What? You want me to climb a hill? I’ll fall over!
Shadowy figures in front. Follow the torch.
Slow down, Jasmine. My legs aren’t working!
We stop at the top. Ha! That rhymes. Stop at the top.
The moon pokes over the trees. I see now. See Jasmine. I want to kiss her. Weird. Where did that come from? Kiss her? What you on about? You’re drunk.
‘Look,’ Jasmine says, pointing.
I look.
Every scrap of air leaves my lungs.
No. We can’t be. Not here. I … I can’t be here.
My head clears a little. I stumble.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
A faint voice. ‘Megan? What is it? What’s wrong?’
We’re on the wrong side of Lyndhurst.
We’re at the ridge.
The place I’ve avoided for the last seven months.
Because it’s where Hana died.
CHAPTER TEN
What the …? Where am I? God, my head. I feel so rough.
I can tell by the way I’m being jolted around that I’m in the back of a car. My shoulder aches, my hand is grazed and grubby, my head’s spinning. Whose car am I in? Where am I? Why am I so confused?
Then I hear Jasmine’s voice. And it all comes back. Owen. Vodka. The ridge. I hear some sort of groan, but the sound doesn’t belong to me. It’s like a wounded dog.
Jasmine whips round from the front seat. ‘Megan? God, Megan, are you OK? You fainted. Scared the crap out of me! Don’t worry, Owen carried you to his car. He’s taking us home.’
I sit up. Darkness creeps into the corner of my eyes, like I might pass out again.
‘S’OK. Just relax. You’re going to be fine.’ Jasmine’s words slur into a stream of noise.
Wait a minute. Home? I can’t go home! Mum can’t see me like this!
I peer at the numbers on the car’s clock. They swim around. I blink. Refocus. 00:05.
All right. That’s all right. Mum will be in bed.
Jasmine’s eyes are wide, anxious. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you out. This is all my fault.’
Sorry? You’re sorry? I’ve spent months trying to forget, to scrub the memory away, but you took me there, of all places! How could you?
‘Please don’t be cross with me.’ Jasmine’s voice breaks. I block it out, ignore her hurt. You have no right to be upset when you’ve put me through this!
I roll over so I don’t have to look at her. I feel like my body keeps rolling, over and over again. I close my eyes.
Twenty nauseating minutes later, the car stops. An icy gust of wind hits my legs when Owen opens the door. He leans over me, his face grim. What’s that on his nose? Looks like scratches. Recent. Dotted with drops of blood.
‘Yeah, that’s right. You did that!’ he shouts. ‘Should’ve left you there, you little—’
‘Hey, that’s enough!’ Jasmine says, stepping between us.
I did that to his face? No. I can’t have done.
Vicious bitch!
‘It’s OK, Megan,’ Jasmine says, reaching for me. ‘You just freaked out a bit when he tried to pick you up.’
I snatch my hand away. That’s not OK! Why don’t I remember it? Why did he take us there in the first place? He knows that’s where Hana … Was he trying to mess with me? Does he know the truth? Was he trying to get me to talk?
I lean over, retching.
‘Don’t get any puke in my car!’ Owen yells.
Jasmine quickly sweeps my hair out of my face. Nothing comes up, though.
Gripping the handle, I hoist myself out of the car. My legs can barely hold my weight. Owen slams the door, jumps in the front, then revs the engine, flying off with a screeching wheel spin. I really hope that hasn’t woken Mum up.
Jasmine sighs. ‘I guess he’s going back out again. I think we might have blown it. I’ll text him tomorrow, smooth things over.’
What’s this ‘we’? I never wanted anything to do with him in the first place! Hang on – you have his phone number?
‘Megan?’ Jasmine says in a small voice. ‘Can I stay? I’m worried about you. I know it wasn’t just the drink that made you faint. I saw your face when you realised where we were. I know Owen knows something, but I want to hear it from you. Please, will you try to explain?’
I shake my head and dig around my pocket for my keys.
‘Fine. Let’s not talk about it tonight. But can I at least stay?’
Another head shake. Jasmine’s eyes well with tears. I look away.
‘If that’s what you want, I’ll go. But I’m coming back tomorrow.’
Deep beneath the anger, something stirs within me. But I’m too tired and weak to identify it.
I listen as Jasmine walks away, then draw a deep breath, focus on the key and try to steady my hand. I just have to make it to bed without waking Mum. The latch clicks. I push the door open and a creak cuts through the sleepy stillness inside. At least everything’s dark. I peer into the living room. Mum’s not asleep on the sofa, which is good.
I turn on the hallway light. Next to the coat hook is this cheap print of a sunset over a beach. Mum got a discount because there’s an imperfection: a splotch of black in the upper right corner. She joked at the time – said it could be a bird or something. But it isn’t a bird. It clearly isn’t a bird! I want to tear the picture down, smash it to pieces. I wrench it off the hook and raise it above my head, my teeth locked, arms shaking. Then this noise sort of drops out of my mouth: a sob. I slide down the wall, put the picture facedown next to me, lean my head against my knees, and cry.
When I manage to get myself together, I look around as if I don’t know where I am. The last couple of hours seem unreal. But my thudding head and bruised skin say otherwise. My tongue is furry, mouth thick with the taste of something I don’t recognise.
I head for the kitchen, fingers trailing along the walls to support me. Tea. I need tea. I fumble with the mug and teabag. My fingers are fat and clumsy.
I sit at the table and take a sip. Searing heat almost blisters my lip. It’s still boiling hot! I haven’t added any milk.
What’s wrong with me?
I’m still a bit drunk. That’s what it is. I just need to go to bed. Pretend this whole night never happened.
I drag myself up the stairs – on all fours at one point – and flop into bed, fully clothed.
I’m woken in the morning by Mum opening my door. ‘Megan? What are you doing here? Didn’t you stay at Jasmine’s? What time did you get in? Why are you still dressed? Why has my picture been taken off the wall?’
I roll over and ignore her. Too many questions. Too early to answer.
But she perches on the edge of my bed. ‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’
I groan. My brain seems to be stuffed with marshmallow. I feel sick, too. Without turning to look at her, I hold out my hand.
Mum understands, finds the notepad I always keep on my bedside table, and gives it to me.
I write: We had a fight.
‘What about?’
I shake my head.
She huffs and stomps out, muttering something about ‘stroppy teenagers’.
The next time I wake, I catch the sound of voices downstairs. I creep on to the landing and peek around the banister. Mum and Jasmine are talking near the front door. I guess that means Jasmine’s parents didn’t find out we were drinking, or she’d definitely be grounded.
I’m not ready to face Jasmine yet. I sit on the top step. They’re the other side of the stairs so they won’t see me, but I can hear them clearly.
‘She’s still sleeping, Jasmine.’ Mum’s voice is clipped. ‘What happened last night? Megan got in really late.’
‘We had a fight,’ Jasmine says carefully. ‘I’m not really sure why. We went up to the ridge and she just …’
‘What?’ Mum snaps. ‘Where did you go?’
‘T-to the ridge. The other side of Lyndhurst.’
>
‘Oh, God,’ Mum groans. ‘You don’t know what happened, do you? Who were you with? Bloody kids. They should’ve known better.’
‘What? What happened there?’
Mum pauses, then asks, ‘Has Megan even mentioned Hana?’
Don’t say her name! Please … just … don’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Too late. A couple of tears sneak out, like the first scattered raindrops before a storm. There’s a couple more. Then they become a downpour. I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. I wrap the other hand around the banister and clutch it until my knuckles go white.
‘I heard rumours that a girl from Brookby died last summer,’ Jasmine explains. ‘Then Luke told me she was Megan’s best friend, and that Megan hasn’t spoken since she died.’
Mum sighs. ‘It sounds like you already know most of it.’
‘I don’t really know how she died. The details. Luke just said there was an accident.’
‘Well …’ Mum draws out the word as if she can postpone her answer. ‘Megan, Hana and some other kids were at the ridge. I don’t know what they were doing, mucking around on a rope swing or something, but there was an accident and Hana fell.’
Hana fell. She fell. She died.
I can’t … There’s too much. Agony, horror, rage, guilt. My brain roars with it all.
Jasmine starts to cry too.
What right do you have to cry? Was she your best friend?
‘Why don’t you come in?’ Mum says. ‘I’ll see if I can raise Megan, then you can patch things up.’
There’s a tiny island of reason in my mind, where I know it’s not Jasmine’s fault, but the pain is like a tidal wave, flooding and consuming everything.
‘No,’ Jasmine blurts. ‘Thank you. I – I don’t think I should. I feel a bit, you know …’
I hear her backing away, towards the door, then it opens and Jasmine leaves without saying goodbye.
I stand, step forward, and reach out my hand as if I can stop her leaving, without really knowing whether I want her to stay or go.
I mooch around the house for the rest of the day, trying to avoid Mum, who inconveniently has the day off. She corners me at dinner, when I’m forcing down some beans on toast.
‘Jasmine came round earlier. She wants to sort things out.’
I don’t respond, neatly slicing a corner from my triangle of toast.
‘I told her about Hana.’
I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. I watch it, unable to meet Mum’s eyes. The beans look like maggots swimming in blood. Some of the sauce drips away and one of the beans slides off and drops to the table. I throw the fork down.
‘I know it’s hard for you, Megan. But she’s heard stuff at school, so I thought she should know the truth.’
My breath shakes and judders. I know, Mum. I should’ve told her myself.
Mum frowns. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve done the wrong thing. I always put my foot in it.’
No. You did the right thing. I’d rather Jasmine heard it from you than some stupid lies from Sadie.
I reach for the empty can of beans and peel a strip off the label. I write Thank you on the back.
Mum smiles and squeezes my hand. ‘Do my roots for me later? I look like a scarecrow!’
I nod.
Mum gets this sly look on her face. ‘Maybe we could—’
I shake my head before she’s even finished speaking. There’s no way I’m letting her loose on my hair.
I don’t sleep that night. I alternate between crying into my pillow and drifting through nightmares. I wake late on Sunday morning. My skin feels taut, like I’ve cried out every last drop of water, wrung myself dry like a dishcloth. I’m too tired to be cross with Jasmine any more. I send her a text:
Will you come over?
When she arrives, just half an hour later, Jasmine’s face is pallid, her curls hang limply, and her clothes are creased. We look at each other for a moment, tears welling in both our eyes, then she wraps her arms around me and starts to sob. ‘Are you OK? I’m so sorry. I honestly had no idea.’
I glance around for something to write on, but we’re standing in the doorway. I don’t know how else to reassure her, so I reach out, cup Jasmine’s chin in my palm, and give her a weak smile. Something flickers through me. A hazy, drunken memory. A feeling. I try to grab hold of it, but it’s like trying to catch a cloud.
‘I guess that means I’m forgiven?’
I nod.
Mum totters out of the kitchen. ‘Just popping to the shop. I fancy something naughty. You want anything? Chocolate?’
I fix her with a look. I assume ‘something naughty’ means fags.
‘What?’ she says, with a wicked grin. ‘God, Megan. Sometimes I think you’re the mum and I’m the kid!’
I try to smile back, but it falters. Mum lost her own parents in a car accident a couple of years before I was born. She must miss them so much, especially now Gran and Grandpa are gone.
We wave her off, then I lead Jasmine up to my room, tapping the banister in a nervous, staccato rhythm as we mount the stairs.
I stop in the doorway of my bedroom, seeing it through Jasmine’s eyes. It’s immaculate. All the surfaces are clean and clutter-free, my books are alphabetised, my CDs grouped by genre. I almost want to chuck an old plate on the floor, or leave some dirty socks lying around, to make it seem normal. Jasmine is looking at the walls, though, which are decorated with prints from the Wildlife Photographer of the Year Award.
Early afternoon light slants through my window and highlights drifting dust motes. I watch them for a moment, transfixed, then wrench my eyes away, looking for something else to distract me.
Jasmine’s waiting. I have to do this. I almost can’t bear to let Hana go again, but she’s not here any more, and Jasmine is. Hands shaking, I reach beneath my pillow and pull out a stack ßof letters, all addressed to Hana. All unanswered. I pass them to Jasmine.
I watch while she scans the pages. Her eyes are red, her skin blotchy. I hate seeing her like this.
When Jasmine finishes, she tucks the pile of letters beneath my pillow again. Then she stares at the floor, trying to gather the right words. After a few moments, she seems to give up, and just lunges forward to grab my arms. ‘Oh, Megan,’ she gushes, ‘I’m so sorry. Sorry you lost your best friend. Sorry you had to see it. I wish I could make it all go away. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.’
Jasmine draws me into a fierce hug, her fingernails digging into my back. I focus on the feel of her chest against mine, the sound of her breath in my ear, the brush of her hair against my neck. A knot of tension in my shoulder blades loosens.
‘Do you have any pictures? I’d like to see, if … if that’s OK.’
My heart quickens, but I drop to the floor and scrabble around the bottom of my wardrobe for the right photo album. I find it and quickly flick through.
There it is. Hana and I standing in Grandpa’s garden, arms wrapped around each other, cheeks pressed together, her grin matching mine. Hana’s wearing a black top with glittery stars, paired with some combat shorts that end just above her knees. Everything looked great on her. Even the scruffy Dr Martens were kooky and cute. I bet she was wearing odd socks beneath them. She was the kind of person who’d wear Christmas socks in August.
Jasmine studies the picture. ‘You look so happy and comfortable with each other,’ she murmurs.
I wish Hana were here. Wish you could meet her.
Tears glisten in Jasmine’s eyes. She tries to hold them back, but they overflow and roll down her face. Seconds later, we’re both clutching each other again and crying.
‘You know it wasn’t your fault, right?’ Jasmine says, her voice thick with tears. ‘You keep saying sorry in your letters, but your mum said it was an accident.’
I pull away from her sharply and stand to look out of the window. I’ve told you as much as I can. Don’t ask for any more.
Jasmine starts to say something else
, but Mum calls up the stairs. ‘Are you two hungry? I’m starving! I could make lunch if you like?’
‘Are you hungry?’ Jasmine whispers.
I shrug.
‘Be right down!’ Jasmine calls.
I turn to leave, but Jasmine grabs my hand to stop me. ‘Wait. Just a minute. There’s something I want to tell you, too. I want to explain why we moved. I know it seems strange. I know people are talking about me, wondering why I came here just before exams.’
I grab my notepad. You don’t have to, I write.
‘But I want you to know.’ Jasmine draws in a big breath. ‘Some girls at my old school were giving me a really hard time. It was affecting my schoolwork, so Mum and Dad thought I should sit my exams in a new school.’
That’s awful, I write. Who could not like you?
She gives me a tearful smile.
I’m glad you told me, I add. I’m glad you moved, even if it was for a horrible reason.
‘Me too.’ Jasmine swipes tears from her face and says, ‘Right, let’s get something to eat!’
The kitchen is thick with the scent of tomato soup. It bubbles away in a pan on the hob, spitting out drops like lava from a volcano.
Mum laughs when she sees me inspecting the can. ‘So I didn’t technically “make” it. But it’ll do, won’t it?’
‘It’s fine,’ Jasmine assures her. ‘Smells great!’
Jasmine starts chatting about a TV programme where a woman adopts a child who turns out to be her younger sister. Mum asks if she’d like to act in a soap, and Jasmine laughs and says she’d rather be on stage. Then she notices some gossip magazine lying on the table and they start to coo over the male torsos in the centrefold.
I tune out, concentrate on blowing steam off my soup. I’m glad Jasmine knows now. Well, she knows as much as Mum. Neither of them knows the whole truth. What I did to Hana.
The voice screams through my head, splitting it in two.
Murderer.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dear Jasmine,
I’ve taken your advice. I’m not going to write to Hana any more. I like your idea of writing her a goodbye letter, and I will do some day, I promise.
Unspeakable Page 6
