The Year of the Rat (16 page)

There’s a slow dance playing and over on the dance floor I can see Molly and Ravi, arms wrapped round each other.

It’s definitely time to go.

‘I don’t think it’s a very good idea to be walking home on your own, Pearl,’ Mum says, but I don’t look at her because I’m having to
concentrate quite hard on walking in a straight line. ‘Couldn’t you and Molly have shared a taxi?’

‘Molly’s staying over at Ravi’s.’

‘Oh, I see. Is that a problem?’

‘Why would it be a problem?’

‘You just sound as though you mind.’

I attempt a disdainful shrug, but I’ve got hiccups which rather ruins the effect.

‘Molly can do whatever the hell she likes. It’s no duck off my back.’

Mum sighs. ‘Pearl, how much exactly have you had to drink?’

‘If she wants to go out with the most boring boy in the entire history of the history of the entire universe, that’s up to her.’

‘I’m surprised she let you go home in this state.’ Mum takes my elbow and steers me out of the way of an oncoming pillar box.

‘I didn’t say goodbye. She was Otherwise Engaged.’ I try to do the air quotes thing with my fingers, but I just end up tipping vodka over my feet. ‘She probably
hasn’t even noticed I’ve gone.’

‘She seems pretty serious about this Ravi. He can’t be that bad,’ Mum says.

‘Well, Molly obviously doesn’t think so. She’d much rather spend her time with him than me so that’s just fine.’

‘Well, you haven’t exactly been . . . sociable recently, have you?’

‘Oh, so it’s my fault, is it?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘She even likes his mum better than me. His
mum
.’

‘Should you be drinking that, do you think?’

‘Yes.’

I’ve decided I might as well finish the bottle of vodka.

‘It’s just you’re already a bit . . .’

‘What?’ I try to glare at her, but there seem to be two of her and I can’t work out which one to focus on.

‘Tipsy?’

‘I am not.’

‘OK. Well then, why do you keep walking into hedges?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Yes you do.’

We walk on for a while and I concentrate very hard on walking in a straight line, but somehow the ground keeps tipping me off towards people’s gardens.

‘I’m doing it on purpose,’ I say.

‘Course you are.’

‘It’s finished now anyway.’ I put the bottle down ever so carefully by a lamp post. ‘There you go.’

‘Why are you talking to a lamp post?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m laughing uncontrollably.

‘Oh, Pearl,’ she says. ‘Just concentrate on trying to get home, will you? Before you fall asleep or vomit.’

‘I feel absolutely fine,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not far.’

My voice sounds loud and annoying so I stop talking. I just keep walking and walking. Walking and walking. It seems so much further than on the way here. It’s cold now, and dark, except
it’s never really dark with the streetlights and car headlights and night buses thundering by. Dark enough though. I want to be home. I want to be in my bed. I’m still hiccuping and
it’s starting to really get on my nerves. However hard I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, I keep veering off to the side, and concentrating on not falling over is giving me a
headache.

‘You all right?’ asks Mum.

I try to say yes, but it doesn’t come out.

‘It’s really not far now,’ she says. ‘You can do it.’

My teeth are chattering like mad and my legs have pretty much stopped working. But I’m nearly there. So very nearly . . .

‘Just have a little rest,’ I mumble.

I lie down on the pavement. It feels rough and cool under my cheek. Everything’s whirling like I’m on a fairground ride. But I like the cold stone against my cheek. It stops me
feeling like I’m going to be sick. Oh. Yes. I really do feel sick. But if I fall asleep the sick feeling will go . . .

‘No, Pearl. Keep going. You’re nearly home. You can’t sleep here. Think how much more comfortable it will be in your bed.’

‘S’nice here.’

I close my eyes and feel everything start to fade away.

‘No. It’s really not.’ Mum’s voice is sharp, bringing me back for a moment. ‘Think. Lovely soft pillow. Lovely safe house. No Bad People who might take advantage of
vodka-filled teenagers. Come on, Pearl. You can do it.’

I try to lift my head, but someone seems to have superglued my face to the pavement.

‘It’s a bit . . .’ I close my eyes. ‘Yeah. S’fine. Thanks.’

‘No! Keep your eyes open.’

I try to, but it’s too much effort. Everything’s swimmy and then it fades until there’s just dark.

Someone’s talking to me, but they’re a long way away and I can’t hear what they’re saying.

Then there’s an arm round my middle and it’s lifting me up to a standing position.

‘No,’ I try to say, but it just comes out like a noise.

‘You’re all right,’ says the voice. ‘Just lean on me.’

I do and they feel strong.

‘Just try to walk a bit. I’ll help.’

We stagger along the road a bit and round a corner. I feel shivery.

‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re not Mum.’ But my mouth won’t work properly; it’s like trying to talk in a dream. Everything feels wrong.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ I say.

‘OK. Try and lean over the drain.’

I lean forward and retch. There’s nothing in my stomach except the alcohol and some apple juice from earlier, but my body keeps convulsing until it’s all gone. Hands hold my hair out
of my face. Liquid dribbles down my chin. I crouch down on my haunches and the wind cools my cheeks. Everything comes into focus a bit for a moment then fades again.

‘Come on.’

The strong arms lift me again.

‘It’s OK,’ says the voice. ‘Not far to go.’

Someone is crying. Noisy, horrible, empty crying.

‘It’s OK, Pearl,’ says the voice. ‘Don’t cry. We’re nearly home.’

‘You’re not Mum,’ I try to say.

‘Up the steps.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Course you can. I’ll help you . . . That’s it.’

Then there’s a doorway and bright light and Dad’s voice says: ‘Oh God! Pearl! Christ. Is she OK?’

And then—

Nothing.

I’m in bed. My head is wedged against something hard which turns out to be a washing-up bowl with sick in it. Sunlight’s streaming in through the gap in my
curtains. I try to sit up, but my head pounds so hard I have to lie down again and pull the duvet up over my head and pretend to be dead.

‘You don’t need to speak, Pearl. I know exactly how you’re feeling.’ Mum’s voice sounds slightly muffled through the duvet. It also sounds indecently chirpy for
someone who’s supposed to be concerned for my welfare.

‘No,’ I croak, pulling the duvet back so I can see her. ‘You don’t.’

‘Oh yes I do. I’ve had a lot of experience in this area, believe me.’ She’s sitting on my bed, watching me closely.

‘My head—’

‘Ah yes. Your head. It feels as though you’ve woken up mid-lobotomy. Am I right? Agonizing pain?’

She looks at me eagerly, but I can’t speak or move my head.

‘Or is it more of a thudding? And it feels like someone’s pumping up your brain from within and it’s about to burst out of your skull?’

I try to nod.

‘NO!’ she shouts. ‘Sorry!’ she whispers, grinning as I flinch. ‘Don’t under any circumstances move your head. The consequences could be
catastrophic.’

‘I feel . . .’

‘As though the room’s spinning? Or perhaps rocking? Rising nausea?’

‘I didn’t. But now . . .’

‘It’ll pass. Probably. Eating’s the best thing. Complex carbohydrates. A fry-up is perfect if you can face it.’

I grab the bowl and retch. When I’ve finished, I flop back, hot tears running sideways down into my ears.

‘Ah yes. The self-loathing. Tempered with a modicum of self-pity. Yes. The perfect hangover storm. I remember it well. The physical and mental misery.’

‘Can you please—’ I stop. The effort of speaking is too much. I close my eyes.

‘Yes? Anything. Just say it and I’ll do it.’

‘
Please.
Stop talking.’

And, to be fair, she does, although she doesn’t go away. I can feel that she’s still there.

‘You seemed upset,’ she says tentatively after a while. ‘Last night.’

I realize I have absolutely no idea how I got home. The last thing I remember is seeing Molly and Ravi on the dance floor and staggering off into the night. After that, it’s a complete
blank. Except . . . now I think about it perhaps I
do
remember something. The sound of someone crying . . . And voices. Dad
–
was it? Granny?
She won’t stop. Can
you make out what she’s saying? I think it’s something about Stella. Pearl, it’s OK, love, we’re here . . .

‘Pearl?’ Mum says.

‘You’re talking,’ I say, keeping my eyes closed.

As I lie there, it occurs to me that I’m in my nightie. Did I put it on? Or did Dad or Granny have to do it? I picture the scene. Oh God. I am beyond embarrassed. I am
mortified.

I roll over on to my side and I must fall asleep because the next thing I know I’m waking up again. I really need the loo, but I can’t face trying to get myself vertical again. So I
just lie there, wondering if I’ll ever feel like a real, living person again, and also trying to piece together the hazy memories I have of last night.

Eventually, I hear the door open.

‘Pearl?’

It’s Dad.

‘Mmm,’ I groan from under the duvet.

I hear him come over and put something down on the bedside table.

‘There’s a pint of water, a vitamin C tablet and some painkillers. How are you feeling?’ I can tell from his voice he can’t decide whether to be angry or sorry for
me.

‘Bad.’

He sits down on the bed. ‘You’re bloody lucky, Pearl. If Finn hadn’t found you—’

‘
Finn?
’

‘He found you lying on the pavement almost unconscious. Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’ But of course. It would be him that found me. I know I should be glad it wasn’t a rapist or murderer or something, but why does Finn
always
have to turn up at
the worst possible moment? Not that I care what he thinks of me. Obviously. It’s just I’d rather not develop a reputation for being a dangerous lunatic.

‘You could have got hypothermia. Or worse, someone else could have found you. Someone who didn’t have such good intentions. What were you thinking?’

I don’t say anything.

‘I’m worried about you, Pearl. And Granny is too. You’re not seeing your friends. You’re too thin. You’re obviously very unhappy—’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You were talking last night. About Mum . . .’

‘Dad. Don’t.’

‘I wish you’d talk to me about her when you were sober,’ he says. ‘You know you can.’

I close my eyes and try to pretend he’s not there.

‘Or if you can’t talk to me . . .’ He pauses. ‘Perhaps you should talk to someone else. A professional.’

‘You want me to see a shrink?’ I croak. ‘Dad, I got drunk. That’s all. Don’t worry. The way I feel today it’s not going to happen again any time
soon.’

‘Just think about it, Pearl.’ He walks to the door. ‘Oh and I went round to thank Finn this morning. Ever such a nice lad. He’s going to come round next week to paint the
kitchen and do a few odd jobs around the house. You know how Granny’s been nagging me about getting the place sorted out a bit.’ Oh
brilliant.
‘He seemed very keen when I
suggested it. I expect he could do with the money. He’s off to music college next month. Very talented apparently. Plays the violin.’

‘Cello,’ I try to say. But all I can manage is a low moan of despair.

Much later, after another long sleep, I manage to stagger out of bed down to the kitchen. All I want is some more water, but Granny sits me down at the kitchen table and
insists on trying to make me eat something, throwing out suggestions –
toad-in-the-hole? macaroni
cheese?
–
which only make me feel like vomiting all over
again. In the end she settles for giving me sugary tea and a short lecture. I’m too weak to argue so I sit there, limp, watching Granny spoon orange gunge of some sort into the mouth of The
Rat, who’s in her high chair.

It strikes me suddenly how different she’s looking, rounder, more contented, as if she’s grown into herself somehow. Granny’s going on and on, telling me how concerned they are
about me, and how Dad’s got enough to be worried about without me, and how they want to help, but they can’t if I won’t help myself, all interspersed with the whole ‘Here
comes the little aeroplane’ bit with The Rat.

But all I can think about is how The Rat is becoming more of a person, more solid and real, and I’m becoming less of one. I think of the ghost girl in the window, my moment of confusion
about which of us was real. I feel as though I’m blurring at the edges somehow, the me that I was before leaching away until one day I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone
completely.

I decide I really need to go back upstairs and sleep. It’s probably just the hangover making me feel like this. But, just as I’m trying to find the strength to stand up, the doorbell
goes.

‘Oh good,’ Granny says. ‘That’ll be Molly.’

‘
What?
’ She’s the last person I want to see.

‘Yes, she called earlier, worried about you. I said you’d got home OK, but I told her I knew you’d be pleased to see her.’

She gives me a Look and, before I can argue with her, I hear Dad answer the door and Molly comes through to the kitchen.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I was so worried when you disappeared last night. I just came to check you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, feeling about two hundred years old. Molly looks perfect and fresh.

‘Good. That’s a relief.’ She looks over to The Rat.

‘Hello, Rose,’ she says, smiling, and The Rat waves her spoon at her excitedly.

‘Come on,’ I say, anxious to get her away from The Rat. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

When we get to my room, we just sit there awkwardly in silence.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she says. ‘Are you angry with me?’

I look at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? About your parents splitting up?’