Chapters 9-10

Today, we move closer towards the climax of Issy and Peter's stories. Peter continues to dream about the alternative future and is confused by Miss Mary Hain's behaviour. Issy meets Mrs Bridges and finally gets through the narrative that she has been struggling to tell. Tomorrow will be the final three chapters and epilogue.

If you prefer to listen, the audio is here too.

Chapter Nine Late Winter 2035 Peter Harrison

I always cared what happened to the students I taught, especially the ones who really cared about the subject, or the ones who just seemed to really care about learning. I don’t mean that I didn’t care about the students who weren’t switched on to learning of course, it’s just that they’re not the ones I was able to connect with. No, we always connect best with those we understand most, and so it was the ones who came with eager and open minds that I connected with. They were the ones, years later, I’d think about, wondering what they were doing, hoping they were successful or happy, hopefully both.

We never can underestimate the influence we have on other people’s lives. And the scary thing is, like the butterfly flapping its wings in Scotland that causes a tsunami in the Far East, you don’t always see the influence you are having, and so you don’t always have the power to make sure it ebbs and flows the right way.

I dreamt about the corridor again last night, and every night since I nearly jumped out of the window and left NSHQ for good. It always ends the same way now, with Mary or Janine or both staring at me when I open the door. I can’t see what is beyond them - all I can see are their eyes. Sometimes, when it is Mary, it is a relief, to look deeply into her eyes and feel at peace, but sometimes I cannot bear the brightness; and sometimes, when it is Janine, I am overwhelmed with joy, but then her eyes are like whirlpools and I have to look away.

I continue to think about Mary and Janine before I boot up my computer to write. I am still resolved in my mission. I made a confession in a dream - it was three weeks ago now - and I know that Janine is the goal, she will always be the goal. And I know that my feelings for Mary are complicated: I am deceiving her, but I cannot escape how wonderful it feels to inhabit the reality that the deception allows me to live.

And amongst everything else, when I write, I am alone again, back in my one-bedroom apartment, pressing into the walls of my prison: solitary, hopeless, but always defiant.

Tonight, I write about my parents. I write about childhood, the joys, the heartaches, the tantrums, the growth. Most of all I write about summers at the park in the middle of the wood, where I raced down the hill that rose up from the flat and crashed through water and rain.

I wonder if my parents are still alive.

What a world, I write. What a world it must be to not know if your parents are alive.

My fists burn.

I continue to type. The hours drift on and still I type. I type truth and beauty, loss and regret, love and justice, triumph and pain. I get stuck for words. I get angry at the memories that were almost lost. I cry through heartaches, and I laugh through moments of joy. I move further and further into the walls, pressing up against the past until it inhabits me again. Until I am neither here nor there. Until I do not know where I am. Until…

I dream.

I am back in the alternative past, this time before the journey to find the Outsiders. I am walking into the library out of the cold and I see my fellow runners for the first time in months.

At the sight of them all standing in front of me, I freeze for a moment, time standing still, my brain temporarily immobilised. And then we are rushing to greet each other. Henry reaches me first and I feel it as he slams in to hug me, slapping me on the back. Then it is James and then Eleanor, and finally, Janine. We hold each other tightly.

In the enormity of all that has happened to me since I last saw my fellow runners, and in the enormity of everything that now stands unknown between us, there is for a moment nothing obvious to say, and so we all just stand still, facing each other, smiling.

Finally, I decide to speak.

‘It is great to see you. You’re all ok. But, I mean, why am I here? What made you decide to message me this time?’

‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ says James, still smiling.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you notice anything different when you were hugging Janine?’ Henry grins.

In response to my blank face, Eleanor points towards Janine. ‘Look. Notice anything new?’

I look at Janine, and her eyes look deeply into mine, stirring in me the love we held for so long, the love we have been determined to hold on to at such distance for so many years, the love that I have been, so recently, so presently, resting on a knife edge.

‘Argh, stop staring into her face and look down you idiot!’ laughs Eleanor.

And it is then that I realise what they are all talking about. I take a step back from Janine and look at her fully.

Janine is pregnant.

I freeze again. Completely blank.

‘But how?’ I say, and Janine replies.

‘The last night, in the library. We weren’t, well, careful. I don’t think we even realised; it only occurred to me when I found out I was pregnant and thought back.’ She smiles at me and I suddenly become aware that this conversation has an audience. I’m still stunned. Shocked. And finally,

‘Wow,’ and I take her into my arms again as the audience drifts away from us and the tears begin to stream down my face. We kiss, and hug and cry and when I release her again, we are alone.

I am going to be a father.

But I am not.

I wake up and the joy of the dream still lingers even as it turns into a sadness for a future I fear will never be.

When I wake up properly for the day ahead it is with a heavy heart. I realise how my life may now pan out: not the adventures of those possible pasts or futures, not the wonder of being a father to a baby with Janine, not any real subterfuge at all. My existence will be quiet and duplicitous. Like life for everyone out there locked inside, I will be trapped in my disguise. As the years pass, will I have anything left to write? As time goes on and I merge into the background here, will I be anything more than just another NewState worker? Will my innermost thoughts count for anything, or will they be the thing that gives me purpose in one blow, but utter hopelessness in the other?

I am destined to live a life apart.

‘O Earth, O Earth Return’

I crave the change.

My fists burn.

Rebellion.

But not like that, not now. Now I hide, and just hope that some lightning strikes so that the decades do not really roll on and on as I slumber in wait.

I roll over and sit up on the edge of my bed. I run my hands over my face, massaging the creases and lines. I rub my eyes and when I open them, I look up to see a slip of paper slide under my door. Funny, in a world of horseshoe screens and emotivests, here is a note on a piece of paper, slid under my door.

But Mary believes in the old-world half as much as I do. I remember the whispered conversation about hikes in the hills, the first time I sat in her office, the books, the secret garden, the secret fields beyond the secret garden, the coffee, the wine, the shimmer in her eyes and the smile behind which hides a complexity so polarised to the frozen faces of the senseless screen watchers the world over. She believes in this world for us, she just doesn’t believe that it is necessary for all. And that is where our minds depart like a fork in the road that never resolves itself: we will always be walking further and further apart. Where is the choice?

But, this is also why a slip of paper under the door is not so surprising. So, assuming the note is from Mary, I do not rush over to it, but savour the time between knowing that I have something ahead of me and not knowing exactly what it will be.

I walk over slowly, pick up the note, and return to sit on the edge of my bed. I unfold the paper.

It is not from Mary.

It is from Our Leader Day.

Dear Peter, I hope that you have enjoyed the beginning of your time at NewState. Now that you are settled into your work and the routine of life here, I would like for us to meet and talk. Mary will bring you. Tomorrow. 9am. LD.

I stare at the words, expecting them to change, or else for me to wake up, but they don’t. They remain. Fact. Tomorrow morning, I will see her again.

And we will talk.

The past is a strange thing. It is fixed. It is fact. It cannot be returned to and it cannot be changed. Except, in a way, it can. I look back now and I see everything so differently. When I was a teacher I always encouraged students to think about their futures, where they wanted to go, what they could achieve. I wonder now if I should have spent as much time talking to them about their pasts and helping them to see those differently too.

But perhaps there are some pasts that play out the same every time over and over again; no matter what you do differently, no matter what you say or how you say it, maybe some paths always fire in the same direction. Perhaps some truth is just unavoidable.

Perhaps.

I picture the old abbey on the day of the annual address and, closing my eyes, I can see the beauty of the stone walls, and I can feel the coolness of the smooth surface as my hand passes over it – just for a second, but enough to sustain me. My fists clenched then and they clench again now. I have to do something to help reverse this world. It will be my redemption. For so much, it will be my redemption.

It is the time between times and I am sitting in a chair all alone in the rec room. I sink back into the warm, soft depths of the cushions and allow my mind to wander, although in truth it has wandered no further than the note I received this morning.

A meeting with Our Leader Day.

The thing I thought I was working towards.

The thing that was part of my plan.

The thing that might have been decades away.

And now here it is, tomorrow.

I go over and over the reasons she might want to see me, what she might want to talk about, and how I should behave.

I imagine one conversation - it is furious, full of accusations and my ideals for the future. But where would that get me? A dark room with flashing lights? I don’t know, but I don’t think one argument could ever be enough to change the course of humanity.

No, I imagine my life of patience again. But this time I meet with Our Leader Day once a week, every week. I imagine that we play chess. It is a very long game. We make one move each, every week, and in the time we take to deliberate, we discuss, calmly, carefully, respectfully. We are two adversaries, both alike in dignity, and we are both patient. For years we will exist in this comfortable stalemate, but we will also always be moving slowly closer and closer to a checkmate. Someone will win. Eventually. And we will both meet each week, willing for it to be ourselves.

A decade game of chess. Yes, that is how it will play out.

Out of my thoughts I hear a noise. I look up and the door to the rec room straight ahead of me opens. I am surprised to see that it is Mary who opens it. She walks in.

‘Mary,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here? I… I don’t think I’ve seen you in the daytime since, well, since I first arrived here.’ She smiles, though not her usual smile. She seems slightly agitated.

‘Mary, is everything ok?’

‘Yes, of course.’ And she is almost her usual self. ‘Yes, I just thought we might do something different today.’

‘Mary, you know about my meeting? With Our Leader Day.’

‘Yes, of course. I am to take you to her tomorrow morning. I presume she would like to talk to you about how you have settled after your transition.’

Yes, of course, but this cannot be all she wants to discuss. Not her.

‘Oh, sure,’ I say. ‘Well, it’ll be strange.’ There is a silence. It feels like there is an elephant in the room, but I do not know what it is. Eventually, Mary speaks.

‘Peter, I’ve got something to show you. I wanted to show you today, now, because…’ She falters. ‘Well, because I wanted to. You’ll love it, Peter. I’m sure of it. Come on.’ She takes my hand and leads the way.

She doesn’t speak as we walk. We turn down corridors that all look the same, winding left and right, until eventually we stop.

‘Here, Peter. Go on, you go in first.’ She is excited, happy. ‘Go on.’

I step forward, confused. She smiles at me and playfully pushes me forward, then clutching her hands together at her breast.

‘Go on, Peter.’

I step forward, scan my ID card, wait for the click and push the door open.

Opening into the unknown.

The sight that fills my eyes is unexpected - unexpectedly glorious.

Books.

Shelves and shelves of books.

Walls lined from floor to ceiling with books. The room is almost cavernous. And it looks old - though it can’t be - and I realise that it is a copy. It is a near replica of the city library. Desks in front, books lining the walls to the left and right, and a mezzanine floor half way down, leading up to yet more books.

‘Mary, it’s wonderful.’ I turn to look at her. She is smiling. And. Is she… crying? ‘Mary what is it?’ I move towards her and wipe the tear that has fallen from her eye.

‘Oh, Peter. Don’t mind me. I am just… well, I’m happy that’s all. I’m happy.’

I pull her towards me, squeeze fully. Then she pushes me away - playfully again.

‘Peter, go on then. Go and pick something.’

She gives me a long, earnest look, and I hold her gaze. I see the light flicker off of the water in her eyes. She sniffs.

‘Oh, go on Peter.’ Laughing.

And I turn and explore.

When I return. I bring two copies of something. Mary is sat at one of the tables, watching me as I walk back to her.

‘Here you go,’ I say, handing her a book. ‘Now it is my turn to pick. Stoner by John Williams. It was never a classic, but it had a bit of a resurgence and I remember it was very good.’

She smiles and doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Her agitation has gone, but something is still different. Ever since we left through the door in the wall for the first time, something has changed in her, but I don’t know what it is. Could it really be as she says: is she just happy?

The thought is a double-edged sword.

‘I’ve never read it, Peter,’ she says at last. ‘You know, I hadn’t really realised it, but I’ve not really read anything new for years. I’ve read a lot, but it’s always been a classic from the past. Something I remembered liking then.’

The way she says the past and then…

‘You know, Peter. I once heard the most shocking story from after the change. A mother left and tried to persuade her daughter to go with her. On the night she planned to leave, she’d gone to her daughter’s apartment, broken in and tried to persuade her to leave with her, but the daughter wouldn’t go. The mother’s name was Charis and it broke her heart, but she had no choice but to go without her daughter. I always thought it was the saddest story, but, at the same time, at least the mother tried to persuade her daughter. She loved her and didn’t want to run without at least trying.’

We sit in silence. The enormity of what Mary is implying stupefies me for a moment. And then I say,

‘But Mary. The story. What you’re saying. What does it mean? Where is the mother now? What happened to Charis?’ I’m speaking at a hundred miles an hour. My brain is whirring.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She has a far-off look and her voice is sad, as if she doesn’t realise that she is sharing this information with me for the first time. ‘If she made it past the EEOs then who knows what happened to her! Maybe she joined others, or maybe she died alone.’

‘Others?’

‘Yes, of course there are others - people who flee. We know they exist, because we know when people disappear, don’t we - when someone doesn’t log in one day? It’s quite easy to know when someone has gone.’

‘But, Mary.’ I am willing her back into the room, back into reality, back into the fact that she is telling me that there are outsiders out there. ‘Mary, where are these people? How many are there? What do they do? Does NewState accept them?’

‘Accept them? Of course not, Peter. They threaten the balance of everything. But we are not a military regime - we never were. It is not easy to find people once they’re gone. But, I think it is fair to say that NewState, that Our Leader Day, is obsessed with finding them. That’s why…’ She breaks off, and looks at me, as if remembering where she is and who she is with. She is back in the room.

‘Peter.’ She reaches across the table, takes my hands and looks me in the eyes as she has done so many times before. ‘Peter, I must go now. I will see you tomorrow morning. Meet me at the cafeteria. We will go from there.’ She looks around suddenly, as if someone else might be listening, her odd mix of recklessness and anxiety returned. ‘Peter, I love you. You know that, don’t you? Peter, remember that.’

‘Of course, Mary. I….’

‘No, don’t say anything. Just remember that.’

‘Yes, but wh…’ She reaches out and places a finger on my lips.

‘Peter, I will see you tomorrow. Stay here as long as you like. I’ll see you in the morning.’

And with that, she goes, leaving a lifetime of questions behind her.

What is going on?

What does this mean?

Chapter Ten Late-Winter 2015 Isabella

I don’t hear the end of Mr Harrison’s assembly at all. When I realise where I am again, everyone is filing out of the theatre and I feel like I’ve woken up in front of the mirror in my bathroom again. I’m clammy and my head feels like it’s underwater; I realise for the first time why The Bell Jar is called The Bell Jar.

I pick up my bag and begin to walk out. As I pass the lectern at the front I make as if to ask Mr Harrison a question. Or, at least, I think about asking him a question, but I don’t; I put my head down and all but rush out of the room.

Usually I meet with Mrs Bridges after school, but I have a free lesson today during first period, so I’m supposed to be meeting her in about five minutes. As I walk the corridors towards her office, I imagine that I did stop and have that conversation with Mr Harrison:

‘Oh, hi, sir. Thanks for the assembly. It was really thought provoking. But I wanted to ask a question about it.’

‘Go ahead, Issy.’

‘Well, I mean, what I wanted to know is whether you really think all of that about Social Media ruining the human brain, because, well, don’t you think the outside world ruins things too sir? I mean, that’s where war really happens isn’t it. And for some people, don’t you think the anonymity of Social Media can be a good thing? Have you read Frankenstein? No-one would have bullied the creature if he’d been living online, would they? I guess what I’m saying sir is, don’t you think that Social Media has the potential to eradicate prejudice in a way that the material world doesn’t?’

‘Issy, you really do make some interesting points sometimes. What you’ve said reminds me of your essay on the film Her. I spoke with Mrs Marlow about it. Oh, gosh, Issy, look at the time. I really must go, or I’ll be late for lesson one. Come to think of it, so will you – you’ve got an appointment with Mrs Bridges, I think. I don’t want you to worry about what I said in assembly. It’s all far more complicated than I may have made it sound. As always, it’s a matter of degrees. I know you’re doing fine, Issy – better than fine in fact: your essays show real promise, even if I don’t always completely agree with your conclusions. Just don’t get too bogged down with it all, okay, Issy?’

‘Oh, I won’t, sir. Thanks.’

‘I’ll see you later, Issy.’

‘Yeah, you too, sir.’

I realise I’ve not taken the most direct route to Mrs Bridges’ office, but I’m glad that I was able to think through what Mr Harrison said in assembly. He wasn’t talking about people like me – he can’t have been. He was talking about the people who can’t even concentrate in class when it’s really interesting. He knows I keep up with the extra content too, so he can’t have meant people like me. I must admit, I still don’t feel great, but it helps to know that he probably didn’t mean what it started to sound like he meant – especially when I’m holding my phone so firmly I think I might just about break it.

I keep on walking and it’s only a corridor and a staircase before I’m sitting outside Mrs Bridges’ office, waiting to go in, but when the door opens, I’m surprised to see Mr Harrison walk out and close the door behind him. Didn’t he just rush off to teach? But, no, I suppose that didn’t really happen did it.

‘Oh, hi sir.’

‘Ah, Issy, hello. I just popped up to check that you got here. What with assembly this morning, I wasn’t able to pass on your appointment card.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I don’t say anything else because even though I know he knows I come here, seeing someone you know right outside a counsellor’s office is still a bit weird and embarrassing. I’m about to get up to go in and tell Mr Harrison that I’ll see him in class later, when he says,

‘Issy, I spoke with Mrs Marlow about your essay on the film Her and the other extra material I gave the class. She said she had a good conversation with you about it. I suppose today’s assembly was a bit of a counter argument to what you wrote about Frankenstein’s monster being safer living in an online world. But, I do really believe what I said today, Issy.’ He pauses for a moment and I feel my heart begin to race again and I don’t like the way it feels to breathe.

‘But, sir.’ I sort of hold it together outside, but I feel pretty nervous too and it doesn’t feel good. ‘Don’t you think that sometimes things don’t work, and so they just need replacing?’

It goes really quiet after that. I can see him thinking of what to say. I wouldn’t normally mind that, but right now I don’t like it.

‘Well, sir. Isn’t that right? Sometimes things just aren’t worth it, and isn’t it safer just to get rid of them?’ After I say this he looks at me like I’m really broken, and inside I think I feel the last break.

‘Of course, sometimes things need to be replaced, but I don’t think that what I spoke about in assembly is one of them. After all, we’re talking about the material world. I just don’t think it’s something we can run from. It might feel hard to fix it, but surely it would be a coward’s way out to simply run from the fight.’

The fogginess from the end of assembly returns and I must look at him for some moments whilst my brain swirls and my face just stares blankly on. I feel the colour rising to my face as my heart beats faster and my palms start to feel clammy again. I don’t have anything to say, and I don’t feel right at all. He must see that I look distressed because he starts to say something, but at the same moment the door to Mrs Bridges’ office opens and I stand up and go straight in.

I’m not thinking straight at all now. I walked in straight past Mrs Bridges and started to make myself a cup of tea. I drop in three sugars. Don’t they always say to have a cup of sugary tea after a shock? Well, I hate sugary tea, but I don’t feel right at all; I’m worried that my mind is going to dissociate from my body; even now I see my hands sort of doing their own thing as my mind continues to think and sink, and the phone in my pocket presses lower and lower as it turns to lead.

‘Issy, are you alright?’ She knows I’m not, but then I suppose that’s just a way people talk so as not sound like they think they know too much, isn’t it? If she’d said, ‘What’s wrong?’ some people would have resented the assumption.

I can’t think of anything to say, and then I don’t know why I say what I do.

‘Emma Morrison tried see if my mum would come into school to give a talk.’

Mrs Bridges doesn’t respond to this, but I can feel her watching me, willing me to go on.

‘I never asked Emma how she felt when Sarah died. They were friends too. Not like we were, but they were friends. I sat next to Emma on the bus a few weeks ago and I didn’t ask her then either.’

Mrs Bridges continues to listen.

‘And I bumped into Bobby Peters a while ago and realised he didn’t quite look like what I thought he looked like. He was nice to me, but that’s all.’

I don’t know why I’m saying these things, but I almost feel like I’m looking down at my mouth, watching the words tumble out.

‘I snapped at Art last night. He only wanted me to watch Merlin with him, but I didn’t watch it.

‘I got the bus to school today, which was easier than walking. I’m scared of the woods now. They were my favourite place in the world, except for the foot of the hill, but now they can’t be, and I’ve not been there since… but I’m always there in my dreams before I wake up with wet cheeks.’

She says something now, and I hear her. The numb feeling has started to go, but I’m still not really in the room.

‘And are you still having nightmares? Are they stopping you from sleeping?’

‘It started with the moon again last night. It was a full moon. Did you see it? I was sat at my desk and I’d forgotten to shut the curtains. I don’t think I’d looked up since the sun had started to set and it was three o’clock in the middle of the night when I noticed it. I’d just shut my laptop and when I flicked the switch on my desk lamp, there it was: the round, white, full moon, shining in on me. It grew and grew and grew until it swallowed up my room and I was outside in the fields beyond the back of our house. The moon was back in the sky and was beginning to disappear behind thick clouds, plunging me into a dangerous darkness. And then I felt the weather around me. I was cold. Scared. Cold and scared. And then I felt the rain.’

‘Come on, Sarah. We’d better get going. I don’t think we should wait this one out. It feels like it’s going to get serious. The fairy king must be warring with the goblin kingdom.’

‘OK, Issy, yeah, we’d better get back. He won’t be able to protect us if he’s busy warring. Just give me a second.’

I take a few careful steps downwards. It’s approaching dusk anyway, and we’ve been out all day. We packed sandwiches, which we ate hours ago, and I’m starving. I’m nearly low enough to use the rope ladder we made to descend the final few meters, when I hear a cry from above me.

‘Sarah, what’s the matter?’ I turn my head and shoulders back to look up at Sarah.

‘Arghh, I’ve got my foot stuck. Ouch. Oo, Issy it’s really lodged in.’

I turn around and begin to climb again. I reach her and can see that her foot is stuck in the crotch of the tree, where two big branches cross over. I try to move them apart, but they’re too big and won’t budge.

‘Sarah, try to wriggle out of your shoe. Maybe you can get your foot out.’ She begins to wriggle her leg.

‘Ow, Issy it won’t come out and it hurts when I move it.’

I look Sarah in the face and can see that she’s in pain. At the same time our eyes both widen as we hear a low rumble in the distance. Thunder. I look around me and realise that within just the last few minutes it has gotten significantly darker. The sun has just dipped below the hills in the distance and it suddenly feels like storm weather.

‘Issy, it feels like it’s about to rain, and that sounds like a storm coming. Issy, what are we going to do?’ I can sense the panic in her voice.

‘Don’t worry, Sarah. Try to wriggle it again. Maybe if I try to pull it out.’ I reach out to take hold of her leg, thinking to force it up, but I’ve barely touched her before she cries out in pain again.

‘Ow, it hurts too much, Issy.’ And now I start to feel myself panic.

‘I’ll go for help. There’s nothing else we can do. I’ll be quick, Sarah. I promise. I’ll run as fast as I can. I’ll go to the farm: it’s closer.’

‘No, my parents aren’t in. You’ll have to go to your house. It’s not too much further. Quick, Issy.’ Her eyes plead with me, and another rumble of thunder sounds, this time closer than before. ‘Promise you’ll be quick.’

‘I promise, Sarah. I’ll be back. Just hold on and try not to worry. I’m going now. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

I turn away and begin to climb back down the tree towards the ladder. I turn around and start to descend quickly. When I’m half way down, I look back up at Sarah. As my eyes catch hers, I hear a crack, and then I’m falling. Thud, and I hit the ground flat on my back. The wind is knocked out of me and it takes me a moment to find my breath. I get up carefully and look up. The rope snapped – right at the top. I only fell a few meters, but the full distance to the lowest branch is at least that again.

‘Issy, are you ok?’

‘Yeah, I think so. The rope snapped, Sarah. It’s ok. We’ve got some at home. I’ll get it when I get Dad. He’ll be able to get up there. Don’t worry, Sarah. Sarah, I’m going. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Hurry, Issy.’

I make the sign of friendship to the fairy king, and I begin to run with everything I’ve got.

As I start running, I feel a pain in my lower back. I must have hurt it when I fell. I try to ignore it and run as fast as I can anyway.

As I move, the hint of rain turns into drizzle, making me wet and clammy. It feels like when you’re in a cloud, like it’s not really raining but it’s still soaking wet. I can’t see too far in front of me now either, just like being in a cloud. It’s getting really dark and my back is slowing me down. My little legs do their best, but it doesn’t feel fast enough. The cloudy drizzle begins to pick up, and at the sound of thunder – this time very close – it turns into real rain and it begins to beat down. Within seconds I’m completely drenched and can barely see three feet in front of me as my wet hair sticks to my face and the rain pours down me, obscuring my vision as I constantly blink and wipe my face to keep from going blind.

I’m only halfway home and I start to think about Sarah up in the tree. Why did I have to climb so fast down the ladder? Maybe if I’d just climbed patiently it wouldn’t have snapped.

I’m frozen through, despite the exertion of running. Sarah must be so cold. I push on, trying to get faster and faster though I feel myself tiring and my lungs burning. My feet pound and pound. Soon I start to see the light from the backs of the houses on our street in the distance and I keep running with everything I’ve got. It’s fully dark now and the rain is relentlessly plummeting down. The ground is churning up beneath me and I begin to slip and slide. I fall flat, and scramble up with difficulty, slipping in the mud.

Finally, I reach our back garden and fly through the gate. I run through the back door, into the kitchen.

‘Issy, what on Earth’s the matter? Look at you.’

‘Mum, quick, get Dad. It’s Sarah. She stuck up the tree and the storm’s really close now. Quick. Help Mum. She’s really hurt.’

‘Oh, God. Wait here, Issy.’ She turns, and I hear her calling for Dad, but I don’t wait for either of them to come back. I’ve got help; Dad will catch me up. I have to get back to Sarah.

I run back out into the storm, which rages in earnest and once I’ve cleared a hundred metres or so the light from the houses disappears and I’m running through darkness again. But I know the way. I know it like the back of my hand and I just keep on running. I slip and slide, but I keep on getting up again. I have to get back to her. I can keep her calm. I can tell her that Dad’s coming, that everything will be ok.

Dad hasn’t caught me up yet, and I keep on going. Why did the rope have to break? Why did I have to break the rope? And it hits me… the rope. I forgot to get the rope. But I’m nearly back at the tree now, and Dad will surely be right behind me. Oh, God. I forgot the rope. But Dad’s tall enough. He’ll still get up. He’ll be ok. Just hold on Sarah. Don’t worry. We’ll be there soon.

I’m close now, and I start to call out Sarah’s name. I want her to know that I’m coming. I want her to know that everything will be ok. She just has to be brave for a little while longer and then everything will be ok.

‘Sarah. Sarah, I’m coming. Dad’s coming Sarah. It’ll be ok. Just hold on.’

The rain is torrential now and sheets of lightning are cracking ahead, illuminating the hills in the distance where the sun so recently disappeared from view.

Thunder. Lightening. Rain. Thunder. Lightening. Rain.

And then the sky lights up with an almighty crack and roar and I see our tree, a dark silhouette against the lightning-lit background. It’s close. It’s really close.

‘Sarah, I’m coming. Dad’s coming. Sarah, it’ll be okay. Don’t worry Sarah.’

As I’m almost there, I hear something behind me. I turn and look back, and as I do I slip in the sludge and fall once again to the ground. As I fall, I see that it is Dad, his strong legs striding behind me. Instinctively he swoops down to pull me up.

‘Where is she, Issy?’ He’s shining a torch up in the branches of the tree. ‘I can’t see her. Sarah. Sarah. Are you okay Sarah?’

There’s no reply, but the storm is so loud I don’t think her little voice would carry.

‘She got stuck Dad. About halfway up the tree. She’s up there. Sarah. Sarah. We’re here. Sarah. Dad, can you get up there? I forgot to get rope. It snapped. Quick, Dad. She’s up there all on her own.’

I’m looking, and I’m confused, because I’m sure I know exactly where she should be. I can picture our eyes meeting as I fell, and I know exactly where she should be, but she’s not there. I can’t see her. She’s not there. At first, I panic, and then I think, But she must have got herself free. She must have got down. We must have missed her as she struggled home.

‘Dad, I can’t see her. She must have got down. Dad, she really hurt her foot. She could be anywhere between here and home struggling in the cold. Dad, what do we do?’

He shines his torch around the perimeter of the tree and we both start calling her name.

‘Sarah. Sarah. Sarah. Where are you? Sarah? SARAH!’

The only reply is the thunder and lightning and rain. Thunder. Lightening. Rain.

And then I see something. Something that I do not recognise. In the tangle of upturned roots at the base of the trunk, I see something there. I walk towards it. I wonder if it’s the snapped rope, but I trip as I walk towards it. I fall face first into the mud and when I lift my head, I see that it was the rope ladder I tripped on.

‘Issy.’ It’s Dad’s voice behind me. ‘Issy, wait there.’ But I don’t listen. I keep on walking towards the strange black mound, still just a tangled silhouette in the darkness, and then I feel Dad run past me. He runs towards the thing on the floor. What is it? Why is he running towards it? Why am I so fascinated by it? We should be looking for Sarah.

‘Dad, what’re we doing? We should be turning back, looking for Sarah. If she got free, she would have started walking back to find us. Dad. Dad, what is it?’

He’s bent down now, and he’s picked the thing up that’s on the floor. He’s cradling it to him. He’s touching his head to the middle of it. He’s lying it out flat on the floor. He’s pushing his palms against it. He’s bending his face towards the top of it. He’s holding it again. He’s slipped. He’s crying. Why is he crying? What is he doing? He looks up and sees me.

‘Issy, wait. Issy. Issy…’

And then I see her and the world ends.

Thunder. Lightening. Rain. Thunder. Lightening. Rain. Thunder. Lightening. Rain.

I scramble. I clutch. I hold. I scream. I pound. I rage. I cry. I cry. I cry.

And all is black.

‘It was my fault.’ I sort of whisper it, with a kind of reverential awe. ‘That’s why I can’t talk about it.’

‘Issy.’ She’s comforting me. She leans closer like she really means it. I can almost see the same look that Mr Harrison gave me before I came in: she looks at me like I’m broken and her heart’s breaking to see it. ‘Issy, well done for getting through this. I know it has been hard. But you can’t blame yourself for an accident.’

‘But I left her. I could have stayed longer. I could have tried harder to get her free. But I left her. I left her like it was just a game and everything would be okay. She was all alone in the storm. She must have been so scared, so cold. She must have got herself free, so I should have stayed: if she got herself free, I should have stayed.’

‘But, Issy, you didn’t know that she would get herself free. You tried, and she tried and you came up with the best idea you could. Issy, you were so young, and yet no-one could have done anything differently.’ I barely hear what she says.

‘She got herself free and she must have been in pain. Maybe she slipped because she couldn’t put her weight on her foot properly. Or maybe she got to the lowest branch and slipped trying to let herself down. Why did I have to break that ladder? If only I had climbed down more carefully. It was my idea to build a ladder in the first place, and then it was me who broke it. If she could have used the ladder, she wouldn’t have fallen. If I hadn’t have left her, she wouldn’t have fallen. I could have pulled harder. I could have pulled her free. I could have pulled even though she said it hurt, because I could have been better; I should have been braver. But I wasn’t. I just ran off. I ran off and left her all alone – cold and alone – my best friend in all the world, cold and alone. And then she fell and died, and it’s all my fault.’ My voice has risen as I’ve been talking and I’m crying. I’m breathing hard and I can’t really feel the room any more. I keep seeing her lying there, her back broken on the roots of the tree. I see myself walking towards her so slowly. I see two girls made of light playing under a tree, and then one of the lights goes out and the other dims to barely more than a faint glimmer observed from a great distance.

I’ve stopped talking, and the room is silent apart from my breathing and crying.

‘Issy, there is nothing you could have done. It was a horrible accident. But it wasn’t your fault. The rope snapped, and it wasn’t your fault. Sarah’s foot got stuck, and it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could to help her, Issy.’

‘But she didn’t know. What if she thought I wasn’t coming back? She was there so long. She was so wet and so cold and so scared, and what if she thought I wasn’t coming back? I was too slow, and she thought I wasn’t coming back, so she pulled her leg so hard she fell back. She fell through all those branches and then through nothing but air until she hit those roots so hard she broke her back and died.’ I’m breathing hard now.

‘Issy, it wasn’t your fault. You did the best you could.’

‘But that’s just it, isn’t it? My best wasn’t good enough.’ I’m starting to shout now.

‘Issy, I know it’s hard, but sometimes we can try with all our might and things don’t go right. It’s no-one’s fault though, Issy. You did as much as anyone could have done to help Sarah. You loved her, and she loved you and it was a terrible accident. It was terrible Issy, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault.’

‘THEN WHAT’S THE POINT?’ I stand up and start to pace the room. I feel like I’m breathing so fast I can’t keep up with myself. ‘If no-one could have done any better – if no one could have saved Sarah – then what’s the point? It’s all broken isn’t it? The whole world’s broken, and it keeps on breaking and even if we’re really good and try really hard, it’s still going to break. What’s the point? If it’s not my fault, then it’s no-one’s fault, and then it’s all meaningless. It’s all broken out there. It’s so full of prejudice and hatred and hurt, and even when there’s love – so much love it feels like your heart would burst with joy – even then, it’s all really just waiting to break, because out there everything breaks. Nothing is safe. Everything’s ruined eventually. SO WHY ARE WE EVEN OUT THERE PRETENDING?’

I stop there and hear my voice hanging in the silence. I stare, and I pace a little more and then I sit back down opposite Mrs Bridges and I just cry. I’m aware that she must come over to me and hug me, but all I’m really aware of are the tears that feel like they will never stop.

I just keep crying.