Bang Bang You're Dead (4 page)

I have no idea when I first realized that Jamie was different. I know that it took me a long time to see it because we were the same in so many ways. We were babies together, tucked up in our pram, sharing the same blanket. We learned to walk and talk at the same time. We finished each other's sentences and could often read each other's minds, in the way twins sometimes can.

But over the years I gradually came to understand, with a vague, unspecified feeling of dread, that Jamie wasn't like me. I didn't have the wild streak that was so much part of his character. Jamie's favourite words were
I dare you, Mia,
and when I double-dared him, he would go even further than I'd suggested and get himself into extraordinary, dangerous situations.

Once Jamie dared me to open the window of my bedroom, three floors up, and lean right out into space. It sounded scary to my six-year-old self, so I immediately double-dared
him
to open the window and then stand on the ledge. I could have bitten my tongue off even at the very instant I was speaking because Jamie immediately bounded over to the window and flung it open without a trace of fear.

'Watch this, Mia,' he said.

He climbed up onto the narrow ledge and stood in the open window, the breeze lifting his hair. He leaned forward a little, then glanced back over his shoulder and gave me a cheeky grin. By this time, of course, every nerve in my body was taut with panic.

'Get down, Jamie!' I wailed, putting my hands over my eyes. 'Get
down
! I'm telling Grandpa!'

But when I took my hands away again, Jamie had vanished.

I was fixed to the spot for a couple of minutes, too terrified even to scream. Whispering his name, I peered outside, heart palpitating, expecting to see a crowd of people gathered around a crumpled, broken body lying on the pavement.

But there was no body, and the passers-by were simply going about their ordinary business. Then, suddenly, someone was behind me, and I did scream this time. There was Jamie, his black eyes glittering triumphantly. He had inched his way along the outside ledge, high above the traffic, to the open window of the next room, climbed in and then strolled back to surprise me. There were other incidents like this, too many to count. But when, years later, I told Jamie how much he'd frightened me, he just laughed.

'I feel really alive when I do dangerous stuff, Mia,' he told me. 'It's a buzz, an adrenalin rush. You should try it sometime.'

But Jamie isn't just reckless with his own safety.

I think he's hurt other people too.

I have no proof and I've never asked him about the things I suspect. It's so much easier to say nothing.

Michael Riley could have been the first. I say
could
because I have no proof, you understand.

A few months after we moved in with Grandpa, Jamie and I started nursery school. It was Grandpa's idea and Mum took a whole lot of persuading. But, at last, off we went, two mornings a week for three hours at a time, to paint, model playdough and mess around with sand and water. I think Grandpa was hoping that mixing with other children would help Jamie and me to separate from one another a little and become more independent.

But it didn't work. I loved the toys and the activities, but I was wary of the confident, outgoing little girls with their Barbie backpacks and outfits colour-coordinated with their hair accessories; their bright, chatty, friendly mums who were nothing at all like my own. I kept myself to myself, and I only ever played with Jamie. Of course Jamie wasn't overawed by anyone or anything at the nursery, but he only wanted to play with me too.

The boys all ignored me except a redheaded one called Michael Riley. To this day I have no idea why, but he took an instant dislike to me. It began with him tipping a cup of water onto my shoes. He put sand in my orange juice and a snail in my coat pocket. For some reason he seemed to be on a mission to search out every possible way he could torment and tease me. I hated him, and Jamie hated him even more on my behalf.

'Now, what would you like to do this morning?' Lisa asked on our fourth visit. Lisa was one of the nursery nurses, blonde, comfortably plump, with a calm, reassuring voice. 'Some of us are going to make paper flowers. Would you like to join in?'

I glanced over at a table covered with coloured tissue paper and pots of glue. Michael Riley was hovering around it, brandishing a paintbrush like a sword. He stuck his tongue out at me and crossed his eyes.

'No thank you,' I said. 'Jamie and I would like to play in the Wendy house, wouldn't we, Jamie?'

'Yes, please, Lisa,' said Jamie, smiling widely at her. He took my hand and gave it a squeeze.

Lisa sighed a little, but she was too kind to insist. 'OK, off you go,' she agreed, and we skipped off hand in hand.

Inside the red and yellow Wendy house, Jamie busied himself with the ironing while I stood at the plastic stove and cooked the dinner.

Suddenly a hand sneaked through the gap in the gingham curtains. My ponytail was grabbed and pulled eye-wateringly hard, making me cry out. I caught a glimpse of Michael Riley's grinning face as he ran off and I burst into tears of shock and pain.

Jamie dropped the iron and ran over to me immediately. 'Don't cry, Mia,' he said, sliding his arms around me.

'I hate that Michael Riley,' I sobbed. 'And now I've burned the sausages.'

'Never mind.' Jamie patted me on the shoulder. 'I'll go out for a Domino's pizza. You lay the table.'

Left alone in the Wendy house, I dried my tears on the checked tablecloth and began to put out plastic plates, cups and cutlery. The ritual of laying the table, something I always did at home with Grandpa, calmed me, and I began to sing to myself.

Suddenly I heard an ear-splitting scream. And then I saw Michael Riley lying on the floor outside the Wendy house, very still. His arm was twisted underneath him at a sickeningly awkward angle.

Lisa and Beth, the other nursery nurse, were on the scene immediately. As the other children crowded round, demanding to see, I stayed where I was. I remember thinking that it served Michael Riley right for being mean to me. I didn't realize then that Jamie was nowhere to be seen.

Michael Riley was unconscious when the paramedics turned up and took him away on a stretcher. We heard later that he was fine, apart from having broken his arm in two places. Apparently Michael had been pushed, hard, from behind and hadn't seen his assailant as he fell. Lisa and Beth and Mrs Ransome, the owner of the nursery, asked every one of us if we had seen what happened. We all denied it, and it never occurred to me then that maybe Jamie wasn't telling the truth.

Mrs Riley was furious about Michael's injury. She tried to sue the nursery, although that came to nothing. So even when his arm had healed, Michael did not come back, and I didn't have to put up with his teasing any longer.

I never asked Jamie if
he
was the one who pushed Michael over. It didn't even enter my head at the time, and then when I grew older and it
did
enter my head, I didn't dare ask.

It could all have been so innocent. Jamie and Michael could have been fighting and Michael could have slipped. Maybe Michael hadn't wanted to tell his mother that he'd been involved in a fight. And so he'd lied and said someone pushed him.

There was no reason, though, why Jamie couldn't have told
me
the truth.

But Jamie never mentioned Michael again.

Maybe it seems like a giant, unbelievable leap to go from that to this, to what's happening here today.

But Michael Riley was only the beginning.

Monday 10 March, 9.15 a.m.

All the adrenalin rush, all the determination, all the bravado that had sent me racing off down the corridor drains away, as if someone had picked me up and wrung me out like a wet cloth. I just stand there, unable to move, gawping at Ms Kennedy as if I've never seen her before.

Ms Kennedy looks equally shocked. Her hands fly to her face, her mouth falls open and her eyes are round, completely circular with surprise. She looks like
The Scream.

But it's Ms Kennedy who recovers first.

'Mia!
Mia!
What in God's name are you doing here? Why aren't you outside with everyone else?'

Ms Kennedy is even blonder and more beautiful than the newsreader. I have hero-worshipped her ever since she was my Year Seven form tutor. She's now my English teacher and I love her fun and interesting lessons. Ms Kennedy is not only gorgeous and well-groomed, she's intelligent and witty and writes poetry which is published in glossy magazines. I envy her. I'd like to
be
her.

'I don't know, miss,' I mumble feebly as I try to collect my shattered wits. I'd been so sure that this part of the school at least would be empty after all this time. Then, with a shock, I realize that it's probably only about ten minutes since Ms Powell checked the cupboard where I was hiding. But every crazy, emotional roller-coaster of a moment seems like an hour right now.

Ms Kennedy ignores me. 'Come with me immediately, Mia.' She grasps my arm and begins to pull me with frantic urgency towards the nearest exit. 'We
must
leave right now. I was just about to go myself. We had to round up some
idiotic
Year Ten kids who sneaked back into school to get their phones from their lockers.' Ms Kennedy shakes her head in disbelief, still gripping my arm. 'But I think everyone's safely out now.'

Docile as a lamb, I hurry down the corridor with her in the opposite direction to the way I was going, back past the staffroom and the library. Away from the annexe. I am used to doing what teachers tell me, so I obey automatically. Maybe it's for the best, I think. Perhaps I can be of more help to Jamie on the outside.

'Is it true, miss?' I ask, still hoping for the answers that have eluded me so far. 'Is there really someone with a gun in the annexe? Who is it?'

'I don't know, Mia.' Ms Kennedy abruptly speeds up so that we are now running down the corridor together, hurtling breathlessly round the next corner. 'No one knows. Let's just get out of here, all right? Then we can find out exactly what's going on.'

'But
why
does no one know anything?' I complain.

I am about to blurt out my fears about Jamie, but a strong self-preservation instinct immediately kicks in and I restrain myself. Ms Kennedy appears to know nothing and I don't want to say anything about Jamie because I don't want to put ideas into people's heads, just in case the mysterious gunman
does
turn out to be someone else. It's still possible.

And, my God, who knows what might happen if I start making wild claims about Jamie that later turn out to be untrue? Things could get very complicated and unpleasant indeed.

I'm not going to allow
anyone
to break up my little family, sad and dysfunctional unit that we are. I'm not going to allow Jamie himself to smash us apart either.

Not if I can help it.

Ms Kennedy does not answer. She is as fiercely intent on the emergency exit ahead of us as Bree was earlier.

'How did the rumour start if no one knows who the gunman is?' I continue as we fly down the long, long corridor towards the double doors. 'Who set off the alarm? Why—?'

Ms Kennedy makes a sound that is halfway between a moan and a shriek. 'For God's sake, Mia,
shut up
!' she screams.

I am utterly shocked. I come to a sudden halt and wrench my arm from Ms Kennedy's grasp. I've never heard her yell like that before, not even in class.

Ms Kennedy whirls round to face me. She is ghostly white and panting hard. I realize that she is utterly terrified. For once I have the upper hand because I am
not.

'What are you doing, Mia? Come
on,
you stupid girl!' And she plunges forward to grab my arm again.

But I jump backwards, away from her.

I suddenly understand the role that Ms Kennedy has played in this situation. She definitely has to take some of the blame. It was
she
who persuaded me to enter the essay competition. Fine, that wasn't her fault, I was quite willing. It was a national competition and I won.

First prize. Two hundred and fifty pounds worth of book tokens for the school, and a hundred for myself.

Then, last week, the headteacher, Mr Whitman, read my winning essay out in assembly to the entire school, without telling me he was going to do so. It was meant to be a surprise and it certainly was, but not a pleasant one because my essay was intensely private and personal. I could have died of embarrassment. In fact, it would have been a relief at the time.

Ms Kennedy claimed that she didn't know what Mr Whitman was planning either, but I wonder if that was true. After all, she got a lot of praise for persuading me to enter the competition. I can guess exactly what the other teachers were saying.

Isn't Natasha Kennedy wonderful? Look how she's brought that quiet, pathetic little mouse Mia Jackson out of her shell . . . Imagine her writing a prize-winning essay!

It's entirely possible that Ms Kennedy is one of the people who have used and abused us and, like Jamie, I am sick and tired of it. I have had enough –
enough –
of everyone telling me what to do.

Pure adrenalin sings through me once again. But this time it's fuelled by intense, all-consuming rage. A rage I didn't even know I was capable of feeling.

'Mia!' Ms Kennedy lunges at me again and then almost howls with frustration as I step sideways to avoid her. 'Don't be a bloody idiot! Come
on
!'

'No,' I shout.

I evade her clutches, turn and race back down the corridor, away from the exit. I am quick, but Ms Kennedy is quicker. I forgot she is a star member of the school's running club and has competed in the London Marathon three times. She catches up with me at the corner and clamps my shoulders in a vice-like grip, spinning me round towards her. She slaps my face, not hard, but enough to make me gasp. My eyes sting and I am momentarily thrown off-balance.

'Calm down, Mia, and don't be a fool!' she shouts. She grabs my arm and begins to drag me back towards the exit again.

'Let go of me!' I shriek, lashing out at her with my free hand.

We begin to fight, Ms Kennedy trying to dodge my flailing arm and pull me back towards the exit, me still hitting out at her and trying to break free.

I cannot believe I'm fighting with a teacher.

But I am desperate. Almost instinctively, I stamp hard on Ms Kennedy's foot; she gasps in pain and her grip on me loosens slightly. I take advantage of this to give her a hard shove.

I swear I didn't mean this to happen, but Ms Kennedy staggers backwards, slips on the polished floor and goes down. She hits her head on the protruding window ledge as she falls, then blacks out. She lies there motionless as I gaze down at her in abject horror.

Oh God, now I've killed a teacher.

Tears streaming down my face, I sink to my knees beside Ms Kennedy. I grab her wrist and try to check for a pulse, but I have no idea what I'm doing. I look around frantically for help but of course there's no one here. What now?

Then, with a sob of relief, I see Ms Kennedy's eyes flicker. She mumbles something but then sinks into unconsciousness again. I can see now that her chest is rising and falling with every breath. She is definitely alive, thank God.

I scramble to my feet to flee, but hesitate. I am free to go to Jamie, but I can't leave Ms Kennedy here. She might be in danger, and I can't have that on my conscience. My nerves stretched like elastic to breaking point, I stand there wondering what to do next.

Then, out of nowhere, there is a loud burst of classical music, and I'm so frightened I almost have to scrape myself off the ceiling. It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that Ms Kennedy's mobile phone is ringing.

I bend down, take the mobile out of her jacket pocket – it's the latest designer must-have – and glance at the display screen.
Keisha Powell.
My form tutor.

I am about to press the
off
button when suddenly I realize that here is the answer to my problem of what to do with the unconscious Ms Kennedy. Instead of turning the phone off, I press the answer button.

'Hello?
Hello?
' Ms Powell is already yelling at the other end of the line as we are connected. 'Natasha, for God's sake, where
are
you?'

'Hello,' I mumble.

I think about trying to disguise my voice but the best I can do is to speak very low and quietly.

'Natasha, the police are moving us right away from the school,' Ms Powell shouts, hardly waiting for my reply, her usually calm and measured tones touched with hysteria. In the background I can hear all kinds of noise – shouts and screams, car engines and the unmistakable sound of people weeping. 'They want to know why you haven't come out yet. The armed police are going to be here in ten minutes. You have to get out of there
now
—'

'Ms Kennedy is lying in the corridor near classroom Seven B,' I cut in. I am gabbling wildly because I am so desperate to get this information across. 'She's OK, but she had an accident and hit her head and she's unconscious. Someone will have to come and help her.'

Without waiting for a reply, I fumble to switch the phone off. But I'm not quick enough and Ms Powell comes through loud and clear.

'Who
is
this?' she demands, her voice sharpening. 'What's all this about an accident?' There's a pause and in my panic to cut the connection as fast as possible, the phone almost slips through my trembling fingers.

'Oh, God!' I mutter. 'How do I turn this thing off?'

There is an intake of breath from Ms Powell at the other end of the line. 'Mia! Is that you? Where are you, and—?'

The phone goes dead as I finally manage to find the right button to cut the call. But almost immediately it begins to ring again. Swearing and sweating and shaking uncontrollably, I finally manage to work out how to turn the phone right off, and there is blessed silence as the display screen goes dark. But now everyone, including the police, will know that I'm still in the building. Maybe by now they have also discovered the identity of the gunman.

I untie my sweatshirt from around my waist, roll it into a pillow and slide it gently under Ms Kennedy's head. Then I replace the phone in her pocket. At first I think about taking it with me. I haven't had my own phone for months because we couldn't pay the bill, and it might be useful if I need to ring Mum or Bree. Or maybe the police.

But vague fears of being tracked by the phone signal on my way over to the annexe stop me. So I leave the phone behind.

I take a last look at Ms Kennedy; I hope that she will be all right and that someone will come for her very soon.

As I run off down the corridor I try to recapture that rush of heady adrenalin from before, but all I am feeling now is real, undiluted fear.

This time there is no going back.