Disconnected Page 11

  I showed Jan I didn’t mind by admiring her watch, even though it wasn’t my thing.

  “I know these guys,” Jan went on, “who can get rid of stuff for you. And get you stuff. Do you know them? Ali and Jono?”

  “No,” I said.

  Jan snuggled down by the wall.

  “This is cool,” she said. “I like you, Cat. You’re my mate, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Sally is my mate too, but she’s older than me. She kind of looks after me. So it’s different. When she’s not working, she’s, like, exhausted, just watches telly and sleeps. Or hangs around in the flat. I like going out. I don’t want to end up like Sally, stuck with a kid in a flat. That’s not gonna be me, no way.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked her.

  “Me? Right. I’m gonna get a band and write my own stuff and perform it. And I’ll get to be on the box, and dead famous and rich. Then someone, a DJ or someone else in the business, he’ll fall in love with me and we’ll get married. It’ll be in all the papers. So then I won’t have to work no more and live in this mansion in the country. We’ll share this big bedroom with a four-poster bed. All romantic with flowers everywhere. And Sally and Kayla will move there and do all the housework. I’ll have four kids, two of each. Adam, Zak, Bella and Rosy.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out,” I said.

  “Yeah. What are you going to be?”

  I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “Don’t know, yet.”

  Jan looked surprised, as if everyone ought to know where they were heading. But really I didn’t have a clue. Still don’t.

  “I’m having an ace time,” Jan said, pushing her hair behind her ears.

  The party was noisier than ever now. Not the music, but people shouting to be heard. The atmosphere was like a very busy pub before closing time, the air thick with smoke and a desperation to have a good time. That was something everyone wants – to have a good time. Maybe that was the answer. What did I want to be? Someone who has a good time. But George wanted friends. The ironic thing was that though it was his party he was still on the edge of things, can in hand. Jan wanted it all: fame, riches, a family. Something occurred to me then, and since we were officially friends now, I felt I could ask her.

  “Do you have a family?” I asked.

  “Yeah, once,” she said. “Don’t remind me.”

  “So you’re not in touch with them, “I said carefully.

  She scowled, stubbed out the cigarette she was smoking. I stopped my questions.

  “Families are the pits,” I said. “I can’t stand mine.”

  “Me neither,” she said, cheering up. “Let’s dance.”

  By that time I’d drunk enough not to care what people thought of me, so Jan and I stood up and began to go manic, freaking out to the music. It was brilliant. She was mad, and because she was so mad, it was like she was daring me to go further. People were cheering us on. Normally I hate being the centre of attention, but I didn’t care that night. There was more than enough beer. We drank, we danced, we shouted to the music. Incredible sense of being completely alive at that moment, careless, carefree, whirling, mad. Me and Jan.

  In the end we were exhausted. We both joined you again. I wrote my number on a piece of paper you gave me and put it in a side pocket in Jan’s skirt. She told me she didn’t have a phone.

  “Where do you live?” I asked her.

  “Behind the Save garage, by the chippie.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Perhaps she was just about to explain – I really don’t know. You were there – what do you think? What happened next was that some more people came into George’s flat. Older blokes, more his age, some older. I sensed they were looking at us. Because of all the wild dancing we’d done, I’d sobered up a bit. I didn’t like the way they were staring.

  “Bloody hell,” one of them said. “It’s Mary.”

  Jan clutched hold of my arm. I noticed her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  “I gotta go,” she said.

  So I took her by the hand, and avoiding the men we got out of the flat and ran down the stairs. You followed, remember?

  Once outside and sure they weren’t following, Jan stopped, casting anxious glances back at the flat.

  “Who were those blokes?” I asked.

  “My jacket!” she screamed.

  You went back to get it, Taz. Then Jan came over really weird. She said she couldn’t wait, she’d ring me about the jacket. She didn’t live far. She had to go. I could see there was no way I could restrain her. By the time you returned she’d gone, leaving us with an old denim jacket. Curious, I looked in the pockets. There was thirty quid in there. I swore.

  “I’ll keep it for her,” I said. You nodded.

  I checked the other pockets. There was a pack of ciggies and some matches, crumpled tissues, an old chocolate wrapper, some copper coins and a jar of strawberry lip balm.

  We walked around for a bit, discussing Jan. We got a night bus back to my place and you walked me home. When I got ready for bed that night I realised something was missing. My purse had gone. With my school library card and about seven quid. Either I’d dropped it or someone had taken it. It could have been anyone at the party, or Jan. I kind of hoped it was Jan. I wouldn’t have minded her having the money. Not one little bit.

  To the Examiner

  To what extent does his ability to exploit good fortune and weak opposition explain Bismarck’s success in unifying Germany by 1871?

  [*Do not attempt this question if you have answered Question 2]

  I don’t know.

  Well, that’s my answer. And it’s right. I really don’t know anything about Bismarck. He’s not even on my syllabus but I decided to answer this question because since I haven’t done any revision at all I might as well answer this. Also, I can’t sit here just staring into space. I need to write something. I’ve decided to write to you, to give you a break. So put down your pen and read.

  There are the invigilators, thinking everything is running like clockwork, and they haven’t got a clue I’ve opted out of European History.

  Perhaps I should at least attempt the question. To what extent does his ability…? Answer: to a great extent. If that’s the right answer, will you give me a mark just for guessing right? 1 out of 25, rather than 0? Because exams are about luck as well as how much you know, stuff like whether the right questions come up. But not only luck. Some people are just good at exams, they can memorise masses of stuff. There’s Daniel Hill sitting in front of me scribbling away. He has a photographic memory but he’s a racist. He calls the Asian boys in our class shitfaces. You’ve probably already marked his script as his will be on top of mine, but when you’ve given him an A, just remember what I said. I challenge you to put him down a grade or two. I think a racist is a bad historian by definition. That’s what I’ve learnt by studying History.

  Back to Bismarck. No. Perhaps not. Exams are also unfair to the people who panic. Antonia Lewis – you’ll come to her script shortly – is just a bundle of nerves. She spends half an hour before exams in the loo. She was white as a sheet this morning. Then when she sees the paper she always chooses the wrong question – by accident, not deliberately, like me – and spends far too long on the first one and rushes the rest. She can be a bit ditsy at times but she’s a nice girl and is our Form Charity Rep. Go on – push her up a few marks.

  But you won’t, because exams are a serious business. I wonder how much you get paid per script? Do you ever worry that you are controlling someone’s destiny? The difference between an A or a B, or a B and a C, could end someone’s career. Or are you sitting there with a red pen and a gin and tonic? God – I could do with one right now.

  You think I’m joking. I’m not. I’ve got into the habit of drinking lately. It’s a way of dealing with stuff. It makes reality fuzzy and softens the edges of things. I expect Bismarck drank too. If he was a German I daresay he drank beer and at
e sausages. Did he wear those funny leather shorts that you see some Germans wearing? But don’t think I’m an alcoholic or that I drink every day. Just most days. I have to be careful because I don’t particularly want my parents to find out. They’ll give me grief. Do you have kids? Do they take exams? I’m curious now. I’m getting interested in you. Has any other candidate ever written you a letter like this before?

  Actually, it’s quite therapeutic, as well as being a necessary disguise. You see, I haven’t done any revision at all. That’s because I wanted to stay at school at least till the summer. I wanted to play for time. So I reckon I can sit these exams – turn up for each exam and write – and only when the results come through in August will I have to deal with this mess. August is a long time away. A lot can happen in that time. Though God knows what.

  Maybe I’ll decide what I want to do with my life. The problem is that I’ve lost enthusiasm for everything except going out, being with people, getting out of it. And I can’t think of one good reason why that shouldn’t be enough. OK – I admit it’s good to help people, and I admire nurses and aid workers and that – but I couldn’t do that. Most people I know only do good stuff so other people admire them, or they like that smug glow they get when they buy a Big Issue. Look! I’m helping the homeless! Look at me, everybody!

  I can’t see the point of exams. You get qualifications, labels. But they don’t open doors – they do the opposite. They rob you of choices. Once you’ve got a degree you can’t go and work at McDonalds or on the tills at Tesco. If you did, people would think you were a failure, even if you’d made the rational decision to have an undemanding job. You might want an undemanding job. You might be sick to death of marking exam scripts. Maybe you’re even enjoying reading this rubbish.

  Money corrupts. Power corrupts – do I get a mark for that? Civilisation is all about pretending – pretending to be polite, proper, civil when really you just want to act like the animal you are. I’m not saying civilisation is a bad thing, but that it’s imposed on people – it isn’t natural. Like, civilised people go to war, don’t they?

  I’m sorry, I’m getting confused.

  I’m thinking, what if I leave home? I could probably get a job in a café or shop, and if I shared a place, maybe I could afford the rent. I could try being independent. I have a friend called Jan who lives in a flat – maybe there would be room for me. She lives with an older woman and her daughter, which is a bit of a problem… Maybe Jan could leave and we could flatshare. That would be awesome. I’d like that, cooking our own meals, inviting people round. And it would give me time to think about what next.

  Or I could just leave school and re-enrol at college, where Taz is. He doesn’t get as much hassle as me. You will have realised this centre is an independent fee-paying school. That’s why the scripts are so good. The teachers spoon-feed us because the parents want their money’s worth. The candidates can’t wait to forget everything they’ve learnt as soon as they walk out of the examination room. Hardly any of them are really interested in History. Doesn’t that make you sad?

  Or I could go and be a voluntary worker somewhere like India or Africa. That’s not a bad idea. It would be a long way away from my parents. But don’t go thinking I’ve got terrible parents or anything. You’re not reading a tale of child abuse or a rancorous divorce. My mum is a doctor and my father a company secretary. They’re good, caring people. They love me. They mean well. And they want me to be them.

  Tough.

  Being an historian, I bet you’re the analytical type. Don’t try to analyse these ramblings. Or stick a label on me. I’m not depressed, I’m not a victim but I have X-ray vision. It isn’t easy being a superhero.

  When I was a little girl I thought it was silly to take risks. I couldn’t understand why grown-ups smoked, or worse, took drugs! I would never take drugs! Have sex! Get drunk! I would always work hard and be a credit to my parents. But now I’ve discovered that taking risks creates energy. Your head fills with light; there’s this incredible sense that you’ve created the possibility that anything might happen. That you’re experimenting, like a mad scientist. And you might discover the elixir of life, whatever that is.

  You still have half a set of scripts to mark. I need only sit here for another half an hour or so. Then after school I’m walking into town to meet Taz for some coffee. He’s got to spend all day doing his art. Then we’ll go out someplace as I don’t have school tomorrow. I’ll be looking out for Jan, that friend of mine I told you about. I have her jacket – she left it with me. There was thirty quid in the pocket, which I’ve kept for her. She had my phone number, but she hasn’t rung. I hope she’s OK. Half of me thinks she can look after herself, but the other half doesn’t. Taz said not to worry – we know she isn’t alone as she lives with Sally. But I can’t imagine that she would want to leave thirty quid with me. She’s poor. I know that. I have evidence, but I’m not going to tell you even though you don’t know who she is.

  Worrying about Jan stops me worrying about myself, and I think it’s better to worry about other people.

  Are you having a holiday this summer? I’m not. My parents want to rent a villa in the Dordogne but I’ve refused to go with them. They say they can’t leave me at home by myself. I told them seventeen is well old enough. They said, the expression is ‘quite old enough’, not ‘well old enough’. A bit of a stalemate there.

  It’s hot in the exam hall. They turned off the fan because it makes a whirring noise and distracts everyone. Daniel Hill keeps asking for more paper. Mrs Dawes is invigilating and she’s scurrying towards him, a sheaf of paper in her hand. He barely acknowledges her presence as she carefully places two sheets of paper next to the card with his candidate number. Somebody ought to tell Mrs Dawes not to wear just-below-your-knee-length skirts. They’re well unflattering. She must have been sunbathing as her arms below the sleeves of her blouse are red and blotchy. So is the area beneath her neck.

  I go golden brown in the sun. Do you? I’m writing this rubbish because if I stop too soon, they’ll know something is wrong. So you are in a conspiracy with me. My confederate. My confidant. My buddy. Promise me you won’t contact the school about all this. I really don’t mind failing this paper – hell, I want to. I want to see what it’s like to fail – then I’ll know the meaning of success.

  I feel we’ve got quite close this afternoon. You’re not a stranger any more. Nor am I, I hope. It’s been a relief to get all my thoughts down on paper to a stranger. I ought to do this more often. Perhaps if you give me your address we can correspond. Only joking.

  I’m running out of things to say. Help.

  The Grand old Duke of York

  He had ten thousand men

  He marched them up to the top of the hill

  Then he marched them—

  Mrs Dawes says there’s five minutes to go. Phew. Thank you for reading this. Don’t feel bad about failing me, like I said. All the best for the future,

  Catherine Margaret Holmes.

  To Lucy (3)

  This is my version of our argument and I hope you’ll accept it as an apology. I think it would be a shame if we weren’t ever friends again.

  It was just after the European History exam. You came out dishevelled, looking exhausted.

  “That was really solid,” you said. “Did you do the question on Nazi Germany? Or Russia? Did you put in about Rasputin?”

  You always liked to dissect the paper afterwards to make sure you were right, that you’d put down what everyone else had. I had reasons of my own for not wanting to discuss the paper. I let you witter on. It was French in the afternoon so neither of us had an exam. I wondered if you were going over to the canteen for lunch or were just going to stay in the common room and eat sandwiches.

  “This exam’s done my head in,” you said. “I wasn’t able to revise properly because I’ve got problems with Brad.”

  “Problems? I thought he was really into you?”

  “Yeah, but—�
�

  Our conversation was cut short. As we entered the common room we saw there was something big going on. There was a crowd in the corner by the coffee machine and just about everybody else who was in the common room was looking over there. There was someone in the middle of the crowd sobbing. We glanced at each other, both mystified. Only it was impossible not to be a ghoul in a situation like that, so we wandered over.

  It was Melissa in the middle of the crowd, Melissa sobbing. She looked genuinely distraught. As much as I loathe her, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Maybe someone had died or something. Maybe she was having an exam panic. I nudged Fliss and asked her what the problem was. Fliss turned to us, glad to able to do her part in relaying the news.

  “Last night Melissa’s car was broken into. While she was in it! She was at the lights, just waiting for them to change, and there was like a big explosion and someone had thrown a brick through her window, and took her bag and she had everything in it. Her purse, her mobile, her make-up. It was awful.”

  I admit, it sounded horrific. Once we’d come home and someone had tried to break in while we were out but the alarm frightened him off. That was spooky enough.

  “But why is she crying now?” I asked Fliss.

  Fliss’s tone was hushed, deferential.

  “Well, she didn’t sleep at all last night, the police came round and everything. And they said it was unlikely she’d see her bag again. And she had this new phone, a silver Motorola Wings with her initials engraved, and over a hundred people in her address book, and she’s lost all their numbers. And she’s got her French exam now, and she came in early to tell the Head of Sixth, and, like, re-living it all has brought it all back.”