I saw the word Emily’s on a scruffy building next door, the letters made from red tubular lights. Her name. A restaurant. Inside it was gloomy and empty. It smelled of cooked burgers and the grease of years of frying chips. An old pop song played quietly in the background. A woman with thick yellow-stained glasses stood by the door, cleaning one of the tables. She was thin and beaky, like a half-starved heron. Her movements were really quick.
She said, hardly stopping, “What can I help you with?” and I wondered from her accent if she was Scottish.
“I need something to eat.”
“Okay.” She gave me a look then and we both paused. I felt like she was weighing me up; I could almost see the darkening of her pupils as she considered something. She said softly, “Are you okay?”
“Just hungry.”
“I know the feeling,” she said. She leaned over and gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder. She led me to a table near the back.
I looked at the menu. “I’ll have the chicken and chips, please.”
“Ketchup?”
I nodded. “And a Coke.”
Time floated past. I looked at the photographs of celebrities on the wall. The chicken arrived. I ate everything on the heaped plate. I went up to the counter surrounded by fairy lights, and paid my bill with a torn note.
She said, “Hope you’re feeling better. I’m Emily. This is my restaurant. Come back anytime.”
I wanted to tell her that her name was my sister’s name, that her restaurant was named after my sister. I wanted to tell her I was too frightened to get on the train home, but she was a stranger and so I remained silent.
I left. The evening had slipped by. I phoned Mum and lied and told her that Rosa-Leigh and I were still hanging out. She sighed and said, “I have dinner ready.”
“Sorry,” I said quickly before I switched off my phone and started walking.
It was a long, lonely walk, and in the end I had to catch two different buses because I was so tired. By the time I got in, it was late. Mum had made a chicken casserole. She’d put my plate in the fridge and gone to bed. I didn’t eat it. I wasn’t hungry.
SATURDAY, APRIL 22ND
This afternoon, from my spot sunning myself on the roof of our house, I saw Mum coming up the road. She was smiling and talking into her mobile. In her other hand was a bag of shopping. She didn’t notice me watching her. Tears trickled from my eyes. I’m going crazy with sadness. I wish I’d never got on the stupid train. I wish I’d tied my shoelaces properly. I lay back and stared at the big empty sky, hoping for answers.
SUNDAY, APRIL 23RD
I woke from a dream where I kissed Dan. I tried to remember him kissing me, and my insides skipped with the memory of his lips, of his hands pressing against me. To make me forget about him, because he hasn’t called, I concentrated on the posters of blue and white buildings in Greece on my walls. I looked at the scrawled quotations from my favorite books on my chalkboard. I gazed out the window framed by blue silky curtains looking over a telephone pole populated occasionally with birds.
I can’t connect the girl in this room with the girl who was kissing Dan at that party. Nothing feels the same anymore, not even me. I don’t know who I am or how I fit into a world I don’t understand.
I feel like going to Bowood Road again to look at our old house. Things in my life were good there. Maybe I’ll go now just to pass the endless time.
Everything was horrible. Awful. I don’t even understand what happened. I’m so embarrassed. The walk started okay. It was sunny outside when I left the house. I caught a bus and got off near Westminster. It was surprisingly warm. I sweated as I walked, and my throat started to hurt, taking in the dirty, warm air. Central London is so busy and polluted.
The buildings in Westminster are beautiful. I didn’t think I cared about buildings, but the Houses of Parliament are so perfect, so stunning, that I can’t believe I’ve never really looked at them before. We’ve driven past, but I’ve never stood in front of them like I did today. If I could draw, I’d sketch them. When I try to write about the color of the stone or the shape of the spires and the feeling there of age and history, I can’t get the words onto the page. I wish I could. This morning Big Ben rose out of the mist, and despite all the cars and the traffic and the noise, I swear I could feel the past weighing on me. In a good way.
Outside the Houses of Parliament there was a small protest against the war in Iraq. The war seems pointless. Even thinking about it confuses me. Some say the war is making things better. Who for? Not for me. All these people being killed and for what? For religion? It doesn’t seem possible. People are angry, people are confused, people are frightened, maybe, but not because of religion.
Dan’s family is Muslim, I think, although I’m just guessing, and Kalila’s a Muslim, for sure. Megan’s a Christian although she’s totally unchristian all the time! I’m not anything, I don’t think, although Mum occasionally goes to church and I have been a few times. I don’t think I even believe in God sometimes. Rosa-Leigh said she is going to become some sort of Buddhist one day. In the end we’re all just people.
Just as I arrived at 18 Bowood Road, a girl who looked at least a couple of years older than me took out a bag of rubbish. She put it in the bin and went back inside. Emily never took out the rubbish. Never. I wanted to follow the girl inside. I wanted to see where I grew up, where I lived when my family was whole.
So, stupidly, I opened the gate.
The sun made striped patterns on the path. I knocked on the front door. As if she’d been waiting on the other side, the girl who’d taken out the rubbish opened it. She frowned. Her face was closed.
She said, “What?”
“I—” I suddenly had nothing to say. “I’d like to—”
The girl turned before I finished the sentence and called, “Mum,” over her shoulder. She faced me again. Except she wasn’t looking at me. She was waiting, like a person at a station might wait for a train, not really focusing on anything. I didn’t matter to her, because I was a stranger. And so to get her attention, I said, “I used to live here.”
Her gaze snapped back to mine, her eyes dark as Emily’s. “Oh,” she said sarcastically.
I began to feel really stupid. What did it matter where I used to live? What did any of it matter? None of it was going to bring Emily back. I felt a panic attack surging like a tsunami.
I reached out a hand to steady myself. I was finding it hard to breathe. I didn’t want to panic in front of this stranger, but thinking that made me feel worse. I said, “I’m sorry to bother you. I just—”
She shook her head as if a fly were buzzing around her.
A woman appeared in the corridor, an older woman, thin face, long, dyed red hair.
The girl at the door said very loudly, “She used to live here, Mum.”
I whispered, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
The woman said, “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. And then it was as if the ground rushed up to meet me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Oh God.” Nausea rose in my throat. I laid my hand across my mouth to stop myself being sick. “I don’t know why I’m here.” I looked at them, somehow lost my footing, stumbled, and fell. Hard.
The woman pushed past the girl at the door and leaned over me. “Give me some help, Sally,” she said to her daughter. The woman got me to a seated position and made me copy her breathing. “That’s right, breathe slowly.” She squinted at me. “I’m Eleanor Summerfield,” she said.
I nodded, struggling not to faint again.
Eleanor said, “Why don’t you come in and we’ll sort this out?”
The girl, Sally, was back in the house, and she was looking worried. As I followed Eleanor through the short corridor to the kitchen, I looked at the pictures of Sally all along the walls. She was a dancer, it seemed. I tried to remember the house when I’d been in it as a little girl. I had a flash of memory of Emily laughing, trotting along in Mum’s high heels.
It smelled of fresh coffee. Eleanor guided me to sit at the plastic table; my hands shook. I said, “I’m sorry.” I was going to say something else, but I didn’t know what to say, so I sat there with my palms down and tried to steady my breathing. I said, “I don’t recognize the house; well, I kind of do. I think we had a round table and maybe there was some sort of plant over there.”
“It must have been years since you lived here. We’ve been here forever.” Eleanor switched the kettle on. “We finished the coffee. Make some tea, Sally.” She sat next to me.
“I thought I’d remember more. It’s just shadows of memory. Shapes. Nothing I can be sure of.”
Sally said, “Is she all right?”
“Make it sugary. Should help. There are some clean cups in the dishwasher.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Not sure.”
“I think,” I said, “I think I’m going mad.” I saw a blast of orange light in my mind’s eye. Felt the glass of the kitchen window shatter to smithereens in my imagination. I passed one of my hands over my eyes to clear the thoughts.
Eleanor was quiet. The skin around her eyes was very lined. She coughed and her lungs rattled. When I didn’t say anything, she said, “Has something happened?” She was very gentle.
I took a deep breath, the panic starting to fade. “I used to live here with my mum, dad, and sister.”
Eleanor glanced over at her daughter then back at me. My heart dropped low into my body; how could I explain myself? I said, “There was an accident. No, not an accident.”
Sally put three cups and a full teapot down on the table and sat across from me. She smiled, and I saw in her overly big smile, her wide polite eyes, that she thought I wasn’t right in the head.
I said, “I just wanted to come here. I know it doesn’t make sense.” I picked up my cup. “I’m sorry,” I said.
Eleanor nodded. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked. Her voice was loud and she spoke slowly, like she was trying to get through on a bad phone line. She reached a hand out and touched me briefly on the arm. “Is there someone we can call?” She poured the tea and stirred two sugars in mine, passing me the cup.
I sipped and tasted the sugary sweetness of the tea. I tried to put everything in place in my head.
Sally said quietly, “I have to go to Dad’s, Mum.”
“Get Juliette to give you a lift,” Eleanor replied. Then more quietly, as if I might not hear her, “This girl needs a moment.”
I said, “No, I’m sorry. I should go. I’m in your way.” I couldn’t stop apologizing.
Eleanor lifted her palm in a wait-there gesture. I didn’t move.
Sally said, “See you later,” and was gone.
I said, “I should go. I’ve disturbed you enough.” My nearly full cup stared at me accusingly.
“Let me know who to call,” Eleanor said.
“There’s no one to call. It never gets better.”
“What about your mum? Or your sister?”
I shook my head. The panic had leached out of me, and I was left feeling empty and ashamed. “I have to go.” I was entirely, vividly aware of how humiliating the situation was. This woman was a total stranger.
My head hurt. I rubbed my eyes. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know anything anymore.”
I stood up and pulled my coat around me. “I should go.”
“Let me help you.”
I felt as if a flat blade had gone under my rib cage and lifted the bones. I hurried to the corridor, not answering when Eleanor followed, saying, “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Just as I opened the door, she said, “Come and sit back down. We’ll call someone.”
I lied, “No, my friend lives nearby. She’ll take me home.”
And that was it. The door of 18 Bowood Road closed, and I went back out into the road as if nothing had happened. It took me hours to get home.
MONDAY, APRIL 24TH
The Easter holiday is over. I called the reception at school and told them I had the flu. The receptionist went quiet for a moment and then said, “Sophie Baxter. You missed a couple of days at the end of last term and you’re ill again?”
“Yeah. I’m just sick.”
“You’ll need a doctor’s note.”
I went quiet.
She said, “Baxter. Aren’t you the one who was in the—”
I hung up.
10
And, and, and…
TUESDAY, APRIL 25TH
I climbed onto the roof and sat there staring into space. I kept thinking I could see Emily. Or hear her voice. But not what she was saying.
I think I’m dying. I can’t breathe. And I don’t want to remember the day of the bombing, but I can’t stop myself. I remember standing on the platform with Emily. I remember exactly what I said and every word she spoke back to me in reply.
I remember I finished tying my shoelace and said, “Sorry, Em.”
“Not to worry. There’ll be another train in a minute.”
“What are we going to see again?”
“A show at the National Gallery. Light boxes. Sound good?”
“And after that?”
“I don’t know, what do you feel like?” she said.
It was hot. Very crowded. I looked at the other passengers on the platform. One tall guy farther down caught my eye. He smiled. The train roared in. We got on.
Emily held the crook of my arm as we squeezed into seats, thinking ourselves lucky to sit on such a packed train, and then she let go. Between the gaps in the people, in the black glass opposite, I looked at myself and Emily. We looked so different, Emily and I. Me, dark-haired and pale; her, blond-haired, dark-eyed.
The train pulled out of the station, swaying so we pressed against each other, arm to arm in our seats. The tunnel was black around us.
Emily started to say something.
There was a flash of orange light, a huge bang.
I saw her face for a split second, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open in a scream.
Then the explosion burst the reflection of Emily and me to smithereens. Glass sprayed in silver lines and I flung my hands to my eyes. A force pushed into the back of me and my whole spine jolted, my chest jarred up into my throat. I was twisted and thrown in a vat of scalding air. Every part of my body was slammed and shocked, and I thought I saw a huge fireball blast toward me, but it may have been the searing of the insides of my eyes. I smashed down and lay momentarily very still. The air stank of burned hair, and much worse.
Someone was screaming; it could have been me. From the feel against my palms I thought I could tell that I was pressed against the ridged floor of the train, but I couldn’t see anything in the dark. I tried to stand, but something was crushing me. I fought in the blackness and shoved a heavy object off my leg.
I managed to get to my feet, and then I coughed and was nearly sick. The object I’d thrown off me, it seemed, was my seat. There was smoke and glass everywhere. Someone yelled, “Help me, please! Help me!” I touched my fingers to my face and felt wet, warm and wet. Was it blood? Tears?
My head was ringing. “Emily,” I croaked, frantic and dizzy. Everything was screaming. My ears were violent suddenly, assaulting me with the sounds of other voices. I put my hands before me. A light flickered on and off. And on. I saw Emily. I screamed and I knew it was me screaming because my throat tore as the sound came out.
She was lying not far from me in the wreckage of the train interior. Her neck was in the wrong position. Her limbs were all at strange angles. I fought my way over to her, screaming her name. The layers of her shirts were half torn off. I could see the dirty, pale skin of her shoulder. Her eyes were semi-closed.
“Emily,” I sobbe
d. “You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Stay with me.”
The air stank of sweat, of fire, of fear. My words evaporated into the chaos and dust around us.
“Emily, listen to me. Hold on. I’ll get help.”
She squeezed my hand. My ears roared. She was struggling to breathe.
“Sophie,” she whispered.
“Don’t speak, don’t speak. Save your breath until someone comes.” I begged the air for help. All I could see were smoke and the shadow of a crush of people looming and fading. I feared we’d be trampled. I turned back to Emily. She was trying to get air in, making these small gasping movements with her mouth like a fish out of water.
She managed to whisper, “It hurts.”
She took a ragged breath.
And then her eyes rolled.
And then everything stopped.
I yelled her name. I tried to help her breathe by blowing air into her mouth. I tried to get her heart to work again by pounding at her chest. I shook her and I held her and I screamed.
The tall guy was beside me. Blood welled from his cheek, the cut a jagged red pen line. He said, “We need to get out.” He looked down at me, and his eyes were so kind I wept.
“I’ve got to stay with her,” I said, tears falling all over my cheeks and dripping salty into my mouth.
He made the tiniest no motion with his head and kept his gaze locked on mine. He repeated, “We need to get out. You need to follow me.” He grabbed my wrist, a manacle, and pulled me with him.
We half crawled out of the train. One woman had so much glass in her hair, she looked like a dusty snow queen. I put my hand up to my own hair and found it to be full of glass, too. I saw a man lying on the tracks. I couldn’t work out if he was moving. The tall man held my wrist, following a man wearing an orange jacket. We were caught up in a strange, silent flow of people. I yelled to the man in orange, “My sister. She’s back there. I need help. I left her.”
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