Trouble (24 page)

Mum’s standing in the doorway and, because I’m facing away from the door, she has to wait as I wriggle and flop my way round until I’m facing her.

She comes in and sits on the bed and hands me the phone without saying anything.

I frown and take it, glancing at my clock. It’s nearly midnight.

“Hannah? Is that you, love?” It’s Gran.

“Yeah, it’s me. You OK, Gran?” I’m worried.

“Me? Yes, I’m fine … fine.” There’s a pause. “Hannah, I’ve something to tell you, love.”

I’m sweaty and panicking.

“It’s Neville.”

Neville?

“He’s died, love.”

SATURDAY 3
^RD
APRIL
EASTER WEEKEND

HANNAH

It took me a ridiculously long time to work out what to text after I found out about Neville. What do you say in 160 characters?

Heard Neville died yesterday. That sucks. Ru OK?

Sorry 2 hear bout Neville, he was a gr8 guy. Ru OK?

Gran told me bout Neville. That must b really hard 4 u. Ru OK?

Death is bad. Ru OK?

R. U. OK?

In the end I settle for something a little less pushy:

Here if u need me. Hx

Maybe a text is too impersonal. Should I call him?

Normally I’m good with this kind of thing, knowing how to care about someone, giving them the right balance of attention. But that’s not the relationship I have with Aaron. He’s the one who takes care of me.

I sit up. Think, Hannah. What would Aaron do?

It’s like What Would Jesus Do.

Jesus would say something like, “Neville’s found his true place.” He wouldn’t say “heaven” because I’m pretty sure Neville is going
down
. He made the seven deadly sins his to-do list, with lust underlined three times.

Listen to me talk. I don’t think God’s going to be too pleased if I schlep up to the Pearly Gates before I’ve done a bit of make-up time to cancel out my misspent youth.

It’s no good. I don’t know what Aaron would do and this is one thing I can’t ask his advice on.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have come round to his house? It’s a bit stalker-y. Only I can’t back out now because I’m absolutely busting for the loo and I’m not sure I’d make it home in time and no one wants to find a pregnant girl squatting behind their front hedge.

Mrs Tyler – I can’t call her Stephanie (if I did I’d have to call her husband by his first name and neither of us wants that) – is the one that answers my knock on the door. She looks pleasantly surprised to see me, and tells me that Aaron’s in his room. It’s only once I’ve bolted past her to the bathroom and swapped sympathetic “been there, done that” smiles that I notice Mrs Tyler doesn’t look like she knows about Neville. Although now I’m peeing in her toilet I might have missed my chance to find out.

When I go upstairs, Aaron’s room looks dark, but when I push the door open, I see him lying on his bed in shorts and a T-shirt, watching TV. I walk in and sit on the end of the bed.

“Hey,” I say.

Aaron nods and I turn to see whatever he’s watching. Adverts.

“Are you OK?” I ask, as if I don’t know the answer. I don’t even know why I’m asking.

Aaron doesn’t say anything.

“Are you just sad about Neville?”

His eyes flicker away from whatever point they were fixed on, but they don’t look at me. They look at the leather jacket Neville gave him for Christmas.

“There’s no such thing as ‘just’ sad,” he says, before giving me a look that makes me feel the size of an ant.

“I didn’t mean that,” I say. “Sorry.”

AARON

I shrug.

“‘Just’ saying,” I say with a small smile that’s not meant for Hannah. I wish she’d left me in peace. Silence suits my mood. She’s fidgeting at the end of the bed, trying to find the words that will get me to open up about Neville.

It’s a lost cause. I’m not going to talk to her about this. Words can’t describe how I’m feeling.

“When’s the funeral?”

I suppose that’s better than a question about my feelings.

“Week after next sometime. Easter slows things down.”

“Are you going?”

I nod, once. Of course I’ll go.

“Do you want me to come with?” The question comes at me from the end of a long, dark tunnel so that it doesn’t seem real by the time I hear it. I don’t answer. I’m thinking about funerals. Too many funerals.

There’s a sigh and I come back to the room: Hannah sitting on my bed, meaningless adverts flickering behind her, giving her a halo of sorts. If Hannah’s my guardian angel then no wonder I’m screwed.

“Look, Aaron, I know it’s awful that Neville’s passed away…” I think about how many euphemisms there are for death and I wonder whether I’ve even heard half of them. “… but I don’t think sitting at home on your own is going to make you feel any better about it.”

I don’t say anything. She’s led me back to dangerous territory where we talk about feelings. I am not ready for feelings. I am not ready to feel them, let alone talk about them.

Mum calls from downstairs.

“I’ve got to go down for dinner,” I say, hoping she’ll take the hint.

HANNAH

I try and think what I can do to let him know that he can talk to me about it. That I’m here. Not just here in his room, but here in his life. I shuffle closer to him and go in for a hug, but it’s the worst thing I could have done. Aaron bends into me at the waist, but he’s stiff and cold and he doesn’t put his arms round me, just seems to wait until I’ve finished holding him before he springs back upright.

“How come you came over?”

“I wanted to see how you were.”

Aaron waves a hand at his clothing and hair.

“Do your parents know?”

Aaron says nothing.

“You haven’t told them?” That’s worrying, but I don’t want to sound judgemental. “Aaron, you can talk to me.”

“I am talking to you.”

“Mostly you’re just scowling over my shoulder at the stupid TV and waving your hands around. That’s not talking.”

“I’m sorry. My best friend just died. I’m not quite up to polite conversation.”

“I don’t want polite conversation.” I’m getting upset – not helped by the fact he just called Neville his best friend. What does that make me? “I just want conversation. With you. I’m worried about you.”

“Thanks for your concern.” He’s bitingly sarcastic. “I like the way it’s manifesting itself as being irritated with me – that’s really touching.”

I’m stunned at how mean he’s being. But he’s upset, he’s grieving, I’ve got to be patient with him. Which isn’t exactly something I’m known for. Aaron’s still looking over my shoulder and I can see that he’s tired. I wonder if he got a call in the middle of the night? Or was it the first thing he heard this morning? I want him to tell me what he’s thinking – if he wants to cry, go out, get wasted… I. Don’t. Know. And that’s the point. I
want
to. I want to do whatever it is he wants me to do.

I wish I was psychic.

AARON

Hannah is struggling at the end of the bed. I know she wants something from me, but I’ve nothing to give.

“Hannah, I’ve got to go down for dinner.”

She nods, and I hear her try and smother a sniff.

“Are you crying?”

“No.” She’s lying. I don’t even know why I asked. “I’m just sad about Neville.”

Her voice is husky with tears and when she looks up I can see them pooling in her eyes.

“Me too,” I say, but my words are hollow. They sound like lines I’m reading from a play. They aren’t connected with anything that’s going on inside me.

“You can talk to me about it, you know. I’m here for you.”

She cares more about me sharing than she cares about me.

HANNAH

“Hannah, can’t you just let it go?” Aaron stands up. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not OK. I’m not even fucking
close
to being OK, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it. Not to you, not to my parents, not to a mental health professional…”

His reaction strikes me dumb. Why is he so angry with me for caring?

“Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“No.” I surprise myself with my answer. “I can’t leave you alone, Aaron. I’m worried about you. I care about you. I want to help you when you need me most – the way you did for me.”

“Tit for tat?”

“No, that’s not what I meant—” But he’s not listening to me.

“Because it doesn’t have to be.”

“What do you mean?” I’m scared. A dead, dark feeling in my heart.

“If the price of being your hero is having you try to save me like this, then I resign.”

“Resign?” I whisper. I feel like I’ve lost control of everything that’s happening around me. Aaron’s unravelling and I can’t seem to grab the end of the string.

“I’m out. Done. Finished. Go find Jay and get him to do the honourable thing.” Aaron looks through me, his eyes hard and glassy. It’s like he’s someone else. “I’m not the hero you’re looking for, Hannah…” Aaron suddenly sits down on the bed, the heels of his hands pressing into his eye sockets. “I’m just not. You expect too much from me.”

“I don’t expect anything.” I move closer and crouch down in front of him, my hands reaching up to his…

“You expect me to let you in.” His hands open and he meets my gaze. My hands stop where they are.

“Is that so much to ask?” I’m pleading with him. I don’t want him to shut me out.

“Yes. It is.” He presses his hands back to his face. “Please. Leave me alone, Hannah. Please…”

AARON

When I take my hands away from my eyes, she’s gone – and she cannot see that I’m crying. For Neville. For Chris. For myself.

And when I slide down onto the floor and let go, I realize that I’m crying for Hannah because she thinks she’s lost me when she doesn’t know the first thing about loss.

HANNAH

I haven’t been sick the entire time I’ve been pregnant. Until now. I’m forced to do it over someone’s garden fence, but there isn’t much I can do about it, so I just hurry away, wiping my mouth and trying to get a grip on my tears.

Whoever was in that room wasn’t Aaron. Not
my
Aaron, not the Aaron who stood by me when Jay wouldn’t, not the Aaron who stopped Marcy in her tracks, who called Jay out for being a coward, who turned pretending into reality.

A fake father I can live without, but I’ve just lost my best friend and I don’t quite understand why.

TUESDAY 6
^TH
APRIL
EASTER HOLIDAYS

HANNAH

Aaron hasn’t called. Three days. I want to break the deadlock, I want to call him, but the last thing he said was to leave him alone. This is what he wants from me and I’m trying to do it. I’m trying to be his hero, even if it means crying myself to sleep every night with worry.

Mum asked if he was coming today, but I said I didn’t think so. The date’s been on our calendar for ever, but I hadn’t mentioned it to him. I wasn’t sure whether we’d still be living the lie we created by the time I went to check out the birth centre at the hospital. Did I think I’d have come clean about Jay? That he’d have done it for me?

That would have been very stupid of me.

This place seems all right, although I’m a bit put off by what sounds like a cow mooing in one of the rooms down the hall. When I look at Mum, she pretends that she can’t hear it. Instead she makes a fuss of reading out every leaflet she can find on the table, bamboozling me with questions:

Do I want a water birth? (Erm…)

Or do I want an epidural? (Now you’re talking.)

Do I want to be on the ward or in my own room? (Surely the answer to that is obvious?)

Who will I nominate as my birth partner for the antenatal classes?

The last one gives me a burning lump in my throat as I try not to cry. Obviously I want Mum there – but the word “partner” makes me think of Aaron. I wish I’d not left it so late to ask him if he wanted to come today. I was going to do it at the weekend, but after…

Oh God, I miss him so much and he’s not even the real father.

Go find Jay and get him to do the honourable thing
.

Maybe it’s time I did.

FRIDAY 9
^TH
APRIL
EASTER HOLIDAYS

HANNAH

My source tells me that Jay got back from his Scottish piss-up yesterday. My source is unhappy that his son chose to go to his mum’s instead of ours, but, of course, he can’t possibly know that it is because his son is scared of what I will do if he does. So. I will take the fight to him.

Jason’s mum answers the door. “Hannah!” Huge smile and eyes desperately trying not to stare at my bump. It’s an expression I’m familiar with. She calls up the stairs and Jay shouts something I don’t hear.

“He says he’s in the shower.” She doesn’t suggest I wait.

“I’ll wait.”

She walks through to the kitchen, where the walls are coated in photos – the other half of Jay’s life: a couple of cheesy school photos and loads of holidays with him and the evil Step Goons plus parents. His mum sees me looking and says something about the twins being out with their dad for the day. Good. I don’t need them around to judge me too.

“So, how far along are you?”

“Thirty weeks.”

“You’re looking big for thirty.”

“It’s all the ice cream.” I shrug. It’s probably not, but I try and tell myself it’s better to be fat than to have a humongous baby to push out. The mental version of putting my fingers in my ears and singing “LA LA LA”.

“Do you know what you’re having?”

I resist the urge to say, “A baby,” and go for, “Nope.”

“Have you got some names lined up?”

I shrug and look at the door, hoping Jay will come and save me from this small-talk torture. I have a shortlist, but I’ve not told anyone what’s on it in case I change my mind – or in case someone else tries to change it for me. When Mum was pregnant with Lola, she had a list going on the whiteboard in the kitchen and me and Jay would wipe off the names we hated when she wasn’t looking. She never wrote “Lola” down and if she had I’d have totally wiped it off, yet Lola is
so
the right name for my little sister that I can’t even remember what others were in the running.