After midnight passes, I figure I have to do something, so lie on my side and close my eyes. That lasts for approximately five seconds before it feels as if I’m drowning again. There’s one hand on my chest, another on my forehead. I’m grabbing at the person’s wrist and then… I’m back on my bed, sitting rigidly upright and gasping.
I spend the next few hours trying to amuse myself. I read some of my book but can’t get into it; then I skim my journal and check to see if Naomi has read her messages. Every hour or so, I’ll close my eyes again – but the outcome is always the same: water, hands, coughing, fear. Whenever I find myself scrambling for breath, I’m riddled by panic. I’m actually scared, which is a strange feeling.
Watching horror movies can be frightening, so can the dark, or the noises the old pipes in this house make at night. They used to keep me awake when I didn’t realise what the sounds were. I was convinced there were monsters coming for me. This is a different type of fear – I’m not scared of something that could happen, I’m terrified of what already has happened.
Eventually, I resolve that sleeping isn’t a good idea. I hug my knees to my chest and wedge myself into the corner of the room, wrapping the duvet around me. It feels like the most basic parts of what it is to be normal have been taken from me. I can’t sleep, can’t cry, can’t eat… I’ve not even been to the toilet since waking in the river. These are the tiny things most people wouldn’t even think twice about, yet they’re so easy to notice now I’m no longer capable of doing them.
Feeling sorry for myself, I drop the duvet and stand in front of the mirror. I try to examine my hairline and look at the marks on my chest – but the light isn’t strong enough. Creeping around lightly isn’t necessary given the way Ollie’s snoring echoes around the landing but I tiptoe to the bathroom anyway.
In the mirror, my face looks paler than before. Perhaps more worryingly, I am able to pinch the skin underneath my chin. It feels rubbery and loose, plus it takes a second or two to spring back into place.
When I remove my various tops, the marks on my chest are still there, still shaped like fingers. They’ve neither darkened, nor faded. They’re simply there. I’m shivering but strip to my underwear, crouching to smooth the skin on my legs. They’re starting to peel, with long strips of snake-like crust crisping away from the rest of me. I sit in horror next to the bath as I pick and prod at the flaking skin, continuing until I can find no more flaps to pull. There are a few scraps on my arms but they’re nowhere near as rough as my legs. The small pile of skin on the floor looks like a baking experiment gone badly wrong, a thought that makes me smile momentarily until I remember it’s come from me.
The cabinet next to the mirror is littered with various medicines and lotions. I try rubbing a small dollop of moisturiser into my leg but all it does is mix with the dry skin to create a gritty, grim paste. My skin seemingly will not absorb it. I soon give up and dab it away with toilet roll.
I am literally falling apart.
Is this what death is? Am I in some sort of weird afterlife where everything continues as normal, except for me?
For a minute or so, I sit on the floor wondering what I should do. When the answer comes to me, it feels so obvious. There’s little point in sitting and moping over the things I can no longer do, I should embrace what I can for however long I have left. It doesn’t seem real that I can live with neither food nor sleep, but then waking up with a lungful of water and still being alive isn’t normal either. If I can find out what happened, perhaps I will discover a way to cure whatever’s wrong with me.
I unlock and head through the bathroom door – then clatter straight into my Mum. She wobbles and bounces off the wall before straightening herself, while I almost fall down the stairs in an attempt to steady myself. She’s wearing a thin dressing gown, the cord drawn tightly across her waist. Her hair is down but it looks like she’s undergone electroshock therapy.
She says my name as she steps around me and then reaches out her arms. Before I know it, I’m resting my cheek on her shoulder as she cups my head. I can’t feel her touch but it’s still reassuring to be close to another person whom I trust implicitly. She pulls me to her, whispering something I can’t make out as I press back. Perhaps it’s because I want it – really want it – or maybe it’s my imagination, but I even feel her warmth.
When she releases me, she smiles softly.
‘I’m sorry I was such a cow,’ I say.
Mum shrugs. ‘I’m sorry as well. I know you’re under a lot of pressure. Having time off is as important as doing the work.’ She steps closer to the bathroom, creasing at the knees. ‘Sorry, I really need a wee,’ she adds. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
I nod and so does she – then she turns and hurries into the bathroom. When she clicks the lock closed, I stand and watch for a few seconds, wondering if I should’ve added anything else. If I’m going to tell anyone, it should surely be her?
For now, I don’t feel ready.
Back in my room, I wrap myself in my duvet again but this time don’t bother trying to sleep. I search the Internet for ‘how to remember things’, ‘amnesia’, ‘memory loss’ and the like – but can’t find anything useful. It’s either tips for old people, hypnotism, or dodgy movies. When I realise that’s a waste, I pick the girl-in-a-castle book from my shelf and start reading. If I’ve only got a limited time left, I might as well spend my free moments doing something I enjoy.
I only realise the night has passed when the wisps of early sunshine start to creep around the curtains. It’s a little after half past four in the morning – but it’s the longest day of the year and the sun seems determined to make sure everybody knows. My bedroom is at the back of the house and overlooks our garden and the trees beyond. A collage of red, orange and yellow is bleeding from the horizon, creating spindly silhouettes of the woods.
It’s worth being alive for.
When the clock ticks through to seven o’clock, I hear Mum up and about. The bathroom door opens and closes, then her bedroom door. There’s rushing up and down the stairs before I hear her talking to Ollie. Eventually the front door slams and she’s gone.
Even though it feels strange, I can’t think of anything else to be doing, so I get a bag ready for college. I throw my journal inside just in case.
Ollie is sitting at the dining table downstairs, thumbing his phone with one hand, shovelling through a bowl of Coco Pops with the other. He looks up as I enter the living room and raises his eyebrows, muttering something that sounds a bit like, ‘all right?’
I nod at his breakfast. ‘How many bowls of those have you had?’
‘Three. You missed Mum, by the way.’
‘I know – I heard her leave.’
Ollie scoops one more mouthful of chocolate milk and mush, before tipping the bowl upside-down and emptying the final remnants into his mouth.
‘Do you need a lift somewhere?’
‘I’m all right. I’ll get the bus.’
He takes his bowl and spoon into the kitchen, then leaves it unwashed in the sink. With a grin, he tosses his car keys from one hand to the other in front of me.
‘You know that car is half mine when I learn to drive,’ I remind him. It doesn’t shift his smile.
‘When you learn to drive,’ he winks back. Ollie fumbles in his pockets – phone, wallet, keys – then he heads for the door. ‘You on a late start?’ he asks.
‘Yep.’
He opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, before muttering ‘see ya’ and heading outside.
I watch from the living room window as he gets in his car… our car. Mum bought it when he turned seventeen, making it absolutely clear that, when I passed my test, it would be half mine. He’s been using it for a year now, while I’ve never got around to having driving lessons. More to the point, I’ve not had the money for lessons. It’s only a small once-red Ford with a spluttering, booming exhaust that – unlike with some boy racers – isn’t deliberate. It’
d still be nice if it were really half mine.
Ollie wheelspins his way off the drive – something he’d never do if Mum were home – and then disappears around the corner. We go to the same college and, though I could have got a lift with him, it’d give the Ravens more ammunition with which to give the piss.
I waste an hour watching television and messaging back and forth with Naomi, who is asking what I want to do later. Robbie hasn’t contacted me since I saw him at the Deck, but I suppose I haven’t messaged him either. Ben’s not sent anything, either – though that’s probably for the best.
It’s warm but I’m wearing layers again, trying to stop myself shivering. As I potter around the house, it dawns on me that, despite everything that’s happened, I’m still stuck going to college. At the absolute least, shouldn’t being dead get a person out of classes?
There really is no justice.
I’m about to leave the house when I pass the stove on my way through the kitchen. This time there’s nobody around, no one to stop me. I know I should leave but there’s another part of me saying that I need to know. The gas hisses, the fire flares and I’m entranced by the dancing flames. I hold my hand close to the heat but it doesn’t feel hot.
Closer.
Closer still.
The tips of my fingers are millimetres from the blue of the gas flame. It should be hurting, yet I feel nothing.
Closer.
Closer again.
Chapter Fourteen
Mr Hawkins is our history teacher and a person who can only be described as eccentric. On our first day in his class last September, he told us he was a Domesday Book ‘enthusiast’, with ‘more than a passing interest’ in the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. A month later, he came to college dressed in some sort of bizarre onesie–armour hybrid, saying his outfit was based on the eleventh-century and that he was wearing it to celebrate William the Conqueror killing Harold at the Battle of Hastings. He has long hair and often turns up wearing a disturbing amount of cord, yet I can’t bring myself to dislike him.
As I read through the past exam paper from which we’re supposed to be practising, it dawns on me that his antics aren’t simply the actions of a maniac. He knows what he’s doing. For instance, question five is about why Britain repealed the Stamp Act in 1766 – something to which I know the answer because Mr Hawkins set up some sort of science show that created static electricity which made his hair stand on end. Still looking like a fried clown, he told us about Benjamin Franklin and his experiments with electricity. That isn’t directly relevant – except Franklin came to Britain to protest the Stamp Act. I associate that with Mr Hawkins’ crazy hair and know the answer. At the time, I – like everyone else – thought he was a nutter.
As I scratch away the answer, my phone, which is on the desk, momentarily flashes. Mr Hawkins has said we’re not using full exam conditions and that he trusts us not to cheat, which of course means everyone is checking their phones every few minutes.
It’s a message from Naomi:
Whats up wit ur thumb?
I turn to glance at her, two desks away. She meets my gaze and then flicks her eyes at my hand, where the tip of my thumb and fingers are scorched black. I shrug at her and then focus back on my paper. I can feel more eyes on me and glance up to see Rachel the Raven turning back to look at me. She scowls but says nothing and then faces the front again. Rachel and Rochelle are both in my history class, yet they’re empty shells without their führer to guide them. Whatever might be said about Rebecca – and I’ve said plenty – she’s the one with the smart mouth and mind for vindictive insults. Her sidekicks are good for sneering and sucking their stomachs in to appear slimmer.
I continue working through the paper, pretending it matters and that I didn’t wake up in a river, and then Mr Hawkins tells us we have five more minutes. Soon enough, the bell is ringing and class is over.
Lunch.
I trail Naomi out of class and then we pass through the swarm of students massing in the hallways. It’s hard to be heard over the noise, so we say nothing until we reach the canteen on the far side of the building.
When the college announced they were opening a new canteen at the start of the year, there was a competition for naming rights. Somehow, out of all the suggestions from students, somebody somewhere settled on ‘The Hangout’. I suppose he or she decided it was what they considered to be ‘cool’ – but a mixture of derision, confusion and complete apathy met the naming announcement. Some graffiti artist was even commissioned to paint the word ‘Hangout’ across the top of the doorway leading inside. Of course, nobody in their right mind bothers to call it anything other than ‘the canteen’.
Naomi and I pass under the Hangout sign and get into the line that sweeps around the perimeter of the canteen. The air smells of burnt cheese and chips and there is a steady clatter of cutlery on plate. Everyone in line ambles forward slowly until we’re eventually at the front. Naomi buys a sandwich and Coke while I get a bottle of water – and then we head through the double doors onto the field.
The college football team play in something close to a man-made amphitheatre, with the pitch sitting in a bowl, grass banks surrounding it on three of the four sides. On the other is an ugly chain-link fence. We find a spot on the bank and then spread out, dumping our stuff next to us and lying back to enjoy the sun.
Well, sort of.
I’m still covered up and can’t feel the heat but Naomi rolls down her knee-high socks, which is as close to sunbathing as she really gets. She’s still wearing a beanie hat with Miss Piggy ears.
We have a spot to ourselves, though the banks are covered with students finding somewhere to eat in the sun. Down below, there are lads in football kits getting ready to start a game.
‘You not eating?’ Naomi asks.
‘Not hungry.’
She nods towards the pitch. ‘What’s going on down there?’
‘Year Twelve are playing Year Thirteen. I think it’s some practice thing.’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Ollie and Robbie are both hoping to get into the overall college team for some tournament next month.’
Naomi squints down towards the pitch and then returns to her sandwich.
‘Where’s Ben?’ I ask.
She narrows her eyes at me for a moment. ‘It’s Monday – he doesn’t have classes, remember?’
‘Right…’
Here was I thinking he was deliberately avoiding both Naomi and me.
‘You okay?’ she adds, staring directly at me. I’ve used a little make-up to try to stop my skin looking so grey, but there’s little I can do. I’ve been getting sideways glances all day – and that was before anyone noticed my scorched fingertips.
‘I’m fine.’
Naomi continues to watch me for a second or two and then turns back to the pitch and continues eating. The two teams have kicked off now, with the older team – including Ollie and Robbie – running around with no tops on and the younger lot wearing blue shirts. We watch the game in silence for a minute or two. I’m not particularly bothered about the match itself, more by whether my brother or boyfriend are getting kicked around. My knowledge is admittedly limited but, from what I can see, there seems to be a lot of shouting and not much kicking the ball into the goal. Someone keeps shouting ‘line it’, which makes it all the more confusing.
‘How much do you remember of Helen’s party?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.
Naomi remains focused on the pitch. ‘Most of it. It was only late on that it got a bit messy.’
‘Do you remember that server guy from the Deck being there?’
‘Ash?’
‘Right.’
‘Vaguely. It’s not like we had a conversation or anything.’
‘Who do you reckon invited him?’
‘Dunno – it’s not as if there was some bouncer on the door. He probably heard it was going on and invited himself. Y’know the type – they finish school but can’t let
it go. They spend all their time trying to pretend they’re teenagers. He was at that Christmas recital thing in the sports hall last year, remember? That Ophelia girl was doing her solo and he was taking loads of photos. It was creepy with a capital C.’
Now she mentions it, I do remember. It was a sort of hybrid talent show/concert, with students from our year and the one above singing, playing instruments and putting on a series of short plays. It was, as expected, awful – with the performing arts lot treating it as if they were getting their big break. The event was open to the public and Ash had bought a ticket. I remember nudging Naomi and nodding towards him as he stood to the side and snapped photos whenever there were young women on stage.
‘You hear about his ex-girlfriend?’ Naomi asks.
If I have, then I can’t remember, so I tell her I haven’t.
‘It happened around five years ago when they were both about our age,’ she says. ‘They didn’t go to our school, they went to Saint Joseph’s in Langham. They went out for a few weeks or something like that, then she broke up with him because he’s a creepy weirdo. Anyway, he stalked her big-time after that. Followed her home from school, trailed her round the shops at the weekend – that sort of thing. She’d go to the cinema and he’d be there. This one time, he turned up in her back garden but her dad was in and he went proper mental. Threatened him and said that if he ever saw Ash again that he’d give him a kicking or whatever. That’s what I heard anyway.’
She turns to me and winks. ‘Now he’s got a thing for you.’
‘He really doesn’t.’
‘He’s always looking at you when we’re at the Deck.’
‘He looks at everyone a bit… funny. It’s just his way.’
Naomi turns back to the pitch, grinning. ‘You keep telling yourself that. Ellie and Ash, sitting in a tree, eff-you-see-kay-aye-en-gee.’ She collapses into giggles and I leave her to it.
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel Page 8
