My sister wasn’t always my sister, she used to be my best friend. She always called me Taylor back then, almost everyone called me by my surname because that’s what I preferred. Amber always sounded like second best to me, like a traffic light. Red, Amber, Green. Red for stop, green for go, but Amber meant very little at all, it was insignificant, just like me. I was convinced my name was the reason the kids at school didn’t like me, they didn’t call me Amber, they called me other names instead. It drove my parents mad at first, they tried to convince me that Amber was a precious stone, but I knew I wasn’t precious. I wouldn’t respond to anything other than Taylor for weeks, so in the end they called me that too. Things only changed when I got married. Taylor got rubbed out, replaced by Reynolds. They started calling me Amber again after that and it felt like I was someone new.
I remember my mum getting off the phone and telling me I’d been invited to stay at Claire’s house one last time before she moved. I didn’t want to go, I was cross that she was leaving, but Mum said I should, said it was the right thing to do. She was wrong. It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made and I’ve been paying for it ever since.
Claire’s mum got us a pizza for our dinner that night, she wasn’t much of a cook. I can still remember Claire screaming at her that I didn’t like pineapple, she was terrifying when she got like that, out of control. I never spoke to my parents the way she did and always found it odd how they just let her get away with so much. Her dad wasn’t around very often, he liked to gamble away what little money they had and was always losing jobs as well as bets. Her mum had a bit of a drinking problem and always seemed so sad and tired as though life had defeated her. She gave up on Claire as well as life in the end and it made me realise that people who do nothing are just as dangerous as those who do.
Claire wasn’t popular at school back then, she was an angry child, angry at the world and almost everyone in it. They’d moved a lot and she got herself into trouble at nearly all of the schools she attended. She was very clever. Too clever. It was like she was weary of most people as soon as she met them, as though she could instantly see who and what they were and was perpetually disappointed. She preferred reading stories to real life, so that some of her best friends were in the pages of books. I was her only real friend. She got jealous if I even spoke about anyone else, so I learned not to.
I still think about what happened every day. I wonder if it was all my fault, whether I could have done something to prevent it. She was just a little girl, but so was I. Little girls are different from little boys, they’re made of sugar and spice and scar for life. I’ve still got my scars, just because they’re on the inside doesn’t mean they’re not there.
I heard her get up and creep around the room that night. I had my back to her but my eyes were open. I heard her light a match and I smelt it burn. I thought she must be lighting a candle or something, the electricity sometimes went off at her house, her parents always struggled to pay the bills. Then she went out into the hall. I waited a while, but when she didn’t come back, I got up to see where she had gone. It was always cold in their house so Mum had packed my new pink dressing gown. I wrapped it tightly around myself and tied a knot.
I crept out onto the landing, tiptoed past Claire’s mum’s room and stood at the top of the stairs. All the doors were closed except the door to the bathroom and I could see that it was empty. I heard a noise downstairs and made my way down the first couple of steps, trying to be as quiet as possible. That’s when I saw her, it was such a strange sight. I crouched down and watched through the banisters as she walked around the kitchen.
Claire was wearing her school backpack over her pyjamas and I watched as she stood perfectly still in front of the old white oven. She turned one of the knobs and just stood there, staring at the cooker as though she was waiting for something to happen, then she turned another. I stayed where I was for a while, like I was frozen. Then she turned her head really slowly in my direction and I thought she could see me there on the stairs. It was like she was looking straight at me, her eyes flashing in the darkness, like a cat. I remember having an urge to scream then. If only I had. She looked away and turned back to the cooker, twisting another knob.
I stood up as quietly as I could and crept back upstairs. I didn’t really understand what was happening but I knew that it was bad and wrong. I tried the handle of her mum’s room, it was locked. I should have knocked on the door, or done something, anything, but I went back to Claire’s room and got into bed, still wearing my dressing gown. I think I just hoped it was all a bad dream.
It soon started to smell of gas even up in the bedroom, like an invisible cloud was spreading itself around the house, filling up every space, every dark corner. I pulled the duvet up over my head, hoping that would be enough to save me, then someone pulled it away. I opened my eyes and saw Claire, still wearing her backpack, standing over me. She shook me as though I was asleep, even though I was wide awake, then she smiled down at me. I’ll always remember what she said then.
I’m always going to look after you, Amber Taylor, take my hand.
I always did what Claire told me, I still do. She stopped in the bedroom doorway as though she had seen a ghost. It was dark and at first I couldn’t see what she was staring at. Then she bent down to pick up her Nana’s cast iron doorstop and put it in her bag. It was shaped like a robin, a tiny statue of a bird that would never be able to fly away. She led me out onto the landing, then stopped again and turned to face me, putting her finger to her lips.
Shh.
She held my hand tight in hers and pulled me down the stairs, the smell of gas getting thicker in my nostrils with every step. At the bottom of the stairs she turned right, away from the kitchen and towards the front room. She sat me down in an armchair and bent down next to the fireplace. Her mum always had a little fire built and ready to go but they only lit it on Sundays. It was just a little pile of newspaper and sticks, sometimes with an old candle thrown on top. Claire lit a match, setting light to the small pile of kindling. Then she threw the box of matches on top of the pile, took my hand and led me out the front door, which she closed behind us. I didn’t have any slippers and I remember the cold gravel biting my feet as she dragged me down the drive. She held on to my hand so tightly, as though I might run away if she let me go. Then she told me not to cry. I hadn’t realised that I was.
We went to sit on the wall of a house on the opposite side of the street, I could feel the cold of the stone even through my dressing gown. We sat on that little wall for what felt like a very long time. She didn’t say a word, just held my hand too tight and stared up at the house smiling. I was scared to look at her for too long, so I mostly just stared at my little bare feet, turning blue in the cold. Even when she started singing, I didn’t look up.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a fire in the sky.