Hostage Three (2 page)

I was a bit like those parakeets. I'm half-English, half-American, and I had only been living in England for a few years. I didn't fit in that well, apart from with a couple of girls who I called my friends, Carrie and Esme. They were obsessed with American TV, unlike some of the snobbier kids, so they thought I was great. They would always want me to repeat things because they liked my accent, to learn new expressions from me. But, those two friends aside, I wouldn't say I was popular. So I often looked at those parakeets and wondered how long it would be before I was really British.

My point, my real point, is that if you're one of the few people who've been to Ham, you know what the common looks like, and the houses on it, which means you've already worked out that my dad is mega rich. He worked for one of the investment banks – he ran it, in fact. He's English, whereas Mom was – you guessed it – American. From Arkansas originally, if you can believe that, though she left there when she was eighteen; walked off her parents' farm, all horizontal fields to the horizon, and swapped it for the upright world of New York.

She and Dad met when he was working over there in Manhattan, at the American branch of his firm. I went to school there till I was twelve. Then Dad got the job in London and brought us both over. Mom didn't need to work, of course, but she had this job at a science magazine, which she loved, and so when we moved she transferred to the London office. It's one of those magazines whose name everyone knows, even people who don't know anything about science.

All of which is to say that, in my world, getting thrown out of the school grounds, personally, by the head teacher, was not something that people usually did.

I got on the 65 bus and was sitting on the right-hand side when Esme and Carrie got on, so they didn't notice what I'd done at first. Esme was excited about her parents going away for the weekend – she flung herself into the seat beside me, babbling about it, while Carrie sat down behind, much more carefully, which, to be honest, tells you everything that you need to know about my two best friends.

And when I say best friends, I don't mean I loved them, like they were my soul mates or whatever. They were OK. They just didn't hate me, like most other people.

— They're going for two whole days, Amy, said Esme. Total empty house. Forty-eight-hour party people! She didn't say hello or anything; she wasn't that kind of girl. It's going to be immense, she continued.

— But your snotty brother will be there, too, said Carrie.

— I don't know, I said. I think Jack is kind of hot.

— Ugh, said Esme. Don't perv on my brother.

Carrie pulled a disgusted face and was about to say something, but the reason I could see her pulling a face was that I'd turned round to look at her, so that was when she saw.

Carrie stared at me.

— Oh my god, she said. Your face.

— Amy! Esme shrieked. You're going to get expelled. This is totally incredible.

— It's totally stupid, said Carrie.

I had bolts through my eyebrow, my nose, my bottom lip, my ears, all with little spikes screwed to them. I liked that – I liked the idea of presenting sharp edges to the world.

— They can't expel me, I said. It's my last day.

— Oh, yeah, said Carrie. You don't do French, do you?

French was the last A-level exam – everyone who wasn't doing French was finishing earlier.

— Non, I told her.

— Lucky bitch, she said. She examined my bolts again. What did your dad say?

— Nothing, I said.

— Wow. Your dad's cool.

I shrugged. He wasn't. Actually, he'd probably hate the piercings, but it wasn't like he ever came home from work or paid any attention to me, so he hadn't even noticed. That was the whole point of getting them done, to piss him off, so the fact that he wasn't pissed off made me pissed off.

We went straight to the gym, where the exam was taking place. On the way, though, Miss Fletcher, the drama teacher, stopped us. As always, her glasses were lopsided and her hair made her look like she had been sleeping in a bush. She was looking at my face like it was a snake in her living room.

— Miss Fields, she said, what do you think you're doing? You know the rules about . . . body decoration. It's an expellable offence.

— It's my last exam! I said. Then I'm out of the school for ever.

— Exactly, said Miss Fletcher. You're still in the school now and the rules are clear. Come on, young lady. We're going to see Mrs Brooks.

Mrs Brooks was the head teacher. I rolled my eyes at Carrie and Esme.

— See you later, I said.

— Er, yeah, see you later, said Carrie. She looked a combination of impressed and worried.

Miss Fletcher waited outside. When I entered Mrs Brooks's carpeted office, her expression changed to sort of sad and patient, like a parent with a wayward child, which I guess was pretty much the situation, the way she saw it.

— Miss Fields, she said. You know that this school has allowed you a lot of compassionate leniency. But you're really pushing it this time.

— It's my last day, I said.

— I know that. And I know that it was your mother's birthday recently, and I know that it's only been two years since, well, you know . . .

I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of hearing me say anything.

She looked down. I could see the grey at the roots of her blonde hair.

— All right, Mrs Brooks said, still examining the oak desk in front of her. Do the exam. But you leave straight afterwards. No hanging out in the common room. I don't want you setting a precedent.

— Fine by me, I said.

I walked back to the gym on my own. I was, like, two minutes late for the exam, so I had to be quiet as I went to my desk and turned the paper over. I chose the problems I understood the most and filled in my answers in pencil. When I looked up, the big clock on the wall by the monkey ropes said that we had five minutes to go.

Five minutes, and then school was over for ever.

I checked the invigilators. One of them was reading a book, the other was gazing out of the window, hands laced behind his head.

I reached into my pocket, took out a cigarette and put it in my mouth. The girl at the desk next to mine turned and looked at me, her eyes wide. Then I opened my pencil case, got a little box of matches and struck one. I held it to the end of the cigarette, listened to it crackle as I sucked in smoke.

Then I breathed it out, and the invigilators were instantly on their feet, hauling me out of the gym. A few minutes after that Mrs Brooks turned up, and she escorted me off the school premises.

— Very clever, she said, as she marched me to the bus stop. You've made your big statement now. You'll fail this exam automatically, of course.

— What? I said. Are you serious?

— I'm afraid so, she said. You have to understand consequences, Amy. Behaviour like that . . . there has to be a line.

I looked down, silent.

— So, she continued, you've really messed things up now. Do you feel better?

No, I wanted to say. No, I don't.

That last exam, the one where I lit up in the middle of the gym – and, so Esme tells me, went down in school legend – was physics.

This was fitting.

See, in physics we learned about dynamics: the laws about the movement of liquids and air. And there was a time in my life when I thought I knew all about rules and how things unfailingly are. I understood how water is supposed to flow downhill, and air is meant to lose pressure when it's moving fast.

I also understood some other things:

You get wiser as you get older.

Money makes you safe.

People who die are old, like my granny and grandad.

I thought I understood these things, same as I understood that if you keep pouring water into a container it will eventually spill over the top.

But I was wrong.

That night and the next
I did the obvious thing: I went out clubbing. The school had called my dad, of course, and he left me, like, a dozen messages about it. He even sent a text. But he didn't bother coming home from work to see me.

His messages were funny.

They started off like:

I'm so disappointed in you.

I thought you knew better.

It's your future and you're throwing it away.

Then they got all like:

I appreciate what you're going through.

Maybe you can resit next year.

Let's talk about it.

I ignored them.

The third night after the exam, I got home late, drunk, in a taxi – the same way that the stepmother came into our lives eighteen months before.

I knew how to climb the stairs so they wouldn't creak. I went to my room and stretched out on my bed, the walls spinning around me. Then I heard murmuring voices. I got up, heavily, and put my ear to the wall. The stepmother was talking.

— . . . getting more self-destructive, I heard her say.

— Mumble, mumble, said my dad.

— But what if . . . what if it's genetic? the stepmother said. Don't you think . . . something, something . . . therapy? I mean, have you seen that stuff in her face?

— Mumble, said my dad. Mumble. Only two A levels. No chance of the Royal Academy now.

I pulled back from the wall like it was a wasp that had stung me. I touched the bolt in my eyebrow. I'm not destroying myself, I thought. I'm marking myself.

But was that true? I knew what I liked about loud music, drinking, smoking: I liked that they made me disappear, even if for a short while.

God, I thought. What if it is genetic? I thought of the scars on Mom's arms and my piercings.

I didn't sleep that night.

 

I came downstairs in the morning and found the stepmother at the kitchen table, waiting for me. At first I thought she was going to confront me about the night before, but she didn't. Instead, she indicated the chair opposite her.

— Sit down, Amy, she said. I have something to tell you. Your dad wanted to tell you himself, but he had to get into work early for an emergency meeting.

I looked at the table. There were all these maps laid out on it, while Ham Common spread before us, glistening with dew, on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows Mom always liked because they brought in the light.

— What? I said, my eyes on the maps. You're sending me away?

— No, said the stepmother, frowning. Remember that yacht? The one your dad mentioned?

I was hungover, and this whole thing was surreal.

— What yacht?

— The
Daisy May
. Don't you remember?

I vaguely recalled Dad going on about some boat, on one of the few evenings when he was around, saying how he might buy it and sail it round the world.

— I guess, I said.

— Well, said the stepmother. He's bought her.

— Bought her? I said, confused.

For an instant, a crazy thought went through my mind – that Dad had bought some other woman. Because you could kind of say that he had bought the stepmother, what with all the Cartier jewellery and Louboutin shoes and stuff.

— The yacht, she said. He bought it.

I sat down. The maps were kind of swimming in front of me. A yacht. OK, that's normal, I thought.

— So? I said, my voice coming out even more sullen than I meant it to. He's always buying things.

I looked her hard in the eye so she would know what I meant, know that I was talking about her. Then I glanced at the Cartier bracelet on her wrist, just in case she hadn't got the message.

— Well, she said, not rising to it. This time he's bought a yacht. By the way, there are bagels keeping warm in the oven. And I bought that cream cheese with chives that you like.

— Thanks, I mumbled.

— Go on, she said. Have one. They're good.

This was the worst thing about the stepmother. I could basically do anything – swear at teachers, take drugs, insult her, go to parties and not come back till the next day – and she would act like nothing had happened. It just made me feel even more awful, which I think was probably her cunning plan all along.

I went and got a bagel from the oven, put it on a plate.

— I don't understand, I said. We're talking about the yacht? The one that was on the web for, like, thirty million pounds?

— That's the one, said the stepmother. It's dry-docked at Southampton. We're going to leave as soon as we find a captain and crew. I mean, if you want to, that is.

— Leave? For where?

— Everywhere.

— Sorry, what are you talking about?