The Edge of Sanity

by Sheryl Browne

  Kayla wasn’t sure which were worse, the one-sided rows, or the never-ending silences in between. She wasn’t supposed to notice all that stuff, though. Half the time they expected her to be invisible. The other half she might as well be.

  In the early days, after Emma … Kayla had made herself scarce. Tiptoed around upstairs, shut herself in her bedroom with only her iPod for company, until she thought she’d go as loopy as they were. Even Gran, who’d got the first Aer Lingus flight from Dublin, suggested it might be a good idea for her to keep a low profile for a while, which was when she knew for sure they all blamed her.

  If only she’d taken Emma swimming, instead of hanging around outside the Slug and Lettuce so Hannah could “bump” into that twit, Steve. He was okay-looking, Kayla supposed, if you liked the shaved-head biker look, and he treated Hannah nicely, buying her drinks and stuff, but he was a derbrain, as far as Kayla could see. Nothing like Charlie, who was plain drop-dead gorgeous.

  And he had nice manners.

  ‘May I?’ he’d asked, before sitting down at their table outside the pub. Hannah had been so gobsmacked she’d almost bitten off the tongue she was busy trying to stuff down Steve’s throat.

  ‘Uh-oh, watch out. ‘ere comes Prince-bleedin’-Charmin.’ Steve had guffawed, like a twat. No breeding. Not like Charlie. But then, Steve did hang out with Charlie. And Kayla had quite fancied bumping into him.

  She shouldn’t have left Emma though. Kayla recalled with a fresh pang of guilt how she’d begged to come with them.

  ‘Ple-e-ase,’ she’d whined, shadowing them from the house across the boatyard, where her dad was working only stone’s throw away. ‘I’ll be good.’

  ‘No!’ Kayla had stopped and turned. ‘Go and play,’ she’d hissed, annoyed. If their dad overheard, he’d be bound to suggest she take Emma along with her on their “shopping trip” and Kayla would stand no chance of impressing Charlie with her kid-sister in tow.

  ‘I’ve got no one to play with.’ Emma pouted, like she did when she couldn’t get her own way. ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘Well, you can’t. Come on, Hannah.’ Kayla hooked arms with her best friend, and tried to ignore her ball-and-chain little sister.

  ‘But Mummy said,’ Emma persisted.

  ‘No she did not. Now go away.’

  At which, Emma had played her trump card, ‘I’ll tell Daddy,’ she had said, her arms folded and a smug look on her face.

  ‘Tell Daddy what, exactly?’ Kayla had asked, seriously irritated.

  ‘That you’ve been smoking,’ Emma said, looking like Miss Prim and Proper herself.

  ‘Ooh, big bloody deal.’ Kayla had rolled her eyes, and then glanced towards the water, where their dad was desperately trying to get five boats turned around ready to go out. Saturdays were always frantic, customers queuing, checking watches, impatient to be off on their holidays.

  He’d had his work cut out that morning. And their mum had been roped into some village fête to raise money for the local intensive care baby unit, which meant that neither of them would have time to listen to Miss Tattle-tale Smarty Pants. So Emma could go play on the motorway.

  ‘Drop dead, toe-rag!’ Kayla had snarled over her shoulder, heading fast for the gates to make good her escape while her dad was distracted.

  If only she could take the words back. But she couldn’t any more than she could bring Emma back. Her parents had barely spoken to her after the accident. For days, Kayla could understand. After all, they’d been through some kind of shit … Kayla waited, while a familiar heavy wave of sadness washed over her … but for weeks? Maybe if she tried harder, she’d naively thought, pulled her weight around the house more, starting, she’d decided purposefully, with the bedroom she’d shared with Emma.

  It had taken her hours to clean the rubbish from under her bed. Sorting through Emma’s stuff had taken longer. Kayla found herself stopping every few minutes, especially when she’d come across the outfit Emma had had for her fifth birthday. Three years past toddler, and she’s into sequinned leggings and sparkle tops. Kayla felt that funny sinking feeling in her chest again.

  Finally, floor visible, she’d decided to vacuum. She wasn’t even aware her mum had come into the room, until she’d shouted her name above the Dyson’s drone.

  Kayla hit the off button, turned, and smiled expectantly. She was quite chuffed with her efforts, now that the bedroom was looking more like a bedroom. As in you could actually see the beds. So why had her mum looked so totally pissed?

  It wouldn’t have killed her, would it—Kayla’s lower lip trembled afresh—to have tried to look pleased, even if she had “tidied Emma away”. She hadn’t meant to.

  Her mum had gone ballistic, banging on about how she should have asked, shouting at her, until her dad had intervened.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he’d demanded angrily of Jo. ‘What’s she done to deserve that?’

  ‘I tidied the bedroom,’ Kayla told him, feeling as bewildered as her dad looked.

  He’d raked his hand through his hair. He always did that when he was upset or angry. ‘Shit,’ he had said, his shoulders sagging. ‘She wouldn’t understand, Jo.’ He reached for her mum, but Jo backed off.

  She had clamped her hands over her face and just kept saying sorry. Over and over she had said it, and Kayla felt worse than ever, because, the truth was, she didn’t know who her mum was saying sorry to.

  Kayla had looked at her dad, wondering what to do next. Stay? Or leave them alone? He looked so exhausted, she remembered. Wretched and worn out, and worse, he had tears in his eyes. If her mum’s outburst had destabilised Kayla, her father’s noticeable tears rocked the very foundation beneath her. Kayla had never seen him cry openly, not even after the funeral. Kayla knew he had cried in secret, though. Tall, strong, good-looking—all her mates said so. Kayla quietly thought so—her dad had cried his heart out when he’d thought there was no one around to see him.

  He’d cried last night, after they’d argued: A real humdinger this time, her mum yelling at her dad, volume on max. There’d been a lull after a while, while her mum topped up her wine. Kayla didn’t need to hear to know that. She’d been drinking a lot since Emma. She said it helped her to sleep.

  Yeah, well, pass the glass. Kayla could use some of that.And then came the whammy, the guilt-hanging, heart-crushing finale. ‘It’s your fault!’ she’d told her dad. ‘All of this is your fault!’

  Her dad didn’t shout back. He never did that. He should have. It wasn’t his fault! Kayla had felt like shouting for him. It was mine!

  He had been standing in the hall before he’d gone, dragging his arm over his eyes and taking deep breaths, and Kayla knew he was crying. She’d wanted to go to him. To tell him everything would be okay. That he still had her. But … what if it wasn’t enough? If she wasn’t enough? Too frightened to find out, she returned to her room, buried herself under her duvet and stuffed her face into her pillow.

  Her dad had crept up to check on her. Kayla knew he would. He always did, but she’d kept quiet, kept her eyes clamped tight shut, because she didn’t want to see the pain in his eyes. The pain she’d caused.

  And then, he’d left. Bye, Kayla. Cheers. Nice knowing you, but not that nice. See you around. Yeah, right. He never said a word. Not a single word.

  She’d gone to the window when she’d heard the front door close, watched him head off across the boatyard. No jaunt to his walk anymore, no sense of purpose, he’d looked like a man defeated.

  Sometimes, Kayla wished she could go back. Take a trip in the Tardis and step out to a time when she had her dad all to herself. She missed how they used to be: The way he’d muss up her hair, or tickle her until she nearly wet herself. ‘Can’t sulk when you’re laughing, can you, Kayla?’ he’d grin, and show her no mercy.

  Maybe he thought she was getting too old for all that stuff now? Kayla supposed she probably was. She’d had to steel herself to ask him for money a few weeks back. Money above
her allowance, which she’d already spent. She’d have been more comfortable asking her mum, but Jo rarely emerged that early in the morning anymore.

  ‘What for?’ Daniel had asked, irritated as the toast popped belatedly and the smoke alarm went into overdrive.

  ‘Dammit!’ he’d cursed then, turning away to toss blackened toast in the bin. ‘I haven’t got any cash on me, Kayla. You’ll have to ask me later.’

  ‘But Dad, I need it now,’ she’d insisted.

  ‘How much?’ He’d searched his pockets.

  ‘Three quid.’

  ‘I haven’t got three quid, Kayla. A pound will have to do.’

  ‘But a pound isn’t enough, Dad.’

  ‘Is it ever?’ He’d sighed, ramming the kettle under the tap, soaking his shirt, and obviously shortening his temper further. ‘What’s so important that you have to have it right now, Kayla? You could show a little consideration, you know? I have the Boat Safety Officer coming in …’ He’d checked his watch. ‘Hell, ten minutes.’

  Kayla had shuffled and mumbled, while Daniel clattered the breakfast things into the dishwasher. ‘The cash dispenser’s in Worcester,’ he had pointed out impatiently. ‘Not inside my wallet, Kayla. So unless you’ve any bright ideas as to how I’m supposed to get there and back before you leave for—’

  ‘It’s not my fault we don’t have a car!’ she had blurted.

  And Daniel’s shoulders had stiffened. He’d turned slowly around, a tic playing at the corner of his mouth, which Kayla knew to be a small but significant sign. He was well-annoyed.

  She had stepped back, wishing she could backtrack. She had touched a raw nerve. She shouldn’t have said that and she was sorry, but … They weren’t the only ones hurting around there. ‘I need to go to the chemist!’ she had shouted defiantly, standing her ground, her jaw tight-set and her eyes threatening to spill over.

  Daniel scanned her face, his anger turning to frustration as the penny apparently dropped. ‘Oh,’ he had said quietly. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘I just did,’ she had mumbled to her shoes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kayla.’ He’d moved towards her then, placing an arm around her shoulders, for all of two seconds.

  Yep, she was too old for all that touchy feely stuff now, obviously. Who needed it anyway? Consigning the memory to history, as her dad was obviously content to consign her, Kayla ferreted through her make up bag, then upended the contents onto the breakfast table.

  Raking her spiralled curls from her face, she checked her sleepers and nose stud, and then carefully applied two coats of lash-lengthening mascara. Being only fifteen presented no probs when it came to getting into Strobes. She would pass for sixteen at a glance. With the assistance of Urban Decay, her new shoes, and a padded plunge bra, eighteen was easily attainable.

  ‘Uh, oh.’ She checked her watch, scooped her face back into her bag, and then reached for a quick corner of toast.

  ‘Oh, gross!’ She flicked at the wasp happily breakfasting on her breakfast, which buzzed frantically around the kitchen, then homed in on the jam jar.

  Patiently, Kayla waited whilst it ventured from the rim of the jar to the fruit of its labours. Then, ‘Ta, ta,’ she said, and slammed the lid tight.

  Chapter Two

  Charlie stumbled to the bathroom, trying to fight off the overwhelming urge to throw up. He failed, just short of the toilet.

  ‘Shit!’ He skirted around the after-pub curry to stuff his face under the tap.

  Thirst satiated, he dragged a hand across his mouth and admired himself in the mirror. ‘You are one good-looking bastard.’ He winked, waggled pierced eyebrows, and then winced.

  ‘Oh, man, man, man … my head,’ he moaned, zigzagging up the hall, back to the bedroom. He’d got well-wasted last night, so high he was floating, but now, he had come way down low. Charlie prided himself on not doing drugs before breakfast, but he needed a buzz, and fast. This morning-after stuff was seriously depressing him. He padded across the bedroom and stopped short of the bed. What the hell was she doing in it?

  Oh, man, he must have been wasted. She was one ugly slapper. If Rachel found out, she’d go totally ballistic. But then, she wasn’t about to find out, was she? Not now she’d gone home to Mummy. And that sour-faced old cow wouldn’t let him within fifty miles of Rachel, the state she was in when she went.

  Like it was his fault about the baby … and everything. None of it would have happened if Rachel would just keep her trap shut and stop slagging him off, looking down on him, like he wasn’t good enough. Just like her bloody mother did.

  Just like they all did.

  He cared about her. He had said so. Said he would stick with her, didn’t he? What more did she want? Why didn’t she just keep it zipped? Always had to be whining about something. Was it his fault they suspended his benefit? Wasn’t enough to buy a pot to piss in anyway. They could stuff it.

  He’d got a few things going on. A drug deal here and there. Nothing major league, yet, but enough to bring in some dosh until he had built up his clientele, which he would. Up there with the big boys is where Charlie intended to be. A million miles away from this sodding dump—and the skinny kid they’d all spat on and shunned in the school playground, because his dad was banged up and his trollop of a mother was shagging everything in sight.

  Rachel just had to keep going on about him getting a job though, didn’t she? As if, when he did get some dead-end job, it ever lasted. People were always telling him what to do, that was the trouble. Charlie couldn’t abide it.

  Self-important bastards ordering him around, like he was insignificant.

  All his life people had told him to do this and that, as if they had a right to: teachers, social workers, probation officers, foster parents, his drunken whore of a mother, DI-bloody-Short down at the station, Uncle Tom Cobbly and all, deciding it was their right to push him around. Rachel shouldn’t have kept trying to tell him what to do. He wasn’t taking that sort of crap anymore, especially not from a woman. No way.

  Shame about the baby though.

  Tea, he thought, snorting a quick line of top stuff and wiping his nose on his arm. Nice and sweet. He needed the rush.

  ‘Cup of tea, darlin’?’ he called to the slapper, feeling a bit more charitable now the coke had hit the spot.

  Wasn’t her fault she had fallen for his charms, he supposed. He didn’t even have to work at it. They just fell at his feet. Mind you, that was usually the other side of the night. He normally got shot of them straight after, preferring to get his shit together in private. Image was all, after all, if he wanted the respect he deserved.

  ‘Mmm,’ she mumbled sleepily, as he headed for the kitchen. ‘Such a gent.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely,’ Charlie chuckled, definitely on the up now, until he opened the kitchen door—to the overpowering stench of urine.

  Charlie’s good mood evaporated. ‘Christ!’ A little knot tightened at the base of his skull. He glared at the puppy quaking in the corner. ‘Filthy bitch, you just don’t learn, do you?’ he seethed, launching himself across the room.

  But the dog was quicker. Ducking under the table, it made a dash for the door, before Charlie’s foot made contact with its hindquarters. ‘You are kebab meat, dog!’ he snarled after it.

  Cursing, he grabbed a tea towel to mop up the mess and then tossed it in the corner. Maybe he should just drop the bloody animal around at Rachel’s miserable mother’s. That would wipe the supercilious smirk off the old bag’s face. Allergic, she was. With a bit of luck, she would choke to death.

  Agitated now, he yanked the fridge open. No milk, of course. There was never any milk. ‘Shit!’ He slammed the kettle on—black coffee better than nothing, he supposed, then searched for a cup, and then searched some more, tossing newspapers and carrier bags from the Formica-topped table to the floor.

  ‘Typical.’ He headed for the sink to turn the washing up bowl upside-down, the contents of which clattered into the sink. Why was t
here never even so much as a clean-fucking-cup in this place? Did he have to do everything himself?

  The letterbox rattled noisily behind him. Charlie glanced up from his labours to see the slapper wandering panda-eyed into the kitchen, leafing through his private post. And what was more, he gawked, she was wearing his shirt! Unbelievable!

  ‘Morning, gorgeous.’ She smiled at him, and then blinked bleary eyes at the dog sniffing warily around her ankles, wagging its tail. ‘Oh, bless, who’s a pretty little girl, then?’ she cooed, bending to tickle its ear and make silly kissy noises.

  Soppy cow, thought Charlie, eyeing her with ice-cold contempt. ‘Leave it,’ he snarled. ‘Bloody thing’s pissed all over the floor.’

  She pouted. ‘Don’t be so mean. She couldn’t help it, could you, baby? She’s only a puppy. You shouldn’t keep dogs in flats anyway. It’s cruel,’ she informed him, as if he were dense or something, then yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

  Charlie’s eyes nearly fell out. Smack he wasn’t into this early, but he was hallucinating anyway. Either that or the tart was wearing his best FCUK shirt with nothing underneath.

  ‘Get us that cup of tea, will you?’ She wound him up further, running the tip of her tongue over her lips. ‘My throat feels like sandpaper. Can’t think why.’ She winked suggestively and gave Charlie a coy little smile as she turned towards the bedroom.

  ‘Slag,’ Charlie threw after her.

  The tart stopped in her tracks, shaking her head as if she hadn’t quite heard him right, then whirled around as Charlie sprang to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him.

  In a split second, he seized the shirt collar, popping the one button she had fastened. He didn’t much mind about the shirt anymore though. His mouth twisted into a smirk as he watched the coffee drip from her startled face to bleed into the cotton-rich fabric.

  Mary Sullivan opened her mouth, and then clamped it shut again, fast.

  Bewildered, she searched his face. Gone was the charming smile of the night before. In its place, a vile sneer. And his eyes … Where had she seen that look before? Jaws. She had watched in on telly with her mum. The bloke had dead eyes. He was one slice short. Oh, hell. She had made out with a maniac.