I don’t think I meant to kill her.
I probably would’ve been OK with hurting her. I didn’t want her dead though. I’m not a complete psycho. And however much I might have hated her, I wouldn’t have wanted to go to prison. Or to end up in here.
The problem is, I didn’t not want her dead.
They said I was contradicting myself, but I’m just being honest. I would never have actually set out to kill her. It’s just that I maybe wouldn’t have been all that bothered if someone else had.
Anyway, what would I know about killing someone? I’m just a kid.
‘So was she,’ they said.
In the end I just closed my eyes and waited to wake up.
But I never did.
She’s dead and I’m in here and I’m scared to death of what happens next.
I saw it as soon as we turned off the motorway. The sun lit up the old building like some kind of celestial spotlight, turning it into something straight off a postcard. The satnav politely suggested that Mum make a U-turn. I couldn’t help thinking it might be on to something: that turning up as the nervous new girl at my fifth school in five years was going to be one more ‘fresh start’ than I could handle. Turning around and heading back in the opposite direction didn’t sound like such a bad idea.
Mum disagreed.
“It wants me to go the wrong way down the M40! Turn her off, Abigail. I can see the place from here for goodness’ sake.”
I flicked the power button with a sigh. There was no last-minute reprieve on the horizon – just the sprawling mass of Cotswold Community College: Day and Boarding School, Established 1571. All pale Cotswold stone and leafy oaks and hundreds of kids I didn’t know.
Dad’s voice floated into my head: “There aren’t many state boarding schools around you know, Abs.” I’d heard that a million times down the phone and over Skype all summer long. That and: “You’re lucky to have got a place; this is your chance to really get settled and stay put for a while.” Every time he said it, it was like we’d won the lottery or something. A boarding school that didn’t cost the earth. One the MoD’s ‘Continuity of Education Allowance’ would almost cover.
Mum thumped the horn, tearing me out of my thoughts as a gleaming 4x4 overtook us on the inside and flew straight across the empty roundabout ahead.
“Look at that! Thinks he owns the bloody road,” she shouted, narrowing her eyes and squeezing the accelerator. The sun danced on the back windscreen of the speeding car ahead, winking at us, teasing us. Mum’s fingers tightened around the wheel and her knuckles flashed bright white. I pushed back in my seat and she leaned forward in hers – me trying to hold our ancient Ford Fiesta back and her trying to spur it on.
I watched the speedo as it slowly climbed. 75. 80. 85…
I took a deep breath and felt for the frayed friendship bracelet on my left wrist, running it between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, like I always did when I felt that first icy prickle of panic coming on. Sometimes just the feel of the old thread, knotted together just for me, only me, would be enough to drive my mind away from the places no good ever came of going.
87. 89. 91…
The engine whined desperately in protest. My legs were frozen in place – muscles locked in fear.
Mum’s mouth curled into a determined grimace.
“Isn’t it 60 through here?” My voice cracked. “Mum?”
I rubbed harder at the thread, worried one of these days I’d rub it clean away to nothing. “Mum, please.”
80. 70. 60…
She sighed as the 4x4 disappeared into the distance, and I could breathe again.
When we came to the next roundabout, I recognised the Little Chef and the open playing fields beyond. Rugby posts stood tall and bright, shining sentinels in the Sunday sun. We were almost there. Cars swarmed around us, bursting out of side roads now, flying across the roundabout in a steady stream. The sun sparked across each bonnet in turn, and I lowered my eyes as I tried to blink away the glare.
“Abigail…”