Everyone loves a sweetheart.
Fern Norton did relatively well at her GCSE exams but got distracted by new friends and new surroundings. No one thought ill of this or judged her for it; although they might have done for any other teenager who was hitting booze every weekend with their friends. Her family moved from London to the outer limits of Birmingham in the summer when Fern turned fifteen. It looked as though this move only happened because her dad, Elliot, got a job working in the city proper. There didn’t look to be any animosity between him and Jessica, Fern’s mum, who commented freely that the move was a welcome change – especially after so many years spent inside the gutter of London. Elliot was an accountant and Jessica used to be a teacher before she gave up conventional work to be a full-time parent to Fern, her firstborn, and the three siblings who came after. It was difficult to find their names.
Fern joined Newtown Middle School for her second year of GCSE studies and immediately fit in with a large enough friendship circle. She was welcomed among them all and looked to be well-liked, if the quotes and comments were anything to go by. Most people thought of Fern as ‘bubbly’, ‘funny’ and ‘so, so clever’. The latter, at least, was confirmed by the A-Level choices that she’d signed up for, namely: Maths, Further Maths and Business Studies. There was no mention of Politics as a subject interest until it came to her aspirations for university, but students change their minds a lot during teenage years. Her teachers thought similarly of her to her friends; that Fern was funny, approachable and quick to make friends. Although given that she was a pretty girl in a new school it seemed probable that she was quick to make enemies as well.
And she was a pretty girl. In every picture of her, her hair was a dusty brown with a blonde tint that could be highlights but could also be good old-fashioned luck insofar as her genetics. The few pictures of her parents showed that they were an attractive coupling, so a genetic jackpot for their offspring made sense. Fern only wore mascara, which made her both wide- and bright-eyed in every image, too, her eyes themselves being a dark green. She might have worn foundation; there weren’t many spots to be seen and for a girl of her age that seemed unlikely, without some cosmetic assistance. She was only ever pictured from the one side, too, and always with her head tilted at an angle. Fern, like most women, then, had learnt at a young age what her ‘good side’ was when there was a camera around. But they’re just observations; it’s nothing concrete.
From all reports it looked as though Fern had a charmed life. Her parents were happy and together; her siblings were a decent enough age apart not to hate each other too much; she had friends at school and a bright future.
Until she died, that is – quite unexpectedly – as teenage girls sometimes do.
Twelve years ago, Fern left a woodland celebration with friends to return home. A group of them had gathered around a campfire, dangerously lit at the edge of Wayfare Woodland Park (it had been closed down since, due to fire damage and unsteady tree structures overhead). It was their GCSE results night and most of the teenagers from Fern’s year were out celebrating their achievements. The school had a sixth form college attached to it, so it was a common and largely correct assumption that many of them would be staying together for another two years of study – apart from the ones who didn’t make it in, who were drowning their sorrows elsewhere. This celebratory circle each brought an offering: a bottle of low-alcohol wine; two bottles of WKD; one even brought a small bottle of vodka although the person responsible was carted home well before the end of the night. It was a share and share alike situation, where the booze was kept together and as long as someone had brought something then they were free to help themselves to whatever someone else had brought. The parents regretted this, in the end, but it was a harmless offering at the time.
Around the group they’d taken it in turns earlier that day to ask their parents, ‘Can I stay at so-and-so’s house tonight?’ and the parents had mostly agreed – another regret. So, along with the precious alcohol supplies, there were also small amounts of food on offer – pilfered from parents’ kitchens – and there were sleeping bags and roll-out mats for those who were opting for a night under the stars. It had sounded romantic at the time, no doubt, but the vomiting and heaving put a stop to the romanticism, and some ended up going home well before planned.
Not everyone left because of early onset alcohol poisoning, though, some people had just had enough. Even though there was a large circle of friends involved, every circle has their cliques. The most popular teenagers, high on bubbles and their first licks of summer loving, started to couple off, leaving the less popular ones to make their own entertainment. The latter, deciding there was better entertainment to be had at home, dissipated, leaving behind an inner circle. But Fern, one of the popular ones who had paired up with Bradley Scott, opted to leave too. She’d told her remaining friends that she’d be right back but that was the last they saw of her. That is, until the police arrived at their houses two days later with a picture of Fern, asking whether they recognised her; whether they could tell them anything about results night.
But I couldn’t remember much at the time, other than coming home early – other than a friend coming after me. I think I remember something now though; not much, but something.