Black Chalk (8 page)

She was crying, I thought. I couldn't be sure. She smelled like she was crying.

‘Thank you, Nate, you were very brave.'

***

In hindsight, I realise I overreacted. My mother was right: Harry's lies were only natural. I can't recall Eric's outburst precisely. All I can say was that it was during our lunch break, in an outdoor hallway on the backside of the main buildings. I can still picture the rusty lockers, and the thick layers of white paint on the steel columns. If I'm still sure that Harry lied, it's because I wouldn't have got so angry otherwise.

I needed three hours of sleep to recover from my adrenaline rush. I woke up to find my mother reading on a chair by the window. Next to her were an apple and a small piece of bread.

‘Did I miss dinner?'

She looked up and assessed me for a few seconds before answering. ‘They just came back for the trays. But it's alright, I hid these just in case you were hungry.'

The sight of the pale apple and pasty piece of bread had my lips curling into a grimace.

‘They had palak paneer tonight,' I said. ‘You know I like that. Couldn't you have kept some for me?'

‘You know they won't let me,' she said, as if she hadn't already disregarded half of their rules. A picture of Harry spitting saliva into a microphone came into my head, and all of a sudden I knew that I had to have cream, cheese and spinach on my tongue, or I'd stay welded to my bed and shiver until there were three more tubes pumping liquids into my body.

‘Mum,' I spoke each word very clearly, ‘I want some palak paneer.'

‘Nate, it's health and safety. You know how they are.'

Her gentle words only made me more frustrated.

‘Mum! It's not hard, you go after them, and you ask them for a dish that wasn't opened. There's got to be plenty of them.'

‘They won't do it. They're not allowed to.'

‘Then go to the cafeteria and buy some.' She took a deep breath, and I knew it: she thought that all she had to do was wait a bit and I'd start being reasonable. I raised my voice: ‘Mum! I'm stuck in hospital, I've got a hole in my stomach, and all I'm asking for is some palak paneer. Just get me some!'

She stood up hesitantly, her right hand trailing over her bag.

‘They probably don't have any, but I'll ask.'

‘Mum!' I shouted. The burst startled her, and for the first time, she looked at me like she was ready to listen. I continued in a calmer voice: ‘If they don't have any, there are plenty of Indian restaurants close by. I promise I won't move.'

Her long face took a moment to settle; then she smiled and squeezed my arm.

‘Yes, of course I'll find you some. I'll be back soon.' She paused. ‘Don't talk to any strangers.'

When she walked away, I closed my eyes and drifted towards sleep with a strangely satisfied smile – for half an hour, while the sensation lasted, I felt that the day hadn't gone so badly after all.

She was back with a paper bag in hand. Heat radiated from the dish's aluminium cover and I felt weaker, happier. Needing the warmth, I burned my tongue with the creamy spinach. With that taste in my mouth, I'd be alright in no time.

‘Tell me, Nate,' my mother said, two fingers holding her head tilted back, ‘what sort of things had Eric been saying lately?'

I stopped eating and looked at her. It was the first direct question she'd asked me about Eric, and yet she behaved as if she'd asked me whether I needed more blankets. The triviality of it all rubbed off on me, and I relaxed into an answer.

‘You mean, regarding the…' I thought of the way they put it on television, but I couldn't bring myself to say it.

‘If he said anything about that, yes. But anything you found strange, really.'

I looked down at my tray. A painting of a patch of earth on a mountain side: the spinach lightened by the cream, its strands flattened with my fork, the paneer floating white – they were blades of grass pushed by the winds, fighting for sunlight on a rocky soil. My mind held a long blank. I started speaking, hoping memories would follow.

‘Well, there was that time with Harry, but… He didn't like some of the others, you know. He kept on saying they were getting in the way. I don't think anyone could have stopped him from doing anything, but that's what he'd been saying in the last few weeks.'

I looked at her. She was nodding with a faraway smile. She stood up and came closer.

‘Just like I thought,' she whispered.

‘Yeah, he was busy in the last few weeks. I didn't see as much of him as usual, except for my bat. He showed me a thing or two, but that's about it, you know.' She was still nodding, her smile shifting to me.

‘Yes, that's good, Nate. That's—'

Her voice was as soft as my tiredness, and I felt I could share more.

‘Just a few things, like interesting stuff he was working on. I told you he was good at repairing and making things, didn't I?'

‘Yes, you said that. That's alright, you've answered my question already. Eat your dinner. You've done very well, of course, you've done well.'

Her hand circled up and down. I imitated her: my fork picked out a chunk of cheese, brought it to my mouth, and went back for more food.

‘That's good. The more you eat, the quicker you'll get better. It's very easy to look back at everything that happened in the last few weeks, and knowing what you know now, to think that you could have done something to prevent it. That's called hindsight bias. Don't start thinking that way, Nate. You did everything right.'

***

My diary includes three tightly spaced pages on a fleeting moment that happened the next morning. Before visiting hours, a young man walked into my ward and stopped by the nurses' station. A sling tucked his right wrist onto his left collar-bone. He turned his back to the desk and, resting on it, looked out towards the window. Two nurses walked around him to get behind the desk. His gaze moved from patient to patient until it came to me. He seemed to take me in longer than the others, and yet he barely acknowledged that I was aware of him. For my part, I stared at him and at his youth. Something else caught his attention and he ambled away down the corridor. I saw him stop once, at the edge of my world, before he moved on, out of my reach.

My diary entry seems bent on capturing every detail, from the clothes he wore, to his hairstyle, and his body language. I'd forgotten the moment, but reading about it, his blue sling and town clothes come back to mind. The entry's pages are out of order, further into the notebook than events that happened later. Perhaps I wrote about the young man days after he passed through, recalling the moment then as I am recalling it now. Or perhaps I just wrote my descriptions on the first blank page I found. Still, I wonder at the hour I must have spent on the entry. And much like the rest of my time in hospital, I doubt I can piece it back together seamlessly.

***

That afternoon, my mother arrived with a man in her tow. He waited by the nurses' station as she approached me. It took me a few seconds to recognise Andrew Hill, the policeman who'd answered questions on the news. He looked smaller in person than on screen. Faced with a deflated version, I found him short and stout, when I could see that he was about as tall as me. For a moment, the impression put me at ease.

‘It's alright,' she whispered with a smile, ‘he won't stay long.'

Even though my mother hadn't warned me, his sudden appearance didn't surprise me. That, together with the nervous expectation on my mother's face, had me nodding.

She signalled him to my bedside. He came closer, holding his hands behind his back. His navy suit opened to show a white shirt, a gold buckle, and a blue tie. He led with his head down as if he were caught in thought. When he looked at me, his chin rose level, and his bushy eyebrows lifted his heavy glasses for a second. Then they came down and his face was settled.

It was that general expression of a man who knows and understands that made me want to close my eyes and will him away.

He made as if to speak, but my mother started before him.

‘Nate,' she said, ‘Mr Hill would like to ask you a few questions. He knows you're making an effort for him.' She whispered the last part and turned to the inspector. ‘Nathaniel very much wants to help.' She looked as if she was about to say more but she stopped herself. After a short pause, she added: ‘Don't forget that he is just starting to deal with the whole situation.' And with a hand gesture, she told the policeman to proceed.

He breathed in deeply as he gathered his words. When he opened his mouth, I expected his voice to boom across the room, but the slow sounds barely reached me.

‘Nate – can I call you Nate?' he asked.

I nodded.

‘Thank you, Nate,' he continued, a bluntness clotting his West Country accent. ‘My name is Andrew Hill. Call me Andrew. This is an informal chat. We'll take your statement at a later stage… When the doctors declare you well enough to go through the process. Today I would like to ask you a few questions. Can you answer them for me?'

I expected him to continue but he seemed to wait for my response.

‘I can try.'

‘Good.' He pulled out a notebook and was clearing his throat when my mother groaned. His eyes looked her way for an instant before going back to his notebook.

‘Mr Hill!' she said. The urgency in her voice tore him away from his task. With a wave of her chin, she took him aside to the nurses' station. Their conversation looked animated, but they were far enough that I couldn't make out what they were saying. He came back with his notebook tucked in his pocket. Acknowledging my mother on the other side of the bed, he started again.

‘I know how difficult it must be for you at the moment—' He caught himself, a finger reaching up to his right temple, stroking frame and skin. In that moment, I started hoping: perhaps I could say no, shut my mouth and stare him down. But I lay still, waiting for him to speak, my arms limp by my sides.

‘Do you know why I'm here, Nate?'

I held silent for an instant, hoping he'd answer his own question. I wanted to beat him at his own game, but he waited for me and I had to speak: ‘You're in charge of the investigation.'

‘Yes, I am. Did your mother tell you this?'

‘I saw you on TV.'

‘On TV?' He raised a hand to his glasses and pushed them down his nose. ‘Is there a TV in this room?' he asked, looking around.

I pointed at the articulated arm on the side of my bed.

‘Of course,' he said, pushing his glasses back up, dismissing the matter. ‘Do you know what it means to be in charge of the investigation?'

‘I…' I held the single vowel for a long time, hoping that he would take over and get on with it. But he waited. ‘It means that you've got to find out what happened,' I said.

His lips curved into the shadow of a smile.

‘Yes, I need to find out what happened. This is where I need your cooperation.'

As he finished his sentence, he reached for his notebook and a pen. He shuffled pages until he came across the right one. Then, his eyes jumping between his notebook and my face, ignoring my mother's frown, he started the interview process.

Answers were easy at first. My mother had dropped me off at school; I'd bumped into Jeffrey before going to my history class; there, the teacher had handed essays back, which we'd discussed for half the lesson, before looking at new material. With every question, my answers lengthened. He nodded slowly as I spoke, taking note of every detail I gave him. When I told him I'd arrived a little late for physics, he raised his eyebrows in appreciation, the thick coarse hair climbing above his glasses' frame.

To my right, my mother was grabbing the railing at the edge of my bed. She had the window to her back, and the shadows stressed her glare.

She addressed me at first: ‘You look exhausted,' and, turning to the inspector, ‘He should be resting now.'

‘A few more questions, Mrs Dillingham. I'll be quick.'

She was standing close to me but she was facing Hill, her shoulders square, her legs still, a hint of a forward lean to her posture so that she seemed ready to leap at him for me, but not to take my hand and smile.

He wanted to know whether I was the last student to come in. I told him of Eric and his chains, of the madness in his eyes and his aloofness. And when I paused, he hummed. ‘What happened next?' My tongue loosened, I started answering before I had time to think. At first, everything I said seemed distant, as though it had happened to someone else. Three thin lines divided his forehead evenly, while his nods slowed.

‘Eric shot Tom and everyone backed away.' He scribbled faster, keeping pace with my words. ‘He was saying sorry.'

‘To everyone?'

‘I don't know. No, I don't think so.' He wrote two lines. ‘I don't remember much.'

‘You're doing fine.'

I spoke of the noise, I described Jeffrey falling, and Jayvanti and Anna, and I added more names, the ones I saw die. Name after name, the recollections slowed.

My voice trailing off, he asked me the question I'd been avoiding, the question I'm still avoiding. Looking back at what I wrote earlier, I can see that I included the moment, but how hidden have I put it! A series of cracks and no context. I'm battling the white page, writhing in front of my computer, but why? I was lauded for it eight years ago, and yet the shame still throws me into a pit.

‘How did Eric die?'

My muscles stiffened, and suddenly I no longer felt in control. I looked at my mother in panic, dry sobs springing up my throat. Her whole body shifted towards me, her hands holding the bed's railing even harder, her fingers tantalisingly close.

‘Eric and you were friends?' He carried on with the same calm expression.