Only seven more sessions to go. Four hundred and twenty more minutes that I would have to sit on that leather sofa and face questions that I didn’t have the answers to.
The late summer wind whipped at my face, a non-existent chill stinging my skin. I pedalled harder and harder, faster and faster. The wheels spun wildly like a washing machine, going around and around. I lifted off the seat and leaned to the left, the bike curving around Knockturn Lane onto Knockothie Brae. Small square semi-detached houses lined the streets, their brick roofs blending into one thick blurry stream of red as I sped past. Around the corner into Findhorn Drive, past Market Brae, down onto Pembrook Road – I slammed the brakes on.
There it was. Pembrook Academy. How could I have gone down this way? I should’ve taken the right onto Golfview Road and gone past the golf course. But I didn’t think. Or perhaps I did, and this was where I really wanted to be. My body was ready to confront my ghosts before I was.
My chest heaved in and out, as my lungs struggled to gasp air. Lips parted, eyes open wide, I just stared at the pale-yellow building. It was bigger than I remembered. Or maybe smaller. The rectangular windows, methodically spaced out only inches from each other, were in darkness. Wooden boards covered up the broken windows on the first floor, where students and teachers had tried to escape. A chair lay on its side, having been thrown through the window to break it. Shards of glass still lay on the tarmac beneath the frames. Yellow strips of ‘Do Not Enter’ tape crossed the exit doors and the main entrance. On the front steps lay a black shoe, as if someone had left it behind as they ran from the building.
Several contractors had publicly turned down the opportunity of ‘refurbishing’ Pembrook Academy. I guess no price was high enough to clean blood off the walls. As far as I knew, the school council was trying to hire a company from the city, where the echo of screams was slightly quieter.
I squeezed my eyes shut, biting down on my lip until I tasted warm blood. I could hear them even though I hadn’t been there – the desperate screams, the frantic 999 calls, the smashing of the windows. It was so loud in my ears. I pressed my hands into my ears. ‘Stop,’ I whispered, ‘please stop.’ But it didn’t stop. The screams got louder, more high-pitched, and the sound of glass shattering became deafening.
‘Sam?’
I blinked my eyes open and saw the outline of someone that I used to know, someone that used to be my friend. I opened my mouth to say hello but suddenly that felt stupid. A simple hello wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t even come close.
Geoff stood in front of me, his hands trembling as they held a small bouquet of carnations wrapped in thin plastic and tied with yellow ribbon at the bottom. As my eyes skimmed the ground by his feet, I noticed more bouquets and ribbons like his. Flowers, small teddy bears and cards littered the pavement all around the perimeter of the school. Most lay on the ground, resting against the knee wall while others were tied to the metal bars of the gate. There were so many flowers, gifts, messages to loved ones and missed ones. I shouldn’t have been there. I mounted my bike and turned around, slamming down on the pedals as they propelled me away from the school and the people I used to know. And from the friends I used to have.
I could hear Geoff calling to me as I pedalled faster and harder, until I reached my street. A couple of children playing skip rope in a front garden stopped when I cycled past, letting the rope drop to the ground. As I pulled into my driveway, a neighbour across the street stood frozen outside his door, groceries still in hand. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I pushed open the front door.
‘Sam, is that you?’ my mum called out.
‘Who else would it be,’ I muttered, walking past my dad sitting in his chair with the television remote in one hand and a beer in the other. I shuffled into the kitchen and saddled into one of the bar stools.
‘I had to go all the way to Watford,’ she quietly said, unpacking groceries from a beige straw recycled bag, the edges frayed with use. Having been told by six retailers that she was unwelcome, Mum now needed to shop at a grocer’s fifteen miles away.
I watched as she unloaded the heavy bag – milk, apples, bananas, brown sugar and cinnamon Pop Tarts. I stared at them, the box achingly familiar. ‘Mum – ’
‘ – What is that, Linda?’
My dad carefully edged towards the kitchen counter, setting his beer can down on the granite. He lifted up the box of Pop Tarts, his hand slightly trembling. ‘What is this?’ he asked again, hanging on longer to each word spoken.
‘Charlie will only eat the brown sugar and cinnamon kind. He won’t try any other flavour,’ she stammered, trying to grasp the box back from Dad’s hand. But he shook her off, pulling the box in closer to his chest.
‘Enough,’ he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.
‘Do you remember when we tried to make him eat the strawberry kind?’ she continued, a nervous smile stretching across her face.
‘I said, enough!’ He slammed the box against the kitchen wall. It caved in upon impact, sending small pieces of the buttery crust flying out in a dust of sugar. It hit the floor, more large crumbs spilling out from the broken open edges.
My mum dropped to the ground, tears spilling from her eyes as she picked up the box and cradled it, as if it was alive. Her back broke into tiny spasms as her tears became louder and deeper, until they violently shook her whole body. I waited for Dad to walk over and comfort her, already knowing that it wouldn’t happen. He turned around and walked back to the living room, sliding into his chair and taking a long swig of beer.
I inched down from the stool and walked over to the linen cabinet. I eased out the broom and dustpan, and gingerly approached Mum on the floor. She huddled protectively over the mess. So I placed the dustpan on the floor and leaned the broom against the wall, and slumped up the stairs.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I noticed Charlie’s door was slightly ajar. Not looking in, I leaned forward and closed it tight. Walking past the framed photos of him as a smiling toddler on a swing and a laughing child at Disney World, I shuffled into my bedroom and leaned on the door. I stumbled back as the door pitched and shut behind me then I slid down until my legs hit the floor and splayed out in front of me.
I tilted my head back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers that had been on my ceiling for almost six years. I remembered the day Charlie and I put them up there. Dad had just taken us to the newsagent’s around the corner. He did that every Wednesday after school. He said it was to help us get through the rest of the school week, although I think he also did it for himself. While he slid a six-pack of lager out from the fridge in the back of the shop, Charlie and I counted out our weekly allowance. We didn’t get much, but it was always enough to pick out a comic or magazine, and a sweet.
On this particular afternoon, I had really wanted a special-edition comic about aliens and distant planets. But I didn’t have enough money, even if I skipped the sweet. Charlie gave me his share. He always did stuff like that for me.
Together with our coins combined, we bought the comic and eagerly ran home with it, Dad trying to keep up behind us. While Mum cooked dinner and Dad sipped beer and watched the football highlights, Charlie and I lay on my bedroom floor and read the comic from front to back. And on the back page were free stickers that promised to glow in the dark. Charlie ripped them out, and balanced on my nightstand as I pointed out the spots in my ceiling I wanted to fill with planetary shapes and intergalactic stars.
At bedtime, when Mum thought we were brushing our teeth, we turned off the lights in the room and stared up at the ceiling
