Читать книгу After She Fell: A haunting psychological thriller with a shocking twist - Mary-Jane Riley - Страница 15

End of May: twenty-eight weeks before she dies

Is this how it begins? A few snatches of conversation here and a few there: conversation that feels all secret and special. It is intoxicating. Liberating.

I’m lying on my saggy old bed in an old tee-shirt and scuzzy shorts looking round the room I share with Tara. The posters on the wall: One Direction, for God’s sake; The ‘Desiderata’: ‘No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.’ Really? Maybe it is, now. Strings of fairy lights carelessly winding around the headboards. Our two desks piled high with books and papers; photographs of family and friends Sellotaped onto the walls above. Clothes discarded on chairs, spilling out of the two small wardrobes; shelves jam-packed with books, soft toys, pieces of memories of friends. This is my life on the surface. It doesn’t show the dark side. The you-know-what. The depression. The anxiety. The anorexia. And in recent times, the anger that Mum had to go and marry someone so unsuitable: that’s the word, isn’t it? Unsuitable and young, for fuck’s sake! I mean, what’s that all about?

I’ve always known I’m different. I don’t surround myself with besties, don’t wear friendship bracelets, don’t want to go to boy band gigs. Apart from the you-know-what, I am happy in my own skin. As I say, just wanting to get through it and out the other side.

But now.

But now things are changing. Really changing. I thought that wouldn’t happen until I’d left this dump, gone to uni, gone on a gap year, done something, lived a little. But it’s happening now. Right here, right now. I hug the knowledge to myself, wanting to get each moment out of my head and look at it. Hold it up to the light. Twist it around and around and examine it, watch it sparkle. Is it really happening? Is love really happening?

There’s a knock on the door.

I find Max waiting outside, shuffling from foot to foot and blushing. Of course.

‘What do you want?’ I ask, not unkindly coz I know he fancies me. A lot. Even if he can hardly bear to look at me.

‘I… I… I …’ He looks down at his shoes.

I try not to sigh. He can’t help his stammer. ‘Come on Max, I’ve got to get back to an essay I’m trying to write. And you shouldn’t be here anyway.’ He would get into real trouble if any of the prefects found him in the sixth form building at this time of day.

‘I know.’ His face is anxious. ‘I just …’

Now I am getting pissed off. I have things I want to do and it doesn’t involve writing an essay.

‘I saw you with Theo the other day,’ he blurts out. ‘Coming from the summerhouse. He talks about you to his friends. He’s really horrible.’

‘I know that, Max. Don’t worry about it. I don’t.’

‘You should. What about me?’

‘You?’

‘Me.’

The silence is painful as it dawns on me what he is asking. ‘Max.’ I try to sound even kinder than before. ‘I can’t – you’re too – it’s just …’

His eyes are wet. Then he thrusts something at me. ‘Here. For you.’ Then he runs off.

A box of chocolates. A frigging box of chocolates. Oh, Max.

I throw the box of chocs onto my desk before locking the door. Tara is doing prep in the library and won’t be up for hours. I look at my clothes. I pick a pair of skinny jeans up off the floor, pull an electric blue shirt off a hanger and dress quickly. I won’t have much time to do this. I go to the chest of drawers and find my eyeliner and mascara. Finally, I rub some gloss over my lips and give my hair a quick brush. Rummaging around in my bag, I find my phone and open up Facebook. I hardly ever do this, but I’m happy. I post. Then thumb through to the camera, pressing video then record. The red dot comes on. How long have I got? God, I should have found that out. Never mind. I can go on until it stops. Can’t I?

I sit cross-legged on the bed and brush the hair out of my eyes. I smile. That’s easy. I feel like smiling all the time now.

‘Hello, it’s me. Elena,’ I say to the screen. Awkward! I cough, not sure what to say next. This is new territory for me. A private video. I run my tongue around my lips, tasting the stickiness of my lip gloss, then smile at the screen. ‘Did you mean what you said? That you found me beautiful? That you wanted to hear what I had to say about things? That you …’ I hesitate for a moment, ‘were really interested in me? As if what I thought matters? As if I matter?’

I pause the recording. That’s what I miss about Mum since she got married: she didn’t seem to have any time for me, to listen to me. What with Mark and the job I might as well be invisible. There is a prickling at the back of my eyes. I blink the tears away. Enough of that. I’ve got someone who understands about that. Who said the same thing had happened to them – Mum married someone younger and was busy with work – so understood what I was going through. I could forget about Mum with her job that physically took her away and her new husband who mentally took her away. I take a deep breath and smile again before pressing record once more. ‘You said you hadn’t met anyone like me before. Anyone as beautiful. Did you mean that? You did, didn’t you? I could see it in your eyes.’

I press stop. It’s all too exciting – talking about what could be seen in each other’s eyes. Or is it soppy? Stupid? I press record.

‘The eyes are a mirror for the soul, you said. Well my soul overflows with you. With the thought of you.’

Too much. Too wanky. Sounds like something a bad poet would say. I delete it. Clear my throat. Press record. ‘I know you said you wanted to hear from me; you wanted me to send you a vid, but I’m not sure what to say. It’s all so … new.’ And exciting. And bad. I know it’s bad. Haven’t we had all that stuff drummed into us about responsibility and abuse of power and all that crap? But I’m sixteen, almost seventeen, for fuck’s sake: I know how it works. Or think I do. A kernel of doubt enters my head. Am I being taken for a ride? No. I do know how it works.

There is a loud knocking on the door and the handle rattles. ‘Hey, Lee, what you doing in there? Why’s the door locked?’ Tara sounds petulant. ‘Come on, Lee, I wanna come in.’

I quickly turn my phone off and open the door.

‘What you doing in here, Lee?’ Tara looks around the room, eyes suspicious. ‘Is there someone with you?’

‘No.’

‘Why are you dressed up? Make-up and everything? Didn’t I hear you talking?’ She pounces on the box of chocolates on my desk. ‘Ooo, who are they from? Not Theo. Not his style.’ She undoes the red ribbon, takes off the cellophane and dives in. ‘Let me guess. Max? I’m right, aren’t I?’ She gives me a chocolate giggle.

I shrug. We have laughed about Max fancying me but I don’t want to laugh now. Now I can understand how raw his feelings must be.

‘Whatever,’ she says, and takes another chocolate. ‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I was talking to myself.’ Now I blush. That’s when I really hate myself and the way my body lets me down. ‘And I’m not dressed up.’

‘You so are. Is it Theo?’ Her eyes light on the phone on the bed. ‘Were you talking to him? How’s it going?’

How is it going? Nowhere, really. He is a good cover, that’s all. Though how long I can keep up the pretence, I’m not sure.

It happened like this.

I get a text from him – Theo – and manage to sneak out of school and meet him in the old summerhouse at the very edge of The Drift’s grounds. We aren’t supposed to go there: it has been condemned as unsafe, but I know it is the place he and his friends take their girlfriends to smoke skunk and shag. It’s known in the sixth form as the ‘knocking shop’. The boys stay the same – Theo, Felix, Lucas and Ralph, occasionally Ollie – it is the girls who are interchangeable.

‘Sssh,’ says Theo as he opens the door. We go in, the torch on his phone lighting the way.

‘Where did you get the key?’ I ask.

He grins, tapping the side of his nose like some detective in a bad cop show. ‘Don’t you worry about that, sweetie. Come on.’

He goes around drawing the tatty old curtains before sitting down on one of the wicker settees that still has life in it. It actually does have cushions on it, almost making it inviting, as long as you don’t look at the broken weave sticking out ready to pierce your arse. The shadows cast by the harsh light of the phone dip and dance around the room, giving it an eerie quality. During the day, I know, the sunlight streams in, illuminating the dirt and the dust. Being here at night feels uncomfortable and strange. It smells musty and of something sweet. There is also the definite tang of dead mouse.