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Authors: Louisa Reid
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then?
asks Hephzi, nudging me again. I tried to ignore her when she kept on and on at me but she was getting louder all the time.
‘I don’t know,’ I told her, trying to be firm. ‘Just be quiet and let me think.’
At this rate you’ll be leaving in a shitty cardboard box, just like me.
I took a deep breath and thought about it again. It couldn’t be that hard, I reasoned. All I’d need to do was pack a bag, raid The Parents’ wallets and head for the town. From there I could take a train or a bus and lose myself in some city far away. If they came looking for me I’d just run again, and anyway, it would probably be more trouble than it was worth for them to hunt me down. He could simply dress himself in his grief and sorrow as he’d done before, suck up the condolences of the village and go about his business as usual. The Mother could be his whipping boy for a change, it would serve her right. And then maybe when I was free and safe I could let the truth out. That would show them.
But how would I live? It wouldn’t be safe. And who would employ me? I had no skills or talents and who would want to look at me, day after day? I had nothing to offer.
Night after night these thoughts kept me awake, winding in my sheets. I hid under the blanket, playing invisible, while I planned and plotted, plotted and planned. Eventually I’d go to sleep and then the nightmares would begin.The sound of the crying in the wall was getting louder too, just like Hephzi. The crying has been driving me crazy for years, since I was thirteen, but now all three of them are at it. I wished they’d be quiet, just for one single night.
In the morning when I awoke everything cleared again. I could see that none of my plans was possible; the shadowy light of the vicarage turned the future back to black. I would never trick them. Wherever I ran to they would find me. And so they knew that I would stay.
It was a Friday in April and almost the Easter holidays. I was dreading the break; for all I hated college, I hated the vicarage more. As usual I’d been keeping my head down, being careful not to sit beside anyone or to make myself known. Period six was Maths and my teacher was some new supply, covering for nice Mr Connor, who’d gone off sick. The supply teacher, Miss Peters, was what you would call officious; you could tell she thought we should count ourselves lucky to be in her esteemed presence by the way she mocked people who got answers wrong, as if it was all so simple and we were all so thick. She called on me today for answers again, having acquired some notion that I needed to speak up in class, as if ritual humiliation were character building. Usually I had some idea of an answer which I could hazard, but not today. In fact I hadn’t been listening at all, I dozed and daydreamed in my chair, thinking of
anything but the formula which glared at me, black and angry, from the whiteboard. Andso when she picked on me I couldn’t even manage a guess. I felt them all waiting, the air in the room thickening with expectation. My cheeks began to glow and I shrank into my jacket as I heard the sniggers start. I started to hum softly, hunching over my textbook; I didn’t need to hear the laughter and the taunts or feel the pellets of paper fired at my back to know they were enjoying my discomfort. Eventually Miss Peters cleared her throat and got on with the lesson, but the tense edge to her voice didn’t slacken and I knew she’d keep me behind. My lack of co-operation, she told me at the end of the class, was making her extremely frustrated. She saw no reason why I couldn’t at least try to make an effort like the rest of the class. She wasn’t going to pander to me and give me special treatment, either I bucked up or she would be
contacting my parents and would have to ask them in for a discussion of my progress. She stepped back, startled when I interrupted, my voice loud with sudden urgency.
‘No. Please don’t do that.
asks Hephzi, nudging me again. I tried to ignore her when she kept on and on at me but she was getting louder all the time.
‘I don’t know,’ I told her, trying to be firm. ‘Just be quiet and let me think.’
At this rate you’ll be leaving in a shitty cardboard box, just like me.
I took a deep breath and thought about it again. It couldn’t be that hard, I reasoned. All I’d need to do was pack a bag, raid The Parents’ wallets and head for the town. From there I could take a train or a bus and lose myself in some city far away. If they came looking for me I’d just run again, and anyway, it would probably be more trouble than it was worth for them to hunt me down. He could simply dress himself in his grief and sorrow as he’d done before, suck up the condolences of the village and go about his business as usual. The Mother could be his whipping boy for a change, it would serve her right. And then maybe when I was free and safe I could let the truth out. That would show them.
But how would I live? It wouldn’t be safe. And who would employ me? I had no skills or talents and who would want to look at me, day after day? I had nothing to offer.
Night after night these thoughts kept me awake, winding in my sheets. I hid under the blanket, playing invisible, while I planned and plotted, plotted and planned. Eventually I’d go to sleep and then the nightmares would begin.The sound of the crying in the wall was getting louder too, just like Hephzi. The crying has been driving me crazy for years, since I was thirteen, but now all three of them are at it. I wished they’d be quiet, just for one single night.
In the morning when I awoke everything cleared again. I could see that none of my plans was possible; the shadowy light of the vicarage turned the future back to black. I would never trick them. Wherever I ran to they would find me. And so they knew that I would stay.
It was a Friday in April and almost the Easter holidays. I was dreading the break; for all I hated college, I hated the vicarage more. As usual I’d been keeping my head down, being careful not to sit beside anyone or to make myself known. Period six was Maths and my teacher was some new supply, covering for nice Mr Connor, who’d gone off sick. The supply teacher, Miss Peters, was what you would call officious; you could tell she thought we should count ourselves lucky to be in her esteemed presence by the way she mocked people who got answers wrong, as if it was all so simple and we were all so thick. She called on me today for answers again, having acquired some notion that I needed to speak up in class, as if ritual humiliation were character building. Usually I had some idea of an answer which I could hazard, but not today. In fact I hadn’t been listening at all, I dozed and daydreamed in my chair, thinking of
anything but the formula which glared at me, black and angry, from the whiteboard. Andso when she picked on me I couldn’t even manage a guess. I felt them all waiting, the air in the room thickening with expectation. My cheeks began to glow and I shrank into my jacket as I heard the sniggers start. I started to hum softly, hunching over my textbook; I didn’t need to hear the laughter and the taunts or feel the pellets of paper fired at my back to know they were enjoying my discomfort. Eventually Miss Peters cleared her throat and got on with the lesson, but the tense edge to her voice didn’t slacken and I knew she’d keep me behind. My lack of co-operation, she told me at the end of the class, was making her extremely frustrated. She saw no reason why I couldn’t at least try to make an effort like the rest of the class. She wasn’t going to pander to me and give me special treatment, either I bucked up or she would be
contacting my parents and would have to ask them in for a discussion of my progress. She stepped back, startled when I interrupted, my voice loud with sudden urgency.
‘No. Please don’t do that.
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