by SJI Holliday
Too late.
Pete Brotherstone, the janitor’s dopey assistant, is hovering outside the door to the boiler room.
The words come out automatically. ‘All right, Pete? Got any fags?’
Neil knows Pete doesn’t smoke, but it’s something that always winds the other boy up, so he likes to say it. It’s a pathetic wind-up, as wind-ups go, and Katie always gives him a row for it. He hears her voice in his head. Leave him alone, Neil. What did he ever do to you? Problem is, Pete’s an easy target. He’s one of those boys who just doesn’t quite operate on the same level as others of his age. Slow? Autistic? No one really knows, but he’s high-functioning enough to have a job and no one does anything that bad to him, seeing as he’s Councillor Brotherstone’s son. Of course there have been various stories and rumours about him over the years. Things he’s meant to have done. Nothing’s ever stuck. Nothing’s ever been proven – probably because he’s never actually done anything wrong – he’s just one of those unfortunates in life, someone to be pitied rather than feared. He’s not even that weird, as it happens. People just like to use him as a scapegoat and the butt of all jokes. On the other hand, some say there’s no smoke without fire. Bollocks to that, though. Just because people are a bit odd doesn’t mean they’re up to no good. Neil knows he should know better, yet he can’t resist it.
Pete is fiddling with something in his hands. Neil can’t see what it is. He’s about to ask, but the boy cuts in first.
‘I don’t smoke. And they’re not fags, they’re cigarettes. And you shouldn’t smoke them because they’re bad for you. Because of the tar. It’s not like the tar they put on the roads, but it’s bad anyway. And everyone else is in there now and you’re out here. Why are you out here? It’s cold. I’m helping to fix the boiler . . .’
Neil ignores him and drops his phone back into his pocket. He picks up his pace again and as he rounds the corner spots the steamed-up windows of the assembly hall. Sees the outlines of bodies inside. The silhouette of ‘Packety’ Crisp’s hair. He’s another one that people are always going on about. But Christ, if having hair like a Brillo pad and being a bit too enthusiastic about the life-cycle of fruit flies is enough to make you a fucked-up paedo axe-murderer, then there’s no hope for half of the school.
This is off, though. Not good. Assembly? There’s never an assembly at this time. Weird. He ducks down the gap between the main building and the annexe and that’s when he spots the police car sitting outside the school gates.
A strange feeling comes over him. Something squirms at the back of his mind. Dread. Fear. His heart seems to grow bigger somehow, letting him know that it’s there. His breaths come out in cold puffs. Emergency assembly. Police car. Not good. Definitely not good.
He takes his phone out again. Texts Katie:
Babe, I’m outside. You in assembly? What’s going on?
He knows she’ll have her phone on silent, but it’ll be on vibrate. She’ll reply straight away. She always does. Assuming she’s forgiven him, that is. He waits. Refreshes his messages.
No reply.
THREEWISEMONKEYSBLOG
Telling It Like It Is
Posted: 1st Aug 2016 by SpeakNoEvil
Status: Draft
Comments: 0
See, see my playmate,
Come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three
Climb up my apple tree
Holler down my rain barrel
Slide down my cellar door
And we’ll be jolly friends
Forever evermore.
You know this one, right? Just a harmless playground rhyme, isn’t it? It was always one of my favourites. The lines seem to work well for the clapping, don’t they? Back and forth, you and me. Going faster and faster until one of us messes up. I always thought it was ‘Cee Cee’, like a girl’s name, but then – thank God for the internet – turns out it’s not. This is just the first verse.
There are six in total. The whole thing tells a very interesting little story. Funny how these kids’ rhymes are always more sinister than they first appear. This one sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Two little girls playing with dolls, climbing trees, shouting into barrels. Then there’s the cellar . . . what’s that about? And the friends for evermore bit – that sounds good, doesn’t it? Everyone wants their best friends to be their best friends forever and ever.
Bet you’ve become ‘blood sisters’ with someone, haven’t you? Pricking your thumbs with a pin, making a big deal of the pain, even though it’s nothing. A prick on the thumb isn’t pain. Squeezing out the blood to form a shiny red orb. Rubbing it against your friend’s finger, imagining your blood mingling together.
Why would you want to be sisters with someone, if you had the choice? What’s that saying – you can choose your friends, you can’t choose your family? I wouldn’t choose my family. Not if I had a choice. A proper choice.
Families are science. You come from the same seed, spread down over the years like pollen. Friends are psychology. Chosen, or thrown together? Why do you choose your friends? Why do they choose you?
And . . . what if they choose you, then they unchoose you? Then what?
At least your family can’t ‘unchoose’ you – as much as they might like to. Like I said. Interesting, isn’t it?
Makes you think: do you really want anything to be ‘forever evermore’?
6
Polly
There are many reasons why people become bullies. In most cases, it’s a number of factors, or a spiralling chain of events. Envy and resentment. Low self-esteem. A shitty upbringing from a parent who had a shitty upbringing, and so it goes on. The bullied becomes the bully. It’s the only way they can deal with their own situation.
It’s the reason that Polly became a counsellor. She tries to tell herself that what she did all those years ago doesn’t really count as bullying but, studying the psychology of it all, she knows she’s trying to make things sound better for herself. Of course she was a bully. OK, she never physically hurt anyone; but she made people feel inadequate. Small. She was condescending. She pitted people against each other. If that’s not bullying, then what is? There are people she has to talk to. People she has to apologise to. Two people in particular, whose lives she helped to ruin. It’s part of the reason she came back. To put things right. But that’ll have to wait for now.
What Mandy Taylor did to her was something very different. Something that she’s never told anyone. But that’s no excuse, is it? Polly has a feeling that she’s going to have to deal with this head on, and soon. Because at some stage or another she suspects she might have to talk to Katie Taylor’s mother.
She glances around the wide, wood-panelled hall as Jon steps to the side and Sergeant Zucarro steps up to say a few words. ‘If anyone would like to say anything about Katie . . . if anyone has heard anything unusual, or seen anything strange. Anything they say will be kept in strict confidence. We need to find out what happened here, and we need your help.’
Polly feels needles of dread poking at her. They aren’t handling this very well. They’ve made it sound like something suspicious has happened to Katie. Something bad. There’s barely any pretence of it being ‘an accident’ any more, despite what Jon has said. But what now? As soon as the kids leave the room, there’s going to be chaos. Letting them out before lunchtime just isn’t going to work. The parents will go nuts. These people are at work. The school can’t just allow the kids to roam the streets. No, they’re going to have to keep them here but let them have time to do whatever they need to do, to talk to whoever they want to. They can’t expect them to be able to concentrate now, not with all the speculation that’s going to come out of this.
There’s a rustle of bags and a scrape of chairs as the pupils start to get to their feet after Jon’s final speech.
‘Head on back to your classrooms and continue your daily schedule as normal, but please talk to your teachers if you need to and if anyone needs to
discuss anything in private, please come and see me, or our new guidance counsellor, Ms McAllister.’
Polly’s head snaps up at the mention of her name, and she can tell from the look on Jon’s face that it’s not the first time he’s mentioned her. He’s introduced her to a room that contains the entire school and she’s been too immersed in the crowd to acknowledge him. She hadn’t been distracted intentionally; it was just that she was scanning the faces for signs of upset. Trying to store their characteristics in her head so that she could access them again. It was difficult, as no one was sitting in their form class rows – they’d spilled in from various places and been told to sit down wherever there was a free seat. So that was going to make it more difficult for her to work out who anyone was. But she’d spotted one girl she wasn’t likely to forget. A small girl with long red hair, as bright as a pillar box. It stood out in stark contrast to the monotonous navy of the school uniform. Polly was amazed that such a colour could exist naturally, but clearly it did as there was no way that the pupils were allowed to dye their hair. Especially not a shade as bright as that. That girl had cried all the way through the assembly, yet no one else seemed to have been bothered enough to comfort her.
Polly needs to find out who she is.
She also needs to know several other things, right now. Does Katie Taylor have any brothers or sisters at the school? Who are her friends? And most importantly, does she have a boyfriend? She also needs to know which classes she was taking, how she was doing in them, and what her plans were for June, when she finished sixth year. She wants to have everything to hand to assist the police, should they need it. She’d got off to a rocky start here, and that wasn’t her intention.
Her mind drifts back to that day in her bedroom, where everything went wrong.
Claire.
She had to call Claire.
The whole point of coming here was to try to make amends.
7
Louise
‘So, what do you know about this family?’ Louise asks. She assumes that as Davie has spent his entire life in the town he will have heard of them at the very least. They drive down the back road and round toward the river, crossing over a humpback bridge. It’s all very picturesque, the river and the quaint little pub on the edge. The fields nearby, stretching off to the low hills beyond. Louise knows there’s a stately home out there somewhere. They used to do a book festival there that she’d heard about on the local radio, but apparently the owners of the house, some random Duke of something-or-other, had decided to reclaim his home for himself, so there were to be no more events, which was a shame. She catches a final glance of the pub in the passenger-side wing mirror and sighs, imagining a pleasant day there in the summer, drinking pints and not having to worry about dead teenagers.
‘Surprised they’ve not got their sandbags out,’ Davie says. ‘Must be due for a flood once this snow turns to slush and the rain comes to wash it all away. Did you see how high the river was?’
She stares at him. Frowns.
‘Sorry, what did you say? Oh aye. This family. The Taylors. I know them, all right.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘Oh, you know. Single mum, had her first at sixteen. Before that, in and out of the station. Usual stuff – shoplifting . . . criminal damage . . . fighting. She was a wild one, that. She works up in the professional laundry on the edge of town. Barrett’s. They do all the sheets and tablecloths and all those sorts of things for the local hotels. Works nights, so probably keeps her out of trouble. And the pub. Her kids are a chip off the old block, though. Well, one of them anyway. Brooke – the middle one. What is it they say about middle children?’
‘Well, they’re not the leader who gets to find things out for themselves, and they’re not the baby who gets spoiled rotten. They’re the piggy in the middle. Left to fend for themselves. The black sheep. They might end up depressed . . . feel unloved. Anger is definitely an issue. Maybe they have to do more to get noticed?’
‘Sounds about right. She’s definitely a problem. She’s as wild as hawthorn and twice as spiky. I see her most weeks in the station. I’m hoping she’s going to grow out of it, but she’s not really getting the support. I hear there’s a new guidance counsellor starting at the school. They’ve had no one since Rebecca Edwards retired last year. Not sure who the replacement is, but I’m hoping she’s bit less highly strung than old Mrs E. Lovely woman, but a bit crotchety. No use with those rowdy kids. Even the good ones are mouthy wee shites these days.’
‘What about the father? I take it he’s not on the scene.’
‘Well, Brooke and Brett – that’s the younger brother – their father is currently residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Bungled bank raid. Not his first. Not sure he had much to do with any of them anyway. Katie’s dad, though – well, there’s one of the town’s wee mysteries. There were rumours – plenty in the frame . . . a teacher, a shopkeeper, one of the pub landlords, a couple of the lads in the year above . . . a soldier that came down for the army recruitment day. Mandy refused to say who he was, and in the end no one really cared too much. She’d been in care since she was five. Neglect. No hope. It was a foregone conclusion she’d end up with a young baby and a council house after a life like that. What else could she have done, really? It’s hard to pass judgement when you know the background. She had no chance in life, not really.’
‘And Katie? She sounds different from her younger siblings. What about her?’
Davie pulls into the kerb on the edge of a row of terraced houses. They face out onto a field of frozen wheat. A few oaks are dotted along the boundary of the road and the field. It feels quiet. Peaceful. She was half expecting to end up in a rough estate, but then from what she knew Banktoun wasn’t really like that. Sure, there was the usual divide between the rich and poor, the haves and have-nots, but overall it seemed to be quite an integrated community.
He switches off the engine and sighs. ‘Katie was different. She was the only academic one of the bunch. I met her a few times, mainly when bringing her little sister back from the station. Katie would be the one to cook them their tea and keep an eye on them while Mandy was at work. Don’t get me wrong – I’m sure she was no angel. But I’ve never had reason to see her at the station. Never cautioned her in the street. Always thought she was going to break the mould and do something with her life. Despite Mandy’s brash ways, I think she’d have been proud to see one of her children do well for themselves. Have things that she couldn’t give them. As for Brooke, though, she was a difficult child. I could see she resented Katie – not just for her being brighter and full of prospects, but she was better looking too. I know I shouldn’t say that – but you’ll see soon enough. Brooke’s one that goes for the overdone make-up and the big hair, whereas Katie was more of a natural beauty – although, to be fair, she had turned a bit Goth or Emo or whatever it’s called these days. She had a nice boyfriend too. If this turns out the way I think it’s going to, we might have to talk to him later, although I genuinely can’t imagine him being involved. Mind, I’ve been wrong about people in the past.’
‘If someone did do something, he’s going to be one of the prime suspects, Davie. Her family, too. Harsh as it is.’
‘Aye. Fucker, this bit, isn’t it? I’m still holding out a wee bit of hope that it was something accidental . . .’
They get out of the car and walk up the path to the house. There’s an eerie silence on the street. She’d expected to see a few busybodies hanging around at least. She’s got her finger on the doorbell when she sees the fluttering of curtains a few doors down. So they are about then. She claps her hands together, tries to rub in some warmth. Seems that rubberneckers don’t like to come out in the cold.
‘Ah, there you are. Get lost, did you?’ Detective Inspector Malkie Reid is looking slightly less dishevelled than normal. He tends to look almost human on a Monday. Freshly laundered shirts and neatly pressed jumpers for the start of the week. By Wednesday he looks like he�
�s rolled down a hill in them.
‘Sorry, sir. I was out when DS Gray arrived. I wasn’t expecting to be coming in this morning. I—’
‘Morning, Malkie,’ Davie says, putting a stop to any more mumbled apologies. Louise is prone to rambling on, if left unchecked.
‘Davie. Right. Come upstairs, will you? Constable Benedict is with Miss Taylor in the kitchen.’ He pauses. Adds, ‘The mother,’ as clarification.
‘Should I—’
‘Upstairs, DC Jennings. Come on.’
They are halfway up the stairs when Louise hears a burst of heartbroken sobbing filtering its way upwards from the kitchen. She pauses, notices that she’s the only one still wearing her shoes. She’s about to sit down and take them off when she glances upstairs and sees the box of paper suits and shoe covers on the landing.
She takes a deep breath. Young girl. Just a young girl. She'd hoped that it was all a big mistake. Some awful accident. Exam stress, one too many pills. A freak medical condition gone unnoticed until now. But the quiet efficiency of the officers in the house and the forensics paraphernalia suggests that this was no accident. Anything but.
8
Polly
Polly hangs back as the crowd of children filters out towards the classrooms. There’s less laughing and jostling now. A tentative calm hangs over them. Polly tries to scan their faces. To see who was a friend of the dead girl, who wasn’t. Does she have siblings? She regrets popping out earlier. Realises she should’ve been reading through the registers, finding out who’s who and what’s what. She feels like she’s been thrown in at the deep end. Feels incompetent and unprofessional. Already, Jon is disappointed in her.
