Only We Know (10 page)

Mum’s waiting for me at the door. ‘So how did it go then?’

‘Yeah, good thanks.’

‘Thank heavens for that.’

‘… Yeah.’

She looks down at the smiley cowboy peeping from my pocket. ‘Well, that’s nice – he bought you a present.’

‘Oh, yeah, right.’

‘Good choice too – you loved those films, didn’t you? I don’t know how many times we sat through them on DVD.’

‘I’m off to bed, Mum.’

‘Come and say goodnight to your dad first,’ she says, raising a knowing eyebrow. ‘He’ll want to know how you got on.’

I pop my head round the door and fake a smile. ‘Night night.’

Dad and Tilda are watching his new box set about some French kids who come back from the dead.

‘How was your friend Katherine?’ he says.

‘Yeah, good thanks.’

‘And what did you get up to?’

‘Nothing much, just microwaved some popcorn and watched a movie.’

‘Which one?’

‘Er …
Toy Story 2
.’

‘How sweet,’ says Tilda sarcastically.

‘I’m sorry, I’m really tired. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Big Moe’s still not picking up. So I re-examine Woody for more clues. And I’m so freaked out that when I pull the string in his back, I half expect him to name the killer. But he doesn’t say a word – just smiles.

Harry texts me again. I don’t text back.

All that’s left is to smother half my body in emollient, struggle into my straitjacket pyjamas with the special mittens to stop me scratching and climb into bed.

I try to put it off as long as possible. I even flick through
Marie Claire
for a bit. But I know what’s coming. No matter how hard I try to stay awake, eventually I’ll close my eyes and I won’t be able to open them again. And whatever anyone tells you, you can’t control your nightmares. It’s like watching a horror movie with your hands tied behind your back.

But maybe tonight I’ll get off lightly, because the opening scene is more like a happy dream from my childhood. I mean, what’s so terrible about lying in a bath of gummy worms? And although some people might find
the white-faced clown hiding in the washing basket a touch disturbing, the clowns were always my favourite part of the circus.

When the gummy worms turn to snakes and the white-faced clown spits out a small boy carrying a Beretta 92F handgun who starts chasing me through a dark forest, it’s business as usual. Hanging from the trees is a multitude of life-sized Woodys, not smiling but choking. And when I try to run, my feet sink further into the mud. But maybe I’m better off where I am because as the small boy with the gun closes in on me, I have this terrible feeling that whatever lies beyond the forest is even worse.

That’s when the moaning starts: soft at first, and then suddenly louder, as if some crazed pensioner is in charge of the remote.

I try to scream. But someone’s trying to suffocate me. All that emerges is a muffled cry.

‘Shh,’ says Tilda, removing her hand from my mouth. ‘You’ll wake Mum and Dad.’

‘What happened?’ I say, swiftly coming to my senses in a coating of sweat.

‘You’ve been dreaming,’ she said, tenderly unsticking some wet hair from my face. ‘You sounded awful. Do you want me to get you a glass of water?’

‘No, stay with me a bit.’

‘And why are you wearing those pyjamas? You haven’t got eczema again, have you?’

‘It’s nothing really.’

‘This is what happened last time. Please tell me there’s nothing bad happening.’ For once she actually sounds concerned.

But I can’t lie to Tilda. ‘I don’t know. Look, you won’t tell Mum, will you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m not sure yet.’

It’s only when my eyes become accustomed to the darkness that I see how terrified she looks. And I really wish I could find some way of consoling her. But she only says what we’re both thinking.

‘It’s starting again, isn’t it?’

Just as I’m giving up on my cheese and tomato panini, I spot Harry at the canteen door. He usually goes for a table as far away from me as possible, so it’s a surprise when he races over.

‘I’ve been trying to talk to you all weekend. Why didn’t you call me back?’

‘I thought we weren’t supposed to be seen together.’

‘Sod that,’ says Harry, taking the seat opposite. ‘No one’s looking anyway. And it was your idea to keep quiet about it.’

‘You didn’t take much persuading.’

‘Never mind that. What have you been doing?’

Sitting in my bedroom while a plague of eczema crawls up my legs. But a girl never boasts about her skin complaints. ‘Nothing. Just watching Netflix and catching up on that
Pygmalion
essay.’

‘I thought we were going to do something.’

‘Sorry, I forgot.’

‘Have you been you avoiding me?’

‘No.’

‘This isn’t something to do with that stupid
Toy Story
thing is it?’

‘No.’

‘Because you did go a bit mental.’

‘Sorry, I just really love those movies. It was like seeing someone torturing your favourite puppy.’

A distant flame flickers beneath his corneas. ‘That reminds me, Lauren, I want to show you something.’

‘Okay, what is it?’

‘Not here. You’ll have to come and see.’

‘Just let me finish my drink.’

He grabs my hand and drags me to my feet. ‘Let’s do it now. I really want you to see this. I think it might explain a lot.’

‘Is it okay if I show Lauren my painting, miss?’

The lady in the green overalls beams at him like a long lost son. ‘Yes, of course, Harry. You know where it is.’

‘Thanks, Miss Gough.’

‘I bet you’re pleased with it, aren’t you?’

‘It’s all right, miss.’

‘Well, I think it’s wonderful,’ says the lady in green. ‘If only some of the others were as self-critical as you.’

‘It’s in the store cupboard at the back,’ says Harry. ‘Come on, Lauren, I’ll show you.’

I can’t help smiling as he leads me past the gallery of
severed heads and dead rock stars. Because I’m taking mental bets on the subject of his painting – it’s either a nice little watercolour of his moped or the town centre in the snow.

‘Close your eyes,’ he says, as he opens the door.

‘Why, what for?’

‘Just do it,’ says Harry. ‘There’s something I want to tell you before you have a look.’

‘Like what?’

He guides me into the store cupboard. ‘Keep your eyes shut.’

‘Okay, okay.’

The stench of PVA glue is almost overpowering. I watch the yellow patterns dance inside my eyeballs and listen to Harry breathing heavier than usual; he gulps in a mouthful of air and prepares to speak.

‘I know you think I’m super together and everything, Lauren, but I’m not really. Not all the time anyway. And this is how I handle it, I —’ He breaks off mid-sentence, like he’s seen a ghost.

I’m – literally – itching to open my eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Why have you started wearing trousers?’

‘To hide my … Because it was really cold this morning.’ I suddenly remember something Tilda once said. ‘And equal opportunities and all that.’

‘Right,’ says Harry, tapping his foot on the cold stone floor. ‘Anyway, what I’m saying is that if I’m ever feeling
bad about something, stuff like this can help. It’s a self-portrait by the way.’ The tapping gets faster. ‘It’s okay, you can open your eyes now.’

My mouth falls wide open too. But the words don’t follow.

If that’s Harry’s official self-portrait, what’s the one in the attic like? Life-sized, but unlike any life form I’ve ever seen, it covers the whole of the back wall. At first it looks like the artist has paint-bombed his canvas with thick blobs of black and red. It’s only when I step back a little that I see the pale blue eyes behind the blackness, following me round the storeroom like a screwed-up Mona Lisa. And that’s when it hits me. This isn’t a self-portrait of Harry, it’s a self-portrait of H.

‘What do you think of it?’ he says.

‘It’s just like my nightmares.’

‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘Mine too.’

All I want to do is go home. I’m more than a little weirded out by Harry’s GCSE artwork and my skin is on fire. But Katherine kept hassling me about our ‘important appointment in the ICT suite’, so here I am at the slowest computer in the universe checking out possible photos on my portable hard drive.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says, planting a huge parcel covered in tacky snowman wrapping paper next to the monitor. ‘But the good news is, someone’s left you a present.’

‘Well, you can take it away again.’

‘That’s funny,’ says Katherine, checking out the Eiffel Tower photos on the monitor. ‘I thought you were the kind of girl that loved surprises.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘It was in our tutor base,’ says Katherine. ‘Don’t thank me by the way.’

‘So how do you know it’s for me?’

‘Because it’s got your name on it,’ says Katherine, pointing
at the scrawly black writing on the label. ‘L. Wilson. That is you, isn’t it?’

‘Who’s it from?’

‘How should I know? Probably one of your Year Seven admirers.’

‘What admirers?’

‘You really haven’t noticed, have you? Some of that lot worship the runway you walk on.’

‘Do they?’

She doesn’t sound too happy about it. ‘I’ve been at this school nearly five years now, and there are kids in my own tutor group who don’t know my name.’

‘I’m sure most of them do.’

‘I couldn’t care less,’ says Katherine unconvincingly. ‘What could I possibly have in common with any of them?’

‘Maybe more than you think.’

‘Thanks, Lauren, but even if that’s supposed to be a compliment, we both know it isn’t true. Now, why don’t you open it, and then we can crack on.’

‘Forget it. I don’t want to.’

‘Oh come on, someone obviously went to a lot of trouble with that.’

‘Look, if you’re so desperate to open it, be my guest.’

She’s always reminded me of one of those kids who stopped believing in Father Christmas long before everyone else, and never more so than as she picks half-heartedly at the Sellotape. ‘So what have we got here then?’ It’s a
brown cardboard box. Katherine pulls back the flaps and peers inside. ‘Well, that’s a bit boring.’

‘What is it?’

She reaches down and pulls out Paddington Bear, complete with red wellingtons, a blue duffle coat and a brown suitcase. ‘Some people are so unimaginative.’

I could almost kiss the bloody thing. ‘I think he’s quite cute actually.’

It’s only when the fake blood starts dripping onto the keyboard and she turns Paddington over that we see the knife in his back.

‘Now that’s more like it,’ says Katherine.

‘I can’t believe anyone would do something like that!’

She looks at me like
I’m
the crazy one. ‘You are kidding, of course?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a school, Lauren. No one needs a reason to do anything.’

‘It’s just so unfair.’

‘You pretty girls amaze me, you really do.’

‘Eh?’

‘You have it so easy.’

‘That’s not —’

‘You swan around the school like you own the place. You expect everyone to bow down before your beauty and if the tiniest thing goes wrong in your life you have a nervous breakdown.’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘It’s probably someone who’s jealous of you and Harry. And I’ll tell you another thing: if you let them get to you, it’ll only end in tears.’ But her voice softens when she sees I’m crying already. ‘Let’s press on with these photos, shall we? George had this great idea. When Magda walks down in hot pants to that Queen song, we should put up some pictures of steam trains.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s genius,’ says Katherine, sounding more like her new boyfriend/guru every day. ‘Come on, let’s get it over with.’

‘I’ll do it at home,’ I say, ejecting my hard drive and stashing it in my messenger bag. ‘I can’t stay here.’

‘Yes, that’s right. There’s obviously a serial killer on the loose.’

‘It’s not funny, okay?’

‘I know,’ she says, her bottom lip trembling satirically. ‘How many more innocent toys will have to die?’

‘I’m out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Typical,’ says Katherine. ‘What exactly is the
matter
with you?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘What shall I do with Paddington? Do you want me to look after him?’

‘Yeah, funny.’

And she can’t resist throwing in some final words of wisdom. ‘It’ll only get worse if you show them they’ve won.’

Mum and Tilda are watching
Don’t Tell the Bride.

‘God that’s disgusting. I’d rather die than get married in a hot-air balloon.’

‘Yes, but the wedding ceremony only lasts an hour. Marriage isn’t about winning one battle, Tilda. It’s about winning the war.’

I sit at the lounge table with a pile of papers and my laptop in front of me, trying to match photos to the music and outfits. It’s not exactly rocket science (or even GCSE food tech) but I’m getting nowhere fast. This was supposed to take my mind off things, but all I can think about is a bear with a knife in its back and a label with my name on it.

What does it all mean anyway? Even Sherlock would struggle to make sense of a trail of mutilated toys. So I’m doing my best to see it like Miss Hoolyhan – that it’s just a random St Thomas’s kid with a warped sense of humour.
Or maybe Katherine’s right and it’s someone with the hots for Harry.

But what if it’s more than that? What if …? I can’t tell Harry, Big Moe’s obviously on strike or something, and I know for a fact it would scare the hell out of Mum. Even back in the Dark Ages, I never felt more alone.

When the Eiffel Tower turns into Paris in the rain, I realise I’m crying – silently so I don’t disturb Mum. But she must have some kind of sixth sense because the next thing I know she’s standing over me with a box of tissues and a mug of tea.

‘There you go,’ she says, putting down a coaster first. ‘You look like you could use it.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

She leans down and kisses the top of my head. ‘Is this something to do with Harry?’

‘No, Mum.’

‘Because no boy is worth it, Lauren, take it from me.’

‘It’s not about Harry, Mum.’

‘Well then, what is it, my love?’

‘It’s this fashion show.’

She tries to censor herself, but it just slips out. ‘I did say it might be too early for you, didn’t I? Do you want me to talk to Mr Catchpole?’

‘It’s not that, Mum. I said I’d do this kind of back-projection thing. But the show’s next Friday and I haven’t even started yet.’

‘Next week, is it? I’d better tell your dad so he can get off work early. I know he’ll want to be there,’ she adds doubtfully.

‘Why am I so
useless
?’

‘You’re not useless, Lauren. You’ve just had a lot on your mind.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, like starting a new school and everything.’

‘Yeah, I
suppose
.’

Mum glances across at the bridesmaids in their Storm-trooper outfits. ‘Tilda’s good at that sort of thing. Maybe she could help.’

‘I don’t think she —’

‘Tilda, come and help your sister with this.’

‘Do I have to? What is it anyway?’

‘She wants a hand with her computer thing for the fashion show.’

‘I’m watching this.’

‘Well, pause it and come over here. Your sister needs you.’

‘
Okay
, I’m coming,’ says Tilda, freezing the bride in the middle of her
Star Wars
themed reception rant. ‘I have got a life too, you know.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Mum, edging away. ‘You don’t mind if I watch something else, do you?’

‘So what’s the problem then?’ says Tilda, thawing a little when she sees my face.

‘I’m making a slide show. There’s the track list, here’s
a list of the models and that’s what we’re wearing. And I’ve downloaded about a million photos.’

‘Right,’ says Tilda. ‘So what have you got so far?’

‘Not a lot really; just some pictures of, like, posh houses for the prom dresses.’

‘Sweet,’ says Tilda, starting to click through my photo gallery. ‘So how about this one of the wind farm for the Year Seven recycling project?’

‘Good idea.’

Tilda looks down the cast list. ‘Oh no, you’re not, are you?’

‘What?’

‘Modelling beachwear with that dickhead Corcoran?’

‘He’s not that bad really. And anyway, I’m not wearing a bikini or something tacky – just a cute little beach dress.’

‘Well, at least you’re doing it to your favourite song. Maybe you could use that picture of Brighton Pier.’

‘You mean the one with the helter-skelter?’

‘Yeah. And you know the autumn collection – how about this photo of New England in the fall? That’s what they call autumn in the States, isn’t it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

After that Tilda more or less takes over, which is a real relief, I don’t mind telling you. She was always way better at this kind of stuff. But just as I’m starting to feel more optimistic she lowers her voice to a concerned whisper. ‘What were you really crying about?’

‘Like I said, the fashion show.’

‘Has something happened again?’

‘No … no … I don’t —’

‘Because the other night you said that —’

But I don’t want to frighten Tilda either. ‘It was just some silly stuff at school. Honestly, Tilds, I thought it might be … significant, but it
wasn’t
.’

‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah, course,’ I lie.

‘Mum told me to keep quiet about you and the prefect guy. What’s that all about?’

‘You know what Dad’s like. He’d have a fit if he found out.’

Tilda nods and almost smiles. ‘But what does Mum think?’

And if I’m not
completely
honest, it’s because I genuinely believe that if she wasn’t shit-scared of it all kicking off again, it’s the kind of thing that Mum would probably want to say. ‘She’s really happy for me. She says it’s about time I got on with my life.’

‘Right,’ says Tilda, bringing up a photo of the Tower of London. ‘Well, that’s good then.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re definitely going ahead with the fashion show?’

And if I wasn’t shit-scared myself, this is the kind of thing that
I’d
probably want to say: ‘Yeah, course. I’m looking forward to it.’

It’s late by the time we finish uploading the photos. I didn’t want to go to bed anyway, but in the end there’s nowhere left to hide.

I find it kind of challenging, looking at my naked body in the mirror. I’m getting better at it, but there’s still no ‘girlfriend, you look amazing!’ for me, just a tsunami of self-doubt. But tonight it has to be done. I need to check out my eczema. And there are traces of it everywhere: round my neck, my wrists, my elbows, across the back of my hands and down into my most private places. I’ll tell you one thing: it’s going to take a shedload of concealer to get me down that runway.

What I really need is a good night’s sleep. Like that’s ever going to happen. The moment my head hits the pillow I get this horrible feeling that I’ve been here before.

There’s only one thing worse than a regular nightmare and that’s the kind of nightmare where you know you’re dreaming but you still can’t wake up. And by now, I know what’s coming. It’s been variations on the same theme since Friday night. Only this time it’s not a small boy with a handgun chasing me, it’s a bear in a blue duffel coat who jumps out from behind a tumbledown ring of gravestones and threatens me with a knife. And here I am again, stumbling through the forest, slowly suffocating as I sink further into the mud.

The bear snarls. I drag my feet towards him, figuring that whatever he’s got in store for me isn’t half as horrible as the hidden menace beyond the woods. But what could
possibly be that terrifying? And while every bone in my body is screaming ‘Don’t do it’, another force is twisting my neck round and forcing me to look.

All I can make out are four white letters on a pale blue background:

KILL

And to be honest, it’s better than I’m expecting. It’s only when I pull aside the sopping branches and read the sign in full, that it all makes sense.

OAKHILL HOUSE