Good Me Bad Me(51)

‘I don’t.’

None that I want to talk about.

‘Who do you reckon it was at home with her then?’

I shrug. ‘I’ve asked you already, Morgan, please stop.’

Silence is better, say nothing at all. Please. Too many questions. Too many voices filling up my head. THAT’S NOT TRUE, ANNIE, IT’S ONLY MINE. The lava inside me scorches anything good or gentle along the way. I watch Morgan’s mouth move, the way she licks her lips. Eat them, eat it all up. I want her to stop talking about you.

‘My lot reckon she’ll go down for life, you’ll never see her again, which is probably just as well.’

‘Shut up, Morgan, I mean it. That’s the last time I’m going to tell you.’

‘Jesus, talk about being sensitive, she’s a fucking monster, you should be glad I hate her.’

Eats like an animal, all over her face. Her teeth and her tongue. Still talking about you, isn’t she. YES SHE IS, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? Good wolf. Bad wolf. Crunch. Crisps. Tongue. Lips. I move to diffuse the bad, tell her I’m cold, I’m going inside.

‘Why are you so angry? You don’t care about her, do you?’

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

The sandwich gets it first, smacked out of her hand, her arm next. I pin her against the wall, the place we arranged to meet no longer feels safe. I use my height, squeeze her arm with my fingers, think about what shape and colour the bruise will be.

‘Get off,’ she says. ‘Stop it.’

It used to be me who said that, the tables now turned, the shoe on the other foot. It feels good to be bad. I’m sorry, I can’t help it, but she’s no longer talking about you so maybe being bad sometimes works. I might have done something worse but when she says, maybe you’re more like your mother than you think, the hot lava recedes, turns purple. Cools. Sick. A sickness inside me. I let go of her arm, step back, lean over. My hands on my thighs. Can’t be. Like you. Don’t want to be.

Neither of us speaks, processing it in our own ways. I turn to face her, she rubs her hand up and down her arm.

‘Morgan, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.’

‘Yeah, well, it won’t be happening again.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You can get to fuck, that’s what I mean.’

I try to hug her but she uses her arms to block me, pushes me back and leaves. I sit on the ground for a while, look up at the winter sky, only one star. I look away and when I look back it’s gone.

It doesn’t want me to see it.

I sing while I look for them.

Eight green bottles, hanging on the wall. No. Not bottles, something else, and not on the wall. I try the song again, your words instead.

There are eight little somethings hidden in the cellar, I thought there was nine, but the ninth didn’t make it down there. Remember?

Yes.

If I could just open the door I could check the little somethings are okay.

Can’t open. The door.

‘Milly, it’s Saskia. The door’s locked, Mike locked it, what are you singing?’

And if one little something should accidentally fall. Can’t open. The door.

‘I’m getting Mike.’

Can you hear me, little somethings? I’ve come to let you out. But they don’t reply, it’s too late. I’m too late.

They’ve already fallen.

Which means they’ll have to stay.





22


I’m woken by the sound of Phoebe leaving for the hockey tour to Cornwall, voices in the corridor, a door opening and closing. Monday. I should get up, we’re going away, but my body feels heavy, weighed down by the shame of what I did to Morgan.

By the volume of your voice.

When Saskia knocks on my door, asks if she can come in, I say yes and sit up in bed.

White jeans, skinny, tight. A baby blue and white striped shirt tucked in, the top half of her hair pushed forward in a bump, secured with a brown hair clip with teeth, the rest hanging long over her shoulders.

‘I hope I didn’t wake you, we wanted to let you sleep in after.’

After last night.

‘We’re going to leave soon. The drive should only take about an hour and a half, we’ll be there by lunch.’

She doesn’t say anything else about last night. Mike will have told her not to, explained to expect this in the run-up to the trial.

‘Milly.’

‘Sorry, I was –’

‘A million miles away?’

Further.

‘Something like that, yeah.’

She fiddles with her necklace, brings it up, presses the points of the letters to her lips. The flesh turns white where it’s pressed, turns pink again. She asks me if I need help packing.

‘No thank you, I’ll be down shortly.’

When she closes the door I reach for my phone to see if Morgan’s replied, but she hasn’t. I battle with anxiety as I wash my face, get dressed and pack an overnight bag. What I did to Morgan was wrong and I don’t want to lose her as a friend, but I’m also worried she might tell people about me. About who I am.

When I get downstairs, Rosie’s in the hallway next to Mike and Saskia’s holdalls. She wags her tail when she sees me. I put my bag down, rub between her ears.