Torn (2 page)

Mrs Flanagan makes a speech. She talks about a Tara I don’t recognize.
A shining star … always ready with a smile … helping others … a tribute to her school and her family … we’re lucky to have known her … she’ll be missed by each and every one of us
.

Why does being dead automatically make you a good person? Can’t anyone see the truth? Tara clearly had Mrs Flanagan fooled. But then, she always did
know how to handle teachers. They thought she was
wonderful
. The only one who ever seemed to have the measure of her was Daley. She wouldn’t let Tara have her way just because she was Tara. It was like she arrived at Bransford Academy and no one had bothered to tell her the golden rule: Tara Chambers is God.

Daley stood up to her that first day of the trip. She didn’t let Tara have her own way. Any other teacher would have backed down – Tara could be very persuasive. But Daley stood firm.

If only she’d let Tara have her way.

A couple more songs, a few words from the vicar, then it’s over. We shuffle out of the church to the sounds of a piano playing a song that sounds familiar. It takes me a moment or two to place it: ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen. Except this version is orchestral and really slow. What a weird choice. Probably something else Tara joked about when she assumed that her funeral was a long way in the future.

It’s good to get outside, to breathe again. Dad’s arm hangs loosely across my shoulders.

‘How you doing, kiddo? I know that must have been hard for you.’

He’s been asking me this a lot since I got back. I think he’s worried it’s making me think about Mum. And it is. But Mum’s death was very, very different.

I smile weakly at him. ‘Yeah, I’m OK, I think. Thanks.’

He gathers me in a massive bear hug – his speciality. ‘I think you’re being really brave. I’m so proud of you.’

I feel sick but somehow manage to reply, ‘Thanks, Dad. Listen, I’m going to find Cass. See you at the car in a few minutes?’

He nods and wanders off.

I scan the crowd looking for Cass. Stephanie de Luca is blowing her nose in a rather unattractive fashion. Her dad’s suit is so shiny it almost blinds me, and her mum’s hair is a black that’s far from natural. A couple of photographers are milling around looking shifty. I keep well clear. I veer past Polly, who’s huddled with a woman scribbling in a tiny notepad. Can’t help but overhear a few words. ‘Of course, we’re all devastated. It’s been such a shock.’

‘And were you particularly close to Tara?’

‘Well … yes. We
all
were, really. Tara was incredibly popular.’

Good grief.

A voice from behind hisses in my ear. ‘Can you
believe
her? What the hell is she playing at?’

I turn around. ‘I have no earthly idea. She must have lost her mind.’

Cass and I head towards a couple of tumbledown gravestones, away from the crowd.

‘So … what did you think?’

‘Of what?’

‘Er … the saintification of Miss Chambers? Interesting, no?’

‘Cass! The girl is
dead
. It’s not funny.’

‘I know. Sorry. It’s just weird, that’s all.’

Part of me agrees with her, but anger flares inside me all the same. ‘There’s nothing weird about it. Jesus, Cass! Don’t you feel
sad
? Don’t you feel
anything
?!’

I can tell I’ve gone too far, because she looks angry. And Cass never gets angry with me.

‘Of course I feel sad! But there’s nothing I can do about it. Just cos I choose not to wallow in it, doesn’t mean I’m not upset! Stop telling me how I should be feeling, OK?’

For a second there I thought she was going to cry. But of course she doesn’t. I still feel bad though. ‘I’m sorry. I just … don’t think you should joke about this.’

She shrugs and the anger is gone. ‘You’re right.
Listen, I have to go. Somehow I’ve been roped into helping at Jeremy’s party. Twenty hyperactive six-year-olds running riot in Pizza Express – nightmare or what?’

I hug her goodbye, and I bet we look the same as any of the other multicoloured mourners. Clinging to each other for comfort. Wondering how such a terrible thing could have happened to someone so young. But we know.

We
know
.

On my way to the car I see Tara’s brother. He’s sitting on the wall of the churchyard all by himself. He looks up just as I’m passing, and I’m sure that he’s going to say something and I don’t want him to. I really don’t want him to. What am I supposed to say?
It sucks about your sister being dead
. He probably doesn’t even remember me anyway.

An enormous woman swoops on Jack at that very moment. No – she doesn’t swoop, she
envelops
him. She’s wearing what appears to be a psychedelic tent. Jack disappears entirely in her embrace. Lucky escape for me.

Dad’s having a sneaky fag, leaning on the bonnet of the car. As soon as he scopes me he drops the butt,
grinds it underfoot and pops a mint into his mouth. We’ve come to an uneasy understanding about the smoking. He’s allowed to do it as long as I’m not around. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to smell it, I don’t want to think about the state of his tar-stained lungs. If what happened to Mum didn’t make him stop, nothing will. I’ll let him off this time; I suppose the funeral
was
pretty stressful.

I crank up the volume on the stereo as soon as we’re out of the car park. The music helps to clear everything out of my head. But then Dad has to go and turn it down again.

‘So … how are you feeling?’

Not again. Please, not again. ‘Fine, thanks.’ I reach for the volume button, but I’m not fast enough.

‘Her poor parents. They must be going through hell. I managed to have a quick word with Bob. Gave him our condolences. He looks … lost.’

Stop it stop it stop it. Please. ‘I thought Jack did so well, keeping it together like that. I can’t believe how much he’s grown up! Last time I saw him he was a right scrawny little bugger.’ He trails off into silence.

I have nothing to say, but I know he’s waiting. Just try. Say something – anything will do. Here goes …

‘Yeah.’ Perfect. Non-committal. You can’t read anything into a
yeah
, can you?

It seems to do the job. Dad carries on talking, and I carry on staring out of the window. From time to time I nod or say
yes
or
no
or whatever single word is required of me. Dad doesn’t seem to notice that he’s essentially talking to himself. Or maybe he notices but lets me get away with it because of the circumstances. I
am
supposed to be traumatized, after all.

There was a special session after school last week for the parents of the girls who were on the trip. Dad told me all about it afterwards. There was a psychologist who specializes in post-traumatic stress, talking about all the different ways this stress could manifest itself. Apparently ‘there’s no right or wrong way to grieve’. I’d have to disagree with that. Writing ‘I misssss u so much. Ur in a betta place now. xoxo’ on Tara’s Facebook page pretty much sums up the wrong way to grieve as far as I’m concerned. There are also two ‘R.I.P. Tara Chambers’ pages on Facebook. One of them only has nine ‘likes’, but the other has 452 and counting. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ll probably become number 453. I wouldn’t want anyone to notice my absence.

I couldn’t believe my ears when Dad came home spouting all that psychobabble bullshit. He’s always going on about psychologists/counsellors/therapists being a waste of space. But for some reason this
situation has changed his mind. Maybe he’s wondering just how much death his little girl is going to have to deal with before her eighteenth birthday.

Bruno’s waiting for us at the front door and I grab him and bury my face in his fur. I breathe deeply, pathetically grateful for his warm, comforting dogginess. It’s over. The worst is over now. I got through it.

I take the stairs two at a time, desperate to take off these ridiculous jeans, which are (let’s face it) too small for me. Bruno overtakes me and I know I’ll find him on the bed, begging to have his belly rubbed.

But when I get to my bedroom Bruno’s nowhere to be seen, which means he must be under the bed – his second favourite hiding place in the house.

And there’s Tara, perched on the end of my bed.

Her hands are filthy and her fingernails are muddy and bloody and ragged. She’s picking at them, trying to use a thumbnail to scour out the dirt from the fingernails on her other hand. It doesn’t seem to be making any difference.

She glances up as I shut the door behind me. ‘So how was it?’ Her voice has a croaky, hoarse quality that it never had in life. I keep expecting her to clear her throat, but she doesn’t.

I ignore her. It’s easier now.

I was terrified the first time she appeared – in the middle of the night last Tuesday. For the first time in days I hadn’t woken up sweating or panicking or crying. For the first time in days I’d dreamed about something else. I stretched out under the covers and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Maybe everything was going to be OK. Maybe I wasn’t going to be haunted
by this for the rest of my life. I tried to remember my dream, but it was already starting to slip away. I concentrated as hard as I could, but it was no good. Then a voice in the dark scared the life out of me.

‘Er … you’d better not be over it already.’ A voice I thought I recognized, even though there was something horribly different about it.

I scrambled to turn on the bedside light, wincing as light flooded the room. There she was. Perched on the end of my bed, right next to Bruno. I tried to scream but the only sound that came out was a tiny whimper. Bruno flicked his tail in his sleep, oblivious to my terror.

This is a dream. A new kind of dream. Focus really hard on it being a dream and you will wake up.
I scrunched up my eyes really tight and pressed my fists into the sockets.
Just focus on breathing – in and out, in and out. That’s it.
I felt calmer and better and …

‘You know, it’s not very polite to ignore people.’

Crap. Why can’t you just wake up? You always wake up before the really bad things happen, don’t you?

‘Alice, for Christ’s sake, you’re boring me now. Don’t be so pathetic.’

She didn’t
sound
like a soul-eating monster from beyond the grave. She sounded exactly like Tara. If Tara had been gargling with gravel.

I opened my eyes and stared at her. Her hair was glossy as ever, highlights glinting in the light. Her face looked normal, if a little pale. Her vest and tiny shorts were pristine clean, unlike her hands. I tried my best not to look at the hands.

‘That’s better. God, anyone would think you’d seen a ghost!’ She smiled at her own wit. ‘So, as I was saying, you’d better not be over it already.’

‘Wha … what?’ I said, or rather croaked. Just like her.

‘You were dreaming about something else.
Someone
else. Why weren’t you dreaming about me?’ She pouted.

I muttered to myself, ‘You’re not real, you’re not real. I’m going to wake up now.’ I closed my eyes and started humming a lullaby that Mum used to sing to me whenever I had a nightmare.

‘You sound like a crazy person. Look at me, Alice, just look at me.’

I didn’t want to but I couldn’t help myself.

‘There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Now she was sitting cross-legged. Her toenails were painted candy pink.
But her hands … her poor hands. It almost looks like she’s tried to claw her way out …

I cleared my throat. ‘What do you want from me?’
She’s not real. Why are you even engaging with her? This is a dream, remember.

Tara smirked. It was a smirk I’d seen countless times before. ‘What do I
want
from you? Hmm. Interesting question. Let’s see … someone to talk to, perhaps? Someone to share all my secrets with? A shoulder to cry on? Maybe just someone to sympathize with the fact that I’m
fucking dead
!’ Anger flashed across her features so fast that I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it. And then the smirk was back in place.

‘You’re not real.’ The shakiness in my voice betrayed me.