I don’t let myself think about the dream of Kai and me ending up together. It was too painful to think about then and it’s even worse now. Plus I was never able to properly picture Kai loving me the way I wanted him to. My brain would never let me go there, probably because it knew there was zero chance of that dream becoming reality.
Wishful thinking doesn’t change anything. What happened to Sasha doesn’t change anything. Knowing the truth about Max and Louise doesn’t change anything.
I live in a world in which Kai doesn’t exist any more. I’m not willing to do that for much longer.
chapter fifty-seven
The rest of Saturday was not particularly pleasant. Mum wouldn’t leave me alone, asking questions and fretting about Sasha. Dad stayed out of the way, after hugging me and saying, ‘Thank God you’re OK.’ I couldn’t help wondering if that would be the last time I would get to hug him.
After a couple of hours of tea and sympathy that went exactly as I’d expected, I finally escaped to my room on the pretext of needing sleep. A nasty shock was awaiting me – a shock that wouldn’t have been a shock if I’d been thinking clearly.
Sasha’s things were everywhere. One of her boots was peeking out from under the bed. The top she’d been wearing when she came over was slung over the back of my chair, on top of my favourite hoodie. Her make-up bag was lying on its side, the contents spilling onto a purple folder on my desk.
I gathered everything up, trying not to think or feel. Put everything in her bag, put the bag by the door. Then lay curled up on my bed and closed my eyes. It was no good; I could smell the fire. My clothes, my body, were coated in the stench of smoke.
Even after a shower I could still smell it. That’s when I realized it was in my head.
I tried to sleep, but all I could think about was burning and blistering and screaming. I stopped trying after an hour or so, because what was the point? I could manage without sleep for another twenty-four hours and then it wouldn’t matter.
I needed to know if there was any news about Sasha. Mum was bound to ask, and it would be weird for me not to know. Lucas was the best bet, in spite of everything. The others were sure to ignore me. I rewrote the message seven times before I was happy with it: I know I’m the last person you want to talk to, but pls let me know how S is doing. Please. I won’t bother you again after this. I’m sorry. I didn’t add any Xs. It didn’t seem appropriate somehow.
I stared at my phone for God knows how long before I realized he wasn’t going to reply. When Mum asked at dinner I said Sasha was stable and that the doctors were pleased with her progress so far. I had no idea if this was anywhere close to convincing, but Mum nodded and patted my hand. She said, ‘There but for the grace of God …’ which was an odd thing for someone who doesn’t believe in God to say.
It was the last supper. I noticed every detail. Dad’s foot tapping out an annoying rhythm on the lino. Mum cutting up all her food before she started eating; Noah and I used to laugh at her for that. I’d say, ‘OCD much?’ and he would sing, ‘OCD! OCD!’ over and over again even though he had no idea what it meant.
Noah ate his lasagne and barely said a word. I desperately wanted him to be his usual motormouth self, as if I could store up the memories of the nonsense he spouted and take them with me to the grave. Mum and Dad both tried their best to engage him, but he was having none of it. The three of us exchanged glances before I spoke up. ‘So what do you say I kick your skinny butt on the X-box after dinner? Game of your choice, best of three. Loser has to …’ I was going to say ‘do the winner’s chores for a whole week’ but the words dried up in my mouth. Noah would be doing all the chores from now on. Or maybe none of the chores, because Mum and Dad would go easy on him because his sister was dead. I didn’t need to finish the sentence because Noah said he didn’t feel like it. Mum chipped in to ask him if he was sure. She even said she’d make him an ice-cream float, which was his absolute favourite. Noah just shrugged and said it was too cold for ice-cream floats.
As soon as he finished eating, Noah went up to his room. Mum followed him a couple of minutes later. Dad and I watched a David Attenborough documentary that he’d recorded during the week, and it was nearly finished by the time Mum trudged down the stairs. Noah had been crying. He was upset about Sasha. He was worried about something happening to me. He wanted to know why bad things kept happening to people he knows.
If hell exists, I will be going there.
On Sunday morning it’s the same routine as always. I seem to be the only one who remembers what day it is. One whole year.
Dad goes out to get the papers (stopping off for an espresso on the way home). Mum’s rushing around trying to find Noah’s swimming goggles, while he sits at the table rolling up his towel around his trunks. I choke down some Cheerios while Noah watches me closely. ‘What are you looking at, shrimp?’ He sticks his tongue out at me and I laugh. It’s one of our little rituals.
The only change in the routine is that I hug Noah before he leaves. Mum doesn’t notice; she’s halfway to the car already. Normally Noah would wriggle out of my grasp, but today he hugs me back. I tell him I love him and he tells me he loves me. It’s the perfect goodbye – so perfect it makes me wonder if on some level he knows. That’s not possible, but I can’t shake the thought as I get on the bus.
I obsessively check my phone for the duration of the journey. No messages from Lucas, or anyone else for that matter. Just before my stop I switch off the phone and tuck it down between the seat and the window.
I wander through the woods to kill time. I sit on a rock so cold it numbs my bum in a matter of minutes. The last envelope is in my hands but I’m scared to open it.
He died one year ago today. I have lived on this planet for 365 days without him.
366 days would be one too many.
chapter fifty-eight
I make my way onto the bridge at 10.13. I don’t know the exact time Kai jumped, but this has to be close enough. To deter any Melissa-like do-gooders I have Dad’s old camera slung round my neck. It’s bloody massive – looks like it’d be at home among the paparazzi or something. You can’t miss it; the idea being that anyone driving past will clock it and decide that I’m not about to dive head first off the railings.
I can’t put my finger on the moment I decided to do it here, do it this way, rather than with pills. I never thought I’d have the guts, but I feel surprisingly calm about it. It feels right. If Kai can do it, I can too. The local newspaper will love it.
I put my bag on the pavement and lean over the railing. The rocks aren’t visible, but I know they’re lurking beneath the surface ready to smash my skull.
It’s time to open Kai’s last letter. I want his words to be the only words in my head right now. I want to forget about the world and hear his voice for the last time.
The envelope looks the same as all the others. The word ‘October’ is printed in Kai’s handwriting. I bring it to my lips and kiss it.
Something stops me every time I go to open it. Because as soon as I open it I’ll have to read it and once I’ve read it there will be nothing else for me to do. I’m not chickening out – there’s no way I’m chickening out. I just need to make sure I’m ready.
Fuck it. This is getting silly now. I shake my head at my ridiculousness and tear into the envelope with my thumb. A single, precious sheet of paper inside.
A lorry speeds past me and a blast of air blows the paper out of my hands and up into the air. I lunge forward to grab it and I can feel my centre of gravity shift. My whole upper body lurches over the railing and I’m reaching for the sheet of paper, my arm stretched painfully, hand clawing at the air. Only one foot on the pavement now, but if I can just reach that little bit further I’ll be able to …
I start to fall and there’s a moment – and I’m not even sure this is possible – when I know I can reach the letter. I can reach it and keep it safe in my hand as I fall. If I can’t read his words, I can at least hold the
m in my hand as I die. I can just close my eyes and let myself fall into oblivion. Maybe I’ll hit the exact same rocks and my blood will mingle with his and maybe there’s some kind of life after death and he’s waiting for me there with his hand outstretched just like mine.
But …
I don’t want to die.
I try to twist my body backwards and pain shoots up my neck.
It’s too late.
I chose life too late.
chapter fifty-nine
23 Oct, 09:53
* * *
Hey. S doing OK. I spoke to her mum this morning. She’s talking – she wants to see you. You can come down with me tomorrow. If you want to. I’ve been thinking … We should talk. L.
* * *
My dearest Jem,
So here we are at the end of our journey together. It’s hard to imagine you a year older (wiser?), holding this letter in your hands and reading these words. It gives me hope. It comforts me to think of you living your life and learning to be happy and doing all the things I can’t because I’m too scared. You always were the brave one, you know.
I trust you’ll forgive me if I’m brief in this final missive? Better brief than maudlin, I think.
In no particular order, here are my top five hopes and dreams for you, my dear best friend Jemima Halliday:
1. I hope you finally get to beat someone other than me at table tennis.
2. I hope you go backpacking in India. Yes, I know full well you’ve never expressed the slightest interest in backpacking in the Lake District let alone India, but it’s something I can picture you doing - and loving. Call it a hunch.
3. I want you to dance and sing and laugh whenever you get the chance and never, ever be self-conscious about it.
4. (THIS IS THE REALLY, REALLY IMPORTANT ONE... JUST IN CASE YOU’RE SKIM READING BY NOW). I want you to be happy. When happiness comes knocking on your door (and knock on your door it most certainly will), you fling that door open and welcome it with open arms. I’m half tempted to ORDER you to be happy, but I’ve done quite enough of the telling-you-what-to-do shtick don’t you think?
5. a) If it helps with number 4, I want you to forget all about me. Or if that’s not possible, just wrap up the memory of me in a silk cloth and store it somewhere deep inside your heart for safe keeping. You can bring it out every once in a while, as and when you need to. I’ll always be there.
5. b) Yes, I’m aware this is cheating. But I hope that one day you and Louise will be friends, or at the very least two people who don’t hate each other. She’s not a bad person, you know. She made a mistake, but so did I. Maybe we’re even. Maybe it’s a strange quirk of human nature that we can’t help hurting the ones we love the most. But when you love someone that much, you can usually find it in your heart to forgive. It’s surprisingly easy to do. I could go on and on and on forever and it would never be enough. Words are never enough, when it comes down to it.
I love you, pickle. You are going to do great things in this life – enough great things for both of us.
Your best friend, always,
Kai
xxx
acknowledgements
First of all, I’d like to thank YOU, the lovely reader for picking up this book. I’m ever so grateful.
mahoosive thanks to:
Victoria Birkett, Nancy Miles and Caroline Hill-Trevor.
Sarah Lilly, Alice Hill, Niamh Mulvey, Talya Baker and all at Quercus.
The UKYA blogging community – a knowledgeable, passionate, lovely bunch if ever there was one. A special *muppet flail* must go to Laura Heath for being ace.
Sarah Stewart, Lara Williamson, Conrad Mason, Nova Ren Suma, Karen Mahoney, Louie Stowell, Keris Stainton, Luisa Plaja, Susie Day, Kay Woodward, Tamsyn Murray, Sophia Bennett, James Dawson and Zoë Marriott. Fabulous writerly folk, each and every one.
Nina Douglas, for letting me steal her name even though the character description didn’t much extend beyond the word ‘vapid’.
My cat, Jem, for letting me steal her name for my main character. (Not to mention my other cat Scout, for not getting jealous.)
Cate James, for handwriting Kai’s words so perfectly. And for being the best Cava buddy in all the land.
Fraser Allan, guaranteed to bring high-level bants whenever called upon. (WARNING: MAY ALSO BRING MALARIA.)
Lauren James, bestest critique buddy and general Yoda-like figure (albeit significantly less green and wrinkly).
Robert Clarke, for too many things to mention.
Finally, there have been a couple of new additions to the Clarke household since I started writing Undone. I’d like to extend some extra-special big fat thank-you hugs to Caro and Griffpup for:
1. Providing EPIC levels of distraction against which I had to battle to get the book finished. I always did enjoy a challenge. *coughs*
2. Providing EPIC levels of awesome, making me beam on a regular basis and just being too adorable for words.
Cat Clarke, Undone
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