Because We Are Bad, OCD and a girl lost in thought Read online

  Dedication

  For you,

  you know who you are

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: Chesbury Hospital

  2: My Friend

  3: The Letter

  4: New School

  5: Mum and Dad

  6: Swearing in Church

  7: Most Apologetic Girl

  8: Hambledon

  9: Running from Words

  10: Stumbling

  11: Special Needs Department

  12: Coming Home

  13: Doctor, Doctor

  14: Pills, Pills, Pills

  15: Driving

  16: Those Who Love Me

  17: Thailand

  18: Dublin

  19: It Is My Fault

  20: Mental Ward

  21: Harley Street

  22: Urine Test

  23: Loser, Friend

  24: Skating

  25: Ashleaves

  26: Nursery

  27: Journalism

  28: Rocky

  29: The Truth

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  · 1 ·

  Chesbury Hospital

  From the outside, Chesbury Hospital in London looks like a castle that got lost and was plonked down in the wrong place. It is long and white, with battlements and arched windows from which princesses could call down, in the chapter before they are saved.

  But it’s not entirely believable. Where the portcullis should be, there are giant glass doors. Walk through them, and you could be in a five-star hotel. The man at reception wears a suit and tie and asks if he can help, like he’s going to book you a table. A glass cupboard showcases the gifts sold by reception: bath oils, rejuvenating face cream, and Green & Black’s chocolate, just in case you arrive empty-handed to see a crazy relative and need an icebreaker.

  The walls, lampshades, window fittings, and radiators are all a similar, unnameable color, somewhere between brown, yellow, and cream. A looping gold chandelier is suspended by a heavy chain; the fireplace has marble columns. The members of staff have busy, preoccupied faces—until they come close to you, when their mouths break into wide, fixed smiles.

  Compared with the Harley Street clinic, there is a superior choice of herbal teas. When the police arrived after the escape, Mum cried a lot; then she shouted. Now she has assumed a sense of British resolve. She queries: “Wild Jasmine, Purple Rose, or Earl Grey?”

  A nurse checks through my bag, which has been lugged upstairs. She takes the razor (fair enough), tweezers (sort of fair enough), a bottle of Baileys lying forgotten in the handbag (definitely fair enough), and headphones (definitely not fair enough). There would never be a hanging: far too much mess.

  The observation room is next to the nurses’ station; they keep you there until you are no longer a risk to yourself.

  It is January 10, 2013. Patient Lily Bailey is nineteen.

  · 2 ·

  My Friend

  In the playground, fads come and go consistently, without apparent supervision, like waves on a beach. We had Pokémon, we had Furbies; we had aliens encased in strange plastic eggs. Then at some point, when we were five, imaginary friends took off as a craze. People would save spaces at the lunch table for someone no one else could see. Girls would sit on the climbing frame, plaiting hair that looked like air to those without an imagination.

  No one wanted to be that—a child without an imagination. It made you no fun to play with. It meant you got excluded from certain games. Some of those who said they had imaginary friends didn’t really have any specific vision of what this friend might be like, nor did they really care for the craze at all. Desperately dull girls like Claudia couldn’t even make up a good story when playing with a doll’s house; how could they conjure up a whole person?

  Some of the die-hard fans, the revolutionaries with sparky minds and endless originality, may have taken their imaginary friends home for dinner, shared a bath with them, and read them bedtime stories. But the majority were probably scattered somewhere between the two extremes. They could imagine something, if not necessarily a fully formed person, but when school ended, that was that. The friend was left behind at the gates, without a thought, until the next morning, when the craze demanded that they reappear. That was why this fad was terrifying; amid a constant onslaught of daily change and childhood adaptation, one thing had stayed weirdly constant in my life. For as long as I could remember, I wasn’t me, I was we.

  Two of us sat side by side in my head, woven together, inseparable. She didn’t even have a name; she was just She. Really, it was hard to say where She ended and I began. But food was not shared with her. She did not play tag and never required a seat. She was, by her very essence, nothing like these imaginary friends. She was just there.

  One was not proud of her, in the same way as one is not proud of a liver, and there was no need to show her off, nor tell anyone She existed.

  But though her differences were concerning (why did other kids insist on parading their friends around? Were they just for show? Couldn’t they see it didn’t have to be a competition?), they were nothing compared to the fad’s main implication. Because a fad demands that something that wasn’t there before come into existence; and that meant only one thing. Normal children didn’t have two people in their heads.

  Which meant I must be very different, for mine was not the sort of friend to be left behind at the gates.

  · 3 ·

  The Letter

  It’s home time. We are sitting in a circle in the classroom, and Miss Watts is putting a letter in our schoolbag. We wonder if it is a report. We have heard from the big kids in Year 2 that you get a report at the end of each term where the teacher writes about your progress.

  Suddenly we are scared. The thought comes into our head that we have done something very bad this term, something we don’t even remember doing, and that Miss Watts is about to tell Mum and Dad.

  We go outside into the playground, clutching our schoolbag. Grandma Muriel is waiting to pick us up, as Mum and Dad are always at work, and our au pair has the day off. Grandma has crazy orange hair and huge glasses, and she folds us into a big warm hug. Our nostrils fill with the smell of Persil and cooking.

  “Hello, my love! Do you want me to take your schoolbag?” she asks. We pull it close to our chest, afraid she will take it and tear open the report right here.

  What is this bad thing we may have done this term? Perhaps we hit another child, or bit someone. Maybe we called someone names or said a rude word to a teacher. The pictures of these things happening become so real in our head, we are sure that we must have done them—they must be half-memories of the real thing happening.

  “What’s wrong with you?” says Grandma. “You don’t look yourself.”

  We give her a big smile. “I’m fine.”

  Once we get home, we wait for Grandma to go to the toilet. Quickly, we dig the letter out of our bag and put it in the bin, pushing it right to the bottom and piling the rubbish on top of it. For a few seconds, we feel calm. We can still hear some sort of roaring in the side of our head, though it is softer now, like the sea when you hear it through a shell.

  But what if Grandma knows what we have done and tries to retrieve the letter? That can’t happen. The roaring gets louder; it sounds like the real sea, frothy and raging—as if it wants something.

  For the next few hours we stand by the bin, offering to help Grandma whenever she needs to put in vegetable peels and other stuff. Grandma laughs.
She says we remind her of the bin monitor she used to have at school.

  “Grandma, what day do the bin men come?”

  “Wednesday, I think.”

  “What day is today?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “What time do they come?”

  “In the morning. Early. You’d probably be asleep.”

  “This bin bag needs to go outside.”

  “It’s not full yet.”

  “Yes, it is. I need to put it outside.”

  “Why this sudden fascination with bins, Lily? Okay, just to show you one time how it works, we’ll put the bin bag outside together.”

  We and Grandma haul the bin bag outside the front door. We’re not really carrying much of the weight, but we still clutch the side of it to make sure Grandma doesn’t run off with it. She tells us to lift the plastic lid off one of the big black bins, and we dump the bag inside. We feel better knowing the report is in the bin, but we won’t feel truly safe until we know it’s gone for good.

  The next morning, we wake up very early. It’s pitch-black outside. We creep into the spare room, which looks out on the bins. We will stay here until the bin men come—we will make sure that letter is gone for good.

  It feels like it takes hours, but we don’t think it can be that long. We hear it before we see it: a distant rumble getting closer. Then the lorry turns into our road. Giant and green with flashing lights, it crawls toward us a few doors at a time. Finally, it stops outside. Three men get out, and each takes a bag from the large black buckets. An old tall man with a beard takes the bag from the second bin—our bag. We watch him fling it into the back of the truck. Then they all get back in and drive on. We stay watching until the truck has well and truly disappeared.

  The letter is gone now.

  It will never hurt us. Everything is okay.

  Our parents have been arguing about what type of school we should be at. There’s a school round the corner where the kids wear a uniform and a straw hat. Sophie, who is in our class, calls it the Posh School, and you have to pay money to go there. It seems like we might be going to the Posh School, because although we didn’t used to have much money, Dad has made some now.

  Dad thinks it’s a good idea to get us away from “those girls.” But Mum doesn’t agree because she doesn’t want us to be snotty, and she doesn’t think we’ll get on with the crowd there. Dad says she needs to think about “what is best for Lily.”

  “They don’t like her,” he hisses. “The girls there. They’re horrible to her. You saw—on her birthday, when we took them to the park. They just ran off and ignored her. She spent the whole time with us. She looked so sad. Don’t you want her to have friends?”

  We can’t talk to them about this, because we’re not even supposed to know. We heard about it a few nights ago when we couldn’t sleep. When we can’t sleep, we have this thought that we will never be able to sleep again. When that happens, Mum has to repeat the special sentences:

  Lying in bed is just as good as sleeping.

  If you needed sleep your body would put you to sleep.

  And if you can’t sleep, it’s because you had enough sleep the night before.

  Then the thought feels a bit better. We don’t know why this works. We think it may be magic.

  We went downstairs to ask for the special sentences. The door to the sitting room was ajar, and Mum and Dad were sitting on the red sofa with a bottle of wine, flicking through a brochure with pictures of smiling children. We stood there listening and never asked for the special sentences.

  On weekends we and our younger sister Ella snuggle up under the covers of Mum and Dad’s bed and watch the children’s channels while they sleep more. It is always nice, as long as they are not upset with each other.

  Today feels a bit different. Firstly, because they called us to come up. Secondly, because they look sad, but not like they have been arguing. We feel like they are going to tell us something important. Ella, who is two, is making her Sylvanian Families mouse jump up and down on the bedpost. We tell her to stop playing, because it isn’t that kind of day. Then suddenly we know.

  We know what has happened.

  “It’s Tom, isn’t it?” we burst out. “He’s dead.”

  Tom is our cousin. He was born with a hole in his heart. He isn’t even one yet.

  “How did you . . . How did you know that . . .” Mum trails off.

  She stares at us and has gone pale. She looks scared, and we’re not sure why. We smile, trying to make it okay again.

  “Don’t smile about this, okay, Lily? You don’t smile about this.”

  And that’s when we know that we have done something very bad.

  “Yes,” Mum says. “Tom died last night.”

  Tom probably wasn’t even dead before we said it.

  We made it happen.

  We know it.

  Because we are bad.

  On the last day of term, Mum takes us into the classroom. We stop flat in our tracks, staring. Everyone is in fancy dress. We love fancy dress. How had we not known?

  “I didn’t know it was a dressing-up day,” Mum says, looking worried.

  “Yes, for the last day of term!” says Miss Watts, beaming at us. “Didn’t you get the letter?”

  · 4 ·

  New School

  We have a fresh start. It’s our first day at Buxton House. The manual says you must wear navy or red hair ties, and red ribbons if you like. We don’t have any red ribbon, so Mum puts our hair in bunches and takes the red ribbons from our Lindt Easter chocolate bunnies. We wear a stripy blue-and-white dress, with a red cardigan, straw hat, white socks, and buckle shoes.

  Things work differently at this school. At the old school, kids swarmed through the playground toward the building, slapping each other’s backs, trading marbles and chatting. But here, you drive through large gates in your car and the headmistress stands by the door. You have to shake her hand and say “Good morning, Mrs. Woodson.”

  Somehow, Mrs. Woodson knows who we are. Perhaps it’s because we are starting halfway through Year 3, so we’re the only new girl. She asks a passing girl, Fiona, to take us to our classroom on the top floor. Fiona stares ahead and doesn’t talk to us until we’re about to go in. Then she links arms with us and hauls us in through the door, smiling: “Good morning, Miss Hodge. Lily is the new girl in your class. Mrs. Woodson has asked me to bring her to you. Lily, have a good day.”

  Eleven heads turn to look at us, and we wonder why the class is so small. Perhaps the other children haven’t arrived yet?

  “Hello, Lily, nice to meet you. Everyone say ‘Good morning, Lily.’ Lily, put your hat in the box,” says Miss Hodge, pointing to a box full of boaters.

  We take our hat off, and everyone starts laughing.

  Scarlett, who has the next desk, whispers in our ear: “It’s the ribbons. In your hair. I know it says in the book of rules that you can wear them, but no one actually does.”

  Our face burns redder than the stupid Lindt ribbons. We start to walk out of the class to rip them off, but Miss Hodge asks, “Er, Lily, where do you think you are going?”

  “Um. To the toilet?” Everyone laughs. A girl at the front says “You have to ask if you want to go! And anyway, it’s called a loo. Toilet is what common people say.”

  Now they’re in hysterics.

  The noise is too loud for our head.

  “Quiet down! Regardless of what you want to call it,” says Miss Hodge, her face softening, “Maddie is right. You do have to ask for permission to leave the classroom if you want to go.”

  She says we may go (so what was the point of that?). We find the loo, bin the ribbons, and scrape our hair into a ponytail. We repeat:

  Fresh start.

  Fresh start.

  Fresh start.

  We have sport at 11:30 a.m. As we’re changing, trying to work out whether the B goes on the front or back of our gym shirts, Scarlett is hopping around, looking for a sock. “I’m always the las
t one out!” She grins.

  She can’t tie her laces.

  “Do you want me to help?” we ask. Scarlett looks pleased.

  We squat down and try hard to focus. We also find laces difficult, but we want to get this right so she’ll be our friend. Two minutes later, we’re done. We stand up.

  “Shall we go?”

  Scarlett takes a step forward and tumbles. Oh, gosh; we’ve accidentally tied her laces together. Someone has been hurt, and it’s our fault. We always knew we were a terrible person; now it has come true.

  Scarlett is crouched in a ball, rocking and making weird noises. We bend down.

  “Scarlett, are you okay? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  That’s when we realize she is giggling hysterically.

  “Hahaha! I can’t believe you managed to tie my shoes together—you’re just as bad as me!”

  We have been at Buxton for a week now. Scarlett is our best friend. We do everything together and play imaginary animals at break time. We were wary of playing an imaginary game again, but it’s going well. We are allowed three each. Scarlett has Rusty the red squirrel, an eagle called Gonzo, and Striko the horse, who has a lightning bolt on his forehead.

  We made up Penelope the white squirrel, and Aslan the lion. I ask, “Can I have a human as my third one?”

  “Um . . . I’m not sure. Why would you want to have a human when you could have any really cool animal?”

  “Because I already have a human, and I don’t want her to be left out.”

  “Oh, really?” Scarlett challenges. “What is it called then?”

  “She’s a girl. And She doesn’t have a name.”

  “Well, you’re obviously just making her up. Otherwise she would have a name.”

  “Okay, She’s called Victoria!”

  “You just made that up!”

  Scarlett looks cross. “Okay, I’ll ask Striko,” she says grumpily and turns to chat with a horse we can’t see.