A MILLION ANGELS (13 page)

W
hen Georgie and Jess arrive, Mum acts all serious. She makes coffee and opens the packet of shortbread biscuits she keeps in the cupboard for special occasions. She zips herself in and keeps her lips tight. Her hands tremble when she pours. Her eyes twitch in her skull.

“I phoned the hospital this morning,” says Georgie, “and Tory's stable, thank God. They think she's going to be OK. They won't know for sure until they've done the brain scan and stuff to check for more serious damage, but so far so good.” Georgie glares at me. “She's in a
coma
! Her family are at her bedside waiting for her to
wake up
! Can you imagine what
that
must be like? And then there's
her leg. That was broken, of course! We could all see that.”

She leans her head in towards Mum's. So close their fringes touch.

“It was
terrible
, Bex,” she whispers, “thinking I had a dead child in my back garden. OH! MY! GOD! It was awful! I'm still reeling from the shock. I'm dreading Tom finding out. He'll go
mad
!”

Jess is on the sofa. Her knees tucked under her chin. She sip, sips her juice and keeps her eyes down low. Every so often she slides them in my direction and sends me a black look full of hate. I'd like to throw bombs in her face and watch her explode. Mrs Bostock would understand that Jess wouldn't be telling such a lie if she were a happy child. She would try to get to the bottom of things and find out what's eating Jess's heart. She would pop chocolates in her pocket. But I don't care about Jess. I wish I could stand up on the sofa and say, JESS, WILL YOU JUST OPEN YOUR FAT MOUTH AND TELL EVERYONE THE TRUTH SO THAT I CAN GET ON WITH MY LIFE! But I don't. I just sit there. I press my finger in the tiny sugar crystals on the biscuit plate, then stick it in my mouth and let them melt on my tongue.

“Well, what are we going to do?” says Mum. “How can we solve this?”

She looks at me, then at Jess.

We both look away.

“I know what I saw!” says Jess.

“I know what happened,” I say. “It was an accident! She lost her balance and I tried to pull her back in.”

“I mean,” says Georgie, “if you did do it, Mima, then we really have to let Tory's parents know and then they might press charges. I don't want to scare you or anything, but it's a terrible thing to do. It's a crime. You can't go pushing people out of windows willy-nilly, just because you don't like the game you're playing.”

Dragon spikes rise on my skin. Lion's teeth grow in my head. Sharp claws sprout from under my nails. I'd like to scratch her face. I'd like to stand up and say, I DIDN'T DO IT, YOU STUPID WOMAN, DON'T YOU KNOW? IN FACT, I WAS TRYING TO JUMP OUT OF THE WINDOW MYSELF. I WAS TRYING TO FLY THROUGH YOUR TREES! But I don't because I can't tell the truth because everyone will think that I'm mad.

But I do come up with an idea.

“Let's wait for Tory to wake up,” I say. “She'll say the same as me.”

“Might not,” says Jess. “She might have lost her memory. She might end up as a vegetable and have to be in care for ever and ever. She might never walk again! Or see! Or hear! That might be
it
for her!”

“Jess is right,” says Georgie. “That might be
it
for poor Tory!”

Mum drops her head in her hands. She sighs and says, “Let's go through it one more time.”

So we do. Jess goes first. Then me.

“But I'm still not any clearer about what actually happened,” says Mum, when we've finished speaking. “We'll just have to wait for Tory to wake up and see what she has to say.”

“But shouldn't we talk to the police?” says Jess. “If we suspect Jemima of attempted murder we have to let them know.”

Granny storms into the kitchen with the Bean tucked under her arm. Milo trails along behind.

“I've heard quite enough of this gossip,” she snaps. “The child says she's innocent. So leave her be.”

Granny's words slap everyone into silence.

When Georgie and Jess have gone, Granny mutters under her breath, “Little minx, that one. Little minx.” And I agree.

I go upstairs to do some work on my presentation. I open my laptop and Google
Derek – Canada – Blitz
. But it's rubbish. All Google comes up with is stuff about football. I slam the lid down. I kick my bed. Without Derek, my presentation is going to be as rubbish as me. Even Callum Richardson's boring one on football is going to be better than mine.

The trouble is that it's all so clear in my head. I'm standing up at the front of the class with a clear crystal voice to make Dad proud. And I'm focused, focused, focused, and my picture boards are propped up on display. And then I click the button and my film of Granny comes on. She tells her story. She's crying because she's so upset about the fact that her soul mate slipped through her fingers. Then the film moves on to one of Derek. He's sitting there all old in his chair, telling us how tragic his life has been because he lost his one true love. Then I click my fingers and a flock of white, white doves flies through the room like a million angels. Some romantic music starts up and not an eye in the classroom
is dry and Mrs Cassidy has called Mrs Bostock to the room to join us because she thinks my presentation is truly brilliant. And then for my grand finale the doors crash open and in walk Granny and Derek arm in arm with love hearts floating all around them and pink roses in their arms. And then everybody cheers and Derek asks Granny to marry him and Granny says yes. And then they ask me if I want to be a bridesmaid. And I say yes. And everything is perfect! And I get an A
^*******
for my good work.

I pull out the camcorder and plug the USB lead into my laptop. Even if I don't have Derek, I have the film of Milo being an evacuee and if I can make one of Granny at least I'll have something to show. I've seen Dad do it a million times before. It's easy. All he does is click a few buttons and edit a few frames and he gets a perfect film. I put my sunglasses on and pretend I'm a real film-maker making an important documentary programme for TV. I think I'm going to like this job.

And then a box pops up telling me I need to install some special software. I don't have a clue about software and Mum won't have a clue and neither will Granny.

I have to face facts. My presentation is going to be
rubbish. I should have done it on dog rescue homes or Walt Disney.

Ned is right. There are a million things I can't make happen. If I were twenty-five years old things might be better. I'd have learned all about film-making. I'd know all about software. I'd be able to say NO to things I don't want to do. Twelve is confusing. Twelve is rubbish. Just like me. I'll have to make do with the photo of Milo dressed up as Derek.

I did do
that
on my own. At least
that
is good.

I pull out the USB lead and throw the camcorder in its bag.

If Granny and Derek were supposed to find each other then they would have done it themselves. Fate would have pulled them together like magnets from the opposite sides of the world. The flow of life would have caught them on its tide.

I pull out my presentation boards and sigh. They're flat and boring and do not speak of love. They don't feel like broken hearts. They won't make people cry. I stroke the photo of Milo dressed up as Derek and whisper, “Where are you, Derek Bach?” I pull back my sleeve and flick an angel into the air. He starts flying
off to Dad. I whistle him back just in time and send him off to Derek. “Go find him! Please?”

I stroke the photo of my great-grandparents. I whisper to them, “What happened to you all? Where are you now? Where do you go when you die?” They stare back at me with their stupid sunshine smiles. I wonder if their smiles would have been so big if they'd known their bodies were going to end up strewn all over the rubble like shrapnel. I don't think so. I think they might have run for their lives. I flick an angel to them and a gorgeous one to baby Joan. They fly so white through my window, so radiant to the faraway place I can never know of until I die.

Then I send a million angels to Dad. So bright they hurt my eyes. “Please bring him back to me!”

I glue sparkles and sprinkles and hearts over my rain-grey boards and make a big swish of red and silver hearts from Dad to me. I stroke his face. It's a photo I took of him just before he left. We'd gone for a walk. Just him and me. To talk about things. I snapped it when he wasn't looking.

I kiss my finger, then plant the kiss on his cheek and I wish a flower would grow.

If Ned were talking to me I'd go and see him. I'd randomly knock on his door and say “Hi!” And I wouldn't take a guitar because I don't have one, but maybe I'd make up the lyrics to a song. Maybe Ned and me could make a band. Maybe his gramps really could help me find Derek.

But I can't do that. I'm not brave. And anyway Ned hates me.

Granny pops her head round the door.

“Here, pet,” she says, putting a sandwich and drink next to me on the floor. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Thanks, Granny,” I say. “I do love you!”

She smiles and kisses the top of my head.

“Granny?” I say. “I can't make the film of you because I don't know how all Dad's stuff works, so I wondered… if you'd maybe consider… coming into my school on presentation day to tell everyone what happened to you in the Blitz and all about Derek and everything?”

Granny plops down on my bed.

“I don't think so, pet,” she says. “I don't think anyone's going to be interested in listening to an old fogey like me. Oh, Jemima,” she says, stroking my hair, “my little Sherlock Holmes. Forget about it all. It's in the past. It's
gone. Forget about Derek, pet. You finding his photo is plenty enough for me. And anyway, Mum's really not happy with all this war obsession. Perhaps you should think of something different to do your presentation on.”

When Granny leaves, I shove my stupid presentation stuff away. I pull my gas mask on and lie on my bed, my magic bed that will fly me far away from here.

N
o one is talking to me. But the Tory Halligan coma story is the topic on everyone's lips. The school is buzzing with it. On Monday morning Mrs Bostock drags me into her room.

“Do you need to talk, Jemima?” she says, filling my fist with chocolate. “Because I'm here to listen if there's anything you need to say. General reports are that you're doing well, but I'm concerned. This Tory Halligan thing – were you involved?”

I pop a chocolate in my mouth. I shake my head. I can't tell Mrs Bostock the truth about anything, let alone what happened with Tory. If I were to tell her
the truth about something, I'd stand on her chair and say, MRS BOSTOCK, I HATE COMING TO YOUR SCHOOL EVERY DAY BECAUSE IT TRULY IS THE MOST BORING, BORING PLACE IN THE WORLD AND I'M LEAVING YOUR OFFICE AND GOING HOME NOW AND I'M NEVER COMING BACK! GOODBYE! And then I'd walk out of the school gates without looking back and my life would become much more wonderful than it is right now.

On Monday afternoon Ned comes up to me and says, “Now I've lost all respect for you, Jemima. That was a sick thing to do.”

I just stand there and don't say one word to defend myself.

Hayley, Sameena and Beth keep clinging on to Jess. Without Tory stitching them together they're lost. Jess is the new queen. I think she'd like us all to bow down to her and curtsey. But I won't. She glared at me on the bus on Tuesday and flurried everyone to the back seat, far, far away from me.

I hate Jess.

Jess hates me.

That's how it's always been, but we've never been brave enough to say.

Tory Halligan is still in a coma. She won't wake up and I don't blame her. She's probably having much more fun in her coma dreams. Why would she want to wake up to this world?

After games on Wednesday Jess whispers in my ear, “She still might die, you know, and it'll all be your fault.”

After double science she sends me a text. Pip. Pip.
More bombs. Ur dad might die too. U might never see him again. I hate you, Jemima.

Images from war films race screaming through my mind and I worry about my dad.
Please be OK, Dad! Please, please be OK!

Every day I eat lunch on my own. It tastes like cardboard. No one sits near me. No one speaks to me. Anyone would think I had a deathly contagious disease. I'd like to stand up on the table and say, EXCUSE ME, BUT I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR TORY HALLIGAN'S COMA, OR HER NEAR DEATH. I AM NOT A MURDER SUSPECT. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE ME LYING THERE NEARLY DEAD. NO ONE WOULD
NOTICE IF I WERE GONE, AND FOR YOUR INFORMATION I WOULDN'T MISS ANY OF YOU ONE BIT! But I don't. I munch on my cardboard salad instead.

People point and whisper at me because of Jess and her spiteful gossiping tongue. Rumours spread like butter.

I thought I knew what lonely was.

But I didn't.

I do now.

Lonely is the emptiest place in the world, the place where love is banned.

Every night when I get home from school my mum pats me on the head, like I'm a dog and says, “Go on up and get on with your prep, sweetheart. Dinner will be ready soon.”

She edges round me, scared I'll go off like a bomb. She doesn't know what to believe. For once she is lost for words.

Granny fluffs around me. She stuffs me full of pancakes. She pats my arm. She irons my clean washing with extra-special care. She stacks it on my bed and leaves a flower on the top of the pile. Milo roars about
the place. He bashes into me. One day he scratches my arm by accident with the tip of a metal plane. Tears sting my eyes. I squeeze them back in. I have no time for sharp diamonds now.

On Friday night I lift the Bean from his Moses basket and take him outside to marvel at the stars. They twinkle down on us like silver rain.

“There's The Plough,” I say, “and Orion's Belt.”

And then I can't show him any more because I feel too sad. Stars remind me of our dad.

“Life is a mysterious thing, little Bean,” I say.

And then I show him the angels on my arms and we blow them through the sky together. They rise from the inky blue to a white flash of wonder, a flurry of love, an incandescent blaze through the night. I tell the Bean where they're going because he doesn't understand about places like Afghanistan yet.

“One day you will,” I say, “when you're a bigger beautiful boy and you might like tanks and trunks like Milo or you might become a pacifist like Ned. You might play the guitar like John Lennon and wear laces on your shoes that look like vines.”

Ned creeps uninvited into my thoughts too often.
His halo hair shimmers in my eyes. His sapphire eyes pierce my mind. I push him away.

I grab a fistful of stars and sprinkle them in the Bean's eyes.

“Little Bean, I wish for you to grow strong and brave and healthy,” I say, “and for you to have a truly happy and wonderful life and for you to marry a beautiful princess and live happily ever after.”

I'm the good fairy really, not the wicked one.

On Saturday morning, when my ears have almost given up stretching, the phone rings.

It's my dad!

I wait and wait while Mum natters on about rubbish. I wait and wait while Milo tells Dad about his game. I wait and wait while Granny makes sure he's drinking enough water. And then it's my turn.

“Daddy!” I say.

The line is crackly, but the sound of his voice melts me into a bubble of love. It wraps its arms round me and gently soothes my heart. It's like I'm there in the desert, next to my dad and my dad is next to me. Holding tightly on to my hand.

I have so many things to say. I don't know where to
start. I need his help with Derek. I need to tell him about Tory and about me wanting to fly.

“Dad!” I say again.

Then Mum steps in front of me and flaps her arms wildly in my face. She shakes her head. She whispers, “Don't say anything about Tory, I don't want him to worry! Georgie doesn't want Jess's dad to know. Don't say anything about anything at all. OK? Just talk about nice things.”

All my worries jam in my throat. Dad says, “Love you, Mima, sweetheart.” Then he says, “Knock, knock.” And I croak, “Who's there?” and he says, “Army,” and I squeak, “Army who?” And he says, “Are me and you still going for ice cream?”

I try to make a laugh sound. I do. But it's a struggle to cover up the tears that are rolling down my cheeks and choke in my throat.

“I miss you, Dad,” I squeak. “Please come home soon.”

His time is up.

He says, “Bye-bye, sweet girl.” And the phone goes dead.

I turn to Mum.

“I need to go and see Tory,” I say.

“Really?” says Mum. She rests her chin on her hand. She thinks for a while and says, “That's the most sensible and bravest thing you've said all week, Jemima.”

 

We're silent in the car. We're busy thinking. Mum pulls over to a petrol station and hops out to buy red grapes and flowers.

“She won't be able to eat them,” I say. “If she's still in the coma she won't be able to eat.”

Mum snaps, “That's not the point, Mima. That's not the point and you know it. Why do you always have to be so difficult. God help me when you're a teenager.”

Once the Bean is out of his car seat and strapped safely in his sling we look for signs to intensive care.

“That way,” says Mum, pointing. Then she's off like a whirlwind. She pushes through the doors. She marches up the stairs.

A sharp lump sticks in my throat. My legs feel like milk.

“Mum,” I say, having second thoughts about coming, “Mum… we don't even know if we're welcome. Maybe
we should have called. Tory Halligan doesn't exactly
like
me, you know? I'm only here because I need to find out. I need to know…”

“What d'you mean?” says Mum. “Why wouldn't we be welcome? Why ever wouldn't she like you? I know she got carried away with the Truth and Dare game you all played… but, well… I'm sure you all got a bit high spirited. But it's important to remember, Mima, that it was a game, nothing more. I'm sure she didn't really mean you any harm.”

I sigh.

“And anyway,” she smiles, “they must have liked you to have invited you along in the first place.”

“Only because you asked if I could go. Remember?”

Mum furrows her brow, then smoothes away the lines. She fans her face.

“Of course she likes you, Jemima, and if it was an accident, like you say, then there's nothing to worry about. You're just too sensitive, sweetheart, that's your problem. You need to give them more of a chance to get to know you. That's how you'll make friends.”

When we get to intensive care, the doors to the ward are locked. Mum shakes them furiously, demanding to
be let in. A buzzer at the side of the door goes off and an invisible voice speaks.

“Can I help you?”

“Er… erm…” says Mum. “We've come to see Victoria Halligan. She was admitted last week.”

“Are you family?” asks the voice. “I'm afraid only close relatives are allowed.”

“Well, no,” says Mum, looking at me like I know what to do next. “But my daughter, here – Jemima – she's a school friend and we'd very much like to pop in. Just a few minutes will do. Just to say a quick hello.”

“I'm afraid it definitely won't be possible for your daughter to come in,” says the voice. “Children aren't allowed. Stay there, I'll speak to Mrs Halligan.”

After a few minutes Mrs Halligan pushes through the door.

“Hello?” she says, looking puzzled. “Can I help?”

“We've come to see how Victoria is doing,” says Mum, zipping herself into her thick skin and poshing up her voice. “You know Jemima – she's a school friend of Victoria's. She was at the sleepover. We wanted to bring her these.”

Mum shoves the flowers and grapes into Mrs Halligan's hands.

“Well, thank you,” says Mrs Halligan. She looks at me. “I haven't heard of you before, Jemima, but it's lovely to meet you. Lovely you both took the trouble to come, really it is. It's been a difficult week,” she says. “You know, she's still… and I'm afraid I can't invite you in… it's only… you know… family.”

“Of course,” says Mum, blood rising like a sunrise in her cheeks. “We'll leave you to it… hope Victoria… hope…”

My heart dips in my chest. I need to talk to Tory. I need her to wake up. We need to come up with a plan. No one must know what I tried to do because I'm not mad, really I'm not. I think Mum's right, I think I'm just unhinged!