You Don't Know Me (11 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Away From Me Now

T
he next morning, Interface News is full of stories about Rose. It seems that everyone is talking about her.

KILLER ACT WINNER SET TO MAKE A MILLION BY CHRISTMAS

TEEN STAR'S SECRET CAR CRASH TRAGEDY

BEAUTIFUL ROSE'S BULLYING HEARTBREAK: EXCLUSIVE!

I hardly know where to start. Ignoring Mum's pleas to come down to breakfast, I spend hours searching the web, following up the stories. The first one I click to is the ‘bullying heartbreak'. Is this
more
about Jodie, Nell and me?

But it's not. It's worse.

Life was not always so rosy for singing sensation Rose Ireland, who has just won this year's Killer Act competition with a sensational performance. Attending the prestigious North London Girls' School in her early teens, she was victimised by a gang of classmates who made her life a misery. ‘She used to dread school,' says an unnamed friend. ‘They would wait outside the gates so they could mime being sick when she arrived. They said she should get bulimia so she could lose some weight. At lunch, if it was sausages, they'd throw them at her. Her nickname was Sausages.'

Oh my God. So that's why she left London. She never told me. She obviously wanted to forget it and move on. Which is what she had done – until now.

Thinking back, she was teased a bit at St Christopher's to start with – most people are, for one reason or another – but when she started hanging out with us, people stopped paying much attention. She was just one of the girls. We must have been her refuge, until we supposedly dumped her for being ‘large'. If I was a stranger reading about me now, I'd hate me too.

Then there's the article about her parents, giving details of the crash in which they died. There are bits
about what happened to the bus that crashed, and who else died, that she's never talked about, even to me.

If this
is
all true, Rose would hate the world to know it. When Rose and I were together we just talked about the good things: what we liked, what made us laugh, what adventures we dreamed of. It's weird to be finding out so much about her from the internet, when a few weeks ago she was sitting in this room with me, and I had no idea.

I feel cut off and confused, sad for her and angry too. Why didn't she tell me? Why couldn't she share? What must she be thinking now?

I call her number one more time, but she doesn't answer and her voicemail's stopped working. I'm starting to wonder if she'll ever talk to me again.

It feels as though Rose is about the only person who
doesn't
want to talk to me, though. As the stories about her being bullied increase, and #dropthefatgirl is still trending on FaceFeed, everyone wants an interview with the girls who did the dropping. Mum calls Interface to ask what we should do, but they say that as our contract's over, they can't help us. Meanwhile, journalists call the house endlessly, until we unplug the house phone from the wall.

Two days later, there's a car outside the cottage, with a man sitting inside, in some sort of dark jacket. The car is parked on the verge, right up against the hedges. There isn't really parking space on the narrow lane, so the few cars that pass have to pull out to go round him.

‘I don't like the look of him,' Mum says, staring through the kitchen window, but I assume he's a stray motorist, lost on the way out of Castle Bigelow, consulting his sat nav or something. I pop my head out of the
door to collect the milk and he calls my name. Surprised, I look up. He's got a camera.

‘What's it like to be called a witch?' he shouts across the road.

I stare at him, astonished. It's seven-thirty in the morning and it's like he's just slapped me.

He takes a picture. It's online by lunchtime. I look haunted.

After that, I don't go out.

Nell calls, to say she and Jodie are back from London. Sweet, kind Nell. She asks if I want to do some holiday revision together. But I don't feel like seeing anyone right now.

‘Are you OK, Sash?' she asks on the phone. ‘You sound . . . strange.'

‘Yeah, I'm OK. How about you?' My voice sounds odd to me. Unused.

‘Fine.'

Nell sounds strange too: clipped and uncertain. Not her usual bouncy self at all.

‘And Jodie?'

‘Yep, fine,' Nell says, clearly lying. Nell's the worst liar I know. ‘She's riding her pony a lot to take her mind off things. Or at least, she did until someone took a picture of her with a flash and Rolo bolted and she nearly fell off. I saw that picture of you, by the way. I'm sorry.'

Nell saw it. Oh God.

I text Jodie to say I'm sorry about her pony bolting and I expect a long, ranty message back about the evils of the paparazzi, but . . . nothing. So Jodie isn't talking to me either. I suppose she still blames me for not going back for
the humiliations of the Killer Act final. And for being the original #skinnywitch during the auditions. I could point out that she agreed with me, that she could have argued me down and pointed out how crazy I was. She was even the one who told me to talk to Rose. But what's the point?

In the days that follow, the clip of Rose singing ‘Breathless' for the first time goes totally viral worldwide, with over 20,000,000 hits.

Twenty
million.

Workmates are emailing the link to each other. So are school kids. So are mums at home and students at university. They love her in Spain. They love her in South Africa. They love her in China and New Zealand and India. They simply adore her in America.

They love that she's brave. They love that she's only sixteen and she's got one of the best natural singing voices they've ever heard. They love that she can play piano and guitar, and writes her own songs. They love that she's got a normal, relatable body shape and she's not some ‘stick-thin twiglet' like every model and celebrity, and her exbandmates, of course. Most of all, they love that she stood up to those ‘frenemies' who dumped her, and that she found her inner confidence despite what they did to her.

The more they talk about Rose, the more they talk about us. It's on the news. It's in the papers. It's everywhere.

SINGING SENSATION ABANDONED BY FRIENDS FOR BEING ‘FAT'

BLOSSOMING ROSE, AND THE SPIKY THORNS WHO DUMPED HER

By now 150,000 people have ‘liked' our hate page. It features the clip of us dancing together at the auditions, while Rose stands apart, lost and alone. Altogether, that clip has been watched nearly a million times. So this is my new life: I am famous, and it totally sucks.

After that, the holidays pass in a haze. I don't know if I'm sad, or frightened, or just numb. In the mornings I wake up, reach out my arm and grab my phone from the bedside table. I type in my password and check to see what's happening. I check our band page, and our hate page. One video is very popular. After two days, it already has over a thousand views. It shows three cartoon girls with our faces superimposed on their heads, being blown up, shot and killed in various gory ways. Apparently there is an app where you score points by shooting at a picture of my head in some sort of arcade game, but I haven't managed to find it. LOL. I mean, hysterical. Well done whoever spent their evening putting
that
together.

There have been good messages too, supportive ones from good friends and people I hardly know, but it's the bad ones you remember.

. . . freak of nature . . .

. . . selfish bullies . . .

. . .. mean cows . . ..

. . . #totalloser . . .

And another chilling text to my personal number:

I'm still watching you, freak. You can't get away from me now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Between The Lines

T
hose texts are the worst. It's like there's someone inside my phone, watching me. I don't feel safe anywhere, but my room feels less unsafe than most places. I don't go shopping; I don't go to work. I just shut myself away until there are less than forty-eight hours till school starts again for the summer term. I know I can't stay hiding at home for ever, but I have no idea how I will face everyone. All I can think of is a sea of faces, all pointing at me, all staring and jeering. With Nina Pearson in the foreground, calling me a witch.

Over breakfast, Mum tries to cheer me up before she
goes to work. She suggests various jobs I could do in the café to help her. I put her off, because I really don't have the energy and besides, I don't think it's a great idea to be seen in public places. Instead I sit in my room and work through my revision for school. I never thought I'd be grateful for exams, but it helps to think about the War Poets, or the Periodic Table, rather than How Sasha Bayley Got Carried Away And Ruined Her Life.

I listen to music. The same songs, over and over: The Killers. The Cure. The Smiths. They sing the pain, so I don't have to. Later, I watch TV.

Mum comes home at half past three. She says the café was quiet, but I can tell she's worried about me. Not long afterwards, I hear her on the phone to Dad. Oh God, I am so famously messed up that
even Dad
is calling to find out how I am.

Mum's trying to keep her voice down, so I sit on the top stair to listen.

‘I worry about her. She's not talking. She hardly eats. She spends all her time in her room on her computer, or that bloody phone you gave her. I think she might be checking out all those vile things people are saying on the internet.'

There's a pause while Mum listens to Dad.

‘But it wasn't
like
that, Pete. She's been
trying
to apologise from the moment it happened.'

Oh great. So even my Dad thinks I'm the kind of person who just dumps my friend and abandons her.

‘Do you want to talk to her?'

I certainly don't want to talk to
him
, I decide, rushing down the stairs and past her. I've been cooped up here too long. It's time to go out. Go anywhere.

It's April: one of those sharp, blue days where the sun tries to remember how to warm the fields. I huddle in the porch of the cottage, shrugging on my jacket and my wellies as fast as I can so I can be out of the house before Dad persuades Mum to try and make me talk to him. I put my phone and my house keys in my pocket and head down the lane. I'm aiming for the track that starts beside the railway, which takes me up into the high fields of Mr O'Connell's farm.

There's one good thing about living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere: the paparazzi don't like being so far away from the city, and they hate it when a passing tractor drives a huge, long dent down the sides of three of their cars. I'm sure it
was
an accident, but Mr O'Connell, the farmer who owns the land opposite, is an old friend of Mum's, so a part of me does wonder slightly.

Anyway, they haven't got any decent pictures of me, and I'm not doing any big interviews to up my profile and give ‘my exclusive side of the story' – although goodness knows, they keep asking – so they've gone.

I start down the lane. From the ridge at the top of the hill opposite the cottage, you can see the bowl-shaped area that Mr O'Connell gives over to the Bigelow Festival every summer. In July, it's like a medieval village or a circus, full of tents and flags and colour and noise. Now, it will just be a patchwork of green and brown, spotted only with sheep and their lambs, and the occasional black-and-white cow. Far away from people. Far away from everything. Just where I want to be.

I stick my earbuds in and put on the first track I come to. It's Youssou N'Dour, a musician from Senegal who Rose introduced me to ages ago. He's very different
from my recent choices, but still – I let him play. The warm rhythms of his music help distract me from the sharp breeze that whips round my legs, freezing the denim of my jeans.

Far ahead, the lane goes over a little bridge over the railway line, leading towards Castle Bigelow. Just as I'm about to turn off it, onto the track that heads up the hill, my phone vibrates in my pocket with a text. Instinctively, I pull it out to look.

The time is getting closer, freak. And when I see you, you are going to die.

Oh no. Nonononono. Not this. Not more. Not that.

Before I know it, my legs have given way and I sink to my knees. I look around, but there's no one there. My hand starts to shake so much that I can hardly read the words on the screen. Then, gradually, the panic slowly subsides into a sludgy, icy feeling of dread.

They hate me and they want to kill me. Thousands of them. Thousands and thousands. But I don't know who they are and I can't stop them. Nobody has ever taught me how to be hated this much. I don't know how to do it.

Oh, Rose, if I could apologise again, I would. But you won't let me.

I don't know whether to go back or go on. My brain is numb. Someone could be here, hiding anywhere. I move ahead, dragging myself on as much as my jelly legs will let me, pulling my earbuds out as I go. Youssou N'Dour is not the soundtrack to how I'm feeling now. All I can hear is my blood pumping in my ears. I have no idea where I'm going, or what I'm doing. I just want to get away.

After a while I find myself on the railway bridge, looking down at the track. My brain feels like jelly too, and I'm tired. So tired. I still seem to be alone, apart from a train far away in the distance, snaking through the countryside. I know the line well. The train must take a big detour behind Crakey Hill before it reaches the stretch of line leading to Castle Bigelow station. It will take about five minutes. Meanwhile, the sky is still cloudless, blue. The air tingles with suspense.

The sound of the engine is strangely hypnotic. I don't want to walk any more, so I pull myself up onto the high stone parapet and look down. The train is out of sight now – gone behind the hill, but I can hear it getting closer, swiftly carrying passengers on their journeys. Strangers, going about their busy lives. Some will be on their phones, texting or talking. Are any of them talking about me?

My mind starts to wander. What is the driver up to, I wonder? It can't be that complicated to drive a train, can it? Stop for the red signals, stop at the stations. Always stay on the lookout for awkward things on the line.

Soon the train will come out from behind Crakey Hill and reach the bit of track that comes straight towards me, sitting on my little bridge. I wonder if he will be surprised to see a teenage girl here. A girl in a country jacket and bright yellow wellies, with her hair in a ponytail and her mind in a mess.

My phone vibrates again. This time I ignore the message, but I can't resist going onto Interface and checking the latest numbers. The habit is too deep-rooted.

15,672 likes for the Manic Pixie Dream Girls.

157,100 ‘haters' for the hate page.

593,101 hits on the clip that shows us dropping Rose.

It feels as though the whole world has an opinion about me.

This morning, when I Googled my name, I read a report saying that a Member of Parliament mentioned me on TV yesterday, wondering if the government should intervene in schools, to encourage girls to have a more positive body image. I was quoted as an example of the kind of girl they need to do something about.

Sasha Bayley. She's famous. But by now I'm not sure who she is. Even my own father doesn't seem to know me any more.

I'm still looking at the screen when I feel a presence behind me and whip round, terrified. It takes me a while to register the face. I know him. I've seen him on posters round town, and onstage at George's party. What is the guitarist from Call of Duty doing standing three feet away from me, in the middle of the bridge, looking like he's just seen a ghost?

He licks his dry lips. ‘What are you doing here?'

I breathe out slowly.

‘Sitting.'

He looks at me, and through me, and beyond me to the track, and moves forward two gentle paces. A long way behind me, I can hear the train round the corner of Crakey Hill, beginning its journey down the straight.

Suddenly, I see what he is thinking. I do seem to be perched quite precariously on the edge of the parapet. I wasn't concentrating when I sat down. I wasn't really thinking at all.

‘It's OK,' I say, to reassure him. ‘I know what I'm doing.'

That seems to make it worse. He looks more anxious than ever, flicking his eyes from the train to me, and back again. He takes another step towards me and spots the phone in my hands. He looks at the screen, and I suppose he sees the numbers. Those great big numbers that grow bigger, every day, showing how famous I am.

He catches my eye and says: ‘Don't. Please. Just . . . don't.'

‘It's OK,' I repeat, holding up my hands to reassure him. But again, it seems to have the opposite effect. The train is nearly here now, braking gradually for the station, but still travelling at high speed, too fast to stop. He grabs me around the waist with his left arm and holds me.

‘Get off!'

I manage to yank one of my arms free, my phone still in my hand. He tries to grab me again, pulling at my arm with his right hand. In a smooth, fast swish, the phone flies from my grasp and arcs into the air, over the parapet and down towards the approaching train.

The driver glances up to see the two of us above the parapet, and I watch, in slow motion, as my whole life smashes to pieces on the wooden sleepers between the bright silver lines of the track.