by Emmy Ellis
Belinda moved her head—I saw her in my peripheral vision. She craned her neck in an attempt to get me to look at her. A plop of eye socket juice splatted on the assembly hall floor. I looked at that instead of her, and it reminded me of Swarfega, that green goo Mrs Draper made us wash our hands in after we’d used oil paints in art once.
“Mr Hemmings is in big trouble. He looked at pictures of you with no clothes on. I know it was you. Know you were the one who took the pictures to him in the brown envelope. I’m dead because of you, and Mr Hemmings, well, he may as well be dead now too. People in prison can’t stand people like him.”
Don’t listen to her, Carmel.
“Don’t you ever think about how unfair it is? Like, I’m dead, and you’re still alive. I had a great life, and yours is shit. I really don’t see any justice there. Do you?”
I shook my head.
No justice at all, Belinda. Because Carmel would give anything to climb the star-steps again and reach the top. Leave her alone.
“Leave you alone? No, I don’t think I will.”
Belinda sat in front of me now, cross-legged, hands resting in the space between her legs. She wore the same as me. Wet mud streaked her clothes, her hands. The liquid on her eye-socket face bubbled. I stared at it, thought how it resembled the top of a volcano, and that any minute that pus could erupt, spew out over everyone in the hall. Fill the hall, trap everyone inside, burn us, drown us, cool down, dry out, and preserve us as fossils.
“My mam, she’s been driven to drink, but you kind of knew that, didn’t you? And my dad? He’s off living the single life, acts a lot like your mam, except he doesn’t get paid for it. Must have been a shock when you realised other people’s mams don’t behave the same as yours. That some kids are treated nice all the time, not just when their mams have had their medicine. Medicine!”
Belinda laughed. Her face goo gurgled. Mr Kendry hummed on. The tigers prowled on the walls, left their pictures, and congregated together. Safety in numbers. Monkeys jumped into the uppermost painting, settled on a tree, and looked down at those fearsome tigers. The elephants trumpeted, and the sound echoed off the hall floor. Children giggled. Mr Kendry shouted—Releasing body odours in assembly isn’t funny, now get out!—and my throat tightened.
“I hope you have a terrible time for the rest of your life, bitch. I’m going to hang around and make sure I’m with you all the way. There when things go wrong, there when you suffer.”
I jumped up, ran from the hall.
It wasn’t until I reached my classroom that I realised people would think I’d passed gas. And it wasn’t me. Wasn’t me.
Mrs Draper followed me to class. “Carmel, is something troubling you?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right then. Off you go, out to play.”
* * * *
The lost property yielded a prize that playtime. A pair of girl’s shoes—a size too big, but better than being too small—rested at the bottom of the box. Maybe a little worn, but they appeared in better condition than my current footwear. I squatted down behind the box and changed into them, reached up, and dropped my old shoes into the lost property.
The weather treated us well that day. Sunlight beamed, and I sat astride Black Beauty and chased Gary. We galloped over fields, jumped streams and fences. A road, much like the one in my dream, stretched before us, and we cantered towards the forest that sat on the horizon. The hay had been cut—an omen of things to come? (Mam hacked off my hair later that night in a drunken rage.) The hay shimmied in the breeze, whispered words I couldn’t fathom. Forestry jumped from the distance and planted itself right before us. The trees had no eyes this day, the bark ridged like any other tree, the leaves a lush green. Birds cawed, and I caught a glimpse of two hares scampering through the foliage.
“So, where is she?” I said.
“Dunno.” Gary lifted his hand, shielded his eyes from the unrelenting sun. “Reckon she’s not playing with us today.”
“Shall we ride through the forest to the graveyard then?”
“What graveyard?” Gary turned to me as we rode along, a frown on his forehead. “All I can see is the woods.”
“There’s a graveyard through here.”
“Nah there isn’t.”
“There is. I’ve been there before. You can dig though the ground and come back up again by these steps that are made of stars. I climbed the steps and looked down at the whole world.”
Gary laughed. “Your mind’s whacko.”
I laughed, though his words stung.
A bell jangled in the distance.
“Time to turn back. We’ve got weaving this afternoon.” Gary turned White Beauty around, clicked his tongue, and dug his knees into the horse’s flank.
I followed Gary back to the playground.
“Come along, children. Time to go in.” A helper stood at the edge of the playground, hands clasped around a mug.
I often wondered why teachers got a drink at break time and we didn’t. If they got thirsty, it stood to reason we would, too. Thinking of drinks ensured my tongue dried out. I skipped over to the water fountain, my new shoes rubbing a blister on my heel.
I leaned over the spout, watched for the rust to appear, for Belinda’s face to morph onto the shiny silver bowl that caught the flow of water. Nothing happened. Partly relieved, for her visit to the assembly hall had unnerved me a little, I couldn’t help but feel aggrieved. She usually played with us during break. Her visits gave my wandering mind something to focus on other than my home life.
I sucked at the bland water, let it take away the sting of thirst. Listened to the receding footsteps of the children going inside, the clatter of chairs being pulled out from under tables in the classroom situated beside the spout.
“Come along, Carmel. Stop dawdling.” The playtime helper.
I wondered if she was someone’s mam. Mams sometimes helped out. I couldn’t imagine my mam offering her services in that way. And would I want Mam in my school? I turned from the spout, and on the way back into class I decided that no, I wouldn’t want her invading the place that belonged to me. Yet at the same time, a small part of me yearned for Mam to be a proper one. Someone I could show off to the other children. I could tell my classmates she wanted to share in all aspects of my life. And the mam I wanted would be kind to the children, help them with their shoelaces, pick them up when they fell over. She wouldn’t have a mug of tea; she’d drink from the spout just like we had to. Girls would forfeit playing just to walk around the playground holding her hand.
I changed into my plimsolls and faced the grim reality. Mam would have a mug of tea, and if a child annoyed her she’d think nothing of dashing that hot liquid into their faces. And she’d laugh, ridicule the scalded child, call them a baby, a pain, a worthless piece of shit…
“Carmel, we’re waiting for you in the home corner.” Mrs Draper stood in the cloakroom doorway, hands on hips.
“I need the toilet,” I said.
A loud tsk issued from my teacher. “Well, hurry up.”
She turned and stalked back into the classroom, leaving me feeling like I was a burden on everyone. That whatever I did, I would never be good enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about the past. They say it catches up with you in the end. I wonder how I haven’t gone insane. What do you mean, I have? You’ve grown bolder over the years, d’you know that? So rude.
Sometimes, when I think about the things you want me to do, sometimes I get to thinking it isn’t right. A small part of me knows right from wrong, don’t think I don’t, yet the majority of me has been conditioned to be the way I am.
Urges prod me all the time. I can usually fight them off, but you, you insist on poking at me, shoving me to do what you want, listening to my thoughts. I could say I won’t follow your orders, but if you want the whole truth, I enjoy doing what we do. Do
es that mean I’m a piece of shit? A bad person? Yes, it does. But if I’m bad, then I was made to be this way. I don’t think I was born like it.
Who’s next? We still have a few to go, don’t we? I hope you’re right when you say that ridding my life of everyone who ever hurt me will bring some form of peace. The risks we take…
CHAPTER TWENTY
Much of a muchness occurs, and time passes, lets us grow older. New experiences are added to our palettes, and we go forth and paint another scene. Our paintbrush may need new bristles, our canvas might crack, but still we paint on, don’t we?
Twelve is a strange age. Neither child nor woman, I struggled with the new emotions surging inside. Of course, knowledge that my life was indeed wrong in so many ways became more apparent as the years rolled by, but what could I do? Bound to Mam, despite her obvious lack of care for me, I was stuck in her house, her life, until that wonderful age of sixteen sat on my overburdened shoulders.
Belinda continued to visit, though sometimes months passed in between. My friendship with Gary blossomed, spread to after-school meetings. We’d hang out at the park and sit on the swings, our gazes fixed to Belinda’s death site, our tongues discussing her demise. Mr Moon smiled down on me, his star companions twinkled, and we’d swing up into the sky and play the game of who could kick Mr Moon in the head first. Gary always yelled that he’d done it, but I knew he hadn’t, for didn’t I swing higher than he did?
Other times, we’d visit the shop. During winter, especially, we’d take our time choosing what we’d buy, and I felt less alone knowing that act from my younger years was shared with someone else. The shop had been taken over by new owners, and it lost its friendly atmosphere, got revamped to look more like a convenience store. The penny sweet section no longer sat on the counter, the sale of them banished altogether, and ready-bagged sweets packaged in shiny colours replaced the huge jars of confectionery on the shelves. On the occasions I wanted to buy sweets, the joy wasn’t the same. I missed the little white paper bags. I missed Mr Hemmings swooshing them round in the air as he sealed them shut.
Going to Gary’s house always resulted in fun. His mam and dad, liberal parents, treated him almost the same as an adult. The banter between them, far removed from my strained relationship with Mam, served to make the differences more apparent. I didn’t begrudge Gary his home life, although I was jealous of it. I spent many nights curled up in bed wishing I lived in a house with parents like Gary’s, and it was amazing that I didn’t want to hurt Gary for having something I didn’t. The reason for that was simple. Gary saw me like no one else did, accepted me for who I was, and didn’t let his peers or society dictate that hanging around with me wasn’t good.
Gary was safe, then.
It was inevitable that I’d become an age where Thursday nights lost their appeal for Bob. Since that awful Friday night I’d first taken Phenergan, every Thursday evening saw me drinking a bottle of the stuff. I’d gain heavy legs, my eyes drooped, and Mam and Bob did with me what they would. I never visited the star-steps again during those times, maybe my body got used to the medicated abuse, but I slumbered, oblivious.
My feelings for Gary, aided by raging hormones and body changes, grew from friendship to…something else. I didn’t know what love was, had never been shown it, nor did I know how to give it, feel it, so I put it down to a stronger like of my friend. He made me happy, caused my tummy to flip-flop in a pleasant way, and ensured my heart beat more quickly. I basked in his company, locked out the unhappiness in my life for the duration of our time together, and pretended. Pretended.
One particular Thursday drew round. Gary had long ago accepted that I couldn’t go out Thursday nights, so his question threw me a little.
“Wanna come to the fair with me tonight? It’s on until Sunday, but tonight’s opening night, see. Free rides for the first hour, seven ‘til eight.”
Did I want to go to the fair? Hell, yes. I wanted to go more than anything, to feel the wind whip through my hair on The Waltzers, to squeal on The Ghost Train, clutching Gary’s arm. That was what people did on TV, anyway. I’d never been to a fair before.
“I can’t. Mam doesn’t let me out on Thursdays, does she.”
Gary kicked a stone on the road. It skittered and bumped over the tarmac before coming to rest beneath a red Ford Cortina parked on the kerb. “What is it with Thursdays, anyway? Is it the night you do your chores or what? Surely your mam will let you off for one week?”
A smile played on my lips, and I said, “Yeah, it’s chore night, all right. And nah, she won’t let me off.”
Gary thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, toed the ground some more. “But you haven’t even asked her yet, so how d’you know she’ll say no if you don’t try?”
He had a point—one that would be valid with anyone else but me. I knew Mam would say no. She never had got her whole house posh, and over the years she’d made it clear that as long as there was breath in my body I’d work with Bob to ensure she did revamp her home. I thought about the ensuing argument if I brought up the question of me going to the fair. Her claw-like fingers came to mind, lunging at me, ready to scrape at my cheeks, pull out my hair. Her spiteful words swirled round in my head, her stinking breath touching my skin. No, I didn’t dare to ask her.
“I dare you,” Gary said.
Oh no. He’s dared you, Carmel. And you know you don’t back down on a dare. You both made a pledge that neither of you would back down…
Nelson, still my best friend.
“Shit,” I said. “All right. But if you don’t see me waiting at the park by seven tonight, you’ll know Mam said no.”
“Cool.”
* * * *
“You fucking what?” Mam switched her attention from the TV to me. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming in and telling, telling me you’re going out tonight? Not bloody likely, kid. Thursday—it’s Thursday, the one night a week I ask you to do something for me. Six days of the week you’re allowed to do what you want, roaming around outside for hours on end getting up to God knows what, yet you want Thursday off as well? You ungrateful little bitch.”
Mam stood, skirted the coffee table, and loomed in front of me, her face inches from mine.
“No way you’re going to the fair. Not tomorrow or the weekend, either. Now go and drink your medicine. This discussion is over.”
Hate for her surged through my body. Gooseflesh spread over my skin, my ears buzzed, and I clenched my jaw. “I am going,” I said and stared at Mam, all fear of her gone as the unfairness of what she’d said swirled around my mind. “And I’m not taking any more of that medicine.”
Mam’s eyes widened. She glared at me, fists by her sides, her cheeks growing redder as the seconds ticked by. “What. Did. You. Just. Say?”
Where my gall came from, I don’t know, but I said, “You heard me. And I’m not doing anything on Thursday nights again, either. Fucking perverts, the lot of you.”
Mam swallowed, coughed, and almost choked on the spittle of her ire. “You little cow.”
She lunged at me, grasped my hair in her fists, and shook my head from side to side, backwards and forwards. My brain hurt, almost like it rattled against the inside of my skull. She threw me back, and my hip met with the edge of the living room door. Unbalanced, I plunked down on my behind. Pain bloomed at the base of my spine, and I bit my lower lip in a bid to transfer the pain there. My scalp, if it had a mouth, would have screamed. My hair, ripped out by the roots, dangled from between Mam’s fingers as she held her hands in front of her and stared at her palms.
“Get the fuck in that kitchen and take the medicine.” Mam lifted her arm and pointed in that direction. Her hand shook.
I narrowed my eyes. Heart thumping, bile rising in my throat, I said, “No.” I shifted my position, placed my palms on the floor to lever myself standing. Darting my torso forward, I said, “Fuck you!”
Mam had never had such open eyes before. I swear they would have popped out
of her head if she hadn’t closed them, which she did for what seemed a long time. She inhaled through her nose, nostrils flaring. Yes, she was a big old dragon, all right. And I wasn’t scared of her. Not one bit. She’d beaten me, used me, and I’d had a tool I could have used against her all along. Yet I didn’t possess enough of it. Courage. It had failed me in the past. It winged through my body now, screamed hello, waved its arms, and let me know it was there to help.
My breaths came in gasps. Mam’s grew steadier the longer her eyes stayed closed. I stared at her, saw her for what she was: an addict who cared for nothing except her next hit. Holes punctured her body, some fresh, some with scabs, some so old they’d scarred. Her skinny frame didn’t look strong enough to hold her head, and her hair… Well, men must have been desperate, depraved, or both to go with her out of choice.
Still with eyes closed, she said, “Go and take the medicine.”
“Mam, I’m going out now,” I said and left the living room. Walking through the hallway to the front door, I perked my ears for sounds of her stealthy approach. Expected her to jump me. The door handle cooled my palm, accelerated my beating heart. Cool air kissed my face, exacerbating the sting in my eyes. And I walked from that house on shaky legs, the sense of freedom and having won a small battle prevalent in my mind.
I say small, for I knew Mam. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d won the war.
* * * *
I sat on a swing and brushed my hair with my fingers. It took a while—Mam’s grip had tangled it. With each movement, my scalp throbbed. The sky darkened, but I still had a couple of hours to kill before Gary showed up. Done with my hair, I pushed my legs out, pulled them back under me, and rocked my body to move the swing. The wind created from the swing’s movement slashed at my hair. Every follicle on my head burned. Uncaring of the pain, I swung higher, closed my eyes.
