Good Me Bad Me(19)

‘Clonny.’

‘Yeah?’

‘There’s some more stuff about that psycho bitch that killed those kids.’

‘Fuck, really? What does it say?’

‘Something about a playground. Come here, I’ll show you.’

Clondine heaves herself off a beanbag, crawls towards her. My body reacts. Panic. Cold sweat. The back of my neck.

‘Shall I read it out loud?’ Phoebe asks.

‘Yeah, go on,’ Clondine replies.

I swallow, try to. Gremlin fingers block my throat. A nasty taste. Don’t be sick, can’t be. Not here.

Interest is piqued. Girl by girl, bees to honey. They slide into the chairs next to Phoebe, peer over shoulders, she knows how to work a crowd.

‘Forty-eight-year-old Ruth Thompson was a popular member of staff at the women’s refuge where she worked. Employed as a Nurse Counsellor, she was the main point of contact for the scores of frightened women and their children who were in hiding, often fleeing dangerous and violent partners. Little did they know they had met a person equally, if not more evil in her. Thompson was arrested in July this year and charged with nine counts of child murder, said to have been committed over a period of ten years, from 2006 to 2016. New details emerging claim these murders were carried out in a bedroom she called the playground at her home in Devon. Following her arrest, the bodies of eight children were discovered in the cellar of the house and a ninth found in the so-called playground. The victims are thought to be between the ages of three and six years old. Thompson lived in this property with a teenage child of her own who is said to have provided crucial evidence in the case against her.’

‘What the fuck? She was a mum? Oh my god, imagine living with her.’

‘Yeah, you’d be thinking you’d be next the whole time.’

‘The playground? What a sick fucker. I wonder what else is still to come out.’

The rest of the words Phoebe reads – Abuse – Peephole – Secrets – merge into one as I think about what Aimee said – ‘you’d be thinking you’d be next the whole time’.

I used to think that too, about being next. But you couldn’t, could you? Not because you love me, not because you would have been devastated, bereft without me. You kept me alive because you needed me. I was part of your disguise.

When Phoebe’s finished reading, silence. Breath held, exhaled. F-bombs drop. French Marie cuts the atmosphere, says, maybe our mothers are not so bad after all, hey? Heads nod. Bit by bit the pack splits, back to their original seats. Heads down, fingers tap. Quick, five minutes, gone. Catch up. The world can change in the blink of a social media eye. Not Phoebe, her head isn’t down, she’s looking at me. All I can think is, I’m the spit of you, and somehow she’s worked it out.

‘What are your thoughts, dog-face? Reckon she’s guilty?’

I know she is.

‘It’s up to the court to decide.’

‘You don’t sound very bothered, or perhaps you’re into fucked-up stuff as well, we all know foster kids aren’t right in the head.’

I turn my face to the side, ashamed by an urge to cry, but this provokes her further. She hates being ignored.

‘Such a smart-arse, aren’t you, told Dad you lost your phone, did you? How about I tell him exactly what kind of extra-curricular activities you’re into? Schoolgirl down to fuck, isn’t that what the advert said?’

The way she says it. Drips off her tongue, from those lips. Glistening. Divine. I turn back to face her as do most of the heads in the room. Clondine sniggers as she films, her phone held in the air. Standard. It’ll be played, replayed, edited. Music added. Anything to make it worthy of views on Facebook or Instagram. The bell sounds, first period. Somebody asks where the fuck Miss Mehmet is. A sharp throbbing sensation, my hand in my blazer pocket, I don’t need to look to know I’ve peeled away the skin on my thumb, enough to make it bleed. I know what time it is from the bell but I look at the clock anyway, away from Phoebe’s eagle eyes. The cushion she throws pounds me on the side of my face. I jump, nerves on edge after hearing her read about you, and the fact you had a child too.

Me.

We’re about to clear out when Miss Mehmet arrives, flounces in, announces who’s playing which part in the play and asks for volunteers for backstage and scenery painting. The auditions were held on Tuesday when I was off with the migraine but she asks me to take the job of prompt, goes on to remind us to use the Year Eleven forum as an arena for brainstorming ideas.

‘Get together to practise your lines, girls, immerse yourself in your characters. Eat, sleep and drink this play, I expect nothing but the best from all of you.’

The common room empties. I stay behind, smooth out the wrinkles Phoebe left after reading you out loud. I place you on top of the bookshelf, the idea of your face being scribbled on or used as a coaster. Too much. A minute after I leave I return, rip out the page with your picture on and place it in the front pocket of my school bag.

Third period, I log on to the forum. A private place, a private space, a show of trust from the headmistress for the Year Elevens. Password protected by a nominated individual, none other than queen bee, Phoebe Newmont. Quotes and poems. Homework. And videos, now. The most recent one uploaded, ‘Dog-face gets cushioned.’ The responses are mainly ‘crying with laughter’ emojis. Izzy commented, ‘More please!!’