Good Me Bad Me Read online

  A scrap of paper tucked behind one of the plant pots on the balcony catches my eye. I unlock the door, go out, pick it up. A phone number, the letter M underneath. Clever girl. Risky though, coming so close to the house. I send a text to the number letting her know it’s me. She replies instantly, asks if I want to meet up later. Yes, I answer. She tells me to meet her at three at the bottom of the garden, make sure I wear a hoodie. I get back into bed, cocoon myself in the duvet, enjoy the way Morgan’s message makes me feel. I didn’t have many friends at my old school, the invites to stay over petered out when they weren’t reciprocated. Couldn’t be.

  I sleep peacefully, feel rested for once, and hungry. I look for Rosie but her basket by the radiator in the entrance hallway is empty and I remember Mike said he sometimes takes her to work with him. More attention than at home.

  There’s a note on the kitchen table. ‘Checked in on you – FAST ASLEEP!! Text me and Sas your new number please. I’ll be at work all day but Sas is around.’

  I grab a bowl of cereal, eat it standing up against the warmth of the Aga. I hear the front door open, the antique bell above it sounds and whoever it is goes straight up the stairs.

  ‘Hello?’

  But they don’t answer, so I go into the hallway. A handbag dumped on the floor, contents spilling out. Saskia. I walk over to it, her purse visible on the top, forced open by the receipts in it. She’s a buyer, makes her feel better, for a bit. I’m about to walk away when I see something poking out from the card section in the purse. I take a closer look then go back into the kitchen to tidy away my breakfast things. When I hear footsteps on the landing above I move into the hallway again, make sure we arrive at the same time.

  ‘Hi, I didn’t realize you were down here. Did you enjoy your lie-in?’ she asks.

  A yoga mat slung over her shoulder, kept snug in a handmade silk bag, a present from Mike no doubt, or Benji perhaps, her teacher.

  ‘Yes thank you.’

  ‘What are you up to? If you’re interested, you could come to yoga with me?’

  Legs, thin like a locust’s, shiny in Lycra pulled tight up her crotch. Vagina lips. Outlined. Shaved, probably. She’s not shy.

  ‘No thanks, I’ve got loads of schoolwork to do – everybody seems so ahead at Wetherbridge.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, you’ll soon catch up. Will you be all right on your own? I can stay if you like?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll be back in about an hour and a half if you fancy doing something then?’

  ‘I think I’m meeting a friend.’

  ‘Somebody from school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looks at a watch on her wrist that doesn’t exist. Keen to leave.

  ‘I should go,’ she says.

  Halfway out the door she is, when I call to her.

  ‘Saskia.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t like to ask, I know you and Mike have already been so kind, but would I be able to have some money, in case I want to buy a hot chocolate or something?’

  ‘Sure, of course, let me grab my purse. We should sort out an allowance for you, Phoebe has one. I’ll speak to Mike tonight.’

  I walk towards her in the porch.

  ‘Will twenty do?’

  I nod.

  ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thank you, enjoy yoga.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And Benji.’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Be bendy.’

  ‘Right,’ she replies.

  There’ll be butterflies in her tummy as she backs the car out of the drive. Stop being paranoid, she’ll say to herself. Only she’s right to be, because try as I might, sometimes I can’t help myself.

  When it’s time, I head to the bottom of the garden to meet Morgan. I unlocked the gate the night after I gave her my phone which is how she must have discovered the fire escape that leads up to my balcony. She’s in a hurry to leave, wants to take me somewhere.

  ‘Put up your hood,’ she says. ‘Follow me.’

  When we get to the end of the close, we cross over the road and enter the estate she lives on. We’re immediately dwarfed by the buildings, a few people around but nobody bats an eye. Lights on in some of the windows, the late-afternoon sky darkening a little. Balconies stacked high with children’s bikes, washing machines and junk.

  ‘Hurry up, slow coach,’ she says.

  We walk to the tower block furthest into the estate, arrive at a set of stairs round the back.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘All the way up,’ and she points to the top of the building. ‘Race you.’

  She takes off first, but I soon catch her. Sixteen flights, no lights on the stairs, a door at the top, cobalt paint peeling off, the colour stands out from the grey concrete of the walls. We pause to catch our breath, smile at each other. She takes down her hood, I do the same.

  ‘Come on,’ she says.

  She opens the door, the wind greets us with lust as we step out. Races up and over, crazy hard licks. She takes my sleeve, pulls me to the left. As we get closer to the edge of the roof I can see the world below. Cars and buses, people, no clue at all that we’re up here watching them. She points to a part of the railing that’s missing, says, be careful.

  I nod. We walk towards a big air vent, a giant propeller encased in ribbed squares.

  ‘Less windy here,’ she says.

  There’s broken glass on the floor next to the vent, an empty Coke bottle. A plastic crate, two, maybe more. Cigarette butts scattered around. Ugly, yet beautiful, a place to be anonymous.

  ‘Who comes up here?’

  ‘Hardly anyone, just me usually. I don’t live in this block but sometimes I come here to get away.’

  I understand what she means, the need to get away sometimes. Often.

  ‘How’s the phone?’ I ask her.

  ‘All good, it was already unlocked so I got hold of a new SIM. Easy. Do you want it back?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a new one, you hang on to it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got something else as well.’

  I take the wrap I stole from Saskia’s purse out of my jeans pocket, hand it to her.

  ‘No way, where did you get it?’

  ‘Found it in my foster mum’s handbag.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  I watch her unfold it crease by crease, until it lies open in her hand. She squats down, shields the contents, tells me she’s had it a couple of times before at parties on the estate. She uses her pinkie to scoop some of the white powder on to her finger, leans in, plugs one nostril, sniffs the drug up the other. She passes the wrap to me, lies down immediately, a starfish on concrete. When she closes her eyes I pretend to inhale some. I fold it back up, lie down next to her.

  ‘Fuck, that’s good,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So how’s life with blondie?’

  ‘I’m trying to stay out of her way.’

  ‘Wise move, I don’t reckon she’s got a nice bone in her body.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘So why were you sneaking around your foster mum’s stuff anyway?’

  ‘Just bored I guess, she’s kind of easy to wind up as well.’

  ‘So you like winding people up then?’

  ‘Not really, I shouldn’t do it to her. I reckon she’s a bit scared of me.’

  ‘Scared of you? As if. What’s so scary about you?’

  My past, is what’s scary.

  ‘Nothing. Here, have some more coke.’

  Morgan’s question unsettles me, makes me think about what lives inside me and if it’s possible to outrun it. Traits buried deep in my DNA follow me. Haunt me.

  She takes a line, jumps to her feet, asks me if I want to feel like I’m flying.

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ she says.

  We walk to the edge of the roof, the gap in the barrier, the wind stronger, the
sky darker. She’s behind me, pushes me forward, close to the edge. Climb up, she says, on to the ledge. My body’s rigid, my legs won’t obey. It feels like a game I don’t want to play.

  ‘Go on, climb up, you won’t fall. I do it all the time. Spread your arms out like an eagle.’

  ‘No, it’s too windy.’

  She calls me a wimp, moves forward and steps on to the ledge, takes a moment to steady herself before uncurling her body from crouching, stands up.

  One wrong move.

  And.

  Something switches on in my body.

  ‘See,’ she says, laughing. ‘It’s not hard, not for some of us anyway.’

  Your voice comes to me now, it’s angry, disappointed. SHE’S LAUGHING AT YOU, ANNIE, THAT’S NOT OKAY, FIND A WAY, MAKE HER PAY. No, I don’t want to. I want to walk away but instead I take a step closer to her. A current runs up and down my spine, so dead since I left you, I don’t know who I am. YES YOU DO, ANNIE, YOU DO KNOW, SHOW ME. I take another step, my arms stretch out so close to her, there on the edge, and maybe I would have, maybe I’m capable of it. Of worse. But she jumps down, turns to me, grinning, a chip in her front tooth. A powerful feeling of guilt when I look at her.

  ‘Chicken,’ she says. ‘What do you want to do now?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the air vent, take some more coke.’

  ‘Okay.’

  When we’re lying on the ground again I ask Morgan why she wanted to fly, why she wanted to be like an eagle.

  ‘To escape I suppose, go somewhere else.’

  ‘Somebody once told me a story about a girl who was so scared she prayed to be given the wings of an eagle.’

  ‘What was she scared of?’

  The person who was telling her the story.

  ‘Something was chasing her but no matter how fast she ran, or how far she went, it was always right behind her.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘A serpent. It would wait until the girl was tired out from running, wait until she’d fallen asleep, and then it would come.’

  ‘Is a serpent the same as a snake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why was it after the girl?’

  ‘It wasn’t really a snake, it was just pretending to be one.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘It was a person, letting the girl know if she ever tried to leave, it would come after her. Find her.’

  ‘How can a person turn into a snake?’

  ‘Sometimes people aren’t what they say they are.’

  ‘Does the girl get away?’

  Not in the version you told me, Mummy.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the girl disappeared and hasn’t been seen since, and neither has the snake.’

  ‘Do you think it’s still chasing her?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Probably.

  ‘I’m glad no snakes are after me.’

  ‘Yeah, lucky.’

  ‘Have you got loads of other stories?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me another one?’

  ‘Maybe next time.’

  I got what I wanted, for Morgan and me to be friends, but now I’m afraid.

  One wrong move.

  And.

  You mocked me in my head, said DON’T YOU SEE, ANNIE?

  DON’T YOU SEE WHO YOU ARE?

  11

  When I get back to the house I see Mike’s coat on the banister in the hallway, he must be home early from work. I collect my iPod from my room, not wanting to stay there alone, and head to the alcove outside his study. I like it there because it’s an overspill for his books and a good spot, I’ve learnt, to listen in to his telephone conversations. The books in the alcove vary but mostly involve the study of all things ‘psycho’. Psychoanalysis. Psychotherapy. Psychology. And a particular favourite of mine, a red hardback book on the study of psychopaths. The label given to you, by the press. Large and heavy the book is, a lot of chapters. Who knew they knew so much about you.

  It’s the chapter on the children of psychopaths that interests me the most. The confusion a child feels when violence is mixed with tenderness. Push and pull. A hyper vigilance, never knowing what to expect, but knowing to expect something. I recognize that feeling, I lived it every day with you. Like the time the power went off in our house, a storm outside. Worse inside. You got a torch, told me to go to the cellar, flick the circuit breaker back up. I told you I was scared, I didn’t want to, I knew there was more than boxes and old furniture down there. You held the torch under your chin, told me you’d come with me, a trick, of course. You pushed me in, slid the bolt across. I clung to the door, counted backwards, a hundred or more, then I blacked out, woke up with you kicking me. You were disappointed in me, that’s what you said, for being weak and afraid, vowed to toughen me up, teach me how to be just like you. That night I fantasized about turning the tables, ending your lessons, but I knew even if you were dead, your ghost would walk through walls until it found me.

  I hear the phone in Mike’s study ring, he answers quickly as if he expects it. I lift my headphones away from my ear, not that I have any music on, the trick, always look absorbed. Oblivious. Mike trusts me, no reason not to.

  Yet.

  A pause, then, hi, June, no problem at all, you’re a good distraction for me, anything but write up today’s notes. I know, tell me about it. Yes, she’s fine, doing well at school, working hard. I’m trying to persuade Phoebe to do the same.

  Laughter.

  He doesn’t speak for a while, listening to June, then says, god, poor girl, what more does she have to go through. I can’t believe it.

  A small explosion in my chest.

  Mike goes quiet, listening again, then replies, yes, of course, I’ll tell her about the trial-related stuff but not what her mum’s saying. Thanks, June, I appreciate all the effort you’re making. Yes, we think so too, very special indeed.

  A click. Conversation over.

  I replace my headphones, slide the red book under a cushion just before Mike comes out of the study. I pretend not to notice him, drum my fingers to the imaginary music I’m listening to. He waves his hand in front of me, I smile, press pause on my iPod, pull my headphones down.

  ‘Hey, how was your day?’ he asks.

  ‘Okay thanks.’

  ‘What are you reading?’

  A heavy red book about Mummy. And me.

  I hold up Lord of the Flies, the other book I’m reading.

  ‘It’s a set text. Miss Mehmet believes we should read at least one classic per month. It’s also the play we’re doing this term.’

  ‘Did you get a part?’

  ‘I missed the auditions but Miss Mehmet asked me to be the prompt, and I’m going to help out backstage, paint the scenery and stuff.’

  ‘Nice. Did Phoebe get a part?’

  Of course she did, she runs Year Eleven. Didn’t you know?

  ‘She’s the onstage narrator, a lot of lines to learn.’

  ‘Yikes, she’d better get busy then. Are you enjoying it?’ He nods towards the book.

  ‘Yeah, I am.’

  ‘What do you like about it?’

  ‘There’s no adults.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘No, not like that.’

  ‘Like what then? You like the fact the children don’t have parents?’

  ‘They do have parents, they’re just not on the island with them.’

  ‘Good point. But there’s some pretty upsetting scenes though, aren’t there?’

  I nod, reply. ‘Like Piggy’s death.’

  ‘Doesn’t a boy called Simon die too?’

  He noticed that I didn’t mention that, the psychologist in him keen to explore why.

  ‘Simon’s death is very upsetting, don’t you think?’ he asks.

  I hesitate for long enough to make it look like I’m giving it some thought, then rep
ly.

  ‘Yes.’

  What I want to tell him. The truth. Is. I don’t find the idea of people or children hurting and killing each other upsetting.

  I find it familiar. I find it is home.

  He sits down next to me. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, lightly coloured hair on his forearms, an expensive-looking watch. Close enough to touch me, but he won’t.

  ‘I’ve just been on the phone to June, she was checking in before she heads off for a few days of holiday.’

  And reporting back to him whatever it is you’re saying. Another plate on a pole, spinning.

  ‘Is there any news about the trial? If I have to go or not?’

  ‘Nothing concrete yet, but she did tell me the lawyers were putting together a series of questions for us to go through.’

  ‘Questions?’

  ‘Things you might be asked.’

  ‘So I am going to be cross-examined then?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet and I know that’s a horrible feeling, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do. I promise.’

  He stands up, stretches, offers to make me a snack, attempts to distract me. Stop me from asking any more questions. I walk through to the front part of the house with him.

  ‘That reminds me, I forgot to tell you yesterday we’re having a family dinner tonight.’

  ‘All of us?’

  ‘Yep. You, me, Sas and Phoebs.’

  Pass the potatoes please, dog-face.

  I wonder how that would go down at the table.

  ‘We usually meet at about seven, is that okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I spend the next couple of hours sketching and listening through the wall to Phoebe in her room, conversation after conversation on the phone. I think about knocking on her door, pretending it’s the first time we’ve met.

  Let’s forget about everything that’s happened so far, I’d say. Let’s start again. Friends, even.