Torn (3 page)

‘Sure about that, are you?’

‘You can’t be real. You’re …’

‘Dead? Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Leave me alone. Please?’

‘
Leave me alone. Please?
’ She mimicked me perfectly. ‘Now where would be the fun in that?’

‘I’m closing my eyes now, and when I open them you’re going to be gone. This is a dream or a hallucination or something, I know it is. When I open my eyes you’re going to be gone.’
Deep breath. Close your eyes. Five more deep breaths. Now. Open your eyes now …

‘Boo!’ Tara cackled, laughing so hard I thought she was going to choke. ‘You always were an odd one, weren’t you?’

‘I’m going back to sleep now, or waking up, or whatever the hell it is that’ll make you go away.’ I sounded a lot more confident than I felt. I pulled the duvet over my head and snuggled down. My heart was drumming a wild beat inside my chest.

‘Fine. Be like that. But I’ll be back. You’re going to have to talk to me eventually.’ Then there was silence. All I could hear was the snuffly noises Bruno sometimes makes when he’s having a particularly good dream.

I waited maybe five or ten minutes, almost sure she’d still be there when I peeled back the duvet. But she wasn’t. The space next to Bruno was vacant. No ghost girls to be seen.

It had seemed so real. SO real. I replayed the conversation in my mind. Everything she’d said had been Tara through and through. But Tara was dead.
I am either a) losing my mind, or b) still dreaming.
I slapped myself across the face, hard. It hurt. A lot.
OK, so probably not still dreaming.

I lay awake for hours, it seemed.
Her hands … how did her hands get like that?
Too scared to stay awake, too scared to go to sleep. But eventually I must have drifted off.

I woke up the next morning feeling completely exhausted. Bruno was licking my face. I shoved him
off me and he retreated to the bottom of the bed. And then I remembered.

It was dream. It had to have been a dream. God, your brain must be seriously messed up.

But I was kidding myself. Even then I knew that it wasn’t a dream. Not exactly.

So that was the first time, and she’s been back twice more before today.

Thursday night was the same deal. I woke up from a rare non-nightmare to find her sitting at my desk on top of yesterday’s clothes. I pulled a pillow over my head and pressed it against my ears, but I could still hear her. She wouldn’t shut up. All she talked about was my bedroom and the fact that the décor hadn’t changed since the last time she’d been here as a non-dead person. She couldn’t believe I’d kept it pink, and kept asking when I was going to grow up. I wanted to scream at her. But there’s no point screaming at someone who’s not really there.

The pink bedroom was a surprise that Mum had organized when I was staying at Uncle Joe’s one weekend. I came back and my room had been transformed into a riot of pink. A twirly curly dressing table fit for a princess. A bright pink fluffy rug. Pink bedding. And the odd bit of zebra print thrown in for good measure. I was ten years old and had been over
the whole pink and girly thing for a good year or so. But Mum wasn’t to know that. She’d been kind of busy with the whole ‘trying not to die’ thing. Her hair was just starting to grow back in little babyish tufts. She wore a pink headscarf the day of the Grand Bedroom Unveiling. We thought the cancer was gone for good – that she’d beaten it, just like she’d promised she would. She looked happy for the first time in months. I could learn to love my new bedroom because it had made her smile. And I
do
love it. I won’t ever change it.

Tara went on and on about the room and the fact that the rug was a bit threadbare and weren’t the curtains looking faded? I wasn’t scared any more – just annoyed. I tried to focus on what I knew for sure: she was a figment of my imagination, conjured up by grief and guilt and lack of sleep. The human brain has some pretty impressive tricks up its non-existent sleeve. I’ve always suffered from an overactive imagination, and this was the result. I told myself this over and over again. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t. OK, I was. Just a little. Especially when I thought about her hands.

Last night was different. I woke up in a panicky sweat, my vest top clinging to my skin. Another nightmare about that night. I turned the pillow over to get the cool side. For a moment it was bliss.

‘Now that’s more like it.’

Shit. Not again. Not tonight. It was hard enough getting to sleep knowing how horrific tomorrow’s going to be. Keep your eyes closed. Don’t look at her – it’s better that way.

‘I prefer it when you have nightmares. You
should
have nightmares. It’s the least you deserve.’ Her cheerful voice was at odds with her words.

I nearly spoke to her then, but what was the point? It was crazy. Whereas conjuring up a ghost girl in my mind meant I was only about seventy per cent of the way to crazy town. But my unspoken words were loud inside my head:
You’re right
.

‘So, tomorrow’s my big day! Shame I’m not alive to see it really. They’d better do it right. Bet you’re looking forward to sharing your grief with the entire school. You know you’re going to have to rustle up some tears from somewhere. Maybe you should take a raw onion to help you out.’

Shut up.

Eventually she disappeared, but not before telling me to wear the skinny purple jeans to the memorial service.

How the hell did she know about the jeans? I’ve always been too embarrassed to wear them outside of the house. When I was rifling through my wardrobe this morning I was determined to ignore Tara’s instructions.
But a little voice inside my head said
You might as well. What harm can it do? Maybe it’ll make her go away.

But now she’s back and asking me about her own funeral. Changing into my trackie bottoms will have to wait. I ignore her, sit down at my desk and start making some notes for an English essay I should have done ages ago. You’d think Daley might have let us off, what with all that’s happened. At least the essay is about a book I actually
like
for once – that makes it less of a chore. But it’s impossible to concentrate with Tara chelping on. I can’t make sense of the words on the page, but I stare and stare at them, desperately trying to block out her voice. I manage to ignore her for a grand total of twenty-three minutes.

I turn to face her. ‘Please leave me alone. I just want to get on with my homework and forget all about today.’ I have no idea why I’m trying to reason with a dead person.

She looks up, a triumphant grin on her face. ‘
Finally!
Watching someone do homework is even more boring than doing it yourself. So, what did you think of the turnout? Tell me
everything
.’

I sigh. If this is what it’s going to take …

So I tell her all about it. I have a feeling she already knows. Who was there, who wasn’t there. (She raises her perfect eyebrows when I mentioned
Rae’s absence.) Who cried, who didn’t. The music, the speeches, all of it. She asks a lot of questions, and I do my best to answer them. The only time her gleeful smile falters is when I mention Jack. But it returns when I recount Mrs Flanagan’s speech pretty much word for word.

‘God, that silly old bitch LOVES me. I mean,
loved
me.’

‘Yeah, don’t know why,’ I mutter.

‘You
do
know why. I played the game – it’s as simple as that. It’s all about telling people what they want to hear and being the person they want you to be – or at least making them
think
you’re who they want you to be.’ She’s looking awfully smug. What does a dead person have to be smug about?

‘Why can’t you just be yourself?’

Tara shakes her head. ‘Oh, Alice. How could you have forgotten? Being yourself gets you precisely nowhere. You are a nobody. You might as well not exist.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘It is, and you know it. What do you reckon people would say at
your
funeral? “Oh, yeah, Alice. I think she sat behind me in history …”’

I’ve had enough. I head towards the door, pretty sure she (it) won’t follow me downstairs.

‘Where do you think you’re going? I haven’t finished with you yet.’

‘Look, Tara, I’m really sorry you’re dead.’ Feels like something I should have said sooner. I slump back into the chair.

‘Are you?’ Her eyes lock onto mine.

‘Of course I am! But I need to get on with my life. I can’t have you popping up all the time, reminding me about it – making me feel worse than I already do. I’M SORRY! It was an accident!’

She says nothing.

I’ve never been good with awkward silences. ‘An accident,’ I say again. It sounds pathetically inadequate.

Tara fixes me with a withering look. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Of course I’m sure!’ Yes. I am sure. Absolutely sure.

‘Liar!’

My tears spring from nowhere. ‘Shut up! Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone!’ Sobbing now, and trying to ignore the voice inside my head.

‘You have to find out what happened,’ she says.

‘I know what happened!’

‘Do you?’ Her tone is reasonable.

‘Yes! No … I don’t know.’ My thoughts are tumbling and stumbling and scaring me.

‘You
have
to find out. You owe me that at least.’ She’s right. I don’t want her to be right.

‘Tell me what to do.’ Resigned now.

‘Why don’t you start by talking to that dykey best friend of yours?’

‘She’s not a … don’t say that!’ I hate that word.

‘Yeah, whatever you say. Just talk to her.’

A shout from downstairs makes me jump. It’s Dad, bellowing that dinner’s ready. I’m suddenly aware of the garlicky oniony aroma wafting into the room. It usually makes my saliva glands go into overdrive, but today it turns my stomach. I wonder if I can get away with skipping dinner. Doubtful. Dad’s been watching carefully, making sure I eat. Cooking all my favourite meals. He says I’ve lost weight; he can be so clueless sometimes. How can he not notice the flesh spilling over the top of these bloody jeans?

Tara’s gone. Of course she’s gone. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened. She didn’t disappear in a puff of smoke, or dissolve into nothingness or walk through a wall. She was there and then not there, but I don’t know what happened in between. I must pay attention next time. But maybe there won’t be a next time. Maybe my madness is over. Please let it be over.

I’m meant to be hanging out with Cass on Sunday. We usually watch a DVD in her room or something. That is what my life is supposed to be like: spending time with my best mate, going shopping in town and maybe going to the cinema with a boy. Not going to funerals (or memorial services or whatever). Not talking to dead girls. Not thinking the unthinkable.

I told Cass I might go round later. But it doesn’t seem right somehow, us getting back to our old routine. How can it be the same as before? Are we supposed to just pretend that nothing’s changed?

Dad made me eat an extra helping of roasties at lunch. My stomach feels stretched tight like a drum.

I’m lying on my bed, trying – and failing – not to think about Tara. Why does she want me to speak to Cass? What could she possibly tell me that I don’t already know?

I was there. I know exactly what happened.

Except I wasn’t there when it
actually
happened, was I? When Tara Chambers breathed her last breath.

My phone rings and rescues me from my thoughts. I don’t recognize the number.

‘Hello?’

‘Er … hello. Is that Alice?’ It’s a boy. A boy is calling me. Boys don’t call me.

‘Yeah, it is.’

‘Hi. It’s Jack – Tara’s brother.’

I stop breathing for a second. ‘Hi.’ My voice sounds impossibly vacant.

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling. I saw you yesterday after …’

‘I’m so sorry about your sister. I don’t really know what to say.’

He laughs, but not like he finds it funny. ‘No one does.’

‘Sorry. I …’

‘You don’t need to apologize. I’ve had enough of people apologizing. I think it’s starting to drive me a bit mental.’

‘Sorry.’ Now he laughs for real and I like the way it sounds – rich and warm, like the very best hot chocolate, the posh stuff Mum used to buy.

‘Listen, Alice, I hope you don’t mind me calling like this. It’s just, I’d really like to talk to you.’

‘No, of course I don’t mind, but … um … what do you want to talk about?’ The answer is obvious, but I cling to the hope that it might be something else. Anything else.

‘You were in Tara’s cabin on the trip, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. Not just me though.’ Maybe he doesn’t notice how defensive I sound.

‘I know, but I need to know what happened. I mean, I know what the police say. It’s just … I’d like to hear it from someone who was there. And you used to be such good friends with her … Sorry, this must be hard for you too. But maybe it would help for you to talk it through as well.’

No. Say no. You’re too upset to talk about it. ‘OK.’
What?
No!

‘Thanks, Alice. I really appreciate this.’ He pauses for a second. ‘You know, I sort of missed you when you stopped coming round to our house. You were the only one of her friends who didn’t ignore me.’

‘I … thanks.’ He’s talking nonsense though; I
did
ignore him.

We arrange to meet up after school on Tuesday, and then say our goodbyes.

Shit. What am I going to do? I can’t face him. I
can’t
. It’s one thing pretending in front of Dad and everyone at school. But he’s her
brother
. I can’t just lie to his face. He’ll know something’s up. And it’s not right. He deserves to know the truth. But he never will. We promised. We ALL promised.

There’s no way I can go through with it. I was just too taken aback and cowardly to tell him. I’ll call him on Tuesday and say I’m ill or something. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. It’ll be fine.