Our house is the same as every other house in the street. Maybe a bit scruffier. It never looked like this when Gran was here. It has a sad, empty look, but that’s just because I know what’s happened here. A dead look. I wonder what we’d be doing now if she had managed to kill herself. I shiver. I notice Colette noticing the long, trampled grass. A few crisp bags hang sadly around the doorstep.
Colette grew up in this house. What does it feel like, coming back? You can’t tell from her face. In the hall she nearly trips over the Coke I bought earlier. I think about picking it up and putting it in the kitchen but it seems like a massive effort. If I bend down I think I’ll just lie on the floor and not get up.
The living-room is dark now; the streetlight shining through the window doesn’t show up the dirt but I can see Colette’s eyes taking everything in. The grubby duvet without a cover, spilling onto the dirty carpet. An ashtray spewing butts on to the sticky-ringed coffee table. Smoky air. Bet Colette’s house isn’t like this.
‘She sometimes sleeps down here,’ I say, as if Colette has asked me a question. I pick up the duvet and back out of the room, hugging it. ‘I’ll take this upstairs and get my stuff.’
‘What about turning on the light?’
‘You need to punch in the code to the electric meter.’ I remember getting the card topped up. Feels like days ago, not hours. I do it, then go up and grab a few things and shove them in a plastic bag. When I come back down she’s in the kitchen. The light’s too bright. The surfaces are all crumby and slimy and the floor crunches under my trainers. The pile of clothes on the floor in front of the washing machine stinks. I want to tell her it’s not always like this but what’s the point? She frowns at the plastic bag and I narrow my eyes at her. Snobby bitch.
‘You haven’t brought much,’ she says.
‘You said it wouldn’t be for long.’ I try to keep the hope out of my voice.
‘No. But what about school?’
I can’t tell her the trouble I’m in. So I go and get my uniform.
All the way to Colette’s house my throat gets tighter and tighter. It’s so obvious she doesn’t want me. She’s just the type of person who does the right thing.
I’ve forgotten how huge their house is. In a posh, quiet street with trees up the footpath. I trail behind Colette, not sure where to put myself. The house is so clean it makes me feel filthy. Bookcases, hippy sort of rugs, flowers. I follow her into the kitchen and she fusses around, puts the kettle on. I’m knackered. The big clock on the wall says it’s nearly five but it feels like the middle of the night. My eyes are gritty and when I slump into a chair at the table I wonder if I’ll ever have the energy to get out of it again.
‘I’ll just go and sort out the guest room, Declan,’ says Colette. ‘Make yourself at home.’
I force myself to stay awake and look round. It’s a big room, bright and clean but sort of cosy too. There’s a row of cookbooks on a shelf. The kettle clicks off. If I don’t stand up and walk around I’m going to fall asleep at this table. I trail over to the window. Big garden. Trees. There’s a photo on the windowsill. Princess Vicky. On a horse. I forgot she had a horse. Imagine having your own horse. Spoiled bitch. She looks spoiled too: all tanned and blonde and hefty.
But the horse. Oh Jesus, the horse is amazing. Bright gingery-brown with a proud look. It’s half turned away from the camera, a secret look in its eye. No one would mess that horse around. It shines too. Like a conker. I wonder what it feels like to touch.
‘Oh, there’s Vicky’s pride and joy.’
I haven’t heard Colette come back. I set the photo back and catch myself on. Horses. Gay.
‘D’you want a cup of tea?’
I nod. My throat’s so swollen that I can’t speak.
‘Something to eat?’ Colette goes on, pouring water into a teapot.
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m OK,’ I manage to say. I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.
‘Vicky won’t be back until tomorrow evening. She goes to her dad’s every weekend.’ Her voice is too bright. ‘That’s where she keeps Flight – the horse. Well, at a livery stable nearby. Maybe she’ll take you up to see him.’
What the hell’s a livery stable? When she mentions Vicky she drums her fingers against her cup. I want to see Flight but not Vicky.
‘Do you want to take your things upstairs? Maybe you should try to get a bit of a sleep. You look shattered. The guest – your room’s the second on the left. Bathroom’s just opposite. I’ve left clean towels on the bed.’
I force my legs upstairs. Step by step. All the doors on the landing are closed. The bathroom is so shiny I’m nearly scared to take a piss. The guest room is yellow, everything matching, a girl’s room. I collapse on the fleecy bedspread and bury my head in a pillow. It’s cool and smells like fresh air. I should take my trainers off, I think. But it’s too much effort.
Chapter 4
VICKY
‘It’ll be fine, Vicky,’ Fiona said when she hugged me goodbye, a bit awkwardly as she was trying to calm down a grizzling Molly at the same time. ‘You might even enjoy having someone your own age in the house for a change.’ She sounded exactly like Mum.
But Dad should know better.
‘Come on, darling,’ he said when the Merc purred to a smooth stop at the end of our driveway and I made no move to get out. I sighed and leaned back in my seat. He ruffled my hair. ‘I don’t suppose it will be for more than a few days. And who knows, maybe the charming Declan will have improved with age.’
Yeah, I thought, turning round to haul my rucksack out of the back seat. I bet! I wasn’t sure exactly how much Mum had told Dad about Declan’s little run-in with the law last year.
‘And if he hasn’t gone by next weekend at least you can escape to us,’ Dad went on.
‘You’ll be in Paris,’ I reminded him. I grumped out of the car and up the drive. I didn’t look back. Usually I waved until the car was out of sight. I hitched my rucksack higher on my shoulder, made sure Tigger was squashed down out of sight and let myself in through the back door.
The kitchen was warm and herby with the smell of Mum’s special homemade pizza. She and The Hood were at the table.
‘Hello, love.’ Mum turned to smile at me. ‘Here’s Declan. I told you he was here for a few days.’ She made it sound like he was on his holidays.
‘Oh yes,’ I said, as if I had just remembered. I hadn’t planned how my voice should be and I was glad it came out cool and distant.
He nodded at me. ‘Hiya,’ he mumbled. I’d forgotten how rough his accent was.
I plonked my rucksack down.
‘Good weekend?’ Mum asked.
‘So-so. Can you take me to the stables on Wednesday for a lesson? Oh, and Dad’s going to Paris. So can you take me to the show as well?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Usually she moaned at having to take me to the stables midweek, and she hated pulling the horsebox.
Declan had had his ear pierced since I’d last seen him. The thing that hadn’t changed was how much he looked like Mum. Other than that, he just looked exactly like those steeky boys hanging round the bus stops, all shaved hair and shiny tracksuit bottoms.
Mum kept giving me a haven’t-you-forgotten-something? look. I guessed what she was after – she wanted me to ask how Theresa was. But I didn’t care. I hadn’t even seen her since Gran’s funeral. Before that, when Gran used to mind me sometimes, Theresa was always out. And I suspected Mum wasn’t that keen on her either, even if she did have this thing about them being old friends and sisters-in-law and all that.
Declan kept his eyes on his plate. I noticed how little he’d eaten. Would you feel like eating if your mum was lying in hospital? asked a cool little voice in my head, but I didn’t want to listen.
* * *
Monday morning, usual scramble. Except it was so weird, trying to do my normal getting ready for school stuff with him in the way. Mum had an en-suite so I was used to having the bathroom to myself. T
oday I suddenly remembered he was around and I had to dive back into my room and put my dressing gown on. Then when I got downstairs he was in the living-room with a bowl of cereal, watching TV. I was never allowed to do that! So I just went and got my cereal and took it into the living-room too, and by the time I realised Mum was having a private conversation with him it was too late to back out.
‘Well, I’ll phone your deputy head today,’ she was saying. ‘You should have told me earlier. But I don’t suppose a day off will do you any harm.’
He was getting a day off school for no reason!
‘Come on, Vic, love,’ Mum said, turning round and looking at me properly. ‘You’ll be late.’
I didn’t tell anyone at school, not even Fliss and Becca. If I didn’t talk about him maybe he wouldn’t exist. But when I got home there he was, sitting in the living-room watching TV as if he hadn’t moved all day. And it was the corner of the sofa I liked, the nice squishy bit.
When I went upstairs to get changed, Mum was putting clean clothes away in my room for me. ‘Try to make him welcome, Vic,’ she said.
‘I am.’
She gave me a look. ‘How would you feel if I was in hospital and you had to go to stay with Theresa and Declan?’
‘I’d go to Dad’s. I wouldn’t go there and you wouldn’t even want me to.’
‘You used to go all the time.’
‘When Gran was there.’ I yanked off my school tie and stepped out of my revolting green skirt. My shirt felt sticky even after one day. I threw it over the chair and Mum picked it up.
‘I don’t like the way you’re behaving.’
‘But he’s horrible.’ I had my back to her when I said this, rummaging in my drawers for my favourite old jeans. Then I remembered I’d left them at Dad’s – I hated it when that happened. I threw on old trackies and a top.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vic. You’ve hardly said a word to him.’
‘He doesn’t speak to me.’ I got out my French books and plonked myself down at the desk. She sort of gave up on me and I stayed upstairs until she called me for dinner. Spag bol. My favourite. I wondered if it was for my benefit or his. My phone bleeped and I got it out of my back pocket to look. ‘WANT 2 MEET ME & BECS @ STARBUX? F xxx.’ I read it out and was going to text back yes when Mum totally wrecked everything!
‘Why don’t you bring Declan along to meet your friends?’
I couldn’t believe her! To be fair to him, he grunted something like ‘Nah, you’re alright.’
‘Then no,’ she said. ‘It’s a weeknight and your mocks are in a few weeks. And if you expect to go to the stables on Wednesday …’
I knew what that ‘if’ meant – I was going to have to start being nice to him.
Chapter 5
DECLAN
Seven o’clock Tuesday morning. I scrabble under the pillow for the exercise book I shoved there last night and stare at the blank page. How do you write an apology letter? Dear Emmet. Dear is the kind of word you use for someone you like. I lean back against the headboard, chew the pen and look round the bedroom. All clean and yellow in the light from the bedside lamp. This is the third morning I’ve woken up here. I wonder how much longer I’ll be able to put up with Princess Vicky without breaking her nose. Dear Emmet. I’m not sorry – Emmet McCann deserves more than a broken nose – but in a way I am. Because hitting Emmet was how it all started. Right, here goes. Dear Emmet. I am sory that I hit you. Declan Kelly. Short and sweet. And sort of true.
When I get to school I go straight to Payne’s office.
He looks at me over his specs and holds the letter at arm’s length. ‘Two Rs in “sorry”, Kelly. Not exactly fulsome, is it?’
I bite my lip.
Then he seems to get fed up. ‘Registration,’ he says. ‘I’ll see to this. And don’t let me see you back in my office this term.’
School. Scuffed walls, smell of crisps and polish and feet. All the noise – teachers shouting names, pupils replying – is behind classroom doors. I push open the door of our classroom and Mr Dermott’s voice trails off when he sees me. From the way some people look at me I know they know about Mum. Half the people in my class live round our way. I slink to the back and sit beside Cathal Gurney. I can see the ribbons of snotters and his wet, red, open mouth. No wonder no one ever wants to sit beside him.
When the bell goes I grab my bag as usual but Mr Dermott puts his hand out to stop me.
‘Just a minute, Declan.’ At least he calls me by my name. The likes of Payne just call you by your surname which is stupid because there’s three Kellys in our class. I hang back. ‘Sit down,’ he says, pulling out a chair beside his desk.
I sit.
He pulls at his earlobe. He looks a bit like Homer Simpson, only ginger. ‘Umm, Declan, just wanted a bit of a word.’
I get ready for the usual pep talk about fights.
‘I had a phone call yesterday from your aunt. She … well, she told me about your mum being … um, in hospital.’
‘Oh, right.’ My cheeks burn.
‘Don’t worry,’ he goes on, ‘nobody else has to know. But if you’re finding things a bit difficult, well, come and find me and we’ll see what we can do.’ He sounds embarrassed too. I wonder how much Colette’s told him. I know I’ll never in a million years go and find him, no matter what happens.
Seaneen Brogan is leaning against the wall opposite twisting a bit of hair round her hand. When she stands like that the first thing you notice is her tits in her tight school blouse. ‘Right, Declan?’ She walks beside me. ‘Heard about your mum.’
‘Not you too.’
‘Sure you know my granny misses nothing.’ Seaneen lives round the corner from me but her granny lives right across the street. She smiles at me and pulls her ponytail tighter. She has all this curly hair that she scrapes back off her face but wee frizzy bits always escape. ‘Granny says she saw you going away in a blue car.’
‘I’m staying with our Colette.’ I might as well tell her.
‘Her that married a Prod?’ Without waiting for an answer she goes on, ‘Is your mum going to be OK?’
God, what is it with this girl? I can’t shake her off. She’s on her way to Technology, like me, and she’s obviously going to walk every step of the way with me, talking non-stop. But in a way I don’t mind. Colette has been pretty nice to me but she’s hardly mentioned Mum; it’s like she doesn’t exist even though she’s the reason for me being there in the first place. And at least Seaneen doesn’t look at me the way Princess Vicky does, like I’m nothing. She’s prettier than Vicky too.
I see Emmet in the playground at break, surrounded by his mates, as usual. I wonder if he got the letter yet. I wish I hadn’t spelled ‘sorry’ wrong. He gives me what I think is meant to be a dirty look, but it’s hard to see what his fat gob is doing because his nose is still spread all over it. I hope it never goes back to normal. He’s an ugly bastard anyway – you can tell he’s going to be just like his da. Barry stubbed out a cigarette on the back of my hand once, when he found out I squealed on Emmet to the peelers. I still have the scar; why shouldn’t Emmet?
Don’t know what Mum sees in Barry. I know she gets cheap drink and fags and that off him, but I can’t believe that’s enough to make her keep going back to him. I don’t make eye contact with Emmet. Even when one of his mates looks over, says something to him and they both laugh.
The bell goes at last and I trail in behind everyone to English with Psycho Sykes. Macbeth. Crap. But there’s just this one thing that stays in my head. What’s done cannot be undone. If I could undo breaking Emmet’s nose. That’s what started all this. If I hadn’t done it … if Barry hadn’t come round to the house … if I’d known Mum wasn’t just sleeping off a hangover. If if if. I know it’s all my fault. And Mum does too. Why else would she not even want to see me? She’s been in three days and I haven’t seen her since the first day. Colette tried to tell me it was the doctors’ decision, that she should be left in peace or some
thing but she’s only saying that.
I can’t think these thoughts. I shove them as far away as I can. It’s like I have a wardrobe in my head, a really tall one, and I pile all these horrible thoughts on top of it, out of sight. I try to make sure they stay there by paying attention in every class, which makes the teachers give me very funny looks.
Chapter 6
VICKY
‘You haven’t forgotten about taking me up to Cam’s tonight?’ I asked Mum as we pulled out of the driveway. She had been giving me a lift to school all week, but early, so she could get across town to take Declan to his school. It was called St Something-or-other’s – I’d never even heard of it – and you should have seen their uniform – cheap, nylon blazers with the badge tacked on with big stitches, and trainers instead of shoes.
‘No, that’s OK. But,’ she went on, with a glance in the rear-view mirror at Declan in the back seat, ‘Declan and I are going to see his mum after school. So it’ll be a bit of a rush. You need to be ready, homework done and everything, when we get back.’
‘Oh.’ I hated coming home to an empty house. Then I thought it wouldn’t be much fun for Mum either, hospital visiting. ‘What about tea?’
‘I’ll leave something ready. A chilli or something. You might have to put it in the oven, though.’
‘Did you remember to ask Dad about the horsebox?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed. If Mum hated towing the horsebox there was at least one thing she hated more: phoning Dad. Not that she’d ever said, but when I heard them on the phone their voices were weird. Sort of super-polite. It was hard to imagine they’d been married to each other for years.
We turned into the road where my school was. All you could see were lines of girls walking down the hill. Green skirts and grey blazers everywhere. Wool blazers.
‘You don’t need to take me right to the gate,’ I said.
Taking Flight Page 3
