A man’s got to try, after all.
I loaded new photos onto my laptop. A string of holiday selfies. Selfies – even the idea was absurd. Other pictures, too. Pictures of Helen by the fire, Helen painting, Helen staring into space without the slightest clue she was about to be snapped. And my favourite, Helen outside, barefoot on the lawn, smiling as the wind caught her hair, glowing and carefree.
I printed that one off, and dug out a frame from the cupboard. My first effort at making this place full again.
The shadow of impending doom had penetrated me, crept in deep under Jenny Monkton’s glare. It was still in me, an unwanted guest, a malevolent ghost of some potential future.
Should the shit hit the fan, it would be easily as bad for Helen as it was for me. She had exams, and study, and peers who’d line up to gossip and mock and jeer at her. Show me a student who could take that kind of shit-storm in their stride and still come up with top grades, and I’ll show you a million who wouldn’t. Especially not those with a wonderful and sensitive disposition like Helen’s.
If this crap went down, she’d go down with it. And that’s where the shadow lingered, death-gripping my sense of responsibility for that beautiful, talented, spirited girl.
It made me shudder all over again.
***
Helen
Lizzie seemed to spend a lot of time with Rachel for someone who hadn’t even liked her a few weeks ago.
They walked to school together, while I tagged on behind like a third wheel. They smoked together, and lunched together, and disappeared off home together while I trekked back to babysitterville.
Two weeks. Just two crappy weeks.
Things really were like old times at school. No lingering glances. No whispering. No stolen touches. No lunchtime cosying. No afternoon hanging around. No car rides. No anything.
It sucked bad. But at least it felt safe. At least we’d still have weekends.
I’d checked Mum’s rota and she was back late from shift on Saturday night, but at least she was back. I’d have some time, even just a little. Enough time to feed the craving and make the next week of crud bearable.
Mark and I talked about it every night. Amongst other things. Plenty of other things.
Sometimes I’d get him on a roll and he’d keep on chatting for hours. Other times he’d come on the line with a breakdown of what assignments he knew I had due in and cut me short.
But that was ok, too.
We were ok. That’s all that really mattered.
I couldn’t wait to be in his bed again.
I thought I was home and dry with the weekend arrangements. I laid it out nice and clearly to Mum and Dad that Harry and I had plans, and they didn’t even argue.
It’s serious, I maintained. Really serious. We’re happy. So happy. And he’s nice. He’s such a nice lad.
And then disaster struck, and I hadn’t even seen it coming.
A knock at my bedroom door sounded late on Friday night, hushed voices on the landing.
I’ve got to tell her, Angela!
Not tonight, George! Sleep on it!
Tonight, Angela, she’s got to know!
My stomach fell through the floor, hands shaking as I reached for my light. And then Dad was in the doorway.
“Can you come downstairs, Helen? We need to talk.”
“What is it? What’s happened?” And then the silence. “Dad! What’s happened?”
“Just come downstairs, love.”
I pulled on my dressing gown and raced to the kitchen, and Mum pulled me out a chair even though she looked so tired. I wondered why she was even home.
They looked at each other, and they looked so sad. Mum twisted her fingers, and it made me want to cry, nerves jangling everywhere.
“What is it?!” I said. “Please, just tell me!”
Dad took a seat, and a breath.
“It’s Harry,” he said. “I saw him tonight.”
My heart stuttered, dread rising up. Dread and shock. “You saw Harry?”
Oh Lord, no.
He slammed his hand on the table. “The nasty little prick played you, Helen, played all of us. I thought he was from good stock. Just wait til I see Mick around, he needs to pull his son back into fucking line, that’s what I say.”
I could hardly breathe. “What… what happened?”
He sighed. “I was driving up through town, just about to head back out on the city run, when I saw him. Him and… some stupid bit of skirt.” He groaned, and his face was angry. Really angry. “He was with another girl, Helen.”
Everything felt so far away. “With another girl?”
“Yeah, with another girl. I’m so sorry, Helen. I’m really bloody sorry.”
Mum’s hand was on my shoulder, squeezing me, expecting the tears. “Are you sure, George? You’re absolutely positive?”
He stood up and slammed his hand down again. “Of course I’m bloody sure! If the bus had been empty I’d have pulled over and demanded to know what the fuck he was playing at!”