Birdy Page 21
Bert was whisked away in an ambulance. Spent a few days in intensive care, but she was well soon enough. They had to whip out one of her kidneys as it was too far gone, but I shouldn’t think that matters much these days. Plenty of people manage with just the one.
I was so fed up with the whole thing by that point that when it came to the interviews I just told the police everything. I just let it all flow out, the whole exhausting story. I realised that I was just sick of being so unappreciated. I’d dedicated most of the year to Bert, to guiding her through, to taking care of her, to showing her what people could be like, and she’d repaid me by betraying me. By going behind my back with Jac, by ruining my alibi and reporting me to the police.
I tried to explain it to them all – to the detectives, the psychiatrists, the social workers – but I don’t think I did a very good job because they just didn’t seem to be getting it. They kept focusing on all the isolated incidents on their own and not seeing the bigger picture at all. I mean, I admit, if you just look at the scissor stabbing or the forged email or the naked photos on their own, then of course it looks bad, but I didn’t just do them out of the blue, for no reason. They were all born out of the circumstances we were in at the time.
I admit that not everything went exactly as I’d thought it would that year, but then what they didn’t seem to understand was that it wasn’t all planned. They made out like it was some carefully constructed operation, each and every step plotted out months in advance – a ‘systematic campaign of intimidation and manipulation’, the judge called it – but really, that wasn’t the case at all. I just dealt with things as they came up, doing whatever I thought needed to be done at the time.
It started with that graffiti on Bert’s locker. I don’t need to tell you I didn’t have anything to do with that – as if I could have ever been responsible for such unbridled use of punctuation – but that didn’t mean I wasn’t pleased with its effect. I still have no idea who did scrawl that little message on Bert’s locker – it was true what I’d said at the time, it could’ve been anyone. But it didn’t matter. I saw how Bert reacted. Shocked, of course. Hurt. But when she’d got over it, when she’d bounced back, it was with a new wisdom. A new understanding of the world. An understanding that told her that she couldn’t trust everyone around her, that not everyone liked her and not everyone would be nice to her, but that I – good, loyal Birdy – would always be there for her. Always ready to pick up the pieces.
It took more than one lesson though. People like Bert are flighty. Fickle. You saw what she was like for yourself – sworn off boys one minute, up to no good with Jac at a party the next, angry with Pippa one minute, planning minibreaks to the Lake District the next. She had such a short memory. When she got carried away again, when she got so caught up in the delight of being cast as the lead in that godawful play, I realised it was time for a reminder. Just something to make sure she remembered that even though the play might be exciting and she might be Little Miss Popular for now, there were no guarantees that everything was always going to be so rosy. And something that reminded her that I was still there, waiting for her, whatever happened.
The other bits – the Allenby email, the dodgy photos – there wasn’t anything particularly meaningful about the timing of those really. I’d seen Bert’s email account left open one evening and saw an opportunity. I knew how people would react to that email. I knew that would show Bert what people are like: judgemental, gossipy. And I hoped it would show her how important it was that she took care of her reputation. She couldn’t just be getting drunk and cosying up to boys at parties. People in places like Whistle Down like to talk. I knew it wouldn’t cause any lasting damage though. I knew it’d be just enough to show her just how supportive I could be, but I knew people wouldn’t ever think it was really from her. I was clever you see – the last thing I wanted was for Allenby and Mr Jeffrey to think she’d actually sent the thing and get Bert expelled – so I put in those little spelling mistakes. Anyone who knows anything about Bert would know straight away that she wouldn’t be caught dead writing ‘wear’ when she meant ‘where’.
Those photos though, they took even me by surprise. I was definitely surprised when I found them, that’s for sure. I mean, they weren’t part of the plan at all really. I hadn’t even meant for them to fall out in front of everyone like that. I just wanted Bert to find them when I was there, to see her squirm. I wanted her to explain herself. I was just so angry when I found them. I knew what had happened with Richard of course, but I suppose I’d chosen to block it out. Seeing them like that, together, it was like when she first told me all over again. And seeing Bert prostituting herself like that! I just couldn’t believe it. Maybe I’d been hoping she’d tell me that they weren’t for him at all. That she’d never given them to him. I suppose they scared me in a way. Why had she kept them? Was she still hung up on him? Or was she keeping them for someone else? I hated not knowing. I felt deceived. It just shook me up, really.
I do realise that some of what I did was hard for Bert at times. I didn’t really enjoy those bits – seeing Bert looking so forlorn after her opening performance when she realised she was the talk of the school for all the wrong reasons, seeing her cry in the toilets knowing everyone had seen her practically naked – they were hard for me too. But people keep focusing on all the negative bits. It’s like they’ve never heard of the end justifying the means. It wouldn’t have worked at all if Bert hadn’t felt a bit bad, a bit worried or embarrassed. How could I have taught her how nasty and immature everyone was if nothing had ever happened to get them to show their true colours? And how could I ever have shown her what a good friend I could be if everything was always plain sailing and she never needed me at all?
One idea they seemed to get a bit fixated on during the interviews was that I’d deliberately set out to frame Pippa, right from the beginning. I hadn’t, of course. I barely gave her a second thought back then, when everything started. Again, I was just dealing with crises as they came up. Pippa was getting a bit too big for her boots as far as I could see and Bert was getting all too taken in by her. If I’d realised before that they were having dinner together and planning little summer holidays I might’ve stepped in sooner, but I didn’t know about any of it until Bert told me that time in the toilet when she was crying about the photos. And at that point it just seemed like the perfect answer to everything – take Pippa down a couple of notches and at the same time show Bert that she could count on me to take care of things for her.
Planting the evidence in Pippa’s bag was probably the trickiest bit of the whole operation. I admit, I did feel a little bit sly at that point. There was a lot to think about there. I’d kept all the photos I’d found so that was easy enough but I did feel a bit creepy sneaking a pair of Bert’s pants out of her drawer when she wasn’t looking. I was worried she was going to catch me with them actually. I mean, how awful would it have looked if Bert had found me smuggling a pair of her knickers under my jumper? She would’ve thought I was a right lunatic.
It wasn’t just getting the evidence in the bag that I had to think about either. I had to make sure the stage was all set up ready – matches to hand, petrol-soaked rag packed in nice and tight at the bottom of the bin in case the fire needed a helping hand. I had to make sure it burnt for long enough, you see. I had to make sure it was still going when the teachers or fire brigade or whatever turned up. Wouldn’t have been much good if the whole thing had fizzled out by then. I’d been in two minds about leaving the can of spray paint in the bin to be honest, but in the end I thought, why not? If it did explode, it might give Pippa a little fright, which would be amusing at least. I’d completely forgotten it by the time I went to meet Pippa actually. I definitely never planned for it to end up killing her. But then, thinking about it now, I’m not sure I would’ve been too concerned even if it had occurred to me. I probably would’ve thought it was worth a shot. Pippa really was a total pain in the bum, you know.
The judge did come out with a bit of a corker at one point though – she said I ‘exhibited a chilling lack of remorse’. I couldn’t help but smile a bit then. Seriously, I thought, is that the best you can do? That line must’ve been used at least a thousand times by judges up and down the country; couldn’t she think of something a bit more original? Although, I suppose she did add her own little twist because what she actually said was that my lack of remorse would’ve been chilling if it hadn’t been for my ‘obvious mental disturbance’. Honestly, these people are so rude sometimes.
So. Here I am. In this ‘secure facility’. Not a prison, obviously. I’m too young for that. And too barmy, apparently. They like to make that point all the time: ‘You’re not here to be punished, Frances. You’re here to be treated.’
‘Wish you’d treat me to a pizza,’ I replied the first time they said that, giving them a little grin. You know, to lighten the mood. Didn’t grin back though, did she, that dour old doctor. Just stared at me, her head on one side. I don’t know why I bother sometimes. They’re such a humourless bunch in here.
Anyway, who knows how long they’ll keep me here. Until I’m rehabilitated apparently, whatever that means. It could be worse I suppose. I don’t mind sitting around in my room on my own. Wearing joggers all day and watching TV. Some people here make such a fuss about it, but then maybe their lives on the outside were a bit more enjoyable than mine. It’s funny really, but for the first time in my life, I feel like I actually fit in quite well. Everyone’s odd in here; I’m not even the worst. And everyone’s on their own. There are a few desperate little cliques but no one really looks up to them. They’re the weak ones. It’s people like me, the lone wolves, who get the respect in this kind of place.
The therapy sessions are awful though. I can’t wait to be rid of those. SO dull. Do you know they have whole sessions here where they teach you to control your breathing? Seriously. Not meaning to boast but I can do A-level maths problems without too much difficulty but here I am listening to some woman with bad eyeshadow teaching me how to breathe. And then there’s all the constant talking things through as well. Do they really think that I’ll suddenly start saying something different just as long as they ask me the same question often enough? I did make myself smile, actually, when I was writing the beginning of this, when I put that bit about how I used to want people to talk to me more. Careful what you wish for, eh? Anyway, that’s why I’ve written it all out. It was their idea but I think it makes sense. Now if they want to know what happened – if they really want to know everything – then they can just read this. Then maybe they’ll give the questions a rest for a few days.
Nan comes to see me every week. I don’t enjoy the visits that much. She looks terrible these days, so old and tired. She was there every day of my trial. Up in the gallery, day after day, wearing her one smart jacket and the proper shoes that I know hurt her feet. I suppose that kind of thing wears a person out. And she’s probably having to do everything at home now too, now I’m not there to help. Last week she told me she’s thinking about putting Granddad in a home. Said she can’t cope any more. I just nodded, but I’d wanted to reach out to her, to put my hand on hers. It’d shocked me, hearing her admit defeat like that. I wanted to say sorry then. They’ve been trying to get me to say sorry the whole time I’ve been here but Nan’s the only person I really want to apologise to. She looked after me. She did her best for me and now I’ve left her on her own. I worry about Granddad too. I wonder if he misses me. Or Bridget. Whoever he thinks I am. Maybe he’s too far gone now. Maybe he’s forgotten I was ever there.
I expect you were imagining that Nan had gone mental at me when all this came out but actually she didn’t. We’ve never talked about any of it really. She’s never asked me why. She had to bring me some things on my first night. Clothes and books and toothpaste. When she handed me the bag she just gave me this sort of smile and said, ‘You’ll be all right, you know.’ It was nice that she seemed so sure. Nan can be a hard person to love but I do it anyway. Maybe she’d say the same about me.
Bert hasn’t been in to see me once, if you can believe that. I’m sure she’s out of hospital by now but I suppose her parents won’t let her come. I saw them there, outside the courtroom, once. They gave me such a mean look. It was horrible – really cold, but full of pity too, and in a way that was worse. I suppose I shouldn’t have let it get to me. They are lovely – Charlie and Gen – but they did have a bit of a superior air about them sometimes. They were always just a bit too satisfied with their perfect little family. With their wonderful Bertie.
That’s been the really tough bit, of course. Not being able to see Bert. I haven’t laid eyes on her since they carted her off on the stretcher and that really hurts. I suppose I would like to apologise to her too, really. Just for that last bit, I mean. For the scissors. There was no great plan there, I admit. I just lost my temper. But then, she and Jac were being really horrible to me so it’s not like I wasn’t provoked. I’m sure she can see that now.
I’m pretty sure Bert would like the chance to apologise to me too actually. It’s all because of her that I’m here after all. If she hadn’t grassed me up to the police they would never have known I was to blame for the fire. If she hadn’t been so off with me in the den that day when I caught her with Jac I wouldn’t have lost my temper and gone at her with the scissors. And I suppose, ultimately, if she hadn’t been so erratic and changeable I wouldn’t have been so constantly afraid she was going to leave me for Jac or Pippa or anyone else that came along, and then none of it would have happened at all. We’d probably still be OK now, still walking to school together, still going up the high street to look at the shops, still chatting in the Egg. Maybe I should’ve been more vigilant from the start, spotted what she was like and steered clear. I don’t know. It’s always easy to say, looking back, what you would’ve done differently, isn’t it? In truth though, I don’t know that I would’ve changed anything really. I certainly wouldn’t have chosen not to meet Bert, not for anything.
Anyway, I’ve just got to keep my head down. Do my time. I’ll be out soon enough. And I know that Bert will be waiting for me, ready to pick up where we left off. Maybe we can even get some of our plans back on track – the rowing-boat picnic for sure, maybe even that day trip to Brighton. Bert knows it would take more than a little row to get between us.
Because friends like us, like Bert and me, we’ll always be together.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my agent, Jo Williamson, to my editor, Emma Matthewson, and to everyone at Hot Key Books. All are much cleverer than me.
Thank you to James Dawson for the inspiration and the introduction.
Thank you to my mum for all the library trips. Thank you to my dad for doing the voices.
Thank you to Amber for the patience, the ideas, and for everything else.
Jess Vallance
Jess Vallance works as a freelance writer specialising in educational materials, and has written articles on everything from business accounting to embalming a body. Jess lives in Brighton. Birdy is her first novel. Follow Jess at www.jessvallance.com or on Twitter @JessVallance1.
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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hot Key
Books
Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT
Text copyright © Jess Vallance 2015
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4714-0476-4
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