Priyanka is waiting for me on the forecourt, her arms wrapped around her. She looks so small standing there, with the imposing facade of St. Saviour’s behind her, teenagers everywhere. I’ve no idea how she does it.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”
We head across the field, the sun warm on our backs. The school is set on the brow of a hill, adjacent to a park that tourists huff and puff up to admire the views. On a day like today, the city seems to have a halo, a circle of golden trees above it. “So, autumn happened?” I ask.
“I thought the exact same thing yesterday.”
That’s all we say. I know what this is about. It’s obvious: she’s read the diary. On her shoulder, there’s an off-white canvas tote—the sort you get free at eco fairs—and I can see the sharp outline of a book within.
“Let’s go in here.” We’ve arrived at a cricket pavilion. She turns the key and we enter. The place must be new, smells of wood and varnish. It’s deathly silent as we shuffle to a bench beside the window, setting down our bags as we sit.
She doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. I let her do what she needs to do, which is have a little cry. I’m not very good at consoling talks, other than with my girls. I look at the puffy spider sacs in the eaves above us, the particles of dust floating in a beam of sunshine near our feet.
She doesn’t have any tissues. I can help with that. Locating a packet of pocket tissues in my bag, I hand it to her, this single act of kindness setting her off even more.
I look at the tote, spying a glimpse of red leather, the corner of a book, and feel so nauseous I can’t swallow. I won’t be able to eat all day, or ever. This will kill me. I’ll be too frail to function and I’ll—
“Jess...” She turns to me, a tear trickling down her cheek. “...I think they did it.”
So do I.
I guessed it the moment I saw the photo of Max with those two men in the Montague Club. Two friends whose names had never been mentioned; the same names in Holly Waite’s letter. It was too much of a coincidence.
I don’t know what to say, though: that I suspected as much—that I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do?
I try to think practically. “Don’t cry, Priyanka. You have to go back to class.”
“Call me Pree. Everyone calls me Pree,” she says, looking at me with her big brown eyes, and I wonder whether I’m seeing their true color for the first time.
“Okay, Pree.” I smile, but fudge it, mouth trembling. Pressing my hands on my knees, I watch as four boys roll about on the lawn across the way, jostling, laughing.
She glances at them warily, then bends down, reaching for the tote. “The bell’s going to ring in a sec. But here, take this.”
Our hands touch as I take the bag from her. I want to hug her, but she’s already heading for the door.
Outside the school, on the forecourt, she’s tiny again, her pink hair catching the lunchtime sun, exposing gray and black roots.
“Look after yourself,” I tell her. “And remember, we’re in this together, okay? You’re not alone.”
Her eyes widen and she bites her lip as another wave of upset hits her. And then she turns and goes, passing through the large wooden doors, out of sight.
I look up at the building, picturing her hurrying up the stairs, taking a class in a stuffy room, trying to keep order and concentrate, trying to deliver her best to a constant stream of boys looking to her for guidance and support and a clue.
Of the three of us, she has by far the hardest task, and I wish it weren’t so, that it were me instead. But I can’t change that, or anything.
Going to the car, I hide the tote at the bottom of my rucksack, slamming the door behind me so hard it hurts my hand.
It’s another two days before I read the diary or even attempt to get it out from the bottom of my bag. And even then, it’s with Mum at Beechcroft Home.
The place is deserted. No one wants to come here on Friday night, not after a week’s work. Just the guilty ones like me and the guy with the leather Outback hat. I saw him earlier in the car park and we ignored each other.
Olivia isn’t here tonight, doesn’t work Fridays. The glittery flowers are starting to wilt and smell. But I have a system, and the flowers remain until the new ones arrive. Sometimes, Mum notices that her vase is empty and it upsets her. She’s smashed a few. So, now they stay until replaced, rotten or not.
“Have you come to give me my bath?” Mum says, vaguely in my direction.
“No. It’s me, Mum, Jess. Your daughter.”
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said this. But tonight, they feel like the saddest words imaginable.
“Don’t run it too hot, will you? I don’t like it too hot.”
“No, Mum.” I touch her hand tenderly. Her skin’s so soft, barely there, the veins bulbous.
I don’t want to be sitting beside her as I read the diary, even though she has no idea who I am or what day of the week it is, so I move over to the window. The door is closed, which they don’t really like, but they won’t bother me about it. They know me by now.
I face away from Mum, the book propped on the window ledge. To anyone outside, in that black abyss, I’ll be on full view. Yet no one will notice me. No one looks at Beechcroft. They’re in too much of a hurry to get in and out.
Turning the pages, I search for writing. There’s not a lot, not until the 15th December 1990, and then there’s such a sudden onslaught of ink that it’s like looking at a car crash. You don’t want to. You know it’s going to hurt. But still...you look.
Monday, December 24
I don’t know what to think or feel. It feels unbelievable as though I imagined the whole thing. But I know I didn’t. Everything feels disturbing, dark, heavy. I haven’t moved all day. Where would I go? It’s Christmas Eve and my world has no sides or floor or ceiling. I’m all alone and I want to die. I can’t think of one good thing.
I need to try to put the events in the order that they happened.
On Saturday, I woke up with a bad cold, but was determined to ignore it. Lucy and I spent the morning sorting out outfits. She even lent me a beautiful gold necklace with a topaz pendant. I don’t know what happened to it.
Then I rang Mum to tell her I’d be on the 9.15 a.m. coach in the morning and for her to get the fire lit and the kettle on.
By early evening, my cold was worse. Kim got out her cough medicine, telling me to swig it, tilting the bottle. She said it wouldn’t work unless you took a really decent dose, and I was desperate to feel better.
The Hart was so busy, there was a blast of heat and noise as we walked in. Do They Know It’s Christmas? was playing. The boys were waiting by the jukebox and then we all went outside.
It was loud, even in the street, and cold too. Lee and Jack argued over who was going to give me their coat, and Kim tutted. I don’t think she smiled all night. I drank a bit too much. Peach Schnapps was on promo and I’d never had it before, couldn’t gauge its strength.
When last orders were called, Jack said shall we, ladies? And we followed them, wobbling in our heels across the cobblestones.
The club was tucked away in a Georgian square. It was so quiet, the moon hiding behind racing clouds. I felt giddy for a moment, looking up. I remember checking my watch for the last time: 11.15 p.m.
Brooke was trying to light his cigarette, but it was too windy. The boys huddled around him and I heard whispering, but was too busy smoothing my hair to worry about what they were doing.
Kim was waiting by the front door, but they walked right past her, around the side of the building.
Where are you going? I called after them.
We’re using this entrance tonight, Brooke said.
I didn’t think anything of it. Why would I?
We went in through the tradesman’s entrance. Maybe this was where the members entered, or the young ones, at least.
Inside, they steered us along a dark corridor. I could smell cigar smoke, hear the rumble of voices and tinkling of glasses behind closed doors. And then we were going up a staircase.
Halfway up, Lucy stopped, pulled on my arm. Why are we going up here?
Come on, it’ll be fun, I said.
But why aren’t we staying on the ground floor? Kim asked. We’re moving away from the party, not toward it.
I hesitated. Maybe the cool kids meet up here?
At the top of the stairs, Jack whispered are you coming or what?
Why’s he whispering? Kim said.
I waited for him to move away before reaching for Lucy’s hand. I didn’t bother with Kim—didn’t care what she said or did. But I wanted Lucy with me.
Come on, Lucy. Let’s just go with the flow. We’re inside the club aren’t we?
She smiled. Okay.
We continued upstairs, following the boys into a room with a pool table. I understood the secrecy then: they were raiding the bar, pouring spirits into crystal tumblers. Everyone was whispering, cheeks glowing, aside from Kim who sat with her arms folded.
Why aren’t we down there? she said every time a swell of laughter rose beneath us.
Because this is more fun, Lee said, filling her glass.
We sat around on leather sofas, chatting, and it was as comfortable as it always was with them. At some point, Kim said she was going in search of the bathroom and took Lucy with her.
Brooke announced we were all out of scotch. That was when I asked if he was American, because of his name, plus I’d noticed he was wearing a US-style military neck tag. I was so surprised when he said his real name was Daniel Brooke. Jack was Maximilian Jackson. And Lee said Andrew Lawley at your service, ma’am.
I only needed to hear the names once. I’m good at retaining information. I remember feeling disappointed that they hadn’t told me sooner though.
It was around about then that I noticed my stomach was burning. I wasn’t used to drinking spirits and had a fuzzy recollection of taking cough medicine too.
And then I realized that I was all alone. I had no idea where everyone had gone—hadn’t even noticed them leave.
I went along the corridor in search of the boys, to ask whether we could go downstairs now. It was so dark, but I could see light ahead, underneath a door. I felt wobbly, rested my hand against the wall. Then I opened the door, squinting at the bare light bulb. It was a storeroom full of stacked boxes. Jack was straddling a crate, eating a packet of crisps. Lee was smoking. Brooke was ripping open a box, bottles tinkling. It was the club’s bar supplies, a grown-up tuck shop.
Lee said they’d just been discussing which one of them I was going to choose. He said they thought it was probably Jack, that the ladies tended to go for him.
I was about to hint that not every woman went for muscles and that some preferred gentle souls like Lee, but to my embarrassment my speech was slurry. I could barely understand myself.
Jack leaned past me then to shut the door and before I knew what was happening he was kissing me, lowering the straps on my dress. I wriggled, looking at Lee to say something. But he was just standing there, watching, a strange look on his face. Brooke was drawing closer, military tag gleaming.
The room was spinning. I couldn’t move or speak. I couldn’t stop them, couldn’t do anything about it.
I’m sorry. I can’t write this yet. I’ll leave a space and will come back, when I’m ready.
On Sunday morning, in the early hours, I realized I was on the move.
Driving Home for Christmas was playing, barely audible. I could smell coconut. A crucifix was swaying. For one moment, I thought I was in Leeds, in the back of a mini-cab—had made it home on the coach. But then someone spoke and I remembered Lee, Jack and Brooke—something happening with them, something bad.
Around here is it? a man said.
My hair was everywhere, in my eyes. I peered out of the window at the dark, empty streets, my stomach lurching. Can I get some fresh air? I asked.
A pair of eyes fixed on me in the rearview mirror. Not gonna be sick, are you? he said.
The window opened, cold air blasting. Closing my eyes, I held my face to the wind, trying to recall details. Where was I?
He turned the radio down even lower, to a crackle. They said to take you somewhere studenty, but that’s a bit vague, innit. At some point, you’re gonna have to tell me where to go. We’ve been circling the uni for the past fifteen minutes.
I tried to recognize something, but nothing seemed familiar. I lived nowhere near here, but couldn’t remember the name of my street. And if I didn’t look straight ahead, I’d be sick.
Panic clouded my eyes. My nose was running, my forehead felt hot. I remembered then that I had a cold.
You all right? The eyes were looking at me in the mirror again.
I don’t know, I said. Shifting position, I noticed that the strap on my dress was broken and that Lucy’s necklace was missing. I began to cry.
I live near the petrol station, I told him. And it came to me: Maple Street.
When I got home, Lucy and Kim were asleep, their travel bags packed and ready. They didn’t wake me in the morning—went home for Christmas without a word. I woke up later that day to an empty flat, knowing that nothing was ever going to be the same again.
This is a faithful record of that night, exactly as I remember it, as much as I can manage for now.
Signed,
Nicola Waite
Wednesday, December 26
I stayed in bed for 24 hours yesterday, all through Christmas Day. The phone rang and rang, but I was too tired to move. I guessed it was Mum. I didn’t know what to say to her.
There was a hammering on the door half an hour ago. I dragged the duvet with me—thought I’d better answer in case it was the landlord.
It was the police. Mum reported me missing, adamant that I’d taken the coach to Leeds on Sunday. The policemen took one look at me, muttered something about drugs and bloody students and then left.
There was a split second when I thought about telling them. But I wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared.
Thursday, December 27
Today was the same as yesterday. We don’t have an answering machine so the phone just rings and rings. I’m not going to answer it. Mum won’t come in search of me, can’t make it to the end of the road without panicking. Eventually, she’ll give up.
I don’t want to write any more today.
Saturday, December 29
Things felt different today. I didn’t want to lie around. I tidied up and unplugged the phone to stop it ringing.
As it got dark, I realized a week had already passed by, a week of my life lost in oblivion. An anger came over me and I started to pace the floor. I began to see how clever they’d been—how they hadn’t given me their phone numbers, any details, not even their real names until the last minute and maybe only then because they thought I’d be too drunk to remember. They were the ones with all the control and I hadn’t even noticed.
Scraping back my hair, I found a pair of jeans, shocked by how baggy they were. I don’t own a belt and didn’t want to take anything else of Lucy’s so tucked my sweater in to keep them up.
When I entered the Hart, my heart began to pound so much I thought about giving up and going home. There was still tinsel fluttering above radiators, mistletoe withering on ribbons. It was quiet—easy to see in one sweep of the room that they weren’t there.
I could have gone home, but something made me keep going, along the cobblestones to the square. Being there again made my ears ring with panic. In the shadows of an old sycamore tree, I squatted and waited for them.
A sudden noise—a door slamming out in the corridor—makes me jump. I exhale heavily, as though I’d been holding my breath. Going over to Mum, I check on her, touching her hand, listening to her breathing, before returning to the window. Propping the diary on the sill, I continue reading, Beechcroft falling ever quieter around me as night thickens and stills.