I stare up at him. My ears burn with anger. You couldn’t stop Akash, I say with my eyes. So what can you do to stop me?
He must read my thoughts because all the confusion and hurt slowly leaves his face. His eyes go cold and he tugs at his cardigan.
‘You’re a mess,’ he says, shaking his head. His face is filled with so much disgust, I think he actually hates me. ‘Look at you!’
Now it’s my turn to be silent.
‘Be ready for church in the morning,’ he says firmly, before turning and walking down the corridor.
‘But I’ve got work!’ I call after him.
‘Ten o’clock,’ he calls back, before disappearing into his room. His door clicks shut.
My chest is tight as I close my bedroom door. Dad’s words play in my mind on a loop. You’re a mess. Look at you! You’re a mess.
My chest gets even tighter. I should sit down, do some deep breathing or something, but I’m too worked up. I pace my room, my mind racing. Have I made a mistake by sneaking out? I already hate how much everything’s changed with Mum and Dad; how they’re stricter than ever and how we hardly ever speak. They never even talk about Akash. Not to me, anyway. Now things will be even worse. Once upon a time, before Akash started sneaking out, we were mostly a happy family. And even then, with everything Akash got up to, it was never me they were angry with. If anything, Akash’s behaviour made them even prouder of me. Should I have kept it that way?
But then how can I regret tonight? How can I regret Josh?
I stop pacing. No, I don’t regret it. None of it. So what if I sneak out to try and be normal once in a while? Mum and Dad should give it a go sometime.
I sink down on to my bed feeling suddenly exhausted. I look at my phone – it’s 5.30 a.m. Urgh. I need some sleep and I need something to calm my spinning thoughts.
I pull open my bedside drawer and stare down at the tiny tablets. They’re my magic pills. Apparently, they help make me happy, sleepy and hungry all at once. I take one every night since everything that happened with Akash – and I stopped being happy, sleepy or hungry.
I rummage under my bed to find the bottle of whisky I took from Akash’s wardrobe after he disappeared. I swallow a pill down with a swig. It’s disgusting. Burns my throat. But the smell reminds me of him.
I push the bottle back and climb into bed. I don’t bother getting changed into pyjamas. I hug Akash’s cap and wish I could talk to him. He’d know exactly what to say to make me feel better.
As I wait for my happy, sleepy tablet to kick in, I close my eyes. I let the bad thoughts come.
If only I’d listened to Akash that night.
If only I’d gone to the party with him.
If only I’d answered the phone later, when he called.
If only. If only. IF ONLY.
I toss and turn as birds start singing outside. The sky turns from orange to bluish white. Then, finally, the pill makes everything hazy and sleep comes.
Later that morning, I wake to a lot of angry coughing. Dad’s standing next to my bed, dressed in a suit. ‘Get up,’ he commands as I open my eyes. ‘Call in sick at the art centre. We’re going to church.’ My head’s spinning and my lips are ridiculously dry. I open my mouth to protest, but, before I manage to say anything, he says, ‘Now.’ His voice is barely under control and I have the feeling he’ll lose it if I don’t do as he says.
I don’t feel as brave as I did last night.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say sulkily, though every bit of me wants to go back to sleep. I want to press my face into the squishy pillow and ignore real life for now. I want to dream about Josh. I want my head to stop spinning.
Dad storms out of the room. My eyes sting from the morning’s brightness. I feel nauseous. But I force myself to sit up and call my boss, Rosie, before the worry kicks in. (What if she doesn’t believe me? What if I lose my job?) My voice is so croaky that it’s not actually difficult to fake being sick, and Rosie is sympathetic, which is a relief. Once I hang up, I peer across the room, at my sky-sea painting above the dressing table. I wish I could go to the art centre and escape everything for a bit. I smile as I remember Akash’s face when he gave me the picture. But then I feel sick again. He understood, so perfectly, what I needed. Why did he have to leave?
Suddenly I don’t want to be in bed any more. I don’t want to think about all this stuff. I drag myself out from under my duvet, stick on the flowery dress I save for church and take in a deep breath to clear my head. If going to church is my only punishment for last night, I reckon I’ve got off quite lightly.
In the car, I check my phone. I have a message from Fi asking if I got home OK, and three from Josh. My heart races as I scroll through them, glancing at Dad in between to make sure he’s not looking. I don’t need to worry though: as usual, Dad’s eyes are glued to the road. Dad’s extra careful about driving. He’s careful about most things, always has been, but even more so since everything happened.
6.15: Amazing night! Sorry about the stars/awkwardness. LOL. See you Monday …] x
9.02: Sore head? X
9.17: Oh God, it hurts sooo bad ] x
I look at all the kisses after the messages. They’re new. We don’t usually add kisses when we message each other. I grin like an idiot, but then I quickly wipe the smile off my face before Dad sees, and message Josh back, trying to play it cool.
Great night. And oh God, I have KNIVES in my head …
I also add a kiss, and press send. Then I see that I have a message from Raheela.
Stop messaging me at stupid times of the night. We’re not friends any more!
Huh? I didn’t message her, did I? Why would I? I’m about to reply to ask what she’s on about, but when I scroll up I see that I did message her. At 5.30 in the morning.
Upset. Any chance of a chat? Only you get my parents …
I stare at the message. Did I really send that? I don’t remember doing it. And I don’t know why. We haven’t spoken properly for months – pretty much since I started hanging out with Fi. I message back to tell her I didn’t send her that message. Then I realize that sounds weird because I must have. And so I send another to say I didn’t mean to.
I sneak another look at Dad. He’s got this massive scowl on his face. Is he also thinking about last night? I guess I should mention it, get it over and done with.
‘Dad?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, though I’m not sorry I snuck out. I’m not sorry I got drunk. I’m definitely not sorry about Josh. I just wish Dad hadn’t caught me.
Dad scoffs. ‘What happened last night won’t happen again,’ he says, his voice robotic, like he’s trying to convince both of us. I realize I need to work a lot harder if he’s going to believe me or trust me again.
‘It … it was the first time, Dad,’ I lie. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I won’t do it again.’ And then, just to make sure there’s no doubt, I add: ‘I promise.’ I feel a bit guilty about that last bit.
I think about Josh and wonder what would happen if Mum and Dad knew about him. A bit of sick shoots up my throat and I taste last night’s wine. I’m not sure if it’s my hangover or the thought of never kissing Josh again. I can’t let that happen.
Dad clears his throat. ‘Just think about everything in church today, OK? Think about everything very, very carefully.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Good.’ He glances at me now and I tuck my phone into my bag. ‘And I haven’t told your mum. This will stay between us.’
‘Oh!’ I stare at him. ‘Kaaaay,’ I add, to hide my shock. I don’t want him to change his mind. ‘I mean OK.’
Mum and Dad are one of those couples who tell each other everything. They weren’t always like that, but, a few months after everything happened with Akash, Mum gave up her job. That’s when she stopped leaving the house. I think she must have post-traumatic stress or something because she constantly worries something bad will happen. I guess she feels inside is
safer. Which I do kind of understand.
Anyway, that’s when Mum and Dad started discussing every detail of each other’s days. Dad tells Mum exactly what he had for lunch, like if there was lettuce in his chicken sandwich or if the bread was a bit stale. And she’ll go on about any phone conversations or visitors she had, what she cooked, what she served with tea. It’s seriously boring.
I’m still looking at Dad, trying to understand.
‘She’s got enough to worry about,’ he says, eyes glued to the road again. ‘She’ll only get upset.’
I nod enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes, good idea!’
Dad’s quiet again. He seems to have decided the conversation is over. Suits me fine. I stare out of the window at the quiet streets and houses as my hangover kicks in properly. There’s hardly any traffic on the road and I feel totally spaced out. I wish I could go back to bed.
That feeling gets worse when we step inside the church. The colours from the stained-glass windows are too bright for my pounding head. I sit in the middle of a pew, Dad to my left and a row of old ladies in pleated skirts and strappy shoes to my right. I recognize one of them; she has curly white hair that looks like a perfect cloud. Once, when I was younger, she came up to us after the service and asked if we celebrated Christmas. Akash and I laughed and laughed about that. I know we’re the only brown family in the church and not many Christian Pakistani families exist, but still …
There’s a draught carrying the smell of incense, which makes my stomach turn. I lean forward and bury my face in my hands. At least it looks like I’m praying, and I am, just not for what Dad thinks I should pray for. I’m not requesting forgiveness. I’m begging that I’m not sick right here in front of everyone. That my hangover passes sometime in the next thirty seconds. Please, please, please. I need a miracle.
The drone of the organ rumbles through the church and everyone stands up. Dad pokes me in the arm and glares at me. I force myself to get up too. Hold on to the pew to steady myself. Everyone sings a hymn about the beauty of the world or something, then we sit back down and the lady vicar, or whatever they’re called, starts talking. Her high-pitched voice rings through the church. I zone out again. I feel sleepy. Really sleepy. My eyelids get heavier as the sermon goes on. Then I hear the words life and death and forgiveness and the sleepiness slips away. I remember the day Akash disappeared. My eyes blur and I concentrate on a fly crawling around on the pew in front of me to stop the tears.
It was a Saturday. Three o’clock in the afternoon. None of us had seen or heard from Akash since Friday night. We were gathered in the kitchen, the sun streaming through the patio doors, making us hot and sweaty. All morning, Mum had reassured Dad: ‘You know how he is. He’ll have his fun and then he’ll come back.’ But now she was perched on a chair at the end of the dining table, ignoring Dad and calling everyone in her address book.
‘Where is he?’ Dad kept saying. He was pacing the kitchen, up and down, up and down. I felt dizzy watching him. ‘Where THE HELL is he?’
Mum dialled number after number. ‘No, it’s OK, thank you anyway,’ she would say each time, her voice clear and controlled.
I checked my phone for the millionth time. Still nothing. I messaged him again.
I know you’re probably with Fiona, but please come home now. Dad’s properly freaking out.
And then I added:
Just let me know you’re OK? Even if you don’t want to come back.
Dad stopped pacing. ‘Right, that’s it. I’m going out to search for him again.’
I stood up. ‘I’ll come with you.’
But Dad walked out of the kitchen. ‘Your mother needs you here,’ he called from the hallway and then the front door slammed.
Mum was dialling another number so I slipped into my room and called Akash again. Still his voicemail. Had he switched his phone off? Or had the battery died? Or …
I didn’t want to think of the worst-case scenario.
Sinking down on to my bed, I replayed the night before in my head again, in case I’d missed something.
Akash had come to my room around eleven and woken me up. ‘Come to a party with me,’ he’d pleaded, slurring his words. His breath stank of whisky and cigarettes and he was wearing a white hoody and a yellow-and-purple cap that seemed too bright for night-time. He looked far too awake. ‘You’ve been so down lately. I’ll cheer you up! We can dance!’ Then he’d pranced around my room, waving his hands in the air in exaggerated Bollywood moves. I laughed a bit, but then he cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted: ‘Oi! Oi!’
I was so worried he’d wake Mum and Dad that I’d snapped, ‘Shut up, Akash! And do what you want, but I’m not going. Let me sleep.’
That was when he put the cap on my head. ‘OK, OK! Just …’ He sighed. ‘You know, try to be happy, Neens. You deserve that. Be happy.’
That was the last time I saw him.
I stared at my phone but still no reply. He’d left the cap with me. Did that mean anything? Had he planned to stay away or had he just forgotten it? I had a horrible, heavy, sinking feeling in my stomach.
I wish I hadn’t shouted at him.
I wish I’d gone to the party.
The front door opened and closed. I ran out into the hall but it was just Dad. He shook his head before I even said anything. Then there was a loud thud from the kitchen and Mum’s address book landed on the floor by the door. Dad and I rushed into the kitchen.
‘What is it?’ Dad asked.
Mum was dialling another number. Her teeth were clenched. ‘Enough,’ she said, pressing the phone to her ear. ‘No one knows anything. I’m calling the police.’
The fly has left the pew and is on my leg. I flick it off but it keeps coming back for more. ‘Stupid fly,’ I mumble. I reach for a Bible and try to hit it off my knee, but Dad grabs my arm.
‘What are you doing?’ he hisses.
I look round. I’d forgotten I was in church. The old lady next to me glares at me disapprovingly. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘It was the fly.’ But the fly has gone and Dad shakes his head at me. That same disgusted look he had last night. You’re a mess. Look at you! Everyone stands up for yet another hymn, but I just can’t force myself up. I want to go home.
We’re leaving the church when I see him. Someone’s got Akash’s cap. I push through the crowd, all the way up the aisle, following the yellow cap with the purple streak. I’m breathless as I grab the guy’s arm; grasp the pale skin of his forearm. I peer up at his head as he turns round. Oh. It isn’t Akash’s cap. This one has a red logo of a tiger on the front. Akash’s doesn’t have a logo. Just that distinct purple streak through the middle.
The guy tugs his arm out of my grasp, frowning. His soft brown eyes question me. He’s about my age. Cute. I die a bit inside.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I … I thought you were something else. I mean, someone else.’
Dad catches up with me. He looks at me, and then at the guy, and I can see him trying to join the dots, getting the wrong idea. ‘What’s going on?’
I’m all choked up. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you at the car.’ And I rush out of the church before I embarrass myself any more.
All the way home, Dad goes on and on about how I need to think about my behaviour. Pray more. Stay on the ‘straight path’, not some ‘twisted path that leads nowhere’. I’ll be going to church with him every Sunday, he tells me. And I need to focus on studying and nothing else now. He’ll be checking on me, he warns me.
I try to say all the right things: ‘Yes, Dad, of course. It won’t happen again.’ But all I can think about is how weird it was that I thought that guy had Akash’s cap. I mean, how? How would he get it? I was wearing it last night. I slept with it in my hands. There’s no way he could have it. But it was so similar to Akash’s that it was an easy mistake to make, right?
Maybe it was even the same make. If it hadn’t been for that red logo …
When we pull up in the drive, I start to get ou
t of the car, but Dad grabs hold of my arm.
‘Have you been listening, Neena? Do you realize how disappointed I am?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I really am sorry.’ But he must not believe me because his eyes go even harder. There’s a little twitch at the side of his lip, below his moustache, as he stares and stares at me.
‘Art school,’ he says finally. ‘You really want to go?’
My throat tightens. It’s a rhetorical question. Me, Akash and Mum spent a whole year convincing him to let me go, even though he thinks it’s not a ‘proper’ subject.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask weakly.
Dad nods. ‘Hmm. Thought so. Then sort yourself out. No drinking. No sneaking out. No boys – I saw you, Neena.’
‘What? But I wasn’t … I was just asking him something!’ I protest, though I know it won’t make any difference. He’s clearly made up his mind.
‘I don’t want excuses. Sort yourself out. Otherwise … no art college. You won’t be going!’
‘You can’t do that, Dad! I –’
But Dad is already out of the car. He slams the door. The conversation is over.
My hands are shaking as I set up my canvas and paints in my bedroom. I’m dizzy. Fuming. I can’t believe Dad’s using the one thing I’ve got left against me like this. Would he really stop me going to art college? And if I can’t study art then what’s the point? What’s the point of anything any more?
This art college I’ve applied to isn’t just any art college. It’s a huge deal. If I get in, it means I can forget about A levels altogether and focus on the one thing I love most: art. Every day! And I would get away from everything here and have my own life. I still can’t believe Dad actually let me apply. Maybe that’s it though – he’s changed his mind and now he’s just looking for an excuse to stop me going.
My thoughts spin and spin. The same thoughts, again and again and again. Painting is what I love. It’s all I know. It’s the only thing I want to do any more.
I paint a girl wearing a cap.
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 3
