Good Me Bad Me(41)

Zoe, a girl on the same bench as me, a witness but silent, bends down, uses a paper towel to pick up the heart, hands me another for my face. Took the time to wet it for me. She points to where I need to wipe.

I nod, thank her, wishing I was young enough for someone to do it for me. Clondine and Izzy flash sarcastic smiles at me as we file out of the lab. The corridors are busy but space is made for me as I approach. Is that blood on her shirt? I think so, yuck. I use the science-block toilets to change into the jeans and hoodie I hid in my bag earlier this morning. No uniforms on the estate, especially not one from this school. My phone rings. I kneel down and retrieve it from my rucksack. It’s Morgan checking I’m still coming, and when I notice a familiar make-up bag abandoned on the floor of the next-door cubicle, I tell her I’ll be there in about twenty minutes, there’s something I have to do first.

When I arrive on the tower block roof she’s smoking a cigarette, says, ‘There’s a bird over there, I think its wing’s all fucked up.’

‘Where?’

‘Over there.’

She points to a crate, and says, ‘I covered it up with that, it was flapping about all over the place, freaking me out.’

I walk over, crouch down, look through the gaps in the plastic. Honeycomb-shaped gaps. A pigeon, one wing hanging low. Broken. Its head moves fast, a continual bobbing. I don’t know why I do it, but I rattle the crate, a flurry of panic from inside, it begins to coo. An SOS to its friends, fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul. It would join them if it could, but it can’t, it’s been caught. Morgan squats next to me, asks me what I’m doing. I lift the crate up at one side, reach my hand in and grab the bird. Hard. I hold it into the ground, a tiny thud reverberates against my fingers. Broken wing, not heart. Not yet. It begins to coo again, calls to the others. Beady eyes and bobbing heads hidden on rooftops, the baby birds watch too, the adults make them.

I do it quickly, it’s the kind thing to do.

‘Fuck, that’s gross, why did you do that? Jesus.’

She looks away.

‘It would have been worse if I hadn’t. It would have died slowly all on its own.’

‘We could have taken it to a vet or something.’

‘It was in pain, but it’s not any more. I helped it.’

‘Rather you than me.’

Yes.

I place the crate over it again and we go back to the vent, lie down like statues on the cold ground, the sky awash with noise from aircraft as they roar overhead to Heathrow. Beam me up, Scotty, anywhere will do. Morgan lights another cigarette, blue fingers of smoke move in swirls, stroking the air above us. Witches’ breath.

‘Why so quiet, not got any stories for me today?’

Only one, but I’m not sure I should tell it.

‘Not really, no.’

‘Great company you are. I can’t stay for very long, my uncle’s here, he’s dead strict.’

Just a few more minutes please, let me get it right in my head before I say it out loud. My mother is. No. Have you seen the news, the woman that. No. Fuck. What am I doing? I’m not supposed to tell anyone.

‘What’s up with you today?’ she asks.

‘Nothing, why?’

‘You’ve made your finger bleed. Look.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No need to be sorry, but if you’ve got something to say, just spit it out.’

It’s like skating on a frozen lake. It looks safe, feels safe, but somebody has to go first, test it out to see if the ice will hold. She likes me, we’re friends. I can tell her, not all of it, some of it though. Can’t I?

‘If you’re not going to talk, I’m off. I’d rather watch telly than sit in silence.’

‘Wait.’

‘Fuck’s sake, what’s your problem?’

It’s getting dark on the roof, just me and her. Nobody else is here, nobody else has to know. She likes me. I’m nothing like you. She’ll understand. Won’t she?

‘If I told you something would you still want to be my friend?’

‘Yeah, I reckon we can tell each other anything, can’t we?’

I nod because it’s true, she texts me most nights, asks if I’m getting any hassle from Phoebe and not to worry, she’s got my back.

‘What is it you want to tell me?’

‘I’m not sure I should.’

‘You can’t start then not finish.’

‘I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.’

‘Well you have now and I’m not leaving until you do.’

Rules are made to be … Aren’t they?

‘Mil, you’re starting to piss me off, I have to go soon.’

‘Just promise you’ll still be my friend.’

‘Okay, whatever, I promise. Now tell me.’

I sit up, use my foot to hook a strap of my rucksack, pull it towards me. She sits up too. I ask for her lighter, too dark to see it without. I remove the newspaper clipping, the one I rescued from the common room, from the front pocket of my bag, smooth it out on my jeans. Risky carrying it every day I know, all it would take would be for Phoebe or Izzy to empty my bag, their manicured nails unfolding the seams across your face. My face and yours, so alike.

‘What is it?’ she asks.