by Alice Castle
Beth had always liked Jen’s no-nonsense daily uniform of jeans, stripy Breton top, and a nice but weathered Mulberry messenger bag slung crossways across her slim frame. She had a narrow, freckled face, dead straight mid-brown hair, and an easy smile. As a freelance IT consultant, Jen had been called in a few times to untangle the MacKenzie home hub, and Belinda now looked on her as her own personal Internet wizard, which Jen appeared to take with easy grace.
Belinda looked nonplussed for a moment. She was not used to being second-guessed, especially not by those she looked on virtually as staff. But she needed Jen – she had a suspicion that her second son had found a way around her firewalls – so she trilled a laugh.
‘Well technically, Jen, technically, you’re right, Leggy is just thirteen. But she’s such an innocent. She doesn’t give me a moment’s trouble, you know.’ Belinda smiled blithely round the group.
Beth was pretty sure that Leggy MacKenzie had been in at least one group shot of rowdy teens she’d spotted on Facebook, marauding around the park one afternoon with what looked suspiciously like three-litre bottles of Frosty Jack’s cider. She said nothing, but the glances left and right from some of the other mums told a story. It was going to be a very brave woman indeed who broke through Belinda’s blissful ignorance.
Beth also shuddered inwardly at the casual nickname ‘Leggy’, wondering what on earth would have happened if her own parents had bestowed the name Allegra on her. It was fine for Leggy Macky, as she was known. She’d inherited her mother’s commanding height and both parents’ blithe confidence. But for Beth, well, she didn’t even want to think about it.
More alarming, though, was the thought that maybe all parents wilfully ignored the signs of burgeoning adulthood in their children. Would she, too, be caught in this trap? There would come a time when Ben was the one sneaking out with friends, drinking in quiet, or not so quiet, corners, and behaving like the teenage idiot he would doubtless become. She hoped that Katie, at least, would be bold enough to tell her what was going on to her face, if she ever needed to. In fact, they needed to make a pact to do the same for each other.
There were certainly things that no parent wanted to know about their child, and vice versa. Puberty, adolescence, interest in the opposite sex – these were not the things they signed up for when they first started to moon over impossibly tiny bootees in the John Lewis baby section and decided reproduction was a great idea.
Beth realised that she and James had thought of babies as human pets, which would probably turn out to be no more burdensome than Magpie or her tabby tomcat predecessor, Sparky, who’d been around in James’s day. As long as they had an open cat flap and access to the food that nine out of ten felines preferred, all was pretty much right in their world. Unfortunately, little of that worked with children. Food and shelter were just the start. None of the things that you took for granted in civilised adults – like good manners, consideration, and empathy – seemed to come as standard with a child. You had to input all the circuitry yourself; a process which often seemed unbelievably laborious. Say please, say thank you, don’t push that little boy over, on and on went the litany. You had no sooner got used to, and found clever ways to deal with, a difficult phase, than it was over with no warning, and something even more challenging had sprung up its place.
Beth had been patting herself on the back for a while now, for negotiating all the early stuff reasonably successfully, much of it on her own. But maybe, just maybe, the coming years were going to prove the real test, after all. Just when she thought she’d got this parenting lark cracked.
‘Does Allegra – um, Leggy – know Sophia at school?’ said Beth, remembering that, of course, Belinda’s daughter was at the College School
‘Just slightly. She’s in the year below. I shouldn’t say this, as the poor girl’s in hospital…’ The group of mothers leaned in fractionally, like birds expecting breadcrumbs to be scattered before them. Gossip was a currency, and no-one wanted to miss out. ‘…but Leggy says she’s a bit of a ringleader. You know the type. She’s somehow got a bit of a clique going, makes all the rules, lays down the law, and everyone just does what she says. Quite ridiculous, the way these teenage girls let themselves be bossed around, in my opinion,’ said Belinda definitively.
All around her, heads nodded. Jen Patterson caught Beth’s eye for a second and both smiled, then looked away quickly. Belinda, catching the exchange of glances, narrowed her eyes at Beth. The high priestess had sensed a doubter in her ranks. For a second, Beth felt again the chill wind which had kept her so far from Belinda’s group for so long.
Then Belinda remembered that if anyone knew the inside story on the other girls at the College, it would be Beth. She half smiled at her, and said, ‘Well, you probably know more about what’s going on than anyone. What do you think is behind it all?’
Beth paused for a beat. It was a question that had been baffling her. Up until a few minutes ago, she’d thought she might be close to cracking it, but now she was back to square one again. But that didn’t mean that she had no ideas. And this might be a good forum to float some of them, and see if she could glean any new information.
‘I think it’s very difficult being a teenage girl now. I’d hate it, myself.’
‘Why on earth do you say that?’ said Belinda, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders. ‘Our girls have so much that we didn’t.’
Beth stored this away as interesting. She’d always assumed that Belinda came from a moneyed background, but something in her tone implied that she was consciously ensuring her own children had things that she herself had been deprived of.
She answered slowly. ‘In material terms, maybe they do have more than we did. We all have lovely homes and they go to great schools. But think of what they also have that we didn’t. Social media. It’s breathing down their necks the whole time. The pressure to be out there all the time, living a perfect life, on Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or whatever the latest thing is this week. It’s like Big Brother watching them all the time. And worse than just watching, judging and ranking them on how they are performing. They’re not wise enough, yet, to know that half the pictures they see, or probably way more than that, are airbrushed, filtered, altered, tinted, and nothing like the originals. And not everyone smiling their heads off with friends is really having a good time. There is so much pressure on them to be having fun, getting ‘likes’, be out there, and be happy, happy, happy. I’d hate it.’
There was silence after Beth’s speech, and she wondered if she’d said way too much. If she were a teenager these days, she would just stay off social media as much as possible and try and live a life under the radar. But that took a certain sort of insouciance and inner confidence. Much though she often felt like an imposter about to be found out, Beth knew she did have hidden reserves of strength that had already got her through some terrible crises and would always stand her in good stead. Not everyone was as forthright, or as doughty, as she was. And teenage girls were notoriously flaky. Small wonder they couldn’t all hack it.
‘Well, I’m not sure about all that,’ said Belinda, slowly smiling around her little group and almost daring anyone to agree with Beth. ‘Being popular is just something you’re either born with or you’re not. You don’t have to work at it, do you? By the way, just wondering who’s coming over to coffee at my place tomorrow after drop-off? Just the usual gathering, and Juanita’s making some pastries. All welcome,’ she said with a bright smile of dismissal, and made for the playground, where one of her sons had emerged from the classroom and seemed to be clouting another boy around the head with his book bag.
There was a shuffling of feet and an exchange of glances around the little group, as though the headmistress had left the assembly.
Jen Patterson piped up. ‘I think there’s a lot in what you say, Beth. My friend’s daughter’s in the same class as Leggy, Year 8. She’s twelve, but already she spends hours on her phone after school. I remember when I was th
at age, I’d drive my mum mad ringing my best friend, who I’d sat next to all day at school, and chatting for hours. I’ve no idea what we talked about now, but it seemed important. Ran up the phone bill hugely! But now, with these girls, it’s not about chatting to a friend, it’s about posing, taking all these selfies, posting stuff to Instagram – it’s hard work, not fun at all, as far as I can see.’
There was a little murmur, as the mothers started agreeing and exchanging notes.
‘My daughter seems to see herself as a brand, it’s as though – I don’t want to say it as it sounds so bad – but as though she’s marketing herself online. Looking for the best angle,’ said one.
‘They see celebrities doing it, like the Kardashians, and they think that everyone can make a fortune and be really popular just by having a big smile – and a big bum,’ laughed one of the other mums. The giggle took the tension out of the group. Then the trickle of children into the playground became a flood, breaking up the huddle of mothers as they greeted their children and wandered home with them, admiring proffered artworks and shouldering PE bags and instrument cases.
Beth, wincing as Ben slammed his book bag into her leg by way of an affectionate greeting, rumpled his hair and set off for the short walk home, her mind turning over the news about Sophia Jones-Creedy. She waved across at Katie, who was busy shepherding Charlie off to his piano lesson. Should she ring York after Ben’s bedtime and try and extract the details from him?
As it turned out, she didn’t have to call. At 6pm, the doorbell rang. Just about to dish up platefuls of chicken stir-fry – one of her sporadic attempts to sneak more vegetables into Ben’s diet by hiding them amongst his favourite egg noodles – Beth sighed and went to the door. York blocked out most of the light as he stood there on the step.
‘I shouldn’t really be here, but…’
‘Come in, come in,’ ushered Beth, surprised but shooting back along the corridor which, all at once, seemed full of large policeman. The food would be getting cold. ‘Would you like some?’ She gestured at the wok, rummaging in the cutlery drawer for another knife and fork.
York, who knew there was no possible supper to be had in his flat, unless you counted Shredded Wheat with milk so long past its sell-by date that it clanked, tried to hide his delight. ‘Well, only if you have enough.’
Beth, who was already throwing another nest of noodles into the covered pot on the hob, smiled and got a plate down from the cupboard, then slid a water glass across. ‘Could you call Ben for me?’ she said, turning back to the wok for a final steamy stir around.
Five minutes later, with them all settled around the table, Beth smiled. It felt cosy and domestic, and the usual silence which fell when Ben was concentrating on eating seemed harmonious and strangely comforting. York, looking up at that moment, smiled back.
Ben, having carefully separated his noodles from all known and unknown forms of vegetation to his satisfaction, and having polished off the chicken, sat back with a virtuous air. ‘We learned about sperm today,’ he announced loudly.
Beth, who’d been sipping her water, choked and felt her eyes fill with tears and her face turn crimson. Oh great, she thought, as Ben leaped from his seat and gave her a hearty thump on the back that made her feel several times worse.
What on earth had been going on in class today? They usually got a note from the school when sex education was on the agenda, so that sensitive parents could take evasive action by pulling a sickie on behalf of their children. And of all the times suddenly to want to chat about school… Normally, Beth couldn’t get a word out of the boy about what he’d been up to from 9am through to 3.30pm. Now he wanted to talk about what he’d learned?
Beth wiped her eyes on a bit of kitchen towel and tried to look receptive. No point in making a big deal of it. She should be fine talking about sex with her son. Even in front of a comparative stranger.
‘Sperm?’ she said, in carefully neutral, let’s talk about this calmly tones.
‘Yep. Sperm, blue, killer, humpback…’ Ben intoned, bored now with the whole subject. For a beat, Beth was flummoxed. What kind of perversion was this? Then she realised.
‘Whales!’ she and York chorused together – catching each other’s eyes and bursting out laughing. A moment later, though, Beth was serious again. It was lovely sharing a parenting moment – but somehow it just reminded her of all that she was not sharing, with James.
Though she told herself it was ridiculous to feel guilty, she couldn’t help a twinge of sadness and regret, even while she was feeling happy. James, who had loved them both so deeply, had been cheated of so much.
Still, that was in the past now. Things had moved on, and she had to as well. Besides, there were more pressing matters on hand. Once again, the serene way of life of her little corner of the world was being threatened. When James had been snatched away, she had been powerless. But, with the strange events unfolding now in her midst, was it possible that she could actually shape events, even stop something evil that threatened them all? It was worth a try, wasn’t it?
With these musings at the back of her mind, Beth was on autopilot as she read a story, tidied around her boy, and finally packed him off to his bed. York, meanwhile, had made himself comfortable on the sofa with yesterday’s paper and his own thoughts.
It wasn’t until Ben was finally asleep, an hour and a half later, after various curtain calls for glasses of water, last stories, and playground jokes that simply had to be told to York that very minute, that Beth finally got a chance to talk to the big policeman about the matter that had been burning away at her. But when she walked into the sitting room, he was asleep, head thrown back among the sofa cushions, long legs stretched out so that she had to jump over them like a steeplechaser to get to the kitchen. He must have been exhausted, she thought, as she noticed the way that his habitual frowning expression of laser-sharp concentration was smoothed out by sleep, leaving him looking ten years younger and oddly vulnerable. Not all that much more grown up than Ben, in fact.
Smiling, she flipped the kettle on, then started clattering about extra-loudly with the supper plates so that he’d come back to consciousness in his own time. Eventually, as she wiped the last spoon and rattled it back into the drawer, she heard stirring next door. She bustled in with a tray as York was sitting up, looking for all the world as though he was plumping the sofa cushions, rather than emerging from a deep and apparently much-needed snooze.
‘So. Tell me about Sophia Jones-Creedy,’ she said, putting a mug of coffee down in front of him and absently stirring her own mint tea. They were side by side now on the sofa, all remnants of PlayStation and homework tidied away, and Magpie the cat for once curled up in her designated bed instead of draping herself across the nearest human. The light was fading outside, and Beth had lit a couple of scented candles on the mantelpiece – partly, she told herself, to rid the kitchen of the last of the cooking smells; partly, because they just looked so pretty.
York, sitting across from her, looked as though he was admiring the view. Though whether he was thinking of the candles, the garden, or even the woman, Beth had no idea.
‘I knew you were dying to ask me about that. The truth is, we’re not sure yet what happened. All I can tell you, really, is that it’s not quite the same as the other two.’
‘Not the same? You mean it’s not an overdose?’ Beth suddenly leant forward, the tranquil mood shattered. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, no. It’s an overdose all right. And all three could have been self-inflicted. It’s just that the drugs seem to be different.’
‘Wait. So, you’re now thinking the other girls could have been suicide attempts? Both Simone and Lulu?’
‘I think it’s a fair assumption, given all that’s happened.’
‘But what about the fact that Simone was posed in the Gallery? How are you saying that happened, if it was actually an overdose she took herself?’
‘Well, if you think about it, the easiest explana
tion for that is that – she did it herself. That’s what I’ve been coming round to thinking.’
‘Really? But what do you mean?’
‘I mean, she could have taken the drugs at the drinks party, then waited in the loos until everyone had gone, then laid herself out on the tomb as, I don’t know, a really theatrical way to do away with herself.’
‘But do you think she was that kind of girl? Does it fit with her character?’
York leaned back a bit, away from the fervour of Beth’s questions. ‘Well, I’m not sure. I’m beginning to think that no-one really knows what goes on in these girls’ heads, least of all their parents.’
‘I just don’t think Simone was like that. Having met her mum, and heard about how hard she was working – and was she that into grand gestures? That was such a stagey set-up, the crossed hands, the mausoleum… No, I don’t buy it. And what about Lulu? We both questioned her. She couldn’t explain what happened, but I didn’t get any sense that it was a suicide bid. Who’d commit suicide in a hospital canteen, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Well, what do you think has been happening, then?’ York crossed his arms, stretched out his legs again across the rug – and inadvertently kicked Beth’s foot. She shifted it quickly as he apologised. Somehow, the mood between them had been broken. Beth withdrew under her fringe and thought hard. Something was awry here. She wasn’t sure what.
They just weren’t on the same page. Beth had sensed something malign, right from the start of this whole affair. From the moment she’d clapped eyes on Simone, lying there abandoned and still, she’d known that someone had done this to her, that the girl was a victim. She just couldn’t believe it was self-inflicted. With Lulu, she wasn’t sure; she didn’t know the circumstances, and she hadn’t seen her when she was found. And Sophia Jones-Creedy? Well, that was something else again.
‘You know, this is all wrong,’ said Beth suddenly. ‘If you’d told me that Sophia Jones-Creedy had been found in the Picture Gallery, laid out over a tomb with her hands crossed over her breast, I’d have thought, yes. She’s the type to make that sort of grand gesture. If she’d been feeling suicidal, she’d make sure everyone knew it. You’ve seen her Instagram, I showed it to you. The girl’s a poseur. She’s never happier than when she’s showing off, and she’ll do anything to get a like.’
