Prologue

The classroom is hot, the windows flung open, the coiled Venetian blinds tapping gently against the wall in the inadequate breeze. The teacher drones on, her forehead is beaded with perspiration and her smart suit jacket has already been discarded, strewn carelessly over the back of her chair. Time lags. The clock hands seem to have frozen. Sitting at the back, behind one of the uniform desks, on a chair that’s as equally solid as every other in this room, I, and every other victim present, stare at the clock face, willing the hands forward. This teacher’s new, she can’t keep control of the class, but we’re lethargic with the heat. Whispers drift across the desks; a paper aeroplane weaves idly towards the window, jettisoned by the boy two rows over. I stare blankly at the white scrawl of chalk on the blackboard, my hands fiddle with the pen I hold, my fingers dismantle the parts, re-assemble them, flicking over the cool plastic and metal in a pattern long established. My mind whirs and I unbend a paper clip in a fit of sudden activity but the heat has affected even my obsession with creating and my fingers lie still, exhausted.

I listen to the drifts of conversation, examining each origin. There’s a group of girls just in front and to the left of my vantage point. They look like carbon-copies of one another, shiny, sleek hair, short skirts, shirts open at the sleeve and neck, manicured nails glinting in the light as they gossip and giggle. They talk of parties and models, boy-groups and shopping. I move on. My restless eyes scan the boys surrounding them, and then move towards the outskirts of the classroom. Here, perched inconspicuously at the edge of my vision, hunch the misfits. I let my eyes drink their fill, the tragedy deepening my mood. There’s a girl with a bob in the second-to-front row, she sits nearest the door; the teacher thinks it’s because she gets frequent nosebleeds, I know it’s because it’s a better escape route than the window; from what I’ve heard, she’d be in a position to know. No one bothers to remember her name, she’s just ‘suicidal-girl’, they find it a joke, and she’s mainly ignored now. I like it - her name. June, it sounds like the beginning of summer, not just the month but also the fresh smell of cut grass, the buzz of bees, honeysuckle.

Her actions last winter have caused her parents to split. June keeps it a secret; fearing the others will laugh at her, make cruel remarks. She lets it dwell deep inside her, the guilt and horror eating at her until her life is as blank and black as the ink inside my pen. But I know.

There’s a boy across the room watching her, his eyes as lonely and as full of despair as hers. He’s been watching her for months, ever since she returned from the hospital. His mother killed herself; he wants to help June but doesn’t know how. Maybe just knowing that someone is thinking of her will help. Last week a note arrived in his desk, telling him her favourite chocolates. I hope he takes it at face value; people who have been bullied before have a tragic lack of trust in true human kindness. They both need help.

At that moment the door to the classroom slams back. Everyone jumps, startled, including the teacher. Freya stands there, dressed all in black, the Principal’s secretary by her side. She’s obviously been escorted back to class so she doesn’t skip it after another lengthy ‘talk’ in the Principal’s office. The room erupts into whispers, people love to talk about Freya, they think that there’s so much to say. She stands there oblivious to their stares and stifled smirks; many people would stand shrinking in shame or in embarrassed defiance. It worries me to see she does neither; her stance is of someone who doesn’t care either way, maybe she’s too far gone, whatever that means.

The secretary and teacher talk outside for a few minutes. The teacher returns, troubled, as I’ve said, she’s new, it really isn’t fair but what can you do? Freya assumes her seat silently. The teacher pauses, hesitating, smoothing her skirt with pale hands, wondering about protocol perhaps, then returns to her lesson plan. The group of girls to my left continue to whisper and giggle, hoping perhaps for a reaction, but Freya is as stone.

When the bell rings it isn’t a moment too soon and the class erupt from their seats in a wave of exhilarated, soaked bodies. I pack my bag slowly, watching the others pile out. The teacher exhales and runs a shaky hand through her hair, I cast her a sympathetic glance before strolling through the now-empty doorway. I head purposefully down the corridor, there’s no need to rush though; she may be unpredictable but she’d want to wait a while. I pause for a moment beside the girls’ locker-room. Many have already dashed outside to watch the boys play football, to lounge in the sun. June has waited until everybody else has gone, it’s dangerous to do that, you never know who may be waiting in ambush but she’s lucky today. She opens her locker door but someone’s been there first.

I watch as she pulls the package from its carefully wrapped paper. She eyes it doubtfully at first, looking round, wondering if this is a trick or a trap but no one runs off laughing, and, sliding the box open she finds a note. She scans it quickly, shoulders hunched in defensive, shrunken posture, as if to reduce the area for a possible blow. She reads it again slowly and I smile as her she relaxes and straightens, her face an attractive mixture of delight and surprise. This is my vanity. Good boy, I think as I stride for the door that leads to the roof.

There are more steps than I remember but I take them two-at-a-time, eyes locked on the plain, grey door at the summit. I slip through it quietly, gauging the time and situation on the rooftop. The dark figure stands firm at the edge, looking down, or is it up? I can’t tell, her hair is blowing, the long strands caught up and caressed by the wind; its stronger up here and the air is suddenly cooler. I think of my own, cropped hair, wishing briefly that it would flow straight and dramatically like hers, before dropping my bag and slipping off my shoes.

As I move softly and silently across the rooftop I see the shape glowing beside her. It’s nearly transparent, wafting as if it too can feel the breeze, standing close beside her, whispering in her ear. I wonder if it will, if it can, push her if she manages to resist. It doesn’t matter, I will stop it; we have enough problems and tragedies in this world without those things adding to them. I wished they would just leave us alone and go back to wherever they came from.

I’m close to her now, within arms reach. The thing senses me and turns, but too late and, sparing a glare for it, I shoot out both hands and clamp them with cold determination around her skinny wrist. She jerks in surprise and tries to turn; I tug her hard towards me, knowing that if she completes her spin it would send her hurtling towards the concrete below.

We land hard on the rough surface of the rooftop; I feel the rip of skin across my elbows as we skid to a halt. I try to sit up but cannot. Freya is heavier than one would suppose a girl of her size would be. She is the first to move. Her hair creates a dark halo of whipping strands around her head as she screams down at me, shaking and cursing. I sit up gingerly, stopping when I can go no further; as she is still kneeling over my legs. The gravel must have sprayed up when we landed, I realised, and I reach up and across to smooth my thumb across a small cut on her cheekbone.

We sit on the floor of my small apartment. The city is big, a bustling metropolis, expanding rapidly in size and population. My parents moved back to the country, disliking the hassle and stress of working in a large capital but, considerate as always, they didn’t want to separate me from my ‘school friends’ and provided me with a small, high apartment and a train pass so I could visit at weekends, if I didn’t have too much schoolwork. The pass lies at the back of a cupboard, along with many of the other mementos left by my parents, old toys, a photo album, and adoption papers from the orphanage.

Freya has calmed down, she sits composed, legs crossed, hair streaming out down her back. I dislike this. I see she is trying to shut herself off again, her eyes are blank, nearly vacant and I know I will lose her very soon.

So I slap her, hard. She blinks, starts and begins to cry. It is the first time I have ever seen her shed a tear. Not when the Principal called her parents, or when the gang of boys beat her up for defeating their leader in a fight, or when her mother screamed at her as she lay in the hospital, bloody and broken, and swore that she hated her and wished she had never had a daughter. I have been watching her for months, marked out as she was by the glowing presence of something else, something other.

I hug her. She tries to push me away and head towards the window, which I left invitingly open, but I tighten my arms around her skinny chest until I’m sure that my vice-like grip is suffocating her and, eventually, slowly, she stops fighting. I let her cry and talk and scream and break things. My apartment is full of breakable items, ones that can be destroyed with a satisfying crash, I buy them on purpose just for that reason. Freya has a good throwing arm and a lot of rage; by nightfall I begin to worry we might run out of ammunition and head to the tiny attached kitchen to see if the smell of food would tempt her from some of my more wanted items.

I have only one bed and no sofa. I refuse to let her sleep on the floor and threaten to do so myself. She falls asleep, pale but calm, wrapped in as many blankets as I can find and stuffed with the majority of the contents of my fridge. I hadn’t realised she’d stopped eating. I watch the moon shimmer through the open window and allow myself a small smile. It’s just the beginning but I feel as if she’s been reborn, a small, fragile flower that needs care and attention and nurturing. I won’t let her down. I fall asleep worrying about the shadows on my walls; from the way the moonlight falls they look like the figures of people, standing, watching.