by Cat Clarke
‘There’s going to be a special assembly this afternoon. Everyone else will be told then. We just thought that you girls should know now. After what you went through together in Scotland, I thought … you might have become close to Rae. Now, can you tell me who else she was friends with? None of the teachers seems to know.’
The other two look at me. ‘I … um … Rae didn’t really have many friends. I mean, she probably had friends outside of school that we don’t know about.’
Polly chips in, ‘She kept herself to herself really.’ This pisses me right off. It’s the kind of thing you hear on the news when some old lady’s being interviewed because her apparently normal neighbour has just massacred a bunch of people. But Rae did keep herself to herself. I genuinely thought she preferred listening to music to talking to people. Well, if I’m completely honest, I never really gave Rae much thought at all up until the Scotland trip. Or after, for that matter. I never even thought to check how she was doing. Maybe there’s something I could have done. Maybe I’m kidding myself.
I think Daley is going to cry over the thought of Rae not having any friends, but she manages to get a grip. ‘Right, I’ve got a meeting with Mrs Flanagan now. You girls can stay here as long as you like. All your teachers have been informed. If any of you wants to talk about anything, you know where I am.’ She hovers for a second or two, and I’m sure she’s going to hug each of us. Luckily she comes to her senses and settles for a watery smile mostly aimed in my direction.
I think Cass sums up the situation perfectly as soon as the door closes behind Daley. ‘Shit.’
33
Polly moves from her radiator perch to sit behind Daley’s desk. I let my head fall forward onto the desk in front of me. Cass swears under her breath.
‘I can’t believe she actually did it.’ Polly sounds a bit in awe. Which is more than a little bit disturbing.
‘What do you mean?’ My voice is slightly muffled by the desk.
‘I thought she was joking.’
I don’t like what I’m hearing.
‘You talked to her about this?’ Cass sounds as incredulous as I feel.
There’s no answer, so I can only assume that Polly shrugged or something. I really should get my head off the desk and see what’s going on. But I don’t want to look at these people. I’m afraid of what I’ll see in their faces.
‘Since when were you such good friends with Rae?’ asks Cass.
‘I’m not. I wasn’t. We talked sometimes. About … you know.’ Of course we know.
‘And she said she was thinking about topping herself?’ I wish Cass would choose her words more carefully.
There’s a pause and I wonder if Polly is working out how much to reveal.
‘She thought we should go to the police. I managed to talk her out of it, thank God.’
‘And now she’s dead.’ I finally manage to look up to find Polly staring right at me.
‘Yes, she’s dead. Don’t look at me like that, Alice. It’s not my fault.’
I sigh. ‘I didn’t say it was your fault. I wish there was something we could have done, that’s all. This whole situation is completely out of control. Maybe we should go to the police. Maybe Rae was right.’ I can’t believe I am talking about Rae in the past tense. How many more people am I going to have to talk about in the past tense?
‘NO!’ Cass’s voice is unnecessarily loud and the word echoes around the room. ‘We are not going to the police. Alice, you promised, remember? Rae’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it. There’s no point ruining our lives as well.’
‘Cass is right.’ It’s like that night all over again. Polly and Cass ganging up on me and Rae. Except there’s no Rae.
‘Two people are dead! And it’s our fault. Doesn’t that mean anything to you two?’
Cass says, ‘It was an accident,’ at exactly the same time as Polly says, ‘It’s not our fault.’
I shake my head and get up to leave. The room tilts slightly and I have to steady myself for a moment. ‘You’re wrong.’
Cass pushes her chair back so hard it topples over. She’s in my face before I know what’s happening. ‘OK, fine. You go to the police. But make sure you explain everything to your boyfriend first. I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.’
I don’t back down. Instead, I step forward so Cass and I are practically nose to nose. ‘Don’t you dare bring Jack into this. You don’t know anything about him.’
‘I know that he wouldn’t want to go out with the girl who killed his sister.’ There’s a twisted smirk on Cass’s face and a sing-song voice in my head saying, ‘She’s right, you know she’s right!’
‘I thought you said it was an accident.’ I push past her and leave the room without looking back.
I need to be somewhere else.
Somewhere I can think.
The library is my safe place. I secrete myself in a dark corner, far away from the librarian.
Cass knows I won’t go to the police.
I know I won’t go to the police.
I hate Cass and Polly for being right about this.
I hate myself for being the worst kind of coward.
I hate Rae and Tara for being dead.
I stay at the library till closing time, switching off my phone after the first three missed calls from Dad.
He’s really, really angry when I get home, and I’m too tired to argue with him. And I know he’s only cross because he’s been worried. I know how much I start to panic when I can’t get hold of him – always sure something terrible has happened. The scenario in my head usually involves him losing control at the wheel and ending up in a lake, struggling and failing to open a window or a door as the car rapidly fills with icy water. Not that north London has a lot of lakes.
Daley called to tell him that I hadn’t been seen in school since this morning. She told him about Rae. I hate the thought of Daley and Dad talking about me.
Dad’s anger is extinguished by an accidental onslaught of tears from me. He wraps me up in one of his hugs and tells me everything’s going to be OK. Then he makes me some cheese on toast and sits me down in front of the TV, but not before making it clear that if I want to talk about things, he’s there to listen. Maybe I should tell him. Maybe he can sort everything out. He’ll give me another hug and say, ‘Oh, you daft thing. You’ve been worried about that. Let me see what I can do.’ I wish.
Ghost Tara is not in the least bit upset about Rae. ‘Maybe you should do the same thing,’ is all she has to say for herself.
I hardly sleep. All I can think about is Rae and how desperate she must have felt. And I can’t help wondering why I haven’t thought about suicide. Was her guilt so much worse than mine? Does that make her the better person?
No matter how bad things get, I can’t imagine choosing to die. I couldn’t do it to Dad.
And I want to live. There are things I want to do. I want to learn to snowboard. I want to go to university. I want to be fluent in Spanish. I want to have a job I’m really, really good at. I want to live in a cottage in the countryside and maybe keep chickens. I want to fall in love.
I wonder what Rae wanted to do with her life? Maybe she wanted to be a doctor or a scientist. And maybe if she had been a doctor or a scientist, she’d have done something really important – like discover a cure for cancer. Rae could have been destined to change the world, to stop people like Mum from suffering. And now that won’t happen. Because of us.
We killed two people in the woods that night.
34
As the dreaded Tara Chambers Memorial Dance looms, all anyone can talk about is Rae. Despite the family’s wishes, everyone knows it was suicide. The rumours are vicious. Rae was in a cult. Rae was pregnant (with twins) after having sex with Mr Miles while his wife watched. Rae was secretly a lesbian and had been in love with Tara and was so distraught about her death she couldn’t go on living. I have no evidence, but I suspect a good half of the rumours were star
ted by Cass.
I’m so relieved I don’t have to sit through another funeral – Rae’s is family only. A sensible decision, I think. Otherwise everyone would just end up comparing it to Tara’s, and there’s no way Rae could beat that turnout.
Polly, in another display of truly terrible judgement, decides to change the name of the dance. The Tara Chambers and Rae Morgan Memorial Dance is quite a mouthful. Some people try to protest that Rae doesn’t deserve equal billing, since killing yourself is not as worthy of pity as accidentally drowning. But Polly isn’t having any of it. Apparently there was a committee meeting and the vote was unanimous. No one seems to have any idea who else is on the committee.
The flyers now bear the new, supposedly committee-sanctioned name of the dance – although I’ve heard some people whispering about the Dead Girls Dance. It just goes to show that while one dead classmate is a tragedy, two is fair game for all manner of sick jokes.
The psychologist is back, and the parents are summoned to yet another meeting. The worry now is copycat suicides. Dad came home with a leaflet entitled Is your teen suicidal? Ten signs to look for. I bin it and tell Dad he has nothing to worry about. He seems to believe me.
I have a couple of uneventful after-school sessions with Daley. She tries to get me to talk about my feelings; I refuse to talk about anything unrelated to the syllabus. It’s probably a relief for her. She can still reassure herself that she’s at least making an effort. Needless to say, neither of us mentions Dad.
I spend a lot of time with Jack over half-term. He invites me to watch Blackdog Sundays rehearse. There are four of them in the band. Spike is the lead singer (his real name is George). Jenks is on bass. I don’t think that’s his real name either. The drummer is Dave. I’m pretty sure Dave is Dave’s real name. I find Dave vaguely reassuring.
They all dress a bit like Jack (but not quite as well, in my humble opinion). They’re perfectly friendly if a little monosyllabic – except for Spike, who keeps on saying my name like he’s some super-smooth talk-show host.
I haven’t exactly been looking forward to this moment, dreading having to lie to Jack. Yeah, you’re amazing. You could TOTALLY get a record deal. But much to my surprise they’re really, really good. And Jack is brilliant. He doesn’t even have to concentrate – he keeps on looking over at me and smiling.
When they take a break I can’t help myself. ‘You’re amazing. You could totally get a record deal.’ Jack’s modest and tells me I’m deluded, but you can tell he’s pleased.
The last song they play is the one Jack wrote for Tara. He takes over lead vocals from Spike and the atmosphere in the room changes immediately. The laughing and joking and messing around are gone. Jack sings with his eyes closed, and every word is infused with sadness. Every note is haunting. Jack’s voice cracks a little during the last verse and my heart cracks a little bit more.
We’re supposed to be going to the cinema afterwards, but I can tell Jack’s not in the mood. Instead, we go to a quiet cafe and Jack talks about Tara. The words come pouring out of him. He cries once or twice, and he’s not in the least bit self-conscious about it. A lot of what he says is hard for me to listen to, but I make no effort to stop him or change the subject. It’s obvious that this is exactly what Jack needs to be doing. The least I can do is listen.
The night of the dance arrives. A tiny part of me is excited – the shameful, girly part of me that’s stupidly pleased with herself for going out with the lead guitarist in the band that’s playing. The rest of me is filled with foreboding.
I should stay at home and watch TV with Dad. That would be the sensible thing to do. I’d hear all about it on Monday morning, but the horror would be diluted by hearing the details second hand. But Jack wants me there. And everyone is going. If I don’t go, people might talk. And the last thing I need is people wondering why I’m shunning the Dead Girls Dance. I have to do whatever it takes to avoid drawing attention to myself. Even Cass is going. I only know because Saira told me, since Cass and I still aren’t talking. I try to picture us getting ready at her house, doing each other’s hair, dancing around and singing into our hairbrushes or whatever girls are supposed to do. The image disintegrates before it has a chance to make me feel wistful.
When I come downstairs, Dad’s lounging in front of the telly, his feet tucked under Bruno’s furry bulk for warmth. I have to cough loudly to get his attention, but when he turns to look at me a huge grin spreads itself across his face. He actually says the words ‘My little girl … all grown-up’. I roll my eyes and he laughs. ‘What?! Isn’t a father allowed to be proud of his daughter any more? What is the world coming to?’
‘Dad!’
‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. Embarrassing Dad will not say another word.’ He pretends to zip his mouth shut. ‘ExcepttosayyoulookreallyreallybeautifulandI’mveryproudofyou.’ He claps his hands over his mouth as if the words escaped by accident.
His playfulness transforms into melancholy; I’d suspected it might. ‘I wish your mother was—’
‘Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.’ I can’t bear to hear the words one more time. The words that mar pretty much every happy occasion. There are different variations, but the sentiment is always the same. I used to nod vaguely whenever he said them, even though they made me flinch. I will not allow him to say them tonight. I wish your mother was here to see you. Your mother would have loved this. If only your mother were here …
Dad looks hurt, which obviously makes me feel terrible. But he recovers quickly and grabs his camera from the cupboard behind the TV. ‘You wouldn’t deny an old man a picture, would ya?’ For some reason he says this in a terrible Cockney accent and I have to laugh. He deserves to get a laugh at least.
I make him delete the first four photos. They are hideous, even though Dad says they’re perfectly fine. The fifth picture is barely acceptable but it will have to do if we’re not going to be late. Dad insists on driving me there (chauffeuring me, he calls it) and he bows when he opens the car door for me. ‘Your carriage awaits, milady.’ I’m too busy trying to stop my dress from digging into my armpits to roll my eyes this time. The dress is so bloody uncomfortable. It’s too tight, too short, too … everything. I bought it in a moment of madness, thinking only of Jack. He’d better appreciate the effort because I won’t be doing this again in a hurry.
The butterflies in my stomach turn into vampire bats as we pull up to the school. There’s a pink limousine hogging the space right in front of the main entrance. It’s not hard to guess whose rich-yet-strangely-lacking-in-taste father hired that for the evening. My suspicions are confirmed when Stephanie de Luca and her tacky friends spew out. Even the ghost that’s rumoured to haunt the second-floor music room can probably hear her braying voice complaining when her Jimmy Choos sink into the soggy gravel. It’s hard to believe I ever cared what she thought of me.
There are suited and booted Knox Academy boys milling around outside. Dad eyes them suspiciously before driving off. I don’t want to go in by myself so I pretend to check my phone for messages. My phone buzzes in my hand and I get such a fright I almost drop it. It’s a text: You look sexy as hell. A thrill rushes through me and I look up, scanning the crowd for Jack’s mop of hair. Then, from nowhere, a pair of hands slinks round my waist and I squeal – much to my embarrassment. I whirl round and there he is.
35
He kisses me and I kiss him back, and I know that people are staring but I don’t care. Jack’s wearing his version of smart – grey jeans, a black shirt and an undone purple bowtie. The other guys in the band are milling around behind him. Their clothes make no concessions to the occasion – in fact, I reckon Spike’s wearing the same T-shirt as the last time I saw him.
Jack grabs me by the hand and pulls me towards the door, but not before I see Cass standing a little way off, watching us. She shakes her head and turns away. Her dress is plain and fits badly.
Jack leads us to the desk at the entrance. Gemma and Sam are taking money an
d handing people wristbands in exchange. Jack’s already got one – I didn’t notice it among all his other wrist adornments. As we edge to the front of the queue I pull his wrist towards me to get a better look. The band is bright pink and clearly modelled on those anti-cancer/anti-bullying/anti-insert-bad-thing-of-your-choice-here ones. It says: ‘Tara Chambers . . . . . always in our hearts’. The parents of whoever chose the wording should ask for their school fees back. Some people just don’t know where to stop when it comes to dots in an ellipsis.
Sam doesn’t even bother to hide the blatant upand-down look she gives me when Jack and I reach the desk. One perfectly plucked eyebrow arches in obvious disdain. She looks from me to Jack and back again and her eyes widen. Gemma is oblivious, as always. Jack takes a crumpled fiver from his pocket and hands it to Sam. Gemma hands him a bracelet and he gestures for me to hold out my wrist. He slips the bracelet over my hand, and it seems a strangely intimate thing to do among all these people. I can feel myself blushing for no good reason. I start to offer to pay, but Jack silences me with a fake stern look.
‘I can’t wait to see you play later, Jack,’ says Sam, her voice confident and purring.
Jack says a vague, ‘Thanks,’ and turns away. Sam’s sultry smile slips off her face and onto the floor.
‘OK, so I think you’d better brace yourself, Alice. It’s pretty full on in here. I’ve had a while to get used to it – we got here early for the sound check. But when I first walked in …’
Shit. He’s not kidding. The hall has been transformed. The colour scheme is black and pink – the same shocking pink as the bracelets. I suppose the black is there to retain some sense of mourning. There’s really no excuse for the pink though. There are huge screens on either side of the stage. A picture of Tara flashes up on both screens simultaneously for a few seconds before fading into another picture. And another. And another. It’s hypnotic. Jack’s grip on my hand tightens and we stand in the doorway, transfixed.
