Alice and the Fly (13 page)

Mum’s Christmas light petition started in August. Everyone in the avenue agreed on the same White-Gold Icicle fairy lights with the same product number from the same catalogue, agreeing to hang them from the same points on the arch of their roof. Even Mrs Jenkins next door agreed. But Mum knew Artie Sampson was up to something. She knew it from his vacant smile when she showed him the pictures in the catalogue, from his assurance he’d remember the product number and didn’t need to write it down. Mum had told him how she just wanted the avenue to look nice for the festive period and Artie Sampson had nodded and winked and said, ‘Oh, don’t worry, it will,’ and Mum had just known he’d pull a stunt like this.

Mum finished her Christmas decorations last night. Our house is near enough a replica of the
House Proud Magazine
Christmas special. The magazine calls it ‘modern-traditional’ – traditional lights, garlands and presents juxtaposed with an enormous porcelain snowman and wire-figure nativity. In the centre of the lounge ceiling hangs an upside-down Christmas tree. Mum spent over an hour on the stepladder, gluing each decoration onto its PVC branches. She says it has Wow Factor.

Mrs Jenkins next door hasn’t put her White-Gold Icicle lights up yet either. I was the only one dressed, so Mum sent me round this morning to see if she needed any help nailing them to her porch. There was no answer. She was probably in the loft. Mrs Jenkins spends days at a time up in the loft, playing the piano. Every so often, late at night, I can hear her, the tinkling of her piano keys. I knocked four or five times, then retreated down the path. Artie was standing on his doorstep with his wife, admiring the Father Christmas. He shouted over, ‘Good morning!’ then noticed Mum, kneeling there at the dining-room window and waved, gesturing at the inflatable figure on his path with a grinning thumbs up. Mum smiled and waved back. As I entered she turned from the window, rubbing the image from her eyes.

She frowned at the floor for a few seconds. Then she shook her head and said, ‘It’ll take more than Artie Sampson to ruin this Christmas,’ and disappeared into the lounge.

I carried on through to the kitchen. Sarah was there. She was over by the cafetière. Normally Sarah won’t leave her room till she’s all made up and lacquered and squeezed into her uniform but this morning she was still in her dressing gown, hair tied back, face pale and clean. She looked like a child again.

I went to the cupboard for a bowl and began to fill it with Waitrose Maple Triple Nut Muesli. Sarah was getting her usual morning coffee-shot. She spooned some Colombian Supremo beans into a mug, waiting for the kettle to boil. Her eyes were narrow. There were a couple of angry spots on her forehead. The kettle clicked and she quarter-filled the mug, swilling the beans, softening them in the water. I offered the milk but she ignored me, draining the beans over the sink, knocking them back, chewing them noisily as she hurried upstairs.

I left my muesli and followed. Mum was in the living room, scrubbing at the couch. Her latest enemy is gravity, which was littering the white Italian leather with glitter and PVC pine needles, courtesy of the upside-down tree. She was too busy scrubbing to hear me tiptoe upstairs, to hear the creak of the floorboards as I knelt at Sarah’s door.

Sarah was at her dressing table, frowning at her pale clean face. She reached for her vanity case and began dabbing foundation, powdering herself a blank canvas. I never thought Sarah’d be able to wear makeup. She got into Mum’s blusher once, when we were little, and had to be rushed to A&E. It was her skin, she had a reaction. She was always having trouble with her skin. It was too dry. It was always peeling. The kids at school called her ‘Flake’.

Dust was the problem, that’s what the doctors said. Dust was the enemy. Dust made her scratch and when she scratched her skin it turned to dust. It was a vicious circle. Mum used to tell her off for scratching, used to make her wear oven mitts to bed, but there was no stopping her. I’d often hear her in the night, that sht-sht-sht of her little claws as she shed into her bedspread. I still remember the two of us, jumping up and down on her mattress, watching the particles of dust, Sarah’s skin, dance in the sunlight around us.

That was before the time on Finners Island, before I moved to Nan’s. When I came back there was a different Sarah, a popular Sarah, who wore makeup and danced on stage and was never called ‘Flake’ by anyone. I sat in the hall and watched her this morning. I had to see the transformation for myself, had to witness her paint herself into a woman again. Otherwise I’d never have believed it was the same girl.

Extract of interview between Detective Sergeant Terrence Mansell (TM) and Gregory Hall’s sister, Miss Sarah Hall (SH).

TM: I promise this won’t take long.

SH: That’s OK.

TM: I just need to talk. About what’s gone on with your brother.

SH: I figured.

TM: How are you dealing with everything?

[SH shrugs shoulders.]

SH: OK, I guess.

TM: OK?

SH: I mean, I don’t know. I suppose. What do you want me to say?

TM: Just the truth.

SH: Well, Mum’s having another breakdown. Everyone at school now hates me, so there’s that.

TM: Because of Greg?

SH: They call me ‘Psycho Sister’.

TM: Nice.

SH: This girl in my year, Angela, she came over and spat on me the other day. Actually spat on me. On my neck.

TM: Kids can be … you know.

SH: Yeah.

TM: I guess you’re right then. ‘OK’ probably is the best word. ‘OK’ under some very difficult circumstances.

SH: Right.

TM: Have you seen Greg at all?

[SH shakes head.]

TM: You don’t want to?

[SH shrugs shoulders.]

TM: What’s your relationship like?

SH: With Greg?

TM: Yeah.

SH: Well, he’s my brother.

TM: And?

SH: That’s about it, I guess.

TM: You aren’t close?

SH: He’s a bit strange. Like, creepy. I mean, he can’t help it, it’s not his fault. It’s just the way he is. He never says much. He’s always just there, lingering.

TM: I believe you lived apart when you were younger?

SH: He lived at Nan’s.

TM: So you didn’t see each other much?

SH: Mum wouldn’t let us. She went over to see him at weekends but she never let me go with her. She said it was because of the cat. I had eczema. She said the cat was bad for my skin.

TM: You didn’t believe her?

SH: Well, that never explained why Greg couldn’t come here, did it?

TM: I guess not.

SH: It never explained why we’d have to go on separate days out. Why we never went on holiday any more. Why, during the odd time we were together, like Christmas or my birthday, she’d sit us at opposite ends of the table. Like, what, he had too many cat hairs on him? Like, they couldn’t just brush him off or something? I mean, I was allowed to go to Nan’s for New Year’s, to watch the fireworks. But even then I’d sit one end of the kitchen and he’d sit the other. Everyone just acted as though it was, you know, normal.

TM: Why do you think she wanted to keep you apart?

SH: Because of how he was. Because of the whole Finners Island thing. Although if you mention that to Mum, it’s like there’s no such place. She’s so fucking repressed.

TM: Enlighten me, what’s ‘the whole Finners Island thing’?

SH: Some place we used to go when we were little. I can’t really remember.

TM: But something happened there? There was an … incident?

SH: I think I was like eight or something. I remember I wanted to go in a boat, but they wouldn’t let me in the boat. And then Greg took me out in the boat. I don’t remember much after that, just being in hospital.

TM: And that’s when Greg moved away?

SH: Yeah. Suddenly it was like, ‘Oh, he’s just going to Nan’s for a bit’. And then, ‘Oh, they’re having so much fun he’s going to stay’. And then, five years later, when Nan went cuckoo, when she had to go in a home, it was like, ‘OK, well look who’s back’.

TM: Was that strange, having him back?

SH: Well, yeah. It was weird. Because I’d still seen him, every so often, but then suddenly he was there, like, all the time. Like I said, lingering.

TM: You’d prefer he hadn’t come back?

SH: No. I wouldn’t say that. I mean, he’s my brother. I just don’t know him. And he never, you know, tried to get to know me either. We just steered clear of each other, when he came back. We were used to steering clear of each other.

TM: What about when he went missing?

SH: What about it?

TM: How did you feel?

SH: Well, I saw him. You know, that night? At the party? I was the last one to see him.

TM: This is the Wallaby Drive party? The Lambert house?

SH: Right. So I told Mum and Dad and they were all like, ‘What? A party?’ And I was like, ‘Yeah’. I actually thought it was pretty cool he came to the party. I mean, I never thought he would. It took some balls, with his reputation.

TM: What time did he get there?

SH: It was about eleven when I saw him, I think.

TM: And how was he?

SH: Alone, as usual. He said he was looking for someone. I think we can all guess who that was. And he was drunk, I think. They made a big deal about that. The drinking. Because he’s not meant to drink, you know, on his meds. But I didn’t think it could hurt. I mean, he’s got to get drunk sometime, right? He’s a teenager, for god’s sake. That’s what he’s supposed to do.

TM: Did you speak to him at the party?

SH: I told him to go home. I felt bad about that afterwards, but what was I supposed to do? I thought he was going to get himself beaten up.

TM: And that was the last you saw of him?

SH: Yeah.

TM: You didn’t see him take the knife?

SH: I didn’t see him take anything.

TM: And what about the accusations?

SH: What about them?

TM: Do you think he’s guilty?

SH: No.

TM: How come?

SH: Well, I mean, I guess he is. But not like properly guilty. It’s a disease, right? How can he be guilty of a disease? If you’re looking for someone to blame, you should blame us.

TM: ‘Us’?

SH: All of us. We should have been keeping an eye on him. We should have been dealing with it. Instead we were ignoring him. Hoping it’d all just go away. That’s what I was doing, at the party.

TM: It’s wrong to blame yourself.

SH: Yeah, right.

TM: I’m serious.

SH: Well I blame the disease, then. I blame the pills. Whatever.

TM: Just don’t blame yourself. You’re too young for that kind of guilt. It eats you up, that kind of guilt.

SH: Right.

TM: You’ve done nothing wrong.

SH: Whatever.

TM: I promise.

SH: Can I go now?

I haven’t been to the library since Monday. At breaks I sit on the steps behind the technology block. I ball into my warm-position. Nobody ever goes back there.

Today I watched the rain out over the field, dissolving the last of the snow. My mind must have wandered because I didn’t hear the bell and ended up late to third lesson.

Third lesson was also last lesson, with it being the last day of term. We had English Lit. As I arrived Miss Hayes was waiting in the corridor. She was soaked from the rain, her bra showing through her blouse again. She told me she was sorry for being so rude the other day. She said I could stay behind after English, we could talk. I nodded. She clutched my arm. Her hand was cold and wet and she was wearing her engagement ring and it had turned on her finger so its diamond stabbed into my wrist. She told me she really was sorry. I nodded again, then pulled away and hurried inside.

The class silenced as I entered. They watched me cross the room to my desk at the back. Only half of them were present – a typical turnout for the last day of term. Most had abandoned the seating plan and were sitting with friends. A gang of Vultures were gathered in the corner: Lucy Marlowe, Carly Meadows, a few others. They’d formed a circle with their chairs and were whispering amongst themselves.

Miss Hayes kept her head down as she entered. She avoided eye contact with Lucy and the Vultures. She also avoided my corner – she was probably scared of seeing Ian and Goose there, grinning from the back of the room, but they never come in for half-days. I took my copy of
An Inspector Calls
from my bag. Nobody else had taken their copy of
An Inspector Calls
from their bags except for Eggy and Dan Bradey. Eggy and Dan Bradey always have their copies of
An Inspector Calls
out well in advance so they can get a head start with the reading. They like to make notes and ask Miss Hayes questions about Priestley’s socialist principles. They’re going to Oxbridge.

Miss Hayes sat at her desk. She glanced over at the door, or perhaps the clock above it, awaiting any latecomers. By 11:30 no one else had arrived so she began to read.

Miss Hayes was quiet today. She stumbled on words and had to repeat them. She kept her eyes on the page, not once adopting any character voices. There were twenty pages remaining of
An Inspector Calls
. We’d reached the climax, where Inspector Goole shouts at all the other characters for being so nasty to Eva Smith. On paper the speech is strong and passionate and Miss Hayes’ mumbling didn’t really do it justice. Most of the class were sleeping or watching raindrops snake the windows. Sam Johnson was picking shards of soil from his trousers. The Vultures were whispering in their corner. The only people paying attention were Eggy and Dan Bradey.

I tried to concentrate on
An Inspector Calls
but my mind kept drifting. I kept thinking of you, that image of you, cross-legged in the library with Goose and Ian and Angela. I tried to remember happier times – our bus rides, under the bridge, the time you spoke to me in the street – but all I saw was Goose, leering at you in the Poetry aisle. The flare of your cigarette in vinyl-black lenses. Ian and Angela’s wet-sucking kisses. Miss Hayes’ voice was breaking. I glanced up at first but soon learnt to keep my head down. I couldn’t stand it, watching her. Her hair was still wet and it might have just been the rainwater lining her face, but it looked like she was crying. Carly Meadows soon noticed and muttered to the other Vultures. Lucy snorted, stifling a laugh. Miss Hayes just ignored them, carried on reading.