The Forevers

by Chris Whitaker

  She lay unconscious of the wild little cries …

  Mae remembered sitting at the back of the library, reading those scenes with Abi, both of them laughing so hard the old librarian shot them the death stare.

  The memory was so vivid she didn’t hear the door open.

  And then she turned.

  And paused.

  Frozen.

  The boy stood there, tall and slim, full lips, eyes so dark she almost looked away.

  She felt her heartbeat in the tips of her fingers.

  I don’t want to be here.

  I don’t want to be anywhere.

  He wore a dark suit, white shirt and black tie, like he’d come straight from saying a final goodbye.

  She heard noise outside and her breath caught.

  He looked at her bag and saw the laptop poking from the top. There was a moment when he seemed to weigh things. He looked at her with such sadness she almost broke in two, then he’d see it, that she had nothing inside, no good or bad, just nothing at all.

  She willed herself to disappear.

  And then he opened his mouth to call out.

  Mae moved fast and slammed into him, her scarf falling to the floor.

  They fell back against the wall, her lips on his. She pushed her tongue into his mouth and grabbed a fistful of his shirt collar.

  Hard and frantic.

  As they broke she stood breathless.

  A voice right outside. ‘Jack, are you in there?’

  She tasted vodka on her lips.

  Flecks of orange lit his eyes, like fire on the darkest night.

  He reached up and gently took off her baseball cap.

  Her hair tumbled down.

  ‘Jack?’

  She heard the tick of the white clock on the wall beside them as she pressed a hand to his chest and felt the beat of his heart.

  ‘Are you in there, Jack? I heard a noise.’

  He moved the hair from her eyes. ‘Yeah. Just looking for something.’

  She breathed again, her lips inches from him, her breath warm on his.

  Footsteps faded.

  Mae backed away, towards the window.

  ‘You can’t take that,’ he said.

  ‘Watch me.’

  She picked up the bag, climbed out and met with the shadows.

  6

  The news of Abi Manton ravaged the town, smoking through the morning air, racing down streets and slapping the complacency from parents who thought the only threat came from the sky.

  Mae hadn’t slept, just twisted and sweated in the sheets, Abi’s broken body there whenever she closed her eyes. At dawn she climbed onto the roof and watched sunlight christen the dark as she sliced Abi neatly in two. Her friend with the lopsided smile, mousy brown hair, eternal optimism. And the dead girl, with the golden tan, platinum locks, cool-as-hell demeanour.

  She dropped Stella at West Primary, waited for Felix for five minutes, guessed he’d finally passed out cold so headed to school without him.

  Sacred Heart sprawled along the top of a white cliff. Victorian buildings, bleached stone and steepled rooftops that rose high above the cliff edge.

  Mae passed the remains of the felled oak Hugo Prince had christened the Death Tree. Kids took to staring at it, like they could still see James and Melissa swinging from its limbs.

  Inside she cut her own path, head down, content to disappear. People said she was trouble, she did nothing to prove them wrong.

  The speaker above crackled with Mr Silver’s voice as he told them to head to the chapel for assembly.

  Abi’s locker had been turned into a shrine of paper hearts, flowers and perfumed notes. A lone candle lit and extinguished, smoke ghosting towards a poster for the Final school dance.

  As Mae passed she saw a poem scrawled and taped in place. She knew grief wasn’t measured in tears or sleepless nights. It was colder, the knot in your stomach, the taste in your mouth, so bitter it ruined the sweetest moment. Mae knew grief. Better than most, she knew grief.

  Each pew was filled, heads low beneath painted saints. Hunter Silver and her friends flooded the front benches with the sharpness of their sorrow.

  We knew the dead girl.

  She was ours.

  If West was their galaxy, Hunter Silver was a supernova. The kind of nuclear fusion that sucked in wide-eyed boys like startled deer in the bright lights of Wonderbra cleavage and silken legs. That she was the headmaster’s haloed daughter only added to the appeal.

  She was flanked by a posse that bowed to her almost as low as the boys did. Distinct by their dead-straight hair and severe eye-skimming fringes. The colour was a uniform ashen steel that gave them a robotic edge. Girls from each year, some as young as eleven, raided the chemist’s for peroxide and hair dye, keen to follow, keen for Hunter to baptise them with a lingering glance, or if they pulled it off right, a smile.

  Hastily arranged slides of Abi were scored to ‘Ave verum corpus’.

  The orchestra led out, a chair was left empty where Abi had once sat and played her violin, in a tribute that had a dozen teachers reaching for tissues and dabbing the regret from their eyes.

  Maybe I missed something.

  Maybe I could’ve done more.

  Abi had helped elevate the kids on stage from tragic to tolerated, rebranding them the Sacreds, and without her they all looked lost, till Sally Sweeny sat down at the piano and took them on a journey out of the chapel and into the crashing sky. Had Sally’s future not been written, it would’ve dazzled with the kind of greatness that came from practising ten hours each day, till her fingers bruised and she dreamed in arpeggios.

  She played with a grace that belied her size. Her weight gain had been legendary. Petite until a year prior, rumour circulated, and then died, that she might be pregnant. Her pale stomach squeezed between the buttons of her shirt. She’d been unceremoniously dumped from Hunter’s circle, her hair returning to a fiery red.

  Theodore Sandford kept his blue eyes down as he missed his cue and stood there in pained silence till Jeet Patel, his all-smiling understudy, filled the gaps.

  When they were done Mr Silver took to the front, blandly handsome, he said everything and nothing, his voice rising above the anguished cries of a dozen girls that didn’t really know Abi, just the idea of her.

  Sergeant Walters stood, clutched his hat and told them to wait behind if they knew anything.

  Mae could see the begging in his eyes.

  Tell me it was suicide.

  Tell me she was depressed.

  As he talked Mae glanced back, and that’s when she saw him.

  He sat alone in the far corner, wearing that same black suit and tie. There, beneath the light from the stained glass.

  ‘Who is that?’ a girl behind her said, close to combustion.

  ‘New kid,’ came another voice.

  ‘He lives in the white house.’

  ‘Hot and rich.’

  At that moment he looked over.

  Mae stared back, unashamed, unafraid.

  ‘So what’s his story?’

  ‘Duh. His family want to die somewhere beautiful.’

  Sergeant Walters was cut short as the large speakers beside him burst into life.

  Five hundred heads turned towards them as the screech of feedback turned to the steady crackle of a tape being played.

  Sergeant Walters looked to Mr Silver, who looked to Miss Holmes, the music teacher. All three shrugged in confusion.

  And then the voice echoed around the chapel, high and haunting.

  We built the swing on the edge of the cut-out. Thirty feet above waves so gentle and blue we stood there mesmerised.

  Everyone stared at the speakers.

  ‘It’s Abi,’ someone said. ‘It’s Abi’s voice.’

  I asked them if they’d seen it. Felix nodded. Mae nodded.

  Then the saccharine voice of Jane, the school counsellor.

  And you remember this clearly?

  Like it was yesterday.
Those moments in life, you don’t realise they’re important till after, when you look back. When you’re in them, when you’re living, it’s like the sweetest nothing.

  Miss Holmes looked around desperately, then rattled the locked door at the back.

  The night before, we’d watched Saviour 5. Mum cried. Dad squeezed my hand and told me everything would be all right. That’s what parents do though. They dress up their lies as promises.

  You think your parents lie to you?

  Not as much as they lie to each other.

  Mr Silver tried to dismiss them. They stayed rooted to their seats.

  I asked Felix and Mae if they thought we’d die.

  And what did they say?

  Felix said no. He knows about science, he puts all his faith in it. Which is ironic, because faith and science are kind of at odds. Like, it’s totally messed up. His father –

  The Reverend Baxter?

  He doesn’t … He can’t take it. That his only son doesn’t believe. I told Felix to just lie or something, isn’t that what we all do? We go to church and bow our heads and think about how screwed we’d be if there really was someone in control of this shitshow. Begging his forgiveness, that ought to be the real sin.

  And what did Mae say?

  Mae felt the eyes on her, the hot stares as kids turned in their seats, as teachers strained to see the girl they’d long ago written off.

  Mae never begs for anything. The idea of original sin – we can never make amends so why even bother. Mae thinks we’ll die. She’s casual about it. Like it’s a certainty. I love her. She’s strong, she’s like, so small but so goddam strong. Considering what she’s been through. Most people would’ve broken. But … she always knew we were going to die. And she made peace while others went to war.

  You said before she was like a sister.

  Closer than that. You don’t get to choose your sister. But Mae, I mean, we chose each other.

  You were eleven years old at this time?

  Six weeks of pure and perfect summer. Marshmallows on the beach and barbecue evenings. Swimming out to the furthest line and seeing who could tread water the longest. Sometimes I think we’re too goddam golden to even exist.

  Mr Silver tried again, desperate. No one moved.

  Felix threw himself, and he swung far out over the water, screaming as he dropped into the sea.

  Then it was me and Mae.

  We stood close, our bare arms touching.

  Sun cream and bubble gum.

  I asked Mae if she thought it could take both of us.

  She said no.

  I asked if she wanted to try. She said yes.

  We held hands and launched ourselves.

  Mae glanced back, this time the boy saw her.

  I can see by your smile it’s a good memory.

  It’s funny that they hurt the most.

  Are you afraid of dying, Abi?

  That question they’d asked themselves a thousand times.

  I was fearless in that way only kids can be. Because they don’t know, the world and the kinds of people in it. Selena, she seemed so far away, not just in miles or time. She just seemed like this thing, this cautionary tale about making each day count, about living some kind of idealised best life. And each Saviour, each failure, brought us closer to the edge of decency, closer to basal, wants and needs – that line has never been thinner. So, to answer your question, Counsellor Jane, no, I wasn’t. Back then I wasn’t afraid of dying.

  And now?

  Now I’m terrified. Because I know for sure where I’m heading. And who isn’t afraid of burning.

  7

  They were hauled out of class and into interviews with frantic faculty members.

  Mae drew the shortest of straws.

  Edward Silver, head teacher, gestured to the leather armchairs in his office. Mae took a seat as he walked over to the window and cracked the blind.

  ‘When something bad happens, people look at you, Mae. You think that’s unfair?’

  There was a time when she might’ve said yes.

  He wore a fitted suit, expensive watch. His hair was neatly parted, his skin too smooth, like he’d never needed to shave.

  ‘We live in an age of miracles, Mae. Every day is more wondrous than the last. Copernicus was on his deathbed when he published his theory that planets revolved around the sun. Before that we thought we were the centre of the universe.’

  ‘Some of us still do.’

  He tapped the window and shook his head at someone outside. ‘People wonder what we’re still doing here. I don’t mean now, us as a school. I mean, people wonder how humanity has survived this long. We’re so intent on self-destruction.’ He took a moment, then finally turned.

  He had the kind of blue eyes that held no secrets. He appraised her tattoos, the faded denim skirt, the grazes on her legs. Like she was an entirely different species to his daughter.

  ‘Counsellor Jane is … Someone broke into her office and stole that tape. A cruel prank. Was it you?’

  She shook her head.

  On his desk was a photo of Hunter beside her mother. There was something inhuman about their smiles, their white teeth, their glow. Like they’d come with the frame to project an ideal. Look at the life you could have lost.

  ‘Did Abi talk to you, maybe tell you why?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Abi Manton or her life.’

  He looked sad. ‘You were friends once?’

  ‘I was a lot of things once.’

  ‘James and Melissa. And now Abi. I thought they were stronger than –’

  ‘I can’t think of anything braver than taking your own life.’

  ‘When we wake up on the twenty-first of July, we’ll have to live with the things we’ve done.’

  ‘And if we don’t wake up?’

  He looked towards the sky. ‘Then we’ll have to answer for the things we’ve done.’

  On the wall was a painting in a heavy frame. A woman laid out in white, some kind of demon on her chest.

  ‘The Nightmare,’ he said. ‘Abi used to stare at it too. You know she was a talented artist?’

  When they were fourteen they’d taken the train to London, wandered the Tate and stopped before Warhol and Picasso and Rothko. Abi had stood facing Dali’s mountain lake and cried.

  Sometimes it was too much.

  As she reached for the door he spoke.

  ‘These next weeks, they’re a test of resolve. Make sure you don’t fail.’

  She ate lunch alone, in the shade of a willow that faced the water. She flipped the pages of her book, her eyes skimming Atticus Finch’s words, Scout’s unblemished soul.

  Mae wondered if people really did only see what they looked for, and hear what they listened for.

  Hugo Prince made his way towards her, glanced back over his shoulder then took a seat on the grass.

  He wore shorts in all weather, ran daily, swam, kicked a football. A few days ago that’s all she would’ve seen, how perfectly he fit together. But then she broke into his home, hid in his wardrobe when she heard noise, and watched him, Hugo all-star Prince, take a razor blade and cut neat lines into his thighs. He did it without emotion, no tears or pain or acknowledgement that what he was doing pushed him from being nothing to something more than the sum of his pristine parts. And then he’d reached for a box from beneath his bed, taken out a brush, a selection of small containers, and expertly made up his face. He’d been carefully applying lipstick when he heard her.

  ‘You get Mr Silver?’ he said, like it was normal they were talking.

  She said nothing.

  ‘He thinks it’s me or Liam. Like it’s a prank. Like I’d do that, after what we saw.’ He fussed with his trainers. ‘You’d think he’d go easy on me.’

  ‘Because you’re nailing his daughter?’

  Blond hair cropped short, cupid’s bow lips; now and then girls stole looks at the boy Hunter Silver deemed worthy enough.

  He ran a thumb a
nd forefinger over the square of his jaw. ‘I didn’t sleep. I wanted to talk to someone, but … So that’s what you do now? You take stuff that isn’t yours. You’re a thief.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded, like it made sense. ‘I keep thinking they’ll announce it. Morales … those guys. They must be working on something we don’t know about. Like, we’ll just hear on the radio that she’ll miss us. Skew off or something.’ He pulled at the grass. ‘Maybe we’ll lie on the beach and she’ll pass so close, right over us, like a plane or something. For a moment we’ll be shadowed. All of us. And then –’

  ‘We’ll die, Hugo. We’ll all die.’

  He stood. ‘I just wanted to … make sure our story is straight.’ As he reached down to pick up his bag, his vest rode up. The bruises were angry, blue-black.

  She swallowed. ‘Your father. Is that why you –’

  ‘We’ve all got our shit to deal with, Mae. A giant space rock doesn’t change that.’

  She watched him walk away. He shoved Jeet Patel because the kid was walking too slow in front of him.

  Move, bitch.

  Normal order resumed.

  As she walked back into the building a long line of kids stood outside the old careers office. Like they hadn’t received the memo. Mae could only imagine the kind of pseudo psychobabble being spewed by Counsellor Jane.

  And how does that make you feel?

  Felix grabbed her shoulders, shoved her into a doorway and pointed.

  She followed his eyes to Candice Harper, who opened her locker to a hundred rose petals landing at her feet.

  ‘American Beauty,’ Felix said. ‘She rented it two years ago.’

  ‘Where did you get the roses?’

  ‘Mrs Preston gave them to me.’

  ‘Didn’t she die last week?’ Mae said, staring at him. ‘You robbed her grave?’

  ‘Hush now, Mavis. Don’t sour this moment with your –’

  Felix fell silent as Candice ran into the arms of Liam and kissed him.

  ‘He’s taking credit. I sat out till midnight to get those flowers. I had to wait for Mr Preston to cry himself out.’