Kiss Her Goodbye: The most addictive thriller you'll read this year Page 24

  ‘Mum went away. Things got odd with Mike.’

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘Yeah, between us.’

  ‘You didn’t? Not you and him? That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Is that what you think about me? That I’m disgusting?’

  She lets out a long deep breath and looks me up and down. ‘No, course not. But what am I supposed to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘Look, I’ll probably see you at lunch.’

  ‘Right.’

  She stands in the doorway as though she’s going to speak, but she doesn’t even turn around. I walk away and leave her there hoping that she’ll follow, but she doesn’t.

  I sit on the wall behind the college field and listen to the traffic as a glue bag blows past in the wind and sticks to the bricks. Everyone knows that they come here to do it, but it’s ignored like everything else that they pretend not to see. I don’t need that stuff to feel numb; the world is already a blurred mess and there’s only one thing that will make me feel good now.

  The lone seagull is still on the far edge of the field. It picks food up off the ground and stares back at me with cold black eyes as though it knows everything about me.

  *

  When I get to the canteen to queue up, Maxine hits me on the back of the leg with her jelly bean bag and smirks when I turn around.

  ‘Your dad’s Danny Reynolds, isn’t he?’ She pouts.

  I hate hearing his name on her lips and I don’t answer. Her blusher is in two thick lines up her cheeks and it looks ridiculous. She’s a joke.

  ‘I saw you both at the pictures. Is your mum that stupid? I thought he ran off with someone half his age.’ She purses her lips together to stop the smile.

  I stare at her and don’t reply.

  She turns to Beth and half whispers so that I can still hear. ‘My aunt said…’ she licks her lips ‘…he tried it on with her too, the dirty bastard.’

  ‘Shut it,’ I reply.

  She grabs an apple and walks off to the till with Beth following behind. I wish I had Mike’s penknife with me. Laughing about Dad is the worst thing she could do. She shouldn’t mess with me. The black feelings move through me as fast as water and I turn to face the sandwiches so that I don’t have to see her. I hate her, but most of all I hate myself. I look towards the window and think of the lone seagull on the field outside.

  I go and sit next to Leila as she eats her stew, but I don’t think she wants me there either. She hardly looks up as I sit down. I wonder how she’d feel if it were her dad they were all laughing about, but that would never happen: hers plays rugby on a Sunday, drives an estate car and listens to Dire Straits. He’ll get a new job soon no matter what she says. Her family is painfully boring. We both sit in silence with the drone of the fans and I wish I could fix our friendship with words, but I never know what to say when it matters. There are so many people around and yet I’ve never felt more alone. Leila spears a wet piece of meat with her fork and pulls away the fat.

  ‘Don’t listen to Maxine. You know what she’s like.’

  I shut my eyes for a second. ‘I can’t stand her.’

  ‘What did happen with you and Mike, then?’ Leila asks as she eats.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Leila pauses and puts her fork down. ‘You should go to the police if he’s done something. I mean, he doesn’t sound right to me. What if your mum was right about him?’

  Her hair’s up in a quiff to show off the new piercings on her ears. Even she doesn’t understand the way I feel, but at least she’s trying for once.

  ‘What’s the point in telling anyone anything?’ I ask. ‘Nobody believes me anyway. He does whatever he wants.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mum.’

  ‘What for? She hates me.’

  She flicks the tab of a can of lemonade. The metal twangs.

  ‘She doesn’t hate you. I wish you’d just talk to me.’ She sighs. ‘If you don’t tell me, then how can I help?’

  It feels as if she does hate me sometimes, but I can’t be bothered to argue.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.’

  Leila opens the can. The bubbles make a satisfying fizz and I look over to where Maxine’s sitting. She glances over and I wonder if she ever thinks about Kirsten, but I bet she doesn’t. Maxine is the type to only think about herself, and the way I feel about her now I could push her under the water until she never came back up again. The feelings inside me hurt and I just want them to stop. I’m never going to be the person I’d like to be.

  ‘Kirsten used to come to my house,’ I overhear her saying. ‘We loved listening to music together.’

  None of them question it, even though it isn’t true. I wonder if any of them have ever been inside that red-and-white-striped bedroom. I doubt it. Maxine just wants to get on the television and soon they’ll forget where the truth ends and the lies begin. Kirsten’s life will be made up of false memories from an invented past. Seeing Maxine on one side of the room and Leila in front of me, I grit my teeth. They don’t know anything. A bead of condensation drips down the can that has just left Leila’s lips and I watch it fall onto the table.

  ‘I’m sorry about before. Let’s not argue, OK?’ she says.

  I’m about to tell her that we’ll always be friends when Stefan puts his tray down on the table with a slam.

  ‘All right?’

  He kisses the side of Leila’s face and hardly looks at me. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asks, as he sits down anyway.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ I tell him.

  He raises an eyebrow at Leila. I haven’t been to meet him at the bench by the river for a while and he hasn’t been round to the house either, but I don’t care. He’s of no interest to me any more. What we had is over. Leila fiddles with her drink without taking her eyes off him. The stupid bastard doesn’t know how lucky he is.

  I squeeze the sachet of ketchup onto my burger and try not to look as if I care. I’m envious of the rubbish that fills their heads as I listen to their conversation, because all I think about these days is Kirsten. I notice the Meat Is Murder badge on her lapel and glance at the beef stew in front of her. If only I could have gone with Dad and left it all behind, but I’m stuck here now and I can’t change it. There’s no escape.

  ‘I got those Taste of Honey tickets,’ Stefan says as he puts his hand on top of Leila’s, and her face lights up as I haven’t seen for months. I imagine his look of surprise if I stuck my fork straight through their hands, but I don’t. I just stare at them while she looks into his eyes as if he’s perfect.

  He glances over and I know that he’d rather I weren’t here, but I’m not moving. Stefan thinks he’s something that he isn’t. There are plenty of boys that are better than him. He just happened to live across the road. He was convenient, like the cheap sandwiches from the corner shop that I get on the way to college sometimes, and I don’t care what he does.

  I look out at the field through the double doors. The river is calling me and I can’t resist it for much longer. I want to be on my bench by the weir with the rush of water in my ears. Nothing is ever going to be the way that it used to be. I’ve tried so hard to be like them, but I’m not. I’m not like any of them.

  ‘Just a loser like her dad,’ Maxine says as she walks past the table. As she struts over to the other side of the room I press the cut on my arm until it stings. None of them realise how strong I can be when I need to. Maxine won’t hurt me as she hurt Kirsten.

  As she walks away I see muddy footsteps all over the floor. The door to the kitchen is shut and the footprints are all around it. It makes me cold, because I know who’s here. I hear Maxine’s laughter from behind me, but I can’t take my eyes off the floor. I don’t even notice when Leila and Stefan get up to leave. When I look up, the two plastic chairs in front of me are empty and they’re nowhere to be seen.

  I make my way to the common room to see if the television people are still there. I wa
nt to see what they’ve found out and as I walk in, a man stands up from behind the desk. He puts some papers into a folder and waves me over.

  ‘Hi there.’ He smiles.

  He’s got the same white teeth and false smile as Alison Andrews.

  ‘Hi. Did you find out lots of stuff?’

  He smiles and puts his hands on the table.

  ‘Plenty. Too much.’ He points to the folder. I look at it and wish I could read everything they’ve said about Kirsten.

  ‘I’ll watch your papers if you want to get some lunch,’ I tell him, but he shakes his head.

  ‘No time for lunch. Nice hair, by the way.’

  He is used to charming people, but it’s lost on me. The idea that he likes my hair is ridiculous, but I pretend to look pleased. I lean over and try and see what he’s been writing, but his handwriting is too small to read.

  ‘They were horrible to her when she was alive,’ I tell him.

  He stops smiling and I wonder if he knows anything at all about the day she went missing.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true. Looks like lots of people spoke to you.’ I signal at the papers.

  ‘Too many.’

  I look confused. ‘I thought you were journalists. Don’t you need to talk to everyone?’

  ‘This is just padding. Sorry, didn’t mean to sound cold.’

  ‘You just need the basics. I get it.’

  ‘We deal in facts. That’s all.’

  He isn’t very good at his job.

  ‘Well, if you ask me, Maxine Turner bullied her into suicide. That’s a fact.’

  He motions me to sit down.

  I could laugh, because he’s as bad as Maxine. He doesn’t care about Kirsten at all. ‘Nah,’ I say, before I walk towards the door, ‘no offence. I didn’t know her that well, no one here did.’

  ‘The girl no one knew. That’s interesting. What was your name?’ he shouts after me.

  ‘Leila. Leila McAndrews.’

  ‘That’s great, Lana. I might ask to speak to you again. Don’t worry, we won’t bite.’

  I glance down at the folder. There would have been no point reading what they’ve written anyway. There’s nothing in there about the real Kirsten and no one will ever know what happened to her that day. Nobody ever understood her as I did.

  ‘It’s Leila.’ I smile as I leave. ‘And I do bite,’ I say, after the door has closed behind me.

  I walk out of college, towards Stockport centre, until my feet ache. The white bricks of the town hall are blackened by fumes like a dirty great wedding cake as I go past, towards the office towers, with two words on my mind: Maxine Turner. People are still queuing for lunch at the chippy and as the domed roof of the library comes into view I have no thought of going in. College doesn’t matter. Nothing does. I need something else. I stop to get my breath, before walking down the steps to the bus depot. The river is to my right and the sound of water fills the air. I follow the ripples on the surface as they move towards the derelict mill and onwards to where the kingfishers nest. I keep walking, following the river back home, carried by the current, and follow a path that I’m powerless to stop.

  32

  Hayley Reynolds

  When I get home I can’t stop thinking about Maxine. I think about the way she made fun of Dad and the filthy footprints on the white canteen floor. This must be how Kirsten felt so many times before and I can’t let her get away with it. She needs to know she can’t do whatever she wants to.

  I put my New Order album on to make sense of everything. ‘Face Up’ makes me smile, because they understand me even if no one else does. Maxine Turner isn’t going to talk to me like that any more. There’s coldness in the air. A chill that was there the day I followed Kirsten to the river and I know that she’s waiting nearby. She’s listening to the words with a muddy smile, knowing what’s coming next. When I pick up the receiver to dial Maxine’s number I don’t need to look it up because I’ve done it so many times before. I hope that she’s finished early too and I’m pleased when she picks up straight away.

  ‘Hello?’

  I allow the silence before I speak.

  ‘It’s Hayley Reynolds, from college. I got your number out of the phone book.’

  There’s a pause for a moment and just the sound of her breathing.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She doesn’t sound as sure as she did in the canteen, because there’s no audience now. It’s just us.

  ‘To meet you.’

  She talks slowly, as though she doesn’t trust me. ‘What for?’

  ‘To tell you what people have been saying about you to the TV people.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About you and Kirsten.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It’s up to you if you don’t want to know. Doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘Just tell me now, then.’

  I smile. ‘I can’t talk. I’ll meet you.’

  There’s silence.

  ‘Or you could just wait till it’s on telly?’ I continue.

  She exhales through her nose. ‘All right, then. I’m not coming to your house though.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the river. Past the sculpture of the fish, on the bench by the weir, at 3 p.m.’

  *

  I can’t settle as I wait for three o’clock, but I know what to do. The river has been calling me all day and I’ve been playing our album on a loop. In the living room, Mike’s camera is on the table by the window and I pick it up without a thought. I smile. It’s what Kirsten wants and it’s not to be questioned.

  I go past Kirsten’s bench and wait on the concrete steps. I watch the reflection of the trees on the water as the river rushes past. The mounds of twigs and plastic bags that have collected on the red sandy bank show how high the water has been this week. No matter what happens, the river is always here. Everything else changes around me, but the river never will.

  I’m worried that the policewoman will be around somewhere, but it’s quiet today and I think about what she said about her dad leaving too. I can’t trust her, but maybe we are alike. She knows what she needs and so do I. I’m just as strong. Usually there would be a jogger or a dog walker, because to them it’s the same river that it always was. They go on family bike rides here, as though it’s still a happy place. The air is crisp and fresh today and Kirsten’s pendant is warm against my chest. She’ll be pleased, because I’ve brought what she wants. On the tree by the bank are some fresh carnations that Mrs Green has left and I look around to see if I can see her, but there are only lime-green grasses moving in the breeze.

  I go up the sandy path and sit down at my favourite bench to wait for Maxine, with the sound of the weir in the background. Now that I’m here, nothing else matters. I stare at the rushing water until the current feels part of me and I know that Kirsten’s here. I hear footsteps and rub my eyes. The slow crunch of feet against stones gets louder and the shape of a girl stands over me. I wince: ready for whatever it is she wants, but it’s Maxine.

  ‘So?’ she sneers.

  I want to talk to her properly, but she doesn’t make it easy. This is my place, not hers. It doesn’t matter what she says now, but she needs to listen.

  ‘Why here?’ she asks, as though I’m stupid.

  ‘I like it.’

  She rolls her eyes as though I’m ridiculous. ‘You would.’

  ‘It’s good for pictures,’ I say as I pull the camera from my pocket. The bottom of her hair is wet, as though she’s just showered, and the smell of the river comes up from the bank as she stands by the bench. I glance over her shoulder, at the empty path behind her, and inhale the rotting smell of the damp weeds. I can help her if she lets me. She doesn’t have to be the way she is, just as I don’t have to be the way I am; we can choose.

  The water is fast again today, just as it was on the day that Kirsten died, but how could it be any other way? It feels like a test. The
green weed twists in the current and the temperature has dropped.

  She frowns as she chews a piece of bubblegum. ‘Well, get on with it. We’re not here to take pictures.’

  ‘Do you want to see where they found the body? We can talk on the way,’ I ask.

  She looks as if she’s thinking about it, but her eyes tell me that she wants to. ‘OK.’

  It’s why we’re both here: for Kirsten. She wants to pretend that she was her friend and I want to make sure that things are put right.

  ‘So what’s been said?’

  ‘I overheard them talking about you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The TV people?’ I reply.

  ‘What did they say? Are they putting me on?’

  I shrug. If I wanted to be famous it would be easy – I could just tell them what I did – but it’s of no interest to me at all. I don’t understand why she cares.

  ‘They were surprised that you don’t feel bad.’

  ‘Eh?’ She pauses to look me over. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘About what you did to Kirsten.’

  She pulls a face at me. ‘How do you mean?’

  I remember what she said about Dad and as I repeat her words in my head the current gets louder and louder.

  ‘Someone told them about the day you nicked her bag,’ I tell her.

  She looks annoyed, but we both know what happened. I’d like to hear her deny it. There were at least eight people there at the time.

  ‘How was I to know she’d jump in the river? She wasn’t normal, was she?’

  The river roars.

  ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s true. Anyway, what would I want with her shit bag? Who’s been telling them that?’

  ‘Barbara Moore.’

  ‘You’re joking? What’s she been talking to them for? She’s too fat to be on TV.’

  She’s missed the point, but she would. She’s deluded. There isn’t any goodness in her as there was in Kirsten. She’s black and mouldy inside, like the dirty sludge in the sewerage pipe.

  ‘It’s this way,’ I say as I walk faster.

  As the path curves off away from the estate, we make our way further out towards the quiet part of the river where the kingfishers used to fish for sticklebacks. I tell her about the television people and she pretends not to dislike me. Our lies dance together in an intricate embrace until we reach the sewerage pipe. My palms start to tingle as the slow repeated caw of a crow comes from the field on the opposite bank.