Still Falling

  Still Falling

  Still Falling

  Sheena Wilkinson

  STILL FALLING

  First published in 2015 by

  Little Island Books

  7 Kenilworth Park

  Dublin 6W

  Ireland

  Copyright © Sheena Wilkinson 2015

  The author has asserted her moral rights.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means (including electronic/digital, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, by means now known or hereinafter invented) without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 9781908195920

  A British Library Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover design by Niall McCormack

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond

  Printed in Poland by Drukarnia Skleniarz

  Little Island is grateful for financial assistance from the Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaíon and the Arts Council of Northern Ireland

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my wonderful god-daughter,

  Caoimhe Browne,

  with love.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This novel was a long time gestating, and I’d like to thank everyone who helped in any way to keep me reasonably sane since I started. Thanks to my family and friends, and colleagues at Methodist College and the Church of Ireland College of Education. The Arvon Foundation, the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig and the Arts Council of Northern Ireland all played their parts.

  Celia Rees, whose insight at a very early stage was crucial to the story’s development, deserves a special thanks, as do all whose feedback on the manuscript at various stages helped me bash it into shape: Lee Weatherly, Bella Pearson, Linda Newbery, Susanne Brownlie, Julie McDonald, and of course my wise, eagle-eyed and long-suffering editors at Little Island, Gráinne Clear and Siobhán Parkinson. Sometimes we even laughed about it.

  I’ve done a lot of travelling since I started writing full-time, and I’m always grateful for the invitations from schools and libraries and festivals all over Ireland and the UK. I love meeting readers and potential readers almost as much as I like sitting in a room and making things up. Thanks to Anne who looks after things when I’m away, and, as always, to Mummy and John for putting up with my funny wee ways.

  All my writer and kidlit friends in Ireland, England and beyond – in CBI, SCBWI and especially SAS – continue to reassure me that if I’m crazy to do this, then at least I’m in wonderful company. And thank heavens for everyone who reads, reviews and champions YA fiction, without whom there’d be nobody to tell stories to.

  Sheena Wilkinson

  Co Down

  I stand in the corridor, frozen with horror at the words coming out of Dad’s mouth.

  ‘Nobody saw him fall – Sandra found him at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, blood everywhere. She thought he was dead.’

  ‘Can I go to the hospital?’

  Dad hesitates. I don’t know why I’m asking, because whatever he says, whatever’s happened between me and Luke, I can’t walk away now.

  Even though I know he might not wake up.

  Esther

  It’s not unheard of to wet yourself on your first day at school. But not normally in sixth form.

  I’m late. Should have accepted Dad’s offer of a lift. It’s just that arriving in school with Dad is so sad, especially for someone who’s started being friends with Jasmine Wright. OK, maybe not friends exactly, but after results night, when I practically saved her life – well, she’s at least going to acknowledge me. Isn’t she?

  The corridors are empty. Teachers’ voices sing-song from behind closed doors. I hitch my new satchel higher on my shoulder and make for the sixth-form block.

  Rushing down the scruffy cream corridors, I wish I had taken that lift with Dad. At least I could have drifted into the room along with everybody else and not have to make An Entrance all sweaty and flustered.

  I wonder who our tutor is. Every year I pray it won’t be Dad and so far my prayers have been answered. Only I remind myself I don’t do praying any more. Not since I ditched God.

  Despite my rejection, God – or whoever organised the classes, probably a computer program – is on my side, because the person sitting at the teacher’s desk, scratching his beard, blinking at the chatting rows, counting timetables, and looking like he’s counting the minutes until breaktime, or possibly retirement, is only Boring Baxter.

  All he says is, ‘Ah. Esther Wilson. You can take that seat there,’ and he points me to a desk where a boy I don’t recognise is bent over, rummaging in his schoolbag. It’s the only empty seat, behind Toby, who is shy and nice and the closest thing I’ve had to a friend at school until now. I slide into the seat, pull off my cardigan because sweat is suddenly pricking my armpits, and glance round. Jasmine hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s sitting with Cassie. Of course.

  I give Jasmine a quick smile. This is sixth form and it’s all going to be different. I’m going to be different. Though the tutor group is pretty much the same as the last five years. A few thick rugby players haven’t got enough GCSEs to get back. Leaving space for the two new girls with ironed blond hair and lip-glossed pouts who sit in front of Jasmine and Cassie looking like they’ve been specially manufactured to be Mansfield Sixth Form Girls. They’re so much a type that it takes me a second to realise they actually are identical. As in twins. One of them turns round and whispers something to Jasmine, who laughs. Cassie’s lips tighten and she gives the twin her bug-eyed stare. Baxter and Toby are the only people who have even noticed me.

  I sigh and reach for the timetable Baxter is handing me, only I miss and it flutters to the ground and I have to bend down to grab it and it feels like people are sniggering even though they aren’t. It’s strange to see only a few subjects. English lit, French, history and art. My crap science GCSE grades finally convinced me that I’m never going to be a doctor even though it used to be my dream.

  The boy beside me sets his pens on the desk. He has four – black, blue, green and red. He lays them in a row. The red one wobbles and he frowns and edges it back into place. I glance at him from under my fringe. Blondish hair. Tall, I think, though it’s hard to tell when someone’s sitting down. Lean. Hot. Something inside me trembles. Very hot. I try to see what subjects he’s doing but all I can make out is that he has highlighted them all in different colours, and his name at the top: Luke Bressan.

  Not that it matters to me what he’s called. If you drew a line across the class, with the cool people on one side and the rejects on the other, Luke Bressan and I would not be on the same side.

  I look away, my skin burning. It’s hopeless. You can’t just decide to be cool. My legs stick to my skirt with sweat. My scalp itches even though I washed my hair this morning. Now that he’s tamed his pens, Luke appears as confident as the new girls. Slightly bored if anything. I’m not used to sitting with a boy. Not this kind of boy anyway. Toby doesn’t count.

  I fold my arms and concentrate on Baxter. He drones on about uniform regulations and careers guidance and how we will all be treated like Responsible Adults now as long as we don’t Abuse the Privilege. Then he takes off his glasses and puts on his caring face.

  ‘And of course,’ he says, his voice cosy as a cupcake, ‘we hope you’ll all have a great year with no problems.’ He pulls at his nasal hair. ‘But if you should encounter any little difficulties, well, we’re here to help.’

  Luke slides his hands up the sides of his face and lets them rest there. His fingers are long, but his nails are short and bitten, worse than mine. A thin silver bracelet sna
kes his wrist. If Baxter notices that he’ll tell him to take it off.

  ‘You all know Mr Wilson,’ Baxter goes on. ‘Head of pastoral care. He’s the man to go to if you if have any – er problems.’ I stare at the scratches on my desk. Around me rises a burble of mumblings. Yeah right – Big Willy – imagine telling him –

  Imagine being his daughter.

  Beside me Luke stiffens, as if my discomfort is catching. Then he gives a strange strangled cry and I turn to see him collapse sideways. His face strikes the desk as he falls and then he lies on the floor, limbs juddering and jerking.

  Instant panic. Cassie screams. People gasp and flock round.

  I slip down from my chair and kneel beside Luke.

  ‘Don’t touch him!’ Toby cries. His normally pink face is white. I remember him throwing up in third year when we dissected a rat.

  ‘Are you meant to put something in their mouth?’ somebody asks.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s going to die!’ Cassie shrieks. Which is exactly what she said when Jasmine passed out on results night. Helpful.

  ‘Shut up. Give him space,’ I order. My voice comes out clear and strong like I expect everyone to obey and they do, even Baxter. Even Jasmine and Cassie, huddled together, their eyes nearly popping out of their mascaraed sockets. I pull the chair well away from Luke and shove my cardigan under his head to cushion it. Blood blurs his cheek, from the desk I suppose. I yank at the tight knot of his tie, open his collar. His head flails, froth blooming from his mouth, his arms and legs spasming in a mad jerking dance.

  I lean back on my heels. I’ve made it as safe as I can. This isn’t his first time. I’ve seen that bracelet properly now, and it’s an epilepsy medical alert one.

  ‘Phone an ambulance,’ Cassie cries.

  ‘You shouldn’t need to,’ I say.

  Already the shuddering limbs are slowing.

  A high clear voice, one of the new twins, says, ‘Oh my God, he’s wet himself.’

  A dark stain spreads across Luke’s trousers and over the floor. It lies on the newly polished start-of-term tiles and doesn’t soak in.

  The jerking stops. I manoeuvre Luke’s body, limp now, into the recovery position. Almost at once his eyes flicker open. They are dark greyish-blue and very confused. I swallow. I’m not so confident; now the crisis is over. I’m fabulous at emergencies. It’s just the normal bits of life in between I’m crap at.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘You just had a seizure.’

  I stroke his arm to reassure him. We both look down at my hand on the white cotton of his shirt for a second before I pull it away.

  ‘You’re in the classroom,’ I go on, partly for something to say and partly because Luke’s eyes are still bewildered. ‘You’ve cut your cheek, but it doesn’t look too bad.’

  He lifts his hand and rubs at his face, then looks at the blood on his fingers.

  The others crowd round; curious, excited even, now that nobody is actually dying or anything. Luke struggles to sit up. ‘I’m fine,’ he says calmly. He glances up at the crowd of faces, then down at the ground. I catch the exact moment when he realises he’s wet himself – his lips tighten. He lifts up the cardigan I had put under his head, dusts it down and stares at it.

  ‘It’s mine,’ I say, and he hands it to me.

  Baxter seems to remember he’s in charge. ‘Esther, you’ve been wonderful,’ he says.

  He glances at Luke, who is standing up now but still looks as if he isn’t too sure what to do. Except that he wants out of here. I can feel the desperation oozing out of him into the stuffy classroom air.

  ‘Sir,’ I say, ‘shall I take Luke to the nurse?’

  ‘Yes.’ Baxter is clearly as desperate to get rid of Luke as Luke is to escape. ‘All right to walk there, Luke? It’s not far, just the next corridor.’

  Luke nods. He packs his schoolbag slowly. Blood trickles down his cheek. Jasmine springs forward and hands him a tissue.

  ‘I’ll take your bag,’ I offer. It’s light, brand new, a plain black rucksack. I think of the pens inside, all new.

  I can’t think of anything to say on the way to the sick bay. I trial loads of stuff in my head – Don’t worry, it isn’t that bad, nobody will have noticed that you wet yourself; it happens all the time – but in the end I don’t say any of it. Partly because I never can think of what to say to boys and partly because it isn’t true.

  Luke

  By the time my brain is working half-normally we’ve reached a door labelled SICK BAY and the girl knocks. A middle-aged nurse opens the door and sighs as if she hadn’t planned on having the first day of the school year messed up with an actual medical situation. But as soon as the girl tells her what happened the nurse sends her back to class and switches straight into professional mode.

  She dabs the cut on my face with something stinging. Every time her arm moves I catch a whiff of her deodorant. Or maybe perfume. Sickly and sweet. Hard to imagine anybody choosing that smell. But Christ knows what I smell like. A seizure can be quite a workout. I look past her, itemise the room to stop myself flinching. Sickly green walls. Cheerful posters about STDs and self harm and eating five a day. Two beds against the far wall. Cupboards neatly labelled but it makes me dizzy to try to read them. Already the familiar headache is nibbling at my temples.

  ‘I can sponge those trousers for you,’ she says.

  I chew my lip.

  ‘They’ll dry on the radiator in the time it takes someone to come and pick you up.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I mutter. ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘It’s no bother. I’ve got some spares here, from Lost Property. You’d be amazed what people leave lying around.’

  ‘No.’ What is she fussing for? I’m sitting on a hard plastic chair. She can wipe it when I leave.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, riffling through a box of plasters, ‘you won’t be on the computer system yet. You’ll have to give me a phone number. Is someone at home? Mum? Dad? Or can they come from work?’

  The backs of my legs are cold and wet, but I don’t think there’s a smell. ‘I don’t have parents.’

  She pulls the backing paper off a plaster. ‘There must be someone?’

  ‘Sandra.’ The headache bites harder, its teeth sharpening by the second.

  ‘Right. Sandra. She’s your …?’

  I suppose this will all be on the system soon enough, along with God knows what else.

  ‘Foster carer. Can I get some painkillers?’ At least she seems to have forgotten about wanting me to take my trousers off.

  She frowns, sticks the unnecessary plaster over my cheek. I suppose they have to make it look like they’ve ministered to you properly.

  ‘You sure you don’t have concussion? Your eyes look OK but if you hit –’

  ‘It’s just a headache. I always get one afterwards.’ Along with: feeling knackered enough to sleep for a week; bumps and bruises from bashing myself around like a mad thing; occasionally throwing up; and, worst of all, mortal humiliation. The thought of going back into that classroom tomorrow is enough to make me walk out of this school now, for ever. I grit my teeth, then stop because it hurts.

  She’s talking again and I realise she’s asking for Sandra’s number. I don’t know it, but I hand her my phone. I zone out and then she’s handing the phone back and saying something about Sandra being in a queue at Lidl but she’ll be here as soon as she can.

  ‘And she says it’s fine to give you Paracetamol,’ she finishes, even though she’s the one that’s meant to be a nurse, not Sandra, and Sandra’s never even see me have a seizure because I’ve only lived with her for three days.

  Anyway, she gives me the pills, thank God, because the pain is gnashing lumps out of my brain now, and she makes me a cup of tea and says I can lie down on one of the beds and rest while we wait for Sandra. But I say I’d rather stay where I am. I sip tea and watch the nurse fill in a form and hope that Sandra won’t be annoyed at having her morning interrupted.

 
The nurse looks up from her desk as if she’s had a bright idea and her biro jumps out of her hand. ‘You can keep a spare pair of trousers here,’ she says. ‘Just in case.’ She beams at her brilliance.

  ‘I don’t plan to make a habit of it.’

  She picks up her biro again and says, ‘Hmmm.’

  _____________

  Sandra reverses her Skoda carefully out of the space marked VISITORS. She keeps her eyes fixed on the driveway and slows down to avoid two tiny suicidal brats whose huge bags make them look like hunch-backed turtles. She beeps and they cower. In my last school they’d have given us the finger. I know she wants me to say something but I can’t summon up any words. Sandra indicates left out of the school drive and heads down the South Road.

  ‘God love you,’ she says. ‘That’s bad luck on your first day. What do you think triggered it?’

  I shrug. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Were there any bright lights or –?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing to do with anything like that. It just happens.’

  She should know this; she must have read my file. Plus there must have been lots of cosy chats with Brendan before he persuaded her to take me.

  ‘You took your medication OK?’

  I sigh. ‘I always do.’

  ‘Stress maybe?’

  ‘We hadn’t done anything. Just got our timetables. Sat in a classroom. It wasn’t exactly stressful.’

  ‘Och, aye, but it’s a big day for you, Luke.’

  I hadn’t even spoken to anyone. Only answered ‘Here’ when the teacher called my name. And then that girl came and sat down beside me. She was quiet, not all tossy hair and makeup and giggles like other girls. And then I got that feeling – I can never describe it: it’s not a smell, or a noise, nothing so romantic as an aura; I just know. But it’s always too late.

  I close my eyes and lean back against the seat.

  ‘Are you sure we don’t need to take you to Casualty?’ Sandra asks. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything faze her.