by Ali Land
‘A new life,’ she replies and laughs, swivelling her body round to face me.
If only it was as simple as that.
‘Don’t tell Phoebe I said this, but you know she’s jealous of you, right?’
‘Jealous? Of what?’
‘All the time you spend with Mike.’
‘It’s not like that, there’s just some stuff going on at the moment.’
Some pretty big stuff.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not like she’s got her mum, is it?’
No, but let your drunken, wasted, disloyal lips tell me why. Please.
‘I’d kind of noticed they weren’t very close.’
‘How can you be close to someone you hardly know? God, I still feel like chucking up.’
She leans her head on the toilet seat. I remove the toothbrushes from the glass by the sink, fill it with water and hand it to her.
She nods, says thanks.
‘What did you mean about Phoebe hardly knowing Saskia?’
‘No way, she’d kill me if she thought I’d said anything.’
I call her bluff. I watched you do it so well with the women you looked after, how you made them think you knew more than you did. It worked every time and it works with Clondine.
‘Do you mean when Saskia wasn’t well?’
Clondine lifts her head, squints up at me.
‘How the hell do you know?’ she asks. ‘Did Mike tell you?’
‘Sort of, yeah.’
‘Fuck. I suppose it’s kind of obvious something’s not right if you’re living with them. She hasn’t been in the mental hospital for years but probably still should be, totally lost the plot when Phoebe was born.’
I nod, as if I know what she means, and say how hard it must have been for Phoebe.
‘Yeah, I think she thinks it was her fault.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Anyway.’
‘How long was she in hospital for?’
‘I thought you said you knew.’
I distract her by saying her hands have stopped shaking. She looks down at them, says, thank god, it would be the first thing her mum would’ve noticed, then announces she needs to pee. She hauls herself up on the toilet, pulls her jeans down. A gush of urine, a fart halfway through. Intimacy I’m only used to with you. I leave the bathroom, straighten up the bed, replace the pillow, cover the pile of sick with a magazine from the bedside table. She talks over the flush.
‘I’ll try and speak to Phoebs, persuade her you’re not that much of a freak after all.’
She walks out of the en suite, a bit wobbly on her feet still but mainly in one piece. The ability of humans, together again on the outside, the inside, a different story. A much bigger mess.
‘Can you see my other shoe?’
‘It’s over there by the chest of drawers.’
‘Thanks. How do I look?’
‘Fine.’
‘Like nothing happened, hey.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Actually, would you mind if we don’t mention to Phoebe that I was with Toby, she can be a bit possessive over the boys and I can’t really be arsed with the grief.’
‘Of course, but would you –’
‘Lay off you at school? I’ll try, sure.’
She walks to the door. I check my phone, half past eleven, thirty minutes till curfew. I make my way down shortly after her. I look for Joe, but can’t see him, I find Phoebe though. A crowd around her in the kitchen, a drinking vessel in her hand. A funnel, a tube. Bong, they chant, as she drinks. Bong. Bong. Bong. I walk to the tap, fill a glass of water, happy for once their cheering and jeering isn’t at me.
Wrong.
‘Not so fast,’ Phoebe says. ‘Your turn.’
The room quietens, I ignore her. A block of knives to my left. Easy. Paint the town red, or the kitchen.
‘Did you not hear me, I said it was your go.’
I turn round. She’s both beautiful and wasted, pupils large and intense. Sucks on a Marlboro Light, forms an O with her lips, releases a perfect grey smoke ring. Her cheeks florid, rampant, a state of arousal. She’d have been the better candidate to go to bed with Toby.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
Heckles and murmurs rise out of the crowd, we are not, but we are, in the Middle Ages still, a blood bath people would happily pay to watch. She blows a second smoke ring, so perfect I want to stick my tongue in it. The air in the room heavy, not just the smoke, but heady, her adoring fans, impatient. Oh come on, leave her be, she’s not worth it. Freak. Weirdo. The usual. Then Clondine, quiet so far, says, leave her alone, she’s all right. Phoebe takes a drag on her cigarette, the longest yet, turns towards her friend, exhales in her face and stubs her cigarette out on the back of Clondine’s hand.
‘Fuck.’ She withdraws it, holds it to her chest. ‘What the hell was that for?’
‘Sorry, Clonny, it was an accident, I mistook you for the ashtray.’
‘You’re fucked in the head, you know that, seriously crazy. That was really painful.’
‘Oh, stop being such a baby, here, have an ice cube.’
She takes one from a tumbler on the table, throws it in Clondine’s direction, hits her on the head. Sniggers.
Clondine gathers up her bag, says, that’s it, I’m done, I’ve had enough. I’m going home. The atmosphere in the room shifts, a departure ruins the magic, the doorway to this secret, spoilt rich kids’ coven ripped off by the blast of cold air as Clondine leaves through the patio doors. A line is drawn, I see it in the room. Too far, Phoebe, you went too far. If only she was better at showing her softer side. The girl who likes to spend an evening sat on the ground by the feet of the housekeeper who brought her up. The girl who cries at night.
She stares at me, eyes full of contempt. Anger. I’ve seen her look at Saskia the same way.
‘You’re just always here, aren’t you?’ she says.
She points at me, eyes slanted and slurred, her knees buckle a little. I turn to face the sink again. One by one, excuses are made, vague talk about tidying up.
‘Don’t worry, the olds are away until Monday. I’ll pay Ludy extra, she’ll sort it out tomorrow,’ I hear Matty say.
‘Good old Ludy,’ someone jokes.
In the reflection of the window I see Toby drape himself round Phoebe. I should ask him how his dick is, rape boy. She shrugs him off, walks through to the living room. He follows, ‘Let me take you home.’
‘Whatever.’
I should warn her he’s not a great chaperone. I bet he produces a key for one of the private gardens on the way – either that or gives her a leg up, tosses her over. The last few people leave the kitchen. I notice Phoebe’s handbag on the counter, hear her laughing with the hyena girl from earlier. On my way past I tell her it’s almost midnight but she ignores me so I leave on my own.
Mike lets me in when I arrive, he must have been waiting by the window, anxious.
‘Where’s Phoebe?’ he asks.
‘Just coming I think, she’s walking with one of the boys.’
‘Oh god, that phase in life already,’ he says with a smile. Asks me if I had a good time.
‘Not bad, I’m pretty zonked though. Can I have my pill, then I’m off to bed.’
‘Sure.’
Two hours pass, curfew been and gone. I wonder how long it took her to realize her house keys were missing, slipped into my pocket as I passed her bag. She and her enlarged pupils will have to face the music.
Eventually I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, muffled voices, something about dealing with this in the morning. The door along from mine closes with a slam. I fall asleep immediately, content in the knowledge.
That round was mine.
21
The sensation of falling jerks me awake. I thought I was in court and I couldn’t remember how to answer the questions. Everybody was staring at me, waiting. You, behind the screen. I get out of bed, go into the bathroom, update the number in charcoal, the countd
own I’ve been keeping, change it to eight, lean my head against the cabinet door and try to breathe.
Bare feet are silent, Mike doesn’t notice me standing in the kitchen doorway. He’s reading something, holds a page in the air as he looks at the one underneath. I can’t be sure but I think I see my name at the top. He underlines, annotates as he reads, rubs his eyes, harassed, tired. I can’t but I want to, walk over and hug him. Thank him for having me. For caring.
He looks up, turns the paper over as I approach the table, slides the pages under his diary. I make a mental note to look for them later, or perhaps on a Thursday when Saskia’s at yoga and Mike stays late at work.
‘I didn’t notice you standing there. Would you like some breakfast?’ he asks.
‘Maybe in a bit. I might make some tea. Would you like some, you look tired?’
‘I waited up for Phoebe. Not only was she two hours late but she managed to lose her keys at some point.’
Oh.
‘Sorry, I did try to get her to leave with me.’
‘Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault, at least one of you made it home on time.’
‘Shall I make Saskia a cup as well?’
‘That’s very sweet but she’s actually up and out already, she and the girls headed off early to some kind of outlet, a big designer sale apparently.’
While the kettle boils he asks me if I’m looking forward to going away tomorrow. I nod, tell him that after he told me we were going to Tetbury, I looked it up online.
‘Did you find the Arboretum? It’s very close to there, it’s called Westonbirt. I think you’ll like it, there’s lots of nice walks. We used to take Phoebe when she was little.’
He used to, he means. Saskia there maybe, but not really. I don’t need to ask how he takes his tea, I enjoy how at home that makes me feel.
‘Once you’re done, Milly, come and sit down, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
The teabags have stewed enough, the water surrounding them a deep brown, but I push them under, drown them, delay joining him at the table. I add milk to both, one sugar for me, none for him, stir, then take the mugs over, sit down opposite him. I tuck my legs into my chest, feet off the ground, the monsters that lurk, grab you. Don’t let go.
‘Thanks,’ he says, moving his chair closer into the table. ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, you’ve got an awful lot on your plate right now, but I think it’s important to talk about the email Ms James sent me.’
About MK.
The tea is too hot, I take a large gulp anyway. Tongue. Burnt.
‘Ms James mentioned you’d given Miss Kemp a present, a candle, and that you’d been seeing her quite a bit.’
‘Not that much, no.’
‘Perhaps a bit more than other pupils might see their guidance teachers?’
‘Only so she can help me with my art.’
‘I know, but you’ve also been emailing her a lot I believe.’
‘Only a few times. She hadn’t replied, I wanted to make sure she was getting them.’
‘A few times a week is quite a lot, Milly. I’m sure Miss Kemp likes you very much but she’s been feeling a bit overwhelmed. I think perhaps you’d like to spend more time with her than she can manage.’
I feel humiliated and stupid and overcome with desire for you. It didn’t happen often, you weren’t often in a good mood, but occasionally you’d stand behind me brushing my hair. You told me how pretty I was and I felt it too. I always felt prettier when you did nice things.
‘I can see how the confusion might have occurred. I’ve met Miss Kemp a number of times, she’s a lovely woman, very kind. But I think it’s important to help you label and understand what might be going on. Do you have any idea what I mean?’
‘No.’
‘Have you heard of a term called transference?’
I say no again, but it’s not true, I’ve read about it in one of his books. He’s wrong though, that’s not what’s happening with MK. I enjoy her company, that’s all.
Isn’t it?
‘Transference is a process by which someone unconsciously transfers feelings about a person in their past on to a person or situation in their present.’
‘I was only trying to thank her.’
Not ask her to be my mum.
‘And it was a very thoughtful gesture but it would have been okay, better even, if you’d just said it to her.’
I bite down on my tongue, the pain, and having to stifle a reaction, sends a sharp twinge through the lower part of my spine, the way the nerves are connected inside a body.
‘Nobody’s blaming you, Milly, it’s a very normal feeling for you to have.’
There it is, the difference, flagged up about me again.
A normal feeling for ‘you’ to have.
Mike’s face swims around in front of me, tears, rogue joyriders, land on my knees. He tells me it’s okay, not to punish myself for having these feelings.
‘Does it mean I can’t see her any more?’
‘We’ve agreed you can work with her on your portfolio for the art prize until the end of term. After that we’ll see, none of us know what’ll be happening then anyway.’
To me, he means.
In the sanctuary of my room I take out my sketches. Portraits of you. A gallery of the darkest parts of my mind, where you live. I tell you I’m sorry about MK, it won’t happen again. I hear a message come through on my phone, walk over to the bed, read it. It’s Morgan, confirming we’re still meeting at the bottom of the garden at six. Yes, I reply, hearing Phoebe in the corridor, shouting:
‘I don’t care!’
‘Well you should,’ Mike responds.
I listen through the door.
‘Why should I stay at home, you’re never around anyway.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Mike replies.
‘I DON’T FUCKING CARE. LEAVE ME ALONE.’
I lean into the wood. Child and parent, no other relationship more complicated exists. Her bedroom door slams shut, I move away from mine, put the sketches back into the drawer under my bed and sit down at my desk, try and do some homework, but I’m too angry and ashamed by how wrong I got it with MK. You never got it wrong, you knew how to be with everybody. The women’s faces would light up as you walked into work, the children’s too. I used to watch you, hoping one day I could be that version of you.
When it’s time to meet Morgan I’m unsure if I should go, I recognize the feelings inside. A dark colour. Not good. I wouldn’t have gone if she hadn’t called me saying she was already there. Waiting. Hurry up, she said, it’s freezing. I put on a jumper and leave my room using the fire stairs attached to my balcony, stay flat against the perimeter wall of the garden, the security light only activated if you cross on to the gravel or grass. I know, I’ve tested it. She’s in the bottom corner next to the gate leading to the close. It’s dark by six o’clock now and as my eyes adjust I can see the details of her face, and that she’s eating a sandwich.
‘It’s got crisps in it,’ she says. ‘Remember you gave me a packet when we first met?’
I nod.
‘So, what’s been happening?’
‘Nothing much, just some stuff at school.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘To do with one of the teachers.’
‘Eww, like a creepy teacher?’
It turns out I’m the creep.
‘No, just a misunderstanding.’
‘Did he try and touch you or something?’
‘It’s a she, not a he.’
‘Even worse.’
Yes, the public feel that way about you too. A woman killing children. Newspapers opened at breakfast tables, milk in stripy jugs curdled all around the world when it was first reported. Cereal spat out of mouths. I kick the wall with my foot. Hot molten lava bleeds inside me.
‘What’s up with you, I was only joking.’
I tell her nothing’s wrong but what I should say is: sta
y away, I don’t feel like me. Or maybe this is me, this is who I am, someone standing in front of a friend fighting the urge to do something, to cause pain so it’s shared, so it’s not just me.
She eats noisily. The crunching of the crisps, the sound pollutes the silence I need. Usually her company helps but not today. I keep thinking about the lawyers, their questions. What did you see on the night Daniel died? What happened? I saw my mother. You saw her do what?
‘Is it about your mum, is that why you’re stressed out? I saw something on the news by the way, it said she was a nurse. Fucking crazy, imagine being looked after by her.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Morgan, stop it.’
‘It might help if you talk about it, it’s not your fault she’s mental. It also said she had a kid living at home with her – if it wasn’t you, who was it? I never knew you had any brothers or sisters.’
‘I don’t.’
None that I want to talk about.
‘Who do you reckon it was at home with her then?’
I shrug. ‘I’ve asked you already, Morgan, please stop.’
Silence is better, say nothing at all. Please. Too many questions. Too many voices filling up my head. THAT’S NOT TRUE, ANNIE, IT’S ONLY MINE. The lava inside me scorches anything good or gentle along the way. I watch Morgan’s mouth move, the way she licks her lips. Eat them, eat it all up. I want her to stop talking about you.
‘My lot reckon she’ll go down for life, you’ll never see her again, which is probably just as well.’
‘Shut up, Morgan, I mean it. That’s the last time I’m going to tell you.’
‘Jesus, talk about being sensitive, she’s a fucking monster, you should be glad I hate her.’
Eats like an animal, all over her face. Her teeth and her tongue. Still talking about you, isn’t she. YES SHE IS, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? Good wolf. Bad wolf. Crunch. Crisps. Tongue. Lips. I move to diffuse the bad, tell her I’m cold, I’m going inside.
‘Why are you so angry? You don’t care about her, do you?’
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
The sandwich gets it first, smacked out of her hand, her arm next. I pin her against the wall, the place we arranged to meet no longer feels safe. I use my height, squeeze her arm with my fingers, think about what shape and colour the bruise will be.
