“He knew me and Mike were friends,” Ollie says. “He probably didn’t want to make things awkward for everybody.”
“But you didn’t take El snubbing you well, did you?” Mike says.
“You want the truth? I hated him for it.” Ollie wraps his arm around his stomach, a defensive gesture that reminds me of Mr Denman. “I’d already dumped Gemma and she was spreading shit about me. I was jealous of what you guys had, Dylan. And I just felt so…lonely, I suppose. All I could ever think about was El – so when he shot me down, yeah, I wanted to vent. I followed you that night onto the school roof and… Well, you know the rest.”
“But Ellis must have known it was you,” Mike says, “or suspected anyway, when the video was put on Instagram.”
“Maybe he did. I thought he would and so I stayed away from the dance.”
“You wanted to punish us,” I say quietly. “Because we were happy.”
“No, Dylan. Because I wasunhappy.”
I nod. It kills me to admit it, but I understand. If I’d been in Ollie’s place – and I could quite easily have been – then… I don’t know.
“And this was why you were so defensive of Dylan at Gemma’s party?” Mike says. “You felt guilty.”
“I’d like to think I’d have stood up for him anyway.” Ollie nods. “But yes, I suppose.”
“And the flowers and the card at the lake?” I ask.
He’s sobbing again, quietly now. “If I hadn’t posted the video you wouldn’t have felt forced to come out, Dylan. And then El wouldn’t have taken you to the dance to make that big show of being together. You’d never have been on the road later and the accident…” He draws back and covers his face with his hands. “It’s my fault. I killed him.”
“You didn’t kill him,” I murmur. “You hurt us very badly, Ollie, but you didn’t kill him. Don’t carry that weight around, it isn’t yours.”
His fingers part and I almost break. I don’t hate this kid…but no, I can’t forgive him. I just need to close the book on Ollie Reynolds.
“Is there anything else you want to say?”
“No,” Ollie says quietly. “Except…Dylan, I know I was obsessed with him. I think in a way he inspired obsession. Not deliberately, not consciously; he was just Ellis. But maybe being Ellis could be a dangerous thing. Obsession can turn to hate. It did with me.”
Mike and I leave Ollie alone on the field and traipse homeward. Mike’s knuckles are raw and bruised, but he doesn’t complain. While we walk, Ollie’s words float around in my head. You inspired obsession, El. Is there some clue in that? Some larger message that I just don’t understand yet?
We’re at my door and Mike looks like he’s about to drop.
“Mate,” I say, “are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head wearily. “I’ve texted Mumzilla to pick me up. She’ll be here in a sec.” He claps my shoulder and sets off down the drive.
I feel like collapsing too. I watch until Carol draws up and give them both as cheery a wave as I can muster, then I take a deep breath and head inside. It’s time for the McKee showdown, invitation by fridge door. I don’t really know what my parents want to say to me, but I feel certain it must end with my bags packed and at least a night or two on Mike’s camp bed.
The hall’s empty. I dump my coat on Mum’s alien sculpture and wander into the kitchen. I’m drifting over to the kettle with vague thoughts of tea when I see the post lying on the countertop. A familiar brown envelope pokes through the heap. The third envelope in three days. Will this one finally give me the answers I need?
My hands don’t shake this time. I’m too tired to be nervous. I rip open the envelope and a single yellow sheet flutters out. I unfold the carefully torn-out journal page and your artwork stuns me, as always. This time it’s a series of Disneyesque cartoons. In the first panel an exaggerated, red-faced version of my father is outside your door at Mount Pleasant. He’s jabbering away while you stand before him, shaking your head as gluts of money pour from his lips. In the next panel, you’re weeping, thrusting the money back at him, and then Julia is there beside you, indignant, furious, screaming at my father to leave…
Our front door opens. I hear Mum and Chris bustling through with shopping, then Dad’s voice following them, asking if they’ve bankrupted him again. They all chuckle. Ha-de-fucking-ha. And then the chatter stops. They’ve seen me, but I can’t turn and look at them because my eyes are resting on the last panel of the cartoon. You, alone in your beautiful bedroom, holding your bleeding heart in your hands. A price tag is attached to it: £100.
“Honey?” Mum says. “Are you okay?”
“Dylan?”
“Bro?”
I turn around slowly.
“What did you do?” I say. And when they don’t answer, I scream it: “What did you do?!”
“Frecks, you’re being silly. I think we should just tell them.”
