Coming Down (22 page)

As the band bring
s the song to a close, we slow our feet. I look up, expecting Simon to release me. Instead, his hand tightens over mine, and a serious expression washes across his face.

“
Give me another chance.” There’s longing in his words, but I try to ignore it. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have.

I struggle to find the right
response. “I can’t...”

“
We were happy, weren’t we? Until the last few months we got on so well. We can do it again. I’ll call the counsellor, set up an appointment.”

I don
’t want to tell him it’s too late, because that sounds as though we waited too long to save this thing, and I don’t think it was ever salvageable. We were always going to clash; we come from such different places. I can never be the person he needs me to be.

“
Simon, it isn’t going to work. I’m so sorry, but I’m leaving. I have to.” It’s even harder than the first time. Because this time, he realises I mean it.

His face twists with pain.
“I love you.”

I remain silent, because anything I say will only hurt him more. He pulls back, stepping away from me, and sends me a final, sad glance before he turns and walks away.

* * *

The night is almost over when I finally get a chance to
speak with Niall. I’ve finished counting the donations and closed off everything with the hotel manager, and now I’m doing my final rounds. Thanking the donors and letting them know it looks as if we’ve made a record-breaking amount. I find him sitting in a dark corner with Alex and Lara. Just seeing them all is like rubbing a comfort blanket against my cheeks.

“
Hey!” Lara stands up and hugs me. “Great menu choice. I even managed to keep most of it down.”

“
High praise indeed. I’ll have to tell the chef.” I hug her back tightly, and thank God I still have some friends. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

“
You did good, kid.” Alex pulls me toward him and cuddles me so hard I end up squeaking like a mouse. When he lets go I turn to see Niall standing in front of me. It takes a moment to catch my breath.

“
Hi.” There’s a gap between us that I want to close so badly. “Thank you so much for the painting. I’m glad to see it went for so much.”

He smiles.
“Me too. It’s a really good cause.” When I look down I can see him clenching and unclenching his fingers. “You did a great job.”

“
Tell me more. I can listen to flattery all night.”

“
You want me to tell you how beautiful you look? Or that I couldn’t take my eyes off you the whole night?” His voice is low, but I glance around anxiously anyway. Luckily, Alex and Lara have moved back to the table. “Or I can tell you how much it hurt every time I saw you with him, even though I know how wrong that is.”

I feel the need to reassure him, even though there
’s nothing between us, not yet. “We were here as friends. Nothing more.”

“
I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.”

We stare silently at each other, and there
’s something in his eyes that both reassures and exhilarates me. I could lose myself in their intensity.

“
I suppose I should go.” I sound regretful. There’s nothing I want to do more than sit with him, to laugh and chat with Alex and Lara. “I need to finish thanking everybody.”

“
Okay.” He says it slowly. “I’ll see you on Thursday, though, right?”

“
Of course.”

“
And the Thursday after that?”

I laugh.
“For sure.” I like this knowledge that I’ll be seeing him regularly. We have a reason to interact outside everything crazy that’s happened.

The impulse to be crazier washes over me.

“Niall?”

“
Yeah?”

“
You know you said you’d wait for me?”

He looks serious.
“Yes.”

“
Well, I wanted to say...to tell you how much I appreciate it. I don’t plan on making you wait too long, if you see what I mean?”

H
e breaks into a big smile. It makes me want to kiss him, which isn’t a good thing right now.

“
I just hope I’m worth it. The wait, I mean.”

His grin doesn
’t waver as he takes my hand in his. He squeezes it tightly. “You are.”

He’s dead. That’s all I can think of when I’m sitting in the police interview room. The only thing on my mind when the university investigator takes my statement. When a reporter tries to catch me on my way back to the halls of residence, all I can see is Digby’s red face and thin lips as he tells me over and over how hot he is, how poorly he feels.

Sitting
on the bare mattress in my bedroom—among the boxes and cases packed a few days before—I cover my face with my hands, feeling the tears wetting my palms.

But all this is a mere prelude to when my
father arrives. He’s dressed in his best suit, wearing a tie he reserves for weddings and christenings. I can tell by the way he pulls at the collar that the neck size is too tight for him, and the fabric is scratching at his throat. His constant fidgeting is distracting as he sits beside me, listening to the ethics officer’s questions. His watery eyes turn on me every time he expects me to answer.

“
The investigation will continue into the summer,” the officer explains. “We’ll also need to wait on any police investigation before a final decision is made. What I can tell you is that in the case of drug use, the university normally allows students to return to their studies if they commit to a course of therapy.”

Of course, this all happens before Digby
’s parents get involved and manage to whip the media into a frenzy. Throughout the summer, headlines about “
Hedonism”
and “
Students in Turmoil
” scream out from the tabloids, marking our family’s shame in smudged newspaper ink. I cry so much that my eyes are permanently swollen, the skin around them red and shiny. Tears roll down my cheeks when I think about Digby.

And the way I blanked Niall the last time I saw him.

Though I denied knowing him, I’m the one who feels crucified.

By August the university has been demoni
sed enough. They take the decision to expel me, and I assume they do the same to Niall. The news comes in the form of a typewritten letter, folded into a small brown envelope that’s pushed through our letterbox at 8:33 a.m. In the space of a few months I’ve gone from an academic golden girl to drug-addicted dropout. My parents can barely bring themselves to look at me.

I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. The thought curls around my chest, squeezing it until it’s all I can do to breathe. When I close my eyes, it’s his voice I hear.

Just whispers on the wind.

The only thing that gets me out of bed is the fact I can
’t stand to be alone with my thoughts. If I could escape myself, I would. I want to soar above the trees, far away from my body, my mind empty except for the feeling of freedom. For the first time I understand why people cut themselves. The urge to get rid of a bit of myself, to let it bleed out of me, is so overwhelming I can barely ignore it. Only the fear of my parents catching me in the act prevents me from trying.

September arrives, and I
’m still a caged animal. Stuck in a routine of sleeping, eating and stagnating. With the occasional visit to a local group that labels me a sinner and urges me to give myself over to the Lord. I coast through my days as though I’m overdosing on downers, my emotions muffled by the depression that weighs down on my shoulders like an iron shawl.

I don’t cry anymore. I don’t feel anything. I hardly know if I exist.

The trees in our back garden fade into golds and oranges, curling and drying before they flutter to the ground. The air turns cold, coating windscreens and pavements with glistening frost, sparkling like diamonds under the autumn sun.

As th
e seasons move, I stand still. A statue amongst the blur of change. My parents go back to their normal routine: work and housekeeping, evenings at the club. Saturdays spent on the green or at the nineteenth hole. As the months pass, I gain a little more freedom, the ability to click online, visits to the library to borrow books I can’t afford to buy. Slowly, slowly, I come to the realisation that I can’t go on like this. If I don’t make the change, nobody will. It’s all up to me.

Maybe it always has been.

23

Two weeks later I move into a shared flat, carrying my belongings up endless staircases to a small room that overlooks an internal yard. Complete with dustbins, abandoned bicycles and a resident cat, it has all the elements to guarantee a sleepless night. Yet it isn’t rattling bin lids or screeching kittens that keep me awake, but a strange mattress and the lack of body heat. Not to mention an overactive thought process that just won’t shut up. I lie in the darkness and make plans. Determined this is a stopgap; I can’t live like a perpetual student forever.

The next week is spent
doing all the crappy things you never think about before a move: changing my address with the world and his wife, setting up contracts, and finding the strength to telephone my parents and break the news to them. When I finally get around to it, I end up having to lean out of my window to get some reception.

“
Bethany, how lovely to hear from you.” My mother has that ‘we have company’ tone to her voice. She’s overdoing the gushing. “How are you, darling?”

I can almost picture what she
’s wearing: some variation on the skirt suits she always chooses when she hosts dinner. She’ll have been to the hairdressers in the afternoon to have a wash and set, possibly while the steaks marinated in the fridge. Dessert will be bought from the local delicatessen, because by the time they get to it, none of her guests will notice it’s not homemade. Even if they do, they’ll be too sozzled from my dad’s elderberry wine to care.

“
I’m fine. Listen, Mum—”

“
And Simon, how is Simon?” She’s always been a fan of his.

“
That’s what I’m calling to talk about.”

“
Is he all right? What’s happened?” An edge of alarm coats her words.

“
Nothing like that. We’ve decided to separate. I wanted to give you my new address.”
You know, in case you ever want to visit,
I add silently.
Fat chance.

A long, heavy silence, followed by a deep sigh.
“Oh, Bethany. What have you done?”

If I live to be eighty, I
’ll still feel like a small child who never lived up to her parents’ expectations. I sit down heavily on my bed. Why does everything have to be my fault? No mention of Simon’s role in any of this.

“
It was a mutual decision. We both agreed it was for the best.”

There
’s a pause for a moment, as if she’s trying to absorb my words. “I suppose you’ll want to come home like the prodigal daughter,” she says crossly. “I’ll have to move all of my scrapbooking. We’ve only just got rid of your bed.”

“
I don’t want to move home,” I sigh. “You don’t need to move anything. I’ve found somewhere temporary to live and I’m looking for something permanent.” I rub my head, trying to soothe away the sharp, stabbing pain behind my brow.

“
Well, I’m sure you and Simon will sort it out.” She lowers her voice. “Just wear a short skirt and appeal to his baser instincts. That’s what I always do with your fath—”

“
Mum!” I don’t know what’s more appalling. The fact she’s trying to pimp out her own daughter, or the sudden vision I have of her dancing around my dad. “Anyway, I’d better let you get back to your guests. Have a lovely evening.”

“
How did you...oh, yes. But we need to talk about you and Simon...”

I hang up before she can impart any more wisdom. My duty is done
; she won’t be calling up Simon’s house and getting a nasty shock. I mentally tick that particular chore off my ever-growing list with a mental flourish, breathing in deeply to calm myself down.

* * *

I come to life whenever Niall’s close. Like one of those stop-motion videos, where you see a flower blooming in sped-up time. Even when the children run into the classroom with their excited chatter and loud footsteps I still feel his pull.

Niall is at the front of the room, talking about Van Gogh
’s starry night. There’s an intensity to his eyes when he mentions the yellowness of the stars and the inky blueness of the sky. He urges the kids to go out and look at the heavens tonight, and remember it’s the same one that Vincent saw all those years ago. I look around the room, amazed at how the children are hanging on his every word.

All except one.

Cameron Gibbs catches my eye and stares at me, giving me an exaggerated wink. It takes a minute for me to realise he wants to tell me something. Even longer to work out he wants to talk to me in private. I get a sinking feeling when I realise he can only have one thing to talk about.

Niall is still explaining how Van Gogh
painted while he was a patient at an asylum—a fact that the kids barely bat an eyelash at—and I realise there’s only one thing for it.

“
Cameron, can you help me get a couple of things out of the supply cupboard?” I ask.

Niall breaks off his speech to look at me.
“I can help.”

Any other time I
’d have jumped at his offer, but I’m anxious to hear what Cameron has to say. “It’s all right, you carry on. This’ll only take a minute.”

When we walk to the cupboard I leave the door open so
I don’t arouse suspicion. This means we have to speak in lowered voices, but it’s worth it just to find out his news. There’s a smug expression on Cameron’s face, as if he knows he holds all the cards.

“
What’s up?”

“
I’ve found some stuff out.”

W
hat I thought was smugness is actually pride. It melts my heart a little. “About Allegra? What’s happened?”

“
I’ve seen that bloke hanging round. The one with the slicked-back hair and leather jacket. Face that looks like papier mâché.”

My stomach drops. It sou
nds just like Darren. He must’ve had bad acne as a kid, because his face is pocked with tiny craters.

“
Where did you see him?” My tone is urgent. I need to know if Allegra is in danger. “Do you know if he went into their flat?”

Cameron screws up his nose and thinks.
“Nah, I seen him hanging ’round the park. Doing some deals, smoking with his mates.” His face lights up as if he’s just thought of a brilliant idea. “I could follow him next time, like one of those detectives. I’m stealthy; he won’t notice a thing.”

Fear chills me to the core.
“No,” I whisper-shout, my eyes widening. “He’s dangerous. If he even knew you were watching him he’d go mad.” How stupid I was, involving a kid in something so foolish. “Don’t go anywhere near him.”

He stares at me
as if I’m crazy. “I wouldn’t let him see me.”

“
Cam.” I reach out and squeeze his shoulder. “Thank you so much for looking out for Allegra. You’re a good kid. But I don’t need you to keep an eye out anymore. It’s fine.”

“
Are you sure? I don’t mind.” He almost looks disappointed. He thinks this is a game. Something to do when he gets bored of kicking a ball around with his mates. If I tell him how dangerous Darren can be, he’ll see the whole thing as a challenge.

“
Nah, I reckon you’ve repaid me twice over. I don’t want to end up owing
you
.” I make an expression of mock-horror, hoping he can’t see right through me.

“
I suppose not.” He shrugs. “Have it your way then. As long as we’re even?”

“
We are.” I nod. “Definitely even.”

I send him out with some old boxes of magazines that need recycling, directing him to the big bin at the back of the clinic. When I walk back to the front of the room, Niall catches my eye and inclines his head.
“Okay?” he mouths.

Even though I
’m far from okay, I give him a brief smile before I nod. I’m not ready to share this yet, not until I think through the implications. My eyes gravitate toward Allegra, who is dabbing gold paint on the black paper Niall has given them, creating her own version of the Starry Night. Her sleeves are rolled up, enough for me to see her pale forearms, unblemished by red marks or bruises. I check the rest of her exposed skin: face, neck, and skinny legs, but there’s nothing to give me alarm.

She looks like a normal eight-year-old kid.
As normal as she’ll ever be.

Of course, there could be all sorts of horrors hiding
underneath her clothes, or even worse, beneath her skin. I walk over and stand behind her, admiring her work, and Allegra turns to smile up at me.

“
Do you like it?”

“
It’s beautiful. I bet your mum will love it. Does she put your paintings up in her kitchen?” I try to picture their dingy flat, hoping the mess in there has long since been cleared up.

“
Maybe.” Her face lights up as if I’ve suggested something world-changing. “I’ll ask her. We could tack it to the wall.”

“
Or put it up in your new bedroom?” I suggest.

Her expression darkens.
“We haven’t painted it yet. Mum says we’ll do it soon.”

“
I expect you’ve been too busy to do much decorating. Is it nice to be home?”

Allegra nods.
“Mum lets me stay up late and watch TV.”

I swallow hard.
“And have you caught up with your friends? I expect they were glad to see you.”

“
Yeah, it’s nice to play at the park with them.”

The park is on the far corner of the
estate. It’s the same place that Darren has been hanging around, dealing to kids. “Do you go to the park often?”

She shrugs.
“If the weather’s good. Otherwise we go to Shona’s house and play on her Xbox.”

“
What about your mum? Does she see much of her friends?”

A blank look. Allegra turns and adds some more paint to her stars.
“Dunno.” I chastise myself for being so obvious. She must think I’m crazy, shooting so many questions at her.

“
Well, maybe we can all go out and do something nice soon. Go out to the cinema or something?”

Allegra stops painting again and looks up with a smile.
“I’d like that,” she says.

So would I. I don
’t say it, but she knows. I’m already thinking how I can bring up the whole subject of Darren with Daisy without making her defensive. The last time I saw her was outside social services, celebrating the return of her child. Would she really give it all up, put everything in danger for the sake of a scumbag like him?

For the rest of the
afternoon I let Niall take the lead, while I sit at the desk and try to think things through. My mind feels full of cotton wool—soft and mushy. Trying to find clarity is almost impossible. Every so often, Niall glances over at me, and I guess there must be something in my expression that worries him. More than once his look turns into a stare that seems to see right through me.

I don
’t have the slightest idea what to do. My first instinct is to run over to the estate, grab Darren Tebbit by his collar and beat the shit out of him. But it’s never going to happen—I’ll end up lying at the bottom of a ditch somewhere. I could go and see Grace the social worker and tell her about the sightings, but as soon as she starts questioning me and discovers I’m relying on the word of a thirteen-year-old kid who’s recently been arrested, she’ll probably laugh me out of her office. If I mention I’ve actually asked this same boy to keep his eye out for a criminal—and I still can’t believe I did that—she’ll probably blow her top with me. No matter what I do, I can’t see a good resolution to this situation.

“
A penny for ’em?”

“
I don’t want to fleece you. They’re not worth that much.”

Niall raises his eyebrows.
“You’ve been miles away all afternoon. You missed an amusingly gruesome re-enactment of Van Gogh’s ear being chopped off.”

“
Kids love a bit of gore. Maybe we should make it a pre-requisite that all artists chop a body part off.” I catch his eye. “Present company excluded, of course.”