When I came to stand beside her, she glanced up, attempting a smile. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Beach?’
‘Sure,’ I said. I’d already begun to understand what the different destinations meant on our midnight walkabouts. If she just wanted company, she was happy to sit on my garage roof and share chilly whispers for half an hour or so before heading home. If she was feeling restless, we’d wander Brighton’s streets for a while, talking. The beach meant she needed to see the sea, in a way that wasn’t usually good.
Brighton was quiet and still, like the whole city was taking a breather before the week started up again. We made it down to the seafront without seeing a single person. I went to walk down the steps to the beach, but Suzanne had stopped at the railings, leaning with her back to the sea. She’d pulled out a fresh cigarette and was flicking ineffectually at her lighter.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked. ‘You seem tense.’
‘I’m tense because I can’t light this stupid thing,’ Suzanne said between gritted teeth. A flame finally appeared and she touched the cigarette end to it. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, but the tension on her face didn’t dissipate.
‘You are such a cliché right now,’ I said, because it was what Rosie would have said and Rosie wasn’t there.
I watched in relief as an involuntary smile spread across Suzanne’s face. She flicked her eyes towards me, her smile sliding into a smirk. ‘The tortured soul, smoking away her blues?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘The rebel teenager sneaking out in the middle of the night and – gasp! – chain-smoking in the dark.’
Suzanne laughed. ‘The horror.’ She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders had relaxed and she was still smiling. She looked at me, breathed in slowly and then sighed out a puff of smoke. ‘OK. I wanted to talk to you about earlier, at the Pavilion.’
I nodded, not sure what to say. When she didn’t continue, I prompted, ‘The friend of Sarah’s?’
I saw Suzanne bite down on her lip before moving her head in assent. ‘That wasn’t really the truth.’
‘Right,’ I said slowly. ‘So who is she?’
‘She’s my social worker.’ Suzanne had dropped her eyes to the ground so I couldn’t make out her expression.
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised despite myself. ‘I didn’t know you had a social worker.’
‘Well, no, that’s the point.’ There was a slight edge of irritation in her voice. ‘I didn’t want you to know. I wasn’t exactly expecting her to turn up when I was with my friends.’
‘So you lied?’ I felt a delayed reaction of hurt creep up on me, tinged with anxiety. She’d lied to me. And it wasn’t the first time. ‘Why?’
‘Because it was easier.’ Suzanne crossed her straightened arms at the elbows, pressing the side of her chin into her upper arm. It didn’t look comfortable.
‘Easier?’ I repeated. I thought about how she hadn’t told me about Dylan for so long. What else was she lying about or hiding? How could I know?
‘Don’t be pissed off,’ Suzanne said quickly. She sounded worried. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you, to try and explain, you know? I’m sorry. I just . . . didn’t want to get into it there. I hate all of it, having a social worker, having to talk to people about stuff I don’t want to talk about, and how they’re all so professional about it. I hate it.’ Her voice was picking up, agitated and tense. ‘And they won’t leave me alone; it’s just the worst thing. Especially Becca. She tries to be like a friend, and I just hate it.’
‘Yeah, but I’m your friend,’ I said, trying to figure out why I felt so thrown by something that should have been so obvious. Of course she’d have a social worker. Wouldn’t it be more weird if she didn’t? ‘Why can’t you talk to me about that? Complain to me, that’s what friends are for.’
‘I can’t,’ Suzanne said, sounding on the verge of tears. ‘I can’t talk to you about her, because then I’ll have to tell you why I don’t like talking to her, and if I do that, I have to tell you what I tell her.’ Her words were starting to get difficult to follow. ‘And then I’ll have to tell you about getting hit and the stuff I used to do to try and get it all to just stop and trying to kill myself and how my dad used to just lose control sometimes and there was nowhere I could go because where could I go but there and no one stopped him, they just never did, and I don’t—’
‘Oh God, stop!’ I managed to break in, panicked. She’d stood up, the cigarette crushed in her fingers, her eyes wild and wet, her breath coming in frightening short gasps. She turned away from me, raising her arms to her head. I could still hear her trying to breathe and I felt as lost and useless as a child. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tried. ‘I was being stupid. I totally understand why you didn’t explain earlier.’
She didn’t reply, her back still to me, but she’d lowered her arms and was now hugging herself with them. I could see her fingers curled around the blades of her shoulders, squeezing tight.