The Dead of Summer

by Camilla Way

  When my sisters finally fell asleep that night I knelt on my bed and lifted the nets to smoke one of their fags through the open window. I blew rings into the orange-tinged blackness for a while and then I saw Kyle come out of No. 33. He stood on his doorstep for a few seconds and I glanced at the radio-alarm clock. It was way past two. As I watched he knelt down to put on the shoes he’d been carrying, quietly closed the front door, then disappeared off down the street.

  two

  New Cross Hospital. 4 September 1986. Transcription of interview between Dr C Barton and Anita Naidu. Police copy.

  Kyle’s dead. They’re all dead. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it.

  They think I’m strange no doubt, the people who live in this block. They’re students, mostly. Of course I’ve changed my name since I was thirteen, and they don’t recognise me as that little grim-faced girl with the black bar across her eyes in all the papers seven years ago. They don’t recognise me in the way they would if it was Denis or Katie or Kyle (especially Kyle) who they passed in the hallway or on the stairs. For being alive – the sole ‘survivor’ – and still a child, I had the luxury of having my identity protected. No, my neighbours just see a skinny, short-haired boy-girl who has no visitors and won’t return their smiles. In fact, except for Malcolm, I don’t think I’ve ever said a word to a single other person living here.

  I came here to Bristol not long after that summer. It was thought best, all things considered (I could hardly go back to Lewisham High, could I?). I was fostered out to a family up here, trained in dealing with people like me. And after I turned sixteen I got a factory job and just stayed.

  Now and again I hear my name mentioned – my real name, I mean – and I freeze in shock. Whether it crops up in conversation with the girls in the factory, or there’s a programme on TV, or the papers mention us in connection to some other case (James Bulger, for example), my reaction is always the same. A slow, creeping dread; the same sick fear that I’m going to be found out. Luckily the girls at the factory already think I’m odd, are used to my silence and my solitariness, and don’t notice when I react like this.

  When I first moved into this block of flats, my neighbours – the younger ones – tried to befriend me, taking me to be a student like them, I suppose. They’d bang on my door, ask to borrow a bottle-opener, invite me to their parties. It took them ages to understand I would never come. I watch them sometimes from my window when I cannot sleep, watch them returning from their raves and parties; hear them in the hallways boasting of the lads they’ve pulled, the girls they’ve had. I watch them stagger home at five, six, seven in the morning, their arms around each other’s shoulders, and then I lie back on my bed and without even meaning to, I am back there, reliving that summer, wondering when it was, which particular point it might have been when I could perhaps have stopped what happened from happening.

  The next day at school went pretty much the same as the first, with Denis cheerfully babbling away by my side. In the weeks that followed I grew used to having him about and even missed him when he went off to his special classes without me. He proudly told me that he had learning difficulties (no shit, I thought), and that it was in the special classes he’d first met Kyle (Kyle was different, he explained. Kyle had behavioural problems). And we’d see Kyle sometimes, sloping through the corridors by himself, sticking to the shadows, always staring at other people’s feet. His hair was greasy, his uniform too long in the sleeves, too short in the legs. Skinny as a stick, he was the sort of kid you suspected would smell faintly of piss. The sort of kid nobody notices and you wouldn’t remember if you had. Except I did, and I don’t know why.

  The same thing happened every afternoon. I’d walk out the gates with Denis then he’d sidle off to wait for Kyle, leaving me to go home on my own. But one day we were a little late coming out of class and Kyle was already there, waiting. This time I didn’t let Denis shake me off and walked over to Kyle with him. He must have seen us coming but he kept looking at a spot just beyond us. For a while nobody spoke. Denis just stared down at his shoes as if he was about to get a bollocking off his mum. It was not going well.

  ‘All right?’ I said eventually. ‘I’m Anita. I live opposite you.’ Kyle stared hard at Denis, who muttered, ‘She’s in my class.’

  Then Kyle nodded slowly and looked off down the street just waiting for me to go. I couldn’t believe the nerve. These were two of the biggest losers in our school and even they didn’t want to hang out with me. Still, I’m nothing if not persistent. ‘Where you going then?’ I said, like I wasn’t bothered. ‘Can I come?’

  Finally he looked at me. His eyes were astonishing. A pale, flat grey, the colour of lampposts and gutters, the colour of rain, huge in his sharp, bony little face. Evidently he didn’t like what he saw. With a jerk of his head to Denis, he moved suddenly off down the street, Denis trotting after him like a big fat awkward puppy. They didn’t look back.

  I stormed off to the bus thinking, wankers, wankers, wankers. Why did I mind so much? I wasn’t after friends – had always preferred, actually, knocking about on my own. I bunked off a lot, wore the wrong kinds of clothes, had a boy’s haircut and didn’t give a fuck about Duran Duran. I didn’t know what to say to the other kids nor they to me. They left me alone and that was only what I wanted.

  I had got being ignored down to a fine art – and there is an art to it. It takes concentration and years of practice to ensure that you are constantly overlooked. I was a slipping-into-the-shadows sort of person, a disappearing-into-the-crowd sort of kid. Always on the periphery, a walking ‘Do not disturb’ sign. Nobody bothered me and I intended to keep it that way. I was the invisible girl. And yet. And yet. Something about Kyle tugged at me, pulled at me. I guess I must have seen something in him. I guess I saw me in him.

  And at least Kyle and Denis looked like they had a purpose. They didn’t seem to give a shit about school or the other kids either. I wanted to know where they were going, what they got up to after the last bell rang, where Kyle went to at night. I just did. And I really wanted somewhere else to go other than back home.

  Do I wish, now, that I’d kept away from them? Do I look back and curse the moment I first set eyes on Kyle? I just wish that he was still here. I miss him still, you see.

  A few days later I got back to find Dad drinking tea with one of our neighbours. Janice was fortyish, ginger and fat, and each of her breasts was bigger than my head. Her make-up looked like she’d thrown it on with a bucket, and she wore the sort of clothes that looked good on my sisters, but kind of made you wince to see them on someone like her. My dad looked terrified, our neighbour’s Lycra-clad rolls and ear-splitting laugh seemed to flatten him against the splashback like a dribble of spilt gravy. Next to her he appeared even more vague and hopeless than usual. In fact, I had never seen him so relieved to see me.

  She spotted me before I had a chance to back out. ‘You must be Anita!’ she shrieked, thrilled. I started edging my way out the door, but Dad lassoed me with his panic.

  ‘Anita, this is our neighbour, Janice.’ He stood there nodding desperately, like someone with Alzheimer’s and clutching his can of Tennent’s.

  ‘Don’t mind me, babes, come and sit down.’ She beamed and patted the chair next to her. I sat in the one nearest the door. ‘Thought I’d come and be neighbourly,’ she said in the south-London whine I’d soon grow to hate. Her teeth were very small and yellow in her big, pink mouth. ‘Been having a lovely chat with your dad,’ she said. ‘He’s been telling me all about you.’ I stared at my dad who started examining one of the buttons on his cardi.

  Janice hugged her cup of tea to her cleavage, her piggy, mascara-clogged eyes suddenly brimming with compassion. ‘Terrible what he’s been through, bringing you all up on his own.’ She looked at me like it was my fault Mum had dropped dead.

  At last Janice cottoned on that I was the sort of silent, staring child who makes adult
s like her nervous and shut up. We both looked at my dad, who looked at his can. Luckily for Janice, at this point, Push came in.

  My brother had never been one to shy away from a good cleavage and once the introductions had been made sat down with the air of a fifteen-year-old who has just found out he lives next door to Samantha Fox. ‘I’ll have to pop round for sugar sometime,’ he said with a wink, and Janice giggled and patted her hair. Cocky, handsome, big-mouthed Push. Not for the first time Dad and I stared at him in amazement. Where did he come from? we silently asked each other.

  After three minutes of Push banging on about himself, I was ready to make my escape. But I froze at the door when Janice said, ‘Lewisham High, is it? So you must know that Kyle Kite.’

  It was the first time I’d heard his full name but I knew instantly who she meant. Funny to think now, I suppose, how notorious that name has become, how synonymous it is with something I could barely comprehend back then. At the time though I merely turned back from the door, my curiosity pricked, to see her suck her cheeks in, raise her eyebrows and look at Dad as if to say ‘WELL!’

  ‘Kyle?’ I asked, ‘Kyle who lives opposite?’

  ‘That’s the one! No. 33.’ She shook her head as if she was going to start welling up again. ‘Such a sad business.’

  ‘What was?’ I wanted to strangle the words out of her.

  ‘His little sister was Katie Kite!’ She said the name triumphantly. Expectantly. Me, my dad and Push looked at each other, the penny almost but not quite dropping. The name vaguely but not really ringing a bell. We looked back at Janice, shaking our heads. Sorry, who?

  ‘Little Katie Kite!’ said Janice in exasperation. ‘God almighty, don’t you lot read the papers?’

  Janice sighed and filled us in. One morning a year ago Kyle’s mum (‘nice lady, but a bit, you know …’) went to wake up little Katie, only she wasn’t there. Five years old she was, gorgeous little thing. Vanished. No trace of her anywhere. ‘Surely you remember? Front-page news!’ We did, then. We remembered the headlines, the pictures of the little girl, the appeals for information. We remembered, but not clearly – our own nightmare was filling our thoughts back then.

  ‘They never found her.’ Janice cupped her tea closer. ‘Just disappeared and nobody had a clue who did it.’ She shuddered. ‘Enough to drive anyone mad, wondering about it. Her mum never went out again. Poor Kyle does all their shopping. And his lovely granddad goes round too.’

  Even Push was impressed. ‘What, did someone have her away then?’

  ‘That’s just it, love. No one knows. The police were crawling around here for ages. No signs of a break-in. Couldn’t find a thing. Total cock-up by the sounds of it. Hauling in half the neighbourhood, accusing all sorts. Even dragged the ex-husband back from God-knows-where but not a dicky bird. Poor little thing just disappeared and Christ only knows what became of her.’

  Janice looked at each of our gaping faces with immense satisfaction and finished her tea.

  The weeks before the end of term dragged on. Denis and I stuck together during the day and sometimes we’d catch glimpses of Kyle around school but he always ignored us. Often he’d turn up to meet Denis after he’d clearly been bunking off all day. I’d managed to break Denis’s habit of answering my every question with his own retarded ones, but on the subject of Kyle he was unforthcoming. It was mind-bendingly frustrating. If I’d been interested in Kyle before, now I was fascinated. Imagine knowing someone whose sister had vanished?

  I once asked Denis if he ever went round to Kyle’s. He looked a bit shifty and tried to turn the conversation back to dinosaurs or Curly Wurlys or whatever the fuck he’d been talking about. But after I went on at him he said, ‘Yeh, well no, not really. Mostly we go out and do stuff.’

  I asked him what sort of stuff.

  ‘Just mucking about sort of stuff. Down by the river.’

  I looked at him with my ‘Don’t be a dickhead’ face.

  ‘Looking for caves,’ he said.

  Caves? Looking for what caves? But Denis escaped into his sodding Home Economics class to learn how to make shepherd’s pie, and that was that.

  The days slouched on, dragging their heels towards the end of term, each one much like the last until suddenly one morning something a bit weird happened. By then I’d got into the swing of things at Lewisham High. My teachers were so relieved that I was the sort of kid who kept her head down and her mouth shut that they pretty much left me to my own devices. That particular day I was in Maths with Denis. We were both in the bottom class – him for obvious reasons, me because it was easier to play dumb and coast along with the retards rather than have to get involved and take part with the few kids in that place who actually gave a shit. The teachers were far too busy trying to keep World War III from breaking out to bother with the likes of me.

  So after Maths, Denis and I came out of our classroom to find Kyle right outside. He was just standing there in the corridor really still, his fists clenched, his eyes on the floor, but he was doing this thing, the thing I do too, of pretending that he wasn’t really there. I recognised it straightaway, that haziness; the inaccuracy of him, like, even though you were looking directly at him, it was really like you were only seeing him from the corner of your eye. Shadowy. There’s a certain knack to that.

  He was with three other kids and they were taking the piss out of him, laughing at him, and he had his back to the wall like he was trying to blend into it. They were saying stuff like, ‘Fucking tramp’, that sort of thing. ‘Weirdo.’ Just the sort of thing kids like us got all the time. You just ignored it. But then one of them, a tall lanky girl said, ‘Where’s your kid sister then?’ and she started laughing, you know that Ahahahahahaha high-pitched sort of fake laughing kids do when they know they’re not really being funny.

  That’s when it happened. Kyle looked up then, straight at the girl who had said it, and it was like suddenly all of him that he’d been hiding, pretending wasn’t there, zoomed back into him with such brute force that all of him and his anger and hatred for those kids suddenly concentrated, focused into his eyes with the speed of a bullet. And the girl stopped laughing like she’d been slapped. Her face just dropped, just went completely blank with shock. Then Kyle went for her, just sort of lunged at her. And she ran, then. She ran as fast as she could but Kyle just threw himself off down the corridor after her.

  By this time a bit of a crowd had gathered so we all chased after them, the other kids yelling, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ We chased them down the corridors and up the stairs and when we reached the top there they were: Kyle and the girl. He had her by the throat. She was half-bent backwards over the banister, half-hanging over the stairwell – quite high up they were, Kyle’s thumbs pressed into her windpipe, her eyes all bulging and red. All the other kids just went really quiet.

  A teacher came and broke it up, yanked Kyle by the elbow away from the girl and marched him off to the headmaster’s office and that was that. And I remember thinking then that I would do practically anything to be friends with Kyle.

  Suddenly it was the end of term. Seven whole weeks with no school stretching ahead of me and I didn’t have a thing to do. Some mornings I’d just sit on our steps in the sunshine, watching the people go by. Push got a summer job and my sisters hung out in the nearby park with their new college mates, taking it in turns to buy cider and fags. Sometimes I’d see Denis come and knock for Kyle. He’d turn and wave at me if he saw me hanging about, but Kyle never looked back when they went off down the street together. Occasionally I’d see an old man letting himself into No. 33, but I never saw any sign of Kyle’s mum. I tried to imagine what their house was like inside, but the curtains were always drawn and I could only picture dark empty rooms behind them.

  The day that everything changed was a Saturday. I was bored shitless of hanging around the house while Dad watched cartoons so I decided to go into Lewisham.

  The streets of our bit of Brockley were wide and long with tall skin
ny houses that felt like they were leaning forward, like they were about to fall down on you with their pointy roofs and their big bay windows like gaping mouths. The pavements were lined with trees so big their roots had started to push up through the tarmac like trapped arms. I tripped over them a hundred times in those first few weeks.

  I walked until I got to the hill that goes down to Lewisham, the slopes of Crystal Palace and Forest Hill behind me, Deptford and Greenwich spread out below. You could see the masts of the Cutty Sark from there, the river twisting behind it. Buses thundered past me as I walked down the hill. Soul music blasted from open doors and the primary-coloured Caribbean shop fronts jingle-jangled in the dust between the crumbly bricked houses, black and white stickers peeling off their dirty windows that said ‘CND’ and ‘Ban The Bomb’. I kept my eyes on my flip-flops as they picked their way along the dips and hollows of the dried-up pavements.

  Packed, Lewisham was. When I reached the high street I was overwhelmed suddenly by the mobs of Saturday morning shoppers; teenagers with pushchairs, tramps with their cans, religious nuts shouting into loud speakers, cars blaring music. A 180 bus stopped and not caring where it was going, I got on.

  It wasn’t until I’d sat down on the top deck that I realised Kyle and Denis were sitting on the seat across from me. They didn’t notice me at first. Kyle was sitting neat and compact, his scrawny white neck rigid as he stared at a fat girl eating a burger in front of him. Denis, taking up most of the seat, was jiggling his knees up and down, whistling the same long thin note between his teeth. I watched Kyle watch the fat girl, noticed his disgust at the way she gnawed at her food, fat globs of mayonnaise and relish dripping onto her hands. The bus chugged, unbearably hot, towards Greenwich.