“You can’t help me, Mike. Carol and Big Mike would never forgive me if I got you mixed up in this. But things might get a bit crazy after today, so I just wanted to say thanks. For everything you’ve done this past week. And I wanted to tell you…” I rub my eyes with the back of my hand. “Mike, you werealwaysmy best friend. Even when El came along, you and me…” I grip the phone, force myself to keep going. “You were never second-best to him, you know? You were always my brother.”
“Dylan, you need to listen—”
“I have to go.”
“No! Dylan!”
I end the call. Then I thumb quickly through my apps, select the one I need, and rise. Pushing my way through the undergrowth, I emerge onto the field. The sun throws my shadow like a cloak, draping it across Ferrivale High.
Some dawdling Year Seven kid with half his shirt tail hanging out emerges from the science block just as I reach the main building. I ask him to hold the door. Year Sevens usually obey sixth-former commands, even if the older kid does have a strange look in his eye.
I pass quickly through the corridors. I don’t think there’s anything quite like that echoing, eerie emptiness of a school at five-to-four on a Friday afternoon. I jog past abandoned classrooms, my ears keen for a teacher’s step or a cleaner’s trolley. I have to be fast now. You told me how he hovers late on a Friday, unloading the kiln, placing pottery projects in the drying room.
And this is where I find him.
“Hello, Mr Denman.”
Your old art teacher jumps, his claw-like hand sweeping across a drying shelf, knocking red clay bowls to the floor, where they shatter like fragments of frozen blood. He turns to me, breathing hard.
“Dylan, what the hell? You don’t just come into a room like this without warning. Look at the mess. Who’s going to—”
“Clean it up?” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
His gaze cuts from the shattered fragments to my eyes. Maybe he sees something there. Anyway, he gives this tremulous little smile and I wonder how I ever thought he was attractive. Slowly, I move across to him and place my hand on his arm. Touching this man, being anywhere near him, makes my skin crawl, but I force myself to lean into him, my lips close to his ear.
“I’ve been thinking about your offer, Mr Denman.”
“Wh-what offer?” he says.
I pull back and smile. “Coffee. And a chat. About how I’m feeling? About Ellis.” A tiny bubble of saliva foams at the corner of his mouth. I should be afraid. I’m not. “Maybe we could take our drinks up onto the roof?”
He swallows hard. Hesitates. “Yes, of course. Coffee. I keep my own private stash in my office. Special blend. Teachers are notorious when it comes to stealing each other’s coffee. It’ll only take a second to brew.”
He squeezes past me and I let my hand trail across his lopsided shoulders. That accident at Christmas? Itreallydid a number on him. At the door, Denman looks back.
“But why the roof? You know it isn’t allowed.”
“It’s private,” I say, leaning as casually as I can against one of the drying shelves. “El and I used to sneak up there all the time. And I’d like to talk to you where no one can overhear us. You see, Mr Denman, there’s something that’s been worrying me. About El. About what happened to him last December. I really think you’d be interested in hearing what I have to say.”
“Of course.” He gives a sharp nod. “Of course. I understand perfectly. Be right back.”
I follow him, quietly, discreetly, none of my usual Dylan-clumsiness. Through a crack in the office door, I see what he puts into my coffee, then head back to the drying room where I wait. And although I don’t know what exactly will come next, I feel strangely serene.
When Denman returns, I reach for the mug in his outstretched hand, making sure my gaze doesn’t linger on that dark, swirling surface. The drying room is at the back of the largest art studio, miles from the rest of the school. No one sees us as we head to the stairs, steaming cups cradled in our hands.
I lead the way. As we go, I try to shut out the memories of the last time I mounted these steps. You were with me then, and everything in my life had seemed sweet and perfect. Now when I push through the door markedROOF ACCESS, all I sense is the steady tread of darkness behind me.
The metal door opens and a wash of daylight floods my face. I pull down a huge breath. The door slams shut behind us. Crossing the flat roof, I give in to this single, shining memory of you:
A tartan blanket thrown over the gravel at the very edge of the roof. Our view is the football pitch, scene of a hundred Ellis Bell victories, the trees swaying gently beyond. You unpacking the hamper, me complaining about the food.What evenisquinoa?The setting sun in your hair, gold rippling in a black and shining sea. A hand, a touch, our mouths pressed together, eyes closed, hearts in sync, the cherry of your lip balm on my tongue.
“Forever’s a long time, Frecks.”
It’s a memory, an echo, a romcom acted out in my brain. It has no weight or reality or value to anyone else, but in this moment I will treasure it. Stay with me, El. I need you now.
Moving to the edge of the roof, I place my cup on the shallow parapet. There’s a snap of gravel behind me; Denman approaching.
“We were happy here,” I tell him, my eyes skirting the distant trees. “The night before he died, we weresohappy.”
