What You Left Behind (8 page)

You have been tagged in two photos
.

Shithead loser gonna die 2nite …
 was the caption beneath the latest picture. It was of a rack of pig carcasses hanging in an abattoir.

Why r u not dead yet? put yrself out of yr misery fuckhead
. This one was linked to an actual picture of him getting on a bus. He was wearing his new sneakers, he noticed, so it had been taken after the term ended. His stomach churned again. Would they follow him to the university, if he ever got there, and through the rest of his life?

Freddie read a couple of the messages. Occasionally he laughed at them, to see if that helped. It didn’t. After enough time, he’d begun to believe what was written. He was a loser, useless; he was ugly and he stank; he shouldn’t even exist. They were right. Everyone in his year hated him; they all wished him dead. He was a waste of space.

The underlying message was always the same: why don’t you just kill yourself?

They’d set up a page for him, dedicated to him as if he’d already done the deed—already hanged himself, taken an overdose, slit his wrists in the bath. Sometimes they made suggestions about how he should do it, sent him links to suicide websites or pictures of corpses. There were fake messages of condolence put up every day, vile pictures either of him or something gory sent to his inbox. He was tagged in everything, just to make sure he knew.

And then there were the text messages. Day and night, anonymous, malicious … and they were getting worse.

Of course, he’d considered telling someone—a teacher, his mum, Malc, or the authorities, like you were supposed to—but that would make them hate him even more. He’d thought about telling Lenny, reckoned he might understand. Lenny had been through a load of shit himself and was always getting out of one scrape or another. He was the only friend Freddie had these days, and even then they’d only got to know each other as mates because Lenny had been on the scrounge—food, money, beer, whatever. Sometimes he disappeared for days, turning up at New Hope when he needed a hot meal, a bed.

He rubbed his eyes. What was he thinking? He couldn’t tell anyone, not after what had happened to Dean. His mum couldn’t handle it, and neither could Lana’s mum, Sonia. If he just kept quiet, he reckoned, stayed strong and resolute, it would probably, eventually, go away.

He opened his desk drawer, reached to the back, and felt around among the mess of pens and exercise books. The blade was still there, encrusted brown with the dried blood. But it was still sharp; it would work well enough.

Then his phone vibrated on his desk. He read the message and closed his eyes for a moment.

The old hut, Blackdown Woods, 2morrow, midnight
.

Freddie made sure the door was shut tight and rolled up his sleeve.

6

They don’t know I’m here. It’s what I do—hiding, watching, spying. It gives me a funny feeling inside, but I have to take care of them. It’s dark outside; light in there. Invisibility for me. The window is open a sliver, just enough for me to get a whiff of the end of their chicken meal. I made my own food tonight because Sonia says women like an independent man. It was pizza from the freezer and some parts of it were still hard and cold when I bit into it.

My hands are itching to write my name on the dusty glass.
Gil
. But I won’t. I don’t want them to know I was here. It’s my secret. Taking care of things.

“Lana,” Sonia says, “aren’t you going to eat that? You’ll waste away.”

Sonia is collecting up the plates, slotting them into the dishwasher. I could help, I think. I’m good at washing up. I know how to
do it. She slices her way about the kitchen as if she’s on roller skates. I’ve been roller-skating before. With my friend.

“I’m not hungry,” Lana says. She sounds sad tonight. She has crescents under her eyes the same color as a sepia photograph. I wonder if any boys at the shelter are being mean to her.

They all want her. I’ve seen it in their eyes when she’s peeling potatoes or shaking out their beds.

Lana stands up and goes to the refrigerator. I see her take a bottle of beer when her mother’s back is turned. Then her father comes into the kitchen and she stares sadly at the pair of them. Sonia is bending down to the dishwasher and doesn’t notice. I’m watching all this and they don’t even know. Tony doesn’t say anything until his daughter slides past and leaves the room.

“What’s wrong with her?” he says.

I duck down. They’ve come close to the window. There’s a tap running and then the smell of warm lavender handwash comes wafting up from the drain at my feet. I always wash my hands because you can catch germs otherwise.

“She’s been acting really odd this last month,” Sonia says. “I’m worried for her.”

“It’s probably stress,” Tony replies. Tony is a doctor in the hospital. “She’ll be OK once she gets her exam results.”

Then there’s a kissing sound and a little moan from Sonia. To me, it sounds as if she wants to get away, but I don’t do kissing as I’ve never had a girlfriend. I cover my eyes even though I’m staring at the ground and it’s all black and earthy and I’m standing in a flowerbed and it’s not my fault and I don’t like these noises because it’s revolting.

It stops. There are more low voices.

“I got angry earlier and I shouldn’t have, it’s just a computer,” I hear Tony say. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you in front of Lana.”

“It’s my fault for borrowing it. I was going to ask but you weren’t here and I didn’t know what to do.”

Then there’s more kissing so I creep away. Spying on people doing those things isn’t right. But sometimes I can’t help it.

It’s a nice evening for a walk. I walk and walk lots, all through the night if I can’t sleep. I know my way around every inch of everywhere. Probably the whole planet. Tonight is a very good night for a walk. The security light flashes on when I go round the side of the house, but that’s OK. I know where they all are, how not to set them off if I don’t want to. No one will notice this one.

I look up. Lana’s bedroom light is on. I imagine her sitting cross-legged on the duvet, her computer open in front of her, beer bottle in her hand, her long hair spilling over her eyes, tapping stuff into Facebook. I’ve seen her do this many times before. My mouth starts watering so I swallow it back down. I’m getting a stiff neck from staring up at the window.

The flat roof just below it is a good place to watch, peek inside Lana’s bedroom. I look at the trellis and the drainpipe. They are waiting to be climbed, urging me up. I know where all the footholds are. But what if I get told off again? What if Tony catches me doing it? He might send me away once and for all like he said last time.

Gil, I do my best for you. Honestly I do. But this can’t carry on. The authorities have places for people like you
.

I hear a noise. Something rustling nearby, under the bushes and close to the wall.

“Smudge?”

Smudge comes stalking out of the undergrowth and I pick him up. His paws rest on my shoulder and his claws sink a tiny bit into my skin as I walk off with him.

“We’ll look after her, won’t we, Smudge?” I whisper into his fur.

He purrs back, and we both know there’ll be no more watching tonight.

7

Lana frowned. It wasn’t like her mum to miss a shift. Her first thought was that she was trying to scupper her plans, that she didn’t want her to hang out with her mates. It was clear she disapproved of them. But when she saw the way her mum’s eyes had become small and pebbly, pressed into the soft dough of their puffy sockets, she knew she’d been crying.

“Of course I’ll take your shift for you, Mum,” she said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you ill?”

She watched her mum tip a couple of pills into her hand, take them with a glass of water. She hated that she was using them to mask her grief. She’d always been so fit and healthy, filled with a zest for life. Ever since Simon, things hadn’t been the same.

Her mum nodded, mustering a smile. “Will you give this to Frank?” she said, handing Lana a file. “It’s the fund-raising plans.”

Frank was good with the hands-on side of things but useless when it came to keeping the charity’s paperwork in order. He’d be lost without her mum. She was the treasurer and one of his most dedicated helpers.

“Tell him I’m under the weather today,” she finished.

Lana imagined her mother trapped flat under a snowdrift, washed away by the rain, shielding herself from the desert sun, or beaten to the ground by a great wind. It wasn’t far from the truth.

Before she left, Lana texted Milly and Dan. She wouldn’t be coming bowling with them today. She knew they would understand. She was always canceling plans.

When she started her car, Smudge shot out from between the front wheels. “One of these days …” she called out to him. The cat leaped onto a brick wall but his back legs didn’t quite make it and he flopped onto the gravel. He gave himself a few brisk licks.

Lately, Lana had taken to driving the slightly longer route into Wellesbury, wanting to avoid the spot where she knew the crisp, sun-dried blooms were still tied to the tree at the end of Devil’s Mile. She’d known Dean well and it was still too upsetting. She couldn’t understand why he’d take his own life. Last time she’d seen him he was telling her about his plans, his ambitions, and how he’d been applying for jobs. He’d told her he’d got a girlfriend.

She recalled the funeral—a small affair, with no family members present, just a handful of friends from New Hope. The local paper hadn’t run anything about his death, not after what had happened last time, but her mum inserted a few words in the obituaries section of the
Tribune
. No one else would have bothered otherwise.

Five minutes later, Lana drew up outside New Hope. Parking wasn’t always easy, especially if there were a few local residents home, their cars shoehorned into the available spaces outside the
terraced houses. She eyed the double yellow lines, not wanting to risk it, so all she was left with was an awkward slice of tarmac behind Frank’s white pickup, blocking him in. She hoped he wouldn’t be cross with her.

Suddenly, the parking sensor on her Ka changed to a continuous tone and she felt a crunch. When she got out to look, she saw that Frank’s tow bar had left a dimple in her bumper.

“Bugger,” she said, just as Frank appeared through the back gate. He was holding a bag of rubbish and she didn’t think he’d seen what had happened.

“Language,” he growled, almost playfully, even though it didn’t sound right coming from a man like him. Lana had been scared of him at first, told her mum he was the kind of man she’d cross the road to avoid.

“Hello, Frank,” she said, locking her car. “This is from Mum.” She held out the file.

His eyes were ice-cold blue and his mouth puckered open through the thicket of his wiry gray beard. What she thought might be a smile set Lana’s heart pumping. Frank had once said he hadn’t been to a dentist in decades—hence the blackened teeth—and claimed never to have been to a doctor in his entire life. With his checked shirt, tattered jeans tucked into black Doc Martens, and the old oily cap he usually wore, Lana thought he wouldn’t look out of place playing the part of a redneck in a hillbilly movie. She decided not to tell him about bumping his tow bar.

“Mum can’t make it today,” she explained. “She’s …”

Frank squinted at her. A group of kids charged past on scooters, spitting and yelling obscenities. He roared at them to clear off.

“She’s busy.”

“Always doing something, your ma,” he responded, with the same open-mouthed expression. “There’s a lot of spuds to be peeled if you’re offering.”

He disappeared into the small courtyard, and Lana followed him through the back door into the kitchen, where she saw that he’d already made a start on the meal. The chipped Formica worktop was strewn with cuts of unidentifiable meat and a load of the out-of-date vegetables they were often given free by the supermarket.

“Get this on then,” he said, tossing an apron at Lana.