Good Me Bad Me(34)

When I check my phone later, Morgan’s replied.

Sorry for not being in touch my little shit of a brother hid my phone, can’t see you this week but let’s do something over the weekend. Something fun



You used to say the same thing on the drive back from school on a Friday afternoon. Something fun. One time I thought about jumping out of the car when it was moving, but somehow you knew. Flicked the child locks on. Big mistake, Annie, you said. I thought you would own less of me after I handed you in but sometimes it feels you own more. Something as innocent as a school trip becomes a walk down memory lane with you. Invisible chains. Jangle when I walk.





Up eight. Up another four.


The door on the right.


This time, a girl.

Not your first choice, only took them if you had to.

Two of the nine.

Asked me if I was watching.

I was. The bravest, and saddest I saw.

She kept getting up, after each blow.

I wept into the peephole, made sure I’d stopped crying before you opened the door.

I wrapped her up, a coal sack, blankets forbidden for girls.

I carried her down, placed a doll next to her, used to be mine.

Her body, so still.

Shh little one, it’s over now.





15


A couple of days ago Mike and I met as usual for our Wednesday session. I told him the truth, that I was frightened, that during the day I hear you, your voice in my head. I wanted to tell him about the nights too, you as a ribbon of dread lying next to me in bed, but I was ashamed. He asked me what it is you say to me. I told him you say I’m useless, that I won’t manage life without you, that I won’t survive the trial. He reminded me the trial wasn’t mine to survive. I told him you torment me, he kept probing me, asking me what it was you tormented me about. But all I told him was I wished I’d gone to the police sooner, then things would have been different.

Today we’re having an end-of-week play rehearsal in the Great Hall. I’ve read Lord of the Flies over a dozen times now. It’s comforting. Reading about other children in circumstances that scare them, acting in ways they thought they never could, or would.

I carry my rucksack carefully, a candle in a glass jar inside. Saskia has a cupboard full, I asked if I could have one for my room. I took two, one for MK as well as a thank you. I’m due to see her at lunch today, I’ll give it to her then.

When most of us have arrived in the hall Miss Mehmet claps three times, waits for the chitter-chatter of thirty or so girls in the same room to cease.

‘I hope you’ve all been busy learning your lines, we’ll pick up where we left off last time, which was, let’s see – oh yes, Piggy’s death.’

‘Aww.’

‘Very good, Lucy, but let’s save the dramatics for onstage, shall we?’

‘Miss?’

‘Yes, Phoebe?’

‘Are we allowed our scripts?’

She sighs, rests both hands on her hips, her large breasts wobbling for a second or two before settling.

‘No, you should all be well on your way to knowing your lines by now, and if you aren’t, we’ve got Milly on hand to prompt.’

No. A word Phoebe hates to hear. That, and Milly.

‘Hurry up, you lot, over there, on to the stage and put your phones away. Silly girls.’

The noise lifts as chairs are pushed back, the last handful of girls climbing up the steps to the stage. I approach Miss Mehmet, ask her where I should sit. She explains that for the actual performances I’ll be onstage tucked behind the curtains, but that it’s not necessary right now.

‘Take a seat in the front row and follow the script, line by line, okay?’

When I look up at the stage I can tell from Phoebe’s face she’s dreading it, hasn’t learnt her lines. She’s sat on a chair, on the left-hand side of the stage, frantically scanning each page. Too late. Show time.

‘Shh, everyone, we’re about to begin. And action.’

This is Phoebe’s cue, the opening of the scene. Her feet are crossed, pulled back under her chair, not still though, the right one dances, a continual nervous jig. The script now on the floor next to her. Tempting. I see her look down, then out to me. I hold her gaze for a second, enjoy her needing me, then say the first line.

‘Without Piggy’s glasses, Ralph is –’

‘Unable to light the fire.’

She interrupts, finishes the sentence, continues on.

‘Ralph calls a meeting by blowing the conch.’

‘Saafi – you’re Ralph, pretend to blow the conch.’

The girls who do know their lines, the majority, take over. Progress is good until it’s Phoebe’s turn again. She stumbles and mumbles, looks like a fool. Feels worse, I imagine.

‘No, no, no,’ comes the cry from Miss Mehmet. ‘Phoebe, this is unacceptable, what makes you so busy and important you can’t learn your lines? I’ve watched Milly, she’s hardly even using the script, knows the whole thing by heart.’

Ouch.

‘I do know my lines, Miss, I just keep forgetting them.’

‘Well it’s not good enough. If you continue like this I’ll be forced to give your part to Milly, understood?’

She nods, is silent, wouldn’t dare say what she thinks to a teacher’s face. When we finish, are filing out of the hall, she comes up behind me, whispers in my ear.