Unspeakable (8 page)

‘I heard rumours that a girl from Brookby died last summer,’ Jasmine explains. ‘Then Luke told me she was Megan’s best friend, and that Megan hasn’t spoken since she died.’

Mum sighs. ‘It sounds like you already know most of it.’

‘I don’t really know how she died. The details. Luke just said there was an accident.’

‘Well …’ Mum draws out the word as if she can postpone her answer. ‘Megan, Hana and some other kids were at the ridge. I
don’t know what they were doing, mucking around on a rope swing or something, but there was an accident and Hana fell.’

Hana fell. She fell. She died.

I can’t … There’s too much. Agony, horror, rage, guilt. My brain roars with it all.

Jasmine starts to cry too.

What right do
you
have to cry? Was she
your
best friend?

‘Why don’t you come in?’ Mum says. ‘I’ll see if I can raise Megan, then you can patch things up.’

There’s a tiny island of reason in my mind, where I know it’s not Jasmine’s fault, but the pain is like a tidal wave, flooding and consuming everything.

‘No,’ Jasmine blurts. ‘Thank you. I – I don’t think I should. I feel a bit, you know …’

I hear her backing away, towards the door, then it opens and Jasmine leaves without saying goodbye.

I stand, step forward, and reach out my hand as if I can stop her leaving, without really knowing whether I want her to stay or go.

I mooch around the house for the rest of the day, trying to avoid Mum, who inconveniently has the day off. She corners me at dinner, when I’m forcing down some beans on toast.

‘Jasmine came round earlier. She wants to sort things out.’

I don’t respond, neatly slicing a corner from my triangle of toast.

‘I told her about Hana.’

I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. I watch it,
unable to meet Mum’s eyes. The beans look like maggots swimming in blood. Some of the sauce drips away and one of the beans slides off and drops to the table. I throw the fork down.

‘I know it’s hard for you, Megan. But she’s heard stuff at school, so I thought she should know the truth.’

My breath shakes and judders.
I know, Mum. I should’ve told her myself
.

Mum frowns. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve done the wrong thing. I always put my foot in it.’

No. You did the right thing. I’d rather Jasmine heard it from you than some stupid lies from Sadie
.

I reach for the empty can of beans and peel a strip off the label. I write
Thank you
on the back.

Mum smiles and squeezes my hand. ‘Do my roots for me later? I look like a scarecrow!’

I nod.

Mum gets this sly look on her face. ‘Maybe we could—’

I shake my head before she’s even finished speaking. There’s no way I’m letting her loose on my hair.

I don’t sleep that night. I alternate between crying into my pillow and drifting through nightmares. I wake late on Sunday morning. My skin feels taut, like I’ve cried out every last drop of water, wrung myself dry like a dishcloth. I’m too tired to be cross with Jasmine any more. I send her a text:

Will you come over?

When she arrives, just half an hour later, Jasmine’s face is pallid, her curls hang limply, and her clothes are creased. We look at each other for a moment, tears welling in both our eyes, then she wraps her arms around me and starts to sob. ‘Are you OK? I’m so sorry. I honestly had no idea.’

I glance around for something to write on, but we’re standing in the doorway. I don’t know how else to reassure her, so I reach out, cup Jasmine’s chin in my palm, and give her a weak smile. Something flickers through me. A hazy, drunken memory. A feeling. I try to grab hold of it, but it’s like trying to catch a cloud.

‘I guess that means I’m forgiven?’

I nod.

Mum totters out of the kitchen. ‘Just popping to the shop. I fancy something naughty. You want anything? Chocolate?’

I fix her with a look. I assume ‘something naughty’ means fags.

‘What?’ she says, with a wicked grin. ‘God, Megan. Sometimes I think you’re the mum and I’m the kid!’

I try to smile back, but it falters. Mum lost her own parents in a car accident a couple of years before I was born. She must miss them so much, especially now Gran and Grandpa are gone.

We wave her off, then I lead Jasmine up to my room, tapping the banister in a nervous, staccato rhythm as we mount the stairs.

I stop in the doorway of my bedroom, seeing it through Jasmine’s eyes. It’s immaculate. All the surfaces are clean and clutter-free, my books are alphabetised, my CDs grouped by
genre. I almost want to chuck an old plate on the floor, or leave some dirty socks lying around, to make it seem normal. Jasmine is looking at the walls, though, which are decorated with prints from the Wildlife Photographer of the Year Award.

Early afternoon light slants through my window and highlights drifting dust motes. I watch them for a moment, transfixed, then wrench my eyes away, looking for something else to distract me.

Jasmine’s waiting. I have to do this. I almost can’t bear to let Hana go again, but she’s not here any more, and Jasmine is. Hands shaking, I reach beneath my pillow and pull out a stack ßof letters, all addressed to Hana. All unanswered. I pass them to Jasmine.

I watch while she scans the pages. Her eyes are red, her skin blotchy. I hate seeing her like this.

When Jasmine finishes, she tucks the pile of letters beneath my pillow again. Then she stares at the floor, trying to gather the right words. After a few moments, she seems to give up, and just lunges forward to grab my arms. ‘Oh, Megan,’ she gushes, ‘I’m so sorry. Sorry you lost your best friend. Sorry you had to see it. I wish I could make it all go away. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.’

Jasmine draws me into a fierce hug, her fingernails digging into my back. I focus on the feel of her chest against mine, the sound of her breath in my ear, the brush of her hair against my neck. A knot of tension in my shoulder blades loosens.

‘Do you have any pictures? I’d like to see, if … if that’s OK.’

My heart quickens, but I drop to the floor and scrabble around the bottom of my wardrobe for the right photo album. I find it and quickly flick through.

There it is. Hana and I standing in Grandpa’s garden, arms wrapped around each other, cheeks pressed together, her grin matching mine. Hana’s wearing a black top with glittery stars, paired with some combat shorts that end just above her knees. Everything looked great on her. Even the scruffy Dr Martens were kooky and cute. I bet she was wearing odd socks beneath them. She was the kind of person who’d wear Christmas socks in August.

Jasmine studies the picture. ‘You look so happy and comfortable with each other,’ she murmurs.

I wish Hana were here. Wish you could meet her
.

Tears glisten in Jasmine’s eyes. She tries to hold them back, but they overflow and roll down her face. Seconds later, we’re both clutching each other again and crying.

‘You know it wasn’t your fault, right?’ Jasmine says, her voice thick with tears. ‘You keep saying sorry in your letters, but your mum said it was an accident.’

I pull away from her sharply and stand to look out of the window.
I’ve told you as much as I can. Don’t ask for any more
.

Jasmine starts to say something else, but Mum calls up the stairs. ‘Are you two hungry? I’m starving! I could make lunch if you like?’

‘Are you hungry?’ Jasmine whispers.

I shrug.

‘Be right down!’ Jasmine calls.

I turn to leave, but Jasmine grabs my hand to stop me. ‘Wait. Just a minute. There’s something I want to tell you, too. I want to explain why we moved. I know it seems strange. I know people are talking about me, wondering why I came here just before exams.’

I grab my notepad.
You don’t have to
, I write.

‘But I want you to know.’ Jasmine draws in a big breath. ‘Some girls at my old school were giving me a really hard time. It was affecting my schoolwork, so Mum and Dad thought I should sit my exams in a new school.’

That’s awful
, I write.
Who could not like you?

She gives me a tearful smile.

I’m glad you told me
, I add.
I’m glad you moved, even if it was for a horrible reason
.

‘Me too.’ Jasmine swipes tears from her face and says, ‘Right, let’s get something to eat!’

The kitchen is thick with the scent of tomato soup. It bubbles away in a pan on the hob, spitting out drops like lava from a volcano.

Mum laughs when she sees me inspecting the can. ‘So I didn’t technically “make” it. But it’ll do, won’t it?’

‘It’s fine,’ Jasmine assures her. ‘Smells great!’

Jasmine starts chatting about a TV programme where a woman adopts a child who turns out to be her younger sister. Mum asks if she’d like to act in a soap, and Jasmine laughs and says she’d rather be on stage. Then she notices some gossip magazine lying on the table and they start to coo over the male torsos in the centrefold.

I tune out, concentrate on blowing steam off my soup. I’m glad Jasmine knows now. Well, she knows as much as Mum. Neither of them knows the whole truth. What I did to Hana.

The voice screams through my head, splitting it in two.

Murderer.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dear Jasmine,

I’ve taken your advice. I’m not going to write to Hana any more. I like your idea of writing her a goodbye letter, and I will do some day, I promise.

Anyway, I thought, seeing as I won’t be writing to her, that maybe I could write to you instead? You were asking about Hana, what she was like. I wanted to think about it, so I could get her just right.

Hana was sarcastic, funny, dry; beautiful, quirky and cool. She was a geek. Massively into
Star Trek
,
Star Wars
,
Stargate
. God, it made her mad when I mixed them up! She hated ferrets, loved gherkins, and once downed a whole
bottle of banana FRijj in one go. She was super-smart, and could recite the whole periodic table off the top of her head.

On my sixth birthday, Mum bought me this doll. It was a cheap, knock-off Barbie and its leg kept falling off. I was gutted. I really wanted a Disney Sleeping Beauty Barbie, just like Hana’s. So she used all her birthday money, and the pocket money she’d been saving for a new bike basket, to buy me one. She’d do anything to make someone else happy.

I knew her inside out. Better than I knew anyone. I miss her. It still hurts so much.

I wish you could’ve met her – you would have absolutely loved her.

Megan xxx

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jasmine and I are walking to the bus after school. She’s all caught up in this Drama project she’s working on, and has barely taken a breath in the last three minutes, until we see Luke ahead. ‘What’s that on Luke’s back?’ she asks.

We get a little closer. It’s a Post-it note. I sigh when I read the single word on it.

Jasmine gasps. ‘Luke!’ she shouts. Several people turn round, including Luke. Jasmine starts towards him, but I grab her arm, rummage for my notebook and scribble a message:
Don’t tell him. I’ll take it off on the bus without him noticing
.

Jasmine nods and we catch up with Luke. ‘Er – hi!’ Jasmine says with an exaggerated smile. ‘Mind if we sit with you on the bus?’

‘Nope. Was that … what you wanted?’

‘Yeah! Just wanted to make sure we could all sit together.’

We board the bus and find some seats. Luke shoots us an odd look when we sit behind him, instead of across the aisle. He twists round, his back to me, so he can moan to Jasmine about his football coach.

I gently peel the Post-it from Luke’s back. I thought I was being subtle, but he whips round and asks what I’m doing. I squeeze the note into a ball. I hope it hasn’t been there all day.

‘Nothing,’ Jasmine says quickly. ‘Just some grass on your back.’

Luke glares at my fist. ‘Let me see it. I knew something was up today. Those bastards!’

I shake my head.

‘Give it to me, Megan,’ he demands.

I shake my head again.

Luke grabs my hand and roughly prises it open. He turns away from us to read it, then lets out a growl of frustration and thumps the seat in front.

Jasmine bites her lip.

Luke takes some deep breaths, like he’s trying not to lose it.

I wait a few minutes, then give his shoulder a squeeze. He flinches away. I clamber over Jasmine and sit next to him.

They’re not worth it
, I write.

Luke gives me a half-smile. ‘Thanks for trying to get it off. You’re not very stealthy though!’

I gasp.
I’m a champion of stealth!
I write.
You must have Spider-Man senses!

I get a proper smile this time. ‘Yeah, that’s me. Spider-Man!’

I have an idea. It’s impulsive, spur-of-the-moment. So not a Megan idea – which makes me like it even more.
Do you fancy going out for food tonight?
I scribble.
We could try that new place in Lyndhurst, Carino’s
.

Luke turns an alarming shade of crimson. ‘Yeah, I’d love to!’

I stand up and wave my notepad at Jasmine, pointing to what I’ve just written. ‘That’s a genius idea!’ she says.

When I turn back to Luke, he’s gone all quiet again, and won’t look at me. And Mum thinks
my
mood swings are bad! There are a couple of minutes of silence, then Jasmine has us both laughing at a pretty good impression of Mrs Austin, complete with the long, wobbly neck.

After the bus has dropped us off, I make a detour to the café to beg some money from Mum. Her lips tighten, but she says, ‘Go on, then. I’ll only spend it on fags. Twenty quid do?’

I shake my head and take ten. I’ll make it last.

Luke’s in Brookby tonight. His parents are separated. Some nights he stays with his dad in the next village, Ashworth, and others he’s with his mum, Sandra. He doesn’t talk about his dad much, but I get the impression he doesn’t like going over there. I think he only does because his dad has shared custody of Simon, and Luke’s fairly protective of his little brother.