The Bystander

PROLOGUE

July 1983

An elderly couple found her. They were called the Winchesters if I recall correctly. I do remember that they lived next to the park and rose at five every morning, come winter, come summer, come rain, come sunshine. But it was July and blindingly bright at four in the morning. That brightness that only seems to afflict the UK, despite its famously dreary weather and rotten summers. An intensity that pierces everything and sparks the birds to sing at such an ungodly hour.

The park had no gates but was walled off from the nearby council estate by rows of tall trees. You could go in and out at any time and it was a popular hangout for young love, or better said drunken teenage fumbling. Mr Winchester was throwing a stick for their dog, an eager and very yappy Terrier, when a purple scarf fluttering in the branches above caught his wife’s eye. Despite the unusually warm weather we had been having, that morning was different. There was a distinct nip in the air, and it felt as though a storm were brewing. She remembered that well because she had gone back in to fetch a jacket before they left on that fateful stroll. She looked up curiously, and that was when she saw the girl’s body hanging limply from a sturdy branch of the ancient beech tree. The purple scarf was noosed around her neck, her head tilted to one side. She let out a chilling scream, so loud that even the inhabitants of Wilton Street, three blocks away, said they heard it. She and her husband tried to get the girl down but they were too old, too weak, too feeble. I can only imagine old Mr Winchester’s precarious balancing act on the park bench, trying to grab at the dead girl’s body as it swayed in the wind. Defeated, he huffed and puffed his way back to their home and dialled 999 on the telephone. Most people had push button phones by then but I can imagine someone of his age inserting his finger into the rotary dial, methodically dialling the nine, watching as it sprung back to its initial position, then dialling again. Then he huffed and puffed his way back to the park where the medics and the police had already arrived to find his wife hysterical, wringing her hands, incoherent.

They cut the girl down but it was too late. She was cold and stiff. It was difficult to say how long she had been hanging there. The night had been warm and the heat could well have exacerbated rigor mortis. It would be up to the coroner to work that one out. There was no note, no bag, nothing to identify her. Just a young girl in a grey rah-rah skirt and a purple T-shirt. It matched the scarf with which she had ended her life.

I went to school with that girl. Her name was Sabrina but we always called her by her surname, Markham. Or fucking lesbian. Actually that was what we called her most of the time. Fucking lesbian. That was what Tim had named her and Tim ruled over us. Because Tim’s word was law and no one would have ever dared cross him.

ONE

The last part of the hill had been my downfall. Stuck behind a rusty old banger, I had not dared overtake. The bends were fierce and I could not see any oncoming traffic. The school grounds were deserted when I arrived, no bold smokers lurking around the chapel, no huddles of giggling girls. I threw the bike into the shed, hastily locking it to the eroding iron bars that served as stands, then bolted into the nearest open door and ran down the corridor, wiping the sweat from my face onto the school sweater that I had had tied around my waist. I rushed into the classroom and took my place but it was too late. That was the disadvantage of having a surname beginning with B.

‘Detention Nicholas, that’s the third time this month’.

I flung my bag onto the floor as loudly as I could to register my discontent. Fucking bitch. Who did she think she was?

I wiped my face on the jumper again. It left a greasy smear. Amber Solaire factor 5. Mum had insisted on rubbing it into my face before I left.

Miss Somers continued reading the list in her usual machinelike manner, methodically ticking the names off. Everyone had been there on time, everyone except me and now I would have to write out hundreds of meaningless lines after school.

‘Mark Lawless’.

‘That’s me!’ Marko stood up trying to look menacing.

She did not even look up.

‘A simple yes will suffice, Mark’.

She carried on. Whyman was last. Rocking back against the discoloured wall on his chair, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Defensive as ever. Maybe because he was so short? But that didn’t matter because he was the man.

Finally, she looked up, closing the register silently.

‘I’m afraid I have some very sad news’.

Marko sniggered.

She paused, biting her upper lip lightly.

‘As you may have noticed Sabrina isn’t here this morning. And I’m very sorry to say that she passed away this weekend’.

Her voice was quiet, subdued, but it sliced through the adolescent indifference in the room. Marko sniggered again. He was socially inept and never knew how to act, always doing his best to be cool and invariably getting it wrong. But fortunately his inappropriate titter was drowned out by the shockwave rippling through the room. The girls tried to ask what, why, how, but the words buckled and snapped, evaporating into the hot, sticky air. Our teenage minds were grappling with death, with the notion that even at our age life is not a given. Mrs Patton, the English teacher had died suddenly three months earlier. Rumours had abounded as to her sudden demise – heart attack, stroke, cancer? But she had been old and old people are meant to die.

I looked sideways at Tim. He seemed unperturbed. Still rocking back on his chair, arms still firmly crossed. I looked over at the girls again. Their faces were still registering the shock, or was it guilt? She hadn’t told us how Sabrina had died. Had she been in an accident? Had she fallen ill? But we did all know that we had treated her badly. We had loathed her, reviled her, made her life hell, but had we wanted her to die? It was all so final, so definitive. This was not some kind of arcade game where you could just insert another coin and resurrect everyone.

Miss Somers stood up, smoothing down her dress.

‘You’ll hear more about it in assembly,’ she said, her eyes glazing over

I glanced at Tim again but his face was expressionless. On a normal day we would have raced out of the classroom, banging doors, tussling on the stairs, pushing and shoving. But this wasn’t a normal day.

‘No one says a fucking word,’ he said once our classmates were out of earshot.

‘But what do they know?’ Marko was panicky, nervous.

‘Just keep your fucking trap shut if you know what’s good for you’.

We were at the chapel now. Tim stood back and waited for one of us to push open the heavy wooden door for him, as was our custom. Slasher obliged. The gloomy tones of The Lord’s my Shepherd greeted us.

‘Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale,
Yet will I fear no ill;
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff my comfort still’

We sang along with those words, not really comprehending them. Because I did fear ill; I did not feel comforted and I presume everyone else felt the same. The rest of the week passed sombrely, as if no one dared to laugh, or do anything that could be construed as having fun. As if we all felt some kind of collective guilt because Sabrina was dead and we were alive.

TWO

The Alderwood Herald

11 July 1983

‘A thirteen year old girl was found hanged in Greenway Park in the early hours of Monday morning by an elderly couple walking their dog. After being unable to assist the girl themselves the emergency services were called who confirmed she was dead on their arrival. Police do not suspect any foul play and everything points to suicide. ‘A very sad day for Limetree C of E Middle School,’ said headmaster James Lincoln. ‘Sabrina was a popular and bright pupil and none of us saw this coming.’ The funeral will be held on 15 July at St. Peter’s CofE church. Her family have requested privacy at this time.’

The somewhat crumpled newspaper was lying on the table outside Lincoln’s office. Digger had read the article out to us whilst Marco and Slasher tumbled about on the floor and Tim stood with his arms crossed. I wondered who had lied, the journalist or Lincoln? We had been summoned, which was not unusual. We just did not know what for. Innumerable transgressions could bring you here. Uniform violations - skirts that were too short, rolled up sleeves, ties that were knotted and stringy. And then there were the real crimes – insolence, bullying, fighting – that was more our thing.

The office door opened.

‘Pack it in and get in here,’ – the words boomed around the small space.

We all fell silent. Mr Lincoln was a diminutive man but he had a voice like a foghorn.

We shuffled in, Tim in the middle, Marko and I flanking him on one side. Slasher and Digger on the other. Brains and brawn. It was a winning combination, one that had cemented our reputation as a gang that you did not want to cross. Tim, the mastermind, was defiant as ever, his arms still folded.

Lincoln sat down behind his desk, his face fixed in its usual stern unforgiving look.

‘Now, I’ve had some very serious allegations of bullying,’ he said.

Marko started to protest but Tim stood firmly on his foot, pressing down on his scuffed shoe.

‘Do you have anything to say for yourselves?’

Tim was still standing on Marko’s foot, pressing harder. Marko winced.

After realising we were not going to break our avowed silence he continued.

‘Horatio Campbell-Blackburn’s parents have been here to see me this morning. He no longer wishes to attend school whilst any of you are still here’.

Marko sniggered.

‘What’s so funny, Lawless?’

Marko smirked.

‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’

‘We haven’t done anything, sir,’ said Tim, taking the lead, as he invariably did.

‘Horatio would beg to differ’.

‘He’s a poofter,’ said Marko, laughing.

The head let out a deep sigh.

‘We don’t call people names like that at this school’.

‘Not even if they’re gay, sir?

Marko thought he was being funny now.

‘Isn’t it against the Bible, sir? Isn’t that what Mr Gregory said a few weeks ago in assembly? All those poofters spreading aids.’

Mr Gregory was our eccentric music teacher and two weeks previously had given us a damning lecture on homosexuality and how we would soon all be dead when God visited his wrath upon us for these people’s sins. He had been conspicuously absent from assembly ever since.

‘We’re not here to talk about Mr Gregory, or homosexuals,’ the head said. ‘Now tell me the truth. Have you been bullying Horatio?’

Silence.

‘OK, well until one of you decides to talk, you will be having detention with me as of tomorrow every day until the end of term’.

‘That’s not fair, sir,’ Digger piped up indignantly.

‘Life isn’t fair, Brown. The sooner you learn that the better. Now, anyone?’

But we knew the rules. You do not dob on your mates. Never admit to anything. Deny everything, always, at all times, and forever. That was what Tim always said. And what Tim said was law.

‘Ok, I’ll see you all at 3.30 tomorrow then. Now I believe the coaches are waiting so get going’.

Tim turned on his heels and strode towards the door. We followed him dutifully. No one said a word until we were well away from the office.

‘We’re fine,’ said Tim jubilantly. ‘We’re fine. Bit of detention every day. Only a week or so to go. He’ll soon get fed up of having to entertain us’.

‘But if my mum finds out I’m in detention again…’

‘Tough shit, not my problem,’ Tim shot back before Digger could finish his sentence.

We were at the school car park now where the coaches were indeed waiting. They were making us all go to the funeral. The whole year. Maybe because otherwise no one would have gone. Because Sabrina had no friends. Everyone hated Sabrina.

We sat at the back of the church in our usual formation, the cool air a welcome respite from the summer heat. Sabrina’s clarinet teacher gave a eulogy. I didn’t even know she had played the clarinet. I guess there were so many things I didn’t know about her. Was it because we had never seen her as a person? But merely as an object to vent our frustration on, an easy target.

‘I had noticed her becoming increasingly withdrawn,’ he said, ‘less confident.’ His voice cracked. ‘And I would give anything now to have said something. She was such a talented girl. But I never asked her what was wrong. And now it’s too late’.

His voice cracked again and he sobbed briefly into a handkerchief.

Marko sniggered. ‘Fucking poofter,’ he whispered under his breath. We all concurred.

‘So please, don’t do what I did,’ he said looking up. ‘If you think someone needs help, ask them, ask them what’s wrong. Maybe if one of us had reached out to Sabrina she would still be here’.

He dissolved into tears and a kindly vicar came and led him away. Tim threw his head back.

‘This is so fucking boring,’ he mouthed.

And again we concurred. Slasher had torn a page out of a hymn book and now started to roll shreds of paper into little balls, flicking them at Anita Rhodes, three pews in front.

She looked around annoyed.

‘Stop it,’ she mouthed.

He grinned and made a foul gesture.

Repulsed, she turned to face the front again.

‘Fucking gave her one last night,’ he whispered.

Digger grinned.

‘And?’
‘Slut was loving it, begging for more’.

I swallowed hard. I was the only one of my friends who was still a virgin but they didn’t know that, and this kind of talk made me nervous. They thought I’d fucked Sarah Kirby. Everyone had fucked Sarah Kirby so it was easy to say you’d fucked her. No one would think you were making it up. But to be honest I didn’t really know what to do, and the blurry porn VHS tapes we watched at Slasher’s house when his mum was out hadn’t really enlightened me either. Come to think of it, I probably wasn’t the only virgin. We probably all were. I tried to imagine Anita Rhodes on her back, spreading her legs for Slasher, and I just couldn’t. I closed my eyes and tried to see her begging for him, his acne-pocked face and hair moist with grease, and I wanted to retch.

‘Sshh,’ came a loud retort from our right. It was Mr Biggins, the PE teacher. I hadn’t even noticed him in our row.

‘Show some respect, boys, this is a funeral,’ he muttered.

I wondered if he had heard what Slasher had said. And then I wondered if he had fucked Sarah Kirby. Word had it she did it with teachers too. But my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the congregation rising and bursting into song.

‘Thine be the glory, risen, conquering Son;
endless is the victory Thou o’er death hast won’.

The pallbearers were walking down the aisle now, carrying the white coffin draped with yellow flowers. Her parents stumbled behind, her mother with her head bowed, leaning heavily on her husband who was trying to bear up under the strain. And I wondered why Sabrina was having a Christian funeral when suicide was supposed to be a sin. And as the coffin passed us I thought of her cold dead body inside when this time last week she had been alive and I had slipped the note into her bag.

‘Lo, Jesus meets us, risen from the tomb.

Lovingly He greets us, scatters fear and gloom’.

And I wondered if Jesus had met Sabrina when she closed her eyes in death.

Lincoln gave up on the detentions after three days. I guess he had better things to do with his time. Horatio had returned to school the following Monday and we had flushed his head down the loo repeatedly to let him know what we thought of his dobbing on us. Luckily for him, the term was swiftly drawing to a close.

We spent that summer just as we had spent the one before and just as we would spend the next one. Lying on the grassy verge at the grotty, overly chlorinated local pool, discussing the size of girls’ tits, boasting about our fantastical sexual exploits, pushing Horatio every time he tried to take a dive off the platform and generally being total arseholes to everyone.