‘I’ve said some things I shouldn’t have, Milly. I’m sorry. I thought I’d worked everything out, I thought I knew.’
Knew what? Why did he call June?
‘Miss Kemp told me tonight she was so thankful for your help with the set design, she said you’d worked so hard at the last meeting, even went out and bought snacks for everybody. I hadn’t been able to think clearly since Phoebe’s death until today.’
‘You’re tired, Mike, from trying to look after everyone.’
‘That’s why I called June, I wanted to speak to her about something. I was so clear about it then but now I don’t know. I think I was looking for someone to blame and I’m ashamed to admit that that person was you.’
He runs his finger round the rim of the glass, pauses, then looks up at me.
‘I asked Miss Kemp what time you went out to get the snacks. She wasn’t sure, so much going on, but said you were only gone for five minutes or so.’
How would she know, chaotic keeper of the time.
‘Were you?’ he asks.
‘Was I what?’
He asks the next question quietly. Slowly.
‘Were you only gone for five or so minutes?’
Usually it’s the truth he wants to hear but this time the road doesn’t only lead to me, it leads to him. Too engrossed and obsessed with wondering about me, writing about me. The book has a different ending now, one he doesn’t want to write. He didn’t just invite me in for tea, he invited me to live with him, with his family. He’d never recover personally or professionally if he felt, or was held, responsible for misjudging me. He knows it as well as I do. So much to lose, lost so much already.
I nod.
‘Yes, I was there and back in about five minutes. I went to the newsagent, the one just across the road from the school.’
‘Nowhere else? You didn’t go anywhere else?’
‘No. Nowhere else, Mike.’
We sit in silence. I work hard to maintain eye contact. He breaks it first, leans forward, screws the top on the bottle of whisky, a signal it’s over for now. The detail of people, the details I notice.
‘It’s late, Milly, you should go to bed. I need some time on my own.’
I turn round at the door just before I leave his study. One of his hands rests on the top of Phoebe’s laptop, the other on the desk, fingers pointing, subconsciously maybe, in the direction of the phone.
‘Mike, you need to give me my medication, and Saskia too. We need you.’
Up twenty-eight. Up another floor.
The banister on the right.
If I hadn’t seen the text flash up on the screen of her phone, abandoned next to the kettle during breakfast, Phoebe at the table.
Everything would have been different.
Everything.
‘Come on, you sly beatch, what do you mean by D-day for Dog-face tomorrow?’ read the message.
Sender: Izzy
I left the scenery painting in the Great Hall to go and buy snacks for everybody.
True.
The newsagent was the only place I went to.
False.
I ran all the way, five if you rush, less if you sprint.
I went up the stairs, up twenty-eight, up another floor, the banister on the right. She was there. Screamed when she saw me.
Boo.
She went into her room, kicked the door shut behind her, I followed. Get out, she said. Get away from me.
I took a step towards her. What are you doing, she asked.
Another step. She pushed past me, said, I’m calling Dad.
I didn’t chase her, she would have run down the stairs,
I didn’t want that. I walked out of her room. She was on the landing, half sitting, half leaning on the banister.
Her safe place, from where she enjoyed tormenting her mother.
Fingerprints, hers, visible on the varnish. Fear as sweat, prickling her pores. Overflowing. She was about to hit the call button.
Distracted.
Her, not me.
Another step towards her.
When somebody says it’ll be the death of you. Believe them.
A second was all it took.
She was silent as she fell.
The Spanish tiles painted a new colour, her hair too.
I ran all the way back, bearing goods for everyone from the newsagent when I arrived.
The officer’s questions later on that night. Routine stuff really, he said.
No amount of training prepares them for the potential of children.
Oh Lord of the Flies.
I promised to be the best I could.
I promised to try.
Mike.
A kindly man.
I told him everything.
Well.
Almost everything.
Forgive me.
Acknowledgements
To the children and teenagers I looked after, it was a privilege. You were beyond brave, and without you, the basis of this book would not exist. To the staff I worked with over the years, for the laughter, when it so often could have been tears. Special mention to the team at the YPU in Edinburgh, my first job after qualifying. How we ever survived those night shifts is beyond me.
To my agent, Juliet Mushens, for scooping me up and making me real. For being the fastest reader I know with the most beautifully critical eye. You are a pocket rocket, a hustler and a lifelong friend. How lucky I am to know you.
Shout out to Sarah Manning – organizational dynamite – without your Post-it notes I would have been lost. And to Nathalie Hallam for taking over with ease. To #TeamMushens as a whole, thank you for your support.
Jessica Leeke, my editor at Michael Joseph. Cheerleader, eagle-eye, anchor. You pushed me, yet held me. You gave me my brave. Ellie Hughes, my publicist, for knowing exactly what to do with me, and for being the chill to my hyper. Hattie Adam-Smith for being the divine, cool-as-a-cucumber, trilby-wearing, creative force behind all things marketing. Dream team all in. An extended thank you to the rest of the team at Michael Joseph and Penguin HQ. So many people doing so many things and with such warmth and enthusiasm. What a wonderful wing to be taken under by. Thank you all.
To Christine Kopprasch, my editor at Flatiron US, for believing, not just in this book, but in me as a writer. And an extended thank you, both to the rest of the team at Flatiron, and to Sasha Raskin, my US agent.
To Alex Clarke, who was involved in the acquisition of this book. Karen Whitlock for her sensitive and reassuring approach to copy-editing. To Richard Skinner for saying to me, ‘Don’t worry, Ali, just trust your instinct.’ And I did, this book being the result.
To my family, with love.
And finally, the tribe! Peppered wonderfully around the world and without whom I’d never have had the courage to embark on this journey. You are too many, and there is too much, to thank you all individually for. So collectively, thank you for the colour, the creativity, the adventures, and the magic you bring into my life every day. And for loving me just the way I am, regardless. You completely brilliant, special dudes, I love you right back. Thank you thank you thank you, a million times over.
The Beginning
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
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Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2017
Copyright © Bo Dreams Lt
d, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-92393-4
Ali Land, Good Me Bad Me
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