‘See,’ she says, laughing. ‘It’s not hard, not for some of us anyway.’
Your voice comes to me now, it’s angry, disappointed. SHE’S LAUGHING AT YOU, ANNIE, THAT’S NOT OKAY, FIND A WAY, MAKE HER PAY. No, I don’t want to. I want to walk away but instead I take a step closer to her. A current runs up and down my spine, so dead since I left you, I don’t know who I am. YES YOU DO, ANNIE, YOU DO KNOW, SHOW ME. I take another step, my arms stretch out so close to her, there on the edge, and maybe I would have, maybe I’m capable of it. Of worse. But she jumps down, turns to me, grinning, a chip in her front tooth. A powerful feeling of guilt when I look at her.
‘Chicken,’ she says. ‘What do you want to do now?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Let’s go back to the air vent, take some more coke.’
‘Okay.’
When we’re lying on the ground again I ask Morgan why she wanted to fly, why she wanted to be like an eagle.
‘To escape I suppose, go somewhere else.’
‘Somebody once told me a story about a girl who was so scared she prayed to be given the wings of an eagle.’
‘What was she scared of?’
The person who was telling her the story.
‘Something was chasing her but no matter how fast she ran, or how far she went, it was always right behind her.’
‘What was?’
‘A serpent. It would wait until the girl was tired out from running, wait until she’d fallen asleep, and then it would come.’
‘Is a serpent the same as a snake?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why was it after the girl?’
‘It wasn’t really a snake, it was just pretending to be one.’
‘What was it then?’
‘It was a person, letting the girl know if she ever tried to leave, it would come after her. Find her.’
‘How can a person turn into a snake?’
‘Sometimes people aren’t what they say they are.’
‘Does the girl get away?’
Not in the version you told me, Mummy.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the girl disappeared and hasn’t been seen since, and neither has the snake.’
‘Do you think it’s still chasing her?’
‘Possibly.’
Probably.
‘I’m glad no snakes are after me.’
‘Yeah, lucky.’
‘Have you got loads of other stories?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me another one?’
‘Maybe next time.’
I got what I wanted, for Morgan and me to be friends, but now I’m afraid.
One wrong move.
And.
You mocked me in my head, said DON’T YOU SEE, ANNIE?
DON’T YOU SEE WHO YOU ARE?
11
When I get back to the house I see Mike’s coat on the banister in the hallway, he must be home early from work. I collect my iPod from my room, not wanting to stay there alone, and head to the alcove outside his study. I like it there because it’s an overspill for his books and a good spot, I’ve learnt, to listen in to his telephone conversations. The books in the alcove vary but mostly involve the study of all things ‘psycho’. Psychoanalysis. Psychotherapy. Psychology. And a particular favourite of mine, a red hardback book on the study of psychopaths. The label given to you, by the press. Large and heavy the book is, a lot of chapters. Who knew they knew so much about you.
It’s the chapter on the children of psychopaths that interests me the most. The confusion a child feels when violence is mixed with tenderness. Push and pull. A hyper vigilance, never knowing what to expect, but knowing to expect something. I recognize that feeling, I lived it every day with you. Like the time the power went off in our house, a storm outside. Worse inside. You got a torch, told me to go to the cellar, flick the circuit breaker back up. I told you I was scared, I didn’t want to, I knew there was more than boxes and old furniture down there. You held the torch under your chin, told me you’d come with me, a trick, of course. You pushed me in, slid the bolt across. I clung to the door, counted backwards, a hundred or more, then I blacked out, woke up with you kicking me. You were disappointed in me, that’s what you said, for being weak and afraid, vowed to toughen me up, teach me how to be just like you. That night I fantasized about turning the tables, ending your lessons, but I knew even if you were dead, your ghost would walk through walls until it found me.
I hear the phone in Mike’s study ring, he answers quickly as if he expects it. I lift my headphones away from my ear, not that I have any music on, the trick, always look absorbed. Oblivious. Mike trusts me, no reason not to.
Yet.
A pause, then, hi, June, no problem at all, you’re a good distraction for me, anything but write up today’s notes. I know, tell me about it. Yes, she’s fine, doing well at school, working hard. I’m trying to persuade Phoebe to do the same.
Laughter.
He doesn’t speak for a while, listening to June, then says, god, poor girl, what more does she have to go through. I can’t believe it.
A small explosion in my chest.
Mike goes quiet, listening again, then replies, yes, of course, I’ll tell her about the trial-related stuff but not what her mum’s saying. Thanks, June, I appreciate all the effort you’re making. Yes, we think so too, very special indeed.
A click. Conversation over.
I replace my headphones, slide the red book under a cushion just before Mike comes out of the study. I pretend not to notice him, drum my fingers to the imaginary music I’m listening to. He waves his hand in front of me, I smile, press pause on my iPod, pull my headphones down.
‘Hey, how was your day?’ he asks.
‘Okay thanks.’
‘What are you reading?’
A heavy red book about Mummy. And me.
I hold up Lord of the Flies, the other book I’m reading.
‘It’s a set text. Miss Mehmet believes we should read at least one classic per month. It’s also the play we’re doing this term.’
‘Did you get a part?’
‘I missed the auditions but Miss Mehmet asked me to be the prompt, and I’m going to help out backstage, paint the scenery and stuff.’
‘Nice. Did Phoebe get a part?’
Of course she did, she runs Year Eleven. Didn’t you know?
‘She’s the onstage narrator, a lot of lines to learn.’
‘Yikes, she’d better get busy then. Are you enjoying it?’ He nods towards the book.
‘Yeah, I am.’
‘What do you like about it?’
‘There’s no adults.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, laughing.
‘No, not like that.’
‘Like what then? You like the fact the children don’t have parents?’
‘They do have parents, they’re just not on the island with them.’
‘Good point. But there’s some pretty upsetting scenes though, aren’t there?’
I nod, reply. ‘Like Piggy’s death.’
‘Doesn’t a boy called Simon die too?’
He noticed that I didn’t mention that, the psychologist in him keen to explore why.
‘Simon’s death is very upsetting, don’t you think?’ he asks.
I hesitate for long enough to make it look like I’m giving it some thought, then reply.