by Bali Rai
‘I can’t believe this is real,’ I eventually said. ‘It’s just . . .’
Tilly got up and came over to me. She put a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’re bound to feel this way,’ she told me. ‘I’ve got this sense of guilt nagging at me.’
‘Me too,’ said Max.
‘Why do you feel guilty?’ I asked.
‘I keep thinking we should have helped her,’ he replied.
I thought about the last conversation I’d had with her, and the way Tilly had defended her from Manisha in the café. ‘How could we have helped any more than we did?’ I asked.
When Max didn’t reply, I repeated myself. ‘How?’
‘By being her friends, maybe,’ he replied. ‘We didn’t even try.’
‘Tilly did – and so did I,’ I told him. ‘I spoke to her two nights ago. She didn’t want my help. She was distant – like she wanted to push everyone away.’
Max gave me an intense, almost unsettling look. ‘That happened after the Facebook thing,’ he said. ‘She was OK before that.’
I shook my head. Max was so wrong. ‘No, she wasn’t,’ I told him. ‘She’s been bullied since we started at this school. Like, seriously bullied, and normal everyday shit too. I never thought she’d do something like this, though. I feel so sorry for her parents. Imagine having to face that?’
Amy had been found in some woods, close to a new-build estate called The Grange. Loads of pupils we knew lived there. She’d hanged herself from a tree, using climber’s rope – at least that’s what we’d heard. The thought of it sent a shiver running down my back.
‘The video was so bad,’ Max added. ‘Like, she was looking forward to dying.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I replied, but something began to bother me. Something about Amy’s words that last time I’d seen her. Only I couldn’t quite work out what.
‘Honestly,’ said Max. ‘Wait until you see it.’
‘I don’t want to watch it,’ I said. ‘That’s just nasty.’
‘They only showed a snippet,’ he told me. ‘But she’d been planning it. That’s what she said in the bit I saw.’
‘Planning to kill herself?’ asked Tilly, her expression as confused as mine.
Max nodded. ‘She reactivated her Facebook page,’ he continued. ‘Then she posted a link to this chat room. The video was on that. She sent the link to everyone on her friends list.’
I’d been late for school, and had forgotten my phone, so I hadn’t seen the link. I went and grabbed it from the kitchen but the thing is, I didn’t want to see it. I shook my head.
‘The chat room was for people who want to commit suicide,’ he said softly.
‘Huh?’ I asked, astounded. ‘A suicide chat room?’
I thought I knew my way around the Web quite well but I’d never heard of a suicide forum before. I felt a bit stupid for being so ignorant, but then why would I have known? I wasn’t some ghoul, prowling around, searching for misery.
‘Exactly that,’ replied Max. ‘The Internet is fucked up sometimes . . .’
‘I bet her parents didn’t know,’ said Tilly.
‘Exactly,’ Max agreed. ‘Like, she probably hid it. I would, if someone was bullying me like that. My parents don’t know shit about what I do online. They don’t even care.’
‘But why hide abuse?’ Tilly asked. ‘You’d just report it – surely?’
Max shook his head this time. ‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘Facebook, Twitter – all that stuff – it’s, like, fifty per cent of our lives, at least. Molly Cooper spends her whole life on there.’
I nodded because Max was right – about all of us. I tried to remember the last time I’d just turned up at Tilly’s house, without having messaged, texted or called her first. I couldn’t.
‘Being embarrassed online,’ he said, ‘is the same as in real life. Worse, even. Imagine if someone stole a dodgy pic of you and put it on your Facebook page?’
I shuddered at the thought. ‘You’d be gutted,’ I said, an understatement of epic proportions.
‘I chat to people all the time but I’m not naïve like Amy. The people I chat to can’t take advantage of me. I’d spot it straight away. Imagine your most private moments online for everyone to see.’
‘It would be hellish,’ I told him.
‘More than that,’ Max added. ‘It would mean instant public shame. People at our school would pass it on faster than flu. You’d never be able to show your face again.’
My phone buzzed with a text as Tilly offered to make more tea. It was my mum, asking if I was OK. I actually shook my head as I replied.
The answer was no. I was very much not OK.
10
Amy’s Facebook memorial page was up by the evening. A picture of her – altered to include angels and clouds – dominated it. I’d never seen the photo before but she looked about fourteen – her soft brown eyes shining and a massive, warm smile on her face. Her hair was tied back, and she looked happy and pretty.
The page already had nearly a thousand likes and people had taken photographs of where Amy had been found and posted them. Flowers covered the ground nearby, close to a police cordon. The page was also inundated with messages of sympathy. Some of them were calm, but many were almost hysterical. I ran down the list of posters. Alongside people from school, I saw the names of adults – many probably random strangers – from across the UK. Some of the people who’d bullied her had posted. It made me feel a bit sick.
My phone buzzed – Tilly asking if I’d seen the page. I rang her back.
‘Unbelievable,’ I told her.
‘Manisha Patel is on there,’ she replied angrily.
‘I know – have you seen what she wrote?’
Manisha’s message made my stomach churn. It read:
Rest in Peace beautiful angel. The Gods will watch over U. Forever you’re friend. My tears are 4 U, angel. RIP.
I shook my head at her cheek.
‘Stupid cow didn’t even get her grammar right!’ said Tilly.
I didn’t comment. Instead I glanced at my message icon. ‘Are you going to watch the news?’ I asked Tilly, as I checked my messages.
‘I don’t know,’ said Tilly. ‘I want to, but I can’t – if that makes any sense?’
‘Yeah, it does,’ I told her. ‘Has your mum said anything?’
‘Not much,’ Tilly replied. ‘She’s just shocked like everyone else. How about yours?’
‘She sent a text earlier, when you and Max were round,’ I told her.
I wanted Mum to come home, so that I could talk to her and tell her how I felt. My heart was heavy and I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy.
I remembered that Amy had tagged everyone in her video post. I checked into my own Facebook page and saw the link. My hand hovered over the mouse. A tiny part of me wanted to watch, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew that if I did, her face would haunt me all night. The only people who deserved that were the bullies who’d tormented her.
I rang off. Benedict had sent me several messages – mostly asking where I was or what I’d been doing. I replied, saying I’d been at school. But when he didn’t reply immediately, I felt deflated. I really wanted his company right now.
In the end I deleted the video post Amy had left, removing any possible temptation to watch her final words. Then I went back to her memorial page, and regretted it immediately. A woman from London – Diana Burrows – had written the latest comment. I couldn’t believe what it said:
Another true British angel taken from us. Yet still they let the immigrants in. Maybe if we had time for our own kids, they might not kill themselves? Bet the liberals are glad – room for another scrounging immigrant kid in our schools. RIP English Amy – you will not be forgotten.
I was astounded and angered at once. What the hell went through some people’s minds when they posted stuff online? I wondered who the page administrator was, and why they weren’t editing it properly. How deranged did someone have to
be, to post something like that? I loved the Internet, but sometimes it made me so angry. Danny popped up in the instant message box.
Seen the racist shit?
Yeah – WTF?
Bitch like that – they should fly her to Africa and make her bring up black babies for free.
I knew that Danny was trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t work. I was too upset, and too annoyed at what I’d just read.
I’m stunned, Danny. Someone needs to delete it. Have you seen Manisha’s post too?
Seen it? It nearly made me puke!
Danny stopped messaging and after reading some more posts, I returned to my inbox. Benedict had replied.
Hey you!
I tried to smile but failed. I had this aching sensation in my belly. When I replied, it was short and pointed. I didn’t mean it to be, but my mood was strange.
Horrible day at school. This girl died.
Yeah, babe, I know. I’m so sorry. Some of your friends posted about it.
I wondered which friends Benedict was talking about.
The one that sent me that pic – Molly? he answered before I even asked the question.
I felt suddenly annoyed at him. Why was he talking about that cow?
She’s no friend of mine.
When I failed to write anything else, he worked it out.
She tagged me in a post. Nothing in it, babe.
You must have requested her. How did she tag you otherwise?
Yeah I did. Thought she was your friend?
What gave you that idea?
My mood was sour, and I wanted to argue with him. I wanted to let off some steam. Yet, moments earlier, I’d wanted to tell him everything that was going on inside my head.
Downstairs, I heard my mum come in and a sense of relief washed over me. I decided to sign off, hoping that Benedict wouldn’t take it the wrong way.
Look – things are weird ATM. Chat later, yeah?
I’m here if you need me, Lily. Anytime, OK?
Thanks. I have to go.
I signed off, glad that Benedict had been so understanding, and went downstairs. Mum was in the living room, answering emails.
She looked up. ‘I was just about to come up,’ she said. ‘You OK?’
I shook my head. ‘I saw her, Mum,’ I replied. ‘Just the other night when I went to get milk.’
‘Sunday?’
I nodded. ‘She was OK,’ I said. ‘I saw her and she was OK.’
I felt my lower lip tremble. My legs began to feel like warm jelly.
‘How can she be dead?’ I sobbed. ‘She was OK. How can she be dead . . .?’
My mum jumped up and grabbed me. She held me close and started to whisper in my ear. She told me that I was fine and that everything would be OK. I felt like a five-year-old again – scared of the dark and unable to sleep. For a while, I forgot all about the world and cried until my eyes and throat grew sore.
Later, when I should have been sleeping, I went back online with Benedict. I felt guilty about before – I didn’t want him to think I was some moody teenager and stop talking to me. I needed to chat. I needn’t have worried, though; he was great – constantly reassuring me that there was nothing I could have done to change things for Amy. I ended up telling him things that only Tilly really knew about me.
I just wonder all the time what people think of me – I know that makes me sound self-obsessed.
You’re not that, Lily, believe me. I see people in my world who could win Olympic gold for self-obsession. You’re just a bit insecure, that’s all.
I was still surprised at how easy he was to chat to. I’d never been able to talk like this to any boy, ever. Not that I’d even tried. Most of the boys I knew would probably run a mile if you wanted to talk about feelings or real stuff.
You’re not like other boys. You seem to understand how hard it is.
My mother had the same issues, Lily. Lots of women do. It’s the crap they get fed by the media.
Yeah – I know. It drives me mad. Like one week they say some actress has a bikini body to die for and the next, they’re slagging her off and saying she has cellulite. It does my head in.
I wondered whether he’d get tired of my moaning, but the opposite happened. He actually wanted to discuss what was on my mind. It made me grin like a lunatic.
Forget about it, Lily – seriously. Like, if your thighs are just a bit wider than the accepted norm, who cares? That makes you like most women. These models, even people like me, we’re not the norm. We’re the freaks.
I panicked slightly – did he think I was having a go at him?
I’m not saying that, Benny. I’m just annoyed that I have these issues when I understand where they come from.
So lose them, babe. Tell yourself every day to love the body you have.
What – my wobbly arse and thunder thighs? Gonna take some loving – LOL!
Don’t get mad, babe, but seems to me like you want to feel insecure. Like you don’t want to change. You’re just so down on yourself. Makes me sad.
I didn’t know whether his last response made me angry or not. He seemed to have a point. I spent so much time picking at myself that the idea of change was an almost impossible dream. What if he was right – what if I was wallowing in my own stupidity. I knew what had made me feel this way, so why wasn’t I changing it?
You’re kind of like a self-help guru, Benny. I think you’ve just summed me up. I don’t like it but I think you might be right.
Think about it, you’re pretty, funny? Who cares if you don’t have the perfect ass or whatever? Like, really?
I took a deep breath. I really liked him.
I wish you were here now.
I wasn’t joking either. He might have lived thousands of miles away, but he was getting to me. He was the first lad who made me feel wanted and appreciated. It was like he knew the right answer to every question I asked. If only he didn’t live so far away.
We flirted some more and then I had to sleep. Benedict had helped, though – he had taken much of the edge off my emotions, and replaced some of the sadness with warmth. As I closed my eyes and smiled, I wondered if I’d ever meet him for real.
The OTHER drops his bag on the floor.
‘What is that?’ the Spider asks him.
‘The things you asked for – for the girl?’ replies the OTHER. ‘This is what’s left.’
‘Store them,’ says the Spider. ‘We will need them soon enough.’
‘There is another ready?’
The Spider grins. ‘Take a look,’ he replies, calling up several recordings. He plays the first.
‘Oh dear,’ says the OTHER. ‘What a silly young man.’
‘Your choices were good,’ the Spider tells him. ‘Perfect.’
‘I know them all,’ the OTHER replies. ‘That’s why I chose them for you.’
‘I think the boy will need more help than the girl. She was happy to go. This one may take some persuading.’
The OTHER shows his surprise. A glint of excitement shines in his eyes. ‘This is so much more satisfying than before,’ he says.
‘It is the next step,’ the Spider replies. ‘We were always going to step offline again. It was just a matter of time.’
The OTHER watches another recording begin. ‘My friends,’ he tells the Spider, ‘they would pay handsomely for this footage.’
‘I thought as much,’ the Spider replies. ‘Shall I send these to you?’
The OTHER nods. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘So when do we move on to the next one?’
‘We must be careful,’ the Spider replies. ‘We need to wait a little while longer. Soon, though.’
‘I’m eager,’ the OTHER replies.
‘Eagerness leads to mistakes. Patience is the key,’ the Spider tells him.
Later, when the OTHER is gone, the Spider goes over his strategy. The key is to control at least eighty per cent of the moves. The rest – unknown variables – can be guessed at and accommodated. Very lit
tle is left to chance – a lesson the Spider had to learn the hard way.
11
The following morning Amy’s face was everywhere. In the newsagent’s, I counted seven papers with the story, including our local – the Mercury. They’d all used the same picture too – the one from her Facebook memorial page, but without the angels and stuff. I didn’t want to see the news but I had no choice. It was almost impossible to avoid. I paid for my bottle of water and left, just as some Year Nine lads started talking about Amy’s death. One of them asked if dying like that would hurt. Seriously?
School was weird again. Mr Warren just nodded when I walked into form. He was sitting at his desk, messing with his laptop. He looked tired, sad and stressed out.
‘You need help with that, sir?’ asked Tilly, who had arrived before me.
‘Got it covered,’ Mr Warren replied, without looking up.
Tilly scowled. ‘What?’ she asked when I shook my head.
‘Why the face?’ I said. ‘He’s probably just as shocked and upset as we are.’
‘Doesn’t mean he can be rude,’ she replied. ‘Especially not to us . . . we’re his best pupils.’
‘Everyone’s on edge,’ I told her. ‘Including you. Mr Warren doesn’t mean it. He’s too lovely to be mean on purpose.’
Tilly, normally so well presented, looked terrible. She’d tied her unwashed hair into a ponytail, and not bothered to change her clothes.
‘You OK?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ she snapped. ‘Why?’
Annoyed that she was snapping at me, I looked away. Tilly wasn’t the only one having trouble dealing with Amy’s death. When I turned back to my best friend, she seemed to be about to say something, but Mr Dhindsa walked in before she had the chance.
‘Lily – I need you for a while,’ he said. ‘Can you come with me?’
‘Me?’ I asked. ‘Why?’
Mr Dhindsa smiled, showing his straight, pearly-white teeth through his thick, dark beard. ‘I’ll explain on the way,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing serious.’
We went to his office, where I found the policewoman who’d spoken to us the day before.
