‘I am the Turner family representative,’ Frank repeats adamantly. He pulls out a chair and we sit down opposite them. The Lawtons look at each other anxiously and make little mouthing gestures and raised-eyebrow signals, but after a while they quieten down and it’s clear that the conversation about parents is over.
‘We bought some bottles of water,’ says Mrs Lawton, ‘but we can get some teas, coffees, whatever?’
‘Water is fine,’ says Frank. ‘Let’s get to the point, shall we? Izzy wants to apologize to Audrey, yes?’
‘Let’s put this in context,’ says Mr Lawton heavily. ‘We, like you, have gone through some pretty hellish months. We’ve asked ourselves Why? over and over. Izzy has asked herself Why? too. Haven’t you, darling?’ He looks gravely at Izzy. ‘How could such a thing happen? And, in a way, what did happen and who, in actual fact, was at fault?’
He presses a hand to Izzy’s, and I look at her properly for the first time. God, she looks different. She looks like an eleven-year-old, I suddenly realize. It’s kind of disturbing. Her hair is in a ponytail with a little-girl bobble and there’s the infantile ribbony T-shirt going on, and she’s looking up at her father with huge baby eyes. She’s wearing some kind of sickly strawberry lip gloss. I can smell it from here.
She hasn’t given me a single glance this whole time. And her parents haven’t made her. If I were them, that’s the first thing I would do. Make her look at me. Make her see me.
‘Izzy has been through a pretty tough journey.’ Mr Lawton continues on what is clearly a prepared speech. ‘As you know, she’s homeschooled for now, and she’s undergone a fairly rigorous programme of counselling.’
Snap, I think.
‘But she’s finding it hard to move on.’ Mr Lawton clutches Izzy’s hand, and she looks imploringly up at him. ‘Aren’t you, darling? She unfortunately suffers from clinical depression.’
He says it like it’s a trump card. What, are we supposed to applaud? Tell him how sorry we are – Wow, depression, that must be horrible?
‘So what?’ says Frank scathingly. ‘So’s Audrey.’ He addresses Izzy directly. ‘I know what you did to my sister. I’d be depressed if I were you too.’
Both Lawtons inhale sharply and Mr Lawton puts a hand to his head.
‘I was hoping for a more constructive approach to the meeting,’ he says. ‘Perhaps we could keep the insults to ourselves?’
‘That’s not an insult!’ says Frank. ‘It’s the truth! And I thought Izzy was going to apologize? Where’s the apology?’ He pokes Izzy’s arm and she withdraws it with a gasp.
‘Izzy has been working with her team,’ says Mr Lawton. ‘She’s written a piece which she would like to deliver to Audrey.’ He pats Izzy on the shoulder. ‘Izzy devised this in one of her poetry workshops.’
Poetry? Poetry?
I hear Frank snort and both Lawtons look at him with dislike.
‘This will be hard for Izzy,’ says Mrs Lawton coldly. ‘She is very fragile.’
‘As we all are,’ says Mr Lawton, nodding at me and making a face at his wife.
‘Yes, of course,’ says Mrs Lawton, but she doesn’t sound convinced. ‘So we ask you to listen to her piece in silence, without comment. Then we can move into the discussion phase of the meeting.’
There’s silence as Izzy unfurls a wad of A4 pages. She still hasn’t looked at me properly. Still.
‘You can do it, Izzy,’ whispers her mother. ‘Be brave.’ Her father pats her hand and I see Frank make a barf gesture.
‘“When the Darkness Came”,’ says Izzy in a trembling voice. ‘“By Isobel Lawton. It came on me, the darkness. I followed when I should not. I acted when I should not. And now I look back and I know that my life is a twisted knot . . .”’
OK, if they paid good money for this poetry workshop, they were done.
As I listen to the words, I’m waiting for some strong, visceral reaction. I’m waiting for some part of me to rise up and hate her or attack her or something. I’m waiting for the big moment; the confrontation. But it’s not coming. I can’t get traction. I can’t feel it.
Since the moment I stepped through the door, this hasn’t been what I thought it would be. I’m not the warrior I imagined. I’m hollow and vulnerable and kind of lesser. I’m not winning any battle, sitting here, silently clutching the table, unable to speak, just thinking my own rapid, restless thoughts.
But more than that – there isn’t even any battle to have, is there? The Lawtons aren’t interested in me. I could say what I like – they wouldn’t listen. They’re playing out their little story in which Izzy apologizes and she’s the hero and I’m the bit part. And I’m letting them do it. Why am I letting them do it?
I feel a sudden wave of revulsion as I survey Izzy’s bowed head.
She won’t look at me, will she? She can’t. Because I might pop the bubble.
I mean, I guess that’s one way to go. Slip back into being eleven years old, wear ponytails and get homeschooled and let your parents take over and tell you everything’s OK, you weren’t really a bullying monster, my sweetheart. It was the nasty people who didn’t understand you. But if you write a poem, everything will be OK.
Out of nowhere, Linus’s voice comes into my head: Why would you even give her the time of day?
Why would I? Why am I giving her the time of day? What am I doing here?
‘“ . . . but bad forces come from every direction, no affection, just affliction . . .”’
Izzy is still droning on in what seems to have become a tragically bad rap. She’s got another A4 page to go, I notice. It’s definitely time to leave.
I squeeze Frank’s hand and look at the door. He raises his eyebrows and I nod firmly. I even make a small, inarticulate sound.
‘Yes, we have to go now,’ says Frank, cutting across Izzy. ‘Thanks for the water.’
‘Go?’
The Lawtons look pole-axed.
‘But Izzy hasn’t finished reading.’
‘We haven’t had any discussion.’
‘We’ve only just begun the meeting!’
‘That’s right,’ says Frank cheerfully as we both get to our feet. ‘OK, Aud?’
‘You can’t leave before Izzy has even finished her piece!’ Mrs Lawton sounds quite shirty. ‘I’m sorry, what kind of behaviour is this?’
And then I finally find my voice. ‘You want to talk about behaviour?’ I say quietly.
It’s like a magic charm. Everyone else is silenced. Paralysed.
There’s an odd hush around the place – it feels like the whole of Starbucks might have picked up on our vibe, just for a second. Mr Lawton’s face has kind of crumpled. It’s as if reality has pushed its way through his soap bubble of denial, just for a second, and he’s been forced to see exactly who I am. I’m the one they did all those things to.
Yes, those things. The ones they did. And said. And wrote. Your daughter in her ponytail. That’s right.
I don’t look at Izzy. Why would I expend the energy that swivelling my eyeballs in her direction would require? Why would I expend even one microjoule of energy on Izzy?
And then we’re walking out, Frank and I, not looking back, not talking about it, not wasting a second more of our lives on that load of shitty, shitty crap.
And I should feel high now. Shouldn’t I? I mean, I think I won. Didn’t I?
Only now it’s all over I just feel kind of empty. Frank’s sole comment as we walked back was ‘What a bunch of weirdos.’ Then he told me he was heading back to school for tech club, and when I gave him a big hug and muttered, ‘Thanks, I don’t know how I can repay you,’ into his shoulder, he said, ‘OK, well, I get to choose both pizza toppings on Friday night. OK?’
And now it’s seven o’clock and I’m on my own. Mum and Dad are out at their salsa class. They have no idea. I mean, how weird is that? I’ve actually met up with Izzy and they don’t know.
I’ve texted Linus and told him about it. I’ve said I’m sorry I bl
ew up at him. I’ve said he was right, I should never have gone and I miss him and I want to see him so, so much. I want to go back to how we were. I want him to give me another crazy challenge. I want to forget I ever went to see Izzy.
I mean, I think we were both right. I was right because I didn’t relapse and there aren’t any pieces to pick up. And Linus was right because I shouldn’t have given her the time of day in the first place. So. And when he texts back, I’ll ask him round and maybe we’ll get back to that other conversation we were having in the park.
That was two hours ago and he still hasn’t texted back. I’ve checked my phone signal, like, a million times and it’s fine. Anyway. Maybe he’s busy or whatever.
Except by ten o’clock he still hasn’t texted back. And he always texts back. Always within the hour. He finds a way. He’s texted me from lessons, from his family supper, wherever. He doesn’t not text. But right now he’s not texting.
It’s eleven. He’s not texting.
It’s midnight. No text.
And now it’s one o’clock, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t sleep. I can’t even lie down. I officially ‘went to bed’ three hours ago but I haven’t touched the covers. I’m pacing around my room, trying to calm my whirling thoughts, but they’re like a hurricane.
I’ve wrecked everything with Linus. He’s never texting. It’s over. He was right, I was selfish. I should never have gone to that stupid meeting. Why did I do it? Why? I always do stupid things. I’m such a stupid, idiot failure, and now I’ve spoiled the only good thing I had in my life, and he hates me and there’s nothing I can do about it. The whole thing’s over. And it’s all my fault, my stupid, stupid fault . . .
My thoughts are speeding up and my pace is speeding up too, and I’m pulling at my arms, pulling at the flesh of my forearms, trying to . . . I don’t know. I don’t understand it. I glance in the mirror and flinch at my own wild stare. I can feel a weird sparking all over my body, like I’m more alive than I should be, like my body is overloaded with life force. Can you have too much life stuffed into one body? Because that’s what this feels like. And everything’s too fast. My heart, my thoughts, my feet, my clawing arms . . .
Maybe I should take something. The thought hits me like a very sensible person talking in my ear. Yes. Of course. I have things I could take. I have lots of things.
I rootle around in my box full of magic tricks, dropping bottles and packets on the floor in my haste. OK, a Clonazepam. Maybe two. Maybe three. I swallow them, and wait for everything to calm down. But my mind is still screaming, round and round like a motor race, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand myself. I have to escape . . .
When suddenly another brilliant idea hits me. I’ll go for a walk. I’ll burn off all this energy. The fresh air will do me a power of good. And I’ll come back and sleep it off and, like they say, things will be better in the morning.
MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT
INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY
The camera wobbles as someone stabilizes it on a high surface. As this person backs away we see it is Frank, in the sitting room. He stares into the camera with deeply worried eyes.
FRANK
Is this working? OK. Hello. I’m Frank Turner and this is my video diary. My sister Audrey is missing. It’s a nightmare. We woke up this morning and there she wasn’t. Mum and Dad are just . . . (He swallows.) We’ve looked everywhere, and we’ve phoned everyone. Mum and Dad called the police, like, that instant. And the police are great, they’re really calm. But . . .
He shuts his eyes briefly.
FRANK
I still don’t believe this is happening.
He’s silent a while, his eyes hollow.
FRANK
They blame me. Which is . . .
He exhales miserably.
FRANK
Anyway. We’re going out again in a minute, to look again. I dunno where – I mean, we’ve looked everywhere. All the little side alleys, maybe? But Mum said I should have some food first. Like anyone wants to eat.
He gives another heavy sigh.
FRANK
Anyway. I told them what we did yesterday. I had to. Audrey, if you’re watching this, I had to.
Long pause.
FRANK
Audrey, please come home and be watching this.
The doorbell rings and he jumps a mile.
FRANK
Wait a sec.
He runs out of the room. A few seconds elapse, then he returns, slack-shouldered, accompanied by Linus.
FRANK
(into camera)
It wasn’t her. It was Linus.
LINUS
(to Frank)
Sorry.
He looks awkwardly into the camera.
LINUS
Sorry.
Mum comes striding into the room, her face drawn, her eyes burning with purpose, her manner hyper.
MUM
Frank, we’re going through her things, and I need to know—
She sees Linus and stops dead, full of hostility.
MUM
You. What are you doing here?
Linus is shocked by her aggression.
LINUS
Me? I just – Frank told me about Audrey, so—
MUM
Do you know where she is?
LINUS
No! Of course not! I would have said!
He gulps nervously at Mum’s manner, but carries on.
Frank said you wanted to know who she’d been texting? Well, she sent me this text yesterday, but it only came through just now. I had no idea she’d texted.
He holds out his phone.
LINUS
I mean, I don’t know if it helps.
Mum scans the phone, getting agitated as she does so.
MUM
(to Linus)
So you knew about this meeting with the Lawtons too. Was it your idea?
LINUS
No!
MUM
But you’ve been telling her to ‘do crazy challenges’, apparently.
She taps the phone.
MUM
She says she wants you to give her another ‘crazy challenge’.
LINUS
(alarmed)
Not that kind of crazy challenge. Just talking to people in Starbucks and stuff.
Mum doesn’t seem to hear him.
MUM
Was this – leaving home in the middle of the night – was this one of your ‘crazy challenges’, Linus?
LINUS
No! How could you even—?
He appeals to Frank.
LINUS
Would I do that?
FRANK
Mum, you’re out of line.
Mum rounds on Linus.
MUM
All I know is, she was on an even keel till she met you. And now she’s missing.
LINUS
That is so unfair.
He’s having trouble holding it together.
So unfair. I have to go. Let me know if I can help.
As Linus leaves, Frank turns furiously on Mum.
FRANK
How could you blame Linus? Of all people. This house is so fucked up.
Mum erupts in a flood of sudden anguish.
MUM
She’s missing, Frank! Don’t you understand, she’s missing. I have to try everything, I have to consider everything, every possibility—
She breaks off as Dad appears, breathless, holding his mobile.
DAD
They’ve found her. In the park. Asleep. She was hidden away, behind a . . . We must have missed her . . .
He can barely form his words.
DAD
They’ve got her.
The weird thing is, I lost my sunglasses that night and I didn’t even notice until Dad suddenly said, ‘Audrey! You’re not wearing your dark glasses!’
And I wasn’t. My eyes were bare. After all those months. And it took Dad to point it out to me.
>
We were in the police waiting room at the time and the nice policewoman, Sinead, got the wrong end of the stick and thought we were complaining and that we’d lost a pair of dark glasses on the premises. It took a while for us to explain that I didn’t want them back.
And I don’t. I’m good the way I am. The world seems lighter, although I don’t know if that’s because of the dark glasses or because I’m back on my meds. For now. Dr Sarah gave me this whole great lecture about the dangers of coming off meds without supervision and how it can cause dizziness (check) and a racing heart (check) and loads of other symptoms, and I must promise never to do it again. Which I did.
The stuff she gave me kind of knocked me out so I’ve been sleeping a lot these last two days, but everyone’s come into my room to see me, like, all the time. To make sure I’m still here, I guess.
Dad has told me about the new song he’s writing, and Frank has shown me endless YouTube clips of knife skills (which he is getting very boring about) and Felix has told me he cut the hair of his friend Ben at school and Ben cried. This is apparently true, according to Dad, but Felix maintains that Ben cried ‘because he was happy’.
Mum’s been in to see me the most. She sat on my bed all afternoon and we watched Little Women, which is, like, the perfect movie to watch with your mum when you’re in bed, feeling a bit weird. (The old one with Elizabeth Taylor, in case you’re wondering.)
While we were watching, we decorated these handbags we’d made out of felt yesterday. This is Mum’s new thing: she buys little craft projects and we make them together. Neither of us is very good at it, but . . . you know. It’s nice. It’s relaxing. It’s not about anything. And Mum just sits on my bed, hanging out, not looking anxiously around the room, not trying to get clues to my thoughts. I don’t think she needs clues any more. She knows. Or at least, she knows enough.
It was while I was trying to glue an appliqué star onto the front of my bag that I said, ‘Mum, why don’t you go back to work?’
Mum kind of stiffened. She carefully looped a piece of ribbon into a bow and stapled it before looking up and saying, ‘Work?’
‘Yes, work. You haven’t been for ages. Not since . . .’ I trailed off.