Authors: Abbie Rushton
Unspeakable (18 page)
They’re murmuring and laughing. I’m so glad I can’t hear what they’re saying. He’s tugging her coat off and manages to get one arm out before he sees me.
‘Bloody hell!’ he shouts. ‘There’s a kid watching us!’
Mum looks up, lipstick smudged, boobs practically poking out of her sequinned top. She sways a little as she struggles to focus on me. ‘Megan?’ she mumbles. ‘What you doing up?’
I sit back down on the sofa. A blush ravages my face. I don’t look at her. Can’t look at her.
‘She were just standing there, watching us!’ the bloke splutters. ‘Who is she?’
‘S’all right, she’s my daughter.’
I glance up to see how he takes this. Not well. I don’t think he realised Mum was old enough to have a teenage daughter.
‘Look, let’s just go up.’ Mum grasps his collar and tries to draw him away.
God, Mum! How desperate are you?
But the man shakes her off and leans in towards me. His breath is rank. Beer and raw onions. I imagine him devouring a sweaty kebab and my stomach turns. ‘What’s the matter with you? Got no tongue?’
Mum grabs his shoulder, tries to pull him away. ‘Come on. She doesn’t talk.’
Her words pierce through me. I gasp and wrap my hands around myself. Why is she telling a complete stranger about me? It’s none of his business. I see a glimmer of sobriety in her eyes – a moment of regret.
‘What d’you mean, she don’t talk?’
‘Never mind. Forget it. Can’t we just go upstairs?’
‘Nah, I’m not in the mood any more. She’s put me right off. What is she, an idiot or somefing?’
I pull my knees to my chest and bury my head in them.
You’re nothing. Worthless.
I try to stifle a sob, but it escapes – a pathetic squeak. I’m nothing. Worthless.
Mum’s response is so low and full of menace it’s almost a growl. There’s no trace of a drunken slur any more. ‘Get the hell out of my house.’
‘Yeah, no problem, love. Be happy to. Here’s an idea: next time you pull, go back to his place.’
‘Get the hell out of my house NOW!’ Mum roars, unleashing a stream of swear words that fall down on him like fists, almost battering the man out of our house. He sneers at both of us, then swaggers outside. Mum stands on the doorstep and screams at him. The man’s voice echoes down the street as he shoots back a string of foul words.
Mum slams the door.
I look up. Listen. He’s gone. My hands unclench. I take a breath. I’m shaking. How could she do that to me? How could she bring that man into our house? She’s supposed to protect me. I fly out of the living room, heading straight for the stairs.
‘Megan, no!’ Mum wails, reaching for me.
Leave me alone!
I shake her off, but she lunges at me again, grabbing my sleeve.
Get off! Don’t touch me!
I elbow her. Hard. She cries out, trips over the telephone table, and thunks back into the door. There’s a second of silence. I stop. Turn round. Mum’s slumped on the floor, tears dragging inky mascara trails down her cheeks. I crouch down and clasp my hands around her neck, drawing her close, wrinkling my nose at the smell of stale fag smoke.
‘Megan, my baby,’ she cries. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry for bringing that arsehole here. I keep messing up, Megan. I’m always messing up.’
I shake my head.
No, Mum. It’s OK. I’m sorry I hurt you
.
I wish I could tell her. Now I’m sobbing too. My tears drip into her hair as we clutch each other.
When we’re both done, Mum gently pushes me away so she can look at me. ‘I bet
that
gave the neighbours something to talk about!’ She grins. ‘Did you hear him? What a potty mouth!’
I smile, help her to her feet, and we stagger up the stairs to bed.
I’m dreaming. I know I’m dreaming, but it’s more than that. I’m remembering. Reliving. Someone is screaming. Is it me? Is she alive? Is there any way she’s still alive? I can’t see. Too many tears. Can’t move. Too much pain. I didn’t know I’d fallen, but someone hoists me up, their fingers pinching my arms. They’re shaking me, shouting. I can’t hear them. I can’t hear anything but the voice.
It’s your fault. You did this.
It’s my fault. My fault that Hana’s dead.
Dear Hana,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m so, so sorry.
Dear Grandpa,
I just had the most horrible dream and I wish – I really wish – you were here. Remember that time I thought there was a snake in my room? I made you check everywhere: under the bed, in the cupboards, through all of my bedding. After you promised me there was nothing there, you took me downstairs, made me a mug of Horlicks, and sat me on your lap. You stroked my hair and whispered stories about how you wooed Gran by leaving little gifts for her to find on her walk to work.
I miss you so much. I can’t deal with Hana being gone. I can’t cope with what I did. I wish I could take it all back.
As if that wasn’t enough, I’m falling for someone, and it’s complicated. She’s my best friend. I guess you’d be surprised that I like a girl, but I think you’d get used to it. You’d just want me to be happy. Maybe one day, I’ll be as happy as you and Gran were.
Jasmine and I are going camping for my birthday. Being with her is brilliant, but it’s scary too, in case I do something stupid. It’s all so confusing. I’m such a mess, Grandpa.
If you see Hana, please tell her I’m sorry.
Megan xxx
On the day before my birthday, Jasmine stops by on her way to Owen’s. She’s red-faced and her curls are sticking to her forehead, but she still looks great. ‘Oh my God, Megan, the heat!’ she says, fanning herself. It hasn’t rained since the day Jasmine found the cat. ‘I know I should be used to it, but on days like this in Cyprus, we’d just stay inside with the air-con on.’
We flop on to the sofa. I offer Jasmine a drink, but she shakes her head. ‘I can’t stay long. Owen’s waiting.’
She brightens and suddenly claps her hands together. ‘I just wanted to give you this!’ With a flourish, Jasmine pulls a package from her bag, wrapped in polka-dot paper.
I scribble:
You know it’s not until tomorrow, right?
Jasmine grins. ‘I know! But I can’t wait any longer. Open it now! Open it now!’
I peel a piece of sticky tape off, careful not to let it tear the wrapping paper. I start to work on the next bit, hooking my nail beneath it. Jasmine has other ideas, though. ‘Just get on with it,’ she says, ripping a huge chunk away.
I gasp, look at the gaping hole, and slap her lightly on the arm. Jasmine sticks her tongue out and moves closer, threatening to tear more. I rush to get there first, shredding the paper in a frenzy, throwing scraps in the air, laughing as they fall around us like confetti.
Jasmine’s present is a beautiful photo album. I stroke the silky cover, tracing the oriental dragons snaking across it.
‘Look inside!’ Jasmine cries.
My mouth drops. Jasmine’s taken my photos and arranged them for me, grouping them by theme, ordering them so the colours complement each other. I flick through, amazed. They look so good.
‘Do you like it?’
I gaze up at her wonderful eyes, so wide and hopeful. I have to look away for a moment, worried I might cry. Then I draw Jasmine into a tight hug. I feel the thud of her heart against my chest. It would be so easy to just pull back a little, stroke her cheek and kiss her.
Jasmine unwraps her arms and points at the album. ‘I had to nick the photos from your room. Your mum helped me.’
You’re so sweet
.
I wish I could say it.
But you never will.
I really want to say it.
So sweet
.
When Mum gets in from work, I can’t wait to show her what Jasmine’s done.
‘It’s nice,’ she says tersely, her eyes skimming across my photos. ‘Really thoughtful. Not sure how I’m going to top it. I haven’t got a clue.’
It’s not a competition! Why can’t you just be happy that Jasmine’s done something special for me?
I head off to my room.
‘What about a posh haircut?’ Mum yells after me. ‘You could have it dyed and restyled.’
I ignore her.
‘Or you could get your nails done? You’d have to stop biting the bloody things for five minutes, though. They look horrible, Megan, all ragged and torn.’
I turn my music on, crank the volume up.
‘You’ll have to let me know what you want some time, you know,’ Mum bellows. ‘I’m not psychic.’
I cut the music. There’s something more than frustration in her voice. Hurt? Guilt?
I hurry to the top of the stairs. Mum leans against the banister and smiles up at me. I write her a note, shape it into a paper aeroplane, and launch it towards her. Mum giggles as she catches it. She reads it, then nods. ‘OK. You sure you want a rucksack, not a new handbag?’
I fix her with a look.
‘OK, OK. A rucksack’s fine. You can have what you want.’
*
When I wake the next day, the house smells of pancakes. Grandpa always used to make me pancakes on my birthday. In the kitchen, Mum is focusing on a sizzling pan. Flecks of batter are sprayed up the sides of the cooker, and there are two discarded pancakes in the bin: one that’s thick enough to be a door wedge and another that’s completely burnt.
Mum spins round. ‘You made me jump!’ she screeches. ‘Happy birthday. We can pop into town and get the rucksack together – I’ll only get the wrong thing. But here’s a little something else.’
Mum picks up a package from the table. It’s wrapped in a plastic bag with the words ‘Madge’s Mystical Emporium’ on it. ‘Sorry. I tried to get to the Post Office to buy proper wrapping paper, but that evil woman closed five minutes early. I told you, Megan, she’s got it in for me. I banged on the door but she wouldn’t open up. Old hag!’
I smile. I’m not bothered.
‘So there’s no card either. Sorry, sweetie. I’ll make it up to you. Look! Pancakes!’ Mum slides one on to my plate, then plonks a jar of syrup on the table. ‘Hope they’re OK.’
I take a large bite, smearing grease on my lips. It’s a bit stodgy, but I give Mum the thumbs-up. At least she tried.
As I’m chewing, I peel away the plastic bag to reveal a book: a hardback with glossy photos of the New Forest. I put down my fork so I can pore over it. The shots are amazing: the framing, perspective, lighting. Everything is perfect.
‘Thought it might give you some inspiration for that competition,’ Mum says.
I smile. The closing date was a week ago. I haven’t told her
or Jasmine that I’ve entered. It’ll be less embarrassing when I don’t win.
I move over to give her a hug. Mum’s hair smells of cooking oil. I grab a pen and an empty egg box and write:
Thanks. It’s great
.
Eleni and Jasmine arrive later in a flurry of balloons and party poppers. Eleni brings a lovely, handmade card with a couple of appliquéd sheep on the front. Mum looks peeved, but doesn’t say anything.
Jasmine has packed enough for a three-week trek in the Himalayas. Eleni sees me staring at all the stuff in her car boot and shakes her head. ‘I know. I told her she didn’t need four pairs of trousers, but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘You’re the one who insisted I packed thermal underwear and water purifiers!’ Jasmine says.
I try to shove my own gear around Jasmine’s, but we end up emptying everything out so we can repack. Jasmine and Eleni bicker about the best way to fit the tent and camping stove in. I turn away, embarrassed.
Mum clacks down the path in a pair of silver stilettos. ‘Are you ready?’
Eleni forces a smile. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Bye, baby,’ Mum says. ‘Enjoy yourself. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’ She winks and giggles.
I roll my eyes. As if.
Mum kisses me on the forehead, then licks her finger to wipe off the lipstick she’s left. I dart away and clamber into the back seat. The buckle on the seatbelt is so hot I almost cry out when
I touch it. I wind down both windows and we set off, Jasmine and Eleni’s argument forgotten as they jabber about how Arthur is too chicken to go to the dentist, even though he’s got really bad toothache.
‘No toilets or showers,’ Eleni teases when we get there. ‘Are you sure you’re going to manage?’
Jasmine sticks her nose in the air and ignores her.
Eleni stays to help us set up. Not that she’s any good at it. Jasmine’s the only one who knows what she’s doing, and she loves bossing us both around.
When we’re done, Eleni hesitates. ‘I’ll just check that rope is tight enough. Are you sure the beds are blown up properly? They look like they need more air. Shall we have a cup of tea before I head off? You can check the stove works.’
Even when Jasmine manages to persuade her that everything’s fine, Eleni can’t seem to stop fussing. ‘Have you got enough toilet roll? I can always fetch you some more. It’s the last thing you want to run out of. Oh, and Jasmine, did you check your mobile was fully charged? And did you bring that spare battery I bought for you?’
‘Yes, Mum, the phone was charged for a full twelve hours last night, and I could hardly forget the spare battery, when you insisted on putting it in my bag.’
‘OK.’ Eleni’s eyes flit to the ground. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get off.’ She sweeps Jasmine into a hug.
‘We’ll be fine, Mum,’ Jasmine mumbles. ‘It’s just one night.’
Eleni gives us both a weak smile, then heads back to her car.
Jasmine watches her leave. ‘I don’t know how to tell her I
want to backpack around Asia in my gap year,’ she says. ‘Anyway, what shall we do first, birthday girl? Do you fancy going for a walk, or do you just want to chill out here?’