NATÁLIA GOMES graduated from the University of Stirling with a BA in Media & Journalism Studies, and went on to receive her Master’s degree in Education in the US. She currently works in a public school system to increase educational opportunities for students with special needs. Previously, Natália Gomes wrote for the London-based online student political magazine, deAlign and stage-managed student plays at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute in New York City where she attended for two years.

She currently divides her time between the US and Scotland, but hopes to spend more time at her cottage in Hay-on-Wye in Wales.

Dear Charlie is her debut novel.

To my family and Nick for their endless support

Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1: ‘One to Another’ (The Charlatans, Summer 1996)

Chapter 2: ‘Everything Must Go’ (Manic Street Preachers, Summer 1996)

Chapter 3: ‘What Would the Community Think?’ (Cat Power, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 4: ‘The Circle’ (Ocean Colour Scene, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 5: ‘6 Underground’ (Sneaker Pimps, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 6: ‘Head Over Feet’ (Alanis Morissette, Autumn, 1996)

Chapter 7: ‘Look on Down from the Bridge’ (Mazzy Star, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 8: ‘When You’re Gone’ (Cranberries, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 9: ‘No Place to Hide’ (Korn, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 10: ‘Swallowed’ (Bush, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 11: ‘Breathe’ (Prodigy, Autumn 1996)

Chapter 12: ‘Follow You Down/Til I Hear it From You’ (Gin Blossoms, Winter 1996)

Chapter 13: ‘She’s a Star’ (James, Winter 1996/1997)

Chapter 14: ‘Alone’ (Dinosaur Jr., Spring 1997)

Chapter 15: ‘One Headlight’ (Wallflowers, Spring 1997)

Chapter 16: ‘Sunday Morning’ (No Doubt, Spring 1997)

Chapter 17: ‘Say Yes’ (Elliott Smith, Spring 1997)

Chapter 18: ‘Halo’ (Texas, Spring 1997)

Chapter 19: ‘Let Down’ (Radiohead, Spring 1997)

Chapter 20: ‘It’s No Good’ (Depeche Mode, Spring 1997)

Chapter 21: ‘The End is the Beginning is the End’ (Smashing Pumpkins, Summer 1997)

Chapter 22: ‘Staring at the Sun’ (U2, Summer 1997)

Chapter 23: ‘Heroes’ (Oasis, B-Side, Summer 1997)

Chapter 24: ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ (The Verve, Summer 1997)

Copyright

Chapter 1

‘One to Another’ (The Charlatans, Summer 1996)

Dear Charlie,

I’m sorry it’s taken me seven weeks to write this. Honestly, I still don’t know why I am. It’s not like you will ever get to read it. It’s not like you will ever know how I am feeling. I can’t change anything, certainly not the past couple of months. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget. I’ll never be able to forget.

The strange thing is, I can’t stop thinking about the small things, like what I had for breakfast that morning, what music I listened to on the radio while I ate, why I chose blue jeans over black cords. But that’s just it. These thoughts fill my head all day, but when I open my mouth to share them, I can’t. I just can’t.

My therapist says if I can’t talk about it then maybe writing in a journal will help me. Like I’m the one who needs help in this family. Yes, I am seeing a therapist. That’s how bad things have got around here.

I don’t even know where to start. Everything’s changed. Mum flits between total denial and hysterics, almost on a daily basis. One minute she acts like she really believes you’re just upstairs doing your homework or listening to music, and the next minute it’s a complete emotional breakdown all over again. She relives your death every day. My therapist says this is normal, but I’m beginning to question whether there really is a criterion for measuring normality in this kind of a situation.

Dad remains a total enigma as usual, occasionally ranting and pointing fingers. But most of the time he doesn’t say anything, for days sometimes. I don’t know what is happening in his head, but then again we never did. We do seem to have one thing in common – we both haven’t cried, not one tear. I don’t see the point. Tears won’t reverse your actions, or bring you back. Tears won’t let me forget, even if that was possible.

You don’t have to look far for Dad now. He’s either sitting in front of the TV or has locked himself in the garage, but I don’t blame him. I don’t go outside much myself. We’re famous now, just like you always wanted. Our pictures are always in the newspapers, even our house. They keep using the same photo of you. It’s your yearbook picture from last year, the one where you let your hair grow out for it. Mum was so mad at you. She said you didn’t look like yourself, which is funny now because obviously we didn’t know you at all.

Your room is the same as you left it. Or at least, we think so. The police conducted a search of your bedroom not long after. Mum tried to put the pieces back together. She’s always trying. I wasn’t much help. I hadn’t been in your room in weeks, maybe even months. Either you stopped inviting me in, or I stopped asking to come in. Honestly, I don’t remember.

A pair of your shoes is still sitting by the door, next to mine. I see them every time I walk past the door, which I do more often now. I like to look out the window and see the photographers waiting for us beyond the garden. I hide behind the lace curtain, but they probably know I’m there. Occasionally I’ll see neighbours walk by, but they usually cross the street to avoid passing our house. Perhaps they think it’s a disease that they might catch – a contagious need for death and disorder. Maybe they think I have it too. Maybe I do.

I can’t fathom a bigger emotional mess for someone to have left behind. I wonder if you knew that this would happen. I wonder if you thought about anything at all before you walked into that assembly hall at 8.22am on the last day of school.

Pembrook Academy is still closed. I read in the newspaper on Tuesday that the assembly hall will be torn down and replaced with a memorial garden. The remainder of the school will re-open to students by Christmas. But I won’t be there to watch the thick yellow tape being cut by the new headteacher.

They hired a woman this time, and I bet she’s not as strict as Mr Healey. I still remember that time you pulled the fire alarms in the building and set off the sprinkler system. It went down as the best prank in history – in the 1994 yearbook anyway. You were suspended for five days around the time that I had the flu. I always thought that you did it only so you could spend those five days with me, playing Doom on Dad’s PC and prank-calling strangers from the phonebook – Mr Dungworth, Mrs Shufflebottom. My sides ache just thinking about that. I never laughed so hard. I never did thank you for that.

Thinking about it, I don’t remember a time that you ever got sick. You were always the strong one in the family. You worked weekends in the Spar when Dad got laid off, you stood up to him when he got drunk and shouted at Mum, and you put a plaster on my cuts and gave me a slap on the back whenever I came home with a bleeding knee. I don’t know who’s going to be the strong one now.

Whenever I think about the future, I get a pain in my chest that won’t go away. It sucks the breath out of my lungs and makes me feel like I’m drowning in a big swimming pool where no one can see me. So, most of the time I try not to think about the future – that’s what Dr Albreck told me to do. She said, ‘Focus on the now, Sam. The future can wait,’ which actually contradicts what my guidance advisor used to tell us in the university prep classes. Regardless, I’m going to try it Dr Albreck’s way. But that doesn’t mean that I agree with going to therapy.

What else is new? The new headteacher is called Sheila Bevins. I only know that because I opened a letter that she sent to Mum and Dad. In it she said, ‘It would be in the best interest of the students and their families that your son Samuel Macmillan not return to Pembrook Academy. Although we are sensitive to your loss, we feel it best to move forward with a fresh start and not be reminded of the past.’

I didn’t realise that my existence was a reminder of the past. I don’t even care. I laughed when I first read it, as if my absence from the halls could erase what happened. Nothing will erase what happened. When students return to Pembrook, they might not see the blood on the walls but it’s still there and always will be. They’re idiots for thinking that they can forget. I don’t need to be there to remind them, there are enough shadows to darken the halls of that school regardless of whether I am there or not.

It’s a shame too, because I was really getting good at making friends. I even got an invite to Jackson’s party last weekend, well technically Geoff did but I was going to go with him. It was cancelled, of course. And, I was planning on asking Sarah Reynolds to go to the cinema with me to see Mission: Impossible, although I doubt she would have said yes. She’s a year older and was supposed to be going to Edinburgh University in September, but I don’t know if she’ll go now. Plus she probably would have wanted to watch Flipper or something.

You missed my birthday. You and I were meant to see the sequel to The Crow. You were obsessed with the first one. It’s in the cinema right now, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch it. Not now, not ever. Why would you make plans with me if you never intended to keep them?

I saw Sarah Reynolds at the funeral – we had just one for all those who died that day. She was wearing a dark navy dress with shoes that made her look taller than she is. Her face was red and blotchy, like the others. I wanted to wave, but I didn’t think she would want to see me. I read in the newspaper the following day that over five hundred people showed up for the funeral. I didn’t even know we had five hundred people in this small town. I wish I could have stood with them but I watched from a distance. I rested my bike beside a large oak tree and watched from behind it.

I shouldn’t have been there, I was asked not to go. But I had to see whether they would acknowledge your death too. I wanted to know if your yearbook photo would be blown up to the size of a movie poster and placed on a black iron easel beside the others. But it wasn’t. They honoured every student and teacher who died, but not you. Instead, we cremated your body two days after. I don’t know if a cremation is classed as a funeral service but if it was you would have liked it – short and straight to the point. No funny anecdotes about you or depressing poems about angels and heaven. I wish I could tell you that five hundred people came, but the only people who attended were Mum and I. Not even your best friend Adam came. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things. Maybe if I had been a better little brother then I would be watching television with you downstairs right now rather than holed up in my bedroom with the curtains closed, hunched over a journal that a therapist told me to buy.

Mrs Bell and that kid from your Chemistry class are still in the intensive care unit at the hospital. They’re both expected to live, if they ever wake up. You single-handedly wiped out the rugby team. I don’t think I’ll miss many of them, especially not Gregory Dunn. Their glass showcase will be empty this year. No trophies, medals or team photos will fill the space. Maybe it will finally be awarded to the Music Club or the Writers’ Workshop group. Maybe some of the others will finally get their chance to shine at Pembrook Academy. Is that why you did it?

I read that you walked right by the art department, without even looking in. People speculated that you didn’t think anyone was in there, but I know why you did it. Anyone who really knew you would know why you skipped that wing. But that’s the tragedy in this whole mess. No one really knew you. Not even me, it seems. You always said that the art teacher Mr Allans was the only one in that whole building who acknowledged you. And I think walking on by was your final gift to him.

They released the music teacher last week after his leg surgery was successful. The gym teacher didn’t make it. He died in the first week. The redhead girl that you fancied in Year Three was the last to pass away. She died on the 16th of July from ‘prolonged complications’. Her parents published a full-page obituary the next week. Mum wanted to write something for you in the newspaper, but Dad wouldn’t let her. He said no newspaper would print it.

I feel suffocated by the silence around me. The brutal stillness occupies every room in the house, and I can only imagine that outside is worse. Charlie, I’m dying. I can’t breathe and there’s no one that I can talk to. The only people who want to listen are a blurred mass of social workers, grief counsellors and journalists. And those who I reach out to are not there any more. You are not here any more. You made choices – selfish choices – that I hate you for. But then there are times that I don’t hate you. There are times where I keep pounding my forehead until it bruises and aches, just to stop myself from exploding within.

My therapist says I am ‘bottling up emotions which is dangerous.’ Perhaps she is afraid that I will follow in your footsteps. I don’t think anyone will be able to. You changed history. You made a name for yourself. You will always be remembered – well done. If this is what you wanted, you got it. You’re immortalised, while the rest of us are stripped clean of any future we may have had. I hate you so much!

I don’t hate you.

I don’t know how I feel.

After I’m finished, I’m going to hide this. Maybe I should put my journal in your room. No one will touch it in there, especially not Dad. He’s so angry at you right now, but I think that will change over time. At least, I hope so. This family will deal with hatred, remorse and bitter negativity every day of our lives. We don’t need it from Dad too. He blames Mum. He blames me. He blames videogames, music and social pressures put on young people today. He even blames the school and their apparent lack of vigilance and security measures. He blames lax gun regulations that apparently make it easy for an eighteen-year-old to get access to an unlicensed handgun. The one person he does not blame is himself. He believes he’s innocent in all of this. That’s why I have to hide the journal. I don’t want anyone to read this, and know what I’m thinking. I don’t want Dad to know that I miss you. God, I miss you so much Charlie. How am I going to get through this?

Chapter 2

‘Everything Must Go’ (Manic Street Preachers, Summer 1996)

‘So, how do you feel?’

Although this was only my third session, Dr Albreck had already fed into every stereotype one could have about a therapist – leather sofa, plant in the corner of the room, box of tissues within reach, and the occasional smile and nod to remind me that she was still listening. And, of course, she always asked me, ‘How do you feel?’

Honestly, I didn’t know how I felt. I never did. Even if I could identify just one of the emotions that stirred within me, I wouldn’t want to give it to her. All she would do with those words is write them down in her black leather notepad. She wouldn’t absorb them. She wouldn’t understand them. And she certainly wouldn’t help me feel any differently.

‘Fine,’ I finally answered.

‘What does “fine” mean, Sam?’

‘I’m not sure how to exactly describe it. I don’t have a dictionary with me.’

She smiled, although I could tell it wasn’t genuine. ‘What I mean is, “fine” isn’t a feeling.’

I stared at her, biting my lip while waiting for a chance to unload all of my thoughts like a heavy suitcase being unpacked after a long journey. There had been so many words written in the newspapers about how my family should feel – ashamed, guilty, ignorant. It didn’t matter how I felt, or what words I used to describe it because there would always be someone ready to tell me what to feel. I just wished someone would tell me what to say.

‘I can see this is a difficult question for you, as usual. So, let’s start with something easier. When is your first day of school?’

‘Two weeks on Monday.’

‘And how do you feel about that?’

There it is again – the need to talk about feelings. ‘Well, I’ll be starting a new school where everyone will know my name before I even step into the building, so I guess I don’t feel fine.’

‘Good.’ She leaned forward in her chair, apparently pleased with my response. ‘Sam, everyone who has faced – and survived – a traumatic event like you have finds themselves at what I like to call a “Turning Point”. It’s at this point where you decide whether you want to let go of everything and move forward, or stay stuck in the past. This new school could be your turning point. You should consider giving it your all. Keeping that in mind, are you planning on joining any clubs or afterschool programmes? They provide wonderful opportunities to make friends. How about the music club?’

‘I was thinking of joining Teens Against Violence. What are your thoughts?’ I said, crossing my arms and leaning back in the chair.

For a moment I thought she was going to smile but she didn’t. ‘I think that’s a very good idea, Sam. Getting involved in your new school will be the fastest route to immersing yourself into that community. Immersing means – ’

‘ – I know what immersion means.’

‘Of course. You’re a bright young man Sam. Are you still playing the cello?’

‘Piano. Not so much, any more.’ I intertwined my fingers, pressing deep into my knuckles. Resting my hands on my lap, my eyes skimmed over the walls thick with framed certificates and awards. I wondered how much each session with the great Dr Elizabeth Albreck cost. Fifty pounds an hour? Less? More? I considered asking her directly, but I had a more important question on my mind. ‘How long do I have left?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because you don’t have a clock in here.’ I thought that was obvious. Maybe she didn’t know.

‘I prefer not to remind my clients of the passing of time. I want them to feel safe and heard, without the pressure of a clock hurrying them along.’

‘How do you know when the session is over?’

‘It’s over when it’s over.’

‘So, what if I was to sit here all morning?’

‘Why would you do that, Sam?’

‘It’s just a hypothesis, Dr Albreck,’ I smiled. Getting dismissed from therapy might be easier than I had thought.

‘I guess I would ask you to bring whatever thoughts were going through your mind to our next session?’

‘You mean, hurry me along?’

‘No, not hurry you along. But gently inform you that I have other clients to see other than you.’

‘So, you do keep track of time?’

‘Not exactly. Again I don’t like to remind my clients – ’

‘ – But by “gently informing” me, you’d be reminding me of the passing of time, thus adding pressure.’

‘Sam, we’re getting way off topic. Let’s go back to talking about your new school,’ she sighed, uncrossing her legs and then re-crossing them.

‘But we can’t,’ I shrugged, getting up off the sofa and grabbing my hoodie off the edge.

‘And why is that?’ she asked, sliding her glasses off her thin face that wore a tired expression.

‘Because according to the large watch on your wrist that you kept glancing down at, we’re all out of time.’ I leaned over and popped a green mint into my mouth from the glass bowl that sat on the table by her black-skinned planner. And as I pushed open the door to the waiting room, I heard her notebook slam shut.

Unlocking my bike from the metal grid in the car park, I swung a leg over and pushed my foot down hard on the pedal. Dr Albreck’s office shrank behind me until it became no more than a dot in the distance. 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 in awe. They weren’t bright and didn’t really resemble any planets I had seen in picture books, but they were amazing. They were ours, and no matter how much we drifted apart in our later childhood years, they remained on my ceiling as a reminder of the memories we built together. Now, they reminded me of the lives that were lost that June day and of the earsplitting gunshots I heard in my head at night.

Chapter 3

‘What Would the Community Think?’ (Cat Power, Autumn 1996)

The weekend flew by in a hazy stream of contorted nightmares and news headlines. My mum remained in her room for most of it. Occasionally I could hear her cries seeping in through the thin walls. My dad paced in front of the door trying to gather the strength to walk outside and face the judging looks and intentionally loud whispers of the patrons of his local pub, The Olde Black Lion. But he never left. His feet pounded the wooden floor, only briefly stopping to glance out the window, but he never walked out the door.

Before the panic could sink in, it was already there – my first day at my new school. Mum felt like it was too soon. She was worried it would come across as disrespectful to the community and those in mourning. What did they want from me? Did they want me to complete Charlie’s life sentence? They couldn’t have him – he was smart enough to concoct his own exit plan – so they’d take the next best thing, his brother. An eye for an eye. His blood runs in my veins too so I must be guilty along with him.

I wanted to leave this house more than anything, but my stomach churned just thinking of setting foot outside the front door. My first day at Knightsbridge Academy had thankfully been kept out of the papers, for my first week anyway. But Pembrook was a small town and in small towns people talk too much. That fact had become glaringly obvious over the past couple of months.

The cereal bowl sat full in front of me, the spoon still clean. I picked it up, scooping out the contents into the rubbish bin and placed it down into the sink, being careful not to wake my dad who snored on the living room sofa. He had slept there since it had happened, although the irreparable distance between them had grown long before the shootings.

I glanced up the stairs briefly – no one to say goodbye to. As I reached for my school bag, my hands trembled and a warm sensation filled my insides. I couldn’t bring this bag today. This was the oversize rucksack that had cradled my body through my Pembrook years. This was a bag with a past, with an emotional baggage tag labelled ‘heavy’. I slid it gently off the bannister and walked with it to the bin. Fabric and contents swaying gently over the lid, I opened the lid and smashed it down deep inside.

Sliding a hand into my trouser pocket, I looped some loose lining fabric around my finger like an infant searching for its comfort blanket, and stepped through the front door. A mix of rain and light mist trickled from the sky leaving a faint glistening on the grass. Snow would fall from that very sky in only a few months. That was Charlie’s favourite time of the year. He loved painting the streets blanketed in soft white. I wondered if his paintings were still in the art room. I bet they were dry by now, but there would be no one to bring them home.

Pushing away memories of the winters past, I hurried down the street to the bus stop on the corner of Windham Drive. I had been told in the orientation letter that bus 09 would go right to the new school. Seventeen miles and 40 minutes later, the bus flew past the tall black gates of Knightsbridge Academy.

‘Excuse me?’ I leaned forward and loudly cleared my throat. ‘This is my stop,’ I called out. No response. I stood up and shuffled to the front, my legs wobbling underneath me as I shifted from side to side. ‘That was my stop,’ I said again, pointing to the school in the rear-view mirror.

As the brakes suddenly slammed on, my body hurtled forwards, hitting a silver pole. The driver turned around to face me. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you sitting way back there…’

When I looked up, I saw him staring at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, like I was an animal at the zoo. Interesting, amusing, but unpredictable and therefore dangerous. Does everyone know my face? Do I look like my brother?

Scrambling to my feet, I hurried down the stairs hearing the squeak of my soles on the wet rubber lining. When my shoes touched the slippery concrete, I felt the urge to look back. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know. So I did.

‘My neighbour’s grandson went to Pembrook Academy,’ he said, his eyes suddenly dark. Then he spat on the steps of the bus, shut the doors and drove away, leaving me standing there in my shame and confusion.

By the time I got to Knightsbridge Academy, it was 8.40am. I would need to leave earlier the next day. Maybe if I walked a little further from the house I could take a different bus. I would wear my hood up over my face so the new driver wouldn’t recognise me. Who knows how he would be connected – maybe his daughter’s friend went to Pembrook Academy, or his postman’s nephew taught there. Everyone seemed to be just one more piece of this intricate puzzle, waiting for their turn to be noticed and slotted into the big picture.

When I got to school, the main doors were already locked. I had to use a buzzer to get inside and when I did I had to go through a metal detector like at the airport. Knightsbridge Academy had clearly stepped up its security since June. Or, perhaps it was only installed after they heard of my enrollment here.

A stout secretary with curls on her head and above her upper lip greeted me in the office with a forced smile. ‘Samuel Macmillan?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, gripping the strap on my bag until the fabric pinched my palm.

‘You’re late.’

I nodded, noticing how her voice quivered slightly when she addressed me. Was she scared of me?

Quickly averting her eyes, she handed me a white envelope. ‘School begins promptly at 8.05am but since this is your first day, we’ll give you a pass. Here is your timetable. English has already started so show your late pass to the teacher. Room 212.’

Beyond the office, the building opened up into a large hall with high ceilings. Peach tiled flooring stretched out and disappeared under several closed doors that were interspersed around the hall. The ceiling was comprised of long glass panels angled into a peak, like the steeple of a church. The walls were dotted with framed awards, certificates and the occasional art project. It didn’t look much different to Pembrook Academy.

Seeing a student come out of one of the classroom doors, I hurried towards him. ‘Excuse me, where’s the stairs?’

He opened his mouth to respond then his eyes darted to the white envelope in my hand, and my name written in bold font across it.

‘Find it yourself,’ he said, gently pushing past me.

After several loops around the hall, I finally found the stairwell. Peering into classrooms, the envelope already damp from my sweaty hands, I tiptoed down the hall on the second floor. Each step mimicked the wild pounding of my heartbeat and every room I passed seemed to shift towards me, as if the walls were slowly closing in. By the time I had reached room 212, I had sweated through my T-shirt and my flannel shirt. My breathing was heavy and loud, and alarmingly erratic. I hadn’t realised that I would be this nervous. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have left the house.

Palm slick on the shiny silver doorknob, I opened the door and cautiously stepped over the threshold. Fourteen heads instantly spun around to look at me. I opened my mouth to weakly announce myself, but the teacher stopped me.

‘We’ve been expecting you. Take a seat.’

Locating the last seat in the back row, I plopped down on the wooden chair. My body suddenly drained of energy, the anxiety depleting my reserves, I rested my back against the wood.

The teacher loudly cleared his throat, gaining back the attention of at least half of the class. The rest eventually turned back around after they got bored of waiting for me to do something.

‘As I was saying, due to the recent… incident… we will be working from a new text list for our American Literature unit. Please dispose of your old ones – ’

‘ – Excuse me, Sir? What if we’ve already read the books from the old list?’ called out a mousy brunette from the second row.

‘Loser.’ A few kids from the back rows laughed, and looked at the student they knew had said it.

‘That’s enough, Noel. For those who have already read the texts from the old list, please talk to the headteacher for credit.’

‘What books are off the list?’ asked another student seated near the window. Looking around I saw that all the window blinds were down, shielding those inside. Not even a sliver of daylight snaked in from under the horizontal slats. But judging from people’s expressions, the threat wasn’t lurking outside. It was inside, sitting in the back row. I shifted in my chair and pulled at my shirt collar, feeling the heat from their silent stares.

‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; The Catcher in the Rye.’ He cleared his throat suddenly, ‘And we won’t be studying Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood,’ he said, not meaning to send a glance my way. But he did. And everyone saw.

‘But those are classics!’ shouted one boy from the middle row, which set off a wave of comments and frustrated outbursts.

‘What are we going to be reading instead? Children’s books?’

‘This is meant to be Advanced English, not nursery school.’

‘Why are we getting punished for something that he did?’ said Noel loudly.

‘He’? Is he talking about me, or Charlie?

The class fell silent, and slowly heads turned over frigid shoulders, looking back at me. My toes squirmed in my shoes and I tucked my chin to my chest, avoiding their piercing eyes, their angry thoughts, their fears. Glancing down at the floor beneath my desk, I wished I were back home in my bedroom, hidden under my covers where no one could find me.

‘If anyone has anything to say, you can talk to Ms Bevins. I don’t make the rules. In the meantime, let’s get back to the current syllabus: Shakespeare.’

After that, English class flew by in a haze of discomfort, as did Physics then Maths. This Noel kid ended up being in most of my classes, and had a comment to say in almost every one. And just when I thought I had peaked, the day got progressively worse. At lunch, a pretty raven-haired girl from the year above walked over to me. I was sitting at a long thin metal folding table, six empty seats to my left and to my right, and this girl chose to sit right beside me. At first, I was confused then surprised, and by the end I was even optimistic. She turned to me, smiled sweetly with her cherry-stained lip-gloss and asked, ‘Are you Sam Macmillan?’

Of course, I was beginning to get excited at this point and probably too quickly nodded my head. Then she said, ‘This is for Pembrook,’ before pouring most of her ice-cold Diet Coke into my lap. She threw the remainder of it, with the paper cup and straw, into my lunch tray, making my food completely inedible. She laughed, then walked away to join Noel and his friends sitting at the table beside me, who high-fived her.

I battled with whether to stand up, let the ice cubes fall from my lap and walk away, or remain seated until after the lunch bell rang. I stayed in my chair – bad choice. By the time the bell rang and everyone rushed by me, my lap was filled with half-eaten sandwiches, more ice-cold drinks and even the odd apple core. I was a human rubbish bin, and that too was how I was beginning to see myself. And despite what Dr Albreck said, it didn’t get much better.

Having only ‘re-immersed’ myself back into the archaic ritualistic behaviours of a teenager for a couple of weeks, I was already aware of my status at this school and the divide that it caused. The student population here seemed to be partitioned into three distinct groupings. For purposes of convenience, I called them Group A, Group B and Group N/A, where the current ranking was as the label states, ‘Non-Applicable’. Unfortunately, Group A had attracted the bigger number – those who hated the sight of me. They had no qualms about conveying this to me, at most times of the day and in most places in the building. The raven-haired drink-wielding girl was certainly a member of this group, seemingly led by Noel. Those who tripped me in the halls passed hate notes to me in class and frequently knocked into me while I walked, were also members of this group.

Group B consisted of primarily girls and highly sensitive theatre-driven boys whose heightened emotional awareness prevented them from looking me in the eye or acknowledging my presence in classes. Often they walked by me with a glistening in their eye and a slight trembling of the bottom lip. That group didn’t bother me, and I was happy to avoid them if that’s what they wanted. It was the third group that fascinated me the most – the non-applicable group. Those were the ones who rimmed their eyes in dark liner, wore various music shirts depicting album logos and who spent their afternoons after school sitting on the steps at the High Street Art Gallery debating which Radiohead song best defines the decline of modern society. They were the ones who occasionally and nonchalantly passed glances my way and who didn’t seem to display any of the typical responses that I had grown accustomed to: anger, hatred, fear, confusion. It was Group N/A that I decided to sit next to at Free Period one day.

At first, no one looked my way as I slid into an empty seat, but when my geometry book slid out of my hands and onto the floor loudly, that’s when they took notice. It was easy to see who the group leader was because many glanced towards one particular boy who sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on me. Some flitted between him and me, while others waited for his response to influence theirs. But instead of telling me to leave, he grinned at me and continued his conversation.

‘So, my cousin says he can get us in around 10 tonight.’

‘I don’t know, Dougie. I’m still grounded from last weekend,’ shrugged one of the other boys who I would later find out was nicknamed Worm.

‘So, tell your dad that you’re going to the library to finish a Physics project,’ chimed in a pretty brunette sitting beside Dougie with her arm around the back of his chair. Her eyes were wide and her lashes were so long they skimmed her eyebrows when she glanced up at me occasionally. I didn’t know why but she made my cheeks burn slightly.

‘He’ll never buy that,’ Worm scoffed.

‘Then tell him you’d be happy to finish it at home but that Sam here is your Physics partner,’ she grinned, winking at me.

‘Sam Macmillan!’ he blurted out, as if my name caused him physical pain. ‘My dad would never let him in the house.’ He quickly glanced at me. ‘No offence, I don’t even know you.’

‘Exactly. The library will sound pretty nice to your dad then,’ she laughed.

‘So, it’s settled,’ the group’s leader announced loudly, silencing the others beside him. ‘We’ll meet at Griffins Park at 9.30 and get the bus over.’ He shoved a couple of books into his torn leather backpack and stood up from the table, pushing away the chair. Immediately, everyone else followed. But before they left, he turned to me and in front of everyone, talked directly to me. ‘You coming with us?’

I looked around to see if there was someone else he could be talking to. ‘Me?’

‘Yeah, you. My cousin is a bartender at this music club in the city and there’s a good band playing on Saturday.’

‘I don’t have a fake ID,’ I answered quickly, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

‘Neither do we.’

Every immediate excuse in my mind induced some elaborate story that would mean talking out loud for a long time to a group of people staring at me. So, to avoid more embarrassment, I just nodded.

‘Good. See you at Griffins Park. We meet at the big slide.’

Their backs turned, I replayed that conversation over and over in my head. But no matter how much I analysed each word exchanged, I couldn’t make sense of what just happened. I opened my mouth to call them back, explain that I couldn’t make it Saturday night. But then I realised – I wanted this. I wanted to go with them. But did they really want me there? Was this my big turning point? Or was I about to find out that I hadn’t actually reached the bottom, and that I could, in fact, fall much deeper into the hole that my brother had dug for me?

Chapter 4

‘The Circle’ (Ocean Colour Scene, Autumn 1996)

Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. Noel and his group of followers continued their efforts to make my days at Knightsbridge increasingly difficult. In P.E., a ‘friendly’ basketball game turned into an unfriendly game of dodgeball where I was the target. Noel and his friends bumped me in Chemistry, causing a beaker to drop to the ground and green liquid to ooze out. Somehow it was me that gained a one-day detention for that. Again, I was a human rubbish bin at lunchtime, and just when I thought the week couldn’t get any worse, someone wrote ‘R.I.P. Pembrook’ on my notebook in English when I went to the bathroom.

When Saturday finally arrived, I was so anxious I didn’t eat all day. Several scenarios surrounding Saturday’s plans raced through my mind, ones where I would say something witty and everyone would love me, and others where I would show up at Griffins Park and no one would be there. Regardless of tonight’s outcome, one thing was clear. For the first time in a long time, I was thinking about something else other than my brother and what he did. And no one would ever understand how amazing that felt.

Outfit after outfit hit my bedroom floor but not one looked or felt right. It was too warm for the striped jumper that had patches on the elbows from too much wear, and the collared shirt made me look like I was going to church. All of my shoes looked too polished, and my hair resisted the gel I squeezed into it. I took so long picking out an outfit that I missed dinner, but apparently no one downstairs noticed. I wasn’t even that hungry, and it gave me more time to choose between blue jeans or beige cords. I chose the cords, which I instantly regretted as soon as I walked up to the slide. They turned up – which squashed one theory – but they were all wearing the same outfit near enough – black jeans, a graphic tee and a ripped flannel shirt turned up at the sleeves. Each had on an array of leatherette wrist accessories, loose strands effortlessly looping around another band or simply just sticking out.

‘You came,’ smiled the girl, as she turned around.

Should I not have?

She jumped off the slide and took a step closer. ‘I’m Izzy, and this is Dougie.’

Dougie, the leader, leaned up against the steps of the big slide and simply acknowledged my presence by nodding. The others followed suit, each offering up their own identity – Worm, Max, Debbie, Neall. And there I was, just Sam. No cool nicknames or funny anecdotes to follow. Before I had time to question myself any more, we were off. Hopping onto the 39 bus, we occupied the back row of seats as regular teens do on a Saturday night.

It was a little after ten o’clock when we reached the music hall. I didn’t want to mention that I usually went to bed by nine. The queue of people spread over a whole block, showcasing an eclectic mix of facial piercings and neck tattoos. Instead of joining the back of the line, Dougie led us around the back of the building past the rubbish bins. We huddled outside the back door and waited almost twenty minutes in awkward silence before the door opened, hitting Worm in the face. Standing in the doorway was a lanky guy in his mid-twenties with a chain that seemed to be painfully and unnecessarily connected from his right nostril to his right ear lobe.

‘You brought too many. I said three, max.’

‘Come on, there’s only six of us,’ pleaded Dougie.

‘Seven,’ corrected Izzy, motioning towards me.

I could feel people’s eyes on me, so I lowered my head until part of my face was hidden in the collar of my coat.

‘Fine but if anyone catches you, you tell them you sneaked in. OK?’

Dougie shrugged and slid past his cousin. ‘Didn’t even see you.’

Inside, music blasted from all around me, crushing my head like heavy stone. It would take at least a couple of days for my ears to stop ringing. Sweaty bodies danced too close to each other and flipped their heads back and forth to a song that seemed to consist only of screaming and loud banging.

‘Do you like punk rock?’ screamed Izzy over the noise.

‘Love it!’ I yelled back at her, possibly too quickly. Was punk rock a sub-genre of rock? Or, did it refer to a specific band? Honestly, I hated whatever was happening on the stage in front of me. Aside from the singer who was dressed in a torn tuxedo, there was no real music to be found. Ten years of piano lessons had embarrassingly left me with only a preference for the classics. And whatever this was, it was definitely not classical.

Within fifteen minutes, I had found my place for the next three hours – in a corner by the men’s bathroom. While Debbie flailed her arms around on the dancefloor like she was having an epileptic fit, Worm, Max and Neall bartered to get two older guys to buy them beers. I hadn’t seen Dougie since we walked in. Eyes scanning the room, I searched for him and Izzy. When a group of dancers left the floor for another round of some white-coloured liquid that was served in a test tube that belonged in a chemistry lab, I saw her. Standing alone by the stairs, Izzy stared out momentarily transfixed. Her face glistened in the strobe lights, and she clenched her jaw. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Dougie propped against the bar, beer in hand, talking to two girls. One had red streaks in her hair and the other had a lip ring. Whatever he was saying must have been funny, because they were laughing and throwing their heads back.

When I looked back at the stairs, Izzy was gone. I wouldn’t see her again until the end, when we all met up back at the exit.

‘Dougie, where were you all night?’ asked Worm.

‘Who’s hungry?’ grinned Dougie, as he headed out the exit.

Three streets down and one street left, I found myself inside a 24-hour cafe near the city bus station. Izzy had clearly forgiven Dougie because they were holding hands by the time we got a booth for seven people.

I sat down in the chair at the end of the booth, while the others poured onto the frayed red leather benches. Menus lay on the table in front of us and I could see that the top one had a sticky red stain, like tomato sauce. My fingers pressed into the edges of the chair until I awkwardly looped them together on my lap. Looking at Dougie’s faded black David Bowie T-shirt and torn plaid shirt, I was suddenly very aware of my appearance. The round collar on my saggy navy-blue jumper itched and I squirmed uncomfortably in my beige cords.

Izzy sat directly to my right, huddled into Dougie as his arm carelessly hung around her shoulders. In the fluorescent overhead lights, I could see that her eyes were thickly rimmed with black liner. It made her eyes look smaller than they were. Debbie had told me that Izzy only started hanging out with them last year, that before that she was ‘Isabel’ and too popular to even acknowledge them. I had asked Debbie why that was, but all she said was Izzy had ‘had a bad year’. Then one morning she came to school and she was different. It was as if she’d woken up and decided to become a new person. Soon she started going out with Dougie, dyed her hair black, began organising student rights protests about better food sourcing for the cafeteria and became fixated on the 1970s era. Now she looked like Deborah Harry, with her thick make-up and dyed hair cut short with a heavy long fringe resting on her eyelids. I don’t know why she picked the 1970s. Perhaps she didn’t know that it was a period heavily shadowed by the Vietnam War and social propaganda.

‘You hungry, Sam? See anything you like?’ she asked, a wide grin stretching across her face. Did she see me looking at her?

I quickly looked away, before Dougie saw me staring too. ‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled. Honestly, I didn’t know if I was hungry. I was only hungry if everyone else was and I would only order a drink if someone else did. But the waitress approached me first.

After a few moments of silence and an exchange of glances around the table, the waitress finally snapped. ‘Are you going to order something or not?’ she said.

I looked to Dougie for some sort of cue to what I should order, but he was staring across the table at Debbie and Neall with a smirk and a slight gleam in his irises.

‘Well?’ the waitress hissed, her pink lipstick smearing across her front teeth.

‘Um… I… just a bowl of cornflakes with milk,’ I eventually stammered. I hadn’t looked at the menu and didn’t even know if cereal was available, but at the time it seemed like an appropriate choice. It wasn’t. The whole table erupted in laughter and my face burned red. When I looked away from my sweaty palms in my lap, I saw that the only one who wasn’t still laughing was Dougie.

‘Make that two bowls of cornflakes,’ he added, still smirking.

The laughter faded out as the waitress scribbled down six more orders of cornflakes before tearing off the sheet and begrudgingly handing it through the open hatch to the kitchen. She looked back over at our table, and rolled her eyes contentiously the way my brother used to whenever Dad tried to talk to him after a few beers. After a while, the only person Charlie talked to was me. And soon that stopped too.

After a few minutes of steady silence, the waitress came back over and slammed down seven individually wrapped boxes of cornflakes, seven bowls, spoons and a jug of milk. Quietly everyone began pouring their cereal, sneaking small smiles back and forth. Finally, Dougie slammed his spoon down on the table, and with cornflakes falling out of his mouth, he yelled, ‘You’re so weird, Sam. I love it!’

Soon several chaotic conversations ensued, my eyes darting back and forth hungrily consuming all of them. Dougie and Max were talking about a music band I’d never heard of, and Debbie was showing Izzy her newly tattooed wrist, which was covered in tiny blue stars. On top of that, Debbie would intermittently interrupt Max to chime in with her opinions of the depiction of women in music videos, while Izzy and Dougie shared the occasional inside joke and stolen exchange. Worm and Max competed for the best impersonation of John Major, while Neall talked even louder to block out Debbie’s voice.

I’d never been to a tennis match but I would imagine that it would be close to what I was experiencing. After a few minutes, my neck ached so I started counting through my pennies to pay the bill. I immediately wished I had brought more so I could have paid for the whole bill, rather than just for my measly share. Maybe they would want to hang out with me again if I paid the whole bill. I would remember that next time. A dull ache suddenly grew in my belly – would there be a next time?

I was still kicking myself for not bringing more money when I noticed that Izzy was lagging behind the group on the walk home. She seemed to have slowed her steps to walk with me, but I knew there had to be another reason. She occasionally glanced up and smiled, before eventually nudging me. ‘I’m really glad you came tonight.’

When I looked up, I noticed tiny dimples in the corners of her smile. Her eyes were bright even in the darkness. ‘How are you enjoying Knightsbridge?’

‘It’s OK,’ I mumbled. Maybe she did want to walk with me. My palms started to sweat and I resisted rubbing them on my trousers in front of her.

‘I went to nursery with Noel Taylor and he hasn’t changed one bit,’ she laughed. ‘He’s an idiot, and he enjoys making people’s lives miserable so don’t worry about him. He’ll get bored soon.’

‘Yeah, she should know. She went out with him!’ yelled Debbie from in front of us. ‘Sam, why are you sixteen and in our year? Did you get moved up or something?’

‘Yeah, Pembrook moved me up,’ I said, feeling a stare from Dougie.

‘You must be really smart. Cool. Why did you move from…?’ she continued, quickly trailing off before she got elbowed in the ribs by Max. ‘Sorry, Sam. I forgot –’

‘– It’s fine, really,’ I shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

‘Have you checked out the old art theatre yet? It got refurbished last year, only just opened,’ Izzy said, eyeing up Debbie who was still blushing from embarrassment.

I slowly shook my head. ‘What do they show there?’

‘Old films, foreign films. In the lobby they sell retro sweets. Do you like Roman Polanski?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Of course I was lying. Was that a retro sweet or had I missed the transition into another topic?

‘Maybe we can all go see a film sometime?’ she asked, a genuine smile beaming across her face.

I hadn’t watched a movie since Pembrook, but I didn’t know whether that was because I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts, or whether movies just seemed frivolous to me now. There was more violence, drama and tragedy in my life. I didn’t really need to watch a movie. I could just turn on the news and see the latest Charlie report.

Before I could tell her that I’d love to go to the cinema with her, Worm jumped in a puddle and sent sprays of muddy water towards Debbie. Screaming something about a vintage skirt, she stormed off. When we got to the bus stop, she was sitting on the bench wiping mud streaks off her skirt. Leaning against the doorway of the bus shelter, I glanced at Izzy and noticed that she was staring back at me and smiling.

I hadn’t really responded to her question. And even though it unnerved me not knowing who I was or what I liked any more, I still went to bed early that morning with her words burning sweetly into my thoughts. And when I awoke early in the afternoon, I discovered both a broken framed photo of Charlie at the bottom of the stairs, and that my parents hadn’t even noticed that I had gone out the night before.

Chapter 5

‘6 Underground’ (Sneaker Pimps, Autumn 1996)

Peering over the top of my notepad, I saw Dr Albreck’s almond-shaped hazel eyes flitting from my shaking foot to the pen twirling in my fingers. Two swirling masses of greenish-browns burrowing into my thoughts, watching my every move, analysing each moment. Catching her eyes, my attention darted back down to the notebook.

A low humming seeped out of the monitor on her table, and from somewhere in the waiting room, I heard a phone ringing. A slight breeze flowed through the trees, making some of the branches bend and sway. Peeling my eyes away from the window, I checked back to see if Dr Albreck was still watching me. She was.

‘Ready?’

She’d decided on a new approach for today’s session since I had spent the previous appointment attempting to inquire about her personal life. Although perhaps invasive and rude at times, I thought the questions were reasonable, and warranted. How was I supposed to confess my deepest darkest thoughts to a woman who I knew nothing about? Perhaps she too harboured some dark notions that made her emotionally incapable of helping me with mine.

Unfortunately, she was less than forthcoming about her marital status, university grades and personal food preferences, which left me still unsure of her capabilities to assist me during the worst time of my life. That day she had ended the appointment early – without offering me a reimbursement of the minutes retracted – and changed the direction of the next session.

This afternoon I was to write down three emotions I had felt in the past week. Since I had arrived twelve minutes late for our therapy session because of the late night I had had the evening before, the first emotion on my list was remorse. After that, the page was blank.

‘Sam?’

‘I’m having a difficult time collecting my thoughts.’

‘Do you have anything written down?’

‘Yes, remorse.’

‘Excellent. Let’s start with that. Tell me why you think you felt remorse this week?’

‘Because I was twelve minutes late today and I really dislike people who aren’t punctual.’

She took a long deep breath, and then straightened back up. ‘Do you feel remorse for anything else? The events of the past year, perhaps?’

I felt my body retreat, my spine pushing into the back of the armchair until it became uncomfortable. A bitter taste in my mouth caused me to swallow, but I couldn’t get rid of it. Was she implying that I should feel remorse for my brother’s actions? I thought I was coming here to let go of feelings of guilt and blame, not to accept them. One emotion suddenly became clear to me – anger. But instead of writing it down or simply saying what I was thinking, I did exactly what I had been doing for the past few sessions. Afraid of the discussions being about me, my family, I turned it back on her. ‘Have you ever felt remorse? Maybe for something that you did in your past?’

‘Sam, like I told you last time, these sessions aren’t about me. They’re about you.’

‘Right, I remember,’ I said, my response sounding sharper than I’d intended.

She uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them in another way, her eyebrows pinching together. Taking another deep breath, she dropped her pen on her notepad as if surrendering. ‘Sam, do you think you’d be more comfortable talking with another counsellor? Maybe a male counsellor?’

‘Are you… firing me? Am I being fired from therapy? Can that even happen?’

‘Not fired, but transferred to a more suitable pairing. And it can happen if the client would feel more comfortable meeting with another psychologist. Of course, I want to keep seeing you but I worry that our sessions aren’t moving forward. I want you to feel that this is a safe space where you can talk about anything. I want these sessions to help you, and I don’t think they are.’

‘Sure, if that’s what you want?’

‘Again, it’s not about me, it’s about you.’

What did she want me to say? No? Did she want me to beg? So, I responded in the only way I knew how, ‘Um… OK?’

She paused, as if she wanted to say something more but instead picked up her pen to make her final notes. Head down, she continued talking to me without meeting my eyes. ‘OK. So I will make a recommendation to one of my colleagues who I feel would be a good communication partner for you and he will contact you to arrange therapy days and times.’ She finally looked up at me, her eggshell-coloured frames sliding down the bridge of her nose slightly. ‘Sam, do you have anything you’d like to say or ask me before we end our last session? And no, I don’t mean ask me a question about my personal life.’

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I considered the many questions that pushed against my head causing me pain, but couldn’t find the right one to ask. So, I said nothing and shook my head in silence.

‘Right. Well, good luck, Sam. I hope you find more success in your next therapy,’ she said, standing up. She smoothed down the front of her skirt and readjusted her glasses. Even though she tried to hide it with her thick glasses, too-tight bun that pinched at her scalp and beige clothing, she was pretty. And there was something about her that made me feel comfortable in her office. Had she not given up so easily, I may have actually opened up to her someday. But like all the adults in my life, she was too busy to wait. Asking her too many personal questions – strike one. Arriving late to a session – strike two. Failing to immediately spill my thoughts, fears and the crushing weight of grief to her – strike three. Three strikes and I was out.

Leaving the notepad on my seat, blank except for one word written on it: Remorse, I slumped out of her office feeling like I’d just failed an exam. I considered turning back to wave, but a strange feeling of the very emotion that I had written down washed over me and I didn’t want her to see. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to tell her to just be patient for a little while longer. I wanted to explain to her that this was how everyone in my family handled their emotions, by bottling them up until they explode like a shaken Coke bottle. But like my family, I was too stubborn to apologise, too scared to ask for help, and too selfish to care. So, I walked straight to the exit door and pushed it open, not turning back to see if it closed properly behind me.

The next morning, I awoke to the usual muffled voices of my parents from the kitchen. Although the conversation was brief and void of emotion, they didn’t seem to be fighting today. Perhaps we’d have a normal Sunday morning, like a normal family who dealt with normal problems, like whose turn it was to do the dishes or whether there were enough whites to do a light-coloured load of laundry.

‘Sam?’

‘Yeah, Dad?’

‘I’m going to need you to go to the library today. Just between 10am and 2pm.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re having an open house for prospective buyers today.’

‘You never told me that,’ my mum said, turning around to face him. My dad ignored her and continued making his coffee. ‘Dan? You never told me.’ Her voice was getting louder, more desperate.

‘What does it matter?’

‘I just didn’t think we were in a rush to sell?’

‘Of course we are. We can’t stay here. Do you know I got my headlights smashed out again?’

‘Why don’t you park in the garage then?’ I shrugged, sliding a cup towards my dad for him to fill with strong black coffee. He ignored me.

‘I’m not ready to sell, Dan,’ my mum blurted out suddenly.

So much for my normal Sunday morning. I braced myself for my dad’s response, moving my empty coffee mug out of the line of fire.

‘I’m not getting into this right now.’

‘You’re not listening. I’m not ready,’ she said again.

‘The sign’s been up for weeks! And now you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think we’d have any interest this soon. I thought because of the journalists still outside that it would take months, maybe even a year? I thought we had more time here.’

‘Well, we do have interest. Two people have already contacted the agent.’

‘So cancel!’

‘We’re having the open house today. I’m not cancelling. And that’s the end of it.’

‘And what about me?’ she cried.

‘For once, let’s not make this about you,’ he snapped, slamming down his coffee cup. Drops of black liquid seeped over the edge and trickled down the cup, forming a circle on the tile. After he went into the garage and Mum stormed upstairs, slamming the door behind her, I cleaned up the coffee with a dampened rag by the sink, worried that it would stain.

Quickly showering and throwing on some jeans, I packed a bag with textbooks and a notepad and jogged to the bus stop. But instead of taking bus 09 to Knightsbridge town centre for the library, I took bus 11 to Priory Road in Pembrook, where the town’s cemetery was located.

When I got off the bus, a dark gloomy cloud hung in the sky and seemed to follow me overhead. I hadn’t worn my raincoat, but whether it rained or not was the furthest thought from my mind. A path snaked around the cemetery and eventually led to the back section where a dozen new graves sat. Slowly making my way from one to the other, I read each headstone carefully, absorbing the names, the birthdates, the messages from their loved ones. Too many deaths. Too much loss. Mr Healey, Gregory, Mr Smith, Nick, David M., David R., Stephen, Laura, Michael, Cara, Geoff, Andrew, Robert, Joseph. There they all were, six feet underground, beneath the soles of my shoes as if they’d never existed at all. It was like their voices had never carried in the hallways, as if their laughter hadn’t filled the classrooms. But they had existed. I had seen them. I had heard them. And now they were reduced to merely bones and decaying flesh.

I hadn’t thought much about the afterlife before that morning in June. The theory of heaven and hell isn’t exactly a popular discussion topic for teenagers. When you’re sixteen years old, death isn’t a possibility. It’s a story that you read about in the news, a sadness that spreads through hospitals, a tragedy that frequently visits the elderly, but never the young. Death should never meet the young. But it did. Thanks to my brother, death made fourteen new friends that day. Maybe even fifteen, if you count Charlie. But I don’t think death came for him. I think something darker and more sinister took his soul. When I imagine those students looking down, like that dark cloud above, I know my brother isn’t with them. I don’t know where he is.

Walking over to section B of the cemetery, I glanced back at the new graves as they withered into rows of stone and fresh flowers. Section B was starkly different, its headstones made of remnant material and the flower bouquets reduced to a single stem. And there it was. It looked smaller, less worthy of the attention it had gathered. No amount of protest and headline could stop the development of Charlie’s stone. I didn’t know why people had got so angry. His body wasn’t even buried there. We had had him cremated, as he wished, with the intention of scattering his ashes at Harper’s Beach, where we had played as children. But the urn still sat on my mother’s bedside table, allowing her a place to think of my brother, away from my dad’s judging eyes and my face, which reminded her too much – and not enough – of Charlie’s. But my parents, or rather my mum, had decided on a granite bevel marker to represent a place of rest. As per my dad’s wishes, she had kept it simple: his name, date of birth and date of death. No message or prayer, just facts.

When I got to my brother’s stone, I dropped to my knees. Someone had poured soil on top and garnished it with headless thorny rose stems. Scooping the earth off, I polished the granite beneath with the sleeve of my jumper until a pale greyish blue shone through. Words sizzled in my mouth, rising to the surface, but when I opened my mouth, images of fourteen graves entered my mind. So I left the cemetery, having not done what I had gone there to do – forgive my brother.

I returned home earlier than I should have. Not even one o’clock. A silver Jeep Cherokee sat in the driveway. I quietly sneaked in and up the stairs, hearing my dad talk business to a guy who looked to be in his twenties. He looked a little young to be buying a house, especially for this neighbourhood. But when I reached the top, it quickly sunk in why he was there. Positioned in the doorway, almost too afraid to step any closer, was a young woman taking photos of my brother’s room.

‘You should leave before my dad catches you,’ I said, as she spun around, dropping the camera by her feet.

‘I… I was just…’ But she didn’t finish her sentence, unable to find a good reason to explain why she was doing what she was doing. She grabbed her camera, called down to her boyfriend and hurried to the Jeep. I met my dad at the front door just in time to see their car reach the end of the street, tyre streaks still visible on the concrete.

‘Dad, they were – ’

‘ – I know.’ He sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘I know, Sam.’ He sauntered back into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge and quietly closed the garage door behind him. A minute later, I heard him slam something hard against the door. He would later emerge that afternoon in need of a bandage to cover his bloody fist.

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