by Bali Rai
Amy nodded. ‘Yeah – something like that,’ she said. ‘Take care, Lily.’
‘Come and have lunch with me and Tilly tomorrow,’ I told her. ‘Just once?’
Amy half smiled. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings,’ she said, walking off.
I watched her for a while before heading in the opposite direction. When I got in, Dave wasn’t there, and my heart sank a little – silly, but true. He and my mum were perfect for each other. If only they could see that too. Disappointed, I went up to my room. I was supposed to be studying – GCSEs were looming like a thunderstorm on the horizon. I had dreams about becoming a lawyer or maybe doing something for a publisher. I loved the idea of getting paid to work on novels. Only it all seemed so far away, the road blocked by a huge mountain called exams. Exams that I had to revise for, if I stood any chance at all.
But Benedict was online, as were Danny and Tilly, so instead of working towards the brighter future I dreamed of, I sat up and messaged them instead, only stopping when my eyes grew sore.
The Spider watches the recording again. He smiles all the way through. Girl #1 is good. Better than he ever imagined. Meeting her had been exciting. Being his real self, out in the actual world, had been exciting. The shock on her face was worth everything. But nothing was more exhilarating than watching the story end . . .
Girl #1 is on screen. She’s in some woods. Her eyes are wide, her mousy hair oily. Eyes rimmed with red, clothes dishevelled, black cap skewed, she looks much older than her fifteen years. She is talking to the camera – reading something the Spider helped her to write. The Spider is filming every word.
‘ . . . understand how it feels,’ she continues. ‘To be ignored and treated like nothing.’
She holds up a picture. A pretty brunette teenager stares out. Her cheeks are sunken, her eyes tired. The headline above tells of tragedy and innocence lost.
‘Well, this,’ she tells her audience. ‘This is Maya Brown. She was nobody until she went. Now she lives for ever. Don’t believe me? Google her name . . .’
She shows more photographs, printed from the Net. Ginny Peters, Bradley Coombs, Tyler Jenkins . . .
‘They were all nobodies, but not any more. This life is so average. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go. Just the same old thing, all the time. Just school and home and town and Facebook. It’s all so regular. One day you’ll wake up, all of you, and it will be over. You won’t ever be famous. You won’t ever be rich. You’ll never have the dream job you wanted. You’ll be middle-aged, with your dreams buried and your energy gone. Not me, though. I’m going to live for ever. You laughed at me, called me names. Now I’m going to look down on you, as you cry at my grave. And I’m gonna have the last laugh . . .’
The Spider feels a surge of adrenalin – of control. He is exhilarated, energized and ecstatic. And he realizes something else too. He is addicted – fixated. He wants more of this feeling – more of this power. He wants to bathe in his dominance – his supremacy over others.
Does God exist – and if so, is this how He feels?
8
Two days later, as Tilly and I entered student reception at school, Molly Cooper ran past, crying her eyes out.
‘What’s she done?’ asked Tilly. ‘Posted a clothed selfie by mistake?’ Tilly was joking but her timing was off, and she knew it. As soon as the words left her mouth, I saw guilt in her eyes. ‘Me and my big mouth,’ she said.
I wondered why Molly was crying and was about to go and ask her when Danny and Kane appeared. The skin around Danny’s eyes was red and puffy because he’d been crying, and he looked stunned.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked them. I felt a touch of panic – something was wrong.
‘Amy,’ Kane said softly. ‘Ain’t you heard?’
Kane’s usually handsome face was strained. He was tall and muscular, with braided hair and a beautiful friendly smile. Only there was no sign of his smile that morning. Seeing his expression, and hearing him mention Amy made me even more uneasy.
‘Shit is bad,’ he added.
My stomach caved in on itself. Molly and Danny crying about Amy? Kane acting like the world was about to end?
‘What about Amy?’ Tilly asked him. She looked confused too.
‘She died,’ Kane revealed. ‘Last night – she killed herself. Left a video blog. It’s been on telly this morning . . .’
I felt Tilly take hold of my arm. I wanted to puke. My hands grew cold. I fought back tears. I’d only seen her the other night. I hadn’t even told Tilly about it yet. How could she be dead?
‘Oh God!’ Tilly whispered. ‘Amy . . .’
I saw the principal, Dr Woods, walk in, her expression grave. With her were two police officers and a couple of governors, one of whom was Dave – I spotted his tall, broad ex-rugby-player frame.
He saw us and came over. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, his eyes wandering from me to my friends and back again. ‘All of you?’
The air around me felt heavy, as though it was trying to crush me. I could hear my blood pumping. ‘We’ve just heard,’ I told him, wiping my eyes.
‘It’s a terrible business,’ he said, his icy-blue eyes serious and sad. ‘If you need anything at all – just ask. That goes for all of you.’
‘Thanks, Mr Thomas,’ said Tilly.
‘Mum said she’d call you,’ I told him. Somehow, even in my shock, the little girl that wanted Dave back in her life spoke up. And I’d called Tilly’s timing bad?
Dave nodded but his eyes looked cheerless. ‘I’d really like that,’ he said. ‘I’d better go now, though.’ And he walked off with the other governors and the police.
‘Get to your forms, people!’ Dr Woods called when we didn’t move on. ‘Please!’
The four of us trudged to Mr Warren’s room, past other equally dazed pupils. There was a hush around the corridors that I’d never experienced before – stunned silence everywhere. Our form tutor was by his door, talking to Mr Dhindsa, one of the deputy principals. Kane walked on to his own class.
‘No idea,’ I heard Mr Dhindsa say.
‘Surely it has to matter, Kal?’ replied Mr Warren. ‘She’d been bullied . . .’
They saw us approach, and stepped to one side, eager to keep their conversation private. In the room, we found people crying, and others whispering to each other. Manisha was sobbing into her cashmere scarf. I looked at Tilly, whose face had turned scarlet.
‘You stupid little bitch!’ she screamed at Manisha.
I understood Tilly’s rage. Manisha and her gang had tormented Amy. If it wasn’t Amy’s weight, it was the labels she didn’t wear, or the trips she couldn’t afford to go on. If Amy had killed herself because of bullying, Manisha and her friends were partly to blame. And there she was, crying like her own sister had died.
But now wasn’t the right time for a fight.
‘Tilly – leave it,’ I said, holding her back.
Manisha stood and swore at Tilly.
‘You dirty little hypocrite,’ yelled Tilly. ‘How dare you cry after giving her all that shit!’
‘You don’t know nothing!’ Manisha yelled back.
‘You little slag!’ Tilly leaped at Manisha and grabbed her wavy hair.
Manisha screamed.
‘TILLY ANDERSON!!!’ It was Mr Dhindsa, and he did not look pleased. His bearded face was set in anger. ‘GET TO MY OFFICE – NOW!’
Tilly let go and pushed Manisha away.
‘You get told, bitch!’ Manisha crowed. ‘Run along . . .’
Tilly tried to grab her again, but Mr Warren intervened. He whispered something in Tilly’s ear, and she calmed down almost instantly, though her face was still flushed, and she glared at Manisha. ‘Stupid cow!’ she spat.
‘Come on now, Tilly,’ said Mr Warren, his tone soothing and assured. ‘This isn’t how to deal with what you’re feeling.’
Then he led her away towards Mr Dhindsa’s office and Manisha turned to me.
‘You got anything to say?�
�� she asked, throwing down a challenge.
Before I could react, Danny stepped in. ‘I wouldn’t wanna be you later,’ he told Manisha. ‘Tilly’s gonna murder you. Not before time, either. Your hair looks like a melted plastic wig – Tilly would be doing you a favour.’
‘Who cares what you think?’ spat Manisha. ‘Batty bwoi!’
‘Shut up!’ I yelled, surprising myself and everyone else – I usually avoided confrontation. Only I was angry and upset, and at that moment I didn’t care at all. And you know what? It felt good too, like a release.
Mr Dhindsa heard everything. ‘Manisha Patel,’ he said. ‘My office too.’
‘But, sir!’ she protested. ‘That cow attacked me!’
Mr Dhindsa shook his head. ‘Homophobic comments won’t be tolerated,’ he told her. ‘I don’t care why you were fighting, or with whom. Two days’ exclusion.’
‘What?’ Manisha moaned. ‘How is that even fair?’
He led her out too, and the rest of us sat down.
A couple of lads glared at Danny. When I warned him, he just shrugged it off.
‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘They’re probably wanting a snog.’
I wanted to smile, but there was nothing there but sadness and anger. And the memory of my last conversation with Amy. I could smell her musty clothes and feel the warmth from her body as we sat on that wall. The look of childlike pleasure in her eyes when I gave her the Mars bar. After that, I couldn’t stop the tears, and I wanted to go home and be with my mum.
We were summoned to the hall in year groups later that morning, Year Sevens first, and then working up towards our year. No one spoke as we filed in – which was really unusual – and apart from a few sobs, there was an eerie quiet. Dr Woods was waiting for us, alongside one of the police officers. She looked as shocked as the rest of us. Our form tutors lined the hall, and I saw Tilly sitting near Mr Warren. I nodded at her, and she half smiled.
I sat with Danny, Max and Kane and whispered to them, ‘What’s going on?’
Kane shook his head. ‘Dunno,’ he replied. ‘But got to be summat to do with Amy.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but why are the police still here?’
I looked around the hall, and the young IT tech caught my eye. He was geeky-looking, with long dark hair and round glasses. But it was his T-shirt that I noticed. It was bright red, with a peace symbol, a love heart and a baseball printed on it. Underneath were the words ‘Peace, Love, Red Sox’. I immediately thought of Benedict.
Mr Dhindsa spoke first. He thanked us for being mature, then asked that we remain quiet for our principal’s talk. A small murmur went round.
‘Year Eleven,’ began Dr Woods, ‘I know that most of you are aware of the tragic news this morning, indeed perhaps from last night. As a school, we are conscious of the situation, and I have decided to speak to you directly. Amy’s death has shocked and saddened each of us. As a school, we will face the days and weeks ahead together. We will also show support and sympathy to the family of our dear departed friend, pupil and peer. Alongside all of you, I feel a deep sense of grief and disbelief. I do not think words can convey the dreadful effect Amy’s loss will have on her family.’
She cleared her throat, and I shot Tilly another glance, only she didn’t notice. Instead, she leaned towards Mr Warren and said something. Our form tutor shook his head but didn’t reply.
‘However,’ Dr Woods continued, ‘we must also consider the circumstances in which Amy chose this most terrible of fates. I suspect many of you know what I’m talking about, but let me explain to those who do not. It has been brought to my attention that Amy was severely bullied, both at school and online . . .’
Another murmur went up, followed by excited whispers.
Mr Dhindsa stood up. ‘Year Eleven!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve behaved impeccably so far. Don’t ruin it now . . .’
Dr Woods cleared her throat again. The police officer standing next to her looked stern with his cropped grey hair, narrow lips, and pointed nose. His eyes were serious and his jaw clenched.
‘The accusations I’ve received are very, very grave,’ Dr Woods told us. ‘I have seen evidence of the abuse Amy suffered online – her parents provided me with it. And, let me tell you, Year Eleven, it made me cry. The vile and nasty victimization that I saw is completely unacceptable. As of this morning, any further incidents of a similar nature will result in instant, permanent exclusion. I cannot stress strongly enough how serious this episode is. As a school, we will not tolerate such behaviour from our pupils . . . real or virtual.’
I heard a few gasps around the hall as Dr Woods gathered her thoughts. I thought about Amy and the nasty jibes she’d suffered on Facebook. Some of the people sitting in the hall, looking shocked and saddened, had been the same people who had hounded her. I felt myself getting angry again.
Danny put his hand in mine.
‘What?’ I whispered.
‘Nothing,’ he said, his eyes watery. ‘Just sad . . .’ He used his other hand to wipe away tears as our principal resumed.
‘We’ve had no choice but to call in the police. There will be an investigation into this matter, and let me stress this – anyone proven to be involved in these disgusting actions will be in serious trouble. The good name of our school will not be tarnished in this way. I hope that I am making myself absolutely clear on this. You are only months away from your final exams – do not let your futures be ruined by such behaviour.’ Dr Woods turned to the policeman. ‘DI Meadows will now speak to you. Afterwards, you will be split by gender. The boys must go to gym. Ladies, you will stay here. Anyone unable to show our guests the proper respect will be excluded. I am in no mood to forgive today, Year Eleven. I suggest you heed that warning.’
Five minutes later, the lads had gone, and Tilly came to sit next to me.
A policewoman joined Dr Woods – tall and slim with dark brown eyes and short blonde hair. ‘Ladies,’ she said sternly, as some of the female teachers shut the hall doors, ‘we need to have a chat about Internet safety . . .’
9
School finished at lunch time, after Dr Woods decided to close early. I was having trouble with some science coursework, so I went to the library to get a book. To be honest, I just wanted something to take my mind off Amy’s death. Tilly and Max came with me.
The library was next to reception – a huge room with glass panels for walls; we called it the goldfish bowl. Our librarian, Mrs Band, was busy getting rid of pupils. When she saw me, she shook her head.
‘Sorry, Lily,’ she said. ‘I’m closing – orders from on high.’
‘Just two minutes, miss?’ I pleaded.
Mrs Band gave me a warm smile. She had spiky hair, dyed purple, and big hoop earrings. I liked her. ‘Go on then – but be quick,’ she replied.
As I searched the shelves, Max asked what we’d done after the assembly.
‘Just stuff about online safety,’ Tilly told him. ‘Like we need adults to tell us about that.’
‘We got the same talk,’ said Max. ‘Not that I care. Well, I’ve got anti-virus. But all that stuff about Facebook settings and being careful who you chat to? I’ve never cared about that stuff.’
I grabbed the chemistry textbook I needed. It was dense and unexciting and it didn’t stop me thinking of Amy. The book, Max’s words, the library – none of it did. I thought about Benedict. Our virtual friendship felt real. I suddenly wanted to chat to him and wondered if he’d sent any more messages. I was sure he’d care about Amy and how I was feeling over her death.
‘Didn’t you hear what that policewoman said?’ I said. ‘It’s happening all the time, mostly to teenagers – bullying, death threats – all that stuff. It’s seriously scary.’
I wondered how people didn’t spot that they were being targeted. Like, it would have been obvious, surely? Amy’s voice spoke out in my head – telling me that she’d met people like her online. Again, I found myself wondering which people she’d been talking about.
Tilly rolled her eyes. ‘But you could just block the morons,’ she pointed out. ‘Like that man who followed me on Twitter last year?’
I nodded. The man she was talking about, some middle-aged loser, had been a random troll. It had been the usual stuff – jibes about being a slag and all that. It only stopped when she blocked and reported him, and his account was suspended.
‘We know that,’ I said to her. ‘But what about, like, girls in Year Seven?’
Max nodded. ‘She’s got a point, Tilly,’ he said. ‘Like, if someone was chatting to me – say an adult or something – I’m mature enough to handle it. We’re not kids any more. I can talk to anyone I want. But a Year Seven . . .?’
It was only later, at my house, that Max mentioned Amy. I think the three of us had been avoiding mentioning her by name. Not intentionally – just because it was so horrible. It made sense, I guess, but didn’t stop me feeling a bit guilty. We were in the living room, drinking tea with the telly on, even though no one was watching it. Tilly was on an armchair and Max sat next to me on the sofa. I was glad to be at home, rather than sitting in some café or, worse still, at school. I felt safe and warm at home, and I needed that comfort.
‘I saw the video on TV,’ Max told us. ‘The one Amy left before she . . .’
His words hung in the air for a while, like ghostly echoes of something we didn’t want to face.
In the end, Tilly grimaced. ‘Why would the news show that?’ she asked. ‘That’s just exploitation, isn’t it?’
Max shrugged. ‘They love stories like this,’ he said. ‘I read news websites all the time. The media jump on this stuff.’
‘It’s nasty,’ I said. ‘Like they even care about Amy.’
Using her name made me tearful and then embarrassed. I turned away, staring at the mantelpiece, where a photo of Mum and me sat in a silver frame.
