Unspeakable
Authors: Abbie Rushton
Published by Atom
ISBN: 978-0-349-00205-7
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Abbie Rushton 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Atom
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
Contents
For my grandparents, with love
The dog is drowning. His eyes are wide, bloodshot; his ears flattened against his head. I fling myself into the mud at the edge of the water and reach for him.
I won’t let you die here
.
He tries to haul himself out, but his cream coat is saturated and the weight drags him back down. Labradors are supposed to be strong swimmers, but he looks like an old dog and is only just managing to keep afloat. His head sinks beneath the water. I count one breath. He doesn’t emerge. Two.
Come on!
Three. He re-surfaces, water cascading off his face as he coughs and struggles to breathe.
Our eyes lock. The dog makes a weak, snuffling sound. Nothing like the loud barks that echoed through the woods a few minutes ago. He sounded so afraid, I left the footpath straight away, barging through brambles and bushes to find him.
I stretch out an arm, beckoning. The dog tries again. His paws dig deeper into the bank this time, his back legs kicking. I lean forward, cold sludge oozing beneath me, its fetid stench hitting the back of my throat. I can almost reach his nose, but there’s nothing to grab hold of. A few more inches and I could latch on to his collar. But any further and I’ll fall in myself. His whiskers tickle my skin and his hot breaths steam into my palm. I’m so close! My muscles are aching, screaming, shaking.
Just a bit further. You can do it!
But his claws rake through the mud and he sinks back with a whimper that makes my stomach clench.
No. Don’t give up. Please!
I rest back on my knees and cast a quick glance behind me. A blockade of trees conceals us from the main path. I listen, hoping I’ll hear footsteps, but there’s nothing. Just the murmur of wind rippling through leaves and the dog’s clumsy paws smacking the water. Should I go and look for someone? I don’t know what to do!
Then I hear a man’s voice. Deep. Laced with worry. ‘Jasper!’ it calls. ‘Jasper!’
The dog’s head snaps up. He opens his mouth to bark, but swallows a mouthful of water instead.
The man sounds far away. I could try to find him, but I can’t abandon Jasper.
Over here
, I think.
We’re over here
.
Thoughts are no good. I need words. They gather inside and claw up my throat like prisoners fighting to escape.
‘Jasper! Jasper!’ The man is afraid.
My words tumble over each other in their rush to break free.
The man’s fear turns to anger. ‘Jasper, come here
now
!’
I can do this!
A voice rips through my mind like a sharp, stabbing headache. I try not to listen, but it’s so loud, so brutal, it just cuts through everything else.
No, you can’t, Megan. You really can’t.
And just like that, my words are gone.
A sound of raw frustration scrapes across my throat. I’m hopeless. Pathetic.
‘Jasper!’
Driven by the sound of his owner’s voice, Jasper prepares for one last push. In an instant I’m on my stomach again, leaning towards him.
Good boy! Clever dog
.
With a colossal effort, Jasper launches himself out of the water, at least halfway up the bank. I wrap my fingers around his collar, then I almost scream as my body lurches towards the water. For a few, slow-motion seconds, I’m dragged through the sludge, until my foot hooks on a rock. My shoulder jars and pain rips through my ankle, but we stop. I clench my teeth and heave. Jasper is wriggling and scrabbling. My grip loosens. No! I try to lock my fingers, but they’re trembling too much. I’m going to lose him! I can’t hold on!
Somehow, Jasper manages to propel himself up, knocking me backwards. The full weight of a sodden dog slams into my chest and forces the air from my lungs. I’m lying in the mud
with a smelly, bedraggled dog on top of me. And I’m smiling, sucking in air, and crying at the same time.
Jasper rolls off me and shakes himself, peppering me with drops of dirty water. Then he flumps to the ground, panting. He looks at me and his tail twitches: a brave attempt at a wag. I stroke his ear and he nuzzles my palm, then licks my hand.
‘Jasper!’ The man staggers into the clearing, his voice husky. I lower my head and let my hair flop around my face.
‘God, Jasper!’ He kneels on the grass, running his hands over Jasper’s damp fur. ‘Are you OK?’
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the dog. To be fair, neither of us is going to answer.
‘What happened?’
I instruct my head to lift. Maybe I can smile at him? But my body is locked. I glimpse the man through my hair.
‘Did he get stuck?’
I say nothing.
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
His tone is gentle, but it won’t tempt my voice out.
‘There’s no need to be afraid.’
He doesn’t seem surprised that I won’t speak. It’s almost like he understands. But that’s stupid. Why would he?
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
No
.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’
Most people would be annoyed, but he just sounds curious.
‘Are you all right?’
I want to answer him. He seems like a nice man. Yes, I think, coaxing the word as if it’s a weak flame. But it fizzles out, leaving a sour, smoky taste on my tongue. Defeated, I nod.
The man sighs, but isn’t ready to give up yet. ‘Do you want me to call someone for you?’
I shake my head.
There’s a light touch on my arm. I tense, but don’t move away.
‘I’ve got some towels in the back of my car. If you want to come with me, you could clean up a bit.’
Silence. I shake my head.
No
.
Thank you
, I add.
‘OK … I don’t feel right about leaving you here, but I’ve got to get Jasper home.’
I peek out from under my hair. Jasper is shivering.
‘It looks like you tried to help him. Thanks.’
I want to reply. I want to thank him for not trying to force me to speak, for not asking more questions, but he’s already disappeared into the woods.
He must think I’m an idiot. The word ricochets around my mind. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three … I’m standing by the door with my hand on the handle. The clock in the hallway ticks through the seconds … twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Mum’s heels clack down the stairs behind me. I get a waft of coconut conditioner. I don’t need to turn to know the expression on her face is half bemused, half exasperated.
Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six. When the clock reaches seven minutes and forty-eight seconds past eight, I haul down the handle and hurry out.
‘Bye, Megan!’ Mum calls after me.
I imagine saying goodbye, picture how Mum’s brows would shoot up, how she’d smile and hug me, her eyes shiny with tears.
I lick my lips, open my mouth.
No!
My teeth snap shut. I wave instead. Mum waves back, then shivers and slams the door. The sun is shining, but it’s spring and there’s still a bite in the air. A beer can is picked up by the breeze and clatters across the street, stopping beside a pork scratchings packet that’s been floating around for days.
I take quick steps, head down, hoping I won’t see any of our neighbours. I’ve lived all of my fifteen years in Scrater’s Close, and it is, without doubt, the biggest dump in the whole of the New Forest.
I don’t want to be at the bus stop until twenty-one minutes past eight, so I dawdle a little in the village centre. There’s not a lot going on in Brookby: one café, a couple of pubs, a Post Office, a tiny convenience store and a load of tacky tourist shops, full of spiritual stuff like crystals, incense, dragon models and wizard puppets.
There’s a huddle of kids near the war memorial, most of them wearing identically hideous burgundy uniforms with the Barcham Green logo on. I glance up the road. No bus. Damn! I plod towards them, my stomach writhing.
It’s the first day back after Easter and excitement crackles through the air as Lindsay and Grace gossip about Lindsay’s ex, Josh takes the piss out of Callum’s ‘gay’ trainers, and Sadie waves a flashy pink mobile around. ‘My stepdad bought it for me,’ she says, with a flick of her corn-coloured hair.
Something’s going on. They’re showing off more than usual. Everyone stands in a loose circle, jabbering and squawking like
seagulls fighting over a chip. It can only mean one thing: a new person. I peer through the bodies and catch tantalising glimpses of black, corkscrew curls, a pair of peacock earrings, and skin the colour of frappuccino.
‘I’m so jealous of your tan!’
‘How come you’re starting just before the exams?’
‘Whose form are you going to be in? Do you want to sit next to me on the bus?’
If – by some miracle – Sadie isn’t the one who gets her claws into the new girl, I try to figure out who she’ll end up with. There’s the fit-but-thick group, the boringly-average-in-every-way crowd, or – as a last resort – the weird-but-smart clique.
I don’t slot into any of those. So I hover on the outskirts of the circle – a lone sparrow. At least they’re distracted. At least they haven’t noticed me yet.
The bus grumbles up beside the pavement. Sadie gets priority boarding. Everyone knows that, so we all hang back. Her Twiglet legs jerk beneath a tight skirt as she strides forward, a triumphant grin on her face, arm linked with the new girl. Sadie’s new BFF has the honour of getting on first. I glance up and see two large, attractive eyes the shade of hazelnuts before she hurries up the steps.
Sadie puts her hand on the rail. Wow. She’s actually going to leave me alone today! My muscles unclench, as if I’ve sunk into a hot bath. But I’m wrong. Of course I’m wrong. Sadie pauses – not caring that everyone is waiting for her – and looks over her shoulder at me. Her lips, slick with deep, red gloss, form one word: ‘Freak.’ She runs her tongue over her teeth, savouring it.
Lindsay gives me a look, daring me to fight back. I glare at the ground. I can think of a thousand things I’d like to say to Sadie, but all I do is blush and move to the back of the queue, wondering what happened to the girl I used to be friends with.
I know what Hana would’ve said: ‘I’ll tell you what’s freaky – how Sadie’s eyebrows are dark brown but she still claims to be a natural blonde.’ I nod my head forward to hide my smile.
Sadie gets on the bus. As she struts to the back – the business class section – she looks down her nose at the plebs in the economy seats. She hates that she’s not old enough to get a first-class seat on the last row, which is only for sixth-formers.
Lindsay follows, swinging her curved hips down the aisle, fingers twisting through her wispy brown hair. Half the boys on the bus turn to watch her go. She’s wearing a white shirt with a lacy red bra beneath. Subtle.
Grace glides behind them, pale and willowy. She used to hate that skinny body, but now I think she loves being one of the thinnest girls in our year.