Mesmeris Read online

  ‘Yes, I do. Got exams coming up.’

  He pulled away, looked into my eyes. ‘We could, you know, do something.’ He wiggled his eyebrows and made me laugh.

  ‘No.’ Something stopped me saying yes, even though I wanted to. Habit, maybe - a lifetime of obedience. I walked on towards school and he followed.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘How about after school then?’

  I tried to hide the excitement, the little knot of joy that lodged at the back of my throat. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘It’s my sister’s birthday.’

  He laughed, shook his head. ‘I don’t usually have this trouble.’

  ‘No?’ I said. ‘Maybe you should pick someone easier then.’

  He laughed, a proper shout of a laugh. ‘I like you,’ he said.

  When we reached the school gates, he put one hand on the railings – long fingers, clean, short nails. ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’ I could feel curious eyes on me, see people looking.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘after school. We could go out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Er . . . I don’t know. We could go for a meal?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘That new Italian, Bertie’s. I’ll meet you there at seven.’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Bye.’ I walked through the gates, shut my eyes, breathed deeply. I wanted to yell and wave my arms about and jump up and down like a cheerleader. Instead, I opened my eyes and tried to look normal. I must have made a pretty good job of it too, because when I told Abbi and Jess I’d seen Jack again, they said it was a shame I didn’t fancy him.

  ‘Probably just as well,’ Jess said. ‘If he’s got any sense he’ll leave town.’

  ‘Pity,’ Abbi said. ‘His mates were pretty tasty too. Can’t believe you, Pearl, not being interested in that.’

  I was more than interested though, I was obsessed, couldn’t concentrate on my work, couldn’t even manage a decent conversation. At lunchtime, I checked the school gates and felt disappointed when he wasn’t there. What did I expect? That he’d stand there like a puppy and wait for me?

  At the end of the day, I checked myself in the mirror, hoping Jack would come to meet me. He didn’t. Disappointment dragged at my chest. Maybe I’d played it all wrong, too hard to get. What if I’d mucked it up? As I followed my usual route home, thoughts filled my head. If only I’d bunked off school and gone with him, if only I’d kissed him back, shown him how much I liked him.

  Someone caught me around the waist from behind, lifted me up and swung me around in the air. I shrieked, thinking it was one of Tipper’s morons and elbowed him in the chest.

  ‘Cor! Bloody hell!’ He dropped me on my feet, clutched at his middle and staggered about. Dark hair. Crombie.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  He groaned. ‘Think you’ve broken a rib.’

  I folded my arms across my chest and watched him, his laughing eyes, his big, fat grin. ‘You shouldn’t jump on people from behind,’ I said.

  ‘You shouldn’t look so cool then,’ he said, ‘swaying your hips like that.’

  ‘I do not sway.’

  ‘Yeah, you do. I’ve been following you and I was paying very close attention and you definitely sway.’

  ‘I do not.’

  He was laughing so much he made me laugh. When our eyes met though, they were serious.

  ‘You’re a git,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  ‘What, by some of your other girls?’

  ‘Other girls?’ He smirked. ‘Does that mean you’re one of my girls?’

  ‘No, it does not.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re so funny.’

  When we got within sight of my house, we saw Mum sweeping the path. Jack pulled me aside, into the shade of the lilac tree and kissed me. Just the lightest touch of his lips on mine and yet even that set my blood dancing.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said.

  I watched him walk away. He swayed his hips a couple of times, looked back and laughed.

  The birthday evening crawled by. Jack was the only thing in my head. The bowling alley was packed. When anyone spoke to me, I didn’t hear them. When it was my turn, I had to be nudged in the ribs. Mum seemed to be convinced I was in shock, traumatised by the night before. Instead, I was thinking about all the things I urgently needed to know about Jack: what happened to his parents, what music he liked, what films, what food, where he lived, whether he really liked me.

  Even when the bowling and pizza ordeal was over and I finally got to bed, my brain wouldn’t stop. I was up and dressed before dawn, hours before I needed to leave, must have checked my make-up and hair a hundred times. When Mum insisted on giving me and Lydia a lift, I could have screamed. My brain was too tired to think of a decent reason why not, and so we piled into the car. All the way there, I looked for Jack. I felt stupidly disappointed when he wasn’t at the end of the road, standing under the trees. He probably had a job, things to do, like normal people. I cursed myself for being an idiot, for not giving him my number, for thinking he’d long to see me as much as I longed to see him.

  When he didn’t appear after school either, I began to wonder if he would even turn up at the restaurant. I could just see myself standing outside Bertie’s like a wally. Mum assumed I was going with the girls. I let her assume it.

  I arrived ten minutes late, deliberately, and he was there, leaning against the wall, like the first time I’d seen him.

  He smiled. ‘Thought I’d been stood up.’ His eyes scanned me from head to foot and back again.

  I felt the heat rise to my face and folded my arms across my chest, hunched my shoulders. ‘Do you often get stood up?’ I said, to cover my awkwardness.

  ‘Never,’ he said. ‘Would’ve been a first.’

  ‘Damn!’ I said. ‘If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come.’

  He laughed, and opened the door for me, like a gentleman.

  The restaurant was busy, probably because it had only opened the day before. The food looked and smelled great and Jack certainly seemed to enjoy his, yet I still had no appetite. Instead of admiring the décor, the super-cool metal tables, the bar with all the cured meats hanging above it, I found myself examining his face, trying to imprint it on my brain. He seemed happy to talk about music, films, and general stuff but whenever I tried to find out anything about his family or his past, he changed the subject. I noticed again how tired he looked, how his blue eyes grew warmer when he smiled, how his mouth turned down whenever he talked about himself. He seemed comfortable to sit in silence but I wasn’t, so I ended up doing most of the talking. Not the way I’d planned it at all.

  ‘Tell me something about you,’ I said.

  His gaze shifted from me to the bar. ‘Like what?’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Do?’ He stared at the couple sitting at the table next to us.

  ‘Well, college, work – what?’

  His gaze flicked around the room, as if he didn’t know the answer. He shrugged.

  ‘Why don’t you like talking about yourself?’

  His mouth seemed to tighten. ‘I just don’t, okay? I’d rather hear about you.’

  Something about his tone told me to leave it, so I babbled about my friends, about my teachers, about the trip to London the following week. The less he said, the more nervous I became and the more I prattled until, eventually, I ran out of words.

  He stared at his plate. ‘I’ve never met anyone quite like you before,’ he said.

  ‘What? You mean someone who can’t shut up?’

  He laughed, shook his head. ‘I’ve never met anyone so . . .’ he raised his eyes to mine at last, ‘. . . good.’

  I choked on my drink. ‘Good? I’m not good.’

  ‘Yeah, you are.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m not bad, but I’m not good either – I’m just ordinary.’

  ‘You’re not ordinary. I know ordinary and I know bad, and you’re n
either of those things.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, don’t look so miserable about it.’ And he did – looked really miserable.

  ‘Sorry.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Just thinking the chances of me getting a shag are looking pretty slim.’

  I loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

  ‘They’re non-existent,’ I said but I meant the opposite and thought he knew it because every time our eyes met, we both smiled the same smile, as if we knew.

  When we left the restaurant, he didn’t ask me back to his place as I hoped he would. He just pushed his hands deep into his pockets and shivered. The wind whistled down the deserted street, blew icy cold against my legs.

  ‘I’d better get you home,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’ I could hardly invite myself to his and so, home we went. When we got there, I thought perhaps he’d kiss me like the day before but he didn’t. He just gave me a quick peck on the cheek, like you’d give your auntie, and walked away.

  It looked as if I’d mucked it up again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As soon as I woke, I started going over and over each word he’d said, each look he’d given me, analysing every single thing until I couldn’t be sure what was real and what I’d invented.

  He didn’t appear on the way to school.

  All the way home I hoped he’d turn up but no – nothing. I texted him, said I’d had a great time, thanked him for the meal. ‘You’re welcome,’ came the reply. That was it – nothing else.

  By Saturday, I was driving myself insane so I rang him. It went straight to answerphone. The sharp sting of humiliation, the way it physically hurt, took me by surprise. I hung up.

  ‘Get over it,’ I said aloud to my reflection and stood up straight, shoulders back, chin up. It almost worked, at least enough to get me through the day without anybody noticing anything wrong.

  Sunday morning and rain – again. I didn’t care. It matched my mood. No way was I going to stay for coffee after church. If someone asked me once more if I had a boyfriend, I knew I’d either cry – or punch them. Safer by far to go straight home. All I had to do was get through the service. Surely I could manage that.

  Unfamiliar sounds came from the church grounds as we arrived. Shouts and bangs, and old ladies’ cries shook me out of my self-pity.

  ‘What the hell?’ Lydia said.

  Through the lych gate, we saw people hurrying up the path to church, missiles flying over the wall towards them. Plastic bottles full of pale yellow liquid. Some broke on the path, splashed over the legs of the unlucky. What looked like clods of earth came over too – except it wasn’t earth. The smell turned my stomach. It could have been animal or human - no one stopped to find out. We all ran inside the church and shut the door.

  Everyone talked at once. Then the banging started.

  They hammered on the door, shouted and roared over each other, only the occasional profanity standing out from the jumble of words. The violent hatred though was unmistakeable – and frightening.

  There were few men in the congregation and most of those were elderly and frail. Dad and two of the younger ones opened the door. Six lads stood outside, only their eyes visible in their scarf-covered faces. They backed off out of the porch, but didn’t run away, didn’t turn their backs. They stood in silence and stared defiance as the rain dripped from their saturated hoods.

  ‘Come and join us,’ Dad said.

  Lydia turned to me, eyes wide. ‘What?’ she mouthed.

  ‘Everyone is welcome here,’ Dad said.

  One of the lads came closer, pulled his scarf down and spat in Dad’s face.

  A gasp went up from the parishioners. Dad wiped his face on his sleeve.

  ‘God!’ Lydia said. ‘What a scumbag.’

  ‘Go home,’ Dad said. ‘Come back when you’ve learned some manners.’

  The boys laughed.

  As soon as the door shut, the banging started again.

  Lydia’s face paled. ‘D’you think they’re the ones . . .?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. They’re just kids,’ I said. They spat at our dad, our lovely dad – but there was a big difference between spitting and murder – big difference. I kept telling myself that. Still, they had unnerved me, made me see danger everywhere. Even the knots in the wood grain of the pew in front somehow turned into cold, black eyes full of malice.

  The wind whistled between the lead and stained glass. Like a shard of ice, it blew against my neck, made me shiver.

  Dad leaned over the pulpit. ‘Ignore them,’ he said. ‘Youths with nothing better to do. They’re trying to disrupt the service but we won’t let them, will we?’

  Mutterings rose from some of the men present.

  ‘The police have been informed,’ Dad said, ‘and will be here shortly, I’m sure. These young people deserve our pity. They know no better.’ His eyes scanned the congregation. ‘The best thing we can do is to concentrate on our service. God is our helper and our redeemer.’

  After a few minutes, the banging stopped. Perhaps God had come and redeemed us – or maybe the police had arrived and taken them away. As my shoulders relaxed, I realised just how tense my muscles had been. Stupid, really, to be scared of a few loud-mouthed yobs.

  Jim came over after lunch. For once, I didn’t try to avoid him, wanting to hear what had happened to the idiots at the church. I curled myself up on my chair and hoped he’d forget I was there. He waffled on for a bit about the people he thought might be responsible, none of whom I knew. He did mention the Howard Pitt bloke again, and Mesmeris, but said he thought it more likely it was just kids.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll catch the little scrotes.’

  ‘So, you didn’t get them this morning then?’ Dad said.

  ‘We’re not bloody psychic. By the time you let us know, they were long gone.’

  ‘We rang,’ Dad said. ‘Ten – ten-fifteen. They were still there then.’

  Jim frowned. ‘You rang this morning?’

  Dad nodded.

  Jim heaved himself to his feet. ‘I’ll have someone’s bollocks for this,’ he said. ‘First I heard was after the service.’

  ‘They cleared off almost straight away. I assumed it was your lot,’ Dad said. ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘Odd, my arse,’ Jim said. ‘Someone’s going to lose their tackle for it.’

  Yes, he’d definitely forgotten I was there.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The trouble at church shook us all. We were frightened they would come back overnight and attack the vicarage. By daylight, I began to relax. Jim was probably right – just kids causing trouble. At least that week I had the school trip to look forward to. For the first time in what seemed like ages, there was something fun to think about. Thursday morning looking at art in Tate Modern, then a free afternoon in London to do what we liked. I was tired of moping about feeling sorry for myself. Jack was just a lad, after all. Plenty more of those. That’s what I told myself anyway.

  Before the trip, three days of dull school to get through. I dragged my feet on the way there, not really looking where I was going. I saw his shoes first – crepe-soled, beige suede. My heart flipped over. I crossed the road, kept my face turned away from him.

  ‘Hi!’ He was right by my shoulder, had the cheek to be all chirpy too.

  I ignored him, wanted to slap him.

  ‘Wondered if you fancied going out again.’

  ‘Can’t, sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘I haven’t told you when yet.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter when. I’m busy.’ I crossed the road again.

  He followed me. ‘Look, sorry I didn’t get in touch, okay? I – thought it was for the best.’

  ‘It was. Bye.’ I crossed the road again. He came after me. A sudden thought popped into my head – about how hilarious we’d look on CCTV, crossing and re-crossing the road. The thought made me smile.

  He saw it and pounced. ‘Come on. Don’t be pissed off
with me.’ He held my arm, stopped me walking. He lifted my chin so I had to look at him. ‘I just didn’t want to mess up your life.’

  ‘And now you do?’

  He grinned. ‘It was harder than I expected – staying away.’

  I’d forgotten just how beautiful he was, how warm those eyes were when he was happy.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Forgive me.’

  I had to turn away to hide my smile. ‘I need to get to school.’

  ‘Can I see you when you finish?’

  ‘If you like.’ I shrugged, as if I wasn’t bothered, and yet my heart was going like the devil.

  He whistled under his breath. ‘Bloody hell, you’re a tough nut.’

  I didn’t respond, just strode off. The humiliation of that unanswered call still smarted. No way would I forget that in a hurry.

  He was outside the gates when I finished. He walked me home, talking the whole way. I said almost nothing, acted as if I was bored. He bought me flowers – a bunch of daffodils – my favourites. I wondered how he knew and then remembered telling him when I was babbling non-stop in the restaurant. He had been listening then.

  He was there to meet me the next morning and I wondered if I should ease up a bit. I told him about the idiots at the church. He scratched his neck and changed the subject.

  ‘One of them spat at my dad,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s disgusting?’ I said.

  ‘I do.’ He stopped me, kissed my nose.

  I thought about pushing him away but it felt so good to be near him, to smell his skin, feel his warmth.

  ‘It’s terrible.’ He kissed my lips.

  I kept them closed, didn’t kiss him back.

  ‘Absolutely appalling.’ He kissed my neck, behind my ear, sent shivers rippling all over my body.

  Definitely time to forgive him.

  At lunchtime on Wednesday, most of the art class sat on the steps in front of school and planned the free afternoon in London. The boys said they were going to Soho, to the strip clubs.

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ Abbi said. ‘Like they’d let a bunch of nerds like you in.’

  Most of the girls planned to go shopping but Abbi, Jess and I had a different idea. Jess had researched on the net and found a pub near the Tate where Dickens once went.