Bang Bang You're Dead (10 page)

I peeked at Mum through my fingers. She was looking white and ill herself now. I hated doing this to her, but it was for her own good. I'd played all my cards now. But had I done enough to win the game?

'You don't have to come into the doctor's surgery with me, Mum,' I rushed on. 'You can wait outside in the street, if you like. I don't want to go on my own, just in case . . .'

Mum held me tighter. I could feel her whole body trembling from head to foot, and I knew that she was absolutely terrified, for me and for herself.

'Of course I'll come, darling,' she said shakily. 'And I won't wait in the street – what an idea! I'm coming into the surgery with you.'

'Thanks, Mum.'

We hugged and Mum began to cry silently, her tears dripping onto my hair.

She had reacted exactly as I was hoping she would, but I was careful not to sound too relieved. I was certain that the new, stronger Mia could see this through.

On the journey to the surgery I daydreamed, with immense satisfaction, about what Jamie would say when he eventually came home and discovered that I'd got Mum to the doctor's all by myself.

Then there would be absolutely no need for him to put any of his dark and secret plans, whatever they were, into action, and everything would be all right.

Better than that.

We would all be happy again.

Dr Zeelander had finished her temporary stay at the surgery and left, thank God, and a Dr Richards had now permanently replaced our old GP. I had secretly booked the appointment to see Dr Richards in Mum's name. This was risky, but I didn't want any problems at the surgery like Jamie and I had had with Dr Zeelander. There was a chance that Mum would find out from the receptionist that she was the intended patient before we even went in to see the doctor. She would undoubtedly find out when the doctor called her in. I figured, though, that if Mum threw one of her legendary tantrums at the surgery, that would be enough. Surely the doctors would do something for her then.

But when we went into the clinically clean, white-painted waiting room, luck was on my side, for once.

'I'll just tell the receptionist I'm here for my appointment,' I murmured.

Mum nodded, and to my delight and relief she went straight over to the window and sat there, her back to all the sniffling, wheezing patients, staring out at the traffic rushing past. She looked stiff and straight and uncomfortable, as if she couldn't wait to get out of there.

I waited by the desk in an agony of impatience for the receptionist to finish her telephone conversation and then said in the lowest voice I could get away with: 'Mrs Annabel Jackson, four forty-five p.m.'

The receptionist nodded. 'Take a seat, please.'

I sat down next to Mum. She didn't say anything but she gripped my fingers tightly with a cold, clammy hand. I could see beads of sweat on her forehead. I didn't know if she was worried for me or for herself. Both, I guessed. Her phobia about doctors and hospitals and medicine was puzzling because it was so all-consuming.

'Mrs Jackson?' The receptionist had one phone in her hand, the receiver covered, and another was ringing next to her. She looked harassed. 'I'm afraid Doctor Richards has been delayed returning from a meeting. Will you be able to wait till five o'clock for your appointment?'

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I turned to look at Mum. She glanced at me and then at the receptionist.

'My appointment?' she repeated, quite pleasantly.

'Yes, I'm so sorry,' the receptionist replied, 'but Doctor Richards won't be able to see you until five.'

Mum's eyes met mine. I tried to bluff it out, to hold my nerve, but I found I could not fight years of conditioning. My reserves of newly discovered confidence turned out to be as shallow as a puddle. They drained away as swiftly as if someone had pulled out the plug, and my eyes fell.

Mum did not cause a scene, my very last hope. She rose to her feet.

'Unfortunately I can't wait,' she said quietly. She even smiled.

'Maybe you'd like to make another appointment—' the receptionist began, but Mum was out of there like a bat out of hell before she'd even finished the sentence.

I rushed after her. She was already running off down the street.

'Mum!
Mum!
'

I caught up with her outside the Spar minimarket only because the heel had come off one of her ridiculous and expensive stiletto shoes.

'How dare you, Mia!' Raging, Mum turned on me, to the bewilderment of the people waiting at the bus stop outside the parade of shops. 'How
dare
you make a doctor's appointment for me? How dare you
presume
—?'

Her anger was so great, she couldn't spit the words out fast enough as she tried to hobble away from me. 'I'm not a
child,
Mia! Stop interfering in my life!'

'Mum, can we go home and talk about this?' I pleaded in an undertone, attempting to take her arm. The force of her fury was frightening, just like Jamie's, in fact. 'I didn't mean—'

'Of course you meant it!'
Mum shrieked. 'Be honest about that at least. You lied to me and tricked me into thinking you might be seriously ill, for God's sake!' She pulled off her heel-less shoe and threw it at me, and everyone in the bus queue instinctively ducked. 'Keep away from me!'

She limped off. I chased after her, knowing that I was slipping inexorably down the slippery slope to misery again, the cold, dark place that I thought I had escaped from for ever just a few days before.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Mia.

'Mum, you need help,' I gasped through tears.

'Leave me alone, Mia,' Mum shouted.

She shoved me aside, kicked off her other shoe and ran, vanishing down the street in bare feet.

I had failed. And why should I be surprised? Because I
am
a failure. I'd just temporarily forgotten the truth in all the heady euphoria of winning the competition.

This is my life and this is who I am and there is nothing I can do to change things.

Beaten and dispirited, I dragged myself home. Mum was ranting and screaming in the living room, occasionally throwing ornaments at the wall. Jamie was there, and he and I stood in the doorway watching her but keeping well out of the way.

'It's my fault,' I whispered. 'I almost managed to get her to see the doctor.'

'Well, you tried,' Jamie muttered. He did not look at me. His eyes were fixed on Mum.

'Stop whispering!' Mum shrieked, turning on us. 'You're always talking, talking, talking behind my back – you're doing my head in! I'm telling you now for the last time, stop interfering! I am
not
going to the doctor's!' She advanced on us, her long corkscrew curls flying, eyes blazing. She looked beautiful but terrifying, like some ancient, snake-haired goddess. 'I am not going to the doctor's now or ever!
Ever!
Do you understand?'

'Yes, Mum,' I replied, defeated.

Jamie did not say anything. He turned to look at me, and the expression in his eyes was resigned yet determined, and I was so afraid, I could not breathe. I watched as he closed the living-room door very quietly on Mum.

I knew that time had run out.

This was the end, and he and I both knew it.

We stood there in the hall, Jamie calm and controlled, me shaking and petrified.

'Tell me, Jamie!' I gasped. I was almost hysterical and I didn't care if he saw it. 'Tell me what you're going to do.'

'I think we have to make Mum realize what she stands to lose if she doesn't do what she knows she has to,' Jamie replied in a measured voice. 'That is, go to the doctor herself and get help of her own free will.'

'Lose?'
My voice was a harsh croak. 'What do you mean, Jamie?'

Jamie moved away from me, over to the front door.

'We push Mum to the edge,' he said tightly. 'Just like she's done to us so many times. We make her see that she can't go on like this, that she can't have everything just the way she wants it. We make her sit up and take notice of us, once and for all.'

'How?' I cried wildly. 'I don't know what you mean. Jamie, you're scaring me!'

'It's the only way, Mia,' Jamie said softly.

He would not say a word more. All I knew was that something terrible, something earth-shattering, was going to happen, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Mum crept into bed with me later that night and hugged me and cried and said she was sorry. But it was too late. The new Mia, the Mia who had briefly been my friend and had promised so much, had gone. She had vanished into the night, and I did not think she would ever come again.

I had no strength left now, for anything. I could not force Jamie to share his secrets with me and I didn't even try. I found it impossible now to laugh away or shrug off the sarcastic comments and rude sniggers about that bloody essay.

And I did not even try to protect myself against the taunts of Kat Randall, who had been in the Spar minimarket the night before and had witnessed everything.

'So, tell me, how
is
your mum today, Mia?'

Smug, gleeful, gloating Kat was waiting for me at the school gates the next morning. She must have made sure she arrived early just to taunt me, because her late marks were legendary in number.

'Have to say, she looked as mad as a box of frogs when I saw you both yesterday,' Kat went on, staring at me intently so that she could enjoy my pain and humiliation to the full. 'God, that was embarrassing when she threw her shoe at you, wasn't it?'

And so Kat Randall began her campaign of harassment, one that looked set to run and run, possibly for the next few years. It's almost laughable that my life should become euphoric so very briefly and then plunge into even blacker misery, all in the space of a few days.

There was nothing I could do about it, even if I wanted to. The old Mia was back with a vengeance, and all I could do was wait and watch, helpless as a new-born, to see what Jamie would do.

I trembled with fear for Jamie, for Mum and for myself.

I did not know where it would all end.

Now I know.

Here, in school.

With a gun.

Monday 10 March, 10.03 a.m.

I know that Jamie is near.

Our old telepathy isn't failing me.

Or is it just my imagination?

As I tiptoe down the corridor, there is a tingling in my fingertips, my heart beats faster and I can almost hear Jamie breathing in my ear.

'Talk to me, Jamie,' I murmur. 'Where are you?'

And I listen for his voice, but there is no one speaking inside my head except myself.

I am so close and yet still so far. I want to run down the corridor to Class 9D's form room as fast as I can, burst in and get this nerve-shredding situation over once and for all. But I restrain myself.

Patience, Mia.

Running would be reckless and I can't risk alerting anyone inside that classroom, friend or enemy, to my presence. Not until I have worked out how the hell I'm going to let Jamie know that I am not an armed police officer.

Is Jamie waiting for me?

Does he know or has he guessed that I will come?

Surely he can sense that I am close by, like I can sense him?

I wonder, with a surge of fear like a jolt of electricity, if Jamie will listen to me at all.

Will he stop and abandon this just because I ask him to?

I don't know.

Maybe I'm in just as much danger, whether the gunman is Jamie or a stranger. Either way, I may end up fighting for my life. But still I continue on my way with slow, silent steps.

Like the main school building, the annexe has been extended and built onto over the years, and it is a warren of twisting corridors, a rat-run with lots of hiding places.

I imagine Jamie watching and waiting, wondering who will be the next person to walk through the classroom door. Somehow I have to let him know that I am here or take a chance that might prove dangerous, possibly fatal. I can't rely on our telepathic link, it is far too fragile and insubstantial if it even exists at all now. And I can't charge in, all guns blazing – excuse the pun. I can't open the classroom door until I'm sure that Jamie won't attack me straight away, not realizing who I am.

I have to make it out of here, otherwise who will look after Mum?

Leo Jackson?

What a joke.

I push the thought of my father away. I don't need any useless emotion right now. I don't know why his name came to mind, anyway.

I could call out and Jamie would recognize my voice. But that could be even more dangerous if it is
not
Jamie. I must not lose sight of the fact that it is possible, maybe even more logical, that it's someone else.

Either way, I could be the one who suffers unless I keep my wits about me.

I could write a note and slide it under the door, I think.

The idea is so absurd, I almost laugh aloud. But it's the best one I have at this moment.

The silence in the corridor roars in my ears. I had never realized before that complete silence could sound so loud or be so terrifying. Every breath I take, every beat of my heart, every creak of my joints seems to resonate loudly, booming in the still, dusty air.

The corridor, shrouded in blinds, is gloomy and getting gloomier. I guess that, outside, the sun has slipped out of sight behind clouds and the sky is turning grey. The temperature has dropped a few degrees and I shiver. I am cold, but it's also because I am afraid.

Strangely, thoughts of giving up do not enter my head.

I stop. I have not forgotten that when I step round this corner, 9D's form room will be straight ahead of me.

I must be ready.

I press myself against the wall and take one quick, controlled look round the corner and down the corridor.

There is the classroom, the white-painted door standing out like a beacon in the dim light.

What is happening behind it?

Is Jamie really there?

Is he standing, with a gun, in front of Class 9D?

Menacing them, threatening them?

Even now that I am actually here, it still seems so totally unbelievable.

I cannot help wondering if I have made a huge mistake.

But I feel even more strongly now that Jamie is near me.

The door blind is pulled down so I can't see inside, but more importantly, no one can see out either. There is not a single sound to be heard.

I wonder how many weapons are trained on this very room from the outside.

Flattening myself against the wall of the corridor, I begin to slide my way along to that door. My primeval instinct is to shut off every function of my body that might make a noise, and that includes breathing, but I realize that if I do that, I will pass out. Not a good idea. Instead I inhale and exhale rhythmically, attempting to keep my heartbeat regular and measured.

I fail.

I reach the door. Still I can hear nothing. Beads of sweat roll down my cheeks; all my senses are on high alert. Is there anyone inside? Or have they moved elsewhere? And if Mrs Lucas, Class 9D and Jamie
are
in the classroom, then why aren't they making any noise?

I fear the worst and a whimper of fear almost escapes me, but I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip and keep quiet. Then I sink to my knees and slowly, gracefully, without touching either the door or the wooden surround, I lean forward and peer through the keyhole.

I see – nothing. Only darkness.

I grit my teeth as I realize that either the key is in the lock on the other side of the door, or someone has deliberately blocked the keyhole. I want to scream with frustration, but of course I don't.

What now?
I yell inside my head.
For God's sake, Mia, what now?

Even as I'm thinking this, my gaze falls on the cupboard next door. This cupboard is where French textbooks are kept, and inside it has a connecting door that opens into the back of class 9D's form room. I remember this from my Year Eight French lessons.

I have to make a supreme effort not to fling the cupboard door open and rush straight inside. Instead I reach for the handle and ease it down. For a second it doesn't move and I think it's locked. But a little extra pressure, and the door clicks open.

I slip into the cupboard. I have to shut the door gently behind me – it might arouse suspicion if I leave it open. But there is no window inside the cupboard and it is so dark in there, I can't see anything. There's a light switch, but I dare not use it. However, I can work out where the connecting door should be from my knowledge of the classroom. Feeling my way past the bookshelves, I head in that direction, praying I do not knock any copies of
Madame Bovary
or
Bonjour, Madame! A First Course in French for Beginners
to the floor.

My memory does not fail me. As I move further forward, I see a sliver of light ahead of me. It is shining under the connecting door; a tiny beam shows me where the keyhole is.

Once again I kneel, and once again I do not touch the door or the surround. My heart is thundering as I lean forward and delicately place my eye to the keyhole.

This time I
can
see into Class 9D's form room.

I only have a narrow angle of vision, but there are people in front of me, sitting at tables. They seem alive, moving ever so slightly as I watch, and relief rips through me. I can't see Kat Randall, but I can just glimpse Mrs Lucas at her desk. I can't see her face though because her head is bowed.

I swivel my head a little more, trying to see all corners of the room, but the keyhole is too small. I cannot see Jamie. Or anyone with a gun for that matter.

I straighten up. I wonder what to do now; I can only think of one plan. I could go out into the corridor, make some noise or other to draw the hostage-taker out of the classroom, and then hide.

When I know whether it is Jamie or not, then I'll decide what to do.

Bree's words come back to me, and I hope he isn't wearing a mask because I don't have a back-up plan.

This is my only hope, I think.

I turn to leave the cupboard as silently as I came. That was my intention, anyway. But as I begin to feel my way back towards the other door, the plastic bag looped through my belt cannot cope with the weight of the hammer any longer.

The handles tear right through, but in the dark I do not see.

I don't realize until the hammer clatters to the floor with a crash that seems to reverberate through the whole of the silent annexe.