In The Dark Read online

  ‘Hiya, love,’ Liv calls from the kitchen as Seb opens the front door. ‘Good day at school?’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, slipping off his shoes and stacking them on the rack. He hangs his rucksack on the hook and goes into the kitchen.

  ‘Curry tonight,’ she says, stirring a large saucepan with a wooden spoon. ‘I managed to get some gluten-free naans the other day. Get them out the cupboard for me, will you?’

  Seb opens the cupboard and rummages around on the top shelf. ‘We’ll need to get you a step,’ he jokes, placing the pack of naan bread on the counter.

  ‘None of your cheek, young man. Respect your elders.’ Closing the oven door, she turns to face him. ‘Good day?’ she asks again.

  Seb shrugs. ‘All right. Got a merit in biology today.’

  ‘Well done, love,’ she says, her eyes crinkling as she smiles. ‘It’s a big year for you.’

  Liv has been going on about his big year ever since the end of his last big year. ‘Every year is important,’ she says whenever he rolls his eyes at her. ‘Your schooldays will set you up for life.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, leaning against the counter. ‘Exams.’

  ‘That’s right. Only two months to go.’

  He glances at the calendar on the wall, which has been showing the month of May since last September, with all of Seb’s exams written out in his nan’s neat handwriting. He knows she left school ‘without qualifications’, as she puts it, and that she’d hoped her daughter, Seb’s mum, would have gone to university.

  ‘But it wasn’t meant to be.’ She sighs whenever she talks about his mother. ‘And she gave me you, the most precious gift of all.’

  Seb isn’t sure if he’s a precious gift. He thinks of the photo on his phone, and feels his skin prickle with shame. What would Liv say if she knew? He cannot tell her, cannot bear to see the look on her face if she looked at the photo. She has always liked her, called her a ‘lovely young lady’. Would her opinion change now? Would she blame Seb?

  Something is telling him to keep quiet, to cross his fingers and hope it all blows over. But, somehow, he knows it won’t. Somehow, he knows this is just the beginning.

  4

  Caitlyn

  I am sitting at my daughter’s bedside, watching her breathe deep and slow. She has finally stopped throwing up after the doctors gave her something to act against the amitriptyline, and her wrists are wrapped in pure white bandages. She is sleeping, her dark lashes fluttering gently as she breathes in and out. She is alive.

  ‘She’s just exhausted, poor lamb,’ the nurse told me when she showed me into the cubicle. ‘The doctor gave her something to make her bring it all up. We’ll let her rest for a while.’

  It is almost eight o’clock now. My hands are clasped on the bed in front of me, my head bowed as I whisper my silent prayers. They are not proper prayers, I suppose, not to an omniscient deity I doubt exists, but rather a mantra, a wish that I could stop the demons from haunting my daughter, that I could tear the bullies apart with my bare hands.

  Isabelle stirs and I lift my head, my eyes searching her face. Her eyes flicker and then they are open, staring straight at me.

  ‘Isabelle,’ I whisper, reaching for her hand, feeling the rough bandage beneath my fingers. ‘Isabelle, it’s me. Mum.’ I don’t know why I feel the need to clarify who I am; it is something I do all the time, as if each time I am reasserting my place in the world. ‘I know, your name came up on the screen,’ she would say whenever I called her with my usual, ‘Hi darling, it’s me, Mum.’ I am Mum. But what does Mum mean?

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, wrenching myself out of my cyclic thoughts. ‘Shall I get the doctor?’

  She shakes her head, swallows. Water, I think. She must be thirsty. I reach out for the tumbler on the side, holding the straw to her lips while still clutching her wrist with my other hand. The memory of how I found her flickers through my mind and I feel myself start to withdraw, my fingers tingling as I trace where the wound is. Where the new scar will be.

  ‘Slowly,’ I tell her, watching her throat move as she swallows the water. ‘Little sips.’ She drinks until it is gone, the straw making a loud noise against the bottom of the empty cup. I put it aside. ‘How are you, Isabelle?’ This is the only question I can ask. The only question I want to ask. It’s too early for What happened? or Why did you do it? I just need to make sure my daughter is okay.

  She turns her head, her eyes fixed on the blue curtain surrounding the cubicle. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn to look at me again, even as I rise from the chair, my back stiff. ‘I’ll get the doctor,’ I say, patting her arm before slipping through the curtain.

  A nurse follows me back in, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun that would give me a migraine. Her smile is bright as she approaches the bed.

  ‘Hello, petal,’ she says warmly. ‘How are you?’

  Isabelle doesn’t respond. I glance at the nurse, panic flashing through me. ‘Is she… I mean, could–’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, placing a hand on my shoulder and lowering her voice. ‘She just needs to rest for a while, don’t you, petal?’ She raises her voice again at the end, once more addressing Isabelle, who stares blankly at a spot behind the nurse, her eyes dull. ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ the nurse says to me. ‘While we wait for the doctor.’

  The tea is lukewarm and the exact opposite to nice. I clasp the plastic cup between my fingers, trying to draw on its warmth as I sit in silence beside my daughter. Her eyes are closed again, but she isn’t sleeping. This is another thing I know about my daughter, how to tell when she is pretending to be asleep. She and Alicia used to do it as children, leaping out of bed and running into one another’s bedrooms as soon as I’d gone downstairs, then scurrying back when they heard my footsteps. I remember listening to their giggles, their whispers filling the air as I paused on the stairs.

  The memory makes my eyes burn, and I close them for a moment, forcing the tears away. I cannot afford to think about the past, about when everything was so much easier. Before this chapter of Isabelle’s life began. But oh, how I wish I could go back. If I could change one thing, just one thing that would change the future, that would stop her from hurting herself. But I could never make myself go far enough, to that time I have buried deep inside me, the lid firmly shut. That was the beginning of it all, and it was my fault. It is all my fault.

  A noise from beyond the curtain startles me, and my eyes flick open to find Isabelle staring at me. She averts her gaze, and I turn to see a woman standing there, a clipboard in her hands. ‘Mrs Bennett?’ she says, looking at me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, standing to offer my hand instead of correcting her on the surname. She shakes it with a slightly bemused smile, and I curse myself for being so formal. ‘Caitlyn, please.’

  The woman nods. ‘I’m Kira, a nurse from the Mental Health Liaison Team. Is it all right if we have a chat with Isabelle?’

  I turn back to look at my daughter, whose eyes are suddenly wide and fearful. A memory comes to me then, the first time Isabelle tried to take her own life. Please don’t call them, Mum. I don’t want to be locked up. Don’t let them lock me up. I watch Kira as she steps into the cubicle, perching on a chair on the other side of the bed. She looks like a small bird, her fingers long and delicate. This woman cannot lock my daughter up, can she?

  ‘We just want to assess your needs, Isabelle,’ Kira says. I note the use of we, as if she alone is not responsible for what may happen next. ‘I can see from your record that this isn’t the first time you’ve been in here.’

  I blink, taken aback. Am I imagining her confrontational tone? Isabelle doesn’t speak, and when the silence becomes uncomfortable I answer for her. ‘This is the second time,’ I say shortly. ‘Isabelle is… She’s having a bit of a hard time.’

  Kira doesn’t look at me. ‘Can you tell me about it, Isabelle?’

  Isabelle closes her eyes in response.

  ‘There’s been a b
it of bullying,’ I say, lowering my voice as if my daughter wouldn’t be able to hear me. ‘Usual teenage stuff.’

  Now Kira’s eyes shift to me. ‘I wouldn’t call this usual, Mrs Bennett. We need to think very carefully about what your daughter needs, don’t you?’ She turns back to Isabelle, tapping her pen against her notepad as her questions go unanswered.

  When Kira finally gets up to leave, I stand too, reaching out as if to grab her arm. ‘Please,’ I say, glancing back at my daughter, who is staring up at the ceiling. ‘She’ll be fine, really. It’s going to be dealt with.’

  Kira stares at me for a moment, and I can almost feel the judgement coming off her in waves. ‘What is going to be dealt with?’

  Another glance at Isabelle; she has closed her eyes now, but I know she still isn’t asleep, so I step outside of the cubicle, closing the curtain behind us as if it will muffle our words. ‘The reason she… She’s being bullied. At school. But I’m going to speak to the school, enough is enough.’

  Kira arches one eyebrow. ‘Has Isabelle told you this? About the bullying?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘And how long has it been going on?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, swallowing. ‘A while. Too long, really. I–’

  ‘And do you know what caused the escalation?’

  ‘E-escalation?’ I stumble over the word.

  She sighs. ‘The attempt. Did something in particular trigger it? I believe last time…’ She checks her notes. ‘Last time there was an incident at a sleepover, yes?’

  I nod, remembering. ‘Yes, a misunderstanding, but teenagers can be cruel, can’t they?’ I try to smile, but even I know it is less than convincing. I don’t really know why I’m trying to brush this off. My daughter, my beautiful, clever, wonderful daughter, has tried to kill herself. Again. But I know that Isabelle’s words – don’t let them lock me up – are the driving force behind my pretence. I cannot let them take her from me.

  I take a deep breath, trying to compose my erratic thoughts. ‘She was having counselling until about three months ago, when she said things were improving. And they did seem to be. She was going out more, had friends over, was engaging with the family. And she has a boyfriend, a lovely boy she’s known since primary school. So I really don’t know. I suppose something must have happened, but I am her mother, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’

  5

  Izzy

  She listens to the sounds around her; the heavy breathing of another patient beyond the curtain, the gentle whoosh of a fire door opening and closing, the squeak of a nurse’s shoes on the linoleum. These noises are different to what she is used to at night, the surroundings unfamiliar, and she lies awake, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about why she is here.

  Her mother has gone, though Izzy can still feel the imprint of her lips on her cheek, the faint scent of her perfume. She tries not to think about the look in her mum’s eyes, the worry etched onto her face. I caused that. It’s all my fault.

  She thinks of Seb, wonders whether he is lying awake too, staring at the messages she refuses to open. She is so full of her own emotions, a tangled web that has created a knot in her stomach, a hard, heavy lump that weighs her down, that she doesn’t have space for Seb and his feelings. She knows she has made a huge mistake, one she doesn’t think she can ever come back from, and she fears what will come next.

  Izzy closes her eyes, tries to focus on her breathing. She doesn’t want to remember the way she had stood in front of the mirror before taking the photo, pinching at the flesh on her hips, turning this way and that, trying to find the most flattering angle. She doesn’t want to remember how she had undone her bra and stood looking at herself, wondering if one breast was bigger than the other, if her nipples were normal. Were they too dark? She had seen her sister’s boobs before, and yet she had never really taken note of them. Should she have? Or would that have been weird? Instead she looked at the page-three models, the topless women on Twitter, flicking through photos in incognito mode on her phone, comparing herself, always comparing herself. Never good enough.

  She should never have sent that photo. She’d known it even as she took it, her thumb hesitating over the message before hitting send and throwing her phone on the bed, knowing, knowing, that she was making a mistake. She’d washed her hair, fluffing out the curls so they sat nicely for once. She’d put on make-up, filling in her brows and coating her lashes with mascara, her lips painted a cherry red. She looked again in the mirror, wondered if she would fit in now, if she would be good enough. Now, she wishes she had faded into the background like she usually does.

  Her phone screen lights up from its place on the hard chair beside the bed, too bright for the small dark room. Is it a room without a door? It feels more like an enclosure, a place to keep her while they decide what to do with her. Could they lock her up for this? She is no danger to others, and she isn’t sure if she truly wants to die. She just wants it all to stop.

  A wave of exhaustion passes over her and she sighs, squeezing her eyes tight. She wants to sleep. She wants to sleep and dream and wake up a different person, someone new and without the thoughts and memories that plague her. The fears that threaten to drag her down, tendrils reaching up to grab her ankle like icy fingers in the dark.

  Her phone lights up again, bright even with her eyes closed, and she opens them, reaching out and picking up the phone. She presses her thumb against the scanner and squints against the glare of the screen. Eight messages from Seb, all unread. Three from Alicia, one a meme that Izzy would probably find funny under normal circumstances. One from her mum, telling her to rest and that she’ll be back in the morning. And another which makes her stomach lurch, her breath quickening as she reads the words.

  I’m so sorry, Izzy.

  6

  Liv

  I’m at work, having my afternoon cigarette break round the back when my phone rings. Davenport School flashes up on the screen and I frown.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, is that Ms Taylor?’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  ‘Ms Taylor, it’s Mrs Harris from Davenport. The headteacher’s secretary.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘Could you come down to the school please? There’s something we need to discuss.’

  ‘Is it about Seb? Is he all right?’

  A pause. ‘You’d better come down, Ms Taylor. As soon as possible.’

  Sean, my manager, makes a face when I tell him I have to leave. He is twenty-four and never fails to sneer at people, women in particular, who have to balance childcare with working. I suppose his parents expected more from their son than managing a petrol station, and he is taking his frustrations out on the rest of us, but today I don’t have time to worry about it. I grab my bag and leave, walking as fast as I can towards the school. I only learned to drive when Paige moved into Brad’s flat a year into their relationship. His flat was a few towns away and a long walk from the train station, so I finally learned to drive and bought an old banger out of the newspaper which is, miraculously, still going. These days I don’t often need to use the car, but I suddenly feel a desperation to get to the school as quickly as possible and curse myself for leaving the car at home. The walk will take at least twenty-five minutes, and I’m sweating by the time I reach the first set of traffic lights. I tap my foot as I wait for the lights to change, tutting as a cyclist shoots through the red light as I’m crossing. It’s almost one straight road to the school, along the dual carriageway, past the Ford garage and what will be the new Aldi. I turn down the road and begin to puff my way up the hill, swearing under my breath and promising to give up smoking, as I always do whenever I make this journey on foot.

  When I arrive in reception, I feel hot and unkempt, and pause to smooth down my hair before approaching the receptionist. ‘I’m Liv, erm, Olivia Taylor,’ I say, trying to smile through my anxiety. ‘Seb Taylor’s grandmother. I was asked to come in?’

&
nbsp; The receptionist is already tapping away at her keyboard, her long acrylic nails making a racket against the keys. I’m wondering how she does anything with those talons when she looks up at me. ‘Please go straight through,’ she says, indicating a door behind me. Her expression is neutral, but I feel a flash of fear as I turn towards the door and knock.

  A woman opens it, her short hair neatly coiffed, her lips coated in a pale-pink lipstick. ‘Ms Taylor,’ she says, and I notice she has lipstick on her teeth. ‘I’m Mrs Harris, we spoke on the phone. Come in.’

  I step inside and find myself in a small corridor, with a desk at one end and a door marked STAFF ONLY at the other. Another door is set in the middle, with MR LOACH, HEADTEACHER emblazoned across the front. I suddenly feel as if I am the one in trouble, as if I have gone back thirty-odd years. Buck up, I tell myself as she knocks on the door. You’re an adult now.

  A voice calls out and Mrs Harris opens the door to reveal a man who can’t be older than twenty-eight, thirty at a push. He rises from his chair as I enter, his hand held out for me to shake.

  ‘Please, take a seat, Mrs Taylor.’

  I don’t correct him. I haven’t been Mrs since my husband died. ‘Is Seb okay?’ I ask, sitting on the uncomfortable seat and placing my bag on my lap. ‘Where is he? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘Tea?’ Mrs Harris asks from her place in the doorway. ‘Coffee? Water?’

  I glance at her and shake my head. ‘No, thank you.’ I see Mr Loach give her a nod and she leaves, shutting the door behind her. I swallow, suddenly wishing I’d taken her up on her offer. My throat is dry, my tongue too large for my mouth. My heart pounds as I wait for Mr Loach to speak.