If he hadn’t added that ‘claiming now’, I might have told him. I might even have shown him the texts. But I knew he thought this was just another sad attempt to get attention. My hackles rose. I stood up and lifted my bag. “Here’s a seat. You and your book need it more than me.”
As I walked to class I passed Mrs Baird’s office. She was the school counsellor and she had asked me several times to come and see her. I’d gone once, just for the sake of having someone listen to me. I thought she was supercilious and snobby, looking down her patronising nose at me. According to her, everything I had done was about my mum dying. I was searching for attention, she told me. I didn’t like her. Didn’t like the way she sat with her legs neatly crossed and her clipboard on her knee taking notes, nodding her head at everything I said, a tight smile on her face.
Yet, I hesitated at her door. I had no one else to talk to. And she would have to listen, wouldn’t she? But, I wondered, did she have to take an oath like a priest or a doctor – a promise never to divulge anything she was told? Even as I thought it, I remembered seeing her in the corridor laughing with the other teachers. What if she’d been telling them about the silly pupil with problems who came to her? Maybe she thought her oath of silence didn’t stretch to children.
After a moment, I walked on.
Everyone was excited about our English lesson. It was almost Halloween: parties were being planned, costumes chosen, ghost stories were being learned to tell on sleepovers.
“Urban myths,” Mr Madden began. “Who knows any?”
Daft question, I thought. Plenty of weirdos in our class love that kind of thing.
Almost every hand shot up.
Mr Madden settled himself on the edge of his desk. “Ok Robbie, what have you got?”
“Slenderman, sir,” Robbie shouted. “He’s brilliant.”
There was a roar of approval. Everyone loved Slenderman stories. “Yep, I’ve heard of him,” the teacher said.
“He’s scary to look at, long and thin and evil and kind of faceless and pure white.”
“But he’s not a myth. Slenderman’s real,” Tracey shouted.
Mr Madden shook his head. “Totally made up, Tracey. Someone created him and put a few clips of him on YouTube, and before you knew, people were seeing him everywhere.”
Tracey refused to believe that. “No sir, there are two girls in America, and they actually met him, for real, and he told them to kill somebody, and they did. They were put on trial for it.”
“They might believe they met him, but you can read about the guy who made him up. Slenderman’s not real. It’s like a kind of mass hysteria. One person says they saw him, and before you know it, someone else claims they saw him too. That’s what makes an urban myth.”
“I think those two girls were just pretending they met him. They want to get publicity, to get famous,” Big Belinda turned her eyes on me. “I mean, it worked for her.”
“That’s enough, Belinda,” Mr Madden said sternly. “I think we’ll move on from Slenderman.”
They all waved their hands in the air, eager to tell their own urban myth.
“The babysitter, sir,” Big Belinda began dramatically. “That’s pure scary. Oh please, can I tell this story?”
Mr Madden smiled and nodded.
Belinda went on. “This babysitter is like… babysitting.”
There was a murmur of giggles around the class. Mr Madden silenced them with a lift of his hand. “Go on, Belinda.”
“Well, this night she sees they’ve got this big statue of a clown in the living room, and it freaks her out.”
“It would freak me out too, I hate clowns.” Andrea just had to butt in.
Belinda nodded sympathetically, and carried on. “So it scares her so much she covers it with a… a cover, like, so she doesn’t have to look at it, like. Anyway, about midnight the parents of the wee boy, or, maybe it was a wee lassie, I’m not sure, anyway, the parents she was babysitting for, they phoned up, and asked if everything was ok and the babysitter said aye, everything was fine… because it was a really nice house they had, and they always left pizza or something for her in the fridge… and…”
I let out a long sigh. Remind me not to let her tell a story again, I was thinking.
“…except, she said, for that clown statue you’ve got. It is absolutely freaking me out, she said, and I’ve had to cover it up, I hope you don’t mind. And the parents said…” She paused for dramatic effect, looked round the class to make sure everybody was listening. “They said: We don’t have a clown statue.”
There was a gasp from those who hadn’t heard the story before.
Belinda carried on smugly. “And this babysitter, she turned and looked at the statue and the cover began to slip from the clown’s face ever so slowly…”
“Oh my goodness, I hate clowns!” someone shouted. And others called out that they did as well.
I hate clowns too – always have – something about them terrifies me, and though Belinda had told the story badly, it still sent a chill down my back.
“So, how many people here are freaked out by clowns?” Mr Madden asked. Most of the girls and some of the boys put their hands up. Without thinking about it, I put mine up too. Tracey was the first to notice.
“You, Abbie Kerr. You’re scared of clowns?” She said it as if I had no right to be scared of anything. “I thought clowns would more likely be scared of you.”
I pulled my hand down quickly, annoyed at myself for letting any of them in on a weakness.
“I wonder why that is? Do you think it might have something to do with the Stephen King novel It?” Mr Madden asked.
Turned out half the class hadn’t read the novel. Those who had read it loved it. “That was so scary, sir.”
This all led to a heated discussion of why we might fear clowns. “The fear of clowns is sometimes called coulrophobia,” Mr Madden told us, as he wrote the word on the whiteboard. “And it’s widespread.”
“Have you heard the latest about clowns, sir?” Robbie was scrolling through his phone. “I saw it on the internet last night.”
“Show me.”
Robbie handed the phone to him. “It’s been all over YouTube, sir, and on people’s newsfeeds. Clowns have been appearing everywhere: in people’s gardens, at their windows. On the street.”
“Oh my… Can you imagine a clown’s face just appearing at your window…?” Belinda looked as if she was about to faint.
The old me would have pointed out that Belinda’s face appearing at a window would be even scarier.
“Well scary. Especially if you lived on the thirteenth floor,” Robbie said, and that set everyone laughing.
“I can get it up on the smartboard, sir.” Andrea pushed forward to show off her tech skills. Too late: Robbie was already at Mr Madden’s laptop. She didn’t like that one bit – flounced back to her seat angrily.
Sure enough, between Mr Madden and Robbie a sudden image appeared on the big screen in the classroom. The figure of a clown, standing in darkness in someone’s garden, sent a gasp through the whole class.
“That was in Newcastle, sir,” Robbie said. “But they’ve been seen in Liverpool and Manchester, all over the place.”
Belinda let out another dramatic cry. “They’re heading west! Wonder who’s next.” She stared at me. “Hey, look at Kerr’s face. She’s chalk-white. You really are scared of clowns!”
I looked away from her quickly.
“Her face is always chalk-white,” Robbie pointed out.
Mr Madden banged his fist on the desk. “That’s enough. The point of this wasn’t to scare anyone. Urban myths are interesting. Where they come from, how they grow. Before you know it, people begin to forget they’re made up, they really believe they’re real. Then everybody starts to see things that match the myth. That’s what I mean about mass hysteria, Belinda. But believe me, if you see a clown in your garden, it means there’s probably a circus in town.”
He set us a t
ask: to write a story creating our own urban myth. The lesson ended with the boys walking around the classroom like zombies and the girls arguing over which was worse, clowns versus Slenderman.
I left the classroom alone, and no one noticed.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Halloween wasn’t going to be any fun for me. I wouldn’t be invited to any parties. Everyone was talking about the costumes they were going to rent for the school Halloween disco.
Didn’t seem so long ago people were eager to be my friend – I thought back to the messages and posts, all praising me. Even Andrea had called me – I had almost felt an empathy with her. Empathy… that’s the right word, isn’t it? We might have been able to be friends. I could remember liking it, my fifteen minutes of popularity. Well, I was having a lot more than fifteen minutes of fame now, or, what was the word? Notoriety. I took out my notebook and wrote down the word. Notorious. That’s me.
I was trying to come up with a story to start an urban myth (anything but a clown), scribbling away in the school cafe, and also trying to ignore everyone and everything around me. Trying to blot out the chat and the people passing with their trays, everyone doing their best to avoid sitting at my table. The phone in my pocket made that familiar ping. I didn’t want to look, but after a moment it pinged again, urging me to check it out. What now? I wondered.
It was from UNKNOWN.
I knew it would be.
The text chilled me.
Whoever UNKNOWN was, they were here in the cafe, watching me. I must have been wrong about Jude. She was at a different school; UNKNOWN was here. I looked up quickly, my gaze moved from one to another then another. No one even seemed to be looking my way though most of them were busy on their phones. It had to be someone in this atrium.
I stared round them all. Did Tracey just look away as I caught her eye? Was that a guilty look on Andrea’s face? Or had Belinda turned her back on me so I couldn’t see what she was doing?
Robbie was at the bottom of the stairs, mouthing the words of a song, dancing a little as if he was listening to music on his phone – or was that a ruse and he’d just sent me a text? There was Angus alone at a table studying his phone as if he was waiting for a call. Then I looked up to the first floor. Josh Creen was leaning over the railing, his phone in his hand, and he was watching me. Always watching me. Was it him? He certainly hated me enough.
My eyes were drawn to the message again. Wot U writing Abbie?
I couldn’t keep quiet. Who could expect me to keep quiet? I jumped to my feet and I yelled, “Ok, who is it?” I held up my phone. “Who’s doing this? Sending me these texts from an unknown number. Don’t be such a coward. Come on, who are you?”
They all turned to me. Some right away, others after a few moments. Andrea let out a long sigh. “Oh no, not again. Everybody’s sick of listening to you.”
I ran at her. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
Big Belinda was suddenly between us, her massive bulk protecting her friend. She swore at me. “Andrea wouldn’t waste her time on you. None of us would.”
I’m not a violent person – I’m not – but right at that moment I wanted to slap her. “Who’s sending these texts then?” Was that really my voice, screaming the words out, echoing up through the atrium? “Who’s sending me these texts? One of you must be this UNKNOWN.”
“I heard a rumour you’re sending them to yourself,” Tracey butted in, and giggled. That was it. I was ready to floor her. But before I got a chance, a firm hand gripped me. It was Mrs Speke.
“Come with me, Abbie.” Her voice was soft but the grip on my arm was firm. I couldn’t shake her off.
“What are you picking on me for? I’ve not done anything. They have.” I swept my arm around, including everyone in the ‘they’. “Somebody here.”
I was already being moved toward the lift. “We’ll talk about it in the office.”
I wanted to fight and scream and claw somebody’s eyes out, anybody’s. I struggled against her, but she kept pushing me forward. So I tried to calm myself down. It felt as if there were two people inside me: one desperately trying to walk without a fuss, and one who was screaming with anger and frustration, and both of us were trying not to cry.
When we reached the office, Mrs Baird, the school counsellor, was already there. “I heard the commotion, Abbie. I thought it would be good for us to talk.”
Mr Barr sat at his desk in his swivel chair. Mrs Baird sat opposite me, looking concerned. She crossed her legs and laid her ever-present clipboard on her knee. “Everyone knows you’re going through a hard time, Abbie.”
“All my own fault.” I smiled, but it was no smile at all. “I’m saying that to save you adding it.”
Her smile became tighter. “I know you’ve been having some cruel pranks played on you on social media.”
Why could the woman not speak English?
“I didn’t make a fuss about that, did I? This is different.” Surely they would give me some credit for that. “I’m making a fuss now because this is different. Somebody in this school keeps texting me from an unknown number and it’s freaking me out. Look!” I let them see the latest text.
“It doesn’t seem very sinister, Abbie.”
“Apart from the spelling,” said Mrs Speke, with a smile.
“Well what about this one?” I hadn’t deleted the older ones, despite what Dad said.
“Again, hardly threatening.”
“So you would be quite happy getting texts like this?”
Mr Barr broke in. “If you haven’t let the really abusive messages bother you – and there’s no excuse for them, by the way – I don’t understand why you’re letting these texts bother you. They seem quite harmless.”
How could I make them understand, and what was the point anyway?
“And Abbie, we can’t have you behaving the way you did just now. That’s totally out of order. I want you to spend at least some time every day with Mrs Baird. Talk through your problems.”
What made them think that was going to help me? That wasn’t going to deal with UNKNOWN. I felt like screaming. But I didn’t. I agreed quietly, just to get out of that office.
***
So I went back to class, and had to endure all the smirks and stares and titters and I ignored them all. When the bell rang I was first out of the building, opting to take the long walk home rather than sit with any of them on the bus.
I was heading down Clune Brae when my phone pinged again.
Another message from UNKNOWN.
And before I even had a chance to read it, another message popped up.
And then another, and then another, and I knew they weren’t all from the real UNKNOWN. It was all of them making a fool of me, mocking me. All of them, every one of them who had been sitting in the atrium. All sending me silly messages.
But I also knew that among them was the real UNKNOWN. And the real one wasn’t mocking me at all. The real one was scaring me.
TWENTY-EIGHT
More came in as the evening wore on. I sat in my bedroom with my phone in my hand just waiting for them. They kept coming, and they got creepier.
I lost track of what was real and was supposed to be a joke. I put the phone under my pillow; I wanted to ignore it. My teeth were chattering and I was shaking. I felt as if the pulse in my neck was about to explode. I knew I was letting this UNKNOWN – whoever it was – get to me. I was becoming obsessed, waiting for the next text. Maybe I was the one who had turned a nine-day wonder into two weeks, three weeks, maybe more. If I looked at it sensibly, none of the texts were threatening, or sinister. It was all down to the way I was reading them. Reading more into them than was really there. Surely they were too deliberately scary to be taken seriously? Most of them were like the titles of teen slasher movies. No. This was someone getting back at me because of what I had done, and perhaps it was no more than I deserved. If I ignored them all, they’d get fed up and it would pass.
So I took out my phone again.
Hurtful, cruel, silly, but that was all. So I sat and deleted every one. No point keeping them: even if I showed them to anyone, they would only say there was nothing threatening in them. It was what the teachers had said, what even the police had said. Whoever was behind this, I was playing right into their hands by taking it so seriously.
Well, no more. I deleted every single text from UNKNOWN and I promised myself that as soon as a message appeared I would delete it at once.
When they were all gone I felt a sense of relief. Texts on a phone couldn’t harm me. So, suck it up, Abbie. Don’t let them get to you any more. Every time I fall, I rise, I told myself.
That night, I switched off my phone and put it in my bedside drawer. I spent too much time on it anyway. I knew what Dad said: leave your phone behind. Ignore it. Don’t carry it all the time. Live your own life.
I went downstairs and by the time Dad came in from work I had the table all set and had made him mince and mash for his tea. He looked so pleased, and I could almost see a little bit of the worry he’d had about me slip from his shoulders. “That’s more like my girl,” he said. “I’ve been so worried about you, Abbie. I hope all this,” he gestured around the table, cups and saucers laid there, a jug of milk, a bowl of veg, a pot of tea. “I hope this means something’s changed.”
“I do want things to change, Dad. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done. I promise never to let you down again.”
I meant every word of that.
***
And next day it was as if everything was going to help me keep my word. I walked into school, my head held high. And when my phone pinged with a new text (I know, why did I even take it? But I didn’t want to come home to a pile of texts either) I made a show of deleting it right away. I wanted everyone watching to see me do it. And I deleted the next one, and the next.
Between the Lies Page 9
