The next day I feel sick. I stumble through lessons and only nibble a bit of Joe’s sandwich at lunchtime. He sounds worried when I tell him where I’ve been. He looks a bit tired himself but when I question him he goes quiet.
‘I slept out,’ he says at last. ‘At a mate’s house.’
‘Trouble or pleasure?’ I grin, but his expression doesn’t change.
‘My dad,’ he states flatly. ‘Sometimes I have to get away.’
I look at him, surprised, but he says no more, just flushes a wash of pink and turns his head away.
‘I left you a voicemail,’ I say. ‘You didn’t call back. Were you in school?’
He looks down. ‘No. I wasn’t in the mood – but I couldn’t have met you anyway. I had to go somewhere else. Sorry.’
I wait for him to explain but he doesn’t, so I let it go. Sometimes it’s hard to say things, I know that.
‘I’ve got a bag,’ I find myself saying. ‘It’s all packed ready to go. I just need to get some money. You could come with me.’
To my horror, Joe laughs. ‘You idiot,’ he says. ‘Just where did you plan on going, and what for? You think things are bad now, just wait till you get on the train to wherever.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do! What do you know anyway? Banks is okay with it. I left my bag with him. He’s taking care of it for me.’
Joe stands up and scowls. ‘If he’s got any sense he’s keeping hold of it so he can talk you out of it,’ he says. ‘But hey – he’s an alky isn’t he? What sort of example is that? He’ll just lose it or nick everything in it. You must be bloody mad. He could do anything to you. It could be him doing all these attacks.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘It could be you. You act so funny. Banks isn’t like that – okay?’
Joe puffs out a breath as if he can’t believe I’m serious and walks away. Well – stuff him. He can think what he likes. That’s what I tell myself at least, but for the rest of the day I feel bad. He shared one of his secrets with me, and all I did was talk about myself. I didn’t ask about his dad or why he’s sleeping out. No wonder he walked. It’s the same when I get home. If I’ve had a bad day then it’s obviously been no better for Mum. There are two people looking in the darkened window of the shop. I tell them sorry, come back tomorrow, and let myself in. After the door closes, the house falls silent around me; so silent I hear two birds quarrelling from beyond the kitchen.
I find Mum in the sitting room, curled up in her special chair in the window. It’s a nursing chair from when Sam and I were babies. I wonder what she’s thinking. Her head rests on one shoulder and her eyes are half closed. I think she’s been crying and that frightens me. She’s not supposed to do that.
When she opens her eyes and sees me, she doesn’t even do the usual thing, which is to get up and pretend to be normal. Today she just gives me this smile which isn’t a smile and holds out her hand, palm spread for me to take – except I don’t take it and I don’t smile back, just walk out of the room and go upstairs.
I suppose I was meant to hold her hand and sit on the edge of the chair and hug her while we ‘shared the pain together’ like they do in all the soaps. I don’t even know what stopped me, only that I couldn’t have taken her hand however much I wanted to. Not for all the money in the world.
I go to my room and feel like a horrible person because I left her to it. Perhaps Dad’s right, and all I can think of is Me. I make myself think back over all the times I went to Mum for help when things were at their worst and she turned me away. I remember the parents’ evenings and concerts and sports days she ‘forgot’ to turn up for. But then I hear Banks again: ‘Thing is, your parents. They didn’t do anything wrong. Jus’ too busy dealing with stuff.’
I flip open a magazine and stare at the pages, but it’s no good. All I can see is Mum downstairs in the nursing chair with her hand out.
I slam the magazine down and drag my school uniform off so hard that I tear the sleeve. Then behind me, the computer beeps. Joe’s name pops up onscreen.
I dress and go downstairs, fast. The sitting room is empty, the bathroom door is shut – Mum must be in there cleaning her face. I look at myself in the hall mirror and put out my tongue. There’s a lip gloss in the pocket of my jacket that must be months old. I put some on then go into the kitchen and open the drinks cupboard. My heart beats faster. There’s nothing in there but a little flat bottle of vodka, but I take it anyway.
I scrawl ‘Out’ on the message board, and go.
Joe is waiting for me by the pier. The air is nippy but the lights are shining over the pavement and the sea is a black shadow – only the sound of its hushed voice and the sudden white flash of surf on the pebbles show it’s even there. Joe’s hair catches the light above his black leather jacket. He turns, sees me, and his face breaks into a smile. Something in the air seems to change. I smile back.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘Nothing now. Come on.’
‘What is all this? Why are we here?’
‘Did you have somewhere else to go?’
‘No, Coo, but you sounded like there was something wrong.’
‘There was, but it was just me. Let’s have some fun, eh?’
He shrugs and laughs, putting his arm round my shoulders as we stroll down the pier. The wind from the sea is on my face as we walk and I feel the bottle bump in my pocket. I take it out and unscrew it. It has a strong smell but I tip it back and swig some down.
‘Bloody hell, Coo, what’s that?’
‘Vodka. Want some?’
Joe stares at me. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I won’t ask. Give it here.’
He takes a swig and makes a face. A woman going past with a man and a teenage boy stares at us. I like that. I look at her with her family and I don’t care.
It’s only when we get to the waltzers that I realise I have no money. Joe shakes his head at the man. ‘I guess I’m paying then,’ he says, but he doesn’t really mind.
We settle into the seat and have another drink while we wait for the rest of the people to get in. It tastes pretty disgusting but after a while it gets better. The ride starts – slow at first, so I shout at the man to go faster, faster, and Joe drags me back against the seat. Then it speeds up and we are whirling round and round so fast I can’t even laugh. Joe is crushed against me and it seems like the most fun I’ve ever had. I lean against him as we spin, one hand hugging him round the middle, and I can smell something that must be aftershave. The ride ends and we stagger off and walk the whole way round the pier. Joe changes a ten-pound note and we blow the whole lot on the slot machines. By the time we leave and go down the steps to the beach, the vodka bottle is much emptier. I feel slightly numb, and the cold air on the stones makes me feel less like laughing.
‘Where we going?’ asks Joe, and I have no idea. I just want to get down to the water. We walk round the long legs of the pier, down to where we can hear the sea, louder now. Joe sits down and takes out a cigarette.
‘That’ll kill you,’ I say seriously and walk further down to make him a pyramid of stones like Banks does. When I straighten up I find I can’t stand so well, and the light from the streetlamps swirls a little. Goosebumps come up on my thighs, and I crash down next to Joe, leaning into the warmth of his chest.
‘Oooh, I feel a bit pukey.’
‘Oh hell, Coo. Were you drinking this stuff on the way down? What’s up with you? Thought you didn’t like drinking.’
‘I can have some. Doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic. Everyone can have a little drink.’ I put one arm round Joe’s waist and the other on his leg, and suddenly everything goes quiet. I shut my eyes and when I open them again, time has passed. How much, I don’t know. I lift my head and Joe glances down and smiles. ‘Thought I was going to have to carry you home,’ he says. ‘Don’t drink any more, will you?’
I don’t want to drink any more. I realise that what I do want is for him to kiss me. It’s the thing I want most in the world. ‘I like you, Joe,’ I find myself saying, and my heart starts to charge in my chest. He looks at me for a long moment as if he’s trying to decide about something. ‘I like you too,’ he says, and raises a hand and places it on my shoulder, stroking down over my arm, his thumb brushing my breast. My hand tightens on his leg and I lift my face up to his. He must see it. What I want must be blazing out of my eyes but he’s staring at me as if I’ve grown two heads. I press my mouth on his anyway and kiss him, and I’m really into it – melting into his body, head spinning like we’re back on the waltzers – when suddenly I’m pushed away. Joe is holding me back with a strange look on his face. He did like the kiss – I know he did – except he’s pushing me away.
‘Coo,’ he’s saying. ‘We’re mates right, but… come on.’
‘Come on what?’ I say. ‘You can’t stand me! That’s clear enough.’
I get up, trying to stand on the shifting pebbles. ‘Why doesn’t anybody want me?’ I’m shouting. ‘What’s so horrible about me?’
Joe tries to take my arm, and he’s talking to me, but I just want to escape. In my head I can see Mum with her hand out, and me walking away. I can see Banks sitting in the ruin. I can see my brother sitting on the pavement – and I hate them all.
I take off along the pebbles, away from the pier and Joe. I feel sober now, as if a veil has lifted, but when I try to walk up the beach and go home, I can’t. Then – or later – I can’t make out which, I find that someone has taken my arm and I’m being marched towards the promenade. The pier seems a long way off now, the sky darker, and the stones are crashing beneath my feet.
‘Oh God,’ I say, ‘I feel sick.’
‘Be sick then, if that’s what you want.’
Banks is by my side. Joe is nowhere. I clutch his arm and hold on and we move along together. Somewhere behind us there are footsteps and I turn my head to see, wondering if it’s Joe, but all I see is a shadow whose footsteps crunch out of time like an uncoordinated ghost. Banks turns his head, his voice rumbles and his hand tightens round my arm, and then we’re alone.
‘You won’t be sick,’ he says in my ear, and I think maybe I won’t.
We sit down on a bench and I lean into the folds of his big coat and shut my eyes. He doesn’t say anything else and I can tell by his movements that he’s making a rollie, then lighting it. I hear the puff in and the huff out as he releases the smoke and I can smell the drink on him, but I don’t care. It seems terribly funny that here we are, drunk together on a bench, and then suddenly I can understand why he does it. Right now, I don’t seem to mind about anything at all.
I doze in and out. Sometimes I’m sure that I really will puke, but it passes and I float again, spinning slightly, round and round. My hands are freezing so I tuck them against Banks’ chest and close my eyes. He shifts about a bit and hums – the vibration buzzing through his ribs like the notes from a cello – and I think I’m singing along. Sometime later we get up. I think Banks makes me. We move up the beach into blurred lights and noise. I’m tired now.
He steers me through the streets as if I’m a difficult child or an old lady, his voice buzzing in and out of me like soothing music. Then Mum’s in front of me, and Dad, and then finally I am being sick – throwing up in the downstairs loo while someone holds my hair.
At last, I’m in bed and it feels so cold and clean. I lie there shivering for a long time, and then fall into sleep like I have no bones, sliding beneath something that covers me over like mud.