by Emily Gale
‘Your friend brought it over last night.’
‘Which friend?’
‘Hari. Who, by the way, is drop-dead gorgeous, if I’m allowed to say.’
‘You’re not. Wow, that was nice of her, though.’
We both look again at Mum’s self-portrait.
‘Mum. You’re so … naked.’ I try to say it kindly. ‘People will see.’
‘What will they see?’
‘Everything.’
‘It’s an image, it’s not really my breasts and vagina.’
‘Mum!’
‘What do you want me to call them? My fun bags and foo-foo?’
‘I don’t want you to call them anything,’ I laugh.
‘This is something I’ve always wanted to do. It’s my body and my art, together.’
‘And this is supposed to cheer me up about being humiliated on social media, is it?’
Mum stands between me and the canvas. ‘Don’t let them win. The bloody male gaze has been tearing us apart for centuries. But these are our bodies, our minds. They’ve got nothing on you, my darling Wren.’
She puts her arms around me and I squeeze her with all my love.
‘Okay, Mum, I’ll try.’ My voice breaks as the tears come again suddenly. ‘And just so you know, that is the best piece you’ve ever done.’
We stand there for a long time, holding each other upright.
Monday morning. My watch ticks past the final point that I can leave the house to get to school on time. It ticks past the point when they’ll ring the morning bell, and I picture everyone going off to class, making plans to meet later. It seems like a simple thing to want – to be part of that.
There are no traces of Dara in the house. No note, no parting shots, nothing left behind that she’d be tempted to come back for. Each time I hear footsteps on the street, I think it’s Dad coming home, and in a rush I gather up all the things I want to say to hurt him. But the footsteps pass and the words sink down, unused.
Since the night of the dead wattlebird, I haven’t opened my bedroom window, and it comes back to me now – the sight and smell.
Bury it.
I stride out the no-door doorway into the garden and freeze at Dad’s studio, vacant and weather-beaten. After yesterday morning, when I left Juliet and came home, I’ve imagined I can hear voices coming from it – angry shouting, Dad and a woman’s voice that I know as if it’s part of me.
Bury it.
At the side path, I turn, trying not to look directly at the bird. I kneel by the thick, empty line of soil that runs the length of the house and push my fingers into the dirt, making a deep, wide hole. Looking into the hole, my eyes start to sting, and I reach a shaking hand out towards the bird that I finally dare to look at. There are maggots all over its stomach and the heat has made it shrivel and darken. It has no eyes. I take hold of a tiny foot and pray it comes in one piece.
It’s in. I push dirt over its little body, my breath ragged, hands filthy. I pat the mound and get up on my feet again. The cat I thought was Malachite brought me that bird. All this time it’s been going between this house and Juliet’s.
There’s a tap on the side of the wall and I twist it on. Ice-cold water runs the dirt away and I keep my hands in the stream until they’re numb. I splash some on my face too. It feels like no time has passed between seeing the bird dead for the first time and washing this dirt off my hands, as if life is happening in a single moment, time shrunk to a pinpoint.
I did it. I buried it.
‘There you are.’
‘Dad!’
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Nothing. Where’ve you been?’
‘I left you a note. Just a little trip. Got a cup of tea for your dad?’
So innocent. I follow him inside, but only to give me time to get my words in place again. Standing at the kettle, I feel grim, as though a wall has been built around my heart these past few days and left Dad on the outside. As the kettle shudders towards boiling point, I start.
‘You lit that fire, Dad.’
The pause tells me everything.
‘Sorry?’ he says.
I pour the water into his cup. ‘You did it. I think that’s why you left your lighter behind.’
‘What lighter?’ he scoffs.
I stir the tea; let him stew. The truth is that Dad is a flame. People react to him in different ways if they get too close – they succumb quickly and silently like tissue paper, or they crackle and spit like wood. The end is always the same. You can’t put the fire out, so you have to get out of the house.
‘The lighter you usually take everywhere, Dad. You do bad things and then you make yourself forget that you’ve done them. It’s easier if you’re far away from any reminder. That’s why you left it here after you’d used it to light the fire.’
The chair scrapes and my toes curl inside my shoes.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says gravely.
That’s not denial.
I turn around, holding his goddamn cup of tea. ‘I know more than you think. I know about my mother.’
Dad lets out a heavy sigh, and in that moment I know exactly how he’ll try to take this out of my hands in one go, same as always. I’ve watched him turn every single relationship toxic, and I’ve listened to him blame them, and I’ve believed him.
First, he sits. He puts his hands over his face. Now Dad’s shoulders are shaking; he’s crying. It won’t work this time. In another life I’d go to him and try to give him everything he needed.
I put the tea down hard on the table and it spills over the sides. ‘I don’t think so, Dad.’
‘What?’
‘Crying? You selfish … How could you?’
He looks up at me. ‘Men do cry, you know.’
‘I know that, but it’s not your turn, Dad. It’s just not your fucking turn!’
I feel amazing, terrified. I don’t care how this ends, I’m going to have my say. The doorknocker reverberates down the hall, three loud bangs. There’s a small shadow visible in the mottled glass panel.
‘Don’t get that,’ Dad says, but I’m already on my way.
At the door is a woman in a smart blue trouser suit. She has shoulder-length brown hair with stray greys, and a bicycle helmet in her hands.
‘Adie.’
The sound comes from her lips, but it feels like it already lived inside me – a sound buried in my centre, my name said by her.
‘Adie,’ Dad says with a hard, warning tone. I look back down the hall to where he still stands in the kitchen. He doesn’t look surprised to see her. He points. ‘You’ve got no right, Tracey.’
‘I’ve got every right,’ she says. ‘If it’s okay with Adie.’
I look at this woman again. Forgetting is a survival technique, but sometimes remembering is too. I feel reassured that Juliet is a kind of go-between, linking the last time I saw this woman – my mother – to right now, even though I’m not sure how to feel about Tracey being her mum as well as mine.
‘Did you know I was here all along?’ I say.
‘I’ve known a while. But before that I thought you were both abroad. I did try to see you once I knew. But Frank … wasn’t happy for me to do that.’ She looks at him, and I follow her gaze as the small and faraway version of Dad sits down.
‘Did he stop you?’
Her careful pauses are different – as if she’s protecting me, not herself.
‘Your dad … filed a report against me. He knows how to do that because he’s had to do it before … I don’t know if you knew that.’ Her cheeks darken and her eyes dart away from mine.
‘I found out. Only recently. Why did he file another one?’ I turn to Dad again. ‘Dad? Why?’
He doesn’t even look up. I know the answer. He wanted to control things. He wanted everything his way. It’s always been his way.
‘I work at the Magistrates’ Court, so I knew straight away. And then I wasn’t sure if it
was something you had asked for.’
‘It wasn’t.’
She nods, slowly. I know her eyes.
‘I don’t want you to be hurt any more than you already have been, Adie,’ says Tracey. ‘I take responsibility.’
Not like Dad, then. I’ve never heard him take responsibility for anything. Maybe I’ll never know how it all happened. But this hurts like hell. It’s raw and confusing and it’s a mess. I’ve never let myself feel that before – or maybe I didn’t know where the pain was coming from. I’m scared it won’t stop.
She’s standing here and I have no idea what to say.
‘Adie, I’m so sorry. This isn’t coming out well. One thing I want you to know is that if I could have reached you in all these years, I would have. Another thing is that I’ve been sober for a very long time. I didn’t leave you or your dad for anybody else. That was all much later. But I do have a family now and, in my heart, you’ve always been part of it.’
I can see she’s trying to hold it together, but I’m not going to help her. I don’t know what I want.
‘Juliet didn’t tell me that you two had spoken until last night,’ she says. ‘I had some explaining to do to her. I figured you’d be here, talking it through with Frank, and I wanted to give you the space to do that first. I’m so sorry for all this, Adie. I’ve handled it badly – for you, for Juliet – which … is worse when you think that I was so determined not to mess up this chance with you. I was actually trying to do things right and I still got it wrong. I’m sorry.’ She talks with her hands. I do that too, when I’m nervous or excited. ‘I want you to know, Adie, that everything you’ve heard about me from your dad is probably true. But I promise you I am not that same person.’
There’s a noise next door as their front door opens and Piper spills out, seventy per cent backpack, followed by Tav.
‘Adie! I’m going to the zoo!’
‘Wow, lucky you. What about school?’ I say, hyping it up to hide the situation she’s burst into.
‘It’s a teacher planning day. Hello,’ she says to Tracey.
‘Oh, hi.’
‘Hey,’ says Tav, giving me a sweet sideways smile. ‘Better hurry to the train, Piper. See you, Adie.’
We’re quiet and still as they make their way down the street.
‘She reminds me of Letty,’ Tracey says, with a soft smile. ‘You were much quieter – a thinker. An artist. Do you still draw?’
It’s like a cool brushstroke down my spine, colouring me from the inside. Part of me wants to resist her.
‘I hope you do,’ she says. ‘I want to know you – everything about you – Adie. I’m so sorry I didn’t …’ She swallows, fighting something. ‘After I got well again … I wanted to …’ Find you. ‘But I kept telling myself that you were … better off …’ Without me. ‘Give me a chance, Adie,’ she whispers, holding the tears on the rims of her eyes, trying not to spill them.
I turn my head to find that the kitchen is empty. Dad’s gone to his studio. Of course he has.
It comes to me so easily. This isn’t just about what I need to know about back then. It’s wanting to be known, now, in the only way that matters.
I’ve been cyber-digging for twenty-four hours, stopping briefly to go home, eat, sleep and walk back to school. I head immediately for the same spot in the library. Before carrying on, I email the head of year, Mrs Williams, to tell her I’m having a hard time and need to work in the library instead of going to class. For a moment I feel guilty about implying that the reason I need to be excused is because I’m autistic, but that moment passes pretty quickly, considering all the work I have to do on a daily basis to pretend I’m not. These are special circumstances.
I’m not really a hacker, so I’ve been focusing on forming a picture of all the people who have been early commenters on the videos, as I figure these are the people in the know. Some of them leave easy trails and I’ve managed to track the core commenters to three local schools. I’ve found their Facebook pages. Some of them I recognise as being in Ben’s gang. But what I really want is to narrow it down to the person who started it.
‘Hey, stranger.’ It’s Wren.
‘You’re at school.’
‘Yeah, I missed Carole too much. What are you doing hiding back here?’
I don’t want to tell her. Because then she’ll know I’ve seen the video of her. And I don’t want to speak to her. Because I’m angry. I haven’t sorted through any of my thoughts – I have to stay focused. ‘I’m doing an essay. Could use some privacy.’
‘Okay. Suspicious, but your business. When can we talk? Things have been … weird between us.’
‘Not now.’ I really need her to go. I’m getting stressed out again. Everything has to be done in the right order. ‘I need to get this work done.’
‘Later, then?’
I say nothing, returning to the screen, and soon I hear the familiar tread of Wren’s big boots as she walks away. Some indeterminable time later, new footsteps arrive. Juliet puts her bag down and leans against the wall next to me. I don’t stop what I’m doing.
‘I thought you’d be in here. Heard about your little sister. Is she okay?’
‘Not really.’
‘No, stupid question. So have you found those arseholes yet?’
‘How’d you know that’s what I was doing?’ I look up at her. She shrugs. ‘You look tired, Juliet.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘I meant it nicely. Is there something wrong?’
‘Another time. Come on, show me what you’re up to.’
‘I’m an amateur. I’ve done some cyber-digging based on people who’ve left comments, but I can’t find the main source.’
‘So it’s just endless videos of girls, including primary schoolkids? That has to be illegal.’
‘It breaks a lot of laws. The police are onto it for sure. Firstly, some are underage. Secondly, some of the videos look like they were taken without consent, and with all the comments it amounts to cyberbullying. But they have to find the source. That’s what’s so difficult. The internet is a lawless place because it’s so easy to hide.’
‘You’re a genius on computers, Milo. Remember how, in primary school, they always used to say there was an IT expert, but it was always you they’d ask to fix the problems?’
‘Wasn’t his name Steve Stephens? No student believed he existed because we never saw him – not once in seven years – even though there was a photo of him outside the office. And also because he had a name like someone had made it up on the spot in a blind panic.’
We laugh together. It’s easier – being with Juliet – than I thought.
‘I just want to do something,’ I say.
‘It’ll come to you, I know it.’
Late morning, students are called to a number of different assemblies. I figure it’s about Flare, so I leave my post and go to the Performance Hall, where boys in Years Ten to Twelve have been called. Girls in the same years file into Kirkpatrick Hall.
The talk is pretty much what I expected, about respect and the permanence of the internet, about reputation and rights. I look around and realise I could never figure out who in this room thinks that what happened is all right. Who looked at the videos? Who obtained some of them? Who thinks this speech is bullshit?
Afterwards, I walk across the quadrangle to the east wing of the school. There’s a sudden commotion as girls start piling out of Kirkpatrick Hall.
‘Shame on you!’ Hari shouts, pointing her finger back inside. ‘The problem isn’t girls!’
There’s lots of shouting now as Hari leads the way, closely followed by her friends, including Wren, and a crowd loudly making their way towards the main building.
Juliet appears beside me, and we watch the procession together.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘They gave us a lecture on how to behave online. The dangers, what police can and can’t do to help once stuff gets out there. But the way they did it – b
etween you, me and the gatepost, Milo – was ill-advised.’
‘What was wrong with how they did it?’
‘They made it sound like it was our fault. What we wear, how we act, taking too many selfies, all that. As if girls bring it upon themselves and only our actions can change things.’
‘Wow. Such a bad take. Why would the school say that?’
‘No one’s immune to error. This isn’t just kids being stupid, it’s about the whole system.’
We peer into the gloom of Kirkpatrick Hall and see four teachers on the stage having an argument. And now the east wing of the school rings out with a solid chant: The problem isn’t girls. The problem isn’t girls. The problem isn’t girls.
‘So Hari’s the leader of the revolution?’ I say.
‘She’s amazing.’
‘How come you’re not marching off with them?’
Juliet shakes her head and looks down. ‘I don’t really know how to make myself a part of things.’
We get jostled from behind by a big group.
‘Didn’t notice you on the sluts account, fatty,’ one of them yells as they go past Juliet.
Between us, now, there’s a kind of force field preventing us from making eye contact. What makes people like that hate people like her and me?
‘Juliet?’
‘Yes, Milo?’
‘I was thinking about what you just said – that no one’s immune to error. You’ve given me an idea. Something that will make sure the message gets out to thousands of people and doesn’t become yesterday’s news. Will you help me?’
Juliet and I leave school as soon as the afternoon bell goes. We’ve got an appointment round the back of the 7-Eleven on the high street.
Luca’s already there when we arrive, and he launches straight into a conversation, which unnerves me because I had a whole speech prepared.
‘Have you seen Hari? I got a whole angry stream-of-consciousness via text a few hours ago –’ He scrolls through his phone, as if confirming to himself that this actually happened, but doesn’t show me. ‘Since then, nothing.’
