by Ali Land
‘I knew who it was, I recognized his voice, but the door was locked, I couldn’t get to him.’
‘It wasn’t your job to help him, Milly.’
‘The next morning he was crying, asking for his mummy, but the door was still locked so I couldn’t help him then either. Then we left the house and she drove me to school, sang the same song every time.’
‘What song did she sing?’
‘Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue.’
IF YOU LOVE ME, DILLY DILLY, I WILL LOVE YOU. YOU STILL LOVE ME, DON’T YOU, ANNIE?
‘I was there too, Mike.’
‘Where were you, Milly?’
I open my eyes. He’s leaning forward in his chair.
‘You said you were there too, what did you mean?’
I bite down on my tongue. Bitter and warm as the blood flows.
‘You did everything you could, Milly. Everything you could in the circumstances. It must be especially hard remembering Daniel.’
‘Why do you think it was him I was remembering?’
‘You recognized his voice. He was the only one you knew well enough.’
‘But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about all of the children she took.’
‘I know, and I’m not saying you didn’t, but it must have been that much harder when you realized it was Daniel she’d taken, you’d spent time with him at the refuge.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But you need to. You need to be able to if you go to court.’
‘I will be able to by then.’
‘Why not try now?’
‘I feel like you’re pressuring me, I need more time.’
‘I just want you to know this is a safe space, Milly, you can tell me anything, talk to me. That’s what I’m here for.’
I tell him I know, but I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk any more.
He sits back in his chair, nods, says, okay, let’s leave it there for tonight.
I read until midnight, exhausted, yet sleep doesn’t come. I long to be held, comforted by someone. How your touch hurt, how no touch hurts more. I get out of bed, unlock the balcony door, open it wide. Cold air floods the room, every shiver and goosebump on my body a welcome sensation. My lonely skin.
I sit down on the stool in front of the easel Mike and Saskia bought me. Kindness from them, every day. It’s late now, past two a.m. The night air wraps around me, my feet hum from exposure. I like the noise charcoal makes. The smudges, the smears, perfection left out in the cold. The black on my hands reminds me something is happening. Being done. I rock on the stool as I sketch, back and forward. I close my eyes for a moment, my grip on the charcoal tightens. The wind reaches through the balcony door, pinches my breasts. My nipples, hard and tight.
I rock to the side.
The left and the right. A circular motion. I enjoy the wood of the stool through my knickers, the heat created, a stark contrast to the rest of my cold body. I rub.
Harder on the page.
Harder on the stool.
The charcoal breaks. I’m left with a pulse down below, black dust on my knees.
In the morning a sketch clipped to the easel. You, again. I remove the paper, roll it up, place it in the pull-out drawer under my bed.
14
The past few days haven’t been good. A recurring dream about being on the stand, opening my mouth, but instead of words, a colony of bats flies out. Screeching the truth. The shame of saying it out loud, of what I let you do to me. Of what I let you do to them. I woke up this morning gasping for breath, the pillow game you used to play.
Morgan didn’t reply to my messages over the weekend. She sometimes helps her uncle out so I know that’ll be what it is but I’ve often wondered what would happen if she found out about me. Whether she’d understand, still want to be my friend. I’ve thought about telling her. She’s the person I feel closest to, and sometimes the burden of you is too much on my own. The need to share, to feel normal. I’m not sure if she’d keep it secret though and I worry that if the parents of the children you took can’t get to you, they might come after me. A child for a child.
I choose a black hoodie and jeans. Uggs. Today we’re going on a school trip with Brookmere College, and I’ve been dreading it since it was announced. Visible I feel, for all the wrong reasons, the other girls, confident. Know how to act around boys. In the kitchen there’s a note from Mike, along with a plate of croissants: ‘Monday treat, enjoy the trip, girls.’
The way he pluralizes me and Phoebe. A team. I wouldn’t mind it being true, we’d make a good one. Saskia comes in, asks if I’m looking forward to the trip.
‘Sort of.’
‘Better than lessons, surely?’
Not really, no.
‘Here, take a croissant with you.’
‘Thanks. Has Phoebe left already?’
‘About five minutes ago, I think.’
‘Okay, see you later.’
I chuck the croissant in the bin on the way to school, stomach all over the place. I’m hoping to see MK this afternoon when we get back, show her more of my work. She nods and smiles whenever she sees me at school. Last Friday she stopped at my table during lunch, wished me a nice weekend. I found myself imagining what my life would’ve been like if I’d grown up with her instead of you. I felt guilty afterwards, almost immediately.
The bus is outside school when I arrive, registration on board. Hurry up, everyone, on you go, says Mr Collier, one of the classics teachers. I choose a seat near the front, less likely anybody will sit next to me. Headphones on, no music though. The bus fills quickly, energy full and ripe. The girls aglow, an extra layer of bronzer applied, perfume sprayed liberally. The boys, like apes, do pull-ups on the overhead luggage rack. A zoo. Overwhelming. A headcount is done, somebody shouts from the back, Joe’s missing, a joke about him taking a dump. Limits are set by Mr Dugan, the boys’ teacher.
‘I see him, sir, he’s coming.’
‘Hurry up, Joe. No, you can’t, we’ve waited long enough for you, just sit in the first seat you find, please.’
He looks towards the back, shrugs, drops into the seat next to me. Catcalls and whistles follow, he holds his middle finger up in the air.
‘Pipe down, the lot of you,’ Mr Dugan says, through the microphone. ‘We should get there in about forty minutes or so, traffic dependent. When we arrive you are not to wander off, understood? Disembark from the bus, go inside and wait as a group at the ticket desk. Please remember, all of you, even out of uniform you represent both schools. Any questions?’
‘Can we stop at McDonald’s?’
‘Any sensible questions? No. Excellent. Sit back and enjoy the view and for goodness’ sake, Oscar Feltham, take your feet off the seats, manners of a pig.’
I can see Joe looking at me, little sidelong glances, checking for my second head. I turn further towards the window, away from him, yet the smell of him follows. A spicy depth, some kind of spray deodorant, not unpleasant though the thought embarrasses me. He asks me something. My instinct is to ignore but he says it again, leaning forward in his seat so he’s in my line of vision. I lift one of my headphones away from my ear, turn to face him. Hair, ginger. Eyes, blue.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘Would you like some chewing gum?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Oh go on, it’s the menthol one, dead strong.’
He holds the packet towards me. No thanks, I tell him again, wishing I was able to relax, act in a more normal, open way. More practice needed. He withdraws his hand, shrugs, puts a piece in his mouth, letting out an exaggerated breath moments later as the menthol kicks in. He smiles and says, probably should have said no as well, opens his mouth, pants a little. I don’t want to see his tongue, so I look away.
‘Have you been to the London Dungeon before?’ he asks.
Somewhere very similar.
‘No.’
His voice is low, he doesn’t wan
t the back of the bus to know we’re talking.
‘Neither have I, should be a real laugh though.’
I don’t reply, I don’t agree.
‘You don’t look that keen.’
‘Not really.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m not feeling very well.’
‘You’re not going to spew, are you?’ He smiles as he says it.
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘Phew. You’re not from here, are you? I know you’re staying with Phoebe and her folks for a bit.’
I nod.
‘Whereabouts are you from?’
‘I’ve moved around a lot.’
‘That’s cool, I’ve only ever lived here. I’m Joe by the way.’
‘Milly.’
‘So how is life in the Newmont household?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Phoebe not being a pain in the arse then?’
The surprise on my face lasts long enough for him to notice. He winks at me. Oh god.
‘Come on, I’ve known her for years, she can be a real bitch. Pretty hot, but still a bitch.’
‘She’s not all bad.’
‘Really? That surprises me, she’s not one for competition.’
‘I’m not in competition with her.’
‘She’ll see it that way, trust me, and because you’re different she won’t be a happy bunny.’
I can’t bring myself to ask him what he means by different. The suspicion of a set-up between Phoebe and him, a conversation late at night where she asked him to pretend to like me, then make me look like a fool.
‘Being different is good by the way. Trust me, I’m ginger.’
He smiles again, then asks, ‘Are you coming to Matty’s party at half-term?’
Another hot topic on the forum. Free house, carnage. Teenagers’ default mechanism is. Party. I’m not sure I got that gene.
‘I haven’t been invited.’
‘I’m inviting you.’
‘I’m not really into parties.’
‘Everyone’s going, it’ll be a real laugh. You and Phoebs should come together, Matty’s house is only a few streets from yours.’
‘Not sure, maybe. I might listen to my music now if that’s okay.’
‘Sweet, I’ll catch a few zeds before we get there.’
I feel relieved when it’s over. The conversation. And when the bus pulls up outside the Dungeon we pile off, and Joe rejoins his group. The girls stay close to the boys, or the boy they laid dibs on weeks ago. What happens less than twenty minutes later is my fault. I let my guard down after talking to Joe. Kindness is lethal.
The front of the group is where I’d planned to be, close to the teachers and tour guide with his blood-stained costume and brown teeth, but I’ve ended up nearer the back. Phoebe and her gang are there and Claudia, the German exchange student, more interested in kissing the boy she’s with than the displays. Phoebe calls her a slag, pushes past her. The lighting in the tunnel is low, throwing shadows small and large up the walls. Every now and then screams are released from speakers hidden somewhere, and laughter. Nasty laughter, a torturer enjoying his job. A head being chopped off. A sensation of being followed. Watched. Eyes hidden in the dark, the skin on my scalp pulls tight. Gunshot flashes of a place I’ve been to that looks like this, a place I never want to go to again.
I try to focus on the sounds around me, I try not to listen to your voice. Goading me. YOU WERE THERE TOO, ANNIE. I watch how the boys take pleasure in pretending to trip up the girls. Grab them. Grope them. The girls giggle and push them away, only to return to their sides moments later. More screams released, rats running overhead. A toothless woman begging, a dead baby by her side, a crow pecking at its eye. You say it again. YOU WERE THERE TOO, ANNIE.
Eyes like pools. Threaten to overflow. Tears. Hot. I push my way through the group, try to get to the front, find some air. Light. I don’t even notice I’m not the one pushing any more. Phoebe is, and a few other hands too. They push me into one of the prison cells, barricade the door, and I know there’s no point in shouting.
Help.
Numbers make me feel safe but not when I know approximately sixty pupils separate me from the teachers and the exit. I try to remember my breathing exercises, the panic attacks I experienced in the first couple of weeks after I left you. In through my mouth, out through – No, the other way, in through my nose, out through my mouth.
Pitch black.
I try the cell door again, but somebody’s holding it shut. I sense a movement behind me. Three small lights embedded in the floor switch on, highlight a shadow. A display, not real.
It’s okay, I can do this.
A figure by the wall, a woman. I press the back of my hand into my mouth, I don’t want to scream. Tears prick at my eyelids. Memories pinch and grab me, like fish feeding on bread in a pond. HELLO, ANNIE. No, go away, you’re not real. TURN ROUND, ANNIE. No. I lean into the door, close my eyes, bang my fists on the metal.
‘Let me out, please, let me out.’
I hammer on the door. Head swimming. Images of me, carrying something in my arms, opening a door. Dark, so dark. The smell. Rotten, yet sweet. A low hum of activity, flies hatching. Rats scratching.
I didn’t want to. I didn’t.
You. Made. Me.
NOT ALWAYS, ANNIE.
That’s not true.
I see their faces, the faces I try so hard not to see, small and afraid. Can’t get to them. Crying. I close my eyes. Shout.
‘Let me out, please. Somebody let me out.’
Please.
I feel hands on me.
‘You’re okay, chill out, you’re fine. Open your eyes.’
Laughter as I do. I’m hunched in the corner of the cell, my arms round my head, covering my ears.
‘Hurry up, Mr Collier’s calling us,’ says a girl’s voice.
Joe’s there, he offers me his hand. I refuse, not sure if he was in on it.
‘Are you okay? You seem really freaked out.’
‘That’s because she is a freak,’ says Phoebe.
‘Shut the fuck up, can’t you see she’s terrified?’
‘Oooooh, someone’s got a crush on dog-face.’
‘Dog-face? Have you looked in the mirror recently?’
‘Nice try, Joe, we all know that’s not what you were saying at Lucille’s party.’
‘Yeah well, I’m not wasted now, am I?’
‘Must be if you’re trying to help her.’
‘Sound a bit jealous if you ask me.’
‘Jealous? Of her?’ As I stand up, she points at me.
‘Looks that way, yeah.’
‘Fuck off, Joe.’
She shoves him in my direction, heads up the passage towards the next exhibit. I hear Mr Dugan telling us to hurry up, another group’s due behind us. My left nostril feels warm and full. Stress, anxiety, any kind of heightened emotion, triggers it. I tell Joe to leave me alone, turn my face away.
‘Let’s walk up together,’ he says.
‘No, please go away.’
He hesitates, but walks off, just before my nose begins to bleed.
We return to school in time for lunch and spend the rest of the afternoon setting up the Great Hall for Subject Evening, a chance for parents to come in and discuss career choices for their daughters. General feedback on how we’ve settled into the first few weeks of term. Mike and Saskia attend and ask to speak to both Phoebe and me when they get home. Phoebe goes first, I wait in the snug. After a while she comes out of the kitchen, slams the door behind her, gives me a hateful look as she passes.
Mike opens the door, I ask him if Phoebe’s okay. He explains she got a double detention for losing her chemistry paper. Shame, I think, I could have told her where it was, the drawer under my bed. A small price to pay for Georgie’s ‘accident’.
Mike does most of the talking. Reports that I’m amongst the top five academically in Year Eleven, a little unsure in the social aspect, but ma
king progress. Saskia squeezes my shoulder, it doesn’t make me feel good, it makes me think of you. Parents’ evening last summer, I was there helping. You wore a dress, red and blue flowers. One of the teachers commented on how well-mannered and compliant I was, wanted to know what your secret was. You squeezed my shoulder, replied with a smile, don’t know, lucky I guess.
‘Miss Kemp told us she encouraged you to enter the art prize.’
‘I didn’t really want to but she thinks I’ve got a good chance of winning. I’m working on some sketches for it.’
‘Sounds like you and she are a great match,’ Mike says.
‘I really like her.’
And as I say it out loud, I realize it’s true.
When I check my phone later, Morgan’s replied.
Sorry for not being in touch my little shit of a brother hid my phone, can’t see you this week but let’s do something over the weekend. Something fun
You used to say the same thing on the drive back from school on a Friday afternoon. Something fun. One time I thought about jumping out of the car when it was moving, but somehow you knew. Flicked the child locks on. Big mistake, Annie, you said. I thought you would own less of me after I handed you in but sometimes it feels you own more. Something as innocent as a school trip becomes a walk down memory lane with you. Invisible chains. Jangle when I walk.
Up eight. Up another four.
The door on the right.
This time, a girl.
Not your first choice, only took them if you had to.
Two of the nine.
Asked me if I was watching.
I was. The bravest, and saddest I saw.
She kept getting up, after each blow.
I wept into the peephole, made sure I’d stopped crying before you opened the door.
I wrapped her up, a coal sack, blankets forbidden for girls.
I carried her down, placed a doll next to her, used to be mine.
Her body, so still.
Shh little one, it’s over now.
15
A couple of days ago Mike and I met as usual for our Wednesday session. I told him the truth, that I was frightened, that during the day I hear you, your voice in my head. I wanted to tell him about the nights too, you as a ribbon of dread lying next to me in bed, but I was ashamed. He asked me what it is you say to me. I told him you say I’m useless, that I won’t manage life without you, that I won’t survive the trial. He reminded me the trial wasn’t mine to survive. I told him you torment me, he kept probing me, asking me what it was you tormented me about. But all I told him was I wished I’d gone to the police sooner, then things would have been different.
