Special, p.22
Special, page 22
‘Go on, pet,’ said one of them. She had sludgy brown eyes and a dribble of something down the front of her uniform. ‘You look like you could do with a bit of feeding up. How about a sausage?’
She shook her head.
‘Potato?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Got to eat something. Come on.’
The clatter of the kitchen began to press at Hen’s head. The striplights shone down on the sausages, making them glisten, making everything look sick. The woman picked up a spoon and shovelled on a mound of potato. ‘Here. This won’t do you any harm. That and some salad. Are you on a diet?’
Hen couldn’t speak. All that happened when she opened her mouth was a dull sort of creak.
‘Go on.’ The woman’s voice was conspiratorial. ‘If I had a figure like yours, I wouldn’t worry about what I ate ever again.’ Hen pushed her plate towards the spoon. If she didn’t take it, there would be a scene and she’d end up having to eat with Naylor again. The woman grabbed the plate and whacked two big spoonfuls of baked beans onto it before Hen could say anything. ‘There.’ She stood back. ‘Nothing wrong with baked beans, is there?’
A bluebottle which had been fizzing for a while in the corner of Hen’s vision swept round and down onto the plate. Hen could see its bluey shine, the way its little legs worked towards the food. The woman flicked at it with her free hand. Hen was beginning to wonder if she might faint again.
She took the plate and looked at it. Then, with the woman and Miss Naylor still watching her, she walked over to the bin in the corner of the hall and scraped the contents in. She was aware of their gaze on her, but it no longer seemed to make much difference. She put the plate down on the side and walked out of the room. No one spoke; no one tried to call her back.
+
‘Here,’ said Rob, holding up a hand-rolled cigarette. ‘Want one?’
Ali looked at the little white tube. It was skinny—not much wider than one of those hollow plastic toothpicks from the canteen—but neat. For a second, she wondered if she ought to take it. ‘No, thanks.’
He smiled. ‘I thought all teenagers smoked. I thought it was compulsory for teenagers to smoke.’
‘No.’ Ali sounded stiffer than she intended. ‘They make me cough.’
‘Quite right.’ He put the little tube back into its tin and leaned back. They were sitting outside again, not far from the fence which marked the end of the Manor grounds. From time to time, Ali glanced upwards. The sky had turned an odd yellow colour, and the clouds had a sickly taint to them, as if the weather itself was ill. It would probably rain again before long.
She was fighting hard to suppress a feeling of unspecified urgency. Perhaps she shouldn’t bother with this. Perhaps it would be easier just to go back to the Manor and submit to the inevitability of things. Perhaps she should not be sitting here with a strange man in a strange place plotting strange futures. What if she had misjudged and got Rob wrong? After all, wasn’t this exactly what she’d been taught to fear? Men who offered things to children, men in cars, men who followed her through midnight streets, men concealing unknown weapons under overcoats, men who flashed, men who spat or thumped or raped or groped. Men who talked to girls when they didn’t have anything to say. Men who looked at girls in that sort of way. Men who were interested in girls. Men who did anything other than act completely indifferent to girls. She was supposed to be suspicious of all of them, of what they might want and what they might take away. It was just a standard rule of life; women were safe and men were unsafe. So how was she supposed to judge them if she never got close enough to figure out how they worked? How would she understand which ones wanted to steal from her when she didn’t even know what she had to offer?
When she thought about it, she wasn’t scared of Rob in the normal way. She wasn’t scared of being mugged or murdered or—God forbid—given the sort of confectionery that led to being shoved in the back of an unmarked van, driven to a nearby wasteland and becoming the subject of an unsolved police enquiry. She couldn’t be mugged by a man who smoked roll-ups, anyway; it would be humiliating. And she’d long ago decided that she was too ugly to get raped. It wasn’t any of that. It was just that she feared the infinite mysteries of other people’s minds. Particularly now.
‘So,’ said Rob. ‘How did your plan go?’
Ali put her hand up to fiddle with her hair, remembered that it would make her look nervous and put it down again. ‘Fine. They were angry, but they’re always angry.’
‘And you still want to do this?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
He looked over towards the river. ‘I’m still not sure I understand your reasons.’
Now she came to think of it, Ali wasn’t sure she understood her reasons either. It was just a feeling, a low-down lumpy feeling like dread or shame. ‘I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I can’t see why I’m here any more.’ It sounded lame, but it was the truth.
‘You’re here to get educated. Same as anyone else your age. No one likes it, but everyone has to do it.’
‘You sound like my mother.’
He smiled. ‘Do I?’
‘It isn’t the education bit. I don’t mind that. It’s the other stuff.’
‘How do you know the other stuff would be better anywhere else?’
‘It wouldn’t be so tight.’ Ali’s hands made a strangling gesture. ‘It wouldn’t be like you could never get free.’
‘And you know if you get found there will be hell to pay?’
She nodded. ‘I don’t mind that. It’s always the same.’
‘If I get found, there will be bigger hell to pay. There’s probably some law against aiding and abetting disgruntled thirteen-year-olds.’
‘Fourteen,’ said Ali.
‘Thirteen or fourteen, you’re still under age.’
‘If you don’t, then I’ll just do it anyway.’
He looked up at her for the first time. There was amusement in the corners of his eyes, and something else as well.
Ali found she couldn’t hold his gaze for very long.
‘I believe you,’ he said.
Thursday
Hen picked up the letter on the table. It was addressed in handwriting that she didn’t recognize, weird handwriting that sloped backwards and forwards at the same time. The letter inside was written on paper so flimsy it was almost see-through.
Dear Hen, it said. I hope you got back alright on Sunday. I am sorry about the argument. It must have been because I’m not a very good host—especially not in this dump! When I next see you. Life here is boring as usual. It would be nice to see you sometime. Maybe it would be fun to meet up and talk about music and stuff with you sometime. We could go to a gig. I’ve got some amazing new stuff- the best yet. Good funcky stuff. I think you might like them. I am sorry about the business with Caz. Nick is a mate but he can be unfair sometimes. He thinks about his reputation too much of the time. The darts. Don’t tell him I said anything. Anyway. I hope you are going to have good holidays.
Are you going to Scotland? My number at home is above.
Be cool, Adey.
There were two very small crosses at the bottom. If they’re small, wondered Hen, does that mean they’re like pecks on the cheek?
‘What’s that?’ Caz extended her hand.
‘Letter.’
‘Who from?’
‘Adey.’
‘Eeeuwww!’ Mel had overheard. ‘He fancies you.’
‘Don’t think so. He just wants to talk about music.’
Fancying people, desiring them, seemed a faraway notion. What did fancying mean anyway? Was it a form of physical desire—in which case she felt only a vast and long-gone astonishment—or merely that you got embarrassed when they were mentioned? If embarrassment was the standard, then perhaps she did fancy Adey.
‘Can I see?’
‘N-no.’
‘Why, babe?’ Caz seemed soft all of a sudden.
‘I . . . it isn’t . . .’
Caz took the letter gently out of her hands, read it through and then passed it back. Hen looked down at the table where the ants still roamed. When she looked up again, Caz had gone.
+
Izzy was sitting on her bed staring at them. They were staring back. No one was speaking. They were just sitting there sidling glances at each other like people with secrets.
Izzy looked much as she had always looked. She wore the same shapeless colourless styleless clothes as she had been wearing two days ago, but the puffiness had gone and her breathing seemed even. Her manner had altered as well. She seemed older, loftier, as if she understood the world differently now.
And so they sat like that: Jules, Caz, Hen, Ali and Mel, silent. This was Izzy, for God’s sake, thought Ali; this was the same girl they’d spent the last three years trying not to speak to. And now when she finally had something interesting to say, no one could find the words to ask her.
‘What was it like?’ said Jules.
Izzy began taking her belongings out of the small overnight bag and putting them back in the drawers. ‘It was hospital.’
‘And?’
‘And.’ She sounded sarcastic. ‘It was like hospitals usually are.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like normal. Like crowded, people giving you injections, sitting around a lot.’
‘Did they give you tests?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of tests?’
‘Usual tests.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the stuff they usually do.’
Jules’s leg began to twitch rhythmically. ‘D’you think you might have died?’
‘Dunno. Could have done.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They said it was lucky I got to the hospital when I did.’
‘Wow.’ Jules sounded impressed. ‘God.’
Izzy stopped what she was doing and glared at Jules. ‘Sorry. I’ll try harder next time.’
‘Didn’t mean that. Just . . .’
‘D’you know what went wrong?’ said Caz.
‘I didn’t have my medicine.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t there.’
‘How not there?’
Izzy looked at Caz as if she too was an idiot. Ali was surprised by the show of insolence; Izzy usually crept the floor when Caz spoke to her. ‘It wasn’t there. Someone must have taken it.’
‘Like who?’
‘Don’t know. It wasn’t there.’
‘Thought your medicine was only for the eczema?’ said Jules.
‘Is. But there’s hayfever stuff too.’
‘But what you had, it wasn’t hayfever. Jaws said you had sort of a reaction thing.’
‘I did,’ said Izzy stubbornly. ‘But my medicine wasn’t there.’
‘So the medicine wouldn’t have helped anyway?’
‘Yes it would.’
‘How?’ said Jules.
‘It just would.’
‘How would it?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
Jules boiled.
Caz moved in. ‘What was the ward like?’
‘Just normal.’
‘Were there lots of other people?’
‘Few.’
‘Were they nice?’
‘Dunno. Didn’t talk to them.’
‘So what did you do all day?’
‘Only been away about twenty-four hours.’
‘Yeah, but you must have . . .’
‘There was breakfast TV. Big deal.’
‘What was the ambulance like?’ said Jules.
‘OK.’
‘Did Miss Naylor try to be nice to you?’
Mel giggled. Izzy looked at her as if she’d been insulted.
‘Did they give you nice drugs?’
‘Nice drugs?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jules. ‘You know, like morphine. Morphine’s nice.’
‘Morphine?’
‘Yeah. Morphine’s excellent. Morphine’s like free coke. They give it to you free if you’re ill.’
‘I wasn’t there to pick up a Class A drug habit.’ Izzy’s voice had taken on its old pompous tremor. ‘Being in hospital isn’t nice. The drugs aren’t nice. They give you injections all the time and shove stuff over your face and talk to you like you’re some kind of retard. None of it’s nice.’
‘Yeah, but did they give you morphine?’
Izzy put her hairbrush down on the bed and turned to face Jules. ‘No, they didn’t fucking give me morphine. I didn’t go to hospital for some kind of free drugs thing.’
Jules lost her temper. She stood up, banging against Ali’s shin. ‘I’m only fucking trying to be interested!’ she yelled. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck about your fucking hospital thing. I was just trying to say something!’
Izzy stared up at her, chin out.
‘And it was me that fucking got you to the hospital in the first fucking place and if I hadn’t rung 999 you’d still be sitting on the fucking verge with fucking Miss Useless Retard Naylor dabbing bloody Savlon on your knee and I wish I hadn’t fucking bothered now.’
Jules turned and stumped across the room. ‘Next time you can just fucking stay there! Next time you can just fucking DIE!’ She walked out, slamming the door behind her so hard the wall shivered.
In the long silence which followed, Ali was not sure where to look. She got up slowly, trying to look as if she’d thought of a good reason not to sit there any more. Izzy went on fussing over her stuff, putting her pyjamas under her pillow. One by one, they all returned to their own beds. All except Hen, who just sat there, opposite Izzy, staring.
+
They were outside, sunbathing. There was real heat in the day now, proper roasting heat, the kind that changed the colour of skin after only an hour or so. Not that Caz needed much help. She was already tanned to the point of ambiguity, but, as she pointed out to Jules and Vicky, there was always room for a bit more.
Jules was swatting at invisible midges. ‘Fucking bloodsuckers.’
‘Put lotion on.’
‘Doesn’t work.’ She rounded on Vicky, who was lying flat on her stomach beating a lazy tattoo on the cover of her book. ‘Can’t you stop making that stupid noise?’
Vicky smiled. ‘You’re just in a crap mood.’
‘No.’ Yes, actually. What should have been a moment of rare and startling beauty with Izzy had become something more familiar. She hadn’t had any strict notions of how things were supposed to happen when Izzy returned, just that it included something along the lines of Izzy kneeling on the floor and sobbing extravagantly into the hems of her jeans. She hadn’t intended to point out that she was a hero and she hadn’t intended to make any kind of big issue about it, but she had hoped that her one dazzling moment of life-saving self-sacrifice would at least be greeted with some display of gratitude; large amounts of reward money, perhaps, or just a lifetime’s worth of slavish devotion. But no. Instead, she was stuck once again with Izzy’s ingratitude and the bitter knowledge that she had somehow managed to turn a good situation into a wrong one.
Caz sat upright. ‘God, it’s depressing. I can’t stand how fat I am.’
‘You’re not,’ said Vicky, watching Caz’s ankles so she wouldn’t have to look further up at her stomach or—God forbid—her tits. ‘You’re so thin and brown it’s disgusting.’
‘I’m not. Look like a bag of chips.’
‘It’s me that’s fat. Must of put on about three stone this term.’
‘You’re fine.’
‘I’m not. I’m repellent.’
Jules lay down flat on her bath towel and turned her face away. Couldn’t they just shut up, she thought savagely. People who looked like supermodels should be banned from ever saying anything about their own bodies, and from ever sunbathing in the company of normal people, the ones with fat bits and blobby bits and short bits and insufficient bits. And they should be banned from whining about anything ever again.
She was on the verge of getting up and going to find somewhere less corrosive to sunbathe when Caz said slowly, ‘We’re being watched.’
Vicky shrieked and slammed the book down over her chest. ‘Where? Who?’
‘Over there. Two of the men from downstairs.’
‘Fucking perverts! What are they doing?’
‘Staring at us.’
‘Freaks!’
‘Don’t move.’
‘Why?’
‘They’ll know you’ve seen them.’
‘Yeah! Course!’
‘No. Hang on. Just wait.’ Caz put on her sunglasses, turned over on her back and slowly began to undo the strap of her bikini top.
‘Caz!’ Vicky giggled. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Take your top off.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Go on.’
‘Why? Don’t want some creepy—’
‘Just do it.’
Vicky, grumbling, undid her own bikini top and lay down flat, her arms pinned crosswise over her chest.
‘Jules. Come on.’
‘Why?’
‘Explain later. Come on.’
Jules didn’t like Caz’s sunglasses. She didn’t like it when Caz turned towards her and all Jules would see was just a black space where her expression used to be. Jules undid one strap and then put it back. ‘Why do I have to do this?’
Caz didn’t answer.
Jules undid the other strap and whipped the bikini off. She found that she could not look down at herself without blushing.
‘Right. Now. Look casual.’
Yeah, right. Jules lay back, one leg crooked and one arm draped languidly over her forehead. She did not feel languid.
Time passed. When she opened her eyes again Caz was leaning up on one elbow. Her other arm was resting on one hip, and she was stroking one foot slowly up and down the other. Her hair was swept round so the tips of it just brushed the top of one nipple and—Jules wasn’t quite sure she could believe this—she was pouting. Quite distinctly pouting. Oh, please. This was ridiculous. There was no way anyone would fall for that.
Jules started to laugh. ‘You look—’
‘Fuck off’
‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like?’
