* * *
I slid my back down the front of the lockers until I was squatting on the floor beside Becca.
‘Hi Vicky. Want some?’
‘Diet Coke? At half eight in the morning? No thanks. I’ve just had breakfast.’
‘This is my breakfast,’ said Becca and burped.
‘Tut tut, Miss O’Reilly, that hardly constitutes a balanced meal. Don’t you listen in Home Ec?’ interrupted Fliss in Mad Max’s voice, dumping her bag down.
‘Never mind Home Ec. This really works. Diet Coke for breakfast, break and lunch, then a normal tea to keep my mum off my back. I’ve lost four pounds and I can get into my new top.’
‘Yeah, talking of new tops, you coming into town tonight, Vic?’ Fliss asked.
I sighed. ‘I’m broke. I tried to get round Mum but she’s being a total cow at the minute. Ever since –’ I stopped. I still hadn’t told them about Declan.
‘Go on. Ever since what? I thought your mum was a pushover.’
‘She is, usually.’
‘So? Go on, tell us. Ever since what? Don’t tell me she’s got a new man at last.’
‘No.’ My insides turned to ice. ‘Of course not. She’s not like that.’
‘Vicky, my love, everyone’s like that,’ Fliss said wisely.
I sighed. ‘It’s just we have this boy staying with us. My cousin. His mum’s in hospital.’ No way was I telling them the whole story.
‘A boy? Since when?’
‘Last week.’
‘That boy I saw you with?’ asked Fliss. ‘The one you said your Mum was giving a lift to?’
I nodded.
‘And you’ve kept it a secret?’ Becca’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘Why?’
I shrugged. ‘He’s my cousin. He doesn’t count. It’s not like he’s a boy boy.’
They looked at each other and back at me as if I was crazy. The bell went for tutor group and we had to go, but they wouldn’t leave the subject alone, hounding me the whole way up the corridor.
‘Victoria Moore,’ Fliss said slowly as if I were incredibly thick. ‘He may be your cousin but he is not our cousin. As far as we are concerned he is indeed a boy boy. Very much a boy boy if I remember correctly.’
‘Omigod!’ Becca shrieked. ‘I have had the most brilliant idea. Ask Niamh if you can bring him to the party!’
‘No.’ Something cold and sick washed over me. Imagine walking into Niamh’s house with all my friends there, with Rory there –
‘Vicky, you’re being totally weird about this,’ said Becca.
‘And totally selfish,’ added Fliss. ‘You know we never know enough boys.’
‘Yes, but he’s not…’ I tried to think how to put it without it sounding snobby. ‘He’s – he’s a bit odd. Quiet. You know, with his mum being sick and that.’
‘But a party would cheer him up!’ Fliss beamed at me, all innocent.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No way. Sorry, you’ll just have to put up with me.’
Becca sighed. ‘No wonder we can’t get boyfriends.’
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Maybe you’ll pull on Friday, in your new top. Remember Niamh says the whole of the rugby team’s been invited.’
‘Well, bagsy me Niall,’ put in Fliss quickly.
‘And bagsy you Rory, I suppose, Vic? That leaves me with no one.’
‘We’ll find you a lovely big rugby player,’ I promised. ‘Come on, we’re going to be late.’
Chapter 15
DECLAN
Mr Dermott nearly wets himself when I tell him.
‘Anything?’ he asks me as soon as I get in on Thursday. He’s been pouncing on me like this every morning and I’ve just grunted and hurried off.
But not today. I stop by his desk. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Really?’ He doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. ‘Well, what’s it to be?’
‘An equestrian centre.’ This is the proper name. I’ve been sneaking a look at this book of Vicky’s in the downstairs loo.
‘A – an equestrian centre?’
‘Yeah. D’you not know what that is?’
‘Yes, Declan, funnily enough I do know what it is. My daughter has riding lessons. It’s just not the first thing that would have sprung to mind.’ He looks at me. ‘Well, well.’
‘It’s all sorted. Look.’ I scramble round in my pocket. ‘Here’s the number.’
He takes the bit of paper and smiles at me. ‘Good lad.’
Only two days of school and then a week off. I know it’ll be hard work at Cam’s – I hate to admit it but Vicky’s right about my muscles – but it’ll be a million times better than school. A whole week with no teachers on my back and no bloody Emmet giving me death looks.
Everybody’s hyper because of being off next week. Seaneen says she can’t wait.‘What if you have to change their nappies?’ I ask her. It’s English. Psycho Sykes is blethering on about some crap poem.
She shrugs. ‘Sure I’ve changed our Tiarna and Saoirse’s nappies hundreds of times.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Well, you’ll be shovelling plenty of shite next week, Declan Kelly, from what you’ve told me.’
‘Not wiping their arses. Anyway, horse shite’s different. It’s kind of –’
‘Seaneen Brogan and Declan Kelly, would you like to share your conversation with the class?’
Seaneen giggles.
‘No, you’re alright,’ I mutter.
‘Please, I insist. Do tell the class what you were telling Seaneen.’
For a minute I’m so tempted to say we were talking about shite. But I don’t want trouble. Even when Emmett said something the other day about loony bins, I just clenched my fists in my pocket and ignored him. So I go, ‘It was about work experience, Miss.’
‘Huh.’ Psycho’s about the only teacher who doesn’t get all eager about the work experience. Probably thinks no one in this school could ever get a job anyway.
The bell saves me.
‘Book logs tomorrow,’ Psycho shrieks above the roar. ‘And if you don’t bring your own book you’ll have to read one of mine. And write a report on it.’
Everyone groans. On Fridays you have to bring in a book and read it for the whole lesson. Only a few girls ever remember so the rest of us have to read Psycho’s class library books. They’re all ancient, falling to bits and crap. But there’s books everywhere at Colette’s house. I suppose she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed one. Might nab that horsey one. The Complete Young Rider. Don’t suppose anyone’s that bothered about it or they wouldn’t have left it in the loo. Wouldn’t want anyone here to see it or they’d rip the piss out of me, though it’d be worth it not to have to read Psycho’s books. The Boy’s Book of Spy Stories. The Goalkeeper’s Revenge. What century does Psycho think it is?
* * *
My chest squeezes tight as we drive through the gates of the mental. It doesn’t call itself the mental, of course. ‘Mountain View Healthcare Park’, says the big, bright sign at the gates. Yeah, right. It doesn’t seem like three whole days since we were here. I try to look at all the buildings as we drive round the one-way system. They’re all called after mountains. I wonder how they decide on the names. Is Donard for madder people than Slemish because it’s higher?
Colette slides the car into a spot right outside the building. Croob. I never heard of that.
‘Is Croob high?’ I ask Colette.
She gives me a weird look like she thinks I’m thick. ‘It’s where the River Lagan rises,’ she says. ‘It’s only a bit of a hill really.’
‘Oh. Good.’ I sit back and undo my seatbelt. Slowly.
‘Don’t forget the magazines.’
I take them and look at the titles. Good Housekeeping. Ulster Tatler. Both glossy. No way will Mum read those. I suppose Colette’s running out of magazines.
Why can’t she see I don’t want to go in alone?
‘You don’t want me around all the time,’ is what she’s been saying. ‘You and your mum need
a bit of time to yourselves.’ How crap would it sound to say, ‘Don’t leave me alone with my own mother’? So I just grip the handle and pull and try not to drag my feet too much as I go from the safety of the car to the door.
It’s a small building, square and low. Not as scary as the hospital in some ways. But at least the hospital just looks like what it is. People in bed and stuff. Here you have to ring a bell to get in. You could say that makes it more like a normal house, or you could say they have to lock the people in. I wipe my feet for ages on the stained doormat even though they’re already clean.
A nurse lets me in. She’s the one I met on Tuesday and she says, ‘Hello, there. Your mammy’s in the day room.’ Mammy. What age does she think I am? ‘Do you want to go on in?’
No, I think. The day room is huge. The TV’s blaring at one end. At first I look round in a panic because I think Mum’s not there and then I see her sitting beside this grossly fat woman. They look weird together. They aren’t talking, just sitting. The fat woman is singing under her breath. Mum’s face is botchy and old. She looks the worst I’ve ever seen her.
Worse than when the police came to the door for me.
Worse than when Barry dumped her.
Worse than when Gran died.
‘Right, Mum?’ I say.
She doesn’t answer. She picks bits of skin off her hand. There’s a red raw mark where she’s been doing it.
‘Here.’ I push the magazines at her. My hand’s sweaty. I rub it on my school trousers.
She looks at me for the first time. ‘Colette get out of coming today, then?’ It’s a new voice, not the flat, dull one. More sour.
‘She’s outside.’
‘Huh.’
She’s jittery as hell. She lights a cigarette with a shivering hand. The hand that isn’t holding the cigarette plays with her hair. There are cold sores round her mouth. She looks like shite. She doesn’t even try to talk to me. Fatty keeps singing.
It’s up to me. ‘So – um, how are you?’
‘How do you think?’
I don’t answer. I mean, how the hell do I know? It’s just something to say. I try to tell her about the work experience, but it doesn’t spark anything. ‘It’ll be dead good,’ I say. My voice sounds stupid because I’m trying too hard. ‘I’m not scared of the horses or anything. They’re wicked. And Mum, guess what?’
‘What?’
‘I rode Vicky’s horse on Wednesday!’ I can hear my voice getting stupider and stupider – all enthusiastic like some kid.
‘Oh.’ She sniffs. I think she has a cold.
‘It was brilliant.’
‘Huh. Well, you needn’t be getting used to that sort of thing.’
It’s like someone emptying ice cubes into your stomach.
She lights another cigarette. It smells lovely. I haven’t smoked since that one Seaneen gave me. Mum doesn’t even look at me. There’s a clock on the wall. Only seven minutes have passed.
‘Um, do you need anything? Next time I come?’ That’s what Colette always asks.
‘Leaving already?’
I wish. ‘I just meant –’
‘You can bring me a bottle of vodka.’ She isn’t joking.
‘Oh Mum, I know it must be dead hard –’
‘You know damn all. All you know is how to wreck things.’
‘Mum.’
‘Och, just piss off, Declan.’
‘But –’
‘Look, just fuck off out of here. Go on.’
I go.
No one stops me. Walls. Fire extinguisher. Door. Stained rug. Outside. Rain.
Colette doesn’t see me. For a second I watch her reading the paper, framed by the car window. Safe. I grab at the door handle. Locked. She starts. Looks up, frowns through the rain-streaked window. She clicks the central locking and I duck into the car.
‘Did you forget something?’
‘No.’ I yank at my seatbelt.
She catches on. ‘It didn’t go well?’
I shrug.
She looks at me like she’s trying to make her mind up about something and then she starts the engine. ‘She probably has bad days. The withdrawal symptoms –’
‘Yeah.’ I scrunch down in the seat.
The whole way home I look out at the lights on the wet roads. It takes forever. Rain streaks the windows but it’s hot in the car. I pull off my blazer and throw it on the floor. I can feel the thump of my heart against my shirt. I think Colette must hear my breathing.
‘Vicky’s going to a party,’ she says. I recognise her voice. It’s the same trying-too-hard voice I was using to Mum. ‘You could come with me to drop her off and then we could maybe stop and get a DVD on the way home. Your choice.’
I try to answer but the words are too far down to drag to the surface.
Vicky’s putting on her make-up at the hall mirror when we get back. All I want to do is push past her and go up to my room but her stuff’s all over the hall – powder and bits of cotton wool and a pink rucksack in the middle of the floor. I hang behind Colette.
‘Vicky love, you know I don’t like you doing that.’
‘The light’s better here.’ She squints into the mirror. Her long blonde hair is all straight and shiny. She’s wearing a tight white top. Her tits are crap. She licks the corners of her mouth. ‘Is this lipstick a bit too red?’
‘It’s fine. You all packed for Dad’s?’
‘More or less.’
Vicky turns round to shove her make-up bag into the front pocket of her pink rucksack. ‘OK, that’s me, except, Mum, have you seen that book I was reading? The new one?’
‘Which one? You’re always leaving books all over the house.’
‘The Complete Young Rider. I really need it. There’s a chapter on jumping combinations; I need to –’
‘The book that’s been lying in the downstairs loo all week?’
‘I suppose. Only it’s not there now. Have you tidied it or something?’
Oh shit. I swallow and find my voice. ‘Uh, Vicky, I borrowed it.’
Vicky swings round. ‘You took my new book?’ Her voice is icy.
‘Yeah.’ I know I should say sorry but I’m not going to.
‘Well, go and get it!’
‘The thing is, I sort of left it at school.’
‘What? You took my book to school? You didn’t even ask me!’ Her neck starts to turn pink.
‘I didn’t think you were reading it. It was just lying around.’
‘Well, I need it!’ She’s shrieking.
I push my hands further down into my pockets. They’re both balled into fists. I wish she would shut up.
Vicky’s face is beetroot. So much for the make-up.
‘Vicky, your book will be fine.’ Colette’s trying so hard. ‘You have plenty of horsey books and Declan will get it for you on his first day back after work experience.’
‘You just take his side!’ She’s nearly crying. Good.
‘It’s only a frigging book,’ I mutter.
‘You see?’ Her voice is cracking. ‘He doesn’t even care. He just walks in here and takes what he likes.’
‘Vic, that’s not fair.’
‘Yes it is!’ She comes right up to me. Too close. I can see the tears in her eyes. The powder on her cheeks. ‘No wonder your stupid mother couldn’t stick you. No wonder she tried to kill herself to get away from –’
The first I know I’ve thumped her is when I feel her teeth graze my fist.
I take a step back. Then I’m out on the street, my fist still clenched.
Chapter 16
VICKY
Over my own sobs I heard the slam of the front door.
‘Come on, let me see.’ Mum pulled my hands away from my face. Blood flooded my mouth, hot and metallic and revolting. I dashed to the downstairs loo before I swallowed it.
The sight of the red swirling into the water of the toilet bowl made me retch. I spat again. Not so much blood. I turned on the cold tap and swooshed m
y mouth with water. It stung but it felt clean.
I stood up and looked into the mirror. Peeled down my bottom lip to see. It looked like nothing much. I thought my tooth must have gone through my lip for sure but there was only a red gash. Blood oozed to the surface but slowly. Mascara ran down my cheeks in dirty streams.
‘Calmed down?’ Mum’s face appeared in the mirror beside mine.
‘Did you see what he –?’
‘Never mind what he did. I heard what you said.’ I’d never heard her voice so cold.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but he –’
‘No.’ She put up her hand. ‘I don’t want to hear. I’m …’ She seemed to be searching for a bad enough word – ‘disgusted with you. God knows, Vicky, you haven’t exactly been welcoming – but that! That’s about the worst thing you could have said.’
I stared at her in shock. ‘He still shouldn’t have hit me. He must think he’s a real wee hard man. Hitting girls.’ I sniffed and the snot running down the back of my throat made me feel sick again.
‘Oh, grow up, Vicky! Of course he shouldn’t have hit you. But I don’t blame him.’
I looked down at my white top. It was spattered with red. ‘Look! I can’t go to the party in this!’
But Mum wasn’t in the doorway any more. I snatched up a facecloth, pressed it to my mouth and followed her into the hall. She snatched up her car keys from the hall stand.
‘Where are you –?’
‘To find Declan, of course!’
‘But the party…’
She swung round and for a split second I thought she was going to hit me. ‘Do you honestly think I’m taking you to a party after that?’
‘You mean I’m grounded?’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t care. Go to the party. Go to your dad’s. Go wherever the hell you like. I have more important things to worry about.’
And she slammed the door behind her, just as Declan had done.
I sank down on the stairs and looked at the door. It looked very … shut. Well, that proved it. She’d taken his side against me.
Then a cold feeling crept right over me and I heard my voice again – No wonder she tried to kill herself – and the cold melted to burning shame. Did I really say that? Why couldn’t I just have lost my temper about the book and left it at that? I’d been in the right about the book. But now my breath shivered in my throat. What sort of creature was Nasty Me? Mum had looked at me like she hated me. No, that wasn’t it – like she didn’t know me. Like I wasn’t someone she’d want to know.
Taking Flight Page 8
