Authors: Abbie Rushton
Unspeakable (3 page)
‘Well, I’ll see you at home then.’
One of Mum’s hands is still behind her back. I point at it and raise my brows.
‘What?’ she says, widening her eyes in fake innocence.
I make a grab for her arm, just as she’s about to flick the cigarette into some bushes behind her. She laughs and tries to twist away from me. ‘OK, OK! You caught me.’
She waves the cigarette in my face. I giggle and try to snatch it from her, but she’s too fast. ‘Just one, Megan,’ she pleads. ‘I need one today. Some silly tart thought she saw mould on one of the sandwiches. I tried to tell her it was just a bit of flour, but she went off on one. Made a right scene.’
I smile, then push off from the pavement.
‘Be back before dark!’ she yells as I fly downhill.
I stop at the village green, where a small herd of cows has gathered. There’s a ripple of twitching tails and waggling ears as they try to dislodge flies. I take out Grandpa’s camera and frame a shot of a frisky new calf with its mother, a grand beech tree sweeping into the sky above them.
Soon I’m pedalling along a road that cuts across the heath. I feel like I’ve barely been able to breathe until now. I gulp in
lungfuls of air. I’m moving so fast the wind whips tears from my eyes and nips at my knuckles.
I leave my bike in a car park off the main road, then set off down a trail. As I walk, I reach out to touch everything. I want to feel it all: the bristle of a gorse bush, the gentle tickle of leafy bracken, the scratch of tree bark. My limbs loosen and lengthen, my shoulders drop, and my heart rate slows.
Twenty minutes later, I reach a small patch of woodland. A stream darts between the trees, filling the forest with its gentle laughter, and a squirrel spirals down a tree trunk like it’s a helter-skelter. I take a photo of the waning sun shooting spears of light through the leaves.
I settle on a bridge, place the camera down and swing my feet over the edge. I reach into my pocket and draw out a notebook and a pen. After sucking on the lid for a few seconds, I begin to write.
Dear Hana,
Today was the first day back at school. It was pretty rubbish. Sadie’s being an über-bitch at the moment. If there were an Olympic sport in bitchery, she’d be a champion. I wish I could’ve told her so. I know you wouldn’t have taken any crap from her.
Jayne’s got this new haircut that makes her look like Prince Harry. I swear, if you could see it, you’d laugh your head off.
What else? We’ve got a supply teacher for Maths. I can’t remember her name but she has rancid breath and you can
see her leg hairs poking through her tights. It’s gross, but still more interesting than quadratic equations.
The first tourists arrived a few weeks ago. They were wearing shorts. Shorts! Even though it was frigging freezing. They had bumbags and stupid caps on, and were taking pictures of everything. You’d think they’d never seen a post box before.
I should go now. Mum will be stressing if I’m not back soon.
I’m sorry about what happened. If I could change it all, I would.
I miss you.
Megan xxx
Halfway through a spectacularly dull PSHE lesson about Internet safety, I raise my hand and show my permission slip. A quick nod from the teacher and I leave, making my way to the stationery cupboard where I have my sessions with Ms Cole, the psychologist who visits once a week. I imagine she’ll be shuffling her battered deck of cards, ready for me to beat her at rummy again.
The door is usually ajar, but it’s closed today, so I knock and wait. It opens. But the person inside isn’t Ms Cole. I can’t quite believe who it is. Clearly, the feeling’s mutual, as there are a good ten seconds of silence before he manages to speak. ‘Ah, Megan. This, er … explains a lot. Come in, come in,’ says the nice man with a dog called Jasper.
I stay put.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he adds. ‘I’m Mr Harwell. Ms Cole’s replacement. Didn’t you receive the letter that was sent home?’
Evidently not
.
Mr Harwell takes a deep breath, pushing it out through his teeth. ‘I thought it would’ve been explained to you. I’ll be taking your sessions from now on.’
I don’t move.
‘I hope that’s OK?’
I liked Ms Cole. Why did she have to leave?
‘Um, look. I didn’t mean to spring this on you. If you just want to come and sit quietly with me, that’s fine. In fact, it would give me a chance to catch up on some notes!’
I risk a quick look. Mr Harwell smiles. It’s a good, genuine smile. I step into the stationery cupboard. A broken photocopier lurks in the corner, draped with dust and cobwebs. The bowing shelves are mounded with boxes, some battered and shabby, others new and almost overflowing with precious supplies of biros and pencils. There’s barely space for the tiny coffee table and chairs that have been crammed in. I sit in my usual seat and start to pick at a hole in the material, digging my finger into the springy foam padding.
While he’s faffing around with paperwork, I sneak another glance at Mr Harwell. He’s clean-shaven, though there’s an overlooked patch of stubble near his wiry, brown sideburns. His eyes are grey and serious, almost too old for the rest of his face. I’d guess he’s in his early thirties.
When Mr Harwell pulls a pen out of his pocket and turns to a new page in his notebook, my gaze flicks back to the floor. What happens now? My breaths become shallow and laboured. Sweat dampens my palms.
‘You’ll be pleased to know that Jasper’s doing fine,’ he says.
Before I can stop myself, I look up and offer a small smile.
Mr Harwell nods, but doesn’t write anything down. ‘Well, thank you once again for coming to the rescue.’
He leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over his knee, like a psychologist in a film. He’d just need to steeple his fingers and rest his chin on them to complete the cliché. ‘I understand you’re quite the expert at rummy?’
I should be, the amount of practice I used to get.
‘Rummy aside, is there anything you particularly enjoyed about your sessions with Ms Cole? Anything you’d like us to continue?’
I shrug.
‘Her records say that you were sometimes able to write to her. There’s no pressure, but if you’d like to write me a note, you’re always welcome to.’
I nod, but make no move towards the blank writing pad he’s left open on the table.
‘I’m afraid we won’t be playing cards today, Megan.’
I glance up, suspicious. This wasn’t how Ms Cole worked. I liked our silent card games. Never mind the fact that, in seven months, I never said an entire word. Why does he want to change everything?
Wait! What if he changes
me
? What if he tricks me into talking? What if he finds out?
He can’t EVER find out.
No. I can’t! I need to leave!
I start to get up, just as Mr Harwell says, ‘I’d like to try some breathing techniques.’
I stop by the door.
‘It’s OK, Megan. There’s no need to feel self-conscious. We can do them together.’
Just breathing techniques? Nothing more?
‘If you sit down again, I’ll show you.’
I take a few unsteady steps back to my chair.
‘We’re going to start off by taking a nice, deep breath in through our noses, and back out through our mouths. Can you do that with me?’
Mr Harwell has a stray nostril hair that wiggles every time he exhales. He must mistake my smile as a sign that I’m going to join in, because he nods encouragingly. Guess I don’t have much choice now. I lower my eyes and start to match my breaths with his. Slowly in, and slowly out again.
‘Good! Now, what I want you to do, Megan, is start to feel your ribs moving in and out, so it’s a really deep breath. If you put your hands on your stomach, you shouldn’t feel it move at all.’
I try this. For a few moments we fill the room with the sound of our breathing. Mr Harwell’s breath smells of strawberry yoghurt. I suddenly fancy a Fruit Corner. Hana’s mum used to give them to us as a post-school snack on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Wednesdays and Fridays were ‘treat’ days, when we’d get to choose a chocolate bar from the old cream-cracker tin.
I’m just starting to feel like a balloon that will burst if I take any more air in, when Mr Harwell announces that we’ve done enough. Really? That’s it? I just have to sit here and breathe? Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
But then he says, ‘Next week we’ll try some other relaxation techniques.’
He can try. You still won’t talk.
I wince. Mr Harwell doesn’t notice – he’s scrawling something on his notepad. ‘If you’ve got any questions in the meantime,’ he says, tearing the page out, ‘here’s my email address.’
I stare at it for a moment. Ms Cole never gave me her email address. I fold it neatly into four, say
thank you
in my head, and leave.
Luke’s got basketball tonight so he won’t be catching the bus. I still sit in the aisle seat because it’s my seat. It wouldn’t feel right to sit in the window seat.
I watch everyone file on. Lindsay has tied her shirt in a knot above her belly button. The bra is turquoise today, even though everyone knows that the head, Mr Finnigan, has had words.
Josh, who is sporting a black eye from a football match, barges past Callum, grunting, ‘Out of the way, gay-boy.’ He’s about twice the size of Callum, who silently steps aside, a slight flush to his cheeks. My stomach squeezes. I almost shift across so he can sit next to me, but he quickly finds somewhere else.
Sadie and the new girl are amongst the last to get on. A kid
loiters in the aisle, chatting to his friend about some collectible card he wants to swap. He’s oblivious to the fact he’s in Queen Sadie’s way. She huffs, then snaps, ‘For God’s sake!’ and shoves him in the back. The kid lurches forward and ends up sprawled across his friend’s lap with his feet poking comically off the end of the seat.
The new girl’s jaw drops. She’s standing behind Sadie and shoots her a disgusted look. Then she glances round. Unusually for me, I’m slow off the mark and she catches my eye, throwing me a look that says, ‘Can you believe she just did that?’
I freeze, floundering in her gaze. I wish I could raise my eyes as if to say,
That’s nothing. That’s tame for her
.
Don’t you dare!
I whip back and stare at the seat in front, heart pulsing a wild beat.
Further towards the back of the bus, Sadie is yelling at one of the boringly average girls. ‘Move, Smelly Ellie. Jasmine doesn’t want to share a seat with you. You might contaminate her.’
Jasmine. The new girl’s name. Grandpa used to grow jasmine. I close my eyes and can almost smell it drifting through the bus door. I imagine him pottering in his garden on a summer afternoon, coming in late to dinner and being gently nagged by Gran about his dirty hands. I remember those hands so clearly: the tiny crescents of soil nestled beneath his nails, the lines of dirt that wound through the creases of his palms.
My eyes snap open when I realise Jasmine is talking. Her voice is deep and smooth as honey, the edges of her words neat and rounded. Her English is good, but by the way she pronounces some things, I’d guess she wasn’t brought up in the UK, or that she speaks more than one language. ‘It’s fine, Sadie, really,’ she’s saying. ‘I’ll just sit somewhere else.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Sadie snaps, unwilling to relinquish her prize. ‘Move your fat arse, Ellie.’
Ellie scowls and mutters something about being there first, but gathers her things and starts to shift.
Jasmine casts an apologetic look in Ellie’s direction. ‘It’s honestly fine.’
Sadie’s eyes bulge as she hisses, ‘If you want to hang around with us, you need to sit with us. Got it?’
Jasmine’s response is amazing. Just stunning. Without blinking, she says, ‘Got it,’ and turns away from Sadie to look for another seat.
If this were a film, there would be a collective gasp of horror. No one treats Sadie like that. For a few seconds, Sadie can’t seem to find the words. How satisfying. She stares at Jasmine in disbelief, then her eyes narrow until they’re nothing but two seething slits.
‘Fine,’ she yells. ‘Go and sit where you belong: with the rest of the losers.’ Her tone is scathing, but even the heavy layer of make-up can’t conceal the blush spreading over her skin. Sadie’s embarrassed. And she’ll make Jasmine pay for that.
‘Scooch over, will you?’ Jasmine says as she stands beside my seat. I jump. I actually jump. How embarrassing. I fumble with my bag and coat, then shuffle across to the window seat. Jasmine drops down beside me. I get a waft of something sweet and smoky – incense, perhaps.
‘I’m supposed to be keeping my head down and not getting into trouble, but she’s definitely trouble, right? What a nutter!’
Damn right
, I reply in my head. But my mouth says nothing.
This doesn’t seem to bother Jasmine, who launches into a blow-by-blow account of her first day. Barely stopping to breathe, she tells me how she almost ended up in the boys’ changing room when she was looking for the IT suite (‘I was lost – honest!’), that she made her whole History class crack up when she accidentally called Ms Dilby ‘Sir’ (an easy mistake to
make), and how the vegetarian lasagne here is much better than the ‘minging’ stuff they served at her old school.
As Jasmine talks, I stare out of the window. I know it’s rude. I hate it. I just can’t help it. She must think I’m bored. But I’m not – I’m captivated. Clinging to each of her words like they’re monkey bars and I’m leaping from one to the next, terrified that she’ll just stop and leave me dangling. There’s a brief pause, and I hold my breath, but Jasmine just takes a sip of water and continues.
‘My mum’s Cypriot but my dad’s English so I grew up over there but we moved to Portsmouth last summer because Dad lost his job. Isn’t the New Forest ace? Mum and I went for a walk at the weekend and it’s gorgeous. Anyway, Mum’s got this admin job in a solicitor’s in Ringwood. She says it’s really dull, but we need the money because Dad hasn’t had a permanent job in, like, eight months. He used to be a sales manager in Cyprus but he’s really struggled to find anything out here.’