“He didn’t want it,” I gasp. “He was scared. Traumatized by what you were doing to him. But he came for you later, didn’t he? When he was Ellis again, he came for you.”
Denman extends his arm and I pivot further over the edge. I don’t want to, but I have to open my eyes. I need to see that he understands this.
“Whatever happened that night at the lake, I want you to know that you killed Ellis.”
Movement behind Denman. The gentle opening of a door. I drag my eyes back to his; I keep him focused.
“You took a part of him. And although he was brave and clever and wonderful, he could never drag that part back into the light. I want you to remember that.”
Denman’s expression is impassive. No anger, no outrage, no lust. Just the deadness that I’m sure lies at the heart of him.
“I’m not a killer.” Tears swim in his eyes – pity, but only for himself. “I never wanted to hurt anyone. But I have my life, my job. Even my partner’s come back to me. Felt sorry for me after my accident. I can’t lose these things, Dylan. I won’t.” His grip on me begins to loosen. “I don’t believe you’re uploading that file, and even if you are, I’ll delete it before anyone finds it. So here we are. Do you know what everyone’s going to think happened here today?” A bead of sweat trickles down his brow as he strains to hold me. “They’ll say you jumped. Why wouldn’t they? Such a sad and damaged little boy. What else was there left for him but this?”
“There’s justice,” I say. “Justice for El.”
A thick arm loops around his neck and Denman screams. In the next moment, he’s released me and I’m falling backwards. I grab at the air, frantic, because I want to live, El. I do. Even if it’s without you.
And then a hand snatches mine and I’m reeled away from the brink and onto the hard shingle of the rooftop. I fall with my rescuer, sprawling into him, knocking heads with him, then resting, face to face, breathing hard.
“Dylan!” Hands in my hair, hands cupping the back of my head, pulling me close. “Jesus, Dylan!”
Sprawled together, I lock eyes with Mike. He’s laughing hysterically and I can feel his heart slamming against my chest.
“You stupid,stupidprick,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
We rise together and watch as police swarm the rooftop. One officer shouts at Mike, reminding him that he was told to stay downstairs. Meanwhile Denman is face down in the gravel, a burly constable wrenching his arms behind his back and fitting the cuffs. His pale, sweat-soaked face turns sideways and the art teacher looks across at me, that emotionless mask firmly in place.
Suddenly I recognize the officer snapping the handcuffs. It’s PC Shit-for-Brains from the hospital and the cycle-safety assembly. He gives me a knowing grimace and a very official shake of the head. Another officer collects my phone from where it landed and I find myself babbling some explanation about the recorded confession.
Then a team of paramedics come over and Mike and I are separated. They guide me gently downstairs to an ambulance and I sit in the back, answering questions in a dull monotone. Through the open doors I see your rapist escorted to a waiting car. I won’t look at him. He’s nothing now. Meaningless.
And anyway, there’s another question that I’m only just starting to turn over in my mind.
It’s the last question of all, and for once, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
We sit side by side on our old swings in the Berringtons’ garden. Above us, through shreds of cloud, the moon rides high.
It’s been an hour since we got back from the police station. Our parents met us there after Denman’s arrest and stayed with us while we gave our statements. The inspector who interviewed me said they’d retrieved the audio file from my phone and that, together with El’s drawing, the fragments of coffee cup (which should retain trace amounts of Denman’s sedative), and the fact that Denman was caught red-handed attacking me, a conviction for rape and attempted murder is pretty much certain. When I heard this I knew I should feel elated, but all I could do was nod and thank him.
After we left the station my parents begged me to come home. I told them, very gently, that I wasn’t ready yet. That I might never be ready. My mum kissed my cheek and my dad said he understood.
And so here we are. After fussing around us and receiving a hundred reassurances that we’re okay, Big Mike and Carol have gone to bed and we’re alone.
Now it’s just me and Mike, facing truths that neither us want to face.
“There are still things that don’t fit,” I say at last. “Like, why did the journal-sender leave that page until last?Okay, it was an abstract drawing, he probably didn’t know what it meant, but it also hinted that something awful might have happened to El. Something worse than in any of the other drawings. So why not send this one first?”
I grip the creaking rope that holds my swing to the tree.
“Mike, when you called the police, what did you know?”
I turn to him. He has his head in his hands. His shoulders tremble. I reach for him and he pushes me away. When he finally looks at me, I know what he’s going to say. We’ve always been like that, me and Mike.
“It was me, Dylan. I let Ellis drown. It was me.”
I know it’s true but still I try to resist it.
“You had chemo that day.” I shake my head. “You were still at the hospital when I called you from the dance. You’d have been chucking your guts up, there’s just no way.”
