Only We Know

by Simon Packham

  The bear snarls. I drag my feet towards him, figuring that whatever he’s got in store for me isn’t half as horrible as the hidden menace beyond the woods. But what could possibly be that terrifying? And while every bone in my body is screaming ‘Don’t do it’, another force is twisting my neck round and forcing me to look.

  All I can make out are four white letters on a pale blue background:

  KILL

  And to be honest, it’s better than I’m expecting. It’s only when I pull aside the sopping branches and read the sign in full, that it all makes sense.

  OAKHILL HOUSE

  30

  FINAL COSTUME FITTING

  Second break on Thursday and that bloody clarinet still isn’t dead.

  ‘I feel like Miss Havisham.’

  ‘Like Miss who, miss?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says, studying herself in the mirror we lugged up from the staffroom.

  I’m not sure whose idea her new outfit was, but Miss Hoolyhan really ought to have told them to sod off. ‘I think it looks all right, miss.’

  ‘It’s probably the only time my mother will get to see me in a wedding dress. Mind you, I think she’d be happy if I walked down the aisle in a black bin liner.’ She tries to put a brave face on it, but she’s not smiling inside. ‘So, anyway, Lauren, are you looking forward to tomorrow night?’

  ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over to be honest.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done a great job with those photographs. That slide show’s going to work beautifully.’

  ‘It was my sister really. She had all the ideas.’

  ‘And what about the … other thing? How are you feeling about that?’

  ‘I’ve been trying not to think about it. And at least no one’s left me another “present” for a while.’

  ‘That’s good then,’ says Miss Hoolyhan, playing peek-a-boo with her veil. ‘Perhaps you won’t have any more trouble.’

  ‘I hope not, miss.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t go jumping to conclusions, you know. I hate to admit this, but there’s bullying in every school. And most of the time there’s no rhyme or reason for it.’

  ‘That’s what Katherine said.’

  ‘Yes, well, she probably understands these things better than most. I thought you two would be good for each other. She’s really been looking out for you, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, miss … and thank you, miss.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For letting me try my outfits on up here, and being so cool about things.’

  ‘You deserve to be happy, Lauren,’ she says, sneaking another look in the mirror. ‘Right, I’d better get out of this thing before I start getting attached to it.’

  ‘At least you’ve had a career, miss. Not like my grandma.’

  I was trying to make Miss Hoolyhan feel better, but I’m guessing from the look on her face that comparing her with Grandma has only made things worse. ‘I’ve laid out your outfits in order, Lauren. Starting with the beach dress. Any problems, give me a shout. Otherwise leave them where they are and I’ll take them back to the sports hall after school.’

  The blushing bride gathers up her train and heads for the door.

  And I’m kind of looking forward to the next part. The yellow beach dress is a touch on the short side, and a bit see-through in places, but it will cover the worst of my eczema and it’s actually pretty cute.

  I hold it up to myself, the happiest I’ve felt in front of a mirror for weeks. But when I start parading down the imaginary catwalk to the imaginary song in my head, a glossy photo of a familiar big-eared duo falls at my feet.

  I reach down to pick it up, fearing the worst. Only this time I needn’t have worried. It’s a good luck card. Miss Hoolyhan must have left it. Wallace and Gromit are saluting me with a wide-eyed thumbs up.

  And then I look inside.

  Oh.

  God.

  So that’s it then. My brave new world is officially over. It’s time to face the music and – do what exactly? Well, no more lying to myself for a start. No more denying what I think I always knew. The writing is so awful it looks like the author used the wrong hand. But no matter how long I stare at it, the meaning is clearer than a Photoshopped supermodel’s complexion.

  Why don’t you tell them what you did to Luke?

  31

  ANGER MISMANAGEMENT

  Even I’m surprised by the intensity of my anger. White hot and bursting with destructive energy, I haven’t felt this way in nearly half a decade. All that counselling should have wheedled it out of me. Perhaps it only forced it deeper into hiding.

  Last year, the best I could manage was neutered self-pity; this is the kind of undiluted rage that no anger-management technique on earth could contain. So instead of counting to ten, taking deep breaths or drinking a glass of water, I storm out of the music block with only one thought on my mind: squeezing a confession from the prime suspect.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I say, vaulting the steps of the Millennium Pagoda and stabbing an accusing finger at Katherine.

  ‘You’ve all met Lauren, haven’t you?’ she says. ‘There’s obviously something on her mind.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me.’

  ‘I loathe games, you should know that.’

  ‘Who told you anyway? And why did you do it?’

  A confederacy of nerds looks anxiously up from their chess boards/iPhones/Sherlock Holmes anthology.

  ‘Why did I do what?’ says Katherine.

  ‘You said yourself it was someone who was jealous of me and Harry. Well, no one else knows about us. And it’s obvious you fancy him.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’

  I wave the Wallace and Gromit good luck card in her face. ‘So I suppose you don’t know anything about this?’

  ‘I’ve sat through it at Christmas a few times. But to be honest, crudely animated anthropomorphism isn’t really my style.’

  I feel like punching her, but that’s not my style any more either. ‘And how did you even know about it? Who told you – was it Hoolyhan?’

  Katherine puts down her sandwich. ‘I wish you’d tell me what I’m supposed to have done.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you come straight out with it? Why did you have to frighten me like that?’

  ‘Wait a minute. This isn’t something to do with that bear, is it?’

  ‘I should have known I couldn’t trust a weird cow like you. And your blog’s shit, by the way.’

  The boy who claims to read fiction for pleasure, but never speaks, lets out a nervous giggle.

  ‘Typical, isn’t it?’ says Katherine. ‘Whenever there’s trouble in paradise it’s always one of us that gets the blame.’

  ‘Pretty convenient, wasn’t it?’ I say, folding my fingers into a fist, ‘that you should just happen be the one who found it.’

  Katherine laughs. It’s a strange mechanical sound, almost like they’re muscles she’s never used before. ‘You have heard the expression “Don’t shoot the messenger”, I suppose?’

  ‘How many more innocent toys must die, that’s what you said. Well, that proves it, doesn’t it? You must have known about the others.’

  ‘Other what?’ says Katherine.

  ‘As if you didn’t know.’

  And there’s a real danger that I might resort to violence again, when another unfamiliar sound takes us all by surprise. The boy who claims to read fiction for pleasure looks up from his Kindle and speaks.

  ‘Can I say something?’

  It’s so unexpected that I let him continue.

  ‘I have no idea what this is all about, Lauren. But whatever you’re blaming Katherine for, it’s pretty obvious that she didn’t do it.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s always for the best, but the one thing I do know about her is that she never tells a lie, not even to spare your feelings – especially not to spare your feelings. So if she says she’s got nothing to
do with it, then she’s telling the truth.’

  It may not be the kind of Sherlock Holmes-type brilliance that some of them were expecting, but the terrible thing is, I know he’s right. I just didn’t want to believe it. Because the moment I manage to count to three, the explanation is so obvious even a psycho like me can’t pretend any more. There’s only one person it could have been.

  ‘You bastard.’

  Harry takes one look at me, dumps the rest of his pasta on the tray and heads for the door.

  ‘Don’t you dare walk away from me.’

  ‘Let’s take this outside, shall we, Lauren?’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Not here,’ he says, ploughing through a babbling bunch of Year Sevens.

  ‘Why not?’ I say, struggling to keep up with him. ‘Ashamed, are you?’

  ‘No,’ says Harry. ‘But you’re obviously angry about something and I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself.’

  ‘You’ve done that already. How could it get any worse?’

  But he doesn’t stop until we’re practically in the car park. His fake look of concern is positively putrid. ‘Okay, Lauren, what’s the problem?’

  ‘I thought you actually liked me. Why would you lead me on like that?’

  ‘I do like you. I thought that was obvious.’

  My fist tightens again. ‘Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You can drop the act, okay? I know it was you that sent them.’

  ‘Sent what?’

  ‘Oh come off it. Why were you so keen to go through the subway? I wanted to go the long way round, but you weren’t having it.’

  ‘Are you still talking about that Toy Story thing? Look, if something’s upsetting you, Lauren, I want to know.’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent. All those times when you tried to squeeze it out of me. And what about that weird painting of yours? I wasn’t sure at first, but the message in the card proves it. It couldn’t be anyone else, could it? We’re the only ones who know.’

  His face is as pale as the day we first met. And someone must have pressed the mute button, because when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out.

  ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we, “Harry”? What are you going to do next?’

  ‘What do you mean next? I haven’t done anything.’

  But my mind is already flicking through the horrors to come. ‘Tell the others, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell anyone anything.’

  ‘Well, who gives a stuff anyway? I won’t be sticking around to find out.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Anywhere but here,’ I say, turning and heading towards the gate.

  He grabs my arm.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘You can’t just walk out of school in the middle of the day.’

  ‘Just you bloody watch me, H.’

  32

  LAST ORDERS

  Was there ever a more depressing emotion than hope? Because now I think about it, it’s the only thing that’s kept me going for the last three months: the blindingly stupid idea that it was the start of something good; the crazy belief that I could be who I wanted to be and the world would let me get on with it.

  Of all the schools in all the towns, I had to walk into that one. The past might be another country, but they’ve put up Wanted posters and confiscated your passport, and every time you step across the border the armed guards arrive to drag you back.

  I’m not even crying any more, anaesthetised by the knowledge that it’s game over and there’s no point. In a perfect world I’d run straight home and spend the rest of the year in bed. But that would mean breaking the news to Mum. So I carry on walking.

  Somewhere south of Waitrose car park, I slip on my shit-tinted glasses. And I see what a crap town it is. Crap shops, crap fake cobblestones, crap chuggers, crap bandstand, crap Big Issue seller, crap bloke outside Specsavers handing out crap adverts for crap half-price eye tests and crap fat ladies with their crap fat dogs. But you know what really does my head in? If it wasn’t for me, my family wouldn’t even be here. All that shit I’ve put them through was for nothing.

  And Big Moe’s still not answering: ‘Just call me back, okay? What’s the matter with you? You said you’d always be there for me. So just bloody pick up.’

  ‘Watch where you’re going, young lady.’

  ‘Oh sod off, you miserable git.’

  Two cans of Red Bull from the poundshop later, I’m buzzing again, auto-piloting through town and up the hill towards the roundabout, past Izzy’s house where I have a sickening flashback to that party, and round one side of the nature reserve (shut up, you stupid ducks) until I come to the main road at the top.

  Who cares if running across dual carriageways is generally considered inadvisable? And you can pump your horns all you like because I don’t give a toss. Like a million chickens before me, all I’m interested in is getting to the other side – which is pretty bonkers when you consider that I don’t even know where I’m going.

  And here’s another first. In fact, it’s so high up the parental list of forbidden practices they haven’t even bothered to warn me about it. All the same, I pick a spot on the hard shoulder, summon up my best catwalk smile and stick out my thumb. The cooler the car, the bigger my smile, so I have to admit I’m a tad disappointed when a blue Peugeot 107 pulls up beside me and the window slides down.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  I suppose I should be relieved it’s a woman’s voice. But you know what? I just don’t care any more. ‘Hitching a lift, what does it look like?’

  ‘Have you any idea how dangerous that is?’ says the voice.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ve done it loads of times.’

  ‘I hardly think so. But if you have, it was extremely unwise.’

  ‘Look, are you going to give me a lift or not?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be out here in the first place. A girl your age should not be hitch-hiking.’

  ‘Okay, fine. But if you don’t pick me up someone else will.’

  ‘Now listen to me, I —’

  It’s probably the medication, but these days I can more or less cry to order. Maybe a few tears will do the trick. ‘Please. I missed the bus. There’s only two a day. I’m really late. And if you take me I’ll be safe, won’t I?’

  The voice – reluctantly – relents. ‘I’m going as far as Wivelsfold. Is that any help?’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ I say, opening the car door and jumping in.

  ‘Don’t forget your seat belt,’ says the voice. ‘The roads are full of lunatics these days.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say.

  The car picks up speed, but not a lot. I fix my eyes on the road, terminally frustrated by the driver’s stubborn refusal to break the speed limit. And I’m not the only one with a death wish. The guy in the BMW M3 Saloon behind gets so fed up with tailgating that he screeches past us round the corner, miraculously avoiding the biker coming the other way.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school anyway?’ says the voice.

  ‘We’ve got the afternoon off. There’s an open evening tonight.’ It’s a well-known fact that people love fairy stories – it’s the first one that comes into my head. ‘So I’m … going to visit my grandmother.’ (She lives in a cottage in the woods.)

  ‘And she’s expecting you, is she?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  ‘Well, if I was your gran, I’d be worried sick.’

  ‘It’s lucky you’re not then.’

  ‘Someone needs to talk some sense into you.’

  I sneak a proper look at her. It’s hardly a revelation that she’s ancient: yellow teeth, grey hair, black leather gloves and a red hairy growth on her cheek. She’s obviously the kind of old person who thinks that having lived fifty years longer than me gives her the right to start handing out advice.

&
nbsp; ‘And next time make sure you don’t miss the bus.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  At least she doesn’t go off on a three-hour lecture about the British weather when the rain kicks in, she just turns on the windscreen wipers and sticks her nose up to the window. But as the dual carriageway becomes a winding single lane and we chug deeper into the countryside, she glances sideways and catches my eye.

  ‘So where does she live then?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your grandma. Where would you like me to drop you?’

  And to be honest (literally and metaphorically) I haven’t a clue where I’m going. I’m so pissed off with everything I just need to get away. ‘It’s a few miles yet,’ I improvise. ‘I’ll give you a shout when we’re nearly there.’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ says the old woman doubtfully.

  I peer through the rain-spattered window, trying to get some idea of where we’re headed. Set back from the road is a small white church surrounded by a zombie village of gravestones. Pinpricks of eczema lay siege to the back of my ankles and I get this uncontrollable urge to scratch.

  The old woman flicks on the news: the posh version with the plummy voice. I keep my ears open for any juicy stories about missing schoolgirls, but I doubt they’ve even noticed I’ve gone. All we get are lying politicians and disgraced 1970s TV presenters. And when the plummy voice moves on to the price of petrol, the old woman reaches for the off switch.

  Twenty awkward minutes later, she clears her throat. ‘If there’s anyone you want to call – your parents perhaps – I keep a mobile telephone in the glove compartment.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve got my own phone, thanks.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘I’ll text my mum when I get to Grandma’s.’

  ‘Yes, well, make sure you do.’