by Stella Duffy
THIRTY-THREE
Sally walked down the steps. There were twenty-three of them. One foot after the other, one movement – hip/knee/foot – after another. Right, left and right again. Walked as if it was what she always did. She always did. She never had before. Never had walked down these steps in silence before, not that she could think of, not that she could think of anything, but it was so quiet, this place was never quiet. There was always noise, talking, other kids shouting, jeering, laughing, shouts bouncing off brick walls, people leaning out of windows, Will behind her, Daniel in front maybe, Sally and Andrea jostling between them, movement and action. Stopped action, she remembered something from a science class, stupid thought, irrelevant there and yet it felt important, she let it stay. Kinetic and latent energy. Sally’s was all latent energy, waiting, and yet she was moving. Downwards. Down the steps.
Janine said: “I didn’t. She said. Sally said. They wanted to. Like me. Friends. She was with me. We were. And I don’t know why. Why? Why did they? Last night. That. Why did they? It was so nice. Afternoon. Yesterday. My friend. It was nice. We were. How does that happen? How does it happen when they change? I don’t. I don’t understand.”
And then Janine waited.
And then Janine said: “I heard him falling. Like wind. Like holding your hand out against the wind.”
No one heard Janine’s words. Her mouth moving against the wind.
Ewan lying at the bottom of the concrete block wall. Ewan stopped like he’d never started.
Teachers running from all directions and no time at all before the siren started. Sirens. All that noise. The ambulance rolled right up, through the gates, driving across the white lines for knee-grazing netball, right up beside Ewan. Not Ewan. Stopped Ewan.
Hard to get down the steps, down to him. Hard to get past the push of other kids. A ring of them. Not that they were that close. Not as close as when there was a fight. They were arcing round him, the other kids, a body’s length away. Ewan’s body the radius of their semi-circle.
And after they’d told the Headmaster what had just happened: he fell, she went crazy, he fell, they told it all over again to the nice policewoman, and the serious policeman. And then another nice policewoman started again, new questions. About why.
Will said: “I’ve got no idea, none at all. She just came in the gates and launched into one. It was totally fucking weird – I’m sorry, I mean, it was weird.” Smiling at the policewoman, not the kind of boy to use bad language, not in that company anyway. Nice manners. A good smile, something more than good, more to offer. Continuing, “It was just, you know, weird. We were up on the top there, it’s where we go, we always do. My girlfriend and me, a few mates of ours. Everyone knows it’s where we go. Us. We sort of hang out there. We do have permission to. And you can see down to the gate. She looked really weird from the minute she came into the playground, I had no idea what she was on about. Still don’t, sorry. Yes, like I said, we were all together last night. At my place. My dad was at work. It’s what we do on Thursday nights. Janine popped in. She didn’t stay long.”
They had thought about this, agreed on this, had this discussion first thing this morning. All five had spent the evening at Will’s place. Janine had popped over, some talk about school, then she left. No big deal. And then they had all gone home, their separate ways. Just like normal. Sally and Ewan had been shy about people knowing what came later, didn’t even tell the others what came later. Sally had been going to tell Andrea, later. Better for them all to say they were together, Sally wasn’t ready to say they’d been alone, just her and Ewan. The others figured what had happened, of course, but none of them had taken the piss, not yet, not even Daniel. Sally was grateful to them for that. Had been grateful, until Janine arrived.
Will was finishing up with the policewoman, regretful smile: “I’m sorry I can’t help more. Really. I guess she’s just not OK.”
Andrea said: “No … I don’t know. We were together last night. Will and I. Sally and … ” She wiped her running nose, fat tears pooling illicit mascara under her eyes, mouth bitter with bile. “ … and Ewan. And Daniel.” Telling the story. As arranged. “We were all together. At Will’s. We’re always all together, Thursday nights, everyone knows that. She came over, didn’t stay long. That’s all. I don’t know what she’s … what she’s … I don’t know. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I want my mum.” Andrea ran off, into the girls’ loos, three would-be friends, could-be gossips following her in.
Daniel said: “He’s our mate. Ewan’s our mate. She’s a mad fucking bitch. She just went off on one. What are you talking to us for? We spent the evening at Will’s.” Most of it true, most of the truth. “Why are you asking about us? We didn’t do anything. She just went off. Everyone saw her. Fucking idiot.”
Daniel kicked at his chair, holding his hands tight, fists in folded arms. Angry at himself and angry at Janine Marsden and very very angry at Ewan for getting in the way. For falling. For stopping.
The nice policewoman was trying to work it out. Horrible accident, horrible school stuff, kids at school. The policewoman was young herself, it wasn’t long since she’d been at school. Hated school, never fitted in, never managed to find herself a group like this little lot. She could imagine what they were like. Looked down at her skirt, smoothed it over her knees. She loved her new uniform. The new blue uniform that held her safe.
Sally said: “I’m sorry, I don’t know either. I just went out with my mates. With us. We always go out with us. You know, just hanging round, whoever’s place is free. It’s what we do after school, weekends, evenings if we don’t have too much homework or it’s not exams. My mum always wants me to stay in to revise when it’s exams. Well, sometimes we go to … to Ewan’s place. Saturday mornings always. Yesterday afternoon we just hung out. Thursday nights we go to Will’s. Nothing really. I mean, some of us smoke, sometimes, but that’s not a big deal is it? Only cigarettes I mean. We were all together. At Will’s. It’s what we do.” Sally with Ewan and holding Ewan and kissing Ewan and he holding her and kissing her and both of them wondering if this is it and if they’re OK and if they’re doing it right. If it’s right after what has happened, if it’s right that they should be here at all, if this will help them forget what else there was. “I went home for tea and then in the evening we were just all at Will’s. His dad was at work. Nothing really, talking, whatever. It’s what we do when we’re together. Nothing really.”
And then Sally said quite clearly, specifically. “I don’t know why she was upset. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
*
Kids were sent home from school and the piece of ground where Ewan had fallen was cordoned off. Blue and white police tape, just like on the telly. Ewan picked up and put in a black zippered bag and into the ambulance just like on the telly. Sally went to find Andrea, get her back from the clutches of other girls, eager for the danger and drama to rub off on them. Andrea and Sally in a shared cubicle, like when they took speed together at parties, only crying now, not giggling. Will and Daniel talking quietly, waiting for the girls, their girls, suddenly men taking care of the little ladies, arms around the girls. Taller arms around the small thin girls. Form teacher guiding them into the sick bay and their parents coming for them, phone calls made, work left, on their way.
Shock and a cup of hot sweet tea. Everything too real to feel it. Too slow, too fast. Four not five. Nothing like on the telly. The driver didn’t bother with the siren as the ambulance drove out.
THIRTY-FOUR
They wore black. Ewan’s parents had asked people to wear bright colours, spring colours, his favourite season they said, but the four of them wore black. They did it because Will said it was only right, they were his best friends. They did it to stand out and to stick together. They did it because Ewan’s mum was wrong. Spring was back to school and compulsory PE and heading for summer, which Ewan, pale-skinned and more bored with every year, had enjoyed even less. Those fancy family holidays where h
is parents fought most evenings and pretended to be happy most days, the too-hot beaches and the warm south European water. Ewan had thought Blackpool sounded great, Scarborough might be good. But he’d never been to either, his parents insisted on Abroad. Ewan had really liked winter, just as he liked rain and dark, serious, moody boy-music. He liked black and dark grey and polo neck jerseys and long-sleeved shirts and thick dark socks. His favourite outfit was his dead grandfather’s black suit. He’d been hoping to grow into it. And his mother was his mother, and she was really upset, and the Stirlings had every right to ask whatever the fuck they wanted – Will was very clear about that as well – but she was wrong about spring, they were wearing black. Besides that, it was spring now. Not so good then, was it? In the end Mrs Stirling wore black too. When she tried to put on the pale blue skirt and jacket she’d bought specially for the morning, the softness of the colour made her shake. Pale blue, baby blue, little boy blue.
The weather was overcast, a touch too muggy to have pleased Ewan particularly, but at least it wasn’t sunny. Will said that was OK. Andrea still wasn’t talking much, she let her makeup speak for her. Four thick dark lines sweeping across her upper and lower lids, light mascara, pale face, no blusher, no lipstick. It was a good look. A tight, drawn, cold look. Andrea was feeling pretty cold. Will wouldn’t hold her, refused to kiss her, pushed her away the night before even when she tried to offer him a blowjob. Andrea didn’t understand and Will couldn’t explain. They met at Sally’s house and walked the five hundred yards to the church. No one cried. Not then. Crying would have made it too real. Sally’s mother wanted to shake her daughter, wrench the tears out. She’d said the day before that if Sally didn’t let it out she’d make herself sick. Sally was sick, it didn’t make it any better. She and Andrea both reckoned they’d lost half a stone between the fall and the funeral.
Ewan’s mum and his big sister, step-sister, were greeting people at the door. His dad was already inside, talking to the vicar, sorting things out. Ewan’s mum smiled when they walked up. These were Ewan’s friends. His best friends. She liked that they were in black, had defied her ruling. She liked that they still had spirit. Mrs Stirling hoped Ewan still had spirit, but didn’t know for sure. She kissed them all, and then his step-sister Emma did too. Because her mother told her to, because apparently it was what she was supposed to do, stand at the door of a church she’d only ever been to half a dozen times before, waiting for the car that was bringing her little brother in a cherry-wood coffin that seemed way too big for him.
There were a lot of people to get in, loads of kids from school, kids who hardly even knew Ewan, Daniel reckoned, they just wanted a morning off, and a bunch of parents too. Will’s dad came, Daniel and Sally’s mothers, one or two teachers, no doubt sent to check that everyone who’d said they were going to the funeral really had gone. Eventually the vicar – who Daniel said was a priest, Sally didn’t know what the difference was – asked them all to stand and the family walked up the aisle behind Ewan’s coffin. Sally had never been into this church. Her own mum went to church a bit more than Ewan’s family; Sally went with her every now and then, but her mum’s church was plainer, cooler. White walls, clear windows, and the ceiling was lower – this one went too far up. And there was so much happening, stained glass windows, statues and over-full vases, pollen and incense. This church had too much going on. The church Sally went to didn’t have a dead Jesus either, up there on his cross, broken and bloody and bent. Given the circumstances, it was a fairly insensitive pose.
The priest said nice things, wrong things, things Ewan’s family probably wanted to hear. About him being good at school and a popular student and having some special friends – he looked at them when he said that and Andrea started crying. He said about Ewan wanting to be a doctor, except that he said Ewan wanted to be a GP like his father and even Ewan’s dad knew that wasn’t really true. But Dr Stirling was happy to hear it, happy for other people to hear it. Emma talked about her little brother, told some stories about when she was small and he was just new. Her voice shaking, biting her lip at the end of each careful sentence so she didn’t start crying. Not yet, not until after the good words. His uncle did a reading. Then the priest came back and talked some more about mysterious ways and many rooms. Sally had heard these stories before and she thought how lucky the priest was that he got to say things people already knew, words they’d learned in RE or had heard in other churches. Already knowing them made the words sound comforting, like they might be real. And then he commended Ewan’s body to God. Sally hoped there was a God. Hoped Ewan got to keep going. She wasn’t sure though.
They didn’t go back to the house and they didn’t go for a drink later that evening with some of the other kids from their class, they didn’t go back to any of their own places either. They went off, separately, one by one. Andrea asked Will to come back to hers but he said no. He went home with his dad. None of them ever talked about the funeral.
That evening, in bed, Sally remembered how the priest had also kept saying Ewan was a pure soul. He’d said it a couple of times. She figured he meant Ewan was a virgin. And that perhaps his parents had wanted him to say so, to let people know. But then she also wondered about that, because when they were leaving, saying goodbye, trying to avoid Ewan’s mum and dad, she’d heard Emma crying to her mate, about the things Ewan didn’t get to do. The things he hadn’t done yet and now wasn’t ever going to do, and how terrible that was. Sally wondered if she should have told them. That Ewan had said all along he wasn’t a virgin, had told them all about that girl in France, but even if he’d been lying about her – and Sally thought maybe he had been lying, maybe he would have been more in control yesterday if the French girl had really happened – but anyway, he wasn’t a virgin now, definitely not. So he had done that, and it had been OK. Sally thought it had been OK, good enough, better than what her sister had said. It had been all right. For him. And for her. So they didn’t need to mind about that, maybe he was a pure soul. Sally didn’t know what it took to have a pure soul, but Ewan wasn’t a virgin, he had done that. Maybe it was one thing they didn’t need to mind so much. But Sally didn’t say anything. Just in case. In case they didn’t want to know. Or in case they asked for her to tell them more.
THIRTY-FIVE
These places, when Janine had seen them on TV, were always white. And quiet. Calm. But not here. Janine walked through a wide room and was surprised by the noise. A TV in this corner, a radio in that, another room with people shouting at each other, play-shouting, it was a game, but it was still noisy. And there were no cool white walls. These walls were pale green, mostly, except where they were scuffed, and the repeated broken corners where a tea trolley had been carelessly wheeled, taken out chunks of plaster, each uneven corner level with the last. There was a smell of old food and stewed tea, clean sheets, and something acid underneath, piss maybe. It was a warm smell, not entirely unpleasant, like an old lady and a baby were sharing a bedroom. They walked further along, she and the two nurses who held her arms lightly and talked over her head to each other.
Through the next door, down a long wide corridor, double-glazed windows on one side and half a dozen paintings on the other. One of the nurses explained them to Janine, she said the paintings were quite new and the other one pointed out that, all the same, the bright light through the sealed windows had faded them already. And maybe that was just as well she added, over Janine’s head again, the attempt at inclusion passed on.
Janine looked at the paintings as they passed. She liked art classes when she was younger, when she first went to the grammar school. They’d talked about public art in class once, a visiting artist came and told them about making art accessible to the people. He said that meant getting it on hospital walls and in the loos at King’s Cross Station. He showed them slides of his work and the other kids thought it was funny that there should be paintings on the wall of the loo. A couple of the boys reckoned they’d have really good pissing contes
ts if they had art in their toilets, ten points if you hit the Mona Lisa’s smile. The artist didn’t like the boys. He talked to Janine though, gave her a card of his work. She kept it on her dressing table for two years. Janine didn’t know if these paintings on the walls were good art or not. All the people in them looked sick. Maybe that was right, maybe they were meant to look sick, it was hospital art. Janine thought she would have preferred happy pictures, smiling faces. These faces looked like they were telling the stories that made them cry. Janine tried to tell her story but the words came out as noise and tears dried up her mouth. Wasn’t that weird? All the tears that were pouring out of her eyes, even when she closed her eyes, even when she tried to sleep, all those so wet tears dried her up. She opened her mouth and nothing came out. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, teeth barred the way of sentences and she had nothing to say. They walked on past pale green walls.
Will Gallagher left school at the end of that year, went on a TV presenting course and when that didn’t work he went on to drama school, his dad paying more than he could afford, more than he wanted to, Will promising to pay him back one day. Which he did. When he graduated he was Ross. Ross Gallagher was even more attractive and lovable than Will had been, he perfected the classic role – dangerous rogue, charming rascal, the one she can’t help loving, no matter what he says or does, because underneath it all, she’s sure there’s a heart of pure gold just waiting to be held and loved, ready and waiting to love her back. He studied at a drama school where they prided themselves on their ability to break kids down and then build them up again. One year to dismantle all the coping mechanisms they’d proudly garnered by eighteen, another year to experiment and find out who they really were, a third year to bring together the new self, honest self, whole self – just in time for the casting directors and agents to get a good long look at the re-created product. That they regularly dumped half the class before the end of the second year tended not to be advertised a great deal – the ones they couldn’t break or couldn’t re-build tended not to make it as far as the graduation performances. Will Gallagher, however, willingly took himself apart, studied his dark places in the open group of his drama school year, exposed himself to the brutal gaze of tutors and fellow students alike, and then remade himself as Ross. And if the reigning tutors couldn’t tell that he was hiding his truly dark places, that what he showed then was partial penumbra, not proper eclipse, it didn’t stop them fancying him. Will fucked three of the girls in his class, a new one each year, two of the dance and movement tutors, and just the one visiting TV director, a bloke. The school usually frowned on student – teacher relationships, but an attractive straight boy choosing to fuck an older gay man was seen as a good sign. Ross was clearly willing to delve deep into his true self – while discovering a quick route to grabbing his first agent and his first proper job. He cornered the market in tough-youth-with-vulnerable-heart, later graduating to bastard-made-good. Eventually. With the love of a good woman. And his agent gave him the chance to throw in the occasional irredeemable bastard, just to keep them wanting, show his versatility.
