scared.’
Three days later, a policeman came to our house. He smelled of chewing gum, hair gel and too much deodorant. His hands were tiny and hardly moved. I talked at them, not at his face.
‘You’re not in trouble,’ he said. ‘But we need you to understand how serious this is.’ He blinked. ‘It’s veryserious.’ (Later, I found out that school had suspected Dad of fingering me while I slept.)
He asked me what I was planning to do with the knife. I said I was planning to defend myself. He told me that adults were there to protect me, and that no one can hurt me in school. I asked if he’d ever heard of Colombine. He said that sort of thing only happens in America and he told me not to do it again and he went away.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Mum said. ‘You know you can talk to me about anything, darling.’ I turned the TV onto BBC1 because I thought it would be the news, but it wasn’t, it was a programme about antiques. I locked myself in the bathroom and lay in the empty bathtub for two hours, picturing myself alone in a spaceship, surrounded by slowly spinning purple galaxies.
Mum reacted by saying that I could do martial arts. Ben Wheelan said there were kung-fu monks who can kill you without even touching you. That sounded like something I wanted to do. I went through the phone book and found a place run by a woman. I trusted women more. They can’t do rapes and their hands are smoother. I stopped going after two sessions because none of the moves seemed like they could beat a knife or a gun.
Dad reacted by giving me a used copy of a book called The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook. It wassupposed to make me less anxious. I memorised everything in it. It didn’t make me less anxious. It brought to my attention the almost endless amount of potentially dangerous situations I had to be anxious about. It said about how to deliver babies and cope with parachutes that won’t open. It talked about how to act while on the roof of a moving train.
Junior school ended on a day without clouds and I stopped seeing Ben Wheelan. I got into a secondary school with an entrance exam. He got into a secondary school for people who sometimes hit other people.
I spent the summer collecting slugs in plastic takeaway cartons, reading The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook, and stealing Dad’s beers.
14
At home, I watch my face in the bathroom mirror. It looks red and a little confused. There are no bruises yet. There will be. I’m Natasha Bedingfield. It will be okay. Mum will believe me when I tell her it’s from walking into a lamppost. Dad will think it’s from fighting and he won’t say anything but he’ll secretly be imagining the triumphant victory of his only son. A victory in which I break bones and spit blood between punches.
I splash myself with water and go to watch television on the sofa with Amundsen. I fill a pint glass with cider. There’s a film on where Daniel Craig and Billy Elliot do Polish accents and captain a group of Jews who are hiding from the Nazis in a deep forest. They build huts and steal food and argue. There’s a lot of arguing. Thereare a lot of guns being fired and hungry people with mud-speckled faces. Normally, I only like films where nothing bad happens. Where you know that no one will die or get severely maimed or starve. Films like Love, Actually and Bridget Jones’ Diary. There’s no way that Bridget Jones would ever be raped and left for dead, so I didn’t feel anxious during it. I felt calm with alternating periods of amusement and sadness.
I like the film about the Jews, though. I start to pretend that I’m one of them. I’m taking lookout duty late at night. I’m breaking into the ghetto to let the others know they can join us. I’m shooting Nazis in their cars and celebrating afterwards. It’s tough, but it’s what we have to do to survive.
Eat.
Hide.
Kill Nazis.
When it ends, I’m alone with a sleeping Amundsen, very drunk,
Three days later, a policeman came to our house. He smelled of chewing gum, hair gel and too much deodorant. His hands were tiny and hardly moved. I talked at them, not at his face.
‘You’re not in trouble,’ he said. ‘But we need you to understand how serious this is.’ He blinked. ‘It’s veryserious.’ (Later, I found out that school had suspected Dad of fingering me while I slept.)
He asked me what I was planning to do with the knife. I said I was planning to defend myself. He told me that adults were there to protect me, and that no one can hurt me in school. I asked if he’d ever heard of Colombine. He said that sort of thing only happens in America and he told me not to do it again and he went away.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Mum said. ‘You know you can talk to me about anything, darling.’ I turned the TV onto BBC1 because I thought it would be the news, but it wasn’t, it was a programme about antiques. I locked myself in the bathroom and lay in the empty bathtub for two hours, picturing myself alone in a spaceship, surrounded by slowly spinning purple galaxies.
Mum reacted by saying that I could do martial arts. Ben Wheelan said there were kung-fu monks who can kill you without even touching you. That sounded like something I wanted to do. I went through the phone book and found a place run by a woman. I trusted women more. They can’t do rapes and their hands are smoother. I stopped going after two sessions because none of the moves seemed like they could beat a knife or a gun.
Dad reacted by giving me a used copy of a book called The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook. It wassupposed to make me less anxious. I memorised everything in it. It didn’t make me less anxious. It brought to my attention the almost endless amount of potentially dangerous situations I had to be anxious about. It said about how to deliver babies and cope with parachutes that won’t open. It talked about how to act while on the roof of a moving train.
Junior school ended on a day without clouds and I stopped seeing Ben Wheelan. I got into a secondary school with an entrance exam. He got into a secondary school for people who sometimes hit other people.
I spent the summer collecting slugs in plastic takeaway cartons, reading The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook, and stealing Dad’s beers.
14
At home, I watch my face in the bathroom mirror. It looks red and a little confused. There are no bruises yet. There will be. I’m Natasha Bedingfield. It will be okay. Mum will believe me when I tell her it’s from walking into a lamppost. Dad will think it’s from fighting and he won’t say anything but he’ll secretly be imagining the triumphant victory of his only son. A victory in which I break bones and spit blood between punches.
I splash myself with water and go to watch television on the sofa with Amundsen. I fill a pint glass with cider. There’s a film on where Daniel Craig and Billy Elliot do Polish accents and captain a group of Jews who are hiding from the Nazis in a deep forest. They build huts and steal food and argue. There’s a lot of arguing. Thereare a lot of guns being fired and hungry people with mud-speckled faces. Normally, I only like films where nothing bad happens. Where you know that no one will die or get severely maimed or starve. Films like Love, Actually and Bridget Jones’ Diary. There’s no way that Bridget Jones would ever be raped and left for dead, so I didn’t feel anxious during it. I felt calm with alternating periods of amusement and sadness.
I like the film about the Jews, though. I start to pretend that I’m one of them. I’m taking lookout duty late at night. I’m breaking into the ghetto to let the others know they can join us. I’m shooting Nazis in their cars and celebrating afterwards. It’s tough, but it’s what we have to do to survive.
Eat.
Hide.
Kill Nazis.
When it ends, I’m alone with a sleeping Amundsen, very drunk,
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