6
Lunchtime in the dining hall was noisy and crowded. Someone had drawn a huge heart in the condensation on one of the long windows and there were queues at the tea urn, the toaster and at the small hatch where trays and leftovers were deposited
A steady stream of tray-wielding students came out from the food-counter exit and stood near the teacher’s table as they searched out their friends. Although the rain had stopped, the white floor was scuffed with muddy shoeprints and cardboard had been put down over the wettest areas
“Oh, here comes Her Majesty,” remarked Sol Kerouac as Kizzie approached. “All rise, please! All rise! You do us plebs a great honour, my Queen.”
Kizzie rolled her eyes. “Oh, very funny, Sol.” She looked accusingly at Priya, Angela, Athy and Gillian. “You lot promised you wouldn’t say anything! I’m not supposed to tell anyone, remember. Honestly. Can’t say anything to anyone here without it becoming common knowledge.”
“We won’t say anything,” Zak assured Kizzie, pulling out a chair for her. Zak and Sol were mates but polar opposites: Sol was dark, muscular and sarcastic; Zak, blonde, pale and humble. “We know how to keep secrets. We’re friends, right? Besides, none of us know Priya has Minnie Mouse knickers, do we?” His sniggering was stopped by a clout on the head
“Shut it!”
“Leave Kizzie alone, guys,” Angela said as Priya continued to attack Zak. “You’re only jealous.”
“Jealous? Yeah, that’s right,” mocked Sol. “That’s it. You’ve hit the nail on the head there, Mummy.” He pointed at Angela’s copy of Romeo and Juliet, open beside her tray. “How can you read that crap for pleasure, anyway? You see!” He gestured to the others. “That’s another example of what I’ve been saying. A perfect example! Brainwashed by this stupid idea that just keeps on selling!”
Angela, bandaged up – hence the Mummy jibe – shook her head. “It’s homework, you idiot.”
“But you laaav it.”
“Kiz,” Angela said, turning away from Sol’s drooping, flapping tongue. “You’re not going to believe what he’s been going on about this morning.”
“What now?”
Two silver hearts sparkled beneath the curtains of Angela’s brown hair. “Go on, then, Sol. Carry on with what you were saying.”
Sol shrugged. “What? I haven’t said anything that’s not true, have I?” Beside him on the table was Zak’s beige fedora hat and gloves. “I’m not saying love doesn’t exist at all. I’m just saying that it’s not something, I dunno, airy-fairy. It’s there for a purpose, you know. It’s not as weird as it’s made out to be. It’s definitely not something that comes from the sky, or God, or happens to you if you’re lucky or unlucky.”
Kizzie examined Zak while pretending to be exasperated with Sol: there was a hint of golden stubble on his chin and his eyes were lovely. “What do you think, Zak?”
“Oh, I’m a sucker for love,” Zak replied, too shy to look up and show if he meant it or not
“If it’s ever proved that love doesnae exist,” Gillian joined in, “then about a million rubbish musicians are going to be out of a job, I’ll tell you that.”
“Doesnae,” Sol echoed, chuckling, whacking his fingers together so they made a cracking noise. “Love it. Classic Scotch brogue there, Gil.”
Gillian turned away towards the window with her tea. “You’re a child.”
“Och, come on, lassie. You ken I love you, don’t ye?”
“Sooo tedious,” Gillian drawled, examining the heart dribbling down the window beside her
“There’d be no more rom-coms either, if you think about it,” Kizzie noted, breaking the crusts off her toast
“Watch it! I love rom-coms,” Angela warned them, wincing as she raised a hand. “You leave ‘em alone. There’s way more horrible things in the world than rom-coms.”
“The thing I don’t get about those movies,” Sol said, “is that they always finish with the wedding, the bit where they get together. Someone always realises that they’ve made a mistake, usually the man, and then there’s a long running scene – better if it’s at Christmas or in cold weather – he makes it, she takes him back, they kiss and that’s the end. It’s always the same.”
“And football isn’t?” Gillian sniggered
Sol held up a finger. “Don’t go there, lassie. Don’t go there. I’ll haggis yer stovies off!”
“It’s all about the chase, though, isn’t it?” Kizzie turned at a commotion behind them. One of the pink-faced kitchen staff was leaning out of the serving hatch shouting angrily at a boy who’d run off, blue coat dragging along the wet floor
“But do they all have to be exactly the same?” Sol waved a slice of dry-looking pie through the air. “Exactly the freakin’ same?”
Gillian rubbed her eyes. “It sells, Sol. People like it.” She tapped the end of her nose to stop herself sneezing. “And why do you say ‘movies’ anyway? That’s an American word. You’re English, aren’t you?”
“It’s an American art form,” answered Sol
“No, it isn’t,” Gillian began. “The first films were French.”
Sol swore and pulled out his phone to Google it. Gillian examined his face. Sol had his tongue out, concentrating. Unaware that he was being watched, not posing, as he usually did, Gillian thought he looked incredibly brutish and dumb
I can’t believe he’s brought his phone in here, Athy, Kizzie’s younger sister, was thinking, impressed. Sol really was the most brazen, shameless, shocking boy in the school. And he’s using it!
“But do you really believe what you were saying before, though, Sol?” Angela asked, butting in. “About love only being biological? Or were you just trolling?”
“Of course I believe it,” Sol replied, thumbs busy under the table-top. “We – humans, I mean – need to trust each other, to work together and survive. We’re just monkeys after all. That’s all it is. Love’s just a feeling, man, like, a chemical reaction, to make sure we don’t kill each other. It keeps us together, makes sure we look after our babies. It’s a survival thing, nothing more.”
Angela wrinkled her nose. “That’s so cold and horrible.”
“Why?” Sol cried. “Better to know the truth, surely? Too many people waste their lives waiting for some weird thing they’ve seen in movies – sorry, Gil, films – and heard about in songs. If only they realised how simple it all really was, they could have it too.”
“People always seem to think it starts with, like, this great burst of passion.” This was Athy, who reddened as they all turned to look at her, but managed to continue, staring down at the orange she was peeling, which spat juice and smelled of summer. “I think love can take ages to get going sometimes. I don’t think it always has to be this great physical thing. I think it can build up over time. As you get to know someone, I mean. It can kind of grow.”
“If you think about it,” Sol went on, piling the empty plates and crumpled napkins on his tray as the others murmured their agreement with Athena, “it’s all biology, that’s all. We’re monkeys, man. Animals. Beasts! We do what we have to do; what we’ve had to do, to survive.”
“Oh, wow!” Athena cried as Zak stood up with Sol. “You’re wearing cowboy boots, Zak!”
“I surely am, ma’am,” Zak replied, raising his hat and standing
“Pony care for you this term, then, is it?” Angela muttered, sipping tea. The others chuckled
“Leave him alone,” Kizzie said. “Ignore them, Zak.”
Sol made a joke about ‘rides’ and the boys left with Sol draped over Zak’s shoulder like he’d been shot. As well as cowboy boots, Zak caused heads to turn with his hat. He was the only boy in the school to wear one. As they crashed out into the wet, cold morning, Sol pulled out the cigarette he had behind his ear and two girls passing by stopped to let he and Zak go past as if they were stars
“Are you all right, Gil?” Kizzie put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Gillian was very serious, her face pinched beneath her short
hair. She held a cup under her chin but was staring straight ahead through the steam. “Holidays all right?”
“No. Horrible.”
“Oh God. Why?”
Gillian’s eyes momentarily glazed over but she controlled herself. “Ah, nothing. The usual. Home. Parents. All the fun of the fair, you know.”
“Your mum?”
“Both of them, really. My mum’s the worst. I feel like I’m about ten every time I’m with her, like a kid. Nothing I do is right. Neither of them ever say anything to encourage me, only criticise.” Gillian’s eyes moistened. “Honestly, it’s pathological sometimes, like they hate me, you know.” She wanted to stop but the words wanted out. “Mum attacks but dad doesn’t defend. He’s scared of her, like everyone. Like me, probably. But that’s how she likes it.”
“Sounds horrible,” Kizzie replied gently
“Honestly, when I come back here I feel like me again, if that makes sense. There I can’t be me. I’m some version of me who can’t say what they really feel.”
“Maybe your mum’s just unhappy,” tried Athy
“Both of them, I’d say,” added Angela, nodding
“Aye, maybe,” nodded Gillian. “But I’ve tried, you know. But she – mum – moves the goalposts. If I sort one problem out, she finds another. Sometimes she changes whole stories, you know. I come home and she’s thought up all these new things I’ve done wrong. Everyone’s out for her, you know. She’s got something on everyone.”
“At least you’ve got your mum,” Angela said. It wasn’t said to make Gillian feel guilty but because she – Angela – felt she had to say it. “We used to fight but I’d give anything to have her back for a day now.”
“Aye, right. I’m sorry, Ange. I didn’t mean it like it sounds.” But Gillian had meant it like that. For some reason things were getting worse at home, almost unbearable. It had gotten so bad that she’d wished her mother dead more than once. Quickly, not painfully. Just gone. Out of her life. She wanted to be free
“You know she can only have an effect on you if you let her,” Kizzie said
“What do you mean?”
“That your life is your life, you know. I mean, we get things from our parents, sure, but it doesn’t have to trap us. We can choose what we’re like. Change the things we don’t like.”
Gillian was about to argue but then she said, “I think that would be the worst thing ever. Seriously. Turning into her. Blaming the whole world for everything.”
“Then don’t,” Kizzie said
Gillian’s eyes went glassy. “Hard,” she said, her lips thinning. “Another thing I don’t get: they’re always tired. From their jobs. Tired. Too much work. Tired, tired. I don’t get why they do it. Oh, wait, I do get it. They do it for me. So I can get a good education and get a job like them and be tired all the time, I guess.” Gillian threw up her hands. “I don’t get it at all. I don’t get it; it’s like madness. Everyone’s mad, just following what everyone else is doing!”
“Happy happy,” said Kizzie
“What the hell have you got in your hair?” Gillian asked, touching Kizzie’s afro-like, blonde fuzz, blatantly changing the subject. Kizzie’s hair, as usual, was embroidered with wraps and dangling pendants
“Magic stuff!”
“Can you imagine if love really didn’t exist, though?” wondered Athy out loud, taking up the thread of the old conversation again. Athena was a smaller, prettier version of her big sister Kizzie; where Kizzie’s look was Einstein-mad, Athena’s was more chic and controlled. Athena was shy and withdrawn, sure of herself at heart; Kizzie was the exact opposite
Gillian checked her phone. “Oh, you lot are obsessed.” Half an hour to the last double period of the day: Maths. Yippee! “You’re as pathetic as the films. You really think a guy – or love, for that matter – will make you happy? You’re looking in the wrong place!” The bitter tone of this little outburst changed the mood between the friends
“It’s only a bit of fun,” Angela said. “What d’you prefer? That we sit staring into our tea and saying how crap the world is?”
Gillian shook her head. “No. Sorry.” She couldn’t put into words what she was thinking. The summer had been awful. Being with her parents had kicked up a storm in her soul that hadn’t settled. She didn’t know how she felt. All she wanted to do was disappear. Be quiet. Be on her own. “Sorry, forget it. I’m just …”
The girls turned at a commotion from the window beside them. Two Year Nine girls, wrapped in scarves were outside waving their hands
“What are they saying?” Kizzie asked
Gillian, who was nearest the window, shrugged her shoulders, wiped off part of the heart and mouthed: We can’t hear you!
One of the Year Nine girls, after consulting with the other, began to write on the smudged, steamed-up glass
Gradually the message took shape:
7
By the time the girls reached the fields they could see a small crowd of students near the centre circle of the football pitch. The day had not really risen, more fallen out of bed. It was muggy and close, half-asleep and oddly quiet. The sun was up behind the far-off clouds, shining like a torch under a bed sheet
“Maybe we should just leave the poor guy alone?” Gillian said, at the lip of the wet turf. Something about the situation scared her, aroused some weird animal instinct in her. Fear, perhaps. Trepidation. She felt as though she were walking towards an accident; that she was going to see something horrible, something she might never be able to unsee
“What?” Athy laughed. “Are you joking? I’m going. This is the coolest thing to happen here in ages.”
“Me too,” Angela added, setting off with Athena after Zak and Sol. Zak’s long brown coat flapped out behind him as he strode forward with his hands in pockets. Athy looked back, excitement in her eyes, and gestured for the other two to get moving
Kizzie, like Gillian, wasn’t so keen. “Who do you think it is?”
“I dunno,” Gillian said, “but whoever it is, they can’t want us all gawping and staring at them.”
“Do you think anyone’s told the teachers?”
“Aye.” Gillian looked back once and tucked her chin into her scarf. “For sure.”
“Actually, Gil. Can you come here a sec?” More pupils were now walking down towards them, chattering, and Kizzie stepped off the path and led them both to the wooden fence. “I’ve got something to ask you.”
Gillian cocked an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Probably the only chance we’ll be alone for a while.”
“What is it?”
“You know Alain Verne?”
“The guy you were talking to this morning? The Magistrate guy?”
“Yep.”
“Aye.”
“Well, he likes you.”
“What?” Gillian took a step back, grinned and pulled a face. She pointed the tip of her black shoe in the mud and drew a circle. Verne was roundly considered to be the best-looking boy in the school – the top dog – but as a sixth former he was out of bounds to Gillian and her friends. He might as well have been a famous actor or musician
“Gil, I’m serious. He was asking me about you this morning. He proper likes you. He wants to go out with you and everything.”
This time Gillian did force a snigger. “Oh, Kiz, come on. How did all this come up? I thought you were talking about the Magistrate and stuff?”
“We were, we were, but then he asked about you.”
“Mental.” Gillian sighed, shaking her head. She looked up at the huddle in the centre of the football pitch and it morphed into a group of mourners gathered around an open grave. She felt a repulsion, as though she should wake away. Turn around and keep going. Never look back
Later she would realise what it all meant, it would all make sense, but now it was only a cold, warning feeling. Like hearing a voice, somewhere inside, telling you to not do something. Same as that odd feeling when you knew someone was thinking about you, or wh
en you knew someone was hiding in what looked like an empty room, or when someone was about to make contact
“So?”
“So, what?”
“Gil! So, what do you think?”
“What do I think about what? About going out with Verne?”
“Yes!” Kizzie noticed Angela coming back towards them, jogging over the wet, muddy grass. She had the lithe, taut gait of a long-distance runner, despite her injuries
“No!” Gillian replied. “Are you serious, Kiz? No, no, no. A million times, no.”
“Because he’s too old?”
“No!”
“Then what?”
“Because …” Gillian ducked to yank up her tights at the knee. She talked to herself, turning in circles. “I don’t like him, that’s what. Not that way. No one could ever like him more than he likes himself anyway, so it’s a no-go.” Her face crumpled as she rose. “No!”
Kizzie giggled. “You could carry his mirror and comb for him.”
“Exactly.” Gillian shivered. “Oh God, could you imagine?”
Angela arrived, breathless. “He’s not from school, the bloke. He’s naked. Speaking in some foreign language. Seriously. I’m not joking. Totally naked. Like, nothing on. Latin or something. Really weird.”
“Latin?” Kizzie looked at Gillian
Gillian, who’d spent the last term studying Latin on a whim, had an odd, blank look on her face. “Oh, no, no. I don’t know anything. Fabritzia would be better.” Fabritzia was the only other girl in the Latin class. She was Italian and had chatted with the teacher as Gillian had read the graffiti on the desks
“Fabritzia’s sick, remember,” Angela replied impatiently. “Mono. She didn’t come back this term. Anyway, come on, come on!”
The girls set off somewhere between running and walking. The bare winter trees poked up from the perimeter of the fields like hands from graves
As the girls came closer they saw the naked boy sitting hunched over, facing away from them. His cold-looking, greyish skin was taut on his shoulders and back. He looked about their age and had his knees drawn up, his bare toes flecked with grass
Cold Fire Page 3
