Good Me Bad Me(23)

‘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 reply.

‘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.