Ill-Fated Legacy

Prologue
Present day

I open the front door a crack, and there they are, standing in the communal hallway as if they possess a divine right to ring on my bell. The woman hugs a book to her chest, cardigan drooping, dress ballooning from her hips. The man gives me a Mount Rushmore stare.

I get it. These executive apartments are their ideal hunting ground: modern one-bedroom dwellings for young singles and career couples; no kids; minimum responsibilities; maximum incomes. The nearby bistros, designer boutiques and Clapham South underground station with its easy commute to the City of London make this the perfect area for hedonistic wealth. How do these bible pushers get past the downstairs security entrance? I mean, I haven’t even told Dad the access code. Not that his face would ever grace the intercom’s video link. If it did, I’d pretend to be out. I only answered the door because Rudy and Delia have the code and last chances do sometimes happen…

‘Do you believe the world is becoming a more violent place?’

I glare at the woman’s self-satisfied grin. The man lowers his gaze, hands joined, fingers interlinked, perhaps contemplating the question for the hundredth time today. Grey baggy trousers scrunch around his ankles. These two pulpit huggers look like they’ve fallen through a time-slip from a 1950s movie and ought to exist in black and white.

My head throbs. Yeah, more violent by the day, and if you don’t shift I’ll slap your smug face. Why bother? Get rid of them and top up on the paracetamol.

‘I’m not interested,’ I say.

The safety chain hangs loose from the door-jamb. I disengaged it this morning wanting to limit the damage done when the police have to force entry later. I didn’t think to re-engage it before opening the door to these two clowns. Stupid or what? Why care? I’m done with this place. The time warp couple gawk at me and I dig my foot into the carpet, jamming it against the bottom of the door.

‘I said, I’m not interested.’

The man fumbles in his briefcase and pulls out a pamphlet. ‘Can I offer you a copy of our Rebirth and Renewal magazine?’

The cover image of Christ on the cross hangs between us in his outstretched hand. What a dumb-ass way to die.

I lunge at the door, wanting to slam it in their faces, and pain slices into my palm. The razor blade slips from my fingers.

‘You’ve dropped something, dear,’ the woman says.

I shudder, turn my back on them, suck on the sting eating into my flesh, the metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth. I swallow the bitterness and a tingle in my chest creeps up to my neck and beyond. Dizzy and stomach churning, my lungs snatch at the air. Please, not another panic attack. Not now. I slump against the wall and watch the red dribble, listen to the tick, tick, tick of drops hitting the carpet. Time slows and the red stain appears to take an age to spread around my feet.

‘In the name of the Lord.’ The woman bundles into the hallway and snatches my hand, inspecting it. ‘A manifestation of Satan.’ She clutches the book tighter to her bosom and chants: ‘Jesus is our strength in adversity. Lord, strike this evil from our midst.’

The man crowds into the space, delves into his pocket and produces a snotty handkerchief. ‘Here, love, use this.’

‘Don’t be absurd, George.’ She peers into my eyes and caresses my forearm as, I imagine, a worried mother tending to her child might. ‘I’m Meredith, dear. Now, show me where you keep your medicine cabinet.’

Perched on the edge of the chair, my arm rests on the kitchen tabletop, the smell of antiseptic wafting from beneath the fresh bandage. Sweat trickles down my back. George mops his brow as though he’s just performed an outstanding act of consequence instead of standing idle watching the drama subside. Meredith busies herself, opens the window above the sink, fills the kettle and flicks the switch, opens and closes cupboards.

‘Where do you keep your cups and saucers, dear?’

I nod toward the cabinet and notice condensation clinging to the wall. Damn, I left the bathroom door ajar and steam is leaking into the rest of the apartment. I lean into the chair and wait for the thump in my chest to fade, the tension draining from my limbs.

‘There.’ She points and George sits, takes the milk carton from her. She smooths her cardigan, sweeps loose hair clear from her face and plonks herself down next to me.

‘A cuppa will perk everyone up.’ She settles and lets a pause stretch. When she lifts her mug, she blows across the top of it, cooling the brew. Satisfied, she takes a sip, swallows, inhales deeply through her nose, holds the breath for a long moment, releases it and smiles. ‘And while we drink, dear, you can tell me why you thought it a good idea to carry around an unsheathed razor blade.’ Her bosom swells and her tongue plays along the tips of her teeth. ‘And why you have a bath full of hot water and an envelope addressed to Mr Griffiths-Smyth taped to the outside of the bathroom door.’

Chapter 1
Autumn 2004 — Eleven years previous

Jason lasted fifty-three days. I noticed him on my first day. I stood in the yard eyeing a group of boys huddled under the canopy by the main entrance. They chatted, laughed and play wrestled with each other, and I watched and cursed the rain stinging my face.

‘Baron Hervey Academy is ideal.’ Miss Malarkey had said. I hated how she always sounded like a daytime TV game show host.

‘I don’t want to go there.’ How many times did I need to tell her?

‘Nowhere else is available to accommodate your exceptional requirements, though.’

‘I won’t have any friends there.’

‘You’ll settle in. You’ll see. Trust me.’

Big mistake; I trusted her and ended up with a booby prize.

A girl hurried past in front of the canopy boys and they collectively ogled, their gaze lingering on her rear as she continued up the slight slope to where fewer puddles blotted the ground. A boy at the back of the group, lean, tall, broad shouldered, hogged the driest, best sheltered spot closest to the double doors. He ran his fingers through his hair and pursed his lips at the departing derriere. His confidence and laid-back attitude demanded attention, and I obliged. Not knowing what else to do, I crossed my arms, hugged myself and tried to squeeze the shivering from the goosebumps prickling my forearms, telling myself it was the weather causing the tingle which ran up my spine, not the sight of this boy; Dad had spent big bucks on the coat I wore and yet the rain still leached through it. After all, Jason — I discovered his name in maths class later in the day — wasn’t all that.

Hunching my shoulders, I scanned the surroundings. Most of the other boys clustered around the benches which edged the yard’s lower boundary. A noisy ragtag of gawky hormones. None worthy of my interest. The girls concentrated in shrill clumps by the railings at the upper fringes of the tarmac. Beyond them, a green expanse of playing fields stretched. I cringed at the thought of having to change into my sports kit in front of my classmates. Elsewhere, a few stragglers gathered in twos and threes. Banter drifted on the air.

Gloom hovered above, and caught in a no-man’s-land of my own making, I stood isolated from everyone and everything except my own thoughts.

Welcome to the world of secondary school.

High clouds scudded across the September skies and I soon settled into my new routine. Jason helped. I silently thanked him every day. The rest of the Year 7 intake came from the local catchment area and everyone seemed to know each other and they treated me like a stranger, the oddball, the nerd, the brainiac kid whose super intelligence meant I sat in on classes two years above my age group. Oh, and Dad’s chauffeur dropping me off each morning and collecting me at home time only enhanced my weirdo status. Year 9, my assumed age group, included Jason. I stuck close to him, watched him and sussed out how Baron Hervey worked. What a mess of rules! An example: outdoor shoes and kit bags were forbidden in the gym. Jeez, any place built with inferior flooring materials needed a proper maintenance budget not a mishmash of regulations.

On Monday of the second week, in English Literature Mr Merrick got stuck into the set book, reading Chapter 1 out loud while displaying the text on the overhead projector.

Boring. I read Great Expectations when I was eight.

Finished, he lifted his head. ‘Has anyone thoughts on why Dickens chose the theme of death for the opening here?’

Silence.

Four rows to the front, Jason fingered his earlobe. I rested my chin on my hand and concentrated, fascinated by his fingertips working the delicate nub of flesh, delight fluttering in the depths of my tummy.

‘Anyone?’ Merrick drummed his fingernails on the side of the projector. ‘Come on, it’s not a hard question. Both of Pip’s parents are dead. His five brothers died as infants. Pip describes their tombstones, the grave mounds and the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard. He says “dead and buried” twice in quick succession.’

Again, silence.

A thought teased me and I raised my hand. Merrick nodded.

‘The death of his parents leaves Pip helpless.’ I willed Jason to turn around, to see who was talking, to notice me. ‘He’s alone and dependent on others. Later in the novel, Miss Havisham and Estella take advantage of his vulnerability and—’

‘For the moment, we’re focusing on Chapter 1.’

‘I’m answering your question, though.’

‘Yes, and you raised some excellent points worthy of discussion. So, before we leap ahead of ourselves, let’s hear what others have to say, shall we?’

I shook my head and exhaled long and hard. Jason continued fiddling; I don’t think he even listened.

Later that evening, stretched out on my bed, headphones on, a Prince playlist blaring, I stared at the ceiling and decided Jason was lush. I tried to imagine hanging out with him after school. But where? Definitely somewhere cool, as yet unspecified. Wearing? Best to choose on the day. Doing? Well, whatever he wanted — but it had to involve plenty of talking because that’s how friends get to know each other. I played out pretend conversations between us in my head. They weren’t entirely one-sided. For six days, I’d shadowed him, sat at an adjoining table at lunch times, picked seats close to him in class, lingered close in the yard, breathed in the smell of his antiperspirant. All easily done, with no friends, I was sort of free-range. Eavesdropping provided snippets of information which I now used to fill in his side of these conversations.

The weeks whizzed by and I prepared, anxious for the day we became an item.

One problem: he never even acknowledged I existed. Hell, complicated or what? I needed an excuse to get things going. A first thought: offer to help him with his algebra homework. I mean, he was rubbish at maths. Did solving equations provide opportunities to flirt, though? Perhaps not, move on. Next idea: ask if he fancied a day out at Chichester Cathedral? Pink Floyd once performed at a funeral there, and in a macabre sort of way that might intrigue him. Did psychedelic rock, pseudo religious hit the mark? Outlandish sure, but likely to grab his attention? I doubted it. Sidenote: I fancied Pink Floyd because Dad had picked up an old concert poster of theirs at a pop art auction and the singer/keyboards player, Richard Wright, scored on the cute scale back in those early photos. I couldn’t understand why Dad wanted it so I’d purloined the tatty billboard and stuck it up on my bedroom wall.

One hare-brained scheme after another waltzed around in my head, but to succeed, a waltz required a couple in step with each other.

I abandoned the convoluted and opted to keep it simple.

Hence, on day fifty-three of my Jason adventure, I tugged at his elbow as he drank from the water fountain in the yard and pronounced I wanted to be his special friend. Succinct and unambiguous, or what? In hindsight, given another opportunity, I’d omit the air quotes when I said ‘special’. His foul-mouthed tirade of a reply definitely left no possibility of a misunderstanding.

That's when the name-calling started: Swot-tot.

Lesson learned: avoid boys who leave their shirt-tails hanging out, smell of cheap deodorant, and who think William the Conqueror started the Great Fire of London. No more watching from afar. Quit the futile planning and scheming. Boys weren’t worth the effort.

Chapter 2
January 2005

I turned the notebook over, pressed the dog-eared corner of the back cover flat. Lifting my finger, it curled back up. Shabby, but I had nothing better and I wanted my thoughts on paper, in ink, not typed on a computer and stored in a digital file. I held the 18-carat gold nib fountain pen, weighing it in my hand. It cost £299.99 — Dad invariably included the receipt in the box when he gave presents. Not that he handed it to me personally. I found it next to the fruit bowl on the top of the Louis XV credenza in the drawing room, my name scribbled on a bright pink label above the words: I’m sorry I forgot your birthday. Yeah, right. I unscrewed the top and started writing.

Tuesday, 6th January 2005

Back to school this morning and an unexpected bonus — a new face. His name is Dwight and he looks unsure of himself and I bet he’s desperate for a friend. During the afternoon music session, I managed to sit next to him. Although we didn’t speak, I’m convinced he likes me. His indifference is nothing more than a first day coping strategy. Baron Hervey still stinks but it’s better than it was last term.

My New Year’s resolution: forget my previous boys-aren’t-worth-the-effort crap.

I closed the notebook, and mindful that one day Dwight might read my words, a third of the way down and in my neatest handwriting I wrote on the front cover: Project D. Underlining it twice.

I stared at the letter D, eyes wide, traced my finger over its curve, stroked its masculine perpendicular. A flush rose to my cheeks and tightness gripped my throat. Panic attack alert! Inhale through my nose, count to five, blow gently out through my mouth for another count of five. Repeat as necessary. The tension eased.

This time I’d sit tight, avoid forcing things. Dwight needed the space to grow to like me in his own time. No matter how fast or leisurely he went, a natural pace suited me just fine. True friendship took patience and I was determined ours would endure. No more scrabbling for a quick fix. Good sense would allow me to play this one out for the finishing line instead of scurrying for the fastest lap time.

I contemplated the notebook’s cover and let the tangle of thoughts drain from my mind. I fancied another Prince playlist this evening. First, though, I added a subtitle to Project D. Beneath the underlines I wrote: (How and When?)

January frosted over, and I suppressed the niggling doubts that had sprouted even before a single crocus tip had speared the bark chippings the gardener had spread over our rear garden’s flower beds. Dwight had chummed up with a couple of Year 9 girls, spending most of his free time with them. The girls were self-declared Bestest Buddies, and neither appeared jealous of the other. My tummy churned whenever I watched the three of them together. The BBs, as I called them, spouted nonsense from their gabby mouths and acted like hyperactive cartoon characters. What was their attraction? None. This, I decided, was Dwight playing the cool guy, holding up one damn big Come On sign. Hey, if these two can pull me, anyone can.

The following weekend, I volunteered to walk our neighbour’s dog, a black and white collie, and took it on a five-mile hike to the park where I’d discovered Dwight sometimes kicked a football around with his mates on Sunday afternoons. My idea? Let the collie off the lead, and if it chased Dwight’s ball, hey presto, a great reason to chat to him. The result? Dwight nowhere in sight. The collie, however, dragged me all over the park, wanting to sniff the bums of every other dog in sight. No way was I letting this manic pooch off its leash in the presence of other canines. The damn dog practically pulled my arm off.

I needed another plan. One that didn’t involve four paws and a tail.

That evening, I paged through my Project D notebook. It boasted 23 pages filled with bullet-point lists and random jottings. My favourite fun fact? Dwight was two years, one month, and five days older than me. Hmm, a September baby, conceived at Christmas. I scanned the log which I’d created to record core information daily: how many times I’d seen him checking his mobile for texts; the vegetables he shunned at lunch; the dessert he chose; if I’d observed him yawning in class (Y/N); the colour socks he wore (a rainbow collection indeed); the state of his shoes (polished or not); how neat his hair (on a descending scale of 1 to 5); how many times he visited the boys’ toilets (far too often — did he have a weak bladder?) All the vital details needed for a meaningful relationship, barring one. Where did he live?