by Cat Clarke
Cass texts me later: Soooooo bored! When u coming over?
It’s easier for me to go rather than have to explain why I don’t want to. Not sure that my reasons would go down too well … I’m kind of knackered cos a dead girl keeps hounding me. You see, she wants to find out exactly why she died and for some reason she wants me to talk to you about it and I really REALLY don’t want to.
So I hop on the tube and arrive at Cass’s just as they’re clearing away dinner. Her brother is home from uni for the weekend. I used to have the biggest crush on Matt, but I never told Cass. She’d have taken the piss something chronic. Anyway, the crush has faded now. He smells funny, and I don’t like the way he looks at me. He leers. I’m pretty sure he never used to leer.
Cass drags me up to her room and launches into a full-on tirade about how annoying her brothers are and how she can’t wait to leave home and how she can’t wait for Matt to go back to uni tomorrow and why does he have to come home so often anyway. I’m semi-sympathetic. Three brothers is really more than anyone should have to cope with. Tom’s OK though – as far as I can tell he hardly ever leaves his room. And Jeremy is cute as anything. But he won’t be six years old forever. It’s only a matter of time before he grows into a big stinking leering oaf like Matt. Still, I wouldn’t mind having at least one annoying sibling to keep me company sometimes. There will be no one to make a speech like Jack’s at my funeral. Jack. I wonder if I should tell Cass about Jack.
I tune back in and Cass is moaning about dirty pants on the bathroom floor and burping at the dinner table.
‘Ha! You can talk … you’re hardly the Queen of Hygiene yourself.’
She throws a pillow at my head. ‘Shut it, you. You don’t know what it’s like. I could kill them sometimes.’
We’re both silent for a second.
‘So … anyway, what have you been up to since yesterday?’
‘Nothing much. Dad keeps watching me. I think he’s waiting for me to have some kind of breakdown. And he made me eat a fried breakfast AND roast chicken for lunch.’ And by the way, Dead Tara told me to ask you about the night she died.
‘God, your dad’s such a feeder. Still, I reckon you could do with some more meat on your bones.’
I throw the pillow back at Cass, but it misses and knocks a picture frame off her bedside table. Cass picks up the frame and sets in back in place. It’s a photo of me and her taken a couple of years ago on a school trip to France. We’re eating gigantic ice creams and we’re both sticking our tongues out. You can see other people in the background. Tara’s there, her perfect profile visible over my shoulder.
I have to tell Cass, even though I know exactly what she’ll say. ‘Jack called. He wants to talk to me about it.’
‘Jack? Who’s … what? Her brother?’ I’ve noticed that Cass doesn’t like using Tara’s name these days. As if it makes a difference. I’m tempted to remind Cass that Tara is/was not Lord Voldemort. But maybe she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, and maybe it doesn’t matter if it makes her feel better.
‘Yeah. He called me earlier. He wants to meet up on Tuesday.’
‘You’re not going to? Are you?’ Cass is horrified.
‘I … I don’t know. I said yes, but …’
‘You can’t! Have you lost your fucking mind?’
‘No, but … I couldn’t say no to him.’
‘Why not?! It’s not hard. Tell him you don’t think you can talk about it. You’re traumatized. Yeah, no one can argue with that.’
‘Don’t you think he deserves … ?’
‘Deserves what? To know the truth? You have lost your mind, haven’t you? How many times am I going to have to say this to you: no one can find out what happened. No one. You KNOW that, don’t you? If anyone finds out, we’ll be in deep, deep shit. They’re not going to say, “Oh, it’s OK. We understand it was an accident and you were scared and panicked and did the wrong thing.” We’ll go to prison. All of us. For God’s sake, Alice. I can’t believe you’re even considering this.’
I’m stunned by her viciousness. I know it’s driven by fear, but it’s still horrible to see her face all twisted up. I can feel the tears start to well up. I can’t help it. ‘I … wasn’t going to tell him anything. I would never do that.’
Her face softens. ‘Alice, we have to be careful. If you talk to Jack, you might let something slip by mistake. We have to be on our guard all the time, at least until all the fuss dies down. I really, really don’t think you should do this.’
‘I don’t think he’s going to interrogate me or anything. Maybe he’s got no one else to talk to.’
‘But why does it have to be you? Of all people?’
‘Because he knows I was in Tara’s cabin? Because I used to be friends with her, I don’t know. I think I owe it to him to at least talk to him. It seems like the least I can do, after—’
‘It was an accident, remember?’ I swear, if I hear Cass say the word accident one more time … It’s been her mantra since it happened. She holds onto it like a life raft in a storm.
‘It was still our fault. And we could have told the truth about what happened. We should have told the truth.’ She knows how I feel, and I know how she feels, and we’re so utterly opposed that I wonder how things can ever be the same between us. How can we possibly get back to normal after something like this? We don’t deserve normal.
Cass sighs and flops back on the bed. ‘Let’s not talk about it any more. I can’t have this conversation again. You do what you want. Talk to Jack, whatever. Just be careful, OK?’
We sit in silence for a while. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was going to bail on Jack anyway. But now I’m not. Telling Cass has made me absolutely certain that talking to him is the right thing to do. I’m not stupid enough to think it’ll make up for what happened, not even a little bit. But somehow I’ve got to get back on track. Back to who I am. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who does the right thing – or at least tries to.
I really hope I can be that person again one day.
4
Jack’s due any minute. I’m early, of course. I’m sitting in some little coffee shop that I’ve never noticed before even though I must have walked past it a thousand times.
I order a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows; it’s sweet and creamy. The door chimes every time someone leaves or enters, and I look up every time. Half expecting Cass to storm in and drag me out by my hair. But I managed to successfully evade her in the chaos at the end of the school day. And I didn’t tell her where I was meeting Jack, thank God.
I check my watch; he’s late. I gulp down my hot chocolate before it turns into cold chocolate. I wipe my mouth extra-carefully, and resist (with difficulty) the temptation to nip to the loos to check myself out in the mirror. This isn’t a date, remember? In fact, it’s the exact opposite of a date, if that’s even possible.
I study the menu, even though I’ve already done that for a good five minutes or so. Then the door chimes again and there he is. He’s wearing his school uniform, but he wears it well. The top button of his shirt is undone and his tie is loose. A messenger bag slung over his shoulders and black Converse on his feet. He scans the room and smiles when he spots me.
‘Alice, hi. Thanks for coming.’ Instead of sitting opposite, Jack sits next to me. The waitress appears from nowhere and he orders a black coffee, and another hot chocolate for me before I can protest. My stomach hurts.
‘So … how are you doing?’ For a second I think he’s going to touch my arm, but he doesn’t. Instead, he rests his hand near my elbow on the table.
‘I … How are you doing?’
‘OK, I suppose.’ He rubs his face. ‘I’m glad the funeral’s over with. I was dreading it.’
‘Your speech was lovely.’
He grins. ‘Really? Thanks. Dad didn’t think so. He was all “Why did you say those things about Tara? You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” He thought it was completely inappropriate.’ The
grin dials down to nothing. ‘I suppose I can hardly blame him though. It’s not the way he wants Tara to be remembered.’
‘Things must be difficult at home right now …’
Jack shrugs. ‘Mum spends most of her time in Tara’s room, staring into space. Tara had this hoodie that she wore round the house all the time, and Mum sits with it on her lap.’ I haven’t seen Tara in a hoodie for years. The image of Tara’s mum fills me up with a sadness that seeps into every corner of me. I fill in the extra details myself: raindrops drizzling down the window, tears drizzling down her face, Jack watching from the doorway.
‘And Dad’s not much better – just different. I can’t seem to do anything right at the moment as far as he’s concerned. I try to stay out of his way as much as I can.’
‘I can’t even imagine what it must be like.’
‘Your mum … she died, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ What else is there to say?
‘So you kind of know what it’s like, don’t you?’ NO! I want to scream. That was different.
I say it gently. ‘That was different. She was ill for a long time. In the end it was almost a relief.’ This is a lie. Even though I knew how much pain she was in, I still begged her not to leave me. It haunts me nearly every day.
This time Jack reaches out for my hand, and we sit in silence for a little while. I like the way it feels: my hand feels warm and safe, and the rest of me would like to feel that way too. It doesn’t feel weird or strange or embarrassing like I would have imagined (if I could ever have imagined such a thing happening to me).
Jack’s phone rings and he lets go of my hand to retrieve it from his pocket. I wonder how long we would have sat like that if we hadn’t been interrupted.
Jack looks hard at the display on his phone, before sighing. ‘Sorry, Alice. I’ve got to take this.’ He half turns away from me, pointlessly trying to shield me from the call. ‘Hello? Yes, I’ll be home for dinner … I’m at Freddie’s. Yes … OK … Right. Look, Dad, I’ve got to go … Yes. Before seven, I promise.’ He disconnects the call with another sigh, deeper and longer than the first. He looks exhausted – weighed down with it all.
‘Sorry about that. He wants to know where I am twenty-four hours a day. It’s starting to drive me up the wall. He never used to bother where I was from one day to the next, not like with Tara. She always had to tell him where she was going and who with and when she’d be back.’ I find this hard to believe; Tara always gave the impression she could pretty much do whatever she wanted. ‘I was allowed to just get on with things. Dad always said it was different for boys. Tara hated it. But it’s different now. I’m gonna have to say something if he doesn’t stop it soon. It’s not as if I’m going to go and drown in some loch, is it?’
He registers the shock on my face and winces. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Got to stop feeling sorry for myself.’ He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work out for him. More than anything I want to reach out for his hand, but I would never do something like that.
‘So … do you think you could tell me about the trip?’ I knew this was coming, but it still feels like all the air has been sucked out from my lungs with a turbo-boosted vacuum cleaner. I want to run away and hide and never come back. But I nod.
‘I know it must be hard for you, but I just want to know about … her last few days, you know? I need to know.’
One last try to get out of this: ‘Have you tried talking to Danni or Sam or Gemma?’
‘I learned not to waste time talking to those bitches a long time ago. No. You’re the one, Alice.’ My heart thuddunks inside my chest, even though I know he doesn’t mean I’m the one. Because that would be ridiculous: we hardly know each other, and even if we did, there is precisely no chance that I would be the one.
Jack’s eyes are intense. I can’t look away; I don’t want to look away. ‘You’re the only one I trust to tell me the truth.’
I can barely speak or think or do anything, but somehow I manage to choke out a few words. ‘Where do you want me start?’
‘How about at the beginning?’ His smile is encouraging.
So I think back to that first day, setting off in the darkness. None of us had any idea that we were heading into a nightmare.
I start to talk and talk and talk – editing myself as I go.
Here’s what actually happened.
This is not what I tell Jack.
5
None of us was looking forward to the trip. It wasn’t skiing in Austria, or checking out the sights in Brittany. It was Scotland. Doing outdoors stuff in Scotland. An adventure holiday, for Christ’s sake.
Abseiling and caving and orienteering in the rain. I was not a happy bunny. I tried to wheedle my way out of it, but Dad wouldn’t listen. He thought it would be good for me. ‘Life is all about new experiences.’ Thanks, Dad. I got a new experience all right.
Seems like most of the other parents thought the same thing: it would be good for their little darlings to get out of the big bad city and explore the great outdoors. Still, I was surprised that Tara and her sidekicks had signed up. These were not the kind of girls who did things they didn’t want to do. But it was an opportunity to get away from the parentals for a week, and who’d turn that down? (Apart from me, that is. I actually quite like spending time with Dad. When he’s not watching me, hawk-style.)
The coach set off before dawn. A nine-hour journey. I don’t like long journeys – never have. I used to get sick just going along the motorway to see Uncle Joe. In our family, no journey was undertaken without several plastic bags in Mum’s handbag, just in case. Weirdly, I stopped getting carsick after she died. But I still have to be careful on long journeys and sit in the front seat, sipping water all the way, no reading.
I felt sorry for Cass having to sit next to me. I wasn’t exactly chatty. Just wanted to close my eyes and go to sleep until it was over. Except I can’t sleep on any journey; I can’t really sleep anywhere but my own bed. And now I can’t even sleep there.
Cass was the one person who wasn’t completely hating the idea of what was to come. All that being active sort of stuff comes naturally to her. Cass is mega-sporty. She’s on the hockey team, she does athletics AND she’s in the swimming club. God knows where she finds the energy. Organized sport is just so … blah. If I’m going to exercise, I prefer to do it alone so that other people are spared the gasping and general ineptitude. But not Cass – she’s up for any sport (except for netball, which is another thing she thinks is beyond pathetic). Plus she was glad to get away from her brothers for a while.
The journey seemed never-ending. I was glad we were sitting near the front. Near the teachers. The back of the bus was Tara territory. I knew what it’d be like: Gemma, Sam and Danni hanging on her every word, laughing at things that weren’t funny. Well, that’s not exactly fair – Tara was funny. Mean, but funny. Unless her humour was at your expense, in which case it was just … horrible.
It was Miss Daley’s first school trip. She’d bought a new Berghaus fleece just for the occasion. Shame she’d forgotten to take the price tag off. I was worried that Tara (+3) would eat her for breakfast, so I leaned over and told her. She blushed something fierce and thanked me. Cass didn’t look impressed. Being nice to teachers is not a quality Cass appreciates in a best friend.
I wondered how old Daley was, and if she’d always wanted to be a teacher. When she was our age did she dream of supervising a bunch of over-educated, over-privileged teenage girls on a trip to deepest, darkest Scotland? Or maybe she wanted to be a doctor, or a rock star or a housewife? I finally settled on the idea that she’d wanted to be a writer, but being an English teacher was the next best thing. Maybe she taps away at her laptop late into the night, long after she’s finished marking our essays. Maybe she sips a glass of Pinot Grigio and dreams of the day she can give it all up and write full-time. Or maybe my imagination just runs away from me sometimes.
About three hours into the journey, Polly Su
tcliffe came and asked Daley when we’d be stopping at a service station. Daley told her we’d be stopping in an hour or so, and asked if she’d forgotten to bring any food.
Polly shook her head, embarrassed. ‘No, I’ve got food. Um … Tara just wanted to know.’
‘Well, if Tara wanted to know, then Tara could have got up off her backside and come to ask me herself, couldn’t she?’
Cass and I smirked at each other.
Polly blushed. ‘Oh I don’t mind. I fancied stretching my legs anyway.’ Yeah, right. She scurried back up the aisle.
It was hard not to feel sorry for Polly. But it was just as hard to be entirely sympathetic. Polly had never been popular. She wasn’t one of the pretty girls or one of the sporty girls or even one of the super-brainy girls. Not that I was, either. But Polly was just there. On the edge of things, without any real friends. She got nasty bouts of eczema from time to time, which made her even more awkward and self-conscious.
Whenever Polly was around, I felt bad. Like I should try and be her friend because no one else would. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. We probably didn’t have anything in common anyway. I was a coward. Everyone knows that your friends reflect on you, and I was worried about people lumping me in with Polly – one of the Untouchables. I’d been there before.
At least I tried to be nice to her. I smiled and said hello in the corridors, which is more than most of the others did. I let her borrow my notes when she was off sick that time last year. But that was as far as I was willing to go. And if I’m honest, Polly made me feel slightly uncomfortable. She was always watching. You’d be chatting and having a laugh in the canteen or the common room or the courtyard, and then you’d look round and there she’d be, sitting in a corner – watching … listening. It was as if she could blend in with her surroundings somehow and I was the only one who noticed. Sometimes I wondered if she was studying for some kind of How-To-Be-A-Normal-Teenage-Girl test. And then I’d feel mean and think that she was only watching because that was all that they (we) allowed her to do. She was not allowed in.
