by Sarah Clarke
‘I’d love to work in a café. Babysitting is so dull.’
Ben knows Rosie doesn’t mean it. Babysitting pays almost as much as he earns and involves practically no work; playing hide-and-seek for half an hour and then flopping in front of the TV with a packet of chocolate chip cookies. Except Rosie doesn’t do that, of course. She drinks tap water and writes essays.
‘Here you go, son.’ His dad hands him a glass flute with a silver base, Vera Wang inscribed on the bottom. Even the glasses have a designer label in this house.
Ben rolls the word around in his head. Son. His dad says it so casually, makes it sound almost natural. Does he really see Ben that way? ‘Thanks,’ he says, takes a sip. Then a gulp. He likes champagne. He hates what the drink represents of course. Arrogant rich men showing the world how successful they are. Only prepared to drink fizzy wine from one tiny region out of the whole fucking world. But there’s no denying it tastes good.
‘Whoa, slow down, Ben. We haven’t made a toast yet.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Ben announces. ‘If you fill my glass up.’ He’s not sure who’s most surprised by his offer but it does the trick. His dad tops up his drink.
‘Hey! Unfair. My win. I should get more than him.’ Rosie always seems to get drunk on half a glass and today is no different. She tips her head back and finishes her drink before holding the glass out for a refill. Ben loves it when any hint of mischief surfaces in his sister, so he winks at her and leans forward to clink glasses. She’s obviously used up all of her accuracy on the netball court, because she misjudges the distance and smashes her glass into his so hard that it’s a miracle they don’t both shatter.
‘Oops sorry!’ Rosie looks at him and starts giggling. His mum looks a bit irritated and his dad starts inspecting their glasses for cracks. Ben smiles at his sister.
‘Better hurry up with that toast or there’ll be no champagne left, the speed you two are drinking it,’ his dad says, a grumpy edge to his voice now.
Ben stands up. He’s feeling a bit better about Rosie’s win now. ‘It is with great pleasure,’ he declares while raising his glass, ‘that I congratulate my talented sister, for being brilliant … at playing with balls.’
Rosie erupts into laughter and even his parents seem to find his joke amusing. His dad puts an arm around his shoulder and draws him in for a much more controlled glass clink. ‘Very funny, son,’ he says wryly.
*
Going out had been Rosie’s idea, concocted when they were sprawled out in the den, binge-watching Teen Wolf while Greg prepared his ‘special surprise’ for dinner (which was chilli con carne, like always). Lucy had looked at them suspiciously when Rosie announced that her teammate was throwing a celebration party, and that Ben was invited too, but Greg hadn’t questioned her fictional story, had even given them twenty quid for a cab. The champagne had obviously gone to his head too.
Luckily Rosie isn’t one of those girls who spend ages on her make-up or choosing an outfit. She loves jeans and has at least twenty pairs of various cuts and washes, but she usually just wears the pair that’s easiest to retrieve off the floor. Tonight she’s rocking the Californian look. Light-coloured denim and an oversized pink sweatshirt, the words ‘Dream Big’ scrawled across it. Chunky white Fila trainers complete the image. Ben looks dull in comparison. Black jeans and a grey T-shirt; the tiny Vans logo on the left side of his chest not exactly eye-catching. But invisible has always been his preferred look.
Rosie suggests Angel’s Bar on Battersea Rise as soon as they leave the house. Cocktails and shiny bar staff aren’t usually his thing, but the idea of losing himself in loud music is quite appealing, so Ben nods his agreement and falls in step beside her. It takes twenty minutes for them to walk to the bar and they do most of it in amiable silence, but it’s a different story when they open the door, and Ben has to lip-read more than listen to what his sister is saying.
‘I’m thinking Strawberry Daiquiri. Or Peach Cup. What about you?’
Ben looks at the cocktail menu. It’s all a bit too bright and sickly for him. ‘Bottle of beer for me. I’ll order.’ But when he looks up, Rosie has already got the bartender’s attention. He watches her lean in to make her order heard above the music, laugh at something he says in response. Why does she make everything look so easy? He scans the room and spots an empty table in the corner, two bar stools either side of it. He tries to get Rosie’s attention, but she’s still focused on the cute guy behind the bar, so he just retreats to the table and sits down.
‘There you are. I couldn’t see you at first. Well done on getting a table though. My legs are definitely feeling those eight games of netball.’
Ben’s mood sinks a bit. He likes drunk Rosie who almost smashes glasses. He doesn’t want perfect Rosie who wins netball tournaments. ‘I’m sure they’ll be back to their bionic best by tomorrow.’ His response is laced with sarcasm and he instantly regrets his comment, but when he starts to apologise, Rosie cuts him off. Finally, she’s lost patience with him.
‘Ben, I don’t care that you’re a miserable prick most of the time. But all this self-pity? It’s pathetic, and really frustrating.’
He sighs. ‘What would you know?’
‘I know you’re an amazing artist!’
The art thing again.
‘But it’s so much more than that,’ she continues.
‘Like what? My brilliance at sport? Oh no, that’s you. My big brain? Oops, you again. My massive circle of friends? Now hang on, I see a pattern forming here.’
‘Stop it, Ben.’
‘Do you know how hard it is being your brother, practically the same age and shit at everything compared to you?’ Ben knows that councils don’t like placing adoptive children in families with a child in the same school year, but they’d made an exception in his case. Lucky him.
‘And I suppose that’s my fault, is it? Nothing to do with you smashing windows and staying out all night so you’re too tired to study?’
Ben draws a quick breath and tries to hide his discomfort by taking a long swig of his beer. If Rosie knows about his late-night trips, what else could she have found out? The fear must show on his face too because her voice softens a bit.
‘I’m good at stuff because I’m too scared not to be. If I’m not successful, then I’m nothing. It’s different for you.’
‘Because I’m such a proven failure?’
‘Because you don’t care about failing. You’ve got the confidence to put yourself out there, stick two fingers up. Question everything; give a shit about nothing. I’d love to be more like you.’
Speech over, Ben watches Rosie suck hard on her paper straw, the pink line of daiquiri descending down the glass. She’s never admitted to being scared of failure before; she comes across so amazing at everything that he’s never thought to ask. But she has got the same demanding parents as him, goes to the same school; of course she must feel the pressure too.
‘Another one?’
‘Yeah, why not. If I’m going to feel like shit tomorrow, the hangover may as well be worth it.’
Ben gives her a small salute and walks to the bar. There’s something quite exhilarating about the thought of Rosie being jealous of him. But is it true? He does stick two fingers up, and question every rule. Break plenty of them too. He’s always assumed it’s because he’s such a moron. Could it really be something to be proud of?
‘Same again, mate?’ Ben looks up at the bartender. Not only has he remembered their original order, he hasn’t even asked to see Ben’s ID. And he served him almost immediately. Ben stands up a bit taller and adds a broad smile to his nod.
*
It’s past midnight when they leave the bar. They’d run out of money after their third drink but neither of them had been in a hurry to go, so Rosie had sucked pointlessly on her straw, and Ben had scraped every label off his three bottles, and they’d talked. About Rosie’s fear of being trapped in a life she’s never had chance to question. About how being a ro
und peg in a round hole sounds good, but actually makes it impossible to climb out of. Ben has never compared them in that way, never seen his awkward angles as a positive.
He hasn’t felt this connected to his sister in years and he feels quite content as he watches her hop gracefully from slab to slab.
‘So what do you get up to when you sneak out in the middle of the night then?’ she asks without looking up at him, although not out of tact; for some reason she’s decided that walking on the cracks isn’t allowed.
‘Not much really. I just like being out when the streets are empty.’ He may feel a new closeness, but there’s no way he’s telling her what he actually gets up to.
‘Don’t you get scared?’
Ben thinks about the many near misses he’s had climbing onto the tracks, the knife that he found. He shrugs. ‘I like getting scared.’
‘Really?’ Rosie looks up. ‘Oh shit! I stood on a crack. That’s your fault.’
Ben smirks. ‘So what? Monsters going to get you now?’
‘Maybe.’ She laughs back, resuming her strange skip.
An idea starts to form in Ben’s mind. ‘How about I give you something real to be scared of?’
‘Like what?’
‘You want to be more like me, right? To put yourself out there?’
‘Maybe,’ she says again, although with less conviction.
‘Come with me.’ He grabs her hand. The skin on skin feels alien but not altogether unpleasant.
She starts laughing again, albeit with a nervous edge, as they race hand in hand past their school and into Spencer Park. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘I want to show you something.’ They’re almost across the park when Ben finally stops in front of a large oak tree. ‘The first time I climbed this, it was for the challenge.’
‘And then?’
‘It became somewhere to hide, to get away from people like you.’ He smiles at her though, to remind her they’ve moved on.
‘I like a challenge,’ she says thoughtfully, more to herself than him.
‘Watch and learn.’ Ben grabs hold of the lowest branch and pulls himself up, then kicks out with his right leg to reach the next level. He’s done this climb so many times that it’s almost second nature and it only takes him a couple of minutes to reach the bough big enough for two people to sit on, about five metres off the ground. ‘Come on,’ he coaxes.
He watches Rosie copy his ascent. She’s definitely slower and a bit tentative, but otherwise matches him move for move. He feels the familiar stab of annoyance at her ability to do everything so well, but this time it’s mixed with a sense of pride. It’s his thing, his idea, after all.
Suddenly a scream rings out, splitting the night’s silence in half.
The thud of a body follows, sealing it back together.
Oh God, what has he done?
Ben scrambles down the tree, his heart racing, his inner voice screaming at himself in fury. What was he thinking? Especially in her drunken state. Why the hell didn’t he just take her home? ‘Rosie! Are you okay?’ He shakes her shoulder, desperate for some sort of reaction. It works. It’s only a groan but at least she’s conscious.
‘My arm,’ she croaks. ‘It really hurts …’
Ben looks down at his sister’s arm, at the bend in her elbow. Except it’s not her elbow. The realisation of what he’s done makes him feel sick. And what is still to come. Ambulance. Hospital. His parents’ accusing faces. Rosie in a cast for Christmas. And for the netball finals, he realises in horror.
Ben digs his fingernails hard into the back of his neck.
Chapter 27
Phoebe
The siren is getting louder. Closer. The ambulance will be here soon. The sound of it burrows into my ears but I can’t see its green and yellow glow. All I can see is Dan. And blood. Too much blood. Still the noise penetrates.
My phone’s ringing, I realise with a start. I fumble for it, but in the darkness it crashes to the floor. Who could be calling me in the middle of the night? In truth, who’s calling me at all? It falls silent, but only for a moment, and seconds later it’s ringing again. I grab it and this time I manage to press the green button.
‘Hello?’
‘Fiona?’ The voice is distant, muffled. It’s Charlie. We all have each other’s numbers at the café in case of any emergencies – Jo insists on it. ‘I’ve really fucked up this time.’
I feel a range of conflicting emotions. Happiness for him wanting to speak to me, but also a wariness for why he’s called. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Rosie. She’s hurt.’
I shudder. I’m not sure if that’s the freezing air or the thought of what he might have done. ‘What happened?’ I repeat.
‘They blame me, just like they always do.’
‘For what?’ I ask it calmly, but on the inside I’m panicking. I remember what he did to that boy.
‘For breaking her arm.’ Then the sobbing starts and it’s as though a dam has burst. For all the shock of his confession, a tiny voice inside my head says this is good, that he needs to release his pain before he can face up to what he’s done. But still, it breaks my heart to hear him cry.
‘Where are you?’
‘At home. Mum and Dad have taken Rosie to hospital, but they didn’t want me there.’
‘You’re alone?’ I’m wide awake now, oxygen rushing to waken my tired muscles. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’
‘It’s always when things are just starting to go right that I ruin everything.’
‘I’m coming over.’ I know it’s risky, going to his house. His parents could be back any minute, and who knows whether they’d recognise me as Charlie’s birth mother. But I can’t leave him all alone; I know more than most where extreme trauma can lead.
‘To my house?’ he asks.
‘I’m getting a cab.’
Luckily I remember to ask for his address before finishing the call. After pulling on some clothes, I race out of the house and hurry towards Battersea Park Road to hail a cab. I’m not sure why everything feels so urgent, but I just know I need to get there fast. Perhaps it’s the memory of when my life hit rock bottom, and how I reacted. Thankfully I don’t have to wait long for a black cab to pull over; no doubt the early hours of Sunday morning are still standard hours in the taxi business. I lean back against the headrest, close my eyes and will the driver to speed up.
*
‘We were climbing my tree. Rosie broke her arm.’
So it was just an accident. Not the act of violence I was imagining after all. I release a sigh. ‘Well, that’s not your fault. These things happen.’
Charlie drops his head into his hands. He’s sat at their long kitchen table, an empty Coke can by his side. He smells of cigarettes but there’s no evidence of them inside the room. It seems he’s still got the wherewithal to smoke outside at least. ‘They said I got her drunk. That I should have been more responsible.’
‘She’s older than you, isn’t she? She can make her own decisions.’
‘She’ll miss the national championships.’
‘There’ll be others.’
‘You always say the right thing, you know that, Fiona?’
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I use the moment to take in my surroundings. When I first walked inside, I was struck by its similarity to our old house in Southfields. The large, open-plan kitchen and wide glass doors onto the garden. But now I see the differences, the clever mix of modern and classic kitchen units and the striking signature pieces that we could never have afforded. Ours was the underage version of this, I realise, in size as well as style. Perhaps this is the type of house Dan and I would have grown into, if our marriage hadn’t died.
‘Thanks for coming.’ Charlie’s voice brings me back to the present.
‘I’m glad you called me.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’ I couldn’t possibly give a different answer, but my back s
tiffens as I wonder what he’s going to say, and whether I’ll need to feed him yet another lie.
‘Do you believe that some people are born bad?’
I think back to that night. ‘Yes,’ I say. No lying required after all. ‘But I don’t believe you were.’
‘It was an accident, Rosie falling.’
‘Exactly. Not your fault.’
‘But I wonder if I wanted it, willed it, you know?’ His voice isn’t much louder than a whisper, but the sound still resonates in the quiet room.
‘You can’t will a broken arm.’
‘Do you ever get nightmares?’ His change of subject takes me off guard. I think about the horrible images I’m subjected to most nights, even after all these years. And the number of times I’ve woken up shivering because I’m drenched in sweat.
‘Yes, sometimes.’ I try to sound relaxed, but it comes out guarded.
‘Are they different or the same one?’
I pause for a moment. ‘Different versions of the same one.’
‘My nightmare is always the same. And impossible to understand. I hear things.’
‘What things?’ I ask gently.
‘Screaming mostly. But my eyes are closed, in the dream. I can’t see what’s happening.’
‘Nothing’s happening; it’s just a nightmare.’
‘It feels more than that,’ he whispers. ‘More like a memory. I can’t shake the feeling that I did something bad.’
Even though he says it quietly, the shock of his words makes me draw breath. He looks up, his eyes shining with fear. I can’t stand to see him like this. Should I tell him the truth? Explain why he might feel that way?
