Unspeakable (7 page)

I frown. What’s so special about water?

‘It’s Archers and lemonade, Megan.’

I blush. I’m such an idiot!

‘Want some?’

I shake my head, my stomach lurching.

‘Go on!’

Jasmine takes a swig, then waves it under my nose. I get a sickly-sweet whiff of peaches and lemon. I wonder how much is Archers and how much is lemonade. It smells pretty strong.

You don’t know what I’m like when I’m drunk
.

I pull my notepad out and scribble:
I don’t drink
.

‘But you have drunk before, right?’

I nod, wincing slightly.
Please don’t drag that up. Just don’t
.

‘Then you know it’ll make you feel good. Help you relax.’

I said no!
I think, turning away.
I can’t, OK? I can’t lose control. Stop pushing
.

‘All right,’ she says quickly. ‘Sorry. It’s up to you. Guess I’ll have to drink both of these myself.’ Jasmine pulls another bottle from her bag, her eyes glinting.

There’s a flutter of panic in my chest. I can’t let her drink both! She’ll be wasted. I bet Owen would love that. I grab the unopened bottle.

‘Yes! Good girl!’

But I shove it straight in my bag.

Jasmine sighs. Great. She thinks I’m boring now. I’m completely spoiling her night.

Why does she bother with you?

‘If you’re not going to drink it, can I have it back, please?’ Jasmine asks, her voice flat. She’s going to ditch me as soon as we get there. I’ll be left behind, just like before. All because I can’t let go.

‘Megan?’ Jasmine asks, a trace of irritation in her voice.

No. I won’t let you drink all that on your own
.

I yank the bottle out of my bag, unscrew the lid in a few rapid, jerky movements, and take a massive gulp before I can change my mind. The Archers stings my throat. It almost comes
back up again, but I make myself swallow. Jasmine grins, then drinks some more.

Half an hour later, when we reach Lyndhurst, my bottle is empty and my head feels fuzzy. Jasmine’s got this happy, dazed expression on her face and I’m pretty sure I look the same. We get up just before the bus stops, swaying and giggling down the aisle, arms linked to stop each other from toppling over.

Outside, it doesn’t seem as cold any more. I keep my arm hooked through Jasmine’s. Not just to steady myself. I like it. I’m having fun now. I wonder what the hell I was worrying about. I wonder why Mr Harwell doesn’t prescribe alcohol to help me relax, instead of stupid breathing exercises.

We stagger up the High Street, towards the park where we’re meeting Owen. Dunno where Lindsay and Josh went – must’ve gone the other way. Unless they were too busy snogging on the back seat and missed the stop!

We take a load of comedy pictures on my phone. One with Jasmine flaring her nostrils, one of me crossing my eyes. One of the ladder in Jasmine’s tights, which is so, so funny, even though we don’t know why.

Can’t believe how dizzy I am! Mustn’t drink any more. But Jasmine’s right. I’m so chilled out now. I’m never chilled out. It feels good.

We reach the park gates and Jasmine drops my arm to wave at someone. I hold back, my nerves sobering me, as she weaves across the path. There are several lads and a couple of girls standing beneath a lamp, their cigarette smoke wafting up into the orange light.

‘All right?’ Owen peels off from the group and saunters towards Jasmine. Cocky bastard! ‘Want a drink?’

‘Yeah, what have you got?’

‘Vodka.’

‘Fine. Great.’

I wonder if Jasmine’s ever had vodka before. I haven’t.

‘OK with you, Megan?’ Jasmine asks, looking back at me. She gives me a reassuring smile and holds out her hand. Without hesitation, I step forward and take it.

Owen introduces us to the others, though Jasmine has to remind him what my name is. ‘Megan’s your next-door neighbour and you don’t even know her name!’ She giggles.

I blush. I feel like she’s laughing at me.

Owen stands really close to Jasmine, making sure everyone knows he’s interested. One of his mates winks and throws him a leery look. I loop my arm through Jasmine’s again, pretending I’m cold.

Jasmine asks, ‘Where’s this vodka, then?’

Someone hands her a bottle with a cheap-looking label. She takes a tentative sip, then her face screws up. Jasmine hands me the bottle. There’s a lipstick smudge around the rim that’s not hers. It makes me feel sick, but I resist the urge to wipe it off. What am I doing? I promised I’d never drink again. I swore.

The others are looking at me. ‘Go on,’ Jasmine whispers. I don’t want to embarrass her, so I drink.

It’s foul! Don’t spit it out, Megan. Keep it down. Swallow. That’s right. Just swallow.

I force it down. It blazes a hot trail through my windpipe
before settling in my stomach. Actually, now it’s there, it doesn’t feel so bad. Warm. Comforting. Maybe, in a bit, I’ll have some more.

I can’t stop laughing. I dunno why I’m laughing. Can’t remember. The ground is moving, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I just feel so good. So happy. And everything’s hilarious.

Are there trees in the park? I don’t remember. Doesn’t matter. I like trees. Trees are my friends. I’m going to hug one.

‘Megan!’ Jasmine shrieks from somewhere in the darkness. ‘What you doing? Tree-hugger! Hippy!’ She grabs my hand. ‘C’mon.’

Jasmine’s hand is nice. I want to hold it all the time.

‘Owen wants to show us this really cool place.’

Owen. Oh yeah. I remember. Sort of. He drove us here. His driving’s crazy. I was almost sick.

‘C’mon! He wants to show us.’

Show us what? I can’t see anything! It’s too bloody dark!

Just trees. Loadsa loadsa trees. Where are we? Whatever. I don’t care. I like being with the trees.

‘This way, hurry up.’

What? You want me to climb a hill? I’ll fall over!

Shadowy figures in front. Follow the torch.

Slow down, Jasmine. My legs aren’t working!

We stop at the top. Ha! That rhymes. Stop at the top.

The moon pokes over the trees. I see now. See Jasmine. I
want to kiss her. Weird. Where did that come from? Kiss her? What you on about? You’re drunk.

‘Look,’ Jasmine says, pointing.

I look.

Every scrap of air leaves my lungs.

No. We can’t be. Not here. I … I can’t be here.

My head clears a little. I stumble.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

A faint voice. ‘Megan? What is it? What’s wrong?’

We’re on the wrong side of Lyndhurst.

We’re at the ridge.

The place I’ve avoided for the last seven months.

Because it’s where Hana died.

CHAPTER TEN

What the …? Where am I? God, my head. I feel so rough.

I can tell by the way I’m being jolted around that I’m in the back of a car. My shoulder aches, my hand is grazed and grubby, my head’s spinning. Whose car am I in? Where am I? Why am I so confused?

Then I hear Jasmine’s voice. And it all comes back. Owen. Vodka. The ridge. I hear some sort of groan, but the sound doesn’t belong to me. It’s like a wounded dog.

Jasmine whips round from the front seat. ‘Megan? God, Megan, are you OK? You fainted. Scared the crap out of me! Don’t worry, Owen carried you to his car. He’s taking us home.’

I sit up. Darkness creeps into the corner of my eyes, like I might pass out again.

‘S’OK. Just relax. You’re going to be fine.’ Jasmine’s words slur into a stream of noise.

Wait a minute. Home? I can’t go home! Mum can’t see me like this!

I peer at the numbers on the car’s clock. They swim around. I blink. Refocus. 00:05.

All right. That’s all right. Mum will be in bed.

Jasmine’s eyes are wide, anxious. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you out. This is all my fault.’

Sorry? You’re sorry? I’ve spent months trying to forget, to scrub the memory away, but you took me there, of all places! How could you?

‘Please don’t be cross with me.’ Jasmine’s voice breaks. I block it out, ignore her hurt.
You have no right to be upset when you’ve put me through this!

I roll over so I don’t have to look at her. I feel like my body keeps rolling, over and over again. I close my eyes.

Twenty nauseating minutes later, the car stops. An icy gust of wind hits my legs when Owen opens the door. He leans over me, his face grim. What’s that on his nose? Looks like scratches. Recent. Dotted with drops of blood.

‘Yeah, that’s right. You did that!’ he shouts. ‘Should’ve left you there, you little—’

‘Hey, that’s enough!’ Jasmine says, stepping between us.

I did that to his face? No. I can’t have done.

Vicious bitch!

‘It’s OK, Megan,’ Jasmine says, reaching for me. ‘You just freaked out a bit when he tried to pick you up.’

I snatch my hand away. That’s not OK! Why don’t I remember it? Why did he take us there in the first place? He knows that’s where Hana … Was he trying to mess with me? Does he know the truth? Was he trying to get me to talk?

I lean over, retching.

‘Don’t get any puke in my car!’ Owen yells.

Jasmine quickly sweeps my hair out of my face. Nothing comes up, though.

Gripping the handle, I hoist myself out of the car. My legs can barely hold my weight. Owen slams the door, jumps in the front, then revs the engine, flying off with a screeching wheel spin. I
really
hope that hasn’t woken Mum up.

Jasmine sighs. ‘I guess he’s going back out again. I think we might have blown it. I’ll text him tomorrow, smooth things over.’

What’s this ‘we’? I never wanted anything to do with him in the first place! Hang on – you have his phone number?

‘Megan?’ Jasmine says in a small voice. ‘Can I stay? I’m worried about you. I know it wasn’t just the drink that made you faint. I saw your face when you realised where we were. I know Owen knows something, but I want to hear it from you. Please, will you try to explain?’

I shake my head and dig around my pocket for my keys.

‘Fine. Let’s not talk about it tonight. But can I at least stay?’

Another head shake. Jasmine’s eyes well with tears. I look away.

‘If that’s what you want, I’ll go. But I’m coming back tomorrow.’

Deep beneath the anger, something stirs within me. But I’m too tired and weak to identify it.

I listen as Jasmine walks away, then draw a deep breath, focus on the key and try to steady my hand. I just have to make it to bed without waking Mum. The latch clicks. I push the door open and a creak cuts through the sleepy stillness inside. At least everything’s dark. I peer into the living room. Mum’s not asleep on the sofa, which is good.

I turn on the hallway light. Next to the coat hook is this cheap print of a sunset over a beach. Mum got a discount because there’s an imperfection: a splotch of black in the upper right corner. She joked at the time – said it could be a bird or something. But it isn’t a bird. It clearly isn’t a bird! I want to tear the picture down, smash it to pieces. I wrench it off the hook and raise it above my head, my teeth locked, arms shaking. Then this noise sort of drops out of my mouth: a sob. I slide down the wall, put the picture facedown next to me, lean my head against my knees, and cry.

When I manage to get myself together, I look around as if I don’t know where I am. The last couple of hours seem unreal. But my thudding head and bruised skin say otherwise. My tongue is furry, mouth thick with the taste of something I don’t recognise.

I head for the kitchen, fingers trailing along the walls to support me. Tea. I need tea. I fumble with the mug and teabag. My fingers are fat and clumsy.

I sit at the table and take a sip. Searing heat almost blisters my lip. It’s still boiling hot! I haven’t added any milk.

What’s wrong with me?

I’m still a bit drunk. That’s what it is. I just need to go to bed. Pretend this whole night never happened.

I drag myself up the stairs – on all fours at one point – and flop into bed, fully clothed.

I’m woken in the morning by Mum opening my door. ‘Megan? What are you doing here? Didn’t you stay at Jasmine’s? What time did you get in? Why are you still dressed? Why has my picture been taken off the wall?’

I roll over and ignore her. Too many questions. Too early to answer.

But she perches on the edge of my bed. ‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’

I groan. My brain seems to be stuffed with marshmallow. I feel sick, too. Without turning to look at her, I hold out my hand.

Mum understands, finds the notepad I always keep on my bedside table, and gives it to me.

I write:
We had a fight
.

‘What about?’

I shake my head.

She huffs and stomps out, muttering something about ‘stroppy teenagers’.

The next time I wake, I catch the sound of voices downstairs. I creep on to the landing and peek around the banister. Mum and Jasmine are talking near the front door. I guess that means Jasmine’s parents didn’t find out we were drinking, or she’d definitely be grounded.

I’m not ready to face Jasmine yet. I sit on the top step. They’re the other side of the stairs so they won’t see me, but I can hear them clearly.

‘She’s still sleeping, Jasmine.’ Mum’s voice is clipped. ‘What happened last night? Megan got in really late.’

‘We had a fight,’ Jasmine says carefully. ‘I’m not really sure why. We went up to the ridge and she just …’

‘What?’ Mum snaps. ‘Where did you go?’

‘T-to the ridge. The other side of Lyndhurst.’

‘Oh, God,’ Mum groans. ‘You don’t know what happened, do you? Who were you with? Bloody kids. They should’ve known better.’

‘What? What happened there?’

Mum pauses, then asks, ‘Has Megan even mentioned Hana?’

Don’t say her name! Please … just … don’t
.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Too late. A couple of tears sneak out, like the first scattered raindrops before a storm. There’s a couple more. Then they become a downpour. I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. I wrap the other hand around the banister and clutch it until my knuckles go white.