Taking Flight (18 page)

Chapter 32

VICKY

I scuffled along Sandringham Park in the cold drizzle. Even though it was the first of January there were still soggy clumps of leaves in sad heaps. Mum was still in bed. Dad and Fiona and Molly had gone to Fiona's parents' holiday cottage on the north coast. They'd invited me but I didn't want to leave Flight. Mum had gone out with Brian the night before so I'd ended up sitting home on my own. Becca had invited me round to hers and I'd got ready and everything but in the end I hadn't felt like going. I just stayed in and went to bed early. Which is why I was wide awake and restless while the rest of Belfast slept off its hangover.

I was so intent on looking down that I didn't see Rory until I nearly crashed into him.

‘Oh my God! Sorry!' I said and my heart stopped. This was the first time I'd seen him since he dumped me. But it was bound to happen some time.

Rory blushed. ‘Oh, hi, Vicky. Um – happy New Year.'

‘Yeah. Happy New Year.'

I thought he would just walk on but he hovered. He was all hopped up in a big overcoat with a wee woolly hat and he looked gorgeous. I had greasy hair which I'd pulled back into a plait and was wearing the quilted jacket I usually only wore to the yard.

‘So – how have you been? How's Flight?' He sounded nervous, like he wasn't sure if it was OK to ask this or not.

‘Cam thinks he's putting more weight on his leg. But he gets bored being in the stable all the time.' I bit my lip. ‘Did you have a nice New Year?' I was coming out with total crap but I didn't want him to just say goodbye and head up the street away from me.

He smiled. ‘The usual. We always do this big family thing. Loads of cousins and grannies and stuff. It's a bit corny, to be honest, but my mum would be so upset if I said I didn't want to be there. Even though I grew out of it when I was about twelve. You know what family parties are like.'

‘I don't, really. My family's kind of small and kind of … well, split.' I didn't just mean Mum and Dad. I was thinking about Declan and his mum. I didn't
want
to think about him; I just couldn't seem to help it. I bet he hadn't been sitting in on his own on New Year's Eve, either. I bet he'd been out partying with his horrible joyriding friends.

I scuffled at some leaves. We seemed to have reached the point where there wasn't anything left to say. Then at same moment we both said, ‘I'm sor –' and gave short, embarrassed laughs.

‘You first,' he offered.

My stomach shivered but I had to say it. ‘It's just I'm sorry about … well, you were right about me being nasty
to Declan. I did say … something … to him and I suppose it made him so angry he just took Flight without thinking. I kind of know it wasn't on purpose. What you said –'

‘Look, I feel bad about that,' he interrupted. ‘I was way too harsh.'

‘It's OK,' I said. ‘You did make me sort of wise up to myself. Other people – my friends – had told me the same thing but I wouldn't listen.'

‘Still, my timing could have been more sensitive.'

‘Your timing was
crap
,' I said and suddenly we were both laughing, a proper laugh this time.

‘Look,' he said, ‘are you busy? I mean, were you going anywhere special?'

I shrugged and tried to sound casual. ‘Just waiting for Mum to surface so she can take me up to see Flight.' I hoped my voice didn't sound as full of anticipation as I felt.

‘I could take you up. If you wanted to, I mean.'

‘OK. If you're sure.'

And that's how, half an hour later, I was looking over Flight's half-door with Rory standing beside me, so close that I could feel the rough wool of his coat. The yard was deserted. All the other horses were in the field and poor Flight looked so lonely stuck in his stable. He nickered and limped over when he saw us at the door.

‘He's happy to see you anyway,' said Rory.

I couldn't help feeling pleased. ‘He never used to do that. But then … well, to be honest I suppose I just used to come up and ride him and go away again. I never spent much time just
being
with him. When – well,
if
I'm ever able to ride him again I think I'll kind of know him better.'

‘Well, that'd be good, wouldn't it?'

‘
Don't
start telling me this was a blessing in disguise,' I warned him.

‘Course not. Can you show me his leg?'

‘OK, Doctor Marshall.'

He got all interested in the wound, especially when I showed him the drain that was still in it, though it was coming out later in the week. I could look at it now without flinching but I couldn't answer all Rory's questions about it.

‘Look, any time you want a lift up here to hold his paw or whatever,' he said when we were walking back to the car, ‘just give me a shout. I mean, I have to revise but it's nice to get a break.' He half-looked away and started rummaging in his coat pocket for the car keys.

‘Hoof, not paw!' I said.

‘I know. I'm not that stupid. It made you laugh, though, didn't it?'

* * *

‘So, are you guys, like, back together?' Becca's voice on the line was high-pitched with excitement.

‘No.
Ssshh
,' I warned her, as if Rory could hear from three houses away. ‘Just friends.'

‘Yeah, right. He
totally
still likes you.'

I sighed. ‘Oh, Becs, I totally still like
him
! Meeting him today was the only nice thing that's happened since – well, since the accident.'

‘It's certainly cheered you up, babes.'

Mum said exactly the same thing when I ate all my dinner for the first time in ages. The problem was, I thought, stacking the dishwasher for her afterwards, I
couldn't
really
text him and ask him to take me to the yard; it would be too much like running after him.

But before I went to bed my phone bleeped and it was a text from him! GOOD 2 C U. GLAD WE R FRIENDS AGAIN. I MEANT IT ABOUT TAKING U 2 C FLIGHT. 2MORO?

And I replied: OK, WOT TIME?

* * *

‘God, it's freezing,' Rory said, hugging himself and pulling his scarf tighter. I wished he would hug
me
. He opened the car door and jumped in.

‘Don't suppose there's anywhere round here to get a nice hot cup of coffee?' he asked when he'd started the engine.

I looked round the frozen fields. ‘Afraid not. Nowhere closer than my house. But I could make you a cup. I think we have some of Mum's homemade mince pies left.' I held my breath. We'd been going up to the yard together for the last three days but this was the first time either of us had suggested taking it any further. And Mum was back at work today – the house would be empty. I fiddled with my seat-belt, keeping my face hidden in case it gave away how much I wanted him to say yes.

‘Yeah,' he said, ‘that sounds good.'

Before Rory had dumped me I had made him quite a few cups of coffee, when he'd been helping me revise and stuff, but now it seemed much more of a big deal. It mattered that it was strong enough, that I gave him the cup he'd once said he liked, that there was the right amount of milk. And I knew I was being stupid – it was only a
cup of coffee, for goodness' sake, and he
definitely
didn't fancy me any more – he never even
looked
at me that way – but for some reason I felt really nervous.

The funny thing was, Rory did too. He kept putting his cup down and he took a second mince pie without seeming to notice that he'd only eaten half of the first one.

And then he said it. ‘Vicky. I don't know if you know but … next week … it's our school formal.'

‘Is it?' I managed to sound really casual.

‘And I know it's really short notice but I wondered if … I mean I know we're not … but I thought you might like to come with me.'

‘Oh!' My mind raced. OK, he wasn't asking me out again, but he was asking me to his
formal
! If ever there was a good omen this must be it!

‘So, will you come?'

‘Umm, what date?'

‘Friday the eleventh.'

‘Oh. That's my mum's birthday.'

His face fell.

‘Of course I can come!' I put down my coffee cup and hugged him – just a hug. Friends could hug; I hugged Fliss and Becca all the time. But it felt lovely – he smelled just the same. And he didn't pull away immediately.

‘And do you have enough time? To get a dress and all?'

‘Oh yes! My friends and I are going to hit the sales. Big time!'

* * *

Fliss was still in Donegal so Becca and I went into town. There were loads of formal dresses but most of them you
wouldn't be seen dead in – too tarty, too glittery, too frumpy, too clingy. But then in Karen Millen I found my dream dress. Turquoise with spaghetti straps that crossed over down the back and a skirt that was slinky but not tight.

‘Wow!' said Becca. ‘There is no way he'll be able to resist you in that!'

I did a twirl and tried to see what my back looked like. ‘Are you
sure
it suits me?'

In some ways Fliss would have been better to shop with. If something looked minging she'd just raise her eyebrows and say, ‘I think not, Miss Moore.' Becca always wanted to please you. But I didn't need Becca to tell me the dress was amazing.

I held my hair away from my neck. ‘Up or down?'

Becca squealed. ‘Let me come and do it for you! You know I'm ace at hair. We could have the back up, in a sort of twist, and maybe curls coming down at the front.'

‘Could you do that?'

‘Easy. And Fliss can do your make-up and nails. She's got that lovely silver stuff. Look, we'll come and be your personal beauticians! Straight after school.'

‘School!' I remembered in horror. ‘I can't be at school till four and then have time to get ready by seven. No way!' I was taking the turquoise dress off very carefully – it was the only size twelve in the shop.

‘Course not,' agreed Becca. ‘That's why you're getting out at lunchtime. Your mum'll write you a note, won't she?'

‘I think so.'

Becca held the dress in front of her while I pulled my jeans back on. ‘So, have you met this Brian yet?'

I pulled my jumper over my head. ‘No. She keeps
saying
soon
. She said in the new year.
Now
she's saying her birthday. I think she wants to see what he gets her.'

‘What's that got to do with
you
meeting him?'

‘Well, if he buys her a CD and takes her to Pizza Express, then maybe it's not that serious and there's no point.'

‘I like Pizza Express!'

‘Me too. But they're
old
. They can afford posher places.'

‘So if he buys her a diamond necklace and takes her to the Merchant Hotel then it is serious and you can meet him?'

‘Well, yeah. I suppose. Something like that. Not that she's exactly the diamond necklace type.'

‘So d'you reckon they're having sex yet?'

‘Becca!' I threw my shoe at her. ‘Stop it! Yuck!'

‘You're being quite cool about it, though, aren't you?'

I remembered the first time I'd heard about Brian. Then pushed the thought away. ‘I suppose.' I picked up my bag and pulled back the curtains of the cubicle. ‘OK. Shall we go and buy this dress, then?'

Chapter 33

DECLAN

‘Right, Declan?'

‘Oh, hiya, Cathal.'

Great. Reduced to walking into school on the first day of term with Cathal Gurney. Between sniffs he tells me about the Xbox 360 he got for Christmas. ‘And I've got all these new games, so I have.'

It's easy to zone out, keeping half an ear and both eyes open for Emmet McCann. I've kept out of his way all over Christmas but I haven't forgotten what Seaneen told me.

Mr Dermott rubs his hands together. ‘Well, 12D.' He's even more all bizz than usual. ‘New term; new challenge. All ready for your mocks?'

A lot of groaning and ‘Aye right, sir', and ‘No way, sir'. It's only our year doing exams. Everyone else has normal classes while we go to the assembly hall. There's desks laid out in rows. One for everyone in Year Twelve. It looks sort of important and scary and real.

It's not though. It's just the usual crap.
Write a letter
to your French pen pal inviting him/her to come and stay at your house. Tell him about all the local attractions
! I can just imagine some poor frog arriving at 13 Tirconnell Parade.

Monday, Tuesday drag by. This is the first time in my life I ever did any revision but it doesn't seem to make much difference. By Wednesday afternoon the assembly hall stinks of deodorant and stale farts. School ends early because of exams and I've been making myself head straight home – see if I can catch her before she starts – but I know I'm being stupid. Last night I found a bottle in the cupboard under the stairs. She never used to hide them before.

She hasn't been falling down, passing out, throwing up drunk – not since New Year's Eve anyway.

She hasn't been crying, pyjamas all day, bad-tempered drunk.

She hasn't been on a bender, round at the Bastard's flat, lost weekend drunk.

But she has been drinking.

Last week I thought Mum going back on the drink was the
worst
she could do. But it's not.

‘Oi Kelly!' It's Emmet. I swing round but there's no one else in sight. I don't think he'd jump me without a couple of mates.

‘What?'

‘See your ma?'

I look round. ‘No. Where?'

Emmet yanks my bag off my shoulder. ‘Don't try to be clever, Kelly. You tell your slag of a ma to keep away from my da. Get it?'

I grab my bag back. ‘Look, McCann, if you think I
want
my ma anywhere near your da –'

‘Yeah, well tell her! She better keep away. My da was all right when she was locked up. Then the minute she's out, she's sniffing round.' His voice rises to a high-pitched whine. You'd nearly think he was going to cry. He's pushed his fat face so close to me that I smell cheese and onion crisps. His nose is so squashed that his forehead seems to jut out further than it.

‘Piss off, McCann.' It's just words. I can't really be bothered. And all the time I'm trying to block out that ‘she's sniffing round'. I wish Emmet would just deck me one and get it over with and preferably knock me out for about a month.

He doesn't. He just says, ‘You watch your back, Kelly,' and slouches off in the other direction, trying to look tough.

* * *

‘Here's your tea, son.'

‘It's half four!' She's got that jitteriness that means she'll fight with you as soon as look at you. Three or four glasses, I'd guess. She's got lipstick on and her big gold hoop earrings. That means she's seeing him.

‘Och, sure I knew you'd be hungry after your exams.'

Not chicken kiev and chips in the middle of the afternoon hungry.

She hovers round the table. ‘What are you up to tonight, son?'

‘Nothing.' I push chips round my plate. I spear the chicken and a gush of snot-coloured garlicky mush spurts out. I saw this thing about chicken farms on TV. It would put you off. I set my knife and fork down.

‘Are you wasting that good food?'

‘It's not good food. It's crap.'

‘You wee frigger. I stood and made that for you. Many's the one wouldn't have bothered.'

‘Aye and many's the time you didn't bother.'

‘Your trouble is you got spoiled at Colette's.' She lights a cigarette with a shaky hand. ‘I should never have let you go there, getting stupid ideas on the Malone Road.'

‘Yeah, well, you weren't exactly in a state to do much about it, were you?'

She goes on as if I never said anything. ‘You've been a miserable get since you got back from there. Sitting up in your room, sulking. God knows it was bad enough when you were running wild and up to all sorts. Now I suppose you think you're too good for round here? Just like her.'

‘That's not fair. Colette was dead good to me.'

‘Oh, I bet she was. Easy for her, isn't it?'

I get up and scrape the food into the bin under the sink. ‘Don't worry, I'll stay out of your way when Barry comes round.'

‘Oh, so that's what all this is about? Look, what's he ever done to you?'

I rub the scar on the back of my hand. That's the only mark that ever showed. He did it cause I told the peelers it was Emmet driving the car. I thought it would get me out of being sent away but it didn't work, though I only got two months. Emmet got three and his ma kicked him out. I reckon that's what Barry has against me – having Emmet living with him cramps his style. And he dumped Mum cause I squealed. I can't believe she went crawling back to him but she's totally stupid about him. Of course he's never laid a finger on
her
. I've heard him often enough: ‘I wouldn't hit a
woman
,' like he thinks this makes him Mother fucking Theresa.

And now she's standing here with her make-up on and she won't listen to a word against him.

‘I just don't like him coming round here.'

‘Well, maybe I'll go to his, then.'

I shrug. ‘Go ahead.'

At least when she's fighting like this she's not crying and clinging. ‘Fine,' she says. She grabs her bag. ‘And maybe I'll not rush back.'

‘Good.'

* * *

I hate this, waking at four or five. That's the hardest time to not think. It's freezing. I roll over to look at the clock radio and realise what's happened. The electric's off. I noticed last night it was nearly out of credit. I throw off the duvet and head to the window. It's grey and damp but it's not getting-up-time dark. I should have set the alarm on my phone. But I don't bother with my phone much.

Last time I went out and left her sleeping it off… My stomach lurches. I make myself push her bedroom door open. The room's empty. She hasn't stayed at Barry's for ages. But I knew last night – that's the way she goes when she's gearing up for a serious bender.

Breakfast is a dead loss. The milk's OK but there's only a few cornflakes left. The bread's a bit stale – it would be OK to toast but that's no good without the toaster working.

There's no hot water, of course. I give myself a bit of a sniff to see if I should have a cold wash or go to school the way I am. It would founder you in the bathroom so I just fire on some extra deodorant under yesterday's shirt.

Dermott's on late duty. ‘Come on, Declan!' He gives me a funny look. He's been doing that a lot. ‘Everything OK, lad?'

For a millisecond I wonder what it would be like to be the sort of person who could say, ‘No, actually. Nothing is all right. My mum's on a bender with a psychopath. I've wrecked my whole future. I've nearly killed a horse and I can't stop obsessing about it. And I can't stand it any more.'

But I'm not that sort of person. ‘Slept in.'

‘OK. Straight to the hall. English first, isn't it?' He's not really listening. He's looking behind me. ‘Shelley McIlroy! This is the third time this week!'

Everyone in the hall turns and stares when I walk in. Payne and Sykes are invigilating; just my luck. Payne gives me the third degree then walks me down to an empty desk like I can't be trusted. It's right beside Emmet McCann.

Sykes heaves her fat arse off the chair at the front and grumps along the aisle with a paper. ‘You've lost fifteen minutes,' she hisses.

Like I care.

I dashed out so fast I forgot my pencil case. All I can find is a buggered biro and when I try to write my name on the page it comes out scratchy. So I have to put my hand up and ask for a pen.

‘I am not a stationery supplier,' says Sykes. ‘It is your responsibility to come prepared.'

I push my chair back from the desk. What's the point? I'm about to stand up and walk out when a pen slides onto my desk from the person on my other side. ‘Here.' It's Seaneen Brogan. The pen's pink with a fluffy pompom on the top but it writes OK.

There's the usual stupid comprehension thing. An advert saying Portrush is class and we should all go there. Then a letter to the
Belfast Telegraph
– but you can tell it's only made up – saying Portrush is a dump. And you have to compare them. I don't know, never been there. It looks OK in the advert. But I suppose that's the point.

Section B. Writing to inform, explain and describe. Usual shite. Describe your proudest achievement. Now which of the many could I possibly choose? I could make something up about scoring a winning goal in football or something. But I don't think I can be bothered.

I can't do this.

I sigh and look round. Beside me Seaneen's scribbling away, her curls bouncing on her neck. The tip of her tongue is resting on her spiky little teeth. Not in a Cathal Gurney sort of way – it looks cute. I wish I hadn't told her to piss off.

Emmet McCann snuffles like a pig. He can't breathe properly ever since I broke his nose. Every few seconds he gives a big rattly snort. It's minging.

‘Eyes on your own work!' barks Sykes. Yeah, like anyone's going to copy off Emmet McCann.

I start doodling on the back of the paper. A blob. Then it turns into a dog, or maybe a horse. ‘This is the best work experience report I've ever seen,' said Mr Dermott. ‘You should be very proud.'

And I was. I'm not now. But for that time – what was it, two weeks? – before I wrecked it … I close my eyes and see the stable yard. Not the road outside and the car and the blood and the people shouting. I'm looking over the half-door at my first halfway decent attempt at a bed. ‘Aye, you're not the worst,' says Jim. Flight's breath frosting the spotlit evening. The fat weight of a well-stuffed
hay net. The happy munching of a yard full of contented horses. The soft shine of clean leather.

My eyes are open now and the pen is covering the page faster than I've ever written before. I don't do what Sykes always tells us and check my full stops and paragraphs and that. I just write. Smells. The tickly, sweet smell of haylage. The salty, damp tang of a tired, sweaty horse. Even the steamy, rich smell of a fresh heap of dung.

And the hot stink of the blood pulsing out of Flight's leg, pooling on the road –

Stop it! You weren't that close. You couldn't smell it. But I can now. Like that mad old bitch Lady Macbeth.
Here's the smell of the blood still
.

My hand shudders to a stop, suddenly so sweaty that the pen skids out and lands with a thud beside Emmet's foot. I grab it. Payne's head jerks up from the crossword.

For the first time I look at what I've written. My breath shivers. Cam. Kizzy. Flight. No way can I let Sykes see this. Scrunching up the paper is so quick I don't even know I'm going to do it till it's done.

‘What the … Declan Kelly! What are you doing? Give that to me.' Payne's beside me, grabbing for it.

I close my hand tighter round the ball of paper. Sharp edges dig into my fingers.

‘Fuck you!' I push the desk away. It overturns, crashing into Kevin Walsh's in front. He swings round. ‘Oi! Watch out, Kelly!'

Still gripping the exam paper I kick the chair over and run out of the room.