In Sarah's Shadow (8 page)

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to scare you. I haven’t scared you, have I?”

I’d be a lot less scared if Mrs Harrison would stop gripping my arm quite so tightly in her amazingly strong, wiry hand.

“It’s just that it’s a bit hard to take in,” I try to say tactfully.

It’s just that this whole thing sounds like a complete load of
rubbish.
Like the deluded rantings of someone going ever so gently but firmly senile.

I mean, none of what this mad old dear has just said can be true, because a) Megan might not be the easiest person to live with, but there’s no
way
she “means harm”
– or whatever sinister way Mrs Harrison put it – to me or anyone else; and b) Meg’s always been spooked by this woman – she never got over the kind of wariness that all the local kids feel about Mrs Harrison – and therefore she would never,
ever
set foot inside her house for a tarot reading, like Mrs Harrison claimed happened yesterday.

Uh-uh, no
way…

“I know you’re only young—”

Oh, God, please don’t patronise me!
I think to myself, keeping what I hope is a polite, tolerant smile on my face as Mrs Harrison drivels on. (Mum’s always drummed it into me to be nice to the neighbours at all times, but it’s proving to be a bit of a struggle right now.)

“—and it’s very hard to understand concepts like the spiritual world—”

It’s very hard to understand Mrs Harrison, full stop. Urgh…if I’d only been able to find my other glove earlier, if I hadn’t faffed about wasting time looking for it, then maybe she wouldn’t have spotted me and dragged me into her house. Maybe I’d be well on the way to rehearsal by now, arriving nice and early in the hope of a bit of time alone with Conor. Although there’s been so much of that this last week that I can hardly complain. One date at the skateboarding show on Sunday (and
several snogs after!) and we were officially going out together. The only time I haven’t hung out with him after school this week was Monday, and we met for lunch that day (a baked potato in the precinct and more kisses in lieu of pudding…).

“—and you
have
to believe, dear, that I always,
always
keep my readings confidential,” Mrs Harrison trills on, her funny, peachy face powder clogging in the frowns of her forehead. “But this feeling I had about your sister when I was giving her a reading, this malevolence I felt towards you…the message was
so
strong, dear, that I knew I just had to tell you to take care. Do you understand? Does that make sense?”

My blood boils – Megan isn’t malevolent; she’s just troubled, depressed, severely lacking in self-esteem. Wasn’t that the gist of what the doctor told Mum and Dad last year? How dare this woman who doesn’t really know anything about Meg, or about us and what we’ve been through, pass judgement?!

“I’m sorry, but it
doesn’t
really make sense,” I try to say as kindly as I can, even though I don’t feel very kindly towards this woman at all right now. “Meg’s fine; she’s just a bit introverted, that’s all.”

“And the scars on her wrists…?”

Oh. So Megan
has
been here? But no – I still don’t
believe it. Mrs Harrison must have seen the scars when Meg passed the house one time; when she was in the garden pruning her roses or nosying at neighbours or whatever she does for kicks. Maybe that’s it; maybe it’s all down to snooping. Mrs Harrison saw the ambulance take Megan away that day last August, and spotted the bandages around her wrists afterwards, even though Meg took to wearing long sleeves from then on. Maybe the old bat put two and two together and got four, even though the rest of our neighbours swallowed the story about Meg having a rumbling appendix.

“It was nothing,” I reply defensively, feeling the heat rise in my face. “It was just some dumb thing that she was sorry she’d done straight away. And the scars aren’t deep – she didn’t really want to…you know, to kill herself or anything.”

I feel myself wilt under Mrs Harrison’s gaze. It’s as if she can see straight into my mind, and knows the part of what I’ve just said that’s true and the part that isn’t. It
wasn’t
‘nothing’; Mum, Dad and Megan had to go to counselling together and separately for months after it happened. And my sister
wasn’t
sorry she’d done it straight away – in fact I don’t know if she’s sorry about it now, since she’s never, ever wanted to talk about it, to me, our parents or the doctors. She likes drawing
attention to it though, when she starts with the scratching business, of course…

At least the last bit of what I said to Mrs Harrison is true: the scars aren’t deep – no more than bad scratches – so I think (but I guess I don’t know for sure) that it wasn’t a serious attempt to die (although it didn’t seem like that at the time – even just scratches on that part of your body cause pretty scary amounts of blood, as the red-soaked tea towels in our kitchen proved). But if you were going to get all technical and look for evidence to prove that it was more a cry for help than a serious suicide attempt, you could argue the point that Megan chose to use a bog-standard knife-and-fork type knife – though it did have a serrated edge – instead of the butcher’s block-worth of scarily sharp carving knives we’ve got. And, of course, she did it in the kitchen – with Mum and Dad happily (for that moment) watching TV in the living room just across the hall. Within a split second of hearing Megan call out, Mum had beaten Dad through there, with me thundering down the stairs from my room about half a minute later, once the commotion had reached me through the new birthday CD from Cherish that I’d been listening to; Paul Weller’s
Days of Speed.

Talk about a memorable birthday…a straightforward meal out with the family, followed by tense hours hanging
around in the Accident and Emergency unit. You know something? I’ve never been able to listen to
Days of Speed or
anything else by Paul Weller ever since.

Oh God. Do other families out there have to deal with this stuff, this kind of complicated mess? Sometimes it all crowds in on me so much that I can hardly
breathe.
Mum and Dad struggle with it too; it’s like this business with Mrs Harrison right now – there’s no
way
I’m worrying my folks with her scatty ramblings. Dad only just told me in confidence last night that he’s going to get Mum to go to the doctor next week, to get something for her jangled nerves.

“Dear, you’re very trusting, aren’t you?” says Mrs Harrison suddenly, as she lets go my arm and wraps both her gnarled hands around mine. “But sometimes being too trusting can be bad for you.”

The way she’s holding on to my hands, the way she’s looking at me – somehow they’re conspiring to make me cry and I really,
really
don’t want to do that in front of her.

“I…I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for this…this thing I’m supposed to be at,” I mumble, snatching my hands away and heading for her front door, desperate for the fun and freedom of the band rehearsal and my friends. And my boyfriend.

“Wait a minute, dear!” Mrs Harrison calls after me, just as I haul her front door open.

I turn to see what she wants, years of inbred politeness overcoming my desire to leave and not look back.

“Did you know that you’ve got a footprint on the back of that lovely coat of yours?”

The footprint: one dirty great brand of a mark that I spotted on my pale sheepskin coat a week or two ago. Brushing it didn’t make it come out and neither did the special stain remover Mum bought. She says she’ll drop it in the dry-cleaners sometime next week – see if they have better luck getting rid of it.

“Yes,” I say brusquely in reply to Mrs Harrison. “I know it’s there.”

And yes,
I mutter silently to myself, as I close the heavy door behind me,
I know the print looks a pretty good match for the funny treads in Megan’s favourite trainers. But I’m trying really, really hard not to think about that.

“Oh – Megan’s not in here with you, is she, Sarah?” Mum asks optimistically, glancing around my bedroom, as if my sister might be hiding behind the curtains or stashed under the bed or something.

Is Mum kidding? I’m pretty sure the only way Megan would set foot in this room is if she was dragged in – bound and gagged – by a herd of wild horses.

“No – she’s in the bath,” I reply, hoping Mum can’t hear the irritable edge to my voice.

“I thought so, only I just spotted a candle burning in her room when I passed just now…”

Mum won’t have liked that; she gets very jumpy about anything that can cause harm (finding a knife that’s
sharp enough to cut open a bread roll is next to impossible in our house these days). There was a story on the news just last week, I seem to remember, about some family who died after a candle fell over in an empty room; so that’ll now be at the top of Mum’s list of household terrors, just above leaking gas fumes, electric shocks and accidental drowning.

“I’ll just give Megan a knock and check she’s OK,” Mum smiles a wan smile, as she makes to leave my room. “By the way, are you all right for money tonight? Do you need more for a taxi later?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’ll be OK. Conor’ll see me home.”

And with that, Mum’s gone, off to check that Meg hasn’t drowned – accidentally or not…

It’s just under two weeks to go till the Battle of the Bands competition, as Mr Fisher reminded us at rehearsals today, when Salman kept messing up the intro to the song. (Mr Fisher didn’t know what Sal had told the rest of us – that he was at some party last night, and I think beer and too much of it might have had something to do with his lack of concentration.) Anyway, this evening – even before Mum mentioned money for a taxi – I decided that once the competition is past (ie, no more weekend rehearsals), I’m
definitely
going to get a
Saturday job. On our way into town last week, me and Angel saw an ad for Saturday sales girls at that freezer food place on the High Street. Angel nearly died (died
laughing)
when I said I thought I’d maybe phone about it. But then Angel’s always stated categorically that the only part-time job she’d take is in a clothes shop, ie, a
designer
clothes shop, ‘cause then she’d get great discounts. I mean, yeah, if I had a choice, I’d love to work somewhere like that too, but right now I’m more interested in the money and, naff or not, the freezer place has a pretty good hourly rate.

So what’s got me thinking about cash all of a sudden? Well, I’m holding the reason for that right now: my acoustic guitar, all polished and immaculate and (most importantly) fixed. It’s lovely having it back. Dad picked it up from the music shop for me today. I never thought anything about it apart from how chuffed I was to get my hands on it again: that was until teatime, when Dad made some joke about it costing so much to repair that he might as well have bought me a new one.

Although he was laughing, it made me feel pretty bad – I know things have been kind of tight financially since Mum gave up her job. I think she got that I-should-be-at-home-for-my-kids guilt thing after what happened with Megan. Although I don’t think Megan’s even noticed
Mum’s at home more – she still just disappears into her room and blasts the music up loud as soon as she gets in from school.

She’s done that now – blasted the music up loud, I mean. Between that and the Saturday night footie match Dad’s roaring along to downstairs, I can hardly hear myself play. And, God…look at the time! I’ll have to listen out for the doorbell – Conor should be here any minute.

And instantly, I feel a knot of anger in my stomach. Not towards Conor – no way; it’s Megan who’s working my nerves. She locked herself in the bathroom half-an-hour ago, after I specifically asked her
really
nicely if she’d give me a knock and let me know before she dived into the bath, so I could get to the bathroom cabinet and stick my lenses in first. And now I’m sitting here on the edge of my bed like a lemon in my ancient, horrible specs, forced to listen to Meg’s choice of music blasting from her room while she keeps growling at me whenever I knock on the bathroom door and try and ask her how long she’ll be. I’m not vain; really I’m not. I mean, I
know
I don’t look like the back of a bus and I’m
truly
grateful for that and would never take it for granted, but when it comes to my sight, well…OK, so there are plenty of nice-looking frames out there, but it’s back to the money
thing. Mum and Dad have shelled out enough on my contact lenses; I can’t go demanding new glasses too.

And if Megan doesn’t get out of the bathroom soon, I’m going to have to whip my specs off and just watch the movie with Conor tonight in fuzz-o-vision…

Brilliant.
Now
I feel swamped with guilt for getting annoyed with Meg. So she jumped in the bath and forgot to tell me – so what? I know what this is all about: that stupid conversation I had this afternoon with mad Mrs Harrison. Somehow, she’s got me thinking all these insane thoughts about my sister, a whole trail of conspiracy theories I’d never normally give space to in my brain. Like at teatime, I went to put a bag of rubbish out for Mum and spotted my missing black glove at the bottom of the bin. How had it got there? Who knows. Some mistake. It got scooped up with the last bag of rubbish and dumped by accident. I don’t know – whatever. But thanks to Mrs Harrison, all of a sudden, I imagined Megan chucking it in there. And it gets worse. I caught myself almost inspecting Meg’s trainers tonight, just to see if they
did
match the footprint on the back of my coat. And then, the worst of the worst; when I started strumming on my guitar earlier, I suddenly had this terrible suspicion that it
hadn’t
broken by accident, that Megan had come up here and
deliberately smashed it the night I announced I’d got in the school band.

Isn’t that
totally
insane?

A ring at the doorbell – in a nanosecond I place my guitar on the bed and bolt downstairs. I know I saw Conor at rehearsals earlier, but I still get a kick out of seeing him alone, that tummy-fluttering realisation that I actually go
out
with this beautiful boy.

“Hey,” he grins as I yank the front door open, “since when did you wear specs?”

Shit! I was in such a rush to answer the door that I forgot to take them off! I feel so exposed: this is like those dreams you get where you turn up to school in your pyjamas, or worse,
naked.

“I– I normally wear contacts but I just haven’t been able to put them in,” I bumble, knowing my face is now flushing luminous red. Wow, I must look like
such
a love goddess –
not.

“They’re cute!” Conor smirks at me as he comes inside and scrapes his boots clean on the doormat.

“They’re hideous!” I moan, my fingers automatically touching the bulky, black plastic frames.

“Shut up and take a compliment,” Conor laughs, then kisses me so that I have to do what he says and shut up…

“Satisfied?” Megan barks at me, standing dripping in the doorway of the bathroom, dark tendrils of damp hair snaking limply around her neck and shoulders.

No wonder she’s shivering; she’s got the tiniest towel in the cosmiverse draped around her. Why didn’t she grab one of the huge, fluffy ones out of the airing cupboard? Or use the new dressing-gown Nana bought her for Christmas? It’s as if she’s deliberately trying to look pathetic; some sad little urchin thrown out on the street.

Listen to me…that’s Mrs Harrison’s fault again, putting these nasty, twisted thoughts in my head.

“I’m sorry to keep knocking; I just need to get in for two minutes,” I try and smile at Megan. “You could wait and then get right back in the bath. Or get right back in it now, I don’t mind – I’m only going to stick my lenses in…”

“Forget it,” Megan says miserably. “You’ve spoiled it.”

“I didn’t
mean
to spoil it,” I reply, aware of the tension creeping into my voice. “If you’d let me know beforehand, like I asked…”

“Oh, sorry – I
forgot,”
Meg mutters sarcastically. “Your amazing social life comes first. How
silly of
me to forget.”

Uh-oh – when she’s in this awkward frame of mind there’s no point trying to get round her. This is one of
those moods she sometimes gets in where she decides I’m this golden child who goes to non-stop brilliant parties and has an all-round, charmed life. Yeah,
right.
Is
she
the one who’s going to be sitting behind a till in Freeze-Eeezy Foods this time next month?!

“Thanks,” I reply to her in the same bright, brittle tone that Mum uses when she’s trying to pretend that everything’s fine.

For some reason, my fingers are shaking too much and I can’t get my damn contacts to go in first time, like normal. Sod’s law, isn’t it? If I wasn’t in a rush – if me and Conor hadn’t been sitting in my room, doing a mini-rehearsal to pass the time till Megan finally got out of the bathroom – there’d be no problem. But we have exactly fifteen minutes to do the twenty-minute walk to the cinema (bang goes the opening credits), and Fate seems to think that it’s a pretty funny joke to turn my fingers into a bunch of wobbly sausages. Oh, great – now my left eye has started streaming from one bodged attempt too many to ram my lens in. And look at that…the right one’s coming out in sympathy! I guess it’s just as well me and Conor are going to a pitch-black cinema; sitting staring at a girl with bloodshot eyes wouldn’t have made a great Saturday night out for him.

OK,
calm.

Five minutes, six disposable contact lenses and two traumatised eyeballs later, and I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

I try to stick a smile on (so Conor will recognise me and not assume a red-eyed alien has just walked in the room) and go to open the bathroom door. And then I spot it, hanging from the hook on the back of the bathroom door: the fluffy, nearly floor-length, white dressing-gown – Nana’s present to Megan. Did Meg forget she’d taken it in here? Or was she just so grumpy with me pleading to be let in that she grabbed the first thing at hand, like that practically non-existent towel, I mean?

Who knows, who cares – me and Conor now have
ten
minutes to do that twenty-minute walk…

“Sorry about that, I couldn’t get my lens…”

My words tumble away to nothing as I step back into my room. At least I
think
it’s my room. Megan might as well have draped a
face
cloth over her boobs, for all the coverage that minuscule towel is giving her, and the way she’s sprawled on the floor in front of Conor – one leg stretched out and the other knee bent – it looks like I’ve barged in on the set of a
porno
movie, for God’s sake!