A Ruined Girl Page 3

  ‘I’m only asking because you weren’t in the book for anything after school, Lukey, so we were getting worried,’ he says, but he’s not even looking at him and he sure as fuck doesn’t look worried. ‘And you didn’t call. So I was wondering whether you’d forgotten your phone, because that would be an excuse for not letting us know.’

  He raises his eyebrows then, like he’s doing Luke a massive favour.

  And then he clocks the bag, mouths the name of the fancy shop that’s printed on the side. And a smile spreads across his face and he goes, ‘Ohhh.’ Like it’s funny. ‘Little ladies’ man. Anyone we know?’

  He gives Luke this big wink, making out they’re on the same side. They’re not on the same fucking side, they’re not even on the same planet, and Luke’s jaw is suddenly locked and then the hot thing happens. Burning in his ears, spreading like actual fire all across his cheeks and the whole thing’s fucked now if she comes out; she’s going to take one look at his face and laugh herself stupid because he’s a blushing little twat—

  ‘Are you all right, Luke?’

  Before he can stop himself he says, ‘Fuck off, bellend,’ and it comes out proper loud, and pissed off. There’s a scramble from the TV room and Cameron and Fat Jake appear like magic behind Geraint. And they see Luke’s face and fall about because obviously he’s the colour of a post-box and out of nowhere he thinks of a gun and one day I’m going to shoot the fucking lot of you. I fucking swear.

  Geraint’s we’re-just-mates-having-a-chat face disappears and he tips his head. ‘Luke, I’m just asking you to say where you’ve been. I need to log it.’

  ‘I said fuck off.’

  Fat Jake says, ‘Uh-oh, Lukey, careful you don’t go mental,’ and Cameron takes the cue and says, ‘Unless you want to share a room with Mummy in the nuthouse,’ and turns to high-five Fat Jake. Geraint steps in front of them because Luke’s squaring up now, rage and shame blistering across his face.

  ‘Come on, then!’ Luke shouts. ‘If you want a beating, you fat cunt, come on!’

  Geraint blows out his cheeks. ‘OK. Formal warning. Come on, mate.’

  ‘I’m not your fucking mate.’ He knows exactly what’s going to happen now and he Doesn’t. Fucking. Care. He turns and runs.

  ‘Looks like you’re feeling pretty angry, Luke,’ Geraint calls behind him. It’s always it looks like you’re feeling and what I’m hearing is. No one ever says what the fuck they mean; it’s all in fake language that’s meant to make you feel like they give a shit. Luke powers up the stairs. He might be skinny and short but he can outrun any of the staff, maybe get the drawers against his bedroom door before Geraint’s even on the top landing. Anything to not have to say in front of all those pricks that he was late because he’d gone to that shop.

  The shop – the bag. The bag’s at the bottom of the stairs. If he stops running he’s going to get sanctioned, but if he doesn’t go back down, Geraint’s going to open it. Or Cameron will, or Fat fucking Jake. And he can’t let that happen. He can’t.

  Luke stops on the stairs and he’s eye level with the bottom of Paige’s door and there’s a light on in there. Music. Judging by the clattering of plates in the dining room he’s guessing he’s got five, ten minutes until it all kicks off with Paige, the nightly battle about getting her to eat. He turns around and Geraint’s standing on the bottom step. He’s got the bag, but he’s holding it in the hand the others can’t see, pressed against his leg.

  ‘Forgot something?’ he asks, nodding towards it but not holding it out.

  Luke goes down. Takes it. There’s no resistance. He wants to say thanks, he should say thanks, but Cameron and Fat Jake are still there. Geraint points to the office, weary like he just can’t be arsed with the sanction any more than Luke can. He’s one of the only staff who bothers recording them, which makes him a dick, but he doesn’t take your phone away and he never does restraints unless he’s got to. Geraint clicks the light on and Luke follows him in. Doesn’t even need to be told.

  Once the door’s shut behind them, Geraint says, ‘Remember to breathe.’

  Luke lets it out. He hadn’t noticed. He hardly ever does until he gets the silver sparks flicking around in his vision, telling him he’s about to pass out.

  By the time Geraint’s written the sanction up – Luke’s got to pick up all the manky crab apples from the grass outside – the food’s on the table. Luke runs upstairs to hide the bag and when he gets back to the dining room everyone else is eating. Everyone except Paige, who’s in her room, and Mel, who’s up on the landing, trying to coax her down. From what she’s saying, the manager, Mr Polzeath – Ollie, he wants them to call him, so they don’t – is coming that evening so everyone’s got to be fed and ready for his usual bullshit chat.

  Mel’s all right by Luke. She’s decent about the rules; as long as people play nice she’ll let the small stuff go, and she doesn’t shout. Or, she does sometimes, but not with Paige. Anyone shouts at Paige, she just shrinks, puts her arms round her head, and after that she’s pretty much gone. Withdrawing, she calls it.

  Sometimes with girls it’s hard to know who’s actually mental and who’s just acting it.

  Luke stabs at his pasta, thinking about chipping off little bits of the plate underneath, thinking of how sharp they’d be, and whether they’d cut your tongue up if you ate them, or if you’d be able to swallow them without chewing. And if you did that, whether they’d cut your stomach up, too. And if your stomach got cut up bad enough to go to hospital, whether they’d let your mum out to come and see you.

  Fat Jake says, ‘I swear to god, if you don’t stop doing that with your fork you’re getting shanked.’

  Luke jabs a bit more and the fork screams on the china. Fat Jake smacks his hand down on the table and the plates all jump.

  ‘Take it easy now, Jake,’ Geraint says in a flat voice.

  Paige stays in her room the whole time, and Mel comes down looking weary when everyone’s nearly finished. She says something into Geraint’s ear and he sighs, tells her to at least sit and eat hers then, while it’s still hot. Luke eats slowly, dragging it out so he’s last, so he can take the plates into the kitchen. When he looks up, Mel’s leaning back and pushing her placemat away. He gets up to stack the plates.

  Mel hands him hers and says, ‘Anyone seen Luke? There’s some lad here clearing up who looks just like him, but it can’t be.’ And she gives him a wink like he’s six years old and Luke misses his mum so much he could punch someone. Misses her like there’s a vacuum where his lungs are supposed to be.

  It’s way too cold in the kitchen. The massive extractor fan’s on, sucking out the sauce smell but taking the warmth with it. Paige hates that fan. She says the people that build these places, they don’t think kids are going to notice stuff like that, but she does. And extractor fans like that do not exist in normal houses. You’ve got something like that on the wall: you’re running an institution, not a home. He notices the fan every time now. Luke puts the plates on the side by the sink and out of habit more than anything he checks the knife drawer but it’s locked.

  Exactly like they do in normal homes. Cunts.

  The music from Paige’s room gets louder the second he opens the fridge and it makes him smile because it’s like she’s saying, Yeah, thanks, Luke. You’re lovely to me. There’s half a pack of celery left over from that manky stew the other day. Luke unzips his hoody and tucks the celery inside, then grabs one of the diet yogurts Fat Jake has to eat. Then he goes back through the dining room, fast, and up the stairs. He thinks of her chewing the celery he’s brought her. Smiling. Thanks, Luke.

  He goes to his room first to get the bag – he’d put it in his backpack under his bed. Pulling it out he notices one of the corners of white card has got crushed. He tries to pinch it to straighten it out but it just makes it worse, and then his finger goes through. Whole thing looks second-hand now. Fuck’s sake.

  He’s swung it against the wall before he’s even noticed he’
s got the ribbon handles in his hand.

  Sparks in front of his eyes again. He’s not breathing. Breathe, you fucking freak. How hard can it be?

  In the boys’ bathroom he puts cold water on his face and looks in the mirror. Rob says he blushed too when he was Luke’s age but Luke doesn’t remember it, reckons he’s just saying it to make him feel better. Luke tries to see his brother’s face in his own but it’s not there. It’s like they’re opposites. Rob got their dad’s dark eyes and clear skin and big square jaw. Luke got fuck-all.

  He dries his face, goes to her room. Time to do it, stop dicking around. He breathes out slowly, nods once to himself, and knocks.

  ‘It’s me,’ he says. ‘Luke.’

  She lets him in, closes the door behind him. She’s brushing her hair, wearing full make-up and that blue dress with the bit missing so you can see a big teardrop shape of skin above her belly. Tight and smooth like stretched rubber. She’s pulled the dress down a bit on the legs to cover the dressings on the cuts she did a few days ago. Three and a half weeks ago she was still fourteen. She looks about twenty-three.

  ‘I’m just off out,’ she tells him, but she doesn’t move.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’m only going round Leah’s.’ She puts down the brush, folds her arms. Her phone with the unicorn sticker is in her left hand, where it always is. He does not look at her tits.

  ‘All right,’ he says again, and then he remembers the bag. He lifts it towards her. He hasn’t even thought of what he’s going to say.

  ‘What’s this?’ When she meets his eye there’s a smile on her face but it’s the kind of smile you give a little kid who’s done you a drawing and you can’t tell what it’s supposed to be.

  ‘I bought it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She laughs and it’s actually like someone’s turned the lights on. ‘Yeah, I can see that. They don’t give you bags usually when you rob stuff. What I mean is, why did you buy it?’

  ‘It’s six months,’ he says, and then he wishes he hadn’t because the smile disappears. ‘I mean, since you got here. But I mean it like a good thing, Paige, I meant…’

  ‘Yeah. OK. I know.’ The dancing thing in her voice has gone. But she takes it, thanks him. She slits a nail across the little sticker holding the top edges together. She lifts the tissue paper out, and then the dress. It’s made of this thin, silvery-grey stuff and she holds it up high and waves it back and forward. Smiling at it, her head on the side.

  ‘It’s beautiful. Like a raincloud.’ And she turns and wafts it down onto her bed and stands there watching it settle. She doesn’t look at the label and she doesn’t put it on. ‘I love it, Lukey. But you really didn’t need to.’

  She takes his cheeks in her palms and squashes his face so his lips crumple in the middle and he jerks back, and the kiss she was going to put on his forehead stays on her beautiful lips. She makes a sad face for about half a second.

  Then she says, ‘Gotta go,’ and picks up a handbag. She puts her phone in it and shoves something else inside too. Shiny packages, foil-wrapped squares joined together in a line.

  ‘Paige,’ he says, but the rest of it dies in his mouth. He knows what they are but what the fuck. He’s sure she isn’t seeing anyone.

  A couple of weeks ago, at Leah’s place, they all got caned and did truth-or-dare. And they made him admit he was a virgin. On the way home, she told him it was OK.

  She said she was, as well. She promised it was true.

  ‘It’s nothing, forget it,’ she says now, covering the johnnies in her bag with a pair of gloves. When she stands up, she looks different. She’s wearing these earrings he hasn’t seen before, gold and weirdly grown-up, somehow, the shape of them. She sees him looking, touches one, and winks. But it’s not real. It’s the face he’s seen her putting on when she goes out, last month or two.

  And then she nudges him out, follows him, locks the bedroom door behind her. She goes down the stairs. While she’s getting the Converse on Luke remembers the celery and the yogurt but it’s too late now. Paige is out of the door and gone and she closes it so softly no one even notices except for him.

  From his bedroom window Luke watches her. Even though she’s too far away for him to see it, he thinks of the tiny wisps of hair that always get free at the edges of her neck, and the moles right in the middle of her back, on one of the bony bits of her spine. She’s not wearing a coat, even though it’s freezing out there. She’s so white anyway, and that tiny dress makes her look blue.

  Dead. His own voice says it in his head. She’ll look exactly like that when she’s dead.

  She walks to the end of the road, stops for about fifteen seconds, and then a car drives up. Big shiny thing, but he can’t tell the colour because of the streetlights. Dark, but it could be anything from red to black. She doesn’t stick her arm out, and he realises it must have been waiting for her. Waiting, but out of sight. Luke wipes the wet glass, trying to get a better look. He thinks of the binoculars in his drawer, but there isn’t time.

  Paige gets in. The red brake lights go out the moment her door closes, and then it indicates left for a second. The indicator’s cool, a moving line of LEDs like an arrow sweeping to the edge of the car.

  It heads up towards Fishponds. Leah’s is about three streets away in the other direction.

  Later, in his dream, Paige kisses him once on the chest. Then she bursts, and she’s just dust, and he wakes up with his heart shuddering like a pneumatic drill. Thick, crawling loneliness comes for him then, filling up his lungs, and even when he feels his way out into the corridor to crouch by Paige’s door and listen for the damp sound of her sleeping, he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe at all.

  3

  Now

  Ashworth’s hands are in his lap, his seatbelt still on even though they’ve stopped. Wren gave him the morning to get settled in to the bedsit, and picked him up mid-afternoon. Now, he’s staring out through the windscreen of the idling car, watching the rain. Or, more likely, watching the house, the one they’ve just arrived at after a stop-start hour on the road.

  148 Shakespeare Terrace. Portbury, halfway between Bristol and the sea. Leah Amberley’s house.

  Knock number one.

  There are roses outside the front room, but horticulture doesn’t appear to be an enthusiasm shared by the wider community. Everywhere else: swollen IKEA chipboard leaning against pebbledash, faded plastic slides and ride-ons for long-gone toddlers. There are a couple of dozen roads just like it behind them, deep into the sprawl of suburbia.

  Someone has wound fairy lights round the white poles that hold up the narrow porch over the front door. It isn’t even dark yet, but those little bulbs are already going on-off, on-off, illuminating nothing much but the grey. And if that isn’t a metaphor for a single girl squandering the best years of her life in a shithole, Wren doesn’t know what is.

  She clears her throat, and feels behind her seat for her bag. Her phone tells her she has three missed calls, and she recognises the number before the voicemail even connects – it’s the guy at HR who has been trying to get hold of her for the last week. She drops the volume so Ashworth can’t hear, and listens.

  Wren, hi. I’m not sure you’re getting these messages. Can you call back? There’s a few gaps in your file I need to chase. Just admin, nothing bad! It’s Gary, he says, and he starts reeling off the number. She follows the instructions to send it the same way as the preceding three messages – Press 2 to delete – then drops the phone back into the bag.

  ‘You ready?’

  Ashworth frowns for a moment. ‘Are there – has she got kids?’

  The expression on his face, he might as well be asking if there are alligators.

  ‘No.’

  The rain is coming down so heavy by now that everything is slick and glossy. The daylight is sagging into evening. A van corners towards them, headlights on, and just for a second the glare projects a weak silhouette of the wet windscreen onto Ashworth’s face. L
ike he’s crying from the top of his grade-one head to his chin.

  He looks out the window. ‘I don’t see why she’s even on the list.’

  ‘She was Paige’s best friend.’

  ‘Yeah but, so? I mean, Leah was my mate, too. It’s not like I robbed her, is it?’

  ‘Your mate? She come and visit you inside much, did she?’ They both know the answer to that: Wren’s seen the contact log. It wasn’t just Leah who’d failed to visit. No one had come. Not his brother, not even his mum.

  He sighs and she looks away because it is too intense, menacing, what he gives off. He’s only been out a matter of days, so maybe it’s just the HMP still lurching along in his veins. Sometimes it takes a while to clear.

  ‘I just – I don’t want to do this,’ he says. ‘With you there.’

  Wren grabs her bomber jacket off the back seat. ‘That’s the thing about getting caught doing stuff you wanted to get away with, I suppose, Rob. You have to do stuff you don’t want to do, to make up for it.’ The wipers do another one-two before she kills the engine. ‘You have to suffer,’ she tells him brightly. ‘You ready?’

  He goes for the handle. ‘All right. If I have to.’

  There is no fence or gate. They go straight up the path. He has as much spring in his step as a man going to the gallows.

  She gives him a nod. He knocks.

  Movement inside, and then the door opens. Leah is preceded by the biting smell of bleach, and is wearing yellow rubber gloves. She is in her nursery uniform, a navy polo shirt with a logo of two teddies chucking a ball. She has straightened, highlighted hair. Make-up she must have spent a good chunk of her shit salary on.

  She stares at Ashworth for a moment, and if Wren didn’t already have her signature on the appointment document inside her file she’d have thought that somehow this visit had caught her by surprise.