I’m calming down — and starting to feel slightly ridiculous for thinking along those lines. I mean, I can’t suddenly start painting Olly as some kind of ax-wielding maniac. There might still be an explanation for all this. But until I know what it is, I don’t want to be near him again, especially when I’m on my own.
At the end of the day, it’s as I expected. I’m waiting by the gates for Phoebe when he shows up.
I turn the other way, pretending I haven’t noticed him, in the hope he’ll go away.
Fat chance. He comes to stand right in front of me. “Erin.”
I don’t turn my head.
“Erin, can’t you at least look at me?” he says. I haven’t heard him talk like this before. He sounds pained, sad, desperate.
He sounds like Joe.
I turn to face him.
“What have I done?” he says. “Have I done something to upset you?”
What, you mean apart from kill your own brother?
I shake my head.
“So why won’t you talk to me? I don’t understand. I thought we were getting on really well.”
I can’t answer him. I don’t want to listen to him. Hearing the pain in his voice makes me want to soothe him — and I can’t do that. I’m not going to comfort Joe’s killer. I’m not.
He reaches out to touch my arm, and I pull away as though he were on fire.
“Jesus, Erin!” He steps back. “What the hell is the matter?”
“Don’t get angry with me,” I snap.
“I — I’m not angry. I’m — look, I’m sorry. I just don’t understand what’s going on. Tell me what I’ve done. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I would never intentionally upset you. You’re . . .”
His voice trails away. And despite myself, despite everything, I want to know the end of the sentence. “I’m what?” I ask.
Olly shrugs. “You’re, like, my favorite person right now.”
I have a sudden memory. Dad loves cheesy old films, and we used to watch all these black-and-white B movies with him. I remember this one about a group of evil kids who could read people’s minds. The town decided that it had to get rid of them, and the teacher volunteered to do the deed. All he had to do was keep them in the classroom without them finding out that they were all about to be blown up, or set on fire or something.
The teacher was taking a risk. The plan was that he would escape at the last minute, but he knew there was a chance he’d perish in that classroom along with all the kids.
So he’s there, teaching his lesson, and the kids are trying to pierce his mind, see what he’s really thinking. He forces himself to think of nothing but a brick wall. You see the wall, high and firm against them. But the kids are powerful, and they start getting through the teacher’s defenses. It shows the bricks starting to fall, while the teacher’s silently saying to himself, over and over again: a brick wall, a brick wall, a brick wall.
That’s what Olly’s doing to me. I thought I was firm against him, thought I could keep him out. But I’m weak. Yes, I admit it. I want to believe he’s innocent, want to think that Joe got it wrong — even if I’ve never seen him as certain about anything as he was about this.
But what if, what if . . . ?
The bricks are tumbling. Toppling one by one and breaking up on the ground.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Phoebe heading this way, swinging her bag as she walks and chatting to one of her classmates like she hasn’t got a care in the world. I envy her so much.
I don’t want Olly to see her, don’t want him having anything to do with her.
“Look, just meet me, please,” he’s saying. “I’ve got soccer practice now, but how about tomorrow? Just to chat. We could go for a walk or something.”
Go for a walk? Go out on the coast path on my own with him? Along the edge of a cliff? Not in a million years!
“I don’t want to go for a walk,” I reply steadily.
“OK. Come for a milk shake or a juice or coffee, then. Just for, like, an hour or something. Just for however long it takes for me to convince you that I’m really, really sorry for whatever it is I’ve done.”
It’ll take longer than an hour to do that.
Phoebe’s nearly caught up to us. I need to get rid of him. “OK, whatever,” I agree hastily.
Olly’s smile is so wide, I feel guilty.
Wait. How is it fair that I’m the one who feels bad here? That I’m the one feeling sorry for him?
Nothing about this is fair.
“Cool. So, meet me tomorrow at five o’clock at Pam’s Parlor. Best shakes in town. You know the place?”
I don’t, but I’ll find it. I need to get away. Phoebe’s ten steps away. “Yeah,” I say quickly. “I’ll see you there.”
And before he has the chance to say anything else, to make too many bricks tumble from the wall, I turn away and head over to join Phoebe.
As we walk home together and I listen to her chat away about her day, a thought occurs to me, and I can’t shake it off.
I can’t remember how Dad’s film ended. Did the teacher get away, or at the last moment did the kids pull down all the bricks and make sure he perished in the classroom along with the rest of them?
I can hardly concentrate at soccer practice. I keep missing passes and giving the ball away to the other side after the lamest tackles.
All my usual feelings are locked in the back of my mind. Mostly the grief. That’s always in there. But the guilt is never far away, either. The part I played. The things I did. The things I’ll never forgive myself for.
But I’m not letting any of it out today.
All I want to think about is her. Twenty-four hours and I’ll be alone with her. The thought makes my stomach flip over with nerves.
Seriously?
When did I ever get nervous like this before? What even is it about this girl? I’ve known her — what — two weeks? A few conversations, a walk on the coast path, fish and chips on the beach. How is that enough to make me feel like this?
And how the hell am I feeling anyway?
As if I didn’t know.
I’ve sometimes wondered if I was capable of it. Had a couple of girls wonder the same thing, too.
The only person you love is yourself, Olly.
All you care about is the thrill of the chase, Olly.
Yeah, they’ve thrown it all at me, and more. And they were right. I never did feel it for them.
But I feel it now.
And even though it’s turned my heart inside out and my brain upside down and thrown my schoolwork out the window and messed up my social life with the lads, I wouldn’t swap this feeling for anything. And I’m not afraid to say it, either.
I’m falling in love with her.
I do my best to make small talk with my family over dinner. I must be convincing them that things are OK. Yeah, I catch them giving me the odd sideways glance. But mostly, I think they’ve decided we’re all right now, that the exorcism never happened — certainly no one brings it up or refers to it. Our new lives have truly begun.
Happy family.
As soon as we’ve done the dishes and Mum and Dad have settled down in front of the telly, I make my excuses and scuttle upstairs. I’ve got a job to do.
I power up my computer and consider where to start. I figure Facebook is as good a place as any, especially since I couldn’t get on it at school.
I put his name in the search bar, and within seconds a list of Joe Gardiners comes up. One of them has his photo.
Just seeing him come up in my search bar sends a cold flash through me. I don’t know if I can handle it. My hand hovers over the link for ages.
What have I got to lose? It’s not going to change anything. Nothing on this page can bring him back. It can’t take him further away, either. It can’t harm me. Plus I doubt very much that anything about this page could be worse than knowing that tomorrow evening I’m meeting up with his killer.
I click the link and it opens
his page.
The first thing I realize is that it’s been turned into some kind of tribute to him. A memorial page.
I scroll down the page. It’s not actually scary at all. Mostly it’s trite words from people who sound like they barely knew him but wanted to get in on the sympathy act when he died.
I can’t believe Joe has gone. We had Art together for three years.
I never really talked to you at school, but my heart is breaking for you now.
I know I hardly knew you, Joe, but I can’t stop crying.
RIP, Joe. You’re in a better place now, mate.
Never knew you irl, but you were the best Facebook pal in the world. I’ll miss you so much.
Get a life, I find myself thinking. The irony makes me laugh softly as I scroll through the photos. There aren’t many. Just a handful. But I can’t stop staring at them.
It’s Joe — my Joe — only he looks so different. So . . . I guess the only word I can think of is alive.
His face is fuller. His hair looks like he might have washed or at least brushed it at some point in the last century. His face is stubble-free.
My chest aches with how much I wish I’d had the chance to know him in real life.
Irl.
In fact, it hurts too much. Way too much. This is why I haven’t done it up to now. Each screen I look at is like feeling a knife slicing through another layer of my heart.
I don’t need old photos and empty words that others have written about him. I need to see him. I need to be with him. I need to be in his arms. We have to find a way to be together properly. There has to be a way. I can’t bear the impossibility of it any longer.
I exit Facebook, shut down my computer, and go downstairs.
Mum and Dad are at opposite ends of the sofa. Dad’s engrossed in one of those auction programs where people scrabble around yard sales, trying to make a little money out of someone else’s unwanted junk. Mum’s half watching the telly and half reading a book.
“I’m just popping out,” I say casually.
Mum looks up. “Really? Again?” she asks, barely hiding the shock in her voice.
Thanks, Mum. Nice way to let me know that the thought of me having something resembling a social life is the most bizarre thing you can imagine.
“Is that OK?” I ask.
“Done your homework?” Dad asks, glancing up from the telly.
“We haven’t got any,” I assure him. “I’ll only be out an hour or so. Some of the girls at school are meeting at the harbor.”
Mum’s expression changes from shock to delight. “Oh, that’s lovely, darling. Of course. Go on, have fun.”
My feelings turn from irritation to guilt. I hate lying to them. For the millionth time, I think about how much they’ve done for me. The number of times Mum was the one by my side, passing me brown paper bags to breathe into when I was mid – panic attack and gasping for air; she was the one who drove me to every therapy appointment and never asked a single question about what was said in there; she was the one who had the idea of leaving our lives behind to make a fresh start.
And how am I repaying her? By lying through my teeth so I can go out and meet up with a ghost she helped expel from the house.
There just isn’t any way I could ever begin to explain that to her. So I don’t even try. Instead, I lean over the back of the sofa and plant a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, Mum,” I say, and then in a whisper, I add, “for everything.”
Before my swirling emotions confuse me so much that I’m in danger of breaking down and telling her all of it, I grab my coat and head out of the house.
As I hurry through town and climb over the stile that takes me out along the coast path towards Raven’s Point and Joe, I figure out a plan.
I’m not going to tell Joe I’m meeting Olly tomorrow. It’s not lying; it’s protecting him.
Olly is the last person — literally the very last person in the world — that I want to be meeting up with. But I’m not doing it for Olly. I’m not doing it to see his smile or to listen to him try to win me over.
I’m doing it because I need to get to the bottom of what happened to Joe. Meeting up with Olly is my best chance of finding out. And until I’ve got some answers, I’m not going to make things any worse for Joe than they already are.
Because, frankly, being stuck out on a bunch of rocks with no one for company ninety percent of the time and in love with a girl who has to lie to everyone so she can sneak out and see you for brief visits, not to mention actually being dead and having just remembered your brother is the one who killed you — well, I think that’s pretty much enough horribleness to be dealing with.
I’m not going to be the one to add anything else to that list.
The light is fading as she comes into view across the cliffs.
Why does that feel so fitting?
What did they call it in English class? In that book we were studying? There’s a word for it. I know there is. Or a phrase.
What was the book?
Everything is fading. My sight is getting dimmer. The sounds around me seem to be coming from far away. The energy in my body is down to reserves. If I were a car, the red light on the gas gauge would be on by now.
Not quite running on empty.
Not quite.
Why? What’s happening? Am I nearly through with this? I’m almost ready for it to be done now.
And yet, as Erin climbs down to the rocks and smiles at me, I am refueled. As she comes into my arms, she breathes oxygen into my lungs. As she kisses me, my dark, gray body turns to at least a watery pastel shade.
She is my breath. She is the only thing holding me here.
Is it fair to keep her here? To tether her to such a lack of hope, prospects, future?
I don’t know, but as if to prove what a loser I am, I refuse to let her go. If she wants to be with me, I am too weak to be the one to cut her free. I hate myself for it. But my hate is nowhere near as strong as my love for her. And so, if she wants to be with me, I won’t be the one to send her away.
While she holds me, talks to me, laughs with me, kisses my mouth, I am more alive than I have ever been — even when I was alive.
Maybe there’s hope for me. For us. Maybe. When my brain feels awake like this, I wonder if there’s a chance. If there’s a place we can meet, if we can ever be together properly. I want to believe there is. I tell myself we’ll find it.
I’ll tell myself as many lies as I need to in order to get through this. And I’ll believe her lies, too. And if there’s something odd about her when she tells me she can’t see me tomorrow and doesn’t really explain why, or if I notice a hint of red in her cheeks, or if I suspect she isn’t telling me everything — I won’t let that get in the way. Our time together is too precious for me to squander a moment of it doing anything but loving her.
I remember it as she leaves. The expression I was looking for.
Her footsteps literally take away the light, and I retreat to the blackness of my cave, the harshness of this jagged plinth, the lashing of the waves as they attack the rocks beneath my feet.
Pathetic fallacy. That’s it.
How apt. As the night enfolds me and I know that I won’t see a soul for another two days, I know that I have never felt quite as pathetic as I do in this moment.
My mouth is as dry as sand as I walk into town to meet Olly on Tuesday.
I debated lying to Mum and Dad again. I thought about telling them I had an after-school club to go to. I just couldn’t think of one that wouldn’t open up more questions than I could face coming up with answers for.
So I told the truth. Or at least part of it. I didn’t say, “Hey, Mum, Dad, I’m off to meet the murderer of this super-hot dead boy that I’m dating — and guess what, he’s his brother, too!”
I just said I was meeting a boy.
You’d think I’d come home with four A stars in my A levels from the beam on Mum’s face.
I refuse to feel guilty. For the
millionth time, I remind myself I haven’t done anything wrong. Olly is the one who’s got the explaining to do. He’s the one who’s done something very, very wrong.
Which is why my throat resembles the texture of the beach at low tide as I push open the doors of Pam’s Parlor and spot him sitting at a table at the back.
As he looks up and beams at me, my stomach flips over a little, too.
Just nerves.
He jumps up from his chair and stands there awkwardly for a moment, like he doesn’t know how to greet me. I have no intention of inviting any kind of physical contact. My body is a steel wall against the possibility of a hug.
Eventually, Olly takes the hint and steps back a little. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he half smiles, half frowns. “I didn’t think you were going to come,” he says.
I shrug. “I said I would.”
“Yeah, I know. I just . . .” His voice trails away. He looks like a little boy who doesn’t know what to do next, and I can’t help it — I feel sorry for him.
“It’s nice to see you,” I find myself saying.
What the hell? Why did I say that? How can I even think it? I am ashamed of my disloyalty, but I can’t take the words back. And when Olly’s smile returns in full force and he says, “You too. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day,” I can’t help a teeny, tiny, horrible, fickle little corner of myself being pleased.
Olly touches my elbow. “Come on, let’s get some shakes,” he says, and I let him lead me over to the counter.
We order our drinks and take our seats at the back table again. I’m glad. No one will bother us here.
But it’s only when he’s looking me in the eye and says, “So. Tell me what I’ve done, and I promise you I will do everything I can to make up for it,” that it occurs to me that perhaps I should have thought about this bit.
I mean, how am I meant to get the conversation started? It’s not exactly the kind of thing you can slip into conversation. “I’ll have a three-scoop strawberry shake, please — oh, and did you by any chance murder your own brother?”