‘I might head home, I’m not feeling so good.’
‘Fine,’ Phoebe replies. ‘Just don’t get me in trouble with Dad.’
Izzy looks up, a provocative smile. ‘See you at school,’ she says, and as I walk away I hear her add: ‘This should be fun.’
The girl in the tracksuit is no longer on the wall. I pause to look into the estate, follow the tower blocks up to the sky, my neck craning backwards. There were no tower blocks in Devon, just houses and fields. Acres of privacy.
When I go back into the house, Mike asks me where Phoebe is. I explain about Izzy, he smiles, an apology I think.
‘They’ve been friends for ever,’ he says. ‘A whole summer to catch up on. Do you fancy a quick chat in my study, touch base before school tomorrow?’
I say yes – I seem to be saying it a lot, it’s a good word, one I can hide behind. Mike’s study is large with bay windows overlooking the garden. A mahogany-coloured desk, a photo frame and a green antique-style reading lamp, piles of paper. There’s a home library, rows of built-in shelves full of books, the remaining walls painted a mauve colour. It feels stable. Safe. He sees me looking at the shelves, laughs. I know, I know, he says, far too many, but between you and me, I don’t think you can ever have too many books.
I nod, agree.
‘Did you have a good library at your school?’ he asks.
I don’t like the question. I don’t like thinking about life, the way it was before. But I answer, show willing.
‘Not really, but there was one in the village next to ours, I went there sometimes.’
‘Reading’s very therapeutic, just let me know if you’d like to borrow anything. I’ve plenty, as you can see.’
He winks, but not in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable, gestures to an armchair, take a seat. Relax. I sit down, notice the door to the study is closed, Mike must have done it when I was looking at his books. He refers to the chair I’m sitting in.
‘It’s comfy, isn’t it?’ he says.
I nod, try to look more relaxed, more comfy. I want to get it right. It also reclines, he adds, you just need to flick the lever on the side, if it takes your fancy, go for it. It doesn’t, and I don’t. The thought of being alone with someone in a room on a chair that reclines, me on my back. No. I don’t like that idea.
‘I know we discussed this at the unit before you were discharged but it’s important to go over what we agreed before the next few weeks of school swallow you up.’
One of my feet begins to jiggle. He looks down at it.
‘You look unsure.’
‘A little bit.’
‘All I ask is that you keep an open mind, Milly. View these sessions as moments of respite, somewhere to pause and take a breath. We’ve got just under three months until the court case starts so partly we’ll be working on preparing you for that, but we’ll also continue with the guided relaxation the unit psychologist started with you.’
‘Do we still have to do that?’
‘Yes, it’ll be helpful for you in the long run.’
How can I tell him it won’t, not if things that frighten me find a way out.
‘It’s human nature to want to avoid the things we feel threatened by, Milly, the things that make us feel less in control, but it’s important we go there. Begin the process of putting things to rest. I’d like you to think of a place that feels safe for you, I’m going to ask you to tell me about it next time we meet. Initially it might feel like a difficult thing to do, but I need you to try. It can be anywhere, a classroom at your old school, a bus journey you used to take.’
She drove me to school. Every day.
‘Or somewhere in the village you lived next to, like a cafe or the library you mentioned, anywhere as long as the feeling you associate with it is a comforting one. Does that make sense?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good. Now, what about tomorrow, how are you feeling? It’s never easy being the new girl.’
‘I’m looking forward to being busy, it helps.’
‘Well, just make sure and ease yourself in, it can be quite full-on at Wetherbridge but I’ve no doubt you’ll keep up. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about or ask, anything you’re feeling unsure about?’
Everything.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Let’s leave it at that for tonight then but if anything does crop up in between now and our first session, my door’s always open.’
As I go back to my room I can’t help but feel frustrated that Mike wants to continue with the hypnosis. He thinks by calling it ‘guided relaxation’ I won’t recognize it for what it is, but I do. I overheard the psychologist at the unit telling a colleague that the hypnosis technique he’d been using on me would hopefully be a good way to unlock me. Better left locked, I wanted to tell him.
I hear music as I pass Phoebe’s room so she must be back. I work up the courage to knock on her door, I want to ask her what to expect at school tomorrow.
‘Who is it?’ she shouts.
‘Milly,’ I reply.
‘I’m busy getting ready for tomorrow,’ she responds, ‘you should do the same.’
I whisper my reply through the wood – I’m scared – then I go into my room, lay out my new uniform. A blue skirt, white shirt and a stripy tie, two shades of blue. And try as I might not to think of you, it’s all I can do. Our daily drive to and from school, you worked the early shift so I wouldn’t have to get the bus. An opportunity to remind me, the song you sang as you pinched me. How my mouth watered with pain. Our secrets are special, you’d say, when the chorus came on, they’re between me and you.
Just after nine p.m. Saskia comes in to say goodnight. Try not to worry about tomorrow, she says, Wetherbridge is a really lovely school. After she closes my door I hear her at Phoebe’s. She knocks, then opens it. I hear Phoebe respond – What do you want?
Just checking you’re all set for the morning. Whatever, Phoebe replies, and the door closes again.
4
I made it through the first two days of school, Thursday and Friday last week, without incident, sheltered by the induction programme. Lectures on rules and expectations, an introduction to my guidance teacher, Miss Kemp. Year Elevens don’t normally get guidance teachers but as I’m the only new arrival in the year, and she teaches art, I was paired with her. The headmistress from my old school sent a letter via social services, explained the talent she thought I had for art. Miss Kemp seemed excited, said she couldn’t wait to see what I could do. She came across as nice, kind, although you can never tell. Not really. I remember her smell more than anything, tobacco mixed with something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Familiar though.
The weekend was quiet. Mike works Saturdays at his practice in Notting Hill Gate – where the real money comes from. Saskia was in and out of the house, yoga and other things. Phoebe at Izzy’s. A lot of ‘me’ time. On Sunday evening Mike and Saskia took me to a cinema called the Electric on Portobello Road, and even though it was so different from those movie nights we used to have at home, I spent the entire time thinking about you.
When we got back, Phoebe was in the games room, wandered out looking angry. How cosy, she said. We asked you if you wanted to come, Mike replied. She shrugged, yeah, well, I wasn’t back from Iz’s in time, was I?
She and I walked upstairs together. Looks like you’re settling in nicely, doesn’t it, she said to me. Enjoy it while it lasts, you won’t be here that long, no one ever is. I felt it, deep in my gut. An alarm. A signal.
The next morning at breakfast it’s only Mike and me. He explains Saskia’s having a lie-in, catching up on some sleep. He doesn’t know that I’ve seen the pills in her handbag.
Unfortunately Phoebe’s gone already, he says. Would you like me to walk with you, it’s your first full week? I tell him I’ll be fine on my own though I’m not sure it’s true. During my two days of induction I had lunch with the other girls in the canteen. Curiosity at first, soon becam
e disinterest when word spread – she speaks like a robot, stares at her feet. Freak. I hid the fact my hands sometimes shake – permanent damage to my nervous system – by putting them in my blazer pocket, or carrying a folder. It’s clear things move fast at this school, ruled in or out in the blink of an eye. No point looking to Phoebe, it’s obvious she prefers not to associate with me, so I’m ignored, firmly in the category of outsider. THE outsider.
But today, Monday, is different.
Today, a wave of nudges and sniggers from the girls in my year ripple with intent as I cross the school courtyard.
I’m noticed.
I take a hard right once inside, keen to avoid the middle corridor, a gauntlet, a gathering place of catty, snobby, beautiful girls. I leave behind the sniggers I can hear, the high-pitched insults traded so easily between them, even the ones that are friends – especially the ones that are friends – and head to the locker room.
I use my back to open the door. Arms full of folders.
I turn. See it immediately.
SUPERSIZED. Taped to the front of my locker. My school photo, taken last week on my first day. Awkward and unsure. Ugly. Mouth slightly open, enough to be stuffed with an image of an oversized penis, a speech bubble.
milly fucks willy
I move, let the door close. A gentle shunt seals the room. I’m drawn towards the poster. Towards me. Curious to see me in a way I have never. A pink, veiny intruder juts out of my mouth. I tilt my head, picture myself biting down. Hard.
A blast of noise bleeds in from the corridor as the door opens and closes again. The soft steps of the person behind me. I pull the poster down at the same time as a hand reaches out, rests on my shoulder. The clunking of her heavy bracelets; her distinctive aroma wraps round me like a blanket on a day already too warm. I curse myself for pausing. She saw it before I pulled it down, I know she did. Idiot. I should know better. You taught me better than that.
‘What’s that in your hand, Milly?’
‘Nothing, Miss Kemp, it’s fine.’
Leave me alone.
‘Come on now, you can tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
The bulky assortment of her rings. I feel them against my collarbone as she guides me round to face her. Invested already, I can sense it, and if what I’ve overheard in conversations between the girls – about her being a bit silly, a bit over-involved at times – is true, I know she won’t let this drop. My eyes, trained on the ground, move to her feet. Chunky hippy clogs, heavy wooden soles. The longer I stare, the more they look like two boats marooned ashore, stuck in a secret sandbank under her skirt. Sail away, leave me alone.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing, let me see.’
I crumple it into the small of my back. Pray a silent spell. Make me vanish, or her. Good. Better.
‘I’ll be late, I should go.’
‘I’m not letting you leave feeling like this. Show me, I might be able to help.’
Her voice, the way she uses it, musical almost. I feel better, a bit. My eyes travel up. Shins. She’s new to me. Be cautious, yes, my psychologist said, but remember most people are not a threat. Thighs. More hippy shit, dippy shit. A corduroy skirt, a paisley shirt, a walking project not quite finished, the kind of chaotic style you’d hate, Mummy. Colours and layers. Layers and colours. Hands twist round each other, oversized rings clink and collide, dodgem cars. Nervous? No. Something else. Anticipation. Yes. A moment between us. A bonding, she thinks. Her smell, less oppressive now. I make it to her eyes. Hazel and flicky, dark and light, her hand stretches out towards me.
‘Let me see.’
The bell goes so I hand her the poster, I don’t want to be late for class, another reason to be singled out. She attempts to smooth out the creases in the paper, flattens it on to her thigh, rubs it with her hand, an ironing motion. I look away. I hear her breath deepen as if trying to hold something in. How could they? she says. Reaches out to me, her hand on my blazer sleeve, not my skin. Thankfully.
‘I’d rather forget about it, Miss.’
‘No, I’m afraid not, I’ll have to get to the bottom of this, especially as I’m your guidance teacher. Do you have any idea who’s behind it?’
I reply no, though it’s not strictly true. Last week, on the street.
Izzy’s words: This should be fun.
‘I’ll be making sure I find out, Milly, don’t you worry.’
I want to tell her not to bother, there’s been worse, but I can’t – she doesn’t know who I am, where I’ve come from. As she looks down at the poster again my eyes are drawn to her neck. The pulse, strong and steady. Each time it beats, the surrounding skin quivers a little. The thought is shaken from my head when Phoebe and Izzy crash through the door, stopping short when they realize I have company. It’s clear they came to gloat, phones poised in their hands. Capture the moment. The edgy glances back and forth between the two of them, evidence enough. I never get why people aren’t better at hiding how they feel, although it’s fair to say I’ve had more practice than most. Miss Kemp clocks them looking at each other, comes to her own conclusion. The right one. Maybe she’s not as daft or silly as the girls think.
‘Surely not? And Phoebe, especially you, how could you? What would your parents say about this? They’d be furious. I don’t know, I just don’t know any more, you girls, the way you treat each other. I’ll need to think about this, both of you report to me in the art room after registration and –’
‘But, Miss Kemp, there’s a meeting about the half-term hockey tour, I have to be there, I’m captain.’
‘Please do not interrupt me, Phoebe, understood? You and Izzy will be in my classroom by eight fifty-five at the latest otherwise this matter will go further, much further. Got it?’
A silence, no longer than a few seconds. Izzy speaks.
‘Yes, Miss Kemp.’
‘Good, now go and sign in, then straight to my room. Milly, you’d also better sign in, and don’t worry, I’ll sort this.’
My heart hammers all the way to registration. Miss Kemp, too busy being ‘involved’, failed to see the gesture Phoebe gave me as we left the lockers. A single finger across her throat. Eyes fixed on me. Dead meat. Me. Dead meat.
As if.
Phoebe, darling.
5
Less than two hours later, outside the tuck shop, they approach from either side, press against me. A glossy, hair-flicking version of the game sardines.
‘How’s life as Miss Kemp’s new little bitch?’ Izzy’s hot breath in my left ear.
Phoebe, nowhere to be seen. She’s smarter than that. Step forward Clondine, her other best friend, keen to please, on my right, sleeves firmly rolled up. The toilets behind the science block, hardly ever used, spell trouble. Hands push me through the door. Push, shove, a final push.
They waste no time.
‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Telling your little Miss Kemp on us.’
‘I didn’t tell her.’
‘Do you hear that, Clondine, she’s denying it.’
‘Oh, I hear her all right, I just don’t fucking believe her.’
Izzy moves in, phone in one hand. Films us. Shoves me. Hard. A smell of strawberries on her breath, so enticing I could crawl into her mouth. Bubblegum visible through her clicky-clacky cheerleader teeth, no braces like Clondine, a mouthful of coloured metal. She rests her hand on the wall above my head, wants me to feel small. Threatened. A scene from a movie she watched. She blows a bubble. Pink and opaque. It connects with my nose, collapses over it. Giggles erupt. Izzy backs away, Clondine picks up where she left off.
‘Give me your number, and don’t say you haven’t got a phone, Phoebe told us Mike bought you one.’
Silence.
Your voice in my head. THAT’S MY GIRL, YOU SHOW THEM. THANKFUL NOW, YOU SHOULD BE, FOR THE LESSONS I TAUGHT YOU, ANNIE. Your praise, so rare, when it comes, rips through me like a bush fire swallowing houses and trees, and other teenage girl
s who are less strong, in its hot hungry mouth. I meet their stares, the remnants of Izzy’s gum hanging off my chin. Thrown by my defiance, they are, I see it. Fleeting. The twitch around their succulent lips, eyes slightly wider. I shake my head, slow and deliberate. Izzy, the hungrier of the two, takes the bait.
‘Give me your goddamn phone number, bitch.’
Her hands push me, her face presses against mine, I welcome the contact. I am real. See me, feel me, but know that I come from a place where this is merely a warm-up.
I shake my head again.
A stinging sensation sweeps across my cheek, into my ear, out the other side. Slapped. I hear laughter, admiration at Izzy’s performance. My eyes are closed but I imagine her taking a bow, ever the crowd-pleaser. Her voice is faint, the ringing in my ear threatens to drown it out, but the words are unmistakable.
‘I. Won’t. Ask. Again.’
And I never forget.
Never.
When they get what they want, they leave. My hand touches the heat on my cheek and I’m reminded of you. Swallowed. A vortex of memories. We’re back in our house, I can smell the lavender you loved, the vase in the bathroom. It’s the night of your arrest, I’d been at the police station all afternoon. I faked a letter from you, gave it to the school office, I was excused after lunch, no questions asked.
I was terrified to look at you that night, to meet your eyes, as if the secret shame of what I’d done was scrawled. Spray-painted, on my face. I offered to do the ironing, anything to stop my hands from shaking, and so I’d be armed if the police came early and you went for me. You looked different, smaller, still intimidating but less so. But it wasn’t you who’d changed, it was me. The end in sight. Or the beginning.
I worried they might not come, change their minds, decide I was making it up. I tried to breathe normally, stand normally, not that it mattered since you could flip at any given moment. One minute you’d be arranging flowers, the next you’d demand I put on a show. There aren’t many everyday activities left that don’t remind me of you, of how you liked to do them. When bedtime came I waited to be told where I was to sleep. Sometimes in your bed, other times I’d be given a reprieve and sent to mine. The funny thing, or sad, was part of me wanted to sleep with you that night knowing it would be our last, and another part of me was too scared to go upstairs on my own. Up eight, up another four, the door on the right. Opposite mine. The playground.