Say Her Name (11 page)

Chapter 14

Caine pelted out of the dingy room without another word. Bobbie threw an apologetic look to Bridget and followed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You will be.’ Bridget turned back to her wall.

‘Caine, wait!’ Bobbie called after him. By the time she was out of the side room, he was already halfway down the corridor, the patients in the breakout space turning to see what all the commotion was about.

‘Sorry … I had to get the hell out of that room. I couldn’t breathe. It was doing my head in.’ He leaned against the wall, resting his head on the fire-procedures poster.

Bobbie gave his arm a rub, but the gesture was awkward. ‘I know. But I don’t believe what Bridget said … Mary is showing me the past for a reason. Why would she do that if she just wanted us dead? She’s trying to lead us somewhere, I know it.’

Caine looked weary, when she needed him to be strong. Bobbie remembered how it felt to be Mary: how ashamed she’d been in the lesson and how scared and lonely she’d been hiding in the toilet. She wasn’t
evil
.

Dr Kahn bustled down the corridor, glaring at them. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Bobbie muttered.

Dr Kahn looked into Bridget’s room and then frowned back at them. ‘I knew this visit was a bad idea.’ She regarded them coolly. ‘How do you even know Bridget? You’re clearly a lot younger than she is.’

It was time to leave. ‘We’re friends of the family. We’re going now. We’re sorry if we upset her. We didn’t mean to.’

‘TWO DAYS LEFT.’ Bridget’s drunken voice echoed throughout the shared space. Caine tugged his arm away from Bobbie and stomped down the corridor. With another vexed glance from the doctor, Bobbie followed Caine towards the exit, pulling him back by the sleeve.

‘Caine.’ Bobbie lowered her voice and leaned in, aware that this wasn’t a conversation you wanted the staff of a mental facility to overhear. ‘Please. If ghosts are spirits trapped on earth, maybe she needs to be released. Perhaps if we can figure out whatever unfinished business she has, we can stop this from happening over and over again. Just … trust me.’

Caine softened and looked at her. Their faces were only centimetres apart – this was the closest she’d ever been to a boy’s lips. They were dangerously inviting. ‘I do.’

Bobbie couldn’t stand it. Being that close to him was intoxicating and she needed a clear head. She pulled away. ‘Okay. Bridget dreamed about the graveyard – perhaps we could go and check it out. I wonder if she’s buried there.’ Bobbie wondered if her headstone might hold a clue – the name of a relative or something, someone, who could give them an insight into what Mary’s unfinished business might be.

‘It’s worth a look.’ Caine seemed to resign himself to the quest. ‘It just seems that whatever we do … How can we stop something that can float up at windows? Something that lives inside mirrors?’

Although the mention of the impossible handprints was enough to send a wave of goosebumps up her arms, Bobbie wouldn’t admit defeat. ‘I don’t know.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘But sitting in a dark room and rocking isn’t going to help, is it?’

Caine laughed for the first time in ages. ‘You have a point. Let’s get the bus into Oxsley. And I reckon it’s about time for some sugar too, I’m Hank Marvin.’

The mere thought of food made her empty stomach rumble. ‘Okay. I wouldn’t say no to chocolate either. I need to use the bathroom first.’

They left the ward and it was immediately lighter and fresher, as if the ward existed in its own sorry dimension. David, the nurse, showed them to the nearest toilets. Bobbie had to admit she was starting to feel Bridget’s aversion to rooms with mirrors in, especially after what Caine had shown her last night. ‘Wait here for me, yeah?’

He understood her unease. ‘Sure.’

Bobbie entered the toilet, disappointed to find both cubicles empty. A single strip light hummed overhead, filling the room with bleached, stark light. There was a mirror above the sink, but she pointedly looked away from it – knowing that if she looked hard enough, she wouldn’t be alone in the room. She did her business as quickly as possible, but, as much as she wanted to get out of the room, she
had
to wash her hands or she’d feel grimy for the rest of the morning.

Eyes avoiding her reflection, Bobbie rinsed her hands under the tap. That was when she first noticed. Where she’d pulled the sleeves of the Barbour jacket up to avoid wetting them, she saw a sore red scratch. How had she done that? It wasn’t bleeding; it was more like a scar that was healing.

Shaking the water from her hands, she pulled the sleeve back further. Her mouth fell open. There were cuts all over her forearm. ‘What the … ?’ Vicious grazes criss-crossed her skin – some a centimetre or two, most of them tiny nicks, but some thick gashes. In desperation, Bobbie rolled up her right sleeve and found much the same. Her arms were covered in cuts that had never happened.

Chapter 15

In a futile attempt, she brushed at her skin, trying to get them off. She closed her eyes and counted to five, praying this was all in her head – another dream moment – but when she opened her eyes, the angry scarlet marks were still present. An exasperated sob rolled off her tongue. ‘Caine! Caine!’ she yelled, unable to conjure words beyond that.

He burst into the bathroom, ready for a fight judging from the flared nostrils and clenched fists. Bobbie threw herself at him, only just keeping her voice on this side of hysterical. ‘Look! Look at my arms!’

He grimaced as his fingers traced her skin. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing! I don’t know! They were just there!’ It was all too much. She’d reached a tipping point and she couldn’t hold it in a second longer. All the hard work she’d done at remaining positive and upbeat was gone in a heartbeat. Mary had
scarred
her.

‘Oh God.’ Caine held his arms out and she crumbled into his embrace, her eyes wide and unblinking. She was worried if she blinked she’d push tears out, and she
wasn’t
going to cry. His sweater smelled of ‘meadow’ fabric conditioner – clean and safe – he smelled like home.

It wasn’t fair. She wanted to help Mary, she really did, but now this. What next? ‘Why is she doing this? What does she want from us?’

Caine didn’t answer but held her tight.

Half an hour later, Bobbie finished her Kinder Bueno and washed it down with some Fanta Lemon while they waited for the bus. ‘That better?’ Caine asked.

‘Marginally.’ Bobbie blushed. The terror had subsided, although the cuts had not. They were all she could think about. One more thing to add to the list of impossible things that had happened in the last three days. This was the worst though – this one affected her body. She felt violated, vulnerable and it made Mary feel
realer
somehow. She wasn’t some gaseous spook, she could
get
them.

Caine had soothed her, accepting his shift as the rational one. He’d pointed out that although the cuts were real, she wasn’t in any major pain, so it could be a lot worse. Bobbie kept her fresh fears to herself – they didn’t need verbalising, they were clear from the marks on her arms. ‘Sorry for my meltdown.’ She attempted a quip but her voice wavered. ‘Can we blame it on dangerously low blood sugar?’

Caine smiled. Dimples. ‘I’m down with that. Nah, all things considered I think we’re all doing pretty well.’

‘Right.’ Bobbie swallowed down the scream brewing in her throat.
Crying is counterproductive
– how many times had she said that to Naya when some random guy had failed to reply to a text. ‘Maybe if we had two weeks we’d have more time to stand around sobbing on each other and wailing.’

‘Still.’ Caine downed his second Red Bull. ‘If you wanna cry, cry. I gave my pillow a pretty good punch this morning.’

‘Is that a euphemism?’ Bobbie couldn’t resist, but wished at once she hadn’t said it. Oh God, now he might think she was ‘sassy’. There was nothing worse than ‘sassy’.

Caine snorted Red Bull down his nose. ‘Nice. I see what you did there.’

‘Sorry. That’s super-inappropriate.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Caine opened a bag of Doritos. ‘Let’s talk about
anything
other than ghosts. That’s literally all we’ve ever talked about.’

It was true. She didn’t actually know anything about her partner in crime beyond the fact he went to Radley, rode a little BMX bike and sort of dated Grace. That was it. Oh, and the turbulent family history. ‘You have a point. Go on then, tell me something else.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like about you.’ Maybe if she focused on him she wouldn’t think about the marks on her arms. Just thinking about them made her skin crawl.
Just think about Caine
.

It started to rain again – drops tapping on the roof of the bus shelter, which was half covered with slick, wet, orange leaves. ‘Er, I dunno,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty basic.’

‘Hardly.’

‘I’m studying Sport, Art and Photography. If … you know … if there is a next year, I’m
meant
to be off to uni to do Graphic Design.’

Bobbie’s eyes lit up. She ignored the bit about Mary.
Just think about Caine.
‘Oh cool. I didn’t have you down as a “creative”.’

‘Ha! That’s what my hippy Art teacher calls himself. What makes you say that?’

Bobbie shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Just a misconception, I guess. I saw the hoodie and the BMX and had you down as a … I dunno, a roguish rebel type or something.’

Caine grinned. ‘Is it cos I is brown?’ He winked and they both laughed. ‘That’s Radley High. It’s a pretty hard-core school – you do what you gotta do to get by. You only show people what you want them to see, you know? Either that or you get your head kicked in. It was the same in Croydon.’

‘Yeah. Piper’s Hall is just as bad. Everyone in their boxes: like you have the hockey girls, and the choir girls, and the pretty girls; even the alternative girls are identikit. You can pick any box you like except the one marked
you
.’

He nodded. ‘It’s a killer. Like trying really hard to look like you’re not trying. I try to mix it all up. My sketches, my skating, street-art influences. Look.’ He lifted his jumper up to reveal a grey T-shirt with an anatomical diagram of a dissected frog printed on it. ‘I made this.’

‘Oh wow – that’s actually really cool.’ As he lifted it up, Bobbie caught a glimpse of the top of his boxers. He wore the baggy cotton kind and they bunched up over the waist of his jeans, the elastic tight over the muscular ridges running over his hips. Something warm and rosy stirred inside her.
Just think about Caine
was really working. He was just the tonic she needed.

‘Thanks. I wanna do more of them – maybe sell them online. Again, that’s if … ’

‘I hear ya.’

‘What about you? Is it all crochet and stuff up at the hall?’

‘Ha! Not quite! God, I dread to think what you’ve heard.’

‘Everyone’s rich?’

‘Nope.’

‘Lesbian orgies?’

‘Only the last Wednesday of the month,’ Bobbie said wryly.

‘Disappointing. Sex, drugs, rock and roll?’

‘No, no and only the goth girls.’

‘Fail. Is everyone well posh?’

‘It’s all relative. We have a minor royal in Lower Three, so compared to her I’m pretty much a pleb. There’s an entrance exam, so if you’re dead clever you can get scholarships and stuff.’

‘What about you?’

‘Did I get a scholarship?’ Bobbie tugged her sleeves down where they rode up – she didn’t want reminding of the phantom injuries until she could get undressed properly and see the full extent of the damage. The cuts constantly niggled in the front of her temple like there was a fly trapped in her skull. ‘No. Despite the glasses I’m not actually that brainy. My mum was a pretty big actress in the Eighties – she was Desdemona in some old film version of
Othello
. She’s always working in weird places so she sent me to boarding school for “my own good”.’

‘That sucks.’ Caine finished his crisps and put the packet in the bin. ‘You are brainy though. The way you talk and stuff.’

‘Would I get my head kicked in at Radley?’

‘Oh without doubt! Without doubt!’ he laughed.

‘I like writing,’ Bobbie admitted. ‘I don’t know if I’m any good at it – I can barely use full stops – but I’d like to be a writer. Like an author.’

Caine smirked. ‘A “creative”?’

‘Yeah.’ Bobbie smiled back. Through the murk, the bus hissed down the street, brushing and clacking against the overhanging trees as it did so, ruining the moment. Damn. She didn’t want her chat with Caine to end.

They boarded the bus with a flash of their passes and Bobbie was hit by an almost tangible wall of BO. The steamed-up, damp vehicle was rank – it smelled like sacks of wet compost left in the sun. ‘Dude, it reeks,’ Caine muttered and Bobbie was about to reply when she saw something that froze her mid-thought. ‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Just keep walking,’ Bobbie told him, leading him to the very back seats. In the third row sat a day boarder called Elodie Minchin. God knew why she was taking the bus into school at almost midday, and it didn’t matter. They’d been seen.

Caine saw what she saw. ‘Oh bum. You reckon she’ll grass you up.’

‘Again, it’s not Price I’m worried about.’

‘Grace?’

‘Grace.’

Caine must have picked up on
something
– perhaps she was making the same face she made when she was forced to eat dreaded olives or capers – because unprompted he said: ‘You know, there’s nothing happening with me and Grace.’

Bobbie feigned disinterest, as if this was of no consequence to her, although there was a marching-band victory parade in her head. Another part of her brain tried to push black Mary clouds to the forefront, but she ignored it. Life is all about minor triumphs. For now, on the back row of the 38 bus, she permitted herself to revel in the satisfaction of knowing that Caine wasn’t interested in Grace Brewer-Fay. ‘Oh, really? Does she know that?’

‘If she doesn’t she should. I’ve been straight with her.’

Bobbie chose to pursue it further, attempting to sound as breezy as possible. ‘Why not? Grace is super-hot.’

‘You think?’

‘You don’t?’

Caine’s mouth turned down at the edges. ‘She’s Team Hot, but she’s not Team Fun, you know what I mean? She might wanna try smiling some day.’

Bobbie stifled a laugh. ‘Burn.’

‘Yeah. I shouldn’t be shady about her. She’s okay, but … just no.’ When she didn’t reply, he went on. ‘It’s hard to say, ain’t it – why you fancy some people and not others? You just sort of do or you don’t.’

Bobbie thought of pithy comebacks, but was propelled to play it straight. ‘I know what you mean. You can’t help it.’

Caine nodded and rubbed a porthole for himself in the steamed-up window. ‘Some people just shine a bit brighter than others and it’s got nothing to do with what they look like.’

Bobbie suddenly couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat.

By the time they reached St Paul’s the rain had eased to a shroud of fine drizzle. The churchyard was empty aside from a lady with a pram leaving fresh flowers on a grave and pulling up the weeds that encroached on her monument. Bobbie briefly wondered who she’d come to see – a husband, perhaps her mother or father. Either way, the pair passed her in respectful silence.

They followed the path around the church to the seemingly endless rows of graves that waited around the back. ‘Where do we start?’ Caine asked.

‘I have no idea. I guess we look for a headstone with Worthington on it … ’

They split up to save time – yes, it was Horror Film 101, but there really were an awful lot of graves to inspect. There was no obvious order to the cemetery; even the pathways through the graveyard were winding and nonsensical. Looming oak trees were dotted amidst the graves, blocking out the light. Every few hundred metres there was a bench, but these were the only things that acted as landmarks.

As she walked through the tombstones, Bobbie could feel a sense of peace, of restfulness. Was it morbid to think that everyone dies and that’s okay? It was the people left behind that
felt
the death. That was why Bobbie couldn’t go just yet. Who’d look after her mum?

The heartfelt inscriptions on the headstones – just names to her – made Bobbie wonder if, once everything ends, you live on as a memory. Some of the graves had fresh tributes, but many had fallen to ruin, chipped and moss-eaten, with no one left to put a face to the name of the body that decayed below. Bobbie wondered if that’s how long you truly live for – until the last person who remembers you, until the final bouquet on your grave.

An angel wept over a family plot, holding a worn stone hand to her face. Bobbie read the names of those interred within. Whole generations in one grave. But not a single mention of Worthington. This was starting to feel like a needle in a haystack job.

A faint noise turned Bobbie’s head. A girl laughing. It carried on the wind, but the airy sound was faint, as if from a long way away or a long time
ago
. It was so delicate, so lacy, that Bobbie wondered if
this time
she really was imagining it.

She saw Caine make his way down the adjacent footpath. She met him at the junction, under a clump of grand, gnarled oaks. ‘Did you just hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Well … I thought I heard a girl laughing.’

‘Laughing? Doesn’t sound a lot like Mary.’

Bobbie nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’

A frown drew Caine’s brows together. It was kinda cute. ‘This all feels a bit creepy though.’

‘What? A graveyard? Seriously?’

He grinned. ‘No, like major déjà vu.’

Any other week, Bobbie would have rolled her eyes, but in this case she believed him without question. ‘You think you’ve been here before?’

‘I
have
been here before – but this is different.’ He shrugged. ‘But I can’t say how.’

Frustrating. ‘That’s okay … any sign of a Worthington?’

‘Nope.’

‘Me neither.’ The heavens opened again, thick splatters of rain quickly turning into rods. ‘Ah! Let’s find shelter!’ Bobbie held her hands over her head. They sprinted for the nearest clump of trees, leaving the safety of the footpath.

There was a giddy strobe of lightning followed almost immediately by a rumble of thunder that sounded like the sky cracking. Bobbie remembered that if thunder instantly follows lightning, that meant the eye of the storm was close at hand. They dashed further into the woods, heading for denser cover. Under the browning autumn leaves, they were protected from the worst of it. Bobbie looked around the little forest and realised they weren’t exactly alone. They were still surrounded by graves.

Almost completely obscured by trees was an ivy-strangled mausoleum set some way off the main path. Rusty leaf litter was built up around the squat stone structure. Bobbie had never noticed it before, tucked away in the shadows, but once it would have been quite beautiful: low steps led to pillars that framed an ornate metal entrance, with finely moulded bars twisting and curling around a guardian angel deep in prayer. Sadly, now neglected, it was covered in graffiti – not fabulous street art, but nasty, squiggly ‘tags’ and lewd representations of the male anatomy. Coke bottles and faded crisp packets climbed the walls with the leaves.