I carry a lot of guilt over her death. I know that I wasn’t responsible for the weather that night, that I wasn’t driving the car, but there is something that makes me feel that it all could have been avoided. That I should have stopped it, that it wouldn’t have happened at all had I behaved differently. Either on that night or the months preceding.
Growing up alone with Mum, having been abandoned by my biological father, meant that I was a very responsible child and that carried on into adulthood. I’m proud of that, that’s the type of man I want to be. But there are two edges to that particular sword and I never ever want to be in the position again where I can impact someone’s life so badly that it results in such levels of pain. Jess was lashing out and trying to escape from me that night. So it is better for everyone if I just stay by myself.
Rational me reminds me that Belle Wilde is exactly what her name implies, she’s beautiful and a little too feral for me to handle. We are far from compatible. The picture of a fox pings into my mind again as does an awareness that I may be being over-harsh, judging the Belle I once knew, not the one I’ve met recently. The mind is the most bizarre thing, it seems to be able to hold several conflicting opinions at once and be fine with them all. It’s exhausting. The one thing I am sure of is that Belle Wilde and I might be best off with a bit of distance. It has to be safer that way. Stop my mind imagining it wants things that I really don’t. Although I am pleased about her school booking, that is gr— What the actual…?
‘Run, Rory, run!’
My mother streaks past me at speed and as she does so an alarm starts going off.
‘Run, you daft bugger!’ She hurls the words at me over her shoulder as she pegs it out of the House of Fraser, a silky-looking skirt billowing out from under her winter coat.
I run.
There’s so much security in Cabot Circus, how the hell does she think she’s going to get away with this? They’re bound to stop us before we even reach JD Sports. I catch up with her and shout across.
‘What on earth?’
‘Don’t talk, slows you down. Run!’
‘Oi!’ I turn my head and sure enough there are two Cabot security guards chasing behind us. They’re still right by House of Fraser and we’re dashing past Timberland. We might be able to do this, get out of the mall, but where then?
I’m careful not to outpace Mum; my heart and feet are pounding, my adrenaline in full flood. I need to hang back just a little so, worst-case scenario, she can get away and I can distract the guards. How has this become today’s plan?
For a small woman who, as far as I know, never does any cardio or gym, she sure as hell can run in the moment.
She’s ahead now, round the corner of the shopping centre, and then runs up to the number 5 bus as it’s driving off, bashing on the door. The driver stops and opens the door, at which point she grabs me and hurls us both on, shouting,‘Drive, drive’ as if she’s in some kind of heist movie. Within seconds we’re down the road, sailing through the green lights as the red-faced security guards come out of Cabot, pausing to see which way we have gone.
‘What … the … hell, Mum?’ I pant, holding onto the pole on the bus to steady me.
‘Now that, Rory…’ she says, sat on the chequered bus seat, smoothing down a very expensive silk nightie, now fully out and hanging over her trousers, ‘now that’s what I call living.’
To business that we love we rise betimes
And go to’t with delight.
December Eleventh.
Belle.
Istand on the stage next to delicious Mr Latham. The plan is to deliver a brief five-minute hello in front of the whole school and then get cracking. For all my social anxieties I had always thought that talking about Shakespeare was the one thing that could never scare me.
I was wrong.
I’m standing in front of a whole school and I’m proper terrified!
There are about two hundred and fifty pairs of eyes on me. On me! I’m not prepared for this. Shakespeare to secondary schools, bring it on. Primary school children, not so much. And Shakespeare and Christmas! Christmas is the one thing hedidn’tbloody write about at length.
‘Let me pass you over to the woman that knows all things possible about the Bard, we’re very lucky to have her at such short notice, Miss Wilde.’
I smile, take a deep breath, and go with bluff-it-don’t-fluff-it.
‘Thank you. Hello, school. I’m so happy to be here, with the lovely Mr Latham…’ A titter runs through the children, some of the mums nod in agreement and I feel the blush spread up my neck, and across my face, matching the deep red of the Elizabethan dress I’m wearing today to give my talk. I plough on. ‘When Mr Latham asked me to come and talk about my favourite storyteller of all time, how could I say no? The truth is, I’m not sure if any of you have heard of this guy. Hands up if you’ve heard of Shakespeare before, any of you? Okay.’ All of Year Six have their hands up, with a woman sat to the side of them looking suitably, and rightfully, smug and about twelve others. ‘That’s okay. Truth is, he won’t have heard of you guys either. Do any of you know why that is?’
‘He’s dead, Miss.’
‘That’s the one right there. He lived when people dressed like this so he has been dead for some time. You don’t see people wearing this in Asda, do you?’ I run my hands up and down my costume.
‘You might in Bedminster, Miss,’ a voice shouts out. I fight the laughter; that’s true enough. All sorts goes on there.
