‘Maybe she’s not feeling great. She might still be sedated.’ Becca wasn’t sure why she was trying to make Hayley feel better. Natasha was the one in hospital, after all. What did it matter if she hadn’t texted the Barbies for a day? How needy were they? She took a long pull on her cigarette as Hayley ground hers out and kicked it under the snow. She was down to the filter but didn’t want the awkwardness of heading back to school with Hayley.
‘Yeah, that’s probably it.’ Hayley pushed away from the wall. ‘She’s probably not allowed to text much in there. Me and Jenny will go and see her tonight.’
‘Cool.’ Becca didn’t know what to say, the sting of that old rejection still needling her skin as Hayley brushed past and ducked elegantly through the bushes. She disappeared without so much as a glance back.
Bitch, Becca thought. Fucking bitch. She stamped on her cigarette with more force than was required.
*
After the calming influence of double Art with Miss Borders and her hippie relaxed atmosphere, school was finally done and she headed through the throng of shrieking kids racing for buses and cars and the school gates in general, then forced her way to the sixth form locker corridor. She frowned to see the small crowd gathered there. It was rare. Required presence in the school building was more relaxed in the final two years, and if there was no assembly or tutor meetings last thing then no one cared if they slipped out early. The same applied to coming in late. Normally by the end of the day there were only a few stragglers at the lockers; most of them left their bags in the common room if they didn’t take them to lessons.
‘Ah, Rebecca!’ A male voice called from somewhere within the slowly fracturing throng, which was breaking up into small, splintered swarms of the hive’s whole. She looked up, catching glimpses of the caller through the gaps. Light brown hair. A friendly smile. Creases in his face that would one day be proper wrinkles but for now were just enough to make him interesting. Older. Hot.
‘Mr Jones,’ she said, raising a hand in a half-hello. Suddenly she understood the crowd. Mr Jones was the Head of Drama and today should have been auditions for the school play. He wormed his way through a gaggle of girls trying to get his attention to reach her. ‘Glad to have caught you,’ he said. Becca thought that up here, in the corridor, he was the caught one, a dolphin in a tuna net. She wondered if he could feel it – all the heat coming from the sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls around him. The way they glowed at him.
‘Are you going to do the set this year?’ he asked. ‘Would be great if you could. You’re the best. And now you’re sixth form, you could run it. What do you say?’
Behind him, she could see Hayley and Jenny. She ignored them.
‘I thought the auditions were today?’ she said, not answering his question. ‘You cancelled them?’
‘I didn’t cancel,’ he said, one hand tucked into his jeans pocket. ‘Just moved them until Friday. Jenny asked if it could wait until Natasha was out of hospital because she really wanted to audition. Couldn’t really say no to that and a few days’ delay won’t matter.’
‘If she’s back by Friday.’ Her eyes kept flitting to Hayley and Jenny beyond his shoulder. Why didn’t they just leave? Were they loitering to flirt with Mr Jones? Probably. So tragic.
‘Oh, she will be,’ he said. ‘I rang the hospital to ask how she’s doing – apparently they’re going to send her home in the morning. She’s a very lucky girl.’
‘She was dead for thirteen minutes,’ Becca said. ‘How freaky is that?’
‘That’s the kind of thing you shouldn’t think about.’ His brown eyes were kind. ‘Trust me, if you think about those things you’ll go a bit crazy. She’s going to be okay and that’s what actually matters.’ Becca smiled. She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t like Mr Jones like that, like all the other girls seemed to, but she did like him.
‘So,’ he said, holding out a battered copy of the play, ‘can I rely on you to make us all look brilliant, Lieutenant? Now that I’m promoting you to colonel?’ She stared at the book, and then at the disappearing blonde heads of the Barbies and their minions who’d given up waiting for him and were no doubt going to loiter outside his office instead, and then raised her hand in a weary salute. ‘Oh, go on then, sir.’
‘Excellent!’ He grinned and winked at her. ‘I feel better already. Take a look and see what you think. Draw up a couple of sketches then we’ll meet and go through it. Doesn’t have to be anything clever. Striking and stark could work.’
‘This had better look good on my Uni forms,’ she said.
‘You’d do it anyway.’ Mr Jones squeezed her arm. ‘I know you.’
‘Whatever.’ She rolled her eyes, in part to disguise the blush that rose from nowhere to appal her with its existence, and then went to her locker.
‘Come to the auditions on Friday,’ he called out, walking away. ‘Help me manage the fragile egos!’
She snorted a laugh at that. Mr Jones wasn’t fooled by the Barbies, either. He might humour their flirting with him a bit but that was all. Her phone buzzed. Hannah.
You going home? Or fancy Starbucks hot chocolate?
She’d hoped it was Aiden but he was shit at texting unless he actually had something to say. She probably wouldn’t speak to him until that night, and wouldn’t see him till tomorrow, and then only for a couple of hours. That was the only fucker about having a boyfriend who wasn’t at school. You couldn’t even pretend you were studying together.
Meet you at the gates in 5.
A hot chocolate with Hannah might be a good way to end the day.
Eight
Taken from DI Caitlin Bennett’s files: Extract from Natasha Howland’s notebook
I’d been looking at all the local newspapers, laid out over my bed, when Hayley and Jenny turned up. It’s been so strange to read it all, in sensational black and white. To see my own face staring out at me. My mother must have given them that picture (absolutely not one I’d have chosen). Taken some time last year at a family lunch. I look chubby in it. Then there’s a photo of where I was pulled out of the river, and an awkward picture of the man who saved me, Jamie McMahon, so clearly caught unawares by the cameras when leaving his house. He used to be a solicitor in London before switching careers, according to one of the papers. Why the hell would you live in London and then move here? Hero dog-walker, they’re calling him. Reclusive musician saves ‘dead’ teenager. How many other people have had their deaths recorded in inverted commas? He hasn’t said much, the usual anyone would have done the same thing stuff that people always say. We all know most people wouldn’t. He said he was late that morning and was just grateful he wasn’t any later.
You’re grateful? is what I thought as I stared at his grainy face. How do you think I feel? I closed the papers. It was the third time I’d pored over them, reading and rereading the details. I wondered what that said about me. I wondered what Dr Harvey and her blank eyes would make of that. Like I’m ever going to let her read this stupid notebook!
I’m twitchy and bored being stuck in bed and I want some fresh air. My bruises hurt and my muscles ache most of the time. It’s like I’ve been running cross-country or something. I’ve been running a lot recently and my jogs have become something more. Something stronger. I’ll never be as leopard-quick as Hayley but I’m faster and firmer than I was. The thought makes me stare through the glass at nothing. I just want to go home.
It’s only about five o’clock but it’s pitch dark outside already. An empty, cold dark. No one usually closes the curtains for ages and I don’t mind. The room’s high up. No one can see in. I quite like being able to look at that darkness, even though it reminds me of that other darkness, the one inside the freezing cold. The one that took my breath and my heartbeat. If I stare into the night for long enough I can defy the fear. It can’t touch me anymore.
Hayley and Jenny were both sm
iling when they came in, but it instantly felt awkward, like we were suddenly strangers. Maybe it’s the hospital. These kind of places can do that to people.
Anyway, it felt weird, and they looked so uncomfortable in the doorway, but I smiled at them (because, to be honest, I’m so bored of my family visiting and even though it was odd at first, they are a million times more fun than my gran) and pulled at my blonde hair, so much like theirs now. The mood softened after we hugged and they’d squealed their happiness at my continuing survival, and saw I was pleased to see them. They stripped off their coats and scarfs and I could almost feel them relaxing in the overheated room. Normality again.
Jenny’s mum has saved all the newspapers. Jenny told me while rolling her pretty doe eyes after seeing them on my bed. Apparently she’s put them in a scrapbook, like she did with Jenny’s baby pictures. It’s like everyone want a piece of the excitement of me nearly dying. It made me smile, though. Jenny’s mum is from a different planet. She’s poor, at least in comparison with mine and Hayley’s comfortable middle-class wealth, and too often drunk. She’s trailer trash or Essex scum and Jenny tries so hard to metaphorically wash it off. But sometimes you can still smell it on her. That slight Eau de Desperation. It’s a mean thought, I know, but it’s true.
‘Am I supposed to look at them in the future and think, “Aww . . . remember that time Tasha nearly drowned? How sweet?” She’s barking,’ Jenny said.
I almost pointed out the technical error in her statement. I did drown. There wasn’t anything nearly about it.
Then it was Hayley’s turn. She didn’t look at me. She was nonchalant when she said, ‘I texted you,’ folding up the papers and tucking her perfect hair behind her ear. She was so nonchalant that I knew it hurt that I hadn’t texted back. I’m still their leader. Even after everything. Maybe more so now.
‘My gran was here and I had my phone on silent,’ I told her, which was a blatant lie. ‘They don’t really like us using our phones in the rooms.’ Which is true, but the nurses let me off because they feel sorry for me.
They sat close together on the end of my bed, my two best friends. Watching me. Wanting to ask me questions. Not knowing how to.
‘So,’ Hayley said as Jenny pulled some chocolate and crisps out of her bag, ‘do you remember anything yet?’
I don’t. I shook my head. It’s so weird. I remember nothing from Thursday lunchtime to waking up here. I shrugged at them and for a moment Hayley didn’t say a word. She just studied me, then she smiled a little. That enigmatic smile of hers. I used to always know what was going on in Hayley’s head, but these days I’m not so sure.
Jenny was still focused on the contents of her disorganised bag, her face hidden from me until she finally, with a grin, produced three Crunchie Bars. My favourite chocolate.
I took them but just put them on the side. Every calorie counts, as my mum always says, and all I’ve done is lie in bed for days. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said to them. ‘I’m sure it’ll all come back at some point.’ We talked about it a bit then, what I’d done in that time. Went to school, went home, then the mysterious going out again. Until the actually-falling-in-the-river bit, it all sounds so dull.
‘We were all so scared for you,’ Jenny gushed, before saying how everyone at school was talking about me, like I wouldn’t know that already. She gets that from her mother, that sudden blurting. Her words come out in clumps. No real control, and just a rush of feelings wrapped in words. Her face was flushed while she talked, her eyes darting around the room. It was like she was nervous of me but I think maybe it’s just that she doesn’t know how to behave after something like this. Maybe she’s trying too hard to be normal. Hayley cut her off in the end, otherwise I think she’d have been going on about school all night.
‘That policewoman actually thought you might have tried to kill yourself.’ Hayley grinned when she said it. ‘I mean, fucking what?’
It made me laugh a bit, too. I told them about Dr Harvey and how I have to go to all these follow-up counselling sessions, and rolled my eyes and laughed at how bland and dull and boring she is. (She really is.) I didn’t tell them about this notebook, though. About how I’m supposed to write everything down. Firstly, it’s private and I’m only doing it because I’m so bored, and secondly, I don’t want them thinking I’m putting everything we say and do in here and that someone else might want to read it. (That’s not going to happen! Dr Harvey can keep her head out of my head.) I don’t want them worrying about that.
‘Are you okay, though?’ Hayley asked.
The question was heavier than it needed to be and their smiles were suddenly gone. I could see beneath their veneer for a moment – because veneer is what we three do so well – to the worry underneath. We were in different territory – uncharted waters. I nearly died. I did die and I don’t remember why. It changes everything.
I said, ‘Yeah.’ My voice isn’t quite such a growl any more but I still sound as if I’ve had the worst tonsillitis ever. I said I just wanted to get out of here and Hayley said she didn’t blame me because the whole place smells like old people.
It does and we all laughed at that – Hayley’s not often funny, but when she is it’s dry and on the money – and the weird tension faded. Things have changed but our old camaraderie is like me: it doesn’t die easily.
Jenny gave me a copy of The Crucible from her bag. She’d had to get it from Mr Jones. She admitted she’d looked for my copy when they found my iPod and other stuff to bring me but couldn’t find it. She flushed slightly as she said that. I wondered how much rummaging through my stuff they really did. How many drawers did you two check out? All of them? The boxes under my bed?
The copy she handed me was battered and worn but I liked the feel of the paper. Apparently the auditions are on Friday now. They made Mr Jones put them back so I could take part. ‘You’ll make a great Abigail,’ Jenny said. Jenny was really thinking that she’d make a great Abigail but she’ll never say it. She wouldn’t before and she definitely won’t now. Even if she was offered the part I bet she’d persuade Mr Jones to give it to me. Jenny is such a pleaser. Most of the time, anyway. And the thing is, she probably will get offered it. I’m good – I’m way better than Mr Jones gives me credit for – but Jenny shines on a stage. She doesn’t realise it, though. Not properly. She is sort of sweet at heart, I guess. In her own way. We may be quite different, we three best friends, but we all love Drama, in life and on stage. We all love the school plays. It’s where we rule.
‘Maybe he’ll give James Ensor the part of John Proctor,’ Hayley joked. We laughed at that. I went on two dates with James in the summer after drunkenly kissing him at a party. The hottest boy in school, or so they say. I thought he had a tongue like a wet fish and clumsy hands that shook too much. It was never going any further and James has mooned around after me ever since. I’ve never told Hayley or Jenny – even we have our secrets – but I don’t really understand the sex thing. I giggle and squeal along but I must be the only girl in school who pretends things have gone further than they really have. The idea of it leaves me cold. Maybe I belong in that river in some ways. Maybe I should be Elizabeth Proctor, not Abigail. But that wouldn’t be very Barbie-like of me, as they call us at school, and I am the Barbies.
I said that maybe Mr Jones would play the role himself and that I couldn’t imagine a teenager taking it on, not even James. It needs rough skin and hands. I looked at my friends then. They were both thinking the same – an unbidden thought of Mr Jones naked and doing it, passion made somehow more powerful by the unlawfulness. Abigail and John Proctor all mixed up with the whole school’s crush on the Drama teacher. I could almost feel the temperature rising in the room.
‘But I hope not,’ I said, in the end. ‘That would be weird. And a bit disgusting. I mean, fucking someone that age. Even just acting it.’ I made a vom face. ‘Creepy.’ They made suitably appalled sounds – of course the
y did – but they looked guilty. (Sometimes they are so predictable.) I felt a strange warmth for them, though. Maybe I shouldn’t play with them so much.
‘What about that person who texted you?’ It was Jenny this time, bringing the conversation back to my story – my event – to pick over the bones of it. ‘The policewoman asked us about the number but we didn’t know it.’ She was trying to sound casual but I didn’t buy it. I told her I didn’t know it either and that it must have just been a wrong number and nothing to do with what happened to me.
‘She asked Becca, too,’ Hayley said. She was flicking through the pages of the play but her eyes looked up from the shield of her poker-straight hair and I noticed how perfectly arched her eyebrows were. I need to get mine done again. ‘Like Becca would know.’
‘She was here.’ I said it quietly. ‘She read to me when I was unconscious.’
‘Could you hear her?’ Jenny asked. She doesn’t care about Becca. She doesn’t share the betrayal Hayley and I do. She was never Becca’s friend. ‘That would be weird.’
‘I don’t know,’ I told her. I say: ‘Maybe a little bit like in a dream.’ I don’t even know if that’s true, but it’s what they wanted to hear.
‘What about . . .’ Jenny leaned in ‘. . . when you were . . . you know . . .’
‘Dead?’ I finished.
Hayley was grossed out by that. Hayley hates death. We all do now we’re realising it will happen to us one day – although I may have reached that moment somewhat faster than my friends. We hate it and are fascinated by it, but Hayley has a real terror of it. She’s really grasped it, I think. Under her perfection she’s well aware of the fragility of her flesh. I’ve seen her worry over a freckle when she thinks no one is looking. Did someone in her family die when she was young? I don’t remember. Maybe. Perhaps it was something she didn’t talk about, but which stopped her swinging in trees and climbing walls and scaffolding – something more than just the advent of her boobs.