by Cat Clarke
It was time to wake up. I was going to do exactly what Kai had told me not to do in his first letter. I was going to do whatever it took to find out who filmed him. Then I was going to punish them.
Against my better judgement, my first port of call was Louise. There were two reasons for this: she was the only other person (other than his parents) who cared about him as much as I did; and she was bound to know most of the people who’d been at Max’s party. That was enough to outweigh the fact that I was practically allergic to her.
I texted her on New Year’s Day, not even bothering with the usual pleasantries: Louise, I need to find out who filmed him. You in or not?
No reply. Four hours later I texted: Well? (This wasn’t just me being impatient – I knew for a fact that she was practically surgically attached to her phone, so there was really no excuse for the radio silence.)
Still no reply. One last try the next day: You going to bother replying?
She didn’t bother replying – of course she didn’t. But you can’t say I didn’t try.
My next idea was to talk to Bland Boy A and Bland Girl B. They might have seen something at the party, and at least they would be sympathetic.
I went kohl-less the first day back at school after Christmas; I even trialled some of my new make-up. Nothing much, just a bit of foundation and powder, a dab of lip gloss, a tiny bit of eye pencil. No one said anything, but I was uber-sensitive to any looks I got. I felt exposed. Judged. At least no one could tell I was blushing, I guess.
As it happened, hardly anyone noticed the change. I suppose I just assumed everyone was like me – noticing and commenting on every little thing, whether it be Lucas’s obvious affection for hair products or the length of Amber Sheldon’s skirts. But they deserved to be looked at, analysed, criticized. That was the price they paid for being popular.
I thought Mum was going to burst into tears when she came downstairs at breakfast to find me looking the way I did. She knew better than to mention it, thank Christ. If she’d have said anything I’d have run upstairs and scrubbed off all the new makeup just to spite her. She must have been feeling so proud of herself. Thinking if only she’d known that all it would take to turn me into a normal daughter was shelling out at the make-up counter, she’d have done it years ago. I wasn’t about to tell her what was actually going on . . . mostly because the new look seemed to keep her off my back a bit. I was given more leeway, just because of a bit of hair dye and some chemicals slapped on my face. I’m not exactly sure what this says about my mother, but it can’t be anything good.
I found Jon (Bland Boy A) and Vicky (Bland Girl B) in the cafeteria at lunchtime. They were now a couple (or maybe they’d been a couple since forever and I just hadn’t noticed) and they held hands the entire time I talked to them. The hand-holding irritated me out of all proportion; my eyes kept drifting away from their nondescript faces towards their nondescript hands clutching one another. She seemed to be doing most of the clutching, like she couldn’t bear to let go even if it meant trying to cut through the tough cafeteria meat (also nondescript) with the side of her fork instead of her knife.
They were useless – utterly useless. They’d barely set foot in the house all night, and hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious (but had the cheek to look at me weirdly when I asked if they had). I wasn’t even back to square one – I’d never left square one in the first place. When I got up to leave the table Jon looked like he was about to say something, but he half shook his head and turned his attention back to the girl. Like I said – useless.
I spent the afternoon lessons kicking myself. As if it was going to be that easy: ‘Well, now that you mention it, Jem, we did happen to see a suspicious character sneaking away from the scene of the crime, rubbing his hands in glee and laughing maniacally.’ I was a fucking idiot, plain and simple.
It wasn’t until I spotted Max in the chaos after the bell at three thirty that it occurred to me to ask him. Even if he hadn’t known everyone at the party, his brother would be able to help for sure. Unfortunately Max had Louise in tow. She was like one of those sucker fish that attach themselves to a shark to hitch a ride – Max couldn’t shake her off even if he wanted to. I couldn’t help noticing that Louise wasn’t looking any better after the Christmas break. It must have been awful at the McBride house; Kai’d always been into Christmas in a big way.
‘Max! Hey, how’s it going?’ As if I talked to him all the time and it was completely normal for me to enquire after his well-being at any given moment.
‘Hey . . .’ There was this strange missed beat where I thought he was going to say my name but then didn’t. As if he suddenly remembered that I was one of the little people.
I tried to ignore the fact that Louise was hovering behind him, standing way too close, so that if you squinted a little it sort of looked like Max had two heads. ‘Um, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something. About your party . . . the night when . . . ?’
His face was perfectly blank; it was clear he had no idea what I was on about. I was going to have to say the words out loud. Louise faked a yawn, probably not realizing how very ugly it made her look. I tried again. ‘Look, can we go somewhere a bit quieter? I’ll . . . buy you a coffee or something.’
Louise rolled her eyes but (surprisingly) kept her mouth shut. Max ran his hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘Er . . . yeah. Maybe tomorrow? I’ve got training at four.’ He held up his hand so I could see the goggles dangling from his wrist. Swimming. Hence the massive shoulders.
‘Cool. OK. Fine.’ How many words could I use to say exactly the same thing? ‘I’ll . . . see you then. Then.’ I gave an awkward little wave and turned away, walking smack bang into Mr Franklin, who grabbed my arms to steady me and said, ‘Where’s the fire?’ I apologized and scurried away, blushing furiously no doubt.
That night I was feeling pretty good about things. I’d made progress; I congratulated myself on my bravery. I was finally doing something instead of just thinking about it. I wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced that Max would be able to help, but I had to give it a go.
I hardly slept – playing out possible conversations with Max in my head, unable to imagine what it would actually be like to sit down and talk to him.
Mum knocked on my door when I was doing my makeup. ‘Morning, love. Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer . . . bit early for Valentine’s Day though, eh?’ She held out an envelope. My name was written on it in blue biro: Jem Halliday.
Mum hovered over me, swigging black coffee from her ‘Number One Mum’ mug that Noah (well, Dad really) got her for Christmas. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
I gave her The Look, which was all it took for her to retreat. ‘Yes, yes, you need your “space” . . . Promise you’ll tell me later though? I do love a bit of intrigue.’ She kissed me on the forehead and left me in peace.
The envelope was one of those long, business ones. More a reminder-for-a-dentist-appointment sort of envelope rather than a secret-admirer sort of envelope. There was no stamp or address, which was obviously what had made Mum jump to conclusions.
Inside was a piece of lined notepaper torn out of an exercise book. The same blue biro had been used to write the words on it in unremarkable neat capital letters.
There were six words, evenly spaced in pairs:
STUART HICKS
LUCAS MAHONEY
DEREK BUNNEY
It took me a few seconds to realize who Derek Bunney was.
It took me a few seconds more to realize what the names meant.
chapter eighteen
There was no need to talk to Max now; I knew who was to blame. Finally. It was obvious who’d written the note. Jon must have seen something at the party after all – he just didn’t want to say anything in front of his new girlfriend.
There was no shock, no surprise. Which was shocking and surprising in itself, really. As soon as I’d processed what the names meant, I realized I’d already known. Stuart Hi
cks. It made perfect sense. It was as if my brain had hidden the answer from me until I was ready to deal with it . . . slipped it down the back of the sofa or something, until this piece of torn paper jolted it free.
Stuart Hicks. It didn’t take a genius to work out why he’d done it, and that was what made it hard to accept – the knowledge that if I’d had sex with Stu none of this would have happened. Because it was obvious he’d done it to get back at me. I’d wounded his pride or ego or whatever, and he’d filmed Kai to punish me.
My first instinct was to blame myself for everything. But after a couple of hours of sobbing and self-loathing, that started to lessen somehow. It was like Kai was there, talking me through it, soothing my conscience. Yes, Kai might still be alive if I’d had sex with Stu. But that didn’t mean that having sex with Stu would have been the right thing to do. Maybe I shouldn’t have headbutted him, but what happened afterwards was down to him. He decided to humiliate Kai. He made it happen. It was his fault. Not mine.
I repeated this mantra over and over until I almost believed it.
His fault. Not mine.
I couldn’t help thinking the whole thing must have been a set-up. Maybe he’d got one of his poxy mates to try it on with Kai, and Kai had been too drunk to say no. Or maybe Stu had paid some pissed-up lad to take one for the team. That would explain why the mystery boy’s identity had been hidden. It didn’t really matter. I wasn’t even interested in the mystery boy any more; there was nothing to be gained from tracking him down.
I didn’t doubt for one minute that Stu had been the ringleader. But every ringleader needs his loyal sidekicks. Ruining someone’s life was no fun unless you had someone to laugh with about it. Maybe Bugs and Lucas hadn’t done the filming or uploaded the video or sent the emails – but that didn’t make them any less guilty in my eyes. Or maybe they had been more involved. Maybe one of them had held the door open while Stu filmed, or kept a lookout in case anyone caught them in the act. But it was almost irrelevant. Either one of them could have stopped him. My Kai would still be alive if one of them had stopped him.
When I thought back to that night, things that had seemed meaningless now seemed to be coloured with red flashing lights and maybe a neon sign saying: PAY ATTENTION. Bugs pretending to fuck Lucas as he bent down. Stu smirking at his phone. How could I have been so stupid?
I told Mum I’d make my own way to school and she tried to hide the relief on her face. She didn’t think I knew that the lifts she’d been giving me had made her late for work more than once. It didn’t occur to her for a minute that I would walk halfway to school, turn around and walk right back home again, letting myself into the now empty house.
Stuart Hicks. Lucas Mahoney. Derek Bunney.
How on earth was I supposed to punish them? They ruled the fucking school, for fuck’s sake. They were as close to royalty as you got at Allander Park.
It was so tempting to just go to the police and let them handle it. But I couldn’t do it to Kai. I couldn’t humiliate him even more, even if he wasn’t around to see it.
It dawned on me that I couldn’t tell anyone, because they might not be as worried about Kai’s dignity as I was. Louise was the only other person I knew for sure would never tell the police in a million years. But those three were her friends. Even if I could convince her they were the ones who’d done this to Kai, she wouldn’t risk everything to punish them. There was no way.
So it was left to me. A complete nobody. Somehow this nobody was going to have to find a way to take down three of the most popular boys in school. And I would do it. No matter what I had to do or how long it took, I would do it.
From the outside it looked like they were impossible to get to. It would be so much easier if I knew more about them – knew their weaknesses rather than their strengths. There was only so much information you could glean from staring at people in the canteen every lunchtime.
And I was just one person – a friendless person at that. I came up with a few lame ideas to humiliate them, but dismissed them straight away. I didn’t want to rush in and do the wrong thing. I was willing to bide my time.
As it happened, I didn’t have to wait long at all.
chapter nineteen
It was basic science; all it took was a catalyst to start the reaction. It was kind of fitting that the catalyst appeared in the science block a few days after the note had been delivered.
Since the start of term I’d got into the habit of going to the toilets at break time to check my face was looking OK. This isn’t as vain as it sounds. Well, it sort of is as vain as it sounds, actually, but it was also an opportunity to escape from people. I always went to the toilets in the science block because they were the quietest. The other ones were usually invaded by gangs of girls fighting for mirror space. I could just imagine the looks they’d give me if I sidled up to them and got out my make-up bag. (Yes, I had a bag now. The pencil case had returned to its original purpose in life and I’d borrowed a little zipup purse thing from Mum. She had a whole drawer full of stuff like that, so I figured she wouldn’t miss it.)
That morning I headed to the science block, struggling through the hordes, swimming against the tide making for the cafeteria. When I got to the toilets I bent down to check the stalls were empty. Since the start of term I had never once come across anyone else in there. Those toilets were a haven of peace and quiet in the madhouse. Shame they smelled so bad, really. There was a notice on the door saying something about a problem with the drains. Thinking about it, that’s probably the reason they were always deserted. I put my make-up bag next to the sink furthest from the door and inspected myself in the mirror. My reflection still shocked me. There was still that fraction of a second where I thought I was looking at someone else. But then I saw me. I was there, lurking under the surface. Trying not to drown down there.
The door slammed open, making me drop my powder in the sink. An explosion of beige. It was Sasha Evans, and she looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her.
She was breathing hard. Tears streaked her face. Her hair still looked perfect though, and her crying wasn’t ugly in the way mine is. She cried like someone in a glossy soap opera set in Los Angeles. I cry like someone off EastEnders.
Sasha stayed by the door and I stayed by the sink, and at first we said nothing. Then it got weird that no one was saying anything, so I broke the silence. ‘Are you OK?’ I could have kicked myself. I didn’t care if she was OK. She was Sasha Evans – of course she was OK. The tears were probably over some chipped nail varnish or a broken clasp on her very expensive bag.
She wiped at her tears with her dainty little fingers. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Her voice wasn’t cold, exactly. It was tepid. Neutral.
‘OK.’ I turned on the tap and swooshed water around the sink to clear up the powder. I watched it swirling down the plughole. There goes at least twenty quid’s worth. I’d have to go to the shop after school and replace it. Just as well I still had some Christmas money left over – otherwise I’d be asking Sasha to pay up. (Who was I kidding? I would never, ever have asked her such a thing.)
Sasha went into a stall and came out with some toilet paper. She dabbed it around her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. It seemed like the tears had stopped for now.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Nothing.’ I did my best to adopt her neutral tone instead of responding to this slightly more aggressive one.
Sasha sighed in a deeply dramatic way. ‘I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about that.’ She waved a hand at the sink. Nice of her to notice. ‘I’m just . . . I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here. No one’s ever in here and I wanted to be alone.’
‘You and me both.’ I turned away so I was looking in the mirror. It was easier to talk to her when I didn’t have to look at her. I ran my fingers through my hair just for something to do.
‘Sorry. Let me just get my shit together and I’ll leave you to it.’ There was something different in her voice. So
mething slightly warmer, maybe?
I shrugged. ‘You don’t have to. It’s a free country.’
Sasha snorted and I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I had to look at her after all. The snort was a laugh. A stifled, snotty sort of laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘My little sister says that all the time: It’s a free country. She’s only eight and I’m pretty sure she has no idea what it even means.’ Great. I was being compared to an eight-year-old.
I said nothing. Zipped up my make-up bag and shoved it into my school bag.
As I walked past her, she reached out and put her hand on my arm. I stopped. Sasha Evans was touching me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it . . . You’re Jemima, aren’t you?’
Sasha Evans knew my name. This was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. ‘I . . . Jem, yeah.’
‘I was really sorry about your friend. I wanted to say something sooner, but I . . . well, I didn’t know you and I didn’t want to intrude.’
I looked at her then. Searching for any hint of sarcasm or fakeness. I didn’t see any, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t there. She seemed genuine though. I couldn’t very well say what I was thinking – that I was almost certain one of her so-called friends had been responsible for Kai’s death. ‘Thanks.’
She was still touching my arm and I think we both realized at the same time. She pulled her hand away. ‘You look really different now.’
I shrugged again. What was I supposed to say to that?
‘Can I say something? Promise you won’t be offended?’
Another shrug. Shrugging was a safe thing to do.
‘You should go easy on the powder. And that one’s at least two shades too dark for your skin tone. I’m not trying to be mean or anything. God, you should have seen me a few years ago. All cakey orange foundation and no clue whatsoever.’
‘What, like Amber Sheldon?’ I winced as soon as I said it, but Sasha just laughed.
‘Worse than Amber, even! And don’t get me wrong – you look nothing like that. You look . . . good.’
