C.J. Skuse - Monster

‘Why don’t you ever report Maggie Zappa? Are you and her lesbi-friends now?’

‘I report people who do bad things, Clarice. Maggie doesn’t endanger life. Maggie doesn’t abuse children.’ I still didn’t look at her.

She stepped back from me. ‘Abuse children?’ She looked back at the other two, who were laughing. ‘Who have I abused?’

‘I’m not going into it now.’ I tried barging through her, but she held me in place.

‘Whoa there, you can’t just say that and then walk off. That’s libellous.’

She’d learnt that word in English last week. We all had. ‘Actually it’s slander, but it happens to be the truth. Now let me past, please.’

‘No, you’re accusing me of something, so accuse me. Tell me what I’ve done.’

‘Get off me.’

‘No. Finish what you were saying. I abuse children or something.’

‘You really want me to say it now?’ I glanced back at Allie and Lauren. They were transfixed, like they were watching some award-winning movie moment.

‘Say it,’ she snarled.

I looked just past her, still not focusing on her eyes. ‘I didn’t tell Saul-Hudson about the five different St Anthony’s boys I’ve seen you sneaking up the back stairs in the past year.’

She went crimson.

‘I didn’t tell her that you cheated in the Maths test or spat in the school governors’ tea. But yes, I did report that you pushed a new Pup down the stairs. And that I’ve watched you drag a compass across a Tenderfoot’s knee in Prep to see how long it would take for her to scream. I report people who do that kind of thing. Not because I’m a lesbian, but because you’re a psycho. Do you want me to go on?’

I pushed towards the Chapel door. Allie and Lauren looked like two frightened lambs, lined up for the garrotting machine. I was on my way, my foot over the step, almost back out into the crisp, cold morning, when I heard her say it.

‘I hope your brother died slowly. In pain.’

Died, she said. Past tense. Deceased. No longer with me.

Kill her.

No more cooling voice of advice. I flew back into that Chapel like a wind and grabbed her by both shoulders, slamming my forehead against hers with an eye-watering CLUNK.

The rest I don’t remember.

And before I knew it, I was running.

I didn’t stop running until I was deep into the Landscape Gardens. I headed straight for the old wooden Wendy House, opened the yellow front door and shut myself in. It was freezing. All I had on was Bob Cratchit’s threadbare shirt and torn trousers.

I’d often wondered what the consequences would be if I’d let the reckless part of my brain decide things for me. The part of my brain that wanted to key the cars of people my dad had fallen out with. The part that wanted to touch boiling hot surfaces. The part that wanted to shout back and swear all the time. The part that wondered what it would be like to punch Clarice Hoon in the face every time she laughed when I tripped over or got a question wrong in French. And now I knew. It felt horrible.

I don’t know how long I’d sat there on one of the little toadstool seats, my head aching like I’d loaned it out as a wrecking ball, a ready-laid plastic dinner service set out beside me, when Maggie Zappa, still in her Mrs Cratchit dress and bonnet, appeared in the doorway.

She sat down on a toadstool on the other side of the table and pulled a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her lacy apron. She took one out and offered it to me.

‘Go on.’

I didn’t think, I just took it with a hand I didn’t realise was shaking. She cupped her hand around the end and held the lighter as I inhaled. Seb had taught me how to do it without coughing. I let the smoke out, slowly. ‘We’re not allowed up here. Mrs Saul-Hudson said it was out of bounds over Christmas.’

‘Why are we up here then?’ said Maggie, blowing smoke through the little square window. ‘You’re gonna get a bruise there.’ She pushed her finger into my forehead. There was a pulsating ache radiating out from where she touched me and I winced.

‘Aargh! God. What the hell did I do?’

‘I wondered how long it would take.’

I looked at her as I exhaled the cigarette smoke, shuddering at the taste. I felt warmer somehow. ‘What?’

‘You and Clarice going at it in the Chapel. I was outside. I watched the whole thing through the window.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know what happened. I can’t even remember what I did. My head hurts, I know that.’

‘You beat the crap out of her, that’s what you did, ma petite oignon ,’ said Maggie, cigarette dangling from her mouth as she laid up one of the plastic plates with bits and pieces from the box of fake food. ‘Your head hurts because you headbutted her. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s all right. She deserved it. She’s a total dick.’

‘Violence is never the answer.’

‘Sometimes it is,’ said Maggie. ‘Just because her parents own a racehorse and live in Dubai, doesn’t mean she owns the world.’

‘They own the fifth largest racing stables in the world.’

‘So? Some people are born dicks, some achieve dick-ness and some have dick-ness thrust upon them. Isn’t that how the saying goes?’

‘Something like that.’ I sniffed. ‘I just saw red. Nothing could have stopped me. I lost it. I completely lost it.’

‘She deserved it, don’t worry. She’s had that coming for a long time, let me tell you. She was born a dick. There’s no point going over it, wondering if she has Daddy issues or if Mummy never let her drive the Ferrari. Don’t reason with it. You’ve got to show people like that what’s what or they’ll stamp all over you. She won’t give you any more grief now, just you watch.’

‘She said my brother was dead. She said she hoped he died in pain.’

‘Ugh, what a cow!’ said Maggie.

‘I know he’s dead.’

‘You know that for a fact, do you?’

‘No.’ I dragged on the cigarette.

‘Well then. You don’t know jack.’

We stared each other out. Maggie wasn’t going to be first blinker, so I gave in. I didn’t understand what she was doing here. Of all the people to come to my aid, Maggie was the last I’d expected. We’d barely had a conversation since she’d started at Bathory last spring. But here she was, giving me a cigarette and seeing me at my absolute worst, but not judging me. It was just what a friend would do.

‘It’s been nearly a week since he went missing.’

‘Five days I’d heard.’

‘I don’t know what’s happening to me. I haven’t slept properly for ages. I’m forgetting chores. There’s misspellings all over today’s diary. I read over my libretto first thing. I couldn’t remember any of my lines for A Christmas Carol. I knew them all last week. I knew all yours last week too.’

‘So? There’s more important things in life than chores and a play everyone’s seen a million times. And the Muppets did it waaaay better anyway.’

‘Yeah, I know, but …’

‘Plus them four Pups they’ve got playing our kids—how come they’re all white? At the very least they ought to be mixed race. It’s totally miscast.’ She dragged on her cigarette until the stem was nearly all ash. ‘Or are they not my kids? Did Bob Cratchitt shag around in the book?’

‘Not as far as I know.’ I came to the end of my cigarette and she offered me another one. ‘I’m going to stink.’

She shrugged. ‘Just stand next to me. I’ll take the blame. I’m like a blame sponge. Ciggy stink. Stolen turkeys. I’m your girl.’

I smiled. ‘So you didn’t steal them then?’