Jenn Ashworth - Cold Light

I stared at the police car. It had come and parked right outside my house like Carl had said it would. Two of them in there sitting on my mother’s three-piece suite in creaking, not quite comfortable uniforms, and Barbara so flustered she hadn’t even had the chance to ‘clear Donald away’.

I was in trouble. The biggest trouble I’d ever been in, in my whole life. I wondered how they’d found Wilson. I imagined the noise as they cracked off the ice on the top of the pond, and towed it in jagged heaps onto the bank. There’d be doctors, and examinations. They’d know he’d been smoking because of his lungs or his mouth – some remnant of the nicotine in his blood or on his cold fingers. So they’d have searched and found those fag-ends and my fingerprints and spit will have been all over them, and that means they’d know I was there. They’d come to my house in a car to take me away. I edged closer to the hedge, smelling cat piss and privet and trembling.

As I got near I tried to peer inside the police car without turning my face towards it. Ideally, I needed to look like someone who was examining the numbers on the houses, trying to find a certain address, because I didn’t live there at all. I knocked more privet away from my face but my hands were shaking so I stuffed them into my pockets.

My phone was in my pocket. I rubbed my fingers over the buttons and then pulled it out to look at it. I watched the car, which looked empty, and dialled Chloe’s number. It rang three or four times then went through to the answer machine.

I knew what that meant. I’d been there, plenty of times, when Chloe’s phone had rung and she’d wanted to teach Carl a lesson for not taking her out or taking her home too early or ignoring her or not holding her hand in front of his friends. What she did, when she was in a mood like that, was let it ring three or four times just so he knew that she’d heard it. Then she’d press the red button that meant ‘busy’ and diverted the call to the answering service. That meant she was with her phone and she just didn’t want to talk to him. Carl knew all this, and it pissed him off. It wasn’t like when she had her phone in the bottom of her bag in her bedroom: then it would ring and ring and ring until the machine cut in automatically. It was totally different.

Chloe knew that I knew all about this too, because I’d been there when Carl had complained about it and I’d watched Chloe winking and chucking her hair about and telling me that Carl was clingy and needy and paranoid and he should just grow up and stop pestering her all the time. Carl hadn’t caught onto this, because most of the time it worked and he was especially nice to her for a few days afterwards. There would be presents. It must have worked, or she wouldn’t have done it so much.

I pressed the call button on my phone again, but I didn’t hold it to my ear. I pretended I was looking up and down the street, waiting for someone, and listened as the faraway sound of the answer machine cut in after just one ring.

‘It’s me,’ I said, after her stupid message. I coughed into the phone.

‘The police are here. At my house right now. It’s about Wilson. You need to get hold of Carl and do something. I didn’t mean to send him out onto the pond. I wasn’t the one chasing him. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen his football. Fuck it, Chloe. Ring me back, will you?’

I felt like throwing the phone away, but I didn’t. I flipped open the top of my bag and poked it into the bottom in case the police wanted me to empty out my pockets in front of Barbara. I didn’t have any fags, but I threw my lighter over the wall of next door’s garden. I was going to go in there and tell them about Carl having sex with Chloe under-age. I was going to tell them about Carl chasing Wilson. I was going to say that I wanted to stop it, but I was too scared to, and that I had wanted to ring the number on the posters, but they hadn’t let me. I was going to tell them I was frightened, and then show them the place in the bushes where Carl had jumped through to run after Wilson, who I hadn’t seen again.

I am sure that is what I would have said.

Inside the house, Barbara was sitting on the couch and she was wearing her slippers. That was a bad sign because it meant the police hadn’t rung and made an appointment, but had just turned up. On the hoof. That was one of Donald’s sayings. It means the same as ‘on spec’, which was one of Barbara’s sayings. The brown slippers made me scared. ‘On spec’ meant an emergency. They might have had the flashing lights on.

No one looked up when I went in. There were two police officers. The man was standing by the kitchen door with his hands in front of his privates, like he was standing in a parade. He just stood there, pretending he was looking out of the window but really just looking at the folds in the net curtains. I knew that because I knew no one could see anything through them: they were covered in flowers and leaves and butterflies and were about an inch thick. Barbara was paranoid about her privacy being invaded.

The other one was a woman and she was sitting in the armchair that no one ever sat in because you couldn’t see the telly very well from it. It was much cleaner than the settee. The arms were almost spotless. She was leaning forward and trying to touch Barbara, maybe pat her knee or her hand. She couldn’t because the space between the chairs was too wide – on purpose – because there was a stain on the carpet that the single chair was covering. Her hand dangled like a fish in the air, flapping with concern, and I thought about angler fish and Donald and my chest started to hurt.

I’d planned to say something like ‘Here I am!’, but instead I went in and onto the carpet without taking my shoes off. I knew already that it wouldn’t matter. That this was the start of a time when things like shoes would stop mattering altogether. That the idea they had ever mattered was going to become funny. I closed the door behind me quietly and went to sit next to Barbara. Donald wasn’t there. Wasn’t clattering in the kitchen or shuffling around the landing. Wasn’t building something embarrassing in the garden. Wasn’t cutting pictures out of the TV guide, or trying to programme the video recorder. The radio in his room was silent.

There must have been a privet leaf on the shoulder of my coat. A waxy, pee-smelling oval shape that dropped from my jacket onto the carpet. I looked at it every now and again while the policewoman told me what she had already told Barbara. Barbara, whose face looked like a tent with the guy-ropes cut, sat very quietly. She pulled at a thread in the hem of her skirt. It snapped off and she started at it then wound it round and round her index finger until the tip of the nail turned black.

One morning after this I woke early. It was still almost dark and there were no sounds outside. The house felt heavy. My hair was wet with sweat and stuck to my neck, and I knew I was supposed to be crying. I got up and looked out of the window. It was still frosty outside. The trees in the garden didn’t have buds on them yet, but they had lumps on the stems that were going to turn into buds soon. I wondered if it hurt the trees to have the buds slit the bark open, like it hurts women to get babies out, even though it’s natural.

I was supposed to stop eating and brushing my hair and I was not supposed to be wanting to go out to the shed and smoke a cigarette and maybe go into town and see if the new tape I wanted was out in HMV yet. I was not supposed to be glad that I didn’t have to go to school. Maybe they’d announced it at school. I wiped condensation off the window with the sleeve of my pyjamas and shuddered. I imagined the silence in the class, and Shanks’s serious voice. Now everyone will know that Donald was soft. Chloe didn’t call.