by Cat Clarke
torn
CAT CLARKE
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Quercus
21 Bloomsbury Square
London
WC1A 2NS
Copyright © Cat Clarke, 2011
The moral right of Cat Clarke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN 978 1 78087 528 6
Print ISBN 978 0 85738 205 4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
torn
Cat Clarke was born in Zambia and brought up in Scotland and Yorkshire, which has given her an accent that tends to confuse people. Cat has written non-fiction books about exciting things like cowboys, sharks and pirates, and now writes YA novels, usually about teenagers being mean to each other. Her first novel, Entangled, was published by Quercus in 2011.
Praise for Entangled
‘Moving, thought-provoking, and truly gripping from start to finish’ Mizz
‘It isn’t often you race through a book because you are desperate for the denouement, the truth … incredibly poignant and thought-provoking’ Birmingham Post
‘A fascinating and exciting read’ Belfast Newsletter
‘Grace’s story is told with warmth, sensitivity and humour’ School Librarian
‘A most accomplished and daring debut’ Books for Keeps
Also by Cat Clarke
ENTANGLED
For Dad, with heaps of love and a great deal of respect.
You really are quite marvellous, you know.
1
A funeral without a body is like a wedding without a bride. Or a groom.
Except this isn’t officially a funeral – it’s a memorial service. Instead of a coffin, there’s an easel with a huge photo. She looks pretty. Hopeful, even.
The church is jam-packed. People standing at the back, craning their necks to get a good look at the family. There were even photographers outside when we arrived. It’s a zoo. A snivelling, wailing zoo. Not that I can talk – I’ve been snivelling too. Dad pressed a hanky into my hand as soon as we got here. Now it’s sodden and snotty, so I’m guessing he won’t want it back.
No one’s wearing black. Black is officially banned. Apparently she used to joke about her funeral, saying she hoped everyone would wear crazy neons and wave glow-sticks around. Well, no neons as such, but I did manage to pour myself into my purple skinny jeans (what was I thinking?).
Sometimes I used to imagine my own funeral. It was nothing like this. And it certainly didn’t involve the school choir singing ‘Keep Holding On’ by Avril bloody Lavigne. Polly Sutcliffe is centre stage. New haircut. Highlights too. She manages to get through most of the first verse before dissolving into tears. Real, actual tears, just like the ones I’ve been crying for days and days.
Tears of shock.
Tears of sadness.
Tears of guilt.
School has been weird since it happened. It’s all anyone can talk about. The first day back, every teacher said a few words about her at the start of each lesson. Some were more convincing than others. Miss Daley hadn’t even known her – not really – but you could tell she was genuinely upset.
Daley arrived at the start of the school year, fresh and new and vulnerable, a tiny bird-lady with I’m a newly qualified teacher, please take advantage of me tattooed on her forehead. So we did what we always do – try to find a weakness, see how far we can push her, wondering if she’ll cry if we take things a little too far. But she held up pretty well. She took everything we could throw at her – even Tara’s major attitude.
I keep looking over at Cass; I can’t help it. She’s picking cat hairs off her skirt, like she always does when she’s bored. Except Cass hardly ever wears skirts. Her mum must have talked her into it. Looks like she’s had a haircut too. It seems like everyone’s got spruced up for the occasion. I catch Cass’s eye and she half waves in my direction. I shake my head, just a tiny bit so no one else will notice. She shrugs and goes back to grooming her clothes. Jesus.
I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s not crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry. Not even when Boots Mark 3 got run over last summer. And Boots Mark 3 was her favourite of all the Bootses. Boots Mark 4 isn’t quite matching up, apparently. He’s certainly hairier than the last one. I try to steer clear, since I’m sort of allergic to cats. Not properly – just enough to make my face itch when I’m around them.
Cass prides herself on being strong. She thinks girls who cry all the time are pathetic. Crying at the end of a Disney film? Pathetic. Crying because the boy you fancy doesn’t even know you exist? Pathetic. The entire school crying on and off for the past couple of weeks? Pathetic pathetic pathetic.
Luckily she makes an exception for me. I’m allowed to cry whenever I want, and she’ll do anything she can to cheer me up. Which usually involves making me laugh. She can always make me laugh. It’s one of my favourite things about her. Although I hate it when she does it on purpose when I’ve got a mouthful of orange juice or something. That’s just cruel.
The singing is over, thank God. I check the order of service: a reading by the three witches. Of course it doesn’t actually say ‘witches’, but that’s what Cass calls them. They’re not that bad – individually, at least. Just normal girls: Gemma, Danni and Sam. But put them together and they transform into something bigger, something badder. And if you add their fearless leader into the mix, they mutate into a multi-headed monster of popularity. A monster that teachers love, for some inexplicable reason. A monster that boys love even more, for very obvious reasons. A monster that the rest of us bow down to – out of fear mostly, but also a kind of grudging respect. And jealousy.
But their fearless leader is no more.
The reading is surprising – a passage from one of her favourite books, apparently. A book I bought for her, a long time ago.
Dad whispers in my ear, ‘Remember when I used to read this to you?’
I nod. Something tightens in my throat.
The witches get through it without the usual hair-flicking and pouting. Waterproof mascara was invented for days like this. I want to look over at Cass, but I don’t. She’ll probably be smirking and I couldn’t bear that.
A boy stands up from the front row. Messy brown hair and sloping shoulders. He slowly makes his way to the lectern and takes a rumpled piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. He clears his throat and looks at us. His gaze roams the pews, not even pausing when it meets mine. It’s five years since I last saw him. He’s not a skinny little boy in too-big clothes any more. He’s an almost-man. Jack.
‘I’d like to thank you all for coming today. It means a lot to me and my family. I wish Tara could be here to see how much everyone loved her.’ He smiles a tiny smile at the thought, and I do too. He looks down at the paper in his hands and everyone can see that he’s shaking, trying to hold it together. He scrunches the paper into a ball and continues, ‘Tara was the most annoying sister in the world.’ Some people are shocked and frowning a bit; Cass looks interested. I’m definitely interested.
‘I mean it. She drove me mental. She never let me have the remote control. She used to borrow my iPod without asking – and then I’d find it lying around with the battery run down. She listened in on my phone conversations and read my text messages. And she took the piss out of me all the time. She could rip me to shreds in any argument … and then she’d go running to Mum about it, saying that I was being mean and picking on her. She could wrap people around her little finger just like that.’ He snaps his fingers. People don’t know how to take this. It’s brilliant.
‘Tara was the best sister in the world. She used to bring me tomato soup and toast when I wasn’t feeling well. And she’d make sure the butter went right to the edges too. She taught me to always say “no” when a girl asks if her bum looks big. She covered for me when I got wasted and was sick on the hall carpet – blamed the dog. Sorry, Mum. And sorry, Rufus.’ Most people laugh – a muted, funereal sort of laugh.
‘Tara was there for me whenever I needed someone to talk to. She didn’t always say what I wanted to hear, but she was always honest. Totally, absolutely, brutally honest. The last thing she said to me was, “Get a haircut – you look ridiculous.”’ Jack laughs and runs his hand through his hair. I don’t think he looks ridiculous.
‘My sister was my very favourite person and I will miss her every day for the rest of my life. Now I’ve got the remote control whenever I want it and my iPod’s always fully charged. But I just want my sister back. And that’s not going to happen.’ His voice cracks at the end, and he rushes back to his seat.
I’m finding it hard to breathe. I close my eyes and try to think of something else – anything else. It’s useless. All I can think about is a brother grieving for his sister. And never knowing the truth.
Please, God, let this be over soon. I shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here. Rae had the right idea. But then it’s easy for her. She can get away with not turning up. She just has to play the depressed emo-girl card. The rest of us aren’t so lucky.
Mrs Flanagan makes a speech. She talks about a Tara I don’t recognize. A shining star … always ready with a smile … helping others … a tribute to her school and her family … we’re lucky to have known her … she’ll be missed by each and every one of us.
Why does being dead automatically make you a good person? Can’t anyone see the truth? Tara clearly had Mrs Flanagan fooled. But then, she always did know how to handle teachers. They thought she was wonderful. The only one who ever seemed to have the measure of her was Daley. She wouldn’t let Tara have her way just because she was Tara. It was like she arrived at Bransford Academy and no one had bothered to tell her the golden rule: Tara Chambers is God.
Daley stood up to her that first day of the trip. She didn’t let Tara have her own way. Any other teacher would have backed down – Tara could be very persuasive. But Daley stood firm.
If only she’d let Tara have her way.
A couple more songs, a few words from the vicar, then it’s over. We shuffle out of the church to the sounds of a piano playing a song that sounds familiar. It takes me a moment or two to place it: ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen. Except this version is orchestral and really slow. What a weird choice. Probably something else Tara joked about when she assumed that her funeral was a long way in the future.
It’s good to get outside, to breathe again. Dad’s arm hangs loosely across my shoulders.
‘How you doing, kiddo? I know that must have been hard for you.’
He’s been asking me this a lot since I got back. I think he’s worried it’s making me think about Mum. And it is. But Mum’s death was very, very different.
I smile weakly at him. ‘Yeah, I’m OK, I think. Thanks.’
He gathers me in a massive bear hug – his speciality. ‘I think you’re being really brave. I’m so proud of you.’
I feel sick but somehow manage to reply, ‘Thanks, Dad. Listen, I’m going to find Cass. See you at the car in a few minutes?’
He nods and wanders off.
I scan the crowd looking for Cass. Stephanie de Luca is blowing her nose in a rather unattractive fashion. Her dad’s suit is so shiny it almost blinds me, and her mum’s hair is a black that’s far from natural. A couple of photographers are milling around looking shifty. I keep well clear. I veer past Polly, who’s huddled with a woman scribbling in a tiny notepad. Can’t help but overhear a few words. ‘Of course, we’re all devastated. It’s been such a shock.’
‘And were you particularly close to Tara?’
‘Well … yes. We all were, really. Tara was incredibly popular.’
Good grief.
A voice from behind hisses in my ear. ‘Can you believe her? What the hell is she playing at?’
I turn around. ‘I have no earthly idea. She must have lost her mind.’
Cass and I head towards a couple of tumbledown gravestones, away from the crowd.
‘So … what did you think?’
‘Of what?’
‘Er … the saintification of Miss Chambers? Interesting, no?’
‘Cass! The girl is dead. It’s not funny.’
‘I know. Sorry. It’s just weird, that’s all.’
Part of me agrees with her, but anger flares inside me all the same. ‘There’s nothing weird about it. Jesus, Cass! Don’t you feel sad? Don’t you feel anything?!’
I can tell I’ve gone too far, because she looks angry. And Cass never gets angry with me.
‘Of course I feel sad! But there’s nothing I can do about it. Just cos I choose not to wallow in it, doesn’t mean I’m not upset! Stop telling me how I should be feeling, OK?’
For a second there I thought she was going to cry. But of course she doesn’t. I still feel bad though. ‘I’m sorry. I just … don’t think you should joke about this.’
She shrugs and the anger is gone. ‘You’re right. Listen, I have to go. Somehow I’ve been roped into helping at Jeremy’s party. Twenty hyperactive six-year-olds running riot in Pizza Express – nightmare or what?’
I hug her goodbye, and I bet we look the same as any of the other multicoloured mourners. Clinging to each other for comfort. Wondering how such a terrible thing could have happened to someone so young. But we know.
We know.
On my way to the car I see Tara’s brother. He’s sitting on the wall of the churchyard all by himself. He looks up just as I’m passing, and I’m sure that he’s going to say something and I don’t want him to. I really don’t want him to. What am I supposed to say? It sucks about your sister being dead. He probably doesn’t even remember me anyway.
An enormous woman swoops on Jack at that very moment. No – she doesn’t swoop, she envelops him. She’s wearing what appears to be a psychedelic tent. Jack disappears entirely in her embrace. Lucky escape for me.
Dad’s having a sneaky fag, leaning on the bonnet of the car. As soon as he scopes me he drops the butt, grinds it underfoot and pops a mint into his mouth. We’ve come to an uneasy understanding about the smoking. He’s allowed to do it as long as I’m not around. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to smell it, I don’t want to think about the state of his tar-stained lungs. If what happened to Mum didn’t make him stop, nothing will. I’ll let him off this time; I suppose the funeral was pretty stressful.
I crank up the volume on the stereo as soon as we’re out of the car park. The music helps to clear everything out of my head. But then Dad has to go and turn it down again.
‘So … how are you feeling?’
Not again. Please, not again. ‘Fine, thanks.’ I reach for the volume button, but I’m not fast enough.
‘Her poor parents. They must be going through hell. I managed to have a quick word with Bob. Gave him our condolences. He looks … lost.’
Stop it stop it stop it. Please. ‘I thought Jack did so well, keeping it together like that. I can’t believe how much he’s grown up! Last time I saw him he was a right scrawny little bugger.’ He trails off into silence.
I have nothing to say, but I know he’s waiting. Just try. Say something – anything will do. Here goes …
‘Yeah.’ Perfect. Non-committal. You can’t read anything into a yeah, can you?
It seems to do the job. Dad carries on talking, and I carry on staring out of the window. From time to time I nod or say yes or no or whatever single word is required of me. Dad doesn’t seem to notice that he’s essentially talking to himself. Or maybe he notices but lets me get away with it because of the circumstances. I am supposed to be traumatized, after all.
There was a special session after school last week for the parents of the girls who were on the trip. Dad told me all about it afterwards. There was a psychologist who specializes in post-traumatic stress, talking about all the different ways this stress could manifest itself. Apparently ‘there’s no right or wrong way to grieve’. I’d have to disagree with that. Writing ‘I misssss u so much. Ur in a betta place now. xoxo’ on Tara’s Facebook page pretty much sums up the wrong way to grieve as far as I’m concerned. There are also two ‘R.I.P. Tara Chambers’ pages on Facebook. One of them only has nine ‘likes’, but the other has 452 and counting. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ll probably become number 453. I wouldn’t want anyone to notice my absence.
I couldn’t believe my ears when Dad came home spouting all that psychobabble bullshit. He’s always going on about psychologists/counsellors/therapists being a waste of space. But for some reason this situation has changed his mind. Maybe he’s wondering just how much death his little girl is going to have to deal with before her eighteenth birthday.
Bruno’s waiting for us at the front door and I grab him and bury my face in his fur. I breathe deeply, pathetically grateful for his warm, comforting dogginess. It’s over. The worst is over now. I got through it.
I take the stairs two at a time, desperate to take off these ridiculous jeans, which are (let’s face it) too small for me. Bruno overtakes me and I know I’ll find him on the bed, begging to have his belly rubbed.
