Good Me Bad Me Page 14

  She nods rather than says it, waits for me to nod back, show her I’ve understood, then continues.

  ‘So we need to be careful, if you like. I’m aware you tried to give her a gift, which really is very sweet but not something we encourage – in fact, it’s against school rules. However, in your particular case I can perhaps see where the confusion has come from.’

  That’s why she hasn’t answered my emails.

  ‘Miss Kemp is a wonderful teacher, very committed, but that said, one must be clear where one draws the line.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Ms James.’

  ‘What I mean is, if you’d find it easier we can look at assigning you a new guidance teacher.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve asked Mr Newmont to talk this over with you during half-term, I’m sure he will. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, Ms James.’

  ‘There’s no need to look worried, we’re all on your side and I’m sure we can work something out. How does that sound?’

  Patronizing.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘Great, keep up the excellent work with the play, no doubt it’ll be a glorious performance on the night.’

  I stand when she does, as we’re expected to.

  I wake up crying, halfway through the night. I dreamt I was in court.

  When the defence lawyer turned round to face me he shrank to the size of a boy, asked me why I let you hurt him. Tears in his eyes.

  I’m sorry, I said.

  We don’t believe you, said the jury in reply.

  20

  After school yesterday Mike told me he’d booked us two nights at a hotel, a place called Tetbury. We’re going on Monday. He mentioned he’d like to catch up with me, about Miss Kemp, but it could wait until the weekend.

  Phoebe and I are about to leave for Matty’s party, the same one Joe mentioned on the bus. Mike agreed to let Phoebe go on the condition she took me too, plus, he added, if you go together, I’ll let you walk home on your own. You wouldn’t want me turning up at his door now, would you? Before we leave he reminds us our curfew is midnight, no later, and no drinking, okay?

  ‘Yes, Dad, okay.’

  Phoebe calls Izzy as soon as we leave the house, says it’s a bummer she can’t come, how much longer does she think she’ll be grounded for. Izzy’s reply makes her laugh and before she hangs up she says, don’t worry, beatch, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Poor Izzy, she must have been delighted when Prof West returned her make-up bag, but not so when she realized he’d seen the cigarettes inside. No room to wriggle out of that one, her name written in Tipp-Ex on the bottom of the bag, left slightly open on Prof West’s desk when his room was empty, all the hearts tidied away.

  We arrive at another large white house and Phoebe rings the doorbell. A boy answers, tall, six foot, maybe more. He smiles when he sees who it is and says, ‘Party is on.’

  He holds out his hand to me.

  ‘Matty.’

  I shake it and say, hi, I’m Milly. I feel sick as he pulls open the door for us to walk in, music spills from the living room and as we enter I notice a table on the left. Bottles of spirits, a large glass bowl, some kind of punch.

  ‘It’s hardly very Halloween in here, is it, Matty?’

  ‘Fuck off, Phoebs, my folks only left a couple of hours ago, they made me and Thom promise not to have any parties while they’re away. Anyway, you’re gross enough for ten Halloweens, no décor required.’

  He ends his sentence with a ghoulish ‘bahahaha’ laugh.

  ‘Shut up and get me a drink. So Thom’s back from uni then?’

  ‘Yep, supposed to be in charge but fucked off to catch up with his mates as soon as Mum and Dad left.’

  ‘Is he coming back?’

  ‘I see somebody’s still got a crush on my bro then.’

  ‘Hardly, just being friendly, that’s all. Anyway, I like someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just some guy I met over the summer, he doesn’t live in London though.’

  ‘AKA doesn’t exist, you mean. Here, I’ve made you a voddy.’

  She takes the plastic tumbler from him, sinks into a sofa beside two girls I’ve never seen before, starts chatting to them.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks.

  I say yes please because everybody else is holding one. I won’t drink it though, wits, about me. I take a seat in the corner after he gives it to me. More and more people arrive. They all know somebody who knows somebody, the rich private school network spins a web, reaches far and wide. Phoebe’s on and off her phone, numerous calls. She kicks one of the boys at her feet, trying to distract her by doing a break-dancing move, the worm. Stop it, she mouths, and when she hangs up, the worm boy asks her, ‘When will we get them?’

  ‘When he comes, all right, knob-head.’

  She kicks him again, although this time he grabs her leg, wrestles her to the floor. He sits astride her, hands round her throat. Everybody laughs but it doesn’t look funny or fun to me. Clondine arrives with two older boys. Phoebe goes over to them and one of the boys puts his arm round her waist, pulls her into his body, she pushes him away, laughing.

  ‘You’ll be begging for it later, trust me,’ he says.

  She’s about to respond when her phone rings, the call is quick, finished in seconds. When she hangs up, she shouts.

  ‘Right, peeps, time to hand your cash over.’

  Notes are gathered, passed round the room until they reach her, nobody asks what for.

  ‘You too, don’t think I don’t see you there.’

  I look away, hold my drink up to my mouth, pretend to take a sip.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get you to help me, that way if we get caught we’re both in the shit.’

  ‘Yeah, you should,’ says one of the girls on the sofa.

  Insignificant. Face like a hyena, laugh the same.

  Phoebe looks at me and says, come on then, what you waiting for, don’t say I never include you in anything. When we get to the front door she pauses before she opens it, looks at me and says, ‘Tell Dad about this and I’ll mess you up, got it?’

  Got it.

  At the door is a man in a black padded suit, a motorbike helmet in one hand. She doesn’t kiss him but greets him by name, Tyson.

  ‘Shit, hang on, someone’s coming. Just say you’re delivering pizzas if anyone asks. Oh, fuck’s sake, it’s fine, it’s Joe.’

  When he gets to the door, he says hi. Phoebe ignores him, he walks past us into the porch, smiles at me.

  ‘Hey, Milly.’

  He remembers my name.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘How many do you want?’ asks Tyson.

  ‘Thirty, if you have them.’

  ‘Thirty? Big night then.’

  ‘Just broken up for half-term, you know how it goes.’

  He nods, takes one of his leather gloves off, holds out his hand. Phoebe places the money in it, rolled like a cigar. He trusts her enough not to count, a regular thing maybe, walks down the driveway to his bike, parked at the kerb. He looks around before opening the top of the seat, takes a minute or two, and comes back holding a large brown paper bag.

  ‘There’s thirty inside,’ he says as he approaches the door. ‘And these are on me,’ handing her a small bag of pills. ‘New shit, guaranteed to make you fly.’

  She smiles, blows him a kiss, you’re the best, Tyson, totally the best. He looks pleased, I hear his bike before the door closes, a rev of the engine, long and sustained. We go back into the living room, the air hazy with smoke, ash being tapped into empty tumblers and bottles. Lazy drunk bodies, lying on chairs. Apathy revived by Phoebe’s announcement.

  ‘Party bags are here.’

  I’m surprised to see she means it. She tips a load of children’s party bags on to the table, a clown on the front of each one.

  ‘Help yourselves, bitches.’

  Like free bowls of sweets, nobody stays shy for long, the table of cl
owns demolished. A blink of an eye. Ever the drama queen, Phoebe clears her throat, waits for the full attention of the room, shakes the extra bag of pills Tyson gave her in the air. Rattles to babies, toothy, some adorned with brightly coloured metal braces. Whoop, double whoop, somebody says, time to get f-u-u-u-c-k-e-d up.

  ‘What are they?’ Clondine asks.

  Phoebe takes a pill from the bag, moves it around between her fingers, examines it.

  ‘It’s got a Superman logo on it, Tyson said they’ll make us fly.’

  She pops one in her mouth, walks around the room delivering the rest into hands outstretched, as if she is god or queen of the teens. Bless me please.

  A full circle done, a couple left in the bag still.

  ‘Open wide, dog-face.’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘No thank you,’ I modify.

  ‘Not sure I understand that word,’ she says.

  ‘Leave her be, Phoebe, all the more for us.’

  Joe saunters by, an attempt at casual. I don’t know boys, how they function, but his casual looks like concern, needs a bit more work. Phoebe turns away, bored of my face.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, it would only be a waste, she’s fucked up already.’

  Her nails like talons, almond in shape, she flicks another pill down her throat. Lips pressed into a pout, close the moist cave. Dark. She misses the wink Joe gives me, a secret mutiny against her majesty. Off with his.

  It doesn’t take long. The perfectly smart and beautiful privileged crowd morph into a mob. Animals. Pack mentality. Outside in the garden, howl to the moon. Saucers for eyes, mouths a-judder. Smoking. One day these boys and girls will run the world, in the meantime, they ruin it.

  I find a quiet space at the top of the stairs on the first landing, an abandoned party bag on the way. The contents, ingenious, the seductive way it’s been put together, wrapped in foils, plastic tubes. I pretend it’s Christmas, how it is in the movies, unwrap them one by one. White powder in the first, origami, Saskia-style. Next, a white pill, a dove logo, the obsession with flying continues. In at number three, a capsule with M printed on it, a condom for afters, and a joint rolled, ready to smoke.

  I sit in the dark shadows by the wall, voices coming up the stairs towards me. I recognize Clondine’s. I watch her and an older boy, the same one that grabbed Phoebe earlier, disappear into a room further down the corridor. The door to the room, left open, the sound carries. A squeal, laughter. Then silence. Five minutes or so later, a protest. Stop, no, I hear her say, stop it, Toby, I don’t want to. I stick to the shadows, approach the door. Shut the fuck up, he says to her, quit crying. She won’t stop, can’t stop, I’ve been there too. Her crying distracts him, throws him off his stride, frustrated.

  ‘Keep still, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Please, Toby, I don’t want to.’

  I push the door open, wide, the bed visible with light from a lamp in the hallway. Toby on top, Clondine pinned underneath. His knees hold her legs open, one of his hands traps her arms above her head, her jeans halfway down her thighs. Shut the fucking door, he says, a pillow thrown in my direction lands at my feet. Clondine’s a baby, whimpers. I switch on the light, he turns to face me, the unwanted spectator, the killjoy. It was a bit of fun, he’d say if he was questioned, she wanted it too.

  ‘Switch the fucking light off and disappear, pronto.’

  ‘I heard her say no.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with you?’

  I switch the light off, a moment’s reprieve for him, and me. The way Clondine is positioned on the bed reminds me. And the sound she makes, it says, don’t leave me with him. I know the sound, a similar one I used to make, though mine was a she. I switch the light back on, his hand in her crotch. She lies still, like a blow-up doll. I flick the switch, a disco of sorts.

  Off.

  On.

  Off.

  On.

  Offon.

  Offon.

  A distraction, for even the most committed rapist.

  It works.

  He moves off her rigid, frigid body. She rolls, a rag doll, hanging over the side of the bed, vomits. Sobs. Vomits again. Saliva and druggy sick hang off her chin. She is five years old, crumpled and used, wants her mummy. Be careful what you wish for.

  He’s in front of me now, my back against the door, my foot prevents it from closing.

  His hand on my neck, his body against mine.

  ‘Jealous are you? Wish it was you, do you?’

  A clumsy hand between my legs, rubs crudely back and forth, friction through denim. He squeezes my breast, licks my face, I feel him hard against the waistband of my jeans. His eyes roll in his head, the drugs make him fly, doesn’t he know? Superheroes don’t steal, nor do they rape. Clondine whimpers again. Two against one but she’s useless, out of her depth. Bite your nose off, shall I, Toby? Dream face ruined, in hiding for ever.

  Like me.

  I reach down, grab his dick as hard as I can. Pleasure arrives in his body from the sudden touch, but it doesn’t last long as I tighten my grip, pain receptors activated. Tiny powerful neurons scream in his head. The science behind pain, a specialist topic of mine. Important to know how the process works, you said to me often, as you activated mine. I expect a black eye, a punch or a swipe, but the cat’s got his tongue, or his dick. He drops to his knees on the floor. Too late to pray, Toby.

  Clondine’s off the bed, her hair and eyes wild and unhinged, she pulls up her jeans. Toby’s down, groans on his back. A voice from the bottom of the stairs filters up to the room.

  ‘Mate, Toby, are you up there? Come down, there’s a beer bong on the go. Stevo’s already spewed his load, hilarious. Dude, are you up there?’

  Toby. A fish on a riverbank, a gasp here and there. His hand does not leave his dick. Sweaty and wasted, and fucked by a girl. Footsteps on the stairs, Toby moves to stand up, pride does that, it motivates. White tacky deposits gather at the sides of his mouth, a line of sweat on his upper lip. The smell of his sex cloaks around me, deep from inside his glands.

  ‘Bitch,’ he says to me.

  Hugo, Huggy to his mates, arrives at the door. I walk towards Clondine.

  ‘Dude, where the fuck have you been, I’ve been looking for you for ages. There’s some seriously crazy shit going on in the kitchen.’

  You could say the same up here.

  Toby wipes his dehydrated mouth with the back of his hand, gestures towards us.

  ‘Just having a bit of fun with the local wildlife, you know how it goes.’

  ‘Excellent work, mate,’ Huggy replies. ‘But next time give me a shout, share the fun, there’s a good boy.’

  They leave, arms round each other’s shoulders. Smug. Carefree. One with a dick that requires ice, not sympathy. I hear chanting, a game, the beer bong in full swing. Clondine sits on the edge of the bed. Legs, jelly and weak, her head in her hands. She cries, mumbles about feeling stupid.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I won’t tell Phoebe.’

  She looks up at me. Make-up, black. Panda eyes. Sick in her hair. Confused.

  ‘Why would you tell Phoebe?’

  ‘I thought maybe she liked him, I saw him hug her when he arrived.’

  ‘She used to but not any more, not since she met Sam. Fuck, I’m such an idiot. I’ve liked him for ages, I thought he liked me too.’

  I offer her the elastic band from my wrist.

  ‘You should wash your face, you can use this to put your hair up if you like.’

  She’s unsteady on her feet so I help her into the bathroom, I hand her a flannel I find in the cabinet under the sink. Use warm water, I tell her. It’ll help.

  I ask her if she needs anything else, she replies, ‘Will you stay with me, just in case?’

  I nod. Her words are slurred, bloodstream full of who knows what.

  ‘I bet he tells everyone I’m a cock-tease.’

  ‘There’s a towel over there, dry your face.’

  ‘Oh god, what a mess. I
hope he doesn’t come back, you don’t think he will, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be so fucking calm?’

  Practice. I’ve had plenty.

  I shrug.

  ‘I didn’t know Phoebe had a boyfriend.’

  ‘Shit, did I tell you that? Don’t tell her I told you, she doesn’t want Mike to know.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘It’s just some dude she met over the summer, he lives in Italy I think, they email each other all the time. I can’t get my hands to stop shaking.’

  ‘It’s shock, it’ll stop soon.’

  ‘How do you know all this? You knew what to do when Georgie fell as well.’

  ‘I read a lot.’

  She leans into the mirror, uses a corner of the facecloth to wipe away the smudged mascara from around her eyes.

  ‘Ugh. My mouth tastes disgusting.’

  ‘Gargle with some mouthwash.’

  ‘Why are you being nice to me, why did you come and help? We haven’t exactly been nice to you.’

  ‘You sounded scared.’

  ‘I was. So stupid. Oh god, I hope he doesn’t tell anyone, I’ll get such a rough time at school.’

  ‘I know what that feels like.’

  She turns to face me, pupils large one minute, pinpricks the next, as she struggles to focus.

  ‘Look, Milly, I guess I owe you a thank you about what just happened.’

  ‘Well at least you remember my name, as in not dog-face.’

  Decency to blush, a little, even when wasted.

  ‘I guess I owe you an apology as well. I’m sorry we’ve been total bitches to you, it was supposed to be a laugh but it’s got a bit out of hand.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I’m not saying it was all Phoebe’s fault, but most of it was her idea.’

  ‘I don’t think she likes me very much.’

  ‘She doesn’t like anybody who Mike fosters. He’d promised not to take anyone else for ages then you turn up, she’s hardly going to welcome you with open arms, is she? Fuck, I think I’m going to be sick.’

  She kneels on the floor, wraps her arms round the toilet, dry heaving like Clara when Georgie fell. When she stops I ask her if she needs anything.