Good Me Bad Me Page 17

  I close my laptop, unlock the door, my heart keen in my chest. Her hood pulled up, covering most of her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Morgan. I really, really am.’

  She shrugs, looks down at her feet. I reach for her hand, bring her inside, show her the snow globe.

  ‘Shake it.’

  And when she does, I know we’re going to be okay.

  Forgiving, that’s what she is, and lonely. A person can forgive a lot if they need the company.

  When the fireworks start we go on to the balcony. Brightly coloured rockets and explosions paint the sky.

  ‘Don’t ever do anything like that again,’ she says, after the display finishes. ‘You hurt me.’

  ‘I know, and I won’t. Did you tell anybody about it?’

  She shakes her head, looks disappointed I asked that, then leaves, taking the snow globe with her.

  I hear you coming, weaving your way across the thick carpet in my bedroom.

  You’ve got a message for me, something you’d like to say.

  SEE YOU IN COURT, ANNIE.

  Up eight. Up another four.

  The door on the right.

  You wanted to cut off my hair, long down my back, to short as a boy’s.

  But you didn’t, it would draw attention to me at school.

  You still had your fun though.

  Dressed me up, stuffed my knickers with socks.

  But I wasn’t enough for you.

  The room in our house that had lain empty for months.

  The room opposite mine.

  You announced it to me at dinner one night.

  The playground, that’s what I’ll call it, you said.

  Insatiable.

  I knew you’d never be through, so I took my chance to leave you too.

  24

  Day one of your trial. I say no when Mike suggests I stay off school for the week. He’s trying to shield me. The press. Erupted. Every news report and headline I read online before breakfast, fill to overflowing with you. The BBC website shows the crowd gathering outside the courthouse. A mob. Angry. If they could they’d hammer on the van as you pass. Spit on it. Throw paint bombs, the colour of red. Murderer. Murderer.

  The silence in the house is deafening, the radio in the kitchen unplugged. Mike jokes to us all, I think we should try and do a week, maybe two, without TV. Phoebe says she doesn’t care, she’ll watch Netflix on her laptop. This morning before I leave the house Mike pulls me to one side, tells me to come home straight away if school gets too much. What about if it all gets too much, I wanted to ask.

  If I’d thought about it, been clever about it, I’d have stayed at home, missed swimming this morning. Stupid. Head, foggy. I change in a cubicle, thankful the scars and cuts on my ribs are hidden by where my costume sits. I’d tell them if I could, that I open my skin to bleed out the bad, let the good in. But they wouldn’t get it, they’d ask, what are you talking about, what bad?

  A line of canoes faces us, rescue training essential for the Duke of Edinburgh scheme. We’re split into groups of four, whoever we’re standing next to. I should have paid more attention.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Mrs Havel says, hurrying us up. ‘Has everybody got a group to work with? Wonderful. Line up at the edge of the pool.’

  Clondine tries to be nice.

  ‘Oh, come on, Phoebs, she’s not that bad.’

  Challenged in public, by one of her own. She tells Clondine, ‘Shut up, you don’t even know her.’

  She’s right.

  ‘No, but I know you,’ Clondine responds, flashing the healing cigarette burn on the back of her hand.

  We’re at the opposite end of the pool from the instructor. Hushed whispers pass back and forth, loud enough for me to hear. Phoebe and Izzy comment on the way my swimsuit fits, how dark the hair on my arms is. An old scar interests them, purple and large, on my right forearm.

  ‘Bet you she did it herself.’

  ‘Yeah, bet she did, probably into S and M.’

  An eruption of giggles.

  ‘Quieten down, you girls at the end.’

  The purple crater in my arm. No. I didn’t do it myself, that’s not how it happened. You said as you did it, Mummy, it’s so you’ll never forget. A branding. You held my arm against the heated towel rail in our bathroom. You’ll always be mine, you said. A tattoo of our love scorched into my arm.

  The instructor enters the pool, demonstrates how to roll in a canoe. The difference between life and death, he says, when he comes back up from the blue. Relax. Trust in the water, and your partner too. Whatever you do, don’t panic.

  I watch him, his mouth moves yet the sound is distorted. Slow motion. It takes me a moment to realize I’m falling. Shoved into the pool. Whispers first, something like, just do it, push her, go on. I land in the water with force, the tiles on the bottom bruising my legs. I use them as purchase to swim up for air. A row of heads all in a line stare at me as I surface. Girl soldiers in black Lycra, arms not at their sides but folded over their developing breasts. Laughter, a round of applause breaks.

  I swim to the edge, the instructor makes a joke about a keen bean. Phoebe offers me her hand as I approach the poolside. I know what she plans, I can see inside her mind and it doesn’t look dissimilar to mine. I take her hand, one foot up on the side of the pool, halfway out, then she lets go. This time I land flat on my back, the impact of the water stings my skin. More whoops and laughter.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Phoebe, grow up, that was stupid and dangerous, not to mention time-wasting for the rest of the class. I suggest you and Milly partner up for the canoe roll, see if you can be at all sensible together, and for pete’s sake, Milly, hurry up, or do I have to get a rod and fish you out?’

  ‘No, Mrs Havel.’

  I swim to the steps, satisfied by the look on Phoebe’s face. The joke’s on you now, canoe partner.

  ‘Actually, Mrs Havel, I could use a volunteer and as you’re already in the water –’ The instructor points at me.

  ‘Excellent idea, swim this way please, Milly.’

  When I get to him he asks me to climb into the canoe while he holds it still. It’s all about communication he says, and trust.

  ‘Ready?’

  I nod, gripping tight on to the sides.

  ‘Rolling on three, okay? One, two, three, and under.’

  A blur of blue, up in a flash.

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘It was okay.’

  ‘See, girls, a piece of cake. If you split into pairs for this next bit please, those without canoes can practise assisted swimming. Simply get your partner to lie on their backs in the water pretending to be unconscious. It’s your job to swim them to the side, keeping their nose and mouth clear of the water at all times.’

  ‘Mrs Havel, can’t I work with Izzy or Clondine?’

  ‘No, you and Milly will work together. If you hadn’t been so keen to muck around earlier you might have had the luxury of choice, but not now. Your turn for the roll.’

  The noise in the pool, splashes and screams, a nervousness in the air, nobody likes the idea of rolling under water. Marie complains about chlorine, the damage to her hair. I swim over to Phoebe, hold the canoe still. Her turn to roll. Perhaps she sees inside parts of my mind too, the thoughts I’m having, because she says, ‘Don’t try anything funny, okay?’

  My silence unnerves her, works every time.

  ‘I mean it, otherwise you’ll pay.’

  I nod, fingers crossed behind my back.

  While she’s climbing in I’m tempted to ask her about Sam. Her laptop, left behind in her room over half-term. I was surprised, yet pleased, to find it could be accessed with no password. Setting a password was the first thing I did when I was given mine. No need, she thinks. Mike’s the sort of parent who would never look without asking first. A firm believer in respecting privacy, in letting us be teenagers.

  I check behind me. The instructor is busy. Mrs Havel, at the other end of the pool. Girls be
ing girls, absorbed in themselves. I tell Phoebe I’ll count to three, then roll.

  ‘Just hurry the fuck up,’ she says.

  So I do. One, two, three and roll, all the way over.

  Not.

  Quite.

  I stop halfway through. One elephant. Two elephant.

  Three.

  She realizes at three. Her hands uncross from her chest, thump on the sides of the canoe. I feel her body move, whacking and writhing from side to side.

  Six elephant.

  Seven.

  The noise in the pool bounces off the tiles, laughter and coughing as water is cleared from mouths. Nobody looks, nobody notices. How long can the average person hold their breath underwater? Thirty seconds? Sixty?

  Nine elephant.

  Ten.

  Her nails dig into my hand, a vague swirl of pink in the water. Half-moon-shaped injuries, carved out by beautifully filed nails, her pride and joy. The instructor moves closer, Mrs Havel too. I roll the canoe, her head is up, out of the water. Emotions. A rainbow of colour across her face. Panic. Fear follows next. Relief she’s alive, and fury, the last to make an appearance. I revel in every single shade. She gasps, her chest heaves up and down, looks at me.

  ‘You bitch,’ she says. ‘Mrs Havel. Miss.’

  The instructor blows his whistle, shouts for us to switch over, those who’ve done the canoe roll now practise rescue swimming, and vice versa.

  ‘Mrs Havel.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Phoebe, can’t it wait?’

  Clondine and Izzy swim towards us, it’s Phoebe’s face they see. Pale. Panic. Stuck on repeat. The feeling her lungs are about to burst. Trapped.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Izzy asks.

  ‘I almost fucking drowned, that’s what’s wrong,’ she replies, staring at me. The whites of her eyes slightly red, the chlorine.

  ‘Drama queen,’ Izzy teases.

  ‘Fuck off, Iz, all of you just fuck off.’

  She climbs out of the canoe, swims to the steps nearest Mrs Havel and hauls herself out of the water. Goosebumps visible on her skin. You get them when you’re cold, other reasons too. Her hand reaches to her throat, reassuring herself she can breathe. I don’t know what she says to Mrs Havel but whatever it is she’s allowed to leave the pool and doesn’t return for the last part of the lesson.

  In her emails to Sam she mentioned me – there’s something I don’t like about her, she wrote. In what way, he asked. Don’t know, she’s just a bit of a weirdo or something.

  Or something, Phoebe.

  At the end of the lesson as I swim the canoe back up to the shallows, my right hand nips. Four indentations, the shape of her fear. Behind the privacy of the cubicle door I use my phone to photograph my hand. A keepsake.

  25

  The following day at school I remained on high alert, knowing Phoebe wouldn’t wait long to get me back. Tit for tat. A game of cat and mouse. A matter of time.

  I wasn’t supposed to but I also went to see MK, and as I walked up to her room I was aware of my eyes. Dry. Click as I blink, not enough sleep, a thought that unnerves me knowing I’ll be on the stand in two days. I don’t know what’s happening in court, Mike said he and June were in touch daily but I should focus on myself, on getting as much sleep as possible before Thursday. I’d like that too but every time I close my eyes, I see nine little somethings, crying, pointing at me, asking for help.

  I told MK what Mike and I agreed, that I’d be off school Thursday and Friday for a small procedure. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ she asked.

  No, only the severing of an umbilical cord.

  Should’ve been removed years ago. Toxic.

  As I get undressed to shower before bed, I keep hearing your voice, imagining you standing, waiting for me outside the courtroom tossing a coin. Heads or tails. The elongated one you had made when we visited a seaside town in Wales last year, not for a holiday, new territory you wanted to explore, you said. New hunting ground, is what you meant. When I went to the toilet you asked the man at the stall to stamp both sides of the coin with the same. Heads we play, tails we don’t, you said when we got home. It took me months to work out, both sides were heads. You won, every time. But you’re not the judge any more, a man in a wig is. Twelve other people too. You don’t get to decide this time. They do.

  I didn’t even hear her open the bathroom door, too busy lathering shampoo on my head, trying to quieten your voice. She yanks the shower curtain to one side. Enough time to cover my ribs with my arms, hide the scars, but not my breasts or my crotch. The flash on her phone, she takes what she needs.

  ‘That’ll teach you to try and drown me, bitch.’

  I wrap the shower curtain around me, scared she’ll pull it down, but she doesn’t. She asks me if I’ve been anywhere interesting lately. When I don’t reply, she says, ‘Don’t think I don’t know all about your little friend from the estate.’

  Hide. Don’t show. Steam making it hard to breath. Hot.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Izzy said she saw you with the little shit that sits outside the house. What’s the matter, can’t find friends your own age? Maybe I’ll tell Dad and he can ask you about it in your “private” time. Wonder what he’d think if he knew you were hanging out with one of the estate rats, especially one much younger.’

  She’s twelve, almost thirteen. Small for her age. And I know what your dad would think. He’d be worried.

  ‘Pathetic. That’s what you are. I bet you loved it in the Cotswolds without me, playing happy families with my parents.’

  I did, yes.

  ‘Not that I care, it won’t be long until you’re gone anyway, you probably won’t even get to stay for Christmas.’

  I look at her angry face. I should reach out, offer her my hand and say, let’s shake on it. Call a truce. Let’s do this together, think of the fun we could have. Think of the mischief. But the temptation to push back, to fight, is so much stronger. Her fault, she keeps feeding the wrong wolf, giving it permission to be in charge. So instead of trying to make peace, I say to her, ‘I hear you at night sometimes.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  A bullseye on her body, square in her chest, stops her in her tracks. She knows what I mean, that I hear her cry. I might be naked but she’s just been laid out bare.

  It takes only minutes after she leaves for my phone to vibrate, she’ll have got my new number from the blackboard by the front door, Mike insists everybody’s is up there. I unfold myself from the shower curtain, wrap a towel round me, walk over to my desk and pick up my phone. A picture message. Hair frothy with shampoo, skin shiny, arms folded round my ribs. Nipples hard, a dark bush below.

  I can see she sent it to a number of people. Girls and boys, Joe included maybe. I walk back into the bathroom, drop my towel. Slice. Once. Twice. Red. A more interesting photo, if only she’d asked.

  26

  Before I left for school this morning Saskia gave me a small velvet pouch. It’s a present, she said, from the crystal shop on Portobello Road. When I opened it, took it out, rolled it around my palm, the edges rough and raw, the top and bottom smooth and black, she told me it was a Black Tourmaline. The talisman of protection. I thought you could keep it in your pocket while you’re in court, I thought it might help, she said. I thanked her but the gesture, although kind, made me feel worse, reminded me I needed protection.

  I don’t feel ready for tomorrow, a dark-coloured bruise. Aubergine. Indigo. Deep inside. Pulsates. I go over the lawyers’ questions in my head as I walk to school – tell the court what your mother did, tell the court what you saw – but I can’t remember the answers.

  Just tell the truth, Mike says.

  Easier said.

  We meet in the hall for a run-through of the play. The words, their meaning, so familiar to me. Skulls gleaming white, the end of innocence, the girls dressed as boys. Phoebe was lucky last time, she wasn’t narrator when Ms James watched, but t
oday she stumbles her way through her lines, a prompt needed every minute or two. Miss Mehmet loses it, says, that’s it, Phoebe, you’re out, Milly’s taking over as narrator. The look on her face, and while the score’s not even – she’s way ahead after the photo last night – I’m hot on her tail.

  The punishment for stealing her part comes quickly. She posts my photo on the Year Eleven forum, a few alterations here and there, hair on my breasts and thighs. Frankenstein’s bride. She changes the password for the forum to ‘freak’, a tactic employed to keep snooping teachers at bay. She sends an email out alerting us to the change. These highly selective schools, a breed of smart yet sneaky teens. Tricks and trolls.

  A comment from LadyLucie2000 suggests, let’s set up a Facebook page called Milly the Freak. Phoebe added underneath: ‘Good idea!!!! I snapchatted it to Tommy at Bentleys, he’s going to pass it on to all the boys’ schools out of London.’

  At lunch I feel the stares as I walk past the tables to the servery. The majority look down as I walk back towards them with my tray, Clondine included, but not Phoebe or Izzy. Phones out, vicious smiles on their lips. It won’t be long until I’m allowed to have my own Facebook page. Once the trial’s over, June said. A lot of normal things to catch up with. In it to win it. I take a seat at a table as far away from them as I can and when they leave the dining room a girl called Harriet approaches me. Asks if I’m okay, says, not all of us are like Phoebe, just try and ignore her, she’ll leave you alone eventually. Sympathy. An important tool in my armour. A camouflage of my own.

  It hurts, don’t get me wrong, I’m not made of steel, but the heading on my photo – Milly the FREAK, she can run but she can’t hide – makes me feel better. Phoebe still doesn’t get it.

  My intention of running is nil.

  Hiding.

  Yes.

  Running.

  No.

  ‘I want you to imagine you’re up on the stand, you’re safe, the screen hides you from harm. The people who can see you, the jury, the lawyers and the judge, are not there to hurt you, only to listen. Identify an object to focus on in the courtroom, something that brings you comfort. I want you to look at it if any of the questions become too upsetting.’