs in the kitchen, fighting over the breakfast cereal. Needing me to go and sort it out. It’s my job to make them feel cared for. Loved. It’s been my job since I gave birth to them – it’s all that matters. In a minute, Isabella will call up the stairs, needing to know where we are. They’ll be waiting for us to come down so they can start their breakfast. Without warning, I’m back in my mother’s house. When I lived there, it was like I was always waiting for something: for people to tell me what was going on; for my mother to wake up to how miserable I was; for a new foster-child to arrive; for my father to come home.
But I wasn’t just waiting – I was wishing. Wishing the man whose funeral I’m going to could be like the other girls’ dads. One who’d sit and watch TV with them. Joke with them. Help them with their homework.
That wish came true… but the girl he did that for wasn’t me. However much I hoped the parents who raised me would love me – choose me over any other child that stayed with us – I wasn’t the one to wave that magic wand.
Mitch stands behind me and puts his arms around my waist.
‘Tell me what it is you’re worried about. Is it seeing your mum, or is it something else?’
‘It’s everything. It’s facing my childhood.’
He rests his chin on the top of my head. His voice is thoughtful. ‘Do you think there’s a chance any of the kids they fostered will be there?’
‘I don’t know.’ It’s not something I’d thought of.
‘It’s possible, don’t you think? But, then again, how would they know… about your dad dying, I mean.’
I imagine them lined up in one of the church pews, but however hard I try, I can’t capture what they would look like now. They’re locked in my memory at the age they once were. Mason as a ginger freckle-faced boy. Jade with her pierced tongue and her sulky face. Freya…
I go cold.
Freya is in my head as clear as if she was standing in front of me. It’s an image I’ve tried to push back, but this time I can’t. It’s sickening. Horrible. And, now that it’s with me, I know I won’t be able to get her out of my head again.
39
Kelly Before
Kelly’s running through the trees, but it’s not Ethan who’s beside her; it’s Mr Seymore. Liar, he says. Fucking liar. She knows she’s dreaming, but she can’t wake up. They’ve reached the rifle range, and instead of Homer Simpson, Ethan’s face is sprayed onto the wall in blue paint. Freya is trying to scrub it off, but when Kelly tries to help her, she pushes her away. With every reach of Freya’s arm, the running top she’s wearing exposes the shiny puckered skin on her stomach. Frantically, she tugs at the hem, turning to Kelly with a face streaked with tears of green paint. You told my secret. I’ll never forgive you. Kelly wants to tell her she didn’t, that she’s never told, but when she tries to speak, the razor blades in her throat slice and tear.
Through her dreams, Kelly hears sobbing. A voice pleading. Another door slams – this time the front door. Is she
asleep or awake? There’s something important she needs to do, but she doesn’t know what it is. Come with me, Freya is saying. Let’s play together by the Gemini tree. She doesn’t want to go. The tree is evil. Then I’ll go by myself, Freya says. Thick, hairy vines are sprouting from the scar tissue, twisting around her body, twining around her neck. Her veins stand out. Her eyes start to bulge. Kelly tries to pull the vines away, but they’re tightening. Tightening.
Kelly wakes. Her forehead bathed in sweat. Her pyjamas are stuck to her and the room is swaying. As she lies there, she thinks about what she heard before she went to sleep. Her parents had been shouting – the odd word from her mother coming to her from the kitchen below. Disgusting. An abuse of trust. Her dad’s voice had been too low to hear. Later, it was Freya’s voice she’d heard. She’s a fucking liar. What else has she told you? A slammed door. Crying. Silence. Then her parents starting again. Their voices rising and falling. Fading in and out.
What has she done?
Kelly feels worse than she did earlier, her limbs aching, her shivering uncontrollable. If only she could take something to make it better. Forcing herself to sit up, she slides her legs out of the bed. The wooden floorboards feel cold against the hot skin of her feet. With difficulty, she makes her way across the landing and into her parents’ bedroom. Her mum’s sleeping tablets are always on the bedside table. If she just takes one, it might help her feel better. She’s so desperate she’ll try anything.
Popping one out of its silver blister, she swallows it down with some of the water that’s in a glass beside her mum’s bed. Then she goes back to her room and waits to feel better. Her head is burning. The yellow digits are too bright – projecting out at her like in a 3D film. There’s a strange lethargy to her limbs but sleep still seems a million miles away.
