The Dare, page 2
Right from that very first moment he made me feel special, as if I were the only person he wanted to be with. He was all my daydreams rolled into one. Love at first sight might be a romantic myth – in fact, knowing Ross, he’d probably say it’s just a cocktail of sex hormones and neurotransmitters – but that’s what it felt like, as though meeting each other was all part of some predestined plan. He made my heart beat faster. Still does.
‘What time are your parents due?’ he says now.
I look at my watch. ‘They’re probably getting ready to leave now. Said they’d be here by eleven.’
Ross nods. ‘Why don’t you take them to that new restaurant in Blackheath? Mario’s, I think it’s called. Our new practice nurse said it’s really good.’
I check his face. That’s the second time he’s mentioned her in the past week. An image of a pretty nurse in a navy uniform pops into my mind. I picture her as a petite blonde, hair scraped into a high, tight ponytail, and imagine him bantering with her in between patients. His last girlfriend was a nurse and I’m under no illusion that there haven’t been others, especially when he was at medical school. Going out with nurses is an occupational hazard, he once joked.
But not any more. We’re getting married next year. We’ve agreed on a fairly long engagement to give us plenty of time to think about the sort of wedding we’d both like, and to plan ahead. I know my parents would have preferred us to get married before living together – especially Mum; she’s a bit old-fashioned in that respect – but when I met Ross he was already in the process of buying this place, thanks to a small inheritance from his late aunt, and it seems much more sensible to focus our energies on getting the house sorted out before all the stress of arranging a wedding.
It’s a little two-up two-down in a quiet street, just off the A201 between Woolwich and Charlton. Five minutes in the car to the Plumtree Lodge Surgery, where Ross works, and easy enough for me to walk or get the bus to wherever I need to go. And it’s got a little garden. Okay, so it’s basically a narrow strip of weed-infested grass, bordered on either side by fence panels that have seen better days, but at least we have a garden. Most people my age live in rented accommodation, or with their parents still.
I watch from the living room window as Ross climbs into his car and drives off. Then I turn my attention to the boxes still stacked against the wall. Maybe I’ve got time to unpack a few more before Mum and Dad arrive.
I switch the telly back on, but they’re still talking about the death on the level crossing. Or rather, they’re talking about it again. That’s the trouble with Breakfast TV, everything gets repeated on a loop and, if it’s something tragic, even more so. I turn it over to a different channel, but little Elodie’s face won’t leave my mind. It’s churned everything up again. I hate it when that happens.
3
The phone rings, but when I pick up and say hello, there’s no reply. Just a weird muffled noise in the background. The line goes dead. A minute later, it rings again.
‘Hi, Lizzie, we’re just out of the Blackwall Tunnel. See you in a few minutes.’ It’s Mum.
‘Was that you just now?’ I ask her, but the line starts breaking up so we say goodbye. It must have been her.
I wander from room to room, trying to picture the house through my parents’ eyes. They’re going to love it, I know they are.
Having spent the last twenty-odd years arranging their lives around my epilepsy, traipsing from one hospital appointment to another, endlessly waiting for test results and listening to the differing opinions of neurologists and epileptologists, it’s been hard for them to let go. It was hard for me, too, no matter how ready I was to strike out on my own. But they liked Ross as soon as they met him. His profession helped, of course. I’ve lost count of the number of times one or other of them has said how pleased they are that I’m in ‘safe hands’.
Ross and I always laugh about that phrase. He’ll hold his hands out in front of him, palms up, and wriggle his fingers in a lewd gesture, as if he’s feeling me up. ‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘You’re definitely in safe hands with me.’ But sometimes their use of it annoys me. It’s as if they think I’m a fragile parcel being handed from one owner to another. Maybe that’s another reason I don’t want to get married straightaway.
The sound of a car pulling up outside has me racing to the front door like a little girl. I’m surprised they managed to find a parking space so close to the house. Ross sometimes has to park all the way down the street. I watch them climb out of the car. They look as if they’re coming for a fortnight. Mum is festooned with an assortment of carrier bags and Dad’s opening the boot to bring out yet more stuff.
I walk down the path to greet them, glad that their visit coincides with this mild and sunny spring day, when everything looks so much brighter and nicer.
‘What on earth is all this you’ve brought?’
Dad shakes his head as if none of it was his idea, and to be fair, it probably wasn’t. ‘Your mum sent me up the loft to see if there were any more of your things up there. And guess what?’
He leans into the boot and lifts out an enormous, slightly battered-looking box. My heart sinks. As if there aren’t enough boxes in our house already.
‘I told her you probably wouldn’t want all this junk,’ he says, ‘but you know what she’s like.’
Mum clears her throat. ‘Who’s she? The cat’s mother?’
I kiss her cheeks. They’re soft and velvety beneath my lips and I can smell her face powder. It’s only been a few weeks since I left home and already Mum seems older somehow, smaller.
‘It’s all your old schoolwork, love,’ she says. Her eyes momentarily darken and my heart skips a beat. I try not to think about my schooldays if I can help it. The memories always unsettle me and, for the second time this morning, I have the feeling that something bad is coming. A looming, indiscriminate threat.
Now she’s back to her chatty self and I chide myself for being melodramatic. ‘It’s mainly project files, school reports, that sort of thing,’ she says. ‘Your dad was all for throwing it away, but I said you’d be cross if we did that.’
As we step inside, Mum stops and gasps in delight. ‘Oh, Lizzie, the hallway is lovely.’
‘Apparently, it’s called Mindful Grey.’
‘Hark at you! Already a DIY expert,’ Dad says. He’s finally managed to manoeuvre the box through the front door and lower it on to the floor. He straightens up and rubs the small of his back. At first glance he looks the same as ever – tall and rangy in his smart casual slacks and long-sleeved, brushed-cotton shirt. His usual uniform. But now I notice an air of fragility hovering just below the surface.
I’ve always thought it an advantage, having older parents. They seemed so much kinder and calmer than other people’s, so much more generous with their time. Mum was almost forty-four when she had me – they’d been trying for ages. But the awful truth is that I’ll lose them sooner.
‘Right then,’ Dad says, clapping his hands together. The sharp noise brings me out of my gloomy reverie. ‘Give us a kiss, Pumpkin, and then we’ll have the grand tour.’
His stubbly face grazes my chin as he leans in to peck me on the cheek. He’s called me Pumpkin for as long as I can remember. I don’t mind it like I used to, when I was a bolshie teenager. Bolshier than most, probably, because I couldn’t rebel like I wanted to. Couldn’t stay out late and get drunk in case I had a seizure and put myself at risk. Some of the friends I’ve met in online support groups tell me they did all sorts of things at that age. Refused to listen to their parents and their doctors. But I was never courageous enough for all that.
‘By the way,’ Dad says, ‘did Ross sort that dripping tap out? Only I’ve brought my tools just in case.’
Good old Dad. Ever the handyman. Ross might be able to diagnose a case of pleurisy or treat a urinary-tract infection, but I’ve already worked out that when it comes to asking him to fix anything on the domestic front, I might as well be asking him to fly a rocket to Mars.
Dad drives us to Blackheath Village, although it’s hardly a village. I guess it was once, a long time ago. It does have a small-town feel to it, though, with its little shops and eateries, its farmers’ market on a Sunday and the green, open space of the heath. Before moving to London, I used to think of it as one place – a huge, sprawling city – when really it’s hundreds of different neighbourhoods, all bleeding into each other but unique in their own way. Blackheath is definitely posher than Charlton or Lewisham, for instance. I might be a newcomer to the area, but that much is obvious, and not just from the prices in estate agents’ windows.
Mario’s is the perfect blend of style and informality. Crisp white tablecloths and immaculate waiting staff, but a relaxed, café-type atmosphere. Mum and I both have a small glass of white wine while Dad drinks sparkling water. I savour every sip. Alcohol can be a trigger for my seizures, along with caffeine and flashing lights, not to mention stress and tiredness, so knowing I can only have the occasional glass makes me appreciate it so much more. I’m enjoying the taste of it on my tongue, when Mum says:
‘That box we’ve brought, love, it’s bound to stir up a few memories.’
Mum glances at Dad and I’m aware of him stiffening beside me. We all know what she’s referring to, and it’s something we just don’t do. At least, not till now.
Dad lays down his knife and fork and takes a long draught of water before speaking. ‘I said we shouldn’t bring it. We can always take it home again. Or straight to the tip.’
‘No.’ My voice sounds unnaturally fierce. ‘No,’ I repeat, a little more gently this time. ‘I’m glad you’ve brought it. Funnily enough, I’ve been thinking about things recently. What with … the news …’
Once again, I see the reporter’s face and the police tape fluttering behind her. The picture of little Elodie at the top right of the screen. Then another image, monochrome and stark, superimposes itself over the first. I take another sip of wine.
Mum nods. ‘We wondered if …’
‘Dessert, anyone?’ Dad says, his eyes flaring like beacons, and suddenly Mum’s twittering away about tiramisu and affogato and the moment has passed.
Later that afternoon, as I wave at their retreating car, I think about all the other times a conversation about the past has been thwarted by something as simple as a look, a word, an imperceptible movement of the head. All those weighted silences. As I walk back into the house and see the box Dad’s left in the hall, there’s a strange sensation in my gut. The unease is building.
I drag it into the living room, unable to block the myth of Pandora’s box from swirling around in my mind. This is different, though. Pandora had no idea what was in the box Zeus gave her, whereas I know exactly what I’ll find in here. An icy shiver coils down my spine as the first thing I see is a black tassel sticking out from inside a book. It’s time I laid my ghosts to rest.
4
Then: After
Friday, 24 August 2007
It’s warm outside, but here in the church it’s cold and dark. I’m sitting in between Mum and Dad, right at the back by the door. We can hardly see Alice’s family from here, just the backs of their bowed heads. We can hear them sniffing, though, and stifling their sobs.
I lift the Order of Service card from the slot in the back of the pew in front and draw it towards me. The cream-coloured card is stiff in my hand. It has black thread running all the way down the fold and ending in a tassel. There is a photo of Alice on the front. I focus on the knot of her school tie because it’s easier than looking at her face. I can’t look at her face.
Mr Davis, the headmaster, and several teachers from school are here, too. So are lots of girls from our class, Melissa Davenport among them. She and her parents are sitting in the same row as Mr Davis. Why are they sitting there, when we’re all the way back here? It’s not as if Melissa was even friends with Alice. They were both on the netball team, but they never hung out with each other. Not unless it was a match day. That was the thing about Alice, though – everyone seemed to like her.
When the pall-bearers bring the coffin in, there’s a terrible wailing from Alice’s mum. It reverberates around the high, vaulted roof of the church. An alien noise that makes my insides fold over. Mum’s hands are clasped so tight on her lap, the knuckles are white. She is swaying backwards and forwards. Dad’s left arm snakes behind our backs, enclosing us both. I rest my head on his shoulder and shut my eyes, but the tears still manage to escape from under the lids.
I can’t believe Alice is dead. I mean, I know she is. That’s why we’re here, at her funeral. That’s why they’ve just brought her coffin in. The coffin is white with gold handles and there are flowers and teddies and dolls heaped on top, as if she were a little girl, not a teenager, and I can’t help thinking that Alice would be embarrassed by the teddies.
The vicar is speaking now. I straighten up and open the Order of Service that lies on my lap, let my eyes travel down the list of readings and hymns and see that Alice’s favourite is here. It’s my favourite, too. ‘Morning Has Broken’. We used to sing it in choir practice. Really belt it out.
When we get to that one, I try to sing, but my voice is all weak and trembly, so I mouth the words instead. Mum and Dad are good, strong singers and their voices ring out, like they do every Sunday at church. A couple of heads turn round and look in our direction, but somehow I don’t get the feeling they’re impressed. One of the heads belongs to Alice’s sister, Catherine, and I wish for once that Mum and Dad would pretend to sing, like I’m doing, and not draw attention to themselves.
In between the hymns and the readings are pieces of recorded music, chosen by Alice’s family. Catherine has chosen ‘Come Some Rainy Day’ by Wynonna Judd, and when that one is played, almost everyone is weeping. It’s the sort of song that makes you cry even if you’re not sad. But when you’re sad to start with, it’s heartbreaking. Even Dad’s shoulders have begun to jerk up and down.
After the service, only Alice’s immediate family go to the graveside. I’m relieved we don’t have to. No way could I watch her coffin being lowered into the ground. I keep picturing all the smashed and broken bits of her body in that cramped, dark space. I try not to think of what I saw that day, snagged in the bush.
I stand with Mum and Dad by the church gate and watch as Alice’s parents and her sister pick their way through the long grass. Catherine and her dad are either side of her mum, each linking their arm in one of hers, supporting her. She looks so tiny and frail, it’s as if Catherine and her dad are the parents and Mrs Dawson is their little girl. She’s wearing a black skirt and jacket, and a little pillbox hat with a black chiffon veil. It’s one of the few times I’ve seen her all dressed up. Usually she’s in an old baggy tracksuit, or pyjamas and a dressing gown.
When Alice’s grandparents and then her uncles, aunts and cousins approach the grave, I stare at my feet. It seems wrong, somehow, to look at them. Then again, it seems wrong not to look. Disrespectful almost.
But as I raise my head Catherine turns round and looks straight at us, like she did in the church. There’s something slow and deliberate about the movement of her neck. I tell myself I’m imagining it and that she’s going to do that thing people do with their faces when words are useless. But it isn’t us she’s looking at, it’s me. Her eyes bore into me and a chord of fear vibrates down my spine. She might as well be pointing her finger and saying, ‘How dare you still be standing there while my little sister is dead! How dare you!’
I turn my head and count to ten, wait for the horrible feeling in my chest to go away, the one that makes me ask that very same question. But when I look back, Catherine Dawson hasn’t moved. She’s still glaring at me, and I wonder if Mum and Dad have noticed, too, but they’re both studying their shoes.
Afterwards, when everyone else goes back to Alice’s house for the wake, we go home. When Dad starts up the car, I see Catherine huddled with Melissa Davenport and some of the other girls from my class. They are all holding each other’s shoulders and crying. A lump forms at the back of my throat. I should be there, too, crying with them, being supported. Alice was my best friend, not Melissa’s. As we drive past the church, Catherine lifts her eyes and fixes that same withering stare on me once more.
It’s like … it’s like she knows it’s my fault.
After we buried the ash in the garden, we sat on the canvas swing chair, our bare legs dangling.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing upwards. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
The sun was poised on the horizon – a shimmering red sphere. I tried to see it as beautiful, but all I could think of were flames and gases and unbearable, searing heat. The clouds weren’t white and fluffy any more. They were long, jagged streaks, tinged with violet and pink. An epic sky, like a warning from God. It made me tremble to see it and I had to look away. Because I knew what was coming.
We stayed on that chair for what seemed like hours, swinging gently back and forth, chatting and giggling, as if nothing had changed. We stayed there till the night crept round us and goosebumps pricked our arms. We stayed till her mother drifted towards us like a wraith.
It was time for me to leave.
5
Now
After supper, Ross and I sit on the sofa watching the telly, but I can’t focus on anything. My eyes keep straying to the box Mum and Dad brought over. Dad was right. They should have taken it straight to the tip.
It doesn’t sit well with me, not telling Ross about Alice. We shouldn’t have secrets from each other. I know there are things in his past he doesn’t like to talk about – the dark period after his mum died – but at least I know that happened. I have the bare bones of it. Whereas this pivotal event in my life – my best friend getting killed by a train, me being there when it happened – I should have told him by now.
