The Memory Game (2 page)

‘Is he alright?’
mum says in a panicked voice. ‘What’s happened to him?’

The first
policeman just looks at her with his most well-trained sympathetic face. ‘I’m
sorry, Mr and Mrs Smith, but we’re going to need a formal identification on the
body. We need you to come and confirm whether it is or is not David.’

I think Mum
might faint – her skin suddenly turns grey and her eyes look like they can’t
focus.  She already knows, I can tell.  Roger puts an arm around her.

Two: Ingrid

Today is sunny. The churchyard in
our village is nice, I suppose, if you think things like churchyards can be
nice. It has old stone walls that have been there since the plague and oak
trees all over the place. People in our village seem really proud of it. 
There are weatherworn plaques, built into the walls of the church, that tell
the stories of soldiers from our village, who fought in wars years ago and died
in far-off lands.  Sometimes, when I was younger, I used to walk around
the church, reading them all and wondering what sort of men they were. If you
look at the dates, you can work out that some of them were teenagers. I think a
lot of their families still live here.

In the shadows
of the trees and the church
it’s
cold, but when you
stand in the sun you can feel its heat on you, or, I suppose, the others can.
 I can see it in the way it bounces from Ingrid Stephenson’s hair, in the
way Matt and
Paulie
squint when they look across at
my coffin being carried up the path and, for once, neither of them sniggers or
takes the piss.  Mum and Roger follow and Mum looks like she’s in such a
daze she can barely walk.  I really don’t want to file in behind all the
other kids when they go to hear the service, but there’s a bit of me that can’t
resist it, like that bit of you that wants to look at the gash in your leg that
you know will make you throw up the minute you do.  I watch them all go in
first: Mum, Roger, aunts and uncles from Dad’s family that I haven’t seen since
he died, Nana and Granddad, teachers, my best mates, Matt and
Paulie
, Ingrid and a bunch of her girl-worshippers (all
crying, which is weird because they hated me), loads of kids from my year and
even some from different years and neighbouring villages.  It’s not that I
was popular; I suppose it’s just that a kid dying is a big deal, especially
when you’re a kid yourself.

When everyone is
inside, I stand right back by the doors and peer in. Nobody can see me, I know,
I could stand right next to the vicar and whisper crap in his ear and nobody
would know.  But even though it’s only me they’re burying, it still feels
like a really solemn occasion and I feel like I should show some respect. 
Maybe that’s for my mum, though, because when I look across at her, she seems
like she can hardly breathe for crying.  Roger rubs her back and strokes
her hair and pulls her into a hug but
she
fights her
way out of his arms and drags a deep breath like she will stop herself from
crying, but then the vicar says my name and she starts again. Some people are
even staring at her, like she should shut up or something.  Everyone looks
freezing in here, huddling in their coats; outside the air was golden, but in
here it’s grey and cold.

Everyone stands
up and sings a hymn,
The Lord’s My Shepherd
.  I don’t even know why
they’re singing that, I hate it.  I watch them all, their mouths moving
slowly and out of time, not one of them making an effort to sing the actual
words from the sheet, apart from the vicar, who’s belting it out like he’s on
the main stage at
Glasto
or something. 
Me
and Matt always said we’d go there as soon as we were
sixteen.  The idea suddenly makes me sadder than anything else I’ve seen
so far today.

The song feels
like it goes on forever but then they finish and everyone sits down.  The
vicar says some stuff about me: what I was like, jokes that I’d played on
people, how popular I was at school (yeah, right) how I was the family rock
when my dad died (Roger doesn’t like that bit, I can tell by the way his jaw
clenches).  I don’t know how the vicar knows so much about me, apart from
when Dad died, we never went to church. The vicar knew who I was, because everyone
sort of knows everyone around here, but he didn’t really know me.  I
suppose Mum must have told him a lot of things.  He says some stuff about
forgiveness (I wonder how forgiving he would feel if someone ran over him in
their pimped up
shitheap
and left him for dead) and
then they all sing another hymn.

Before they carry my coffin back
outside, the sound system kicks in and
plays
Lucky
by
Radiohead
. 
Which is kind
of ironic, when you think about it.
I’m surprised that mum chose it; she
used to go mad when I played it over and over.  Once, she threatened to
throw my
ipod
dock out of the window.
Radiohead
was dad’s favourite band and that was his
favourite song.  Some of the kids smile in approval but most of the adults
look like someone just hurled a hand grenade in through the church
window.  When the song ends and the vicar
says
that people can go, they can’t get out quick enough.

‘It’s just so
weird, knowing he’s in that box,’ Ingrid says to one of her cronies as they
carry my coffin past her, out on the sunny path.  If I’d known dying would
get her that interested in me, I’d have faked it months ago. It couldn’t have
been any less successful than my other attempts to get a date with her. She
still looks amazing, even though she’s crying. Her blonde hair is loose today,
long and sleek down her back; she’s wearing black from head to toe, like
everyone is, but somehow she doesn’t look like someone at a funeral, she just
looks hot as hell.  She’s a bitch, though, and I don’t know why she’s
crying.  If anything, it’s her fault there’s a funeral for me at
all. 

When I’m in the
ground, before they fill the hole, everyone takes turns chucking dirt down on
the coffin.  Mum goes first and Roger’s practically holding her up now as
she’s crying so much. Then Roger takes a handful and throws it down.  Some
of the kids and teachers line up to have a go, but some of them slink away in
groups to talk quietly and Ingrid’s gang does that.  I don’t know why
people throw dirt on coffins. We had to do it when we buried Dad. I never asked
Mum why, maybe I should have done. It doesn’t seem like a kind deed here
though, it feels sort of symbolic,
like
this is what
everyone thinks of me.  It doesn’t seem right to throw dirt at you when
you’re dead, even if it is just on your coffin.  The vicar says some more
stuff about eternal rest and how we all return to the earth. One part of me
will, but I wonder what he’d say if he knew that I was watching him right
now.  I wonder if he’d be calm or if he’d freak out. I’d go for the second
option. If Matt and
Paulie
could talk to me now, we’d
be betting on it. 

Some people ask
Roger if there’ll be a wake.  I’m glad when he says no. We had one for
Dad, it was horrible. People came round our house and ate a load of sandwiches
like there was nothing wrong at all, while my dad was lying in a box, dead. I
don’t want people eating sandwiches while I lie in a box dead.  Not today.

As I didn’t go straight away, I
thought, maybe, after the funeral I would have gone wherever it is that dead
people finally go. I’m not sure how long it’s been since the funeral, it’s
really hard to keep track of time when each day melts into the next, but I
think it’s been maybe two or three weeks. Two or three weeks and
I’m
still hanging around. 
Which
leaves me wondering when, exactly, you do go.
  Or if you even go at
all? Is there a test or something that you have to pass, a spell or rhyme you
have to say, some unfinished business that needs to be sorted? Am I like the
plague kids, did I do something really wrong that I have to be punished for,
will I be doomed to wander the village for the next gazillion years?  Then
again, part of me doesn’t like the not knowing what’s waiting for me if I do
go. 

The other day, I
tried to ask this woman in the village about it.  She’s named Raven. 
It’s a weird name, but I don’t think that’s her real one. I never spoke to her
once while I was alive but I saw her lots of times.  Most of the kids
thought she was pretty freaky and kept out of her way. Come to think of it, a
lot of the adults did too. She advertises in the paper shop window that she’s a
medium but when I went to her the other day she couldn’t hear a thing I said,
which leads me to believe that she is making a ton of money for stuff she can’t
actually do. People pay this woman to find out about people they’ve lost and
she tells them stuff, like if they’re happy or if they have messages to send
back from wherever it is that dead people go to, but if it’s not true then
she’s a complete hag.  If she ever takes a penny from my mum I swear I’ll
haunt her forever and I’ll make sure she can bloody well hear me then.

Today I’m
actually sitting in assembly at school.  What a freak show.  But I’m
bored and it’s horrible watching Mum cry while she gets rid of my stuff, and I
couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.  Mr Patel is waffling on about some
end of term crap and everyone looks as though they’re falling asleep. I’m
falling asleep and I’m dead, I don’t need to sleep.  I get up and stand in
front of Ingrid.  I could totally pull my trousers down and show her
everything I’ve got, right in her face, and she wouldn’t be able to do a
thing.  But she just looks through me, the same as she did when I was
alive, and suddenly it doesn’t seem such a funny idea. I look across the line.
Matt’s sniggering at something
Paulie’s
just
said.  It didn’t take that
git
long to forget
me. I thought he would have been sad for a bit longer than a couple of weeks
but every time I see him now, he’s having a right laugh, like I never even
existed. In films dead people can make stuff fly at people who annoy them but I
can’t even do that.  So I just glare at him. But that seems pretty
pointless too. No one ever glared someone to death.

I go and stand
behind Mr Patel and shout, ‘Patel just farted!’ and I pretend to faint from the
smell. Nobody looks at me. I start doing star jumps behind him and pull my
face.  I do monkey noises, pretend to be a ninja, bomb around the hall
screaming my head off.  But all that is soon boring too and it drives me
mad that nobody knows I’m here. I’m like a shadow; not even that, at least
shadows can be seen when the sun is out. 

I end up sitting
down on the steps of the stage and watch the rows of kids staring through me.
That’s even more depressing.  It’s just as I decide to leave that I notice
something.

Bethany Willis
seems to be looking at me.  Not just looking, but open mouthed,
concentrating on me.  I look behind but there’s only me on the
steps.  Perhaps she’s just having a weird moment.  She does that.
I’ve never really talked to her, apart from getting her to shift out of the way
in the canteen, but I know she’s weird. Always wearing her shirt buttoned up
tight and her tie knotted as high as she can.  Sometimes she wears a
polo-necked jumper under her shirt. You’re not supposed to wear anything that’s
not school uniform but nobody ever tells her to take it off. And sleeves,
always long sleeves, even on the hottest days of summer. She wears her fringe
really long and some days her hair is stuck to the side of her face like she
gelled
it there on purpose.  She’s the quietest, most
unnoticeable person in the school.
Almost as unnoticeable as
me.

She carries on
gawping at me so I flip
her the
finger.  Her eyes
narrow.  So I start to walk towards her and then her frown fades and she
starts to look terrified as I get closer.  I can see her chest rise and
fall in a tiny, rapid movement, like she can’t get enough air, and she looks
straight at me while I approach, her eyes getting wider and her breaths getting
shorter. Then I stop and bend down to put my face right to hers. I’m so close I
can smell the mint from her toothpaste.  Her eyes flicker up and seem to
meet mine, just for a moment,
then
she tries to look
straight ahead, as if she’s watching the stage, but I can tell from her look
that she isn’t really watching the stage.  Is that because she can’t see
it?  Is it because something, or
someone
, is blocking her view?

Forgive me for
not being excited at this point, but Bethany Willis?  If I have to wander
around forever and only Bethany Willis can see me, I know there’s definitely a
god and he’s punishing me big time for something I did when I was alive.
 I don’t know why I do it, but I speak to her quietly.

‘Bethany…
Bethany Willis… I’ve come to haunt you…’ I walk around her chair in a tight
circle, fading through the surrounding kids like I’m mist.

She keeps her
face straight forwards but she’s gone three shades paler and I can see tiny
beads of sweat beginning to form on her top lip.

‘Bethany…
I know you can see me…’

She’s still
trying to look straight ahead. I think she might cry but I just can’t stop.

‘Bethany!’
I shout at her now. ‘I’ve come to take you to hell!’

She glances up
at me; there’s real terror in her eyes and just for a moment I feel bad. But
this is Bethany Willis.  Her face goes forwards again and she clasps her
hands together to try to hold the tremors.  I loom over her and raise my
arms in the air like a zombie. Suddenly her eyes roll back in her head and she
falls sideways off her chair.

The three girls
next to her leap off their seats and rush over.  She’s out cold on the
floor. The hall erupts in a low ripple of murmurs that soon grows into an
excited babble and somewhere, someone starts a round of applause, which Mr
Patel immediately shouts down. 
Maisie
Burrows,
who’s a prefect, arrives next and kneels beside Bethany,
tapping her face and talking to her, but she doesn’t wake up. Miss Jacobs and
Mr Bauer come over and have a quick conversation about whether they should try
and bring her round on the spot, or whether she looks bad enough to call an
ambulance.  Finally, they decide not to do either of these things and,
instead, they drag Bethany
away.