Good Me Bad Me(43)

When I saw Morgan over the weekend I wasn’t sure how she would be. Whether she’d have changed her mind, decided she didn’t like me any more, but she was the same as before. She likes to talk about you though, about what you did, which is harder than I thought it would be because it’s not just your story, it’s mine.

June came over on Wednesday evening while Saskia took Phoebe and Izzy out for dinner. She and Mike went over the lawyers’ questions again. She kept saying I was doing grand, and how hard it must be to have to keep going over what happened, that it’ll be easier once the trial’s over. Mike didn’t say much. Usually he would, he’d agree, but not this time. He sat and watched me closely, nodding every now and then. I didn’t like the way it made me feel. A small seed of panic. Inside. Vulnerable. We ended the session with a game of cards. Blackjack. It’s my favourite, Mike said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that although your version was different, it was your favourite too.

Today we break up for half-term. We have a play rehearsal all morning, it’s a big deal, Miss Mehmet’s words, not ours, because Ms James the headmistress is due to watch. When breakfast is over Mike insists on driving us both to school as he’s going that way.

‘Humour me,’ he says, winking at Phoebe.

‘Fine, all right, Dad. I just need to text Iz, tell her not to wait for me.’

Saskia smiles, says it reminds her of the school runs years ago. Phoebe ignores her, walks out to the car, sits up front next to Mike. He asks about the play, how things are going.

‘Good, yeah, the rehearsal should be loads of fun today,’ she replies.

‘I’m sure it will be, we can’t wait to come and see it.’

When we get to school we sign in at registration and head to the Great Hall. As soon as Miss Mehmet arrives she begins to fuss, she wants it to be perfect. She bosses around the technical crew, two external guys brought in to man the lights and stage effects. It’s the first time we’ve used them and everybody laughs as a whoosh of smoke fills the stage in preparation for the pig-hunting scene. A few of the girls are missing, the art history trip to Paris left this morning, so Miss Mehmet asks me to step in as the pig. I don’t like the idea of being hunted, but I can’t say no in front of everyone.

‘And, Phoebe, I know you’re narrator but we need more bodies on stage for this scene so can you fill in as one of the boys.’

‘Gladly,’ she replies, looking at me.

‘There should be a spear for everyone stage left by the props cupboard. Once you have one, on to the stage please and, Milly, there should also be a papier-maché pig’s head, grab that please.’

I know this scene inside out. It’s a play, not real, but when I put on the pig’s head it starts to feel real. Though light to carry, the head is large and, once on, hard to see out of. The only way not to trip is to look down at my feet. My breath comes in short shallow bursts, creating an intense heat that rebounds off my face, and back again. Through the layers of glue and paper, I hear Miss Mehmet.

‘Milly, you’ll be entering stage right with Jack and his gang closely behind, and remember, everyone, this is a key scene where we start to see real savagery emerging from the boys. Think blood, gore, and use the hunting chant to demonstrate this. Once I call for lights and smoke, Milly, you’re on.’

The girls find it easy to get into role. Somebody to the right bangs their spear on the ground, a repetitive hammering that makes the lower part of my stomach contract. A voice on my left whispers, run, little piggy, run. You never called me piggy, but you often made me run. SO MUCH FUN WE USED TO HAVE, ANNIE, DIDN’T WE?

‘Go on, you’re on,’ somebody says behind me.

I missed my cue, listening to you.

As soon as I step on to the stage I bend my knees, drop low, as pig-like as possible. My breathing is heavy, weighed down by you. There with me. The noise of the spears unites. Thud, thud. THUD. I smell the dry ice from the smoke machine, it swirls around my feet as the stage lights up with flashes of red, punctuated with strobe lighting. The chant begins.

‘Kill the pig, cut her throat, spill her blood.’

Different words from yours, same intent.

Somebody bangs on a drum, the spears move closer, Jack and his boys. I move around the stage, it’s supposed to be a chase.

‘Kill the pig, cut her throat, spill her blood.’

Thud, thud. THUD.

I tried to find new places to hide, but you knew where to look.

‘There it is,’ a voice cries.

A high-pitched bow-wow like the noise a child makes playing cowboys and Indians lifts in the air, it’s their signal. Time to attack. Me. I move into centre stage, stumble by mistake on to the floor, not safe on the floor. Not supposed to be, the pig doesn’t make it out alive, remember? The strobe lights intensify, another release from the smoke machine.

‘Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood.’

The feet surrounding me stamp in time with their spears. The first jab happens fast, from behind, I can guess who it was. I roll on to my back. Spear after spear begins to nudge and prod me. The drum slows to a steady hypnotic rhythm, the chant lower, more menacing.

‘Cut her throat, spill her blood,’ another bow-wow released from the person on my left. A loud single beat on the drum calls them to silence. The sound of the papier-maché head sucking in and releasing from my face, the only noise, I’m breathing so hard. The feet around me start to move in a circular motion, disorientate me further. I hated the mask you made me wear, the same feelings now. Can’t. Breathe.