By Any Other Name (20 page)

Hmm, that makes two of us then. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘They need me on the farm.’

Flat-voiced, no enthusiasm. Hmm again. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘Doesn’t matter what I want. They need me.’

I straighten up. This doesn’t sound right. ‘OK, what would you do if they
didn’t
need you?’ I don’t know why I persist when I won’t answer anything
myself, but it takes the focus off me.

He almost laughs, but not in a pleasant way. ‘I’d go to sixth form, then uni, then I’d travel.’

‘Studying what?’ I keep my eyes averted, watching Katie, so I don’t put him off answering.

‘Languages. Or maybe English. Or a combi course.’

‘Where?’

There’s a derisive snort in reply. ‘Oxford.’

‘Why does it have to be you who works on the farm? What about your brother? Gemma told me he’s in the army. But farming’s got to be better than killing people,
surely!’

He whirls round and I immediately know I’ve made a terrible mistake. ‘You can fuck right off
 
!’ he yells in my face as he leaps up and storms past me out of the barn. Kip
scrambles up and runs after him.

I’m so taken aback that I don’t move at first then . . .

‘Joe!’

I rush after him but I can see his back disappearing round the side of the barn opposite. A man emerges from it and stares curiously at me before following Joe. I don’t bother going any
further. I know it won’t do any good.

‘Katie.’ My voice is shaking. ‘It’s time to go.’ I take her hand and lead her slowly home.

I keep hoping Joe’ll come after us, but he doesn’t.

I
seem to be developing a frightening knack for losing friends. But I’m not losing this one. I refuse to.

I text Joe after tea:
Sorry. Me and my big mouth

He doesn’t answer for ages. I’m getting into bed, glum and miserable and I haven’t even checked my Facebook page, when the text tone goes. I scramble for my phone.

I close my eyes. There’s no knowing whether he’s being curt because he’s annoyed or it’s that peculiar bluntness he has at times. I suppose I’ll just have to take
it at face value.

I don’t want to lose him. He’s the only proper friend I have here.

Proper?

Then I realise what I mean: he’s the only person I’ve met since I’ve been here that I really, really
like
. With all his weird, quirky habits. And even with all the bits
about him I don’t know. I just like him. Strange how that happens sometimes. And even stranger how it happened even though I detested him at first. I guess maybe first impressions are a sucky
way to judge people. I should remember this in future, I think.

Back home there were all those people I didn’t really like, but it mattered what they thought. I twisted myself into what they wanted me to be; I knew what they expected of me and I
delivered, just to be in the popular crew. Thinking about what Joe said, maybe I
was
bland back then. Before I came here and lost that ability, being so far out of my normal pool that I
couldn’t cut it – a saltwater fish in a freshwater pond, choking.

I cringe into a ball on the bed when I think about how stupid I used to be. How I thought I could control what happened to me. Follow my pre-planned ideal path as it was all set out in my head.
Make it happen because that’s how I’d decided it should be. Stupid little girl, Lou. Stupid, stupid.

Holly’s smarter. Holly knows life doesn’t work that way. That chaos can come and steal your dreams from you. Steal your life from you.

Katya . . .

Holly thinks maybe it’s time to stop debating what I was. That girl is dead. They killed Lou at the cottage in Cornwall that night. They killed her again when they took her to the forest
to put a bullet through her head.

I don’t want to see if there are any messages from Tasha. I just want to go to sleep and not dream.

I
t’s crazy warm for late April and Joe and I are doing French revision, lying on our tummies in a field he says will be tall hay in a few
months. At the moment it’s bright green grass. An occasional car drives past on the top road but otherwise it’s quiet, though I can see the village centre is busy with the
farmers’ market. Joe says his mum is down there selling a glut of end-of-winter potatoes from the market garden she has at the back of the farmhouse. His dad is off doing something with the
cows. He always seems to be doing something with cows. I never knew cows were so much trouble. I thought they just wandered around fields eating grass. When I say that to Joe, he rolls around on
the ground, laughing.

I’m forgiven. We don’t mention his brother. I still want to know why he got so upset but I can wait. I’ll find out sooner or later.

I’m learning to be much more patient these days.

Mum’s taken Katie to the market so I can have revision time, and Joe and I alternate between reading through lists of vocab, testing each other, and practising conversation. He’s
tough to work with, making me go over anything I get wrong again and again. I’m relieved when we’ve finished the travel topic and I can have a break while we read up on the next
one.

The sun’s warm on my back and I roll over to let it warm my face. ‘Don’t go to sleep,’ he warns. He told me earlier I looked tired and I am. I don’t remember
dreaming last night but I felt drained when I woke.

‘I’m not,’ I say huffily. ‘I’m having a timed break. Like you’re supposed to so your brain operates more efficiently.’

He snorts. ‘Good way of describing a nap.’

I hear a rustle as he turns the page of his book and he goes quiet again.

I’ll start again in a few minutes. I’m just going to relax here for a while and chill. Soak in the peace and . . .

. . .

I’m floating, weightless . . . feels good . . .

Warm . . .

Not sure where I am but . . . don’t care . . .

. . .

. . .

Getting colder . . . and it’s dark . . . if I opened my eyes, it’d be dark . . .

Smell of pine needles . . . earth . . .

They’re
here, with me.

Their breath sounds in the stillness, harsh from running.

I stay perfectly still, fear crawling over my skin like cockroaches.

Air on my face . . . is it wind or their breath? Terror’s rising, pounding blood through my veins . . .

The pine needles, sharp and astringent, like Christmas gone horribly, horribly wrong.

I’m in the forest . . . they’re here . . . the bullet in the gun is for me . . . they’re coming . . .

I wake with a jerk and Joe’s crouched over me. ‘Are you OK?’ He looks worried.

I sit up. My hands are shaking. ‘Yes.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’ He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘What was that? A bad dream?’

I nod.

‘You have a lot of those?’

I nod again, slower.

He sits beside me, looping his arm round my shoulders. ‘Is it because of coming here?’

‘Not really. I had them before.’ I hesitate. I shouldn’t say it but it’s so hard never to have anyone who understands. ‘Why we came here is part of the reason I
have them though.’

He opens his mouth to ask . . . but then closes it again. Maybe he knows I can’t tell him.

Is it OK, Joe? Is it OK if I don’t tell you? Will you still be there for me? I need
someone,
you see.

Oops, I have to look back to remember his name . . . delete . . .

I’ve given up being ashamed of how I blanked Nicole and Ella after I hooked up with Fraser and instead I’m making the effort to put things right. I don’t hang out with them
outside lessons, but we say hello etc. in the corridors and sit in a group in class. They never say anything to me about Fraser and the others. In fact we only ever really talk about schoolwork,
but that’s OK. It feels friendlier than just sitting alone when Joe’s not there.

The funny thing is I don’t really mean the last part. I would have a few weeks ago but now it’s just a joke. I don’t miss my old friends with that awful aching
that pulls at my insides and makes me want to scream. I’d like to see them of course, but it doesn’t hurt so badly now.

The lack of decent shopping around here still drives me totally crazy though. Once my exams are over, I’m dragging Mum somewhere huge to do serious retail. Bumpkin-ness is not going to
take me over. I will resist.

My text tone goes.

Joe makes me laugh how he never uses text speak. Always proper sentences and grammar.

Decimate. He used decimate in a text. Oh, Joe! Spending the rest of your life on a farm is so not the right thing for you.

I don’t quite fly there, but almost. Just the mention of home-made cake makes my tummy rumble and I know his mother’s will be good because it’s a farm. All those farm women can
bake, right?