Undone(61)

Sasha and I have had so many variations of this tedious conversation that I know there’s nothing I can say to reassure her. But I’m supposed to say it anyway. ‘No, Sasha, you do not look like a hamster. You are ridiculously gorgeous and I hate you for it.’ That makes her smile.

‘Ah, little Jem, you’re too kind.’ She pats my cheek. She actually pats my f*cking cheek. I want to pat/slap her big fat hamster cheek in return. I can just picture it. I’d hit her so hard she’d lose her balance, maybe knock her head on the corner of the sink. Then I’d have to explain to the police how I’d accidentally killed the most popular girl in school, just because she invaded my personal space in the most patronizing way possible.

I spend most of the day worrying about Louise. Sasha’s clearly forgotten that I’ve known Louise a lot longer than she has. I swear she forgets who I actually am most of the time. She probably doesn’t like to think about the fact that she was responsible for bringing a complete nobody into the group.

After a lot of fretting, I realize there’s no other option. I’m just going to have to accept Louise’s reappearance and get on with things. Maybe counselling does work miracles after all. It kind of makes me wonder if I should have had some.

I just have to hope Louise doesn’t get in my way. She’d better not. I don’t want to have to take her down too, I really don’t.





chapter thirty-seven


Lucas invites me over to his house at the weekend, making it quite clear that it’ll be just the two of us. One boy. One girl. One empty house. Doesn’t take a genius to work out what’s on his mind. And I know it couldn’t be more perfect for the Plan, but I can’t ignore the wave of anxiety that washes over me. I just have to hope it will pass.

I haven’t been to his house before but I know exactly where it is. The street is quiet and leafy and idyllic. Until you look over the road at the sprawling graveyard. The spike-topped black railings would be enough to give me shivers. But that’s not what bothers me.

Kai’s there. His ashes are in a box under the ground. Layers and layers of cold, wet, worm-ridden earth lie between him and the sunlight. I can’t even think about it without wanting to throw up. How can it be possible that my Kai is in that place with all those dead people? It’s not right. He should be in a forest or in the ocean or somewhere beautiful. Or with me, alive.

No one could ever call the cemetery beautiful. It’s not one of those ancient, tumbledown ones with ivy creeping up the sides of elaborate Victorian gravestones. No, this place is purely functional. Rows and rows and rows of gravestones, laid out in regimental fashion. As if the neatness and order can make sense of death. As if the manicured lawn is a comfort to anyone.

I haven’t been to his grave. I wouldn’t even know where it was if Mum hadn’t made a point of telling me. She’s been trying to get me to go for months. She thinks I should ‘pay my respects’, which sounds like something out of a Dickens novel. Surely you only need to pay your respects to rich great uncles who live in huge mansions?

I didn’t even feel bad about not going. Not even a little bit of guilt. I know full well Kai wouldn’t give a toss about this sort of thing. But now that I’m walking up the street towards Lucas’s house I can’t help thinking that that’s not exactly the point. And suddenly I need to see it. I need to see what’s written there. See where he is. Check that he’s OK.

A quick look at my phone tells me if I take a detour into the cemetery, I’m going to be late. Lucas can wait.

It’s not hard to find. It’s almost as if my body’s on autopilot, pulling me towards him. My legs slow down as I approach the grave. They aren’t sure that this is such a great idea after all. But I’m not going to turn back now.

The stone is shiny and black and smooth. Granite, I think. The edges have been left rough, which just makes it look as if someone couldn’t make up their mind.

There are some sad-looking red tulips in a glass jar in front of the gravestone. The flowers droop down towards the grass, as if they’re bowing their heads in grief. The water in the jar is murky and greenish.

I feel bad that I haven’t brought anything. It seems like such a waste though, cutting the stems of something alive and beautiful to bring them to this awful place to die. It’s what people do though, isn’t it? I’ve seen it on TV a thousand times. They take the flowers and place them in front of the grave, then take a couple of solemn steps back. And that’s when they start talking to the dead person. Ideally there are some tears. And if you’re really lucky, they might fall to their knees.

There are no tears today. I feel nothing. Kai’s not here – he never was. Whatever made Kai Kai isn’t rotting away down there. This place has nothing to do with him.

Kai McBride. Beloved son, brother and friend.

Seeing the word ‘friend’ makes me want to thank Mrs McBride. I bet she chose the wording; Kai’s dad would be useless at that kind of thing. I wonder how long it took her, trying to choose the words. Words that strangers would see as they wandered past, looking at the dates and realizing that Kai McBride was only on this earth for sixteen short years.

There are so few words on the gravestone that it makes me wonder if the engraver charges by the letter. Maybe Mrs McBride wanted to say more. Maybe she wanted to add a poem or something, but the cost put her off. Whatever the reason, I’m glad. There’s a simplicity to this gravestone that makes me not hate it. There’s no way Kai would approve of the shiny blackness though; it looks like something cheap masquerading as something expensive.