‘Of course, yes, I’m here whenever you’re ready to touch base.’
I stand at the sink in my bathroom. The razor on my skin. Press harder than usual. A knife through butter. A lightning bolt along my rib. Warm, red drips.
But no comfort.
16
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes I could see you, in your cell. You were smiling, happy with how things are going. How your plan is coming together. I start a countdown, in charcoal, inside the bathroom cabinet mounted on the wall. The days until the trial. I thought it would help, but when I write the number my hands begin to shake. Lawyers and jury members. The judge.
And you. There behind a screen.
Waiting.
Mike texted me first thing this morning saying he was going to work early, a full day of clients, but he’d like to catch up tomorrow, or Monday. There’s nothing he can say or do. He’s said it already, ‘the only way out is through’.
Phoebe turns her back towards me as I enter the kitchen, butters two slices of toast. Saskia by the sink. A spare part.
‘Morning,’ she says.
‘Hi, I just wanted to let you know I’m going out this afternoon, taking photos for art.’
‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘I’ll be out and about too, but perhaps we can all watch a movie together later on? Something girly.’
‘I’m going straight to Clondine’s after breakfast so you can count me out – not that you care,’ Phoebe responds, throwing her knife in the sink and walking out, toast in her hand.
‘What about you, Milly? Do you fancy it?’
‘Maybe, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be out for.’
I eat my breakfast alone, thankful I’m seeing Morgan later. In her messages she tells me how she dreams about living somewhere else, away from the estate. I’ve written a message to her a hundred times, deleted it before sending. I think if I ever told her about you it would be face-to-face.
We meet in the afternoon as arranged, down one of the side streets, away from the main road. She nods as I approach, a swift upwards movement of her head, a huge grin on her face.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Have you missed me?’
I smile which she takes as my reply.
‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s go.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To meet some friends of mine.’
‘Which friends?’
‘Just a couple of boys I know.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’
We cut through two streets I’ve never been along before. Quiet, the mayhem of the weekend markets not noticeable from here. The houses become less white, less grand, and soon we’re near another estate. As we turn the corner and go to cross the road I see the line of black cars before I notice the church. A small group of people file out of the building, a vicar at the front, head bent down. A woman being supported, two men, one on either side.
‘Wait, let them get in the cars, Morgan.’
‘Nah, it’s fine, come on.’
As we get closer I see the coffin, the brown varnished wood shining through the hearse window, the October sun penetrating the glass. A floral tribute. DAD. The drivers of the cars open the doors, smart in their uniforms, hats held by their side. I stop before we reach them. Interrupting their procession, their grief, feels wrong. Morgan walks on, oblivious, weaves her way through the mourners. When the cars are full and pull away, and the vicar goes back inside, I stand outside the church for a minute or two longer, think about my dad. He left long before the worst of it but he must have seen the news, he must know. Run away. Hide. Denial about who he married, denial about who you preferred over him.
Morgan whistles and beckons to me, looks impatient. When I join her she asks me why I stopped.
‘Out of respect, I suppose.’
She spits on the ground, pulls a face that implies she doesn’t get it or doesn’t give a shit. A small pocket of heat flares up inside me. Lessons, she needs to be taught, I’m a good teacher.
We turn a corner into a residential street, tower blocks on both sides, a shop on the right, metal grating covering the windows. We enter the estate on our left, walk through it until we reach a small play park, the ground littered with glass and fast-food wrappers. No children playing, just two older boys sitting on the roundabout, cans of beer in their hands.
‘All right, dickheads,’ Morgan says.
‘Shut up, you little shit,’ replies one of the boys, a cap on his head, a gold stud in his right ear.
Morgan jumps on the roundabout, takes the can from his hand, gulps, burps afterwards, which makes them laugh. The other boy, inflamed spots on his neck, yellow heads on some of them, says, ‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s Milly, she’s from opposite my bit.’
‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘Come and sit next to me, make friends.’
‘I’m all right,’ I reply, taking a seat on the bench to the side of them.
‘Too good for us, are you?’
I smile, try not to look fazed.
‘You going to give me a beer or what?’ Morgan asks.
‘What do I get in return?’ the boy with the cap replies.
‘The pleasure of my dazzling company, of course.’ Morgan stands up, takes a theatrical bow.
Cap boy is called Dean, his friend calls him that as he says, ‘I bet I know what you’d really like.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he replies.
They light cigarettes, offer me one.
‘No thank you.’
‘Proper uptight, aren’t you?’
Dean pulls Morgan towards him, starts to tickle her. She resists at first, then after he whispers something into her ear, she says, bet you I would, and walks off with him. Disappears into a small wooden play hut, painted in primary colours, names and graffiti scratched into the top. I try to steady the dread building in my stomach. Dirty and bad, the things happening to her. I want to go over to the hut, help her, but sometimes trying to help, doing something good, can end up meaning you do something bad.
Dean’s friend moves to sit next to me, his fingernails ragged. Chewed. He positions his arm behind me, running along the back of the bench, touches my shoulder with his hand.
Touches me.
I try to ignore the movement I hear from the hut, bodies shifting into position. Morgan, my friend, on her knees or her back. The boy’s face leans into my neck, the sounds from the hut replaced with the sound of his saliva as he moves a piece of gum around his mouth. I shiver, should stand up, can’t feel my legs. Stuck.
‘Are you cold? I’ll warm you up.’
The smell of alcohol, the cigarette in his hand, the closeness of his face to mine takes me there.
To you.
A shadow, a canopy woven out of twisted love and lust, suffocated me in my bed every night. You.