Trapped Between
Chapter 6: Fifteen years ago

“Pushed?” My voice came out in a strangled whisper. “As in someone pushed you?” My eyes were wide in disbelief and horror.

He nodded.

His full lips were set in a hard, grim line and his eyes had turned a steely grey, like storm clouds. I continued to stare at him in horrified silence. He looked so calm, so together, whilst I was completely losing it.

I was fraying into a thousand strands, ripping apart at the seams. I was on the cusp of completely unravelling and becoming lost on the breeze, a thousand threads that would simply whip up and dance into the night, never to be seen again.

My shattered mind took comfort at the thought, what a release it would be to simply break apart into a thousand pieces, float away and not be tied here to this horror story.

I had no idea what to say, no idea what he wanted me to say.

“I think that that’s the problem,” he continued in a serious tone, focussed now on the story he clearly had to tell. His tone was business like; he seemed to be completely unaware that I was being torn apart by his revelation, torn apart and emptied, like a stripped out shell.

“Drew,” I breathed, but I didn’t have anything else to say.

“I think, maybe I’m stuck here, trapped like this because all the facts aren’t straight.” He gestured out into the darkness with a shrug, letting his shoulders slump on defeat. “The facts aren’t straight and I can’t sort it out on my own.”

I couldn’t control the shaking that had overcome my body. I couldn’t wrap my head around what he was telling me. A kind of hysteria was bubbling up inside me, making me want to scream.

How much more of this could I handle? I felt like I had managed remarkably well so far, what with Drew being a ghost from fifteen years ago, a grey angel who was trapped here because he had committed suicide. I’d had to suspend rational thought and accept that he was the tragic victim of a suicide, but now to be told it was murder? How was I going to deal with that? S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I shook my head fast, trying to dislodge the feeling of panic before I had some kind of nervous breakdown. He had committed suicide. That’s what my parents, Mr. Sharpe, even the newspapers had said. No one had said anything about a murder.

I clawed at the threads, trying to pull myself back together. I sat up straight and began to babble. The words came out in a torrent; they cascaded and twisted over the stones in my gut, trying to make themselves heard, trying to make themselves true.

“Look, we’ve studied suicide at school,” I gibbered. “It’s a sin. They don’t let you into Heaven if you’ve killed yourself. That’s what this is. That’s why you’re still here, trapped like this. I think…I mean surely He would know, right? I mean, isn’t He supposed to be omniscient? He would have seen-”

“If He actually exists,” he interrupted me with a voice that dripped sarcasm. “Do you really think this is part of God’s big plan?” His voice had become bitter, twisted and scornful. “Do you think He needs me to find out how I died first? Do you think it will make me more worthy if I do? Do you think it’s fair of Him to leave me here, like this?”

I cringed back from his tirade; feeling more scared of him than I ever had. I screwed my eyes shut, each eyes arid surface felt tacky and sore behind its lid, and I pulled in a few shaky breaths. I took a firm hold on the dancing threads and tried to anchor them; this was not the time to lose it, not the time to have a nervous breakdown.

“Tell me,” I said simply. I needed to know.

“I can’t remember it all,” he began in a soft voice, but there was the sharp edge of a blade cutting through the silk. “Just snippets of detail, like a film that’s had some of its scenes cut out. But what I do know is that I wasn’t the kind of boy who would have taken an easy way out. I wouldn’t have killed myself.” He looked at me with beseeching eyes, willing me to believe him. “There wasn’t anything to kill myself over.” He looked up at me with an earnest look on his face and opened his hands out, pleading with me. “You’ve got believe me. That’s not who I am…I mean… that’s not who I was.”

The threads were being held tightly but that didn’t stop them from swaying, as if in a boundless ocean. It was as if I was hearing him through a great wall of water. His words were muted, lost in the current washing over me. I had to really pull myself together, to stop my mind floating off into the deep, dark water.

I broke through the ocean’s surface and sucked in some ragged, desperate breaths. I took a moment to let the water run out of my ears and could once more hear the night and all of its soft sounds around us. An owl hooted nearby and I could hear a small animal scrabbling in the leaves behind the bench.

“So, what do you remember?” I asked, waiting with bated breath for his answer; even the creature seemed to take notice of the tense atmosphere and stopped its scratching.

“I’d been out at a gig, a few friends of mine were in a band and they were playing their second big show. They’d played lots of stuff at school, become like minor celebrities amongst the girls,” he gave a wry smile. “But this was only their second proper, public appearance.

“We’d all met at the market, well before the doors were going to open. The band had set up early so they came out to meet us as well and the place was heaving, I guess it was the agreed meeting place for pretty much everyone.

“A few of my mates had been getting pretty heavy with a bunch of losers from our year group. They’d been harassing the girls and one of them had got really upset, said one of them had touched her, but she wasn’t sure which perv it was. Anyway, they took off into the crowd as soon as the lads starting getting serious about finding the creep.

“The band were playing at the club and the owner must have realised he was on to a winner after the amount of teenagers that rocked up the last time, so he opened the doors and just let everyone pile in. It was supposed to be tickets only, but people were paying on the door. More and more folk pushed their way in until the room was rammed to the rafters.”

I was pulled, spiralling into the scene he was describing. I could picture it. Jess and I had been to loads of gigs just like that, packed with sweaty kids all pushing to get to the front, wanting to get as close to the band as possible. A sticky, hot mass of bodies all moving together as one, as if the music directed their motion and had them all caught in its power.

I snapped back to reality when I realised he had stopped speaking. His eyes were slightly out of focus as if he was looking at something far away, some memory that he was searching for, something that would perhaps help explain what happened the night he died.

“I was at the bar, I wasn’t desperate to shove to the front, the band were my mates and I had seen them play loads of times. I was there to support them, not for the anything else. A fight broke out near the stage and the music was pulled. The whole atmosphere changed, it became angry real quick. The crowd turned into a surging body of people, all pulling and pushing, trying to get free of the flaying arms, or trying to get more involved, who knows.” His voice had turned dark and bitter again, as the memory flooded back and was voiced for the first time in fifteen years.

“What happened next?” I asked in a whisper, afraid to know, but desperate to all the same.

“A few of the girls we had gone in with were trapped between the heaving mass of people and the stage. I waded in to try and get to them, help them, but I fell, sprawling to the floor.” His face became a mask of hatred; he balled his hands into tight fists, and his bones looked as if they would split straight through his skin. “The next thing I remember is a red and livid face pushed its way into mine, whoever it was spat at me and shouted ‘you’ll regret thinking you’re better than me’. The face pulled back into the frenzy of bodies but a swift hard kick followed it, straight into my face.” He winced and shook his head as if he could still feel the pain from the blow.

“Who was it?” I gasped. I was breathing hard, as if I too had been in amongst the bodies and I was struggling to get out, to get free of the masses.

“I can’t remember. I can’t remember what happened after I was kicked. I can’t remember how I got out of the club, but I do remember being afraid and running, running as if my life depended on it. There were shouts, heavy footsteps behind me; I remember rough hands, grabbing me, pushing me.”

His angry outburst came to an abrupt halt. I looked into his face, a face full of fury, but also a face marred with distress and felt my heart crack. The crack splintered across its surface, separating the muscle, making it difficult to beat right.

I reached out to him, but pulled back straight away. How could I console him when I couldn’t even touch him? How could I soothe him when all that was left of me was an irregular heartbeat, a heap of stones and frayed threads that needed comforting itself?

His eyes focussed back on me and he asked the one question that made collecting all the stones and threads, trying to fashion them back together, an absolute necessity.

“You promised to help me,” he said simply. “Do you think you still can?”

Did I? Did I really think I could help him with this?

“Yes,” the word floated from my mouth in a whisper.

I would need to pull myself together, to be whole again, so that I could help with the mammoth task unfolding before me.

In that tense, unbelievable moment, when I realised I was now committed to trying to solve an unknown murder case, the most absurd thing happened. My stomach, no longer satisfied with being full on stones, let out an almighty rumble. He laughed, and in an instant the tension was broken.

“Hungry?” he asked, still chuckling, and I found myself laughing along with him. It was ridiculous, it wasn’t even funny, but it felt so good to laugh, to hear it reach out into the night and remind me that the normal world was still out there, still turning.

I checked my watch and realised that my mum would be about to serve up, half past six she had said.

“You have to go?” It was a question, but it sounded more like an instruction. Like he was aware that I’d been reduced to the pile of stones and threads, and that he wanted to give me time to get back to my normal world and start rebuilding myself.

“Yes, my sister is staying for dinner and I really should be there.” It seemed crazy to imagine myself sat down at the table in our bright, cheerful kitchen, eating alongside my family.

“Then go,” he said in a sad tone. “Never underestimate the time you have with your family. It’s precious, Beth.”

We stood up at the same time, and just as I was about to say I understood, that I knew I was lucky to not be alone, he disappeared in a streak of grey leather and silver laces.

As I walked home, I thought about what it must have been like to be a teenager in Newlington fifteen years ago. What kind of things were they all up to whilst I was at home with my mum learning how to toddle.

The gig that Drew had described sounded just like the ones me and Jess had been to, lots of people and lots of noise. I guessed that the music and clothes must have changed a bit but the things that make teenagers feel alive, really make them buzz, like music and being with friends were still the same.

Drew and I hadn’t had chance to discuss what should happen next, how we were going to find out what really happened that night. When I thought about the odds, the chances that a seventeen year old girl and a ghost, really was no other way to describe him, could prove a murder from fifteen years ago, it made me want to laugh at loud. An unhinged laugh, like the cackle of a mad woman, was forcing its way up my windpipe. I swallowed; fighting it back down, if I allowed the laugh to surface, then the sheer madness of the whole situation wouldn’t be too far behind.

I needed to suspend rationality, not believe it all to be madness, and just go with it, how else would I see him again? And I needed to see him again; I couldn’t live without seeing him again. I didn’t have a choice now; I was in too deep, because when I thought about not helping him, not following through on the promise that I had made, that seemed more ridiculous than accepting that I had made a deal with a ghost.

As I churned over all the horrific details, I tried to ignore the plume of light, the feeling of warmth that had ignited and seemed to grow every time his grey eyes had looked into mine.

The world carried on turning as usual.

Thursday morning broke with a grim, frosty start, but I didn’t mind. I felt better rested, more revitalised than I had for days. Now that I knew what my course of action was, regardless of the fact that I had no idea how to start on it, I felt more grounded.

The stones had gone and the threads were all tied securely back in place. I still felt horrible for David Pearson’s family, but I felt optimistic that I was doing something to kind of help. I couldn’t bring David back, couldn’t explain why he’d killed himself, but I could try to help explain the death of another lost teenage boy, one who had died fifteen years before.

My breakfast went down easy, easier than anything had done for days, and I was able to chat brightly to my mum and dad. I saw a quick glance and a brief smile pass between them; they were obviously pleased that I had got over my morbid fascination with local teen suicides. If only they knew that my interest was now a full blown investigation. On second thoughts, I was glad that they didn’t know.

I waited for Jess at the corner, stamping my feet to try to keep out the cold, and when she rounded the end of the street, she too looked pleased to see me back to my usual self.

Without the stones in my stomach weighing me down I was able to walk alongside her, matching her bouncy step as we headed to school. We chatted about the usual stuff, which meant boys as far as Jess was concerned, and I felt like hugging myself when I thought about Drew. Jess couldn’t know, no one could, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t think about him, about his beautiful face and those soul searching eyes. I knew that it was unconventional, strange, stupid even, to nurture the plume of warmth that smouldered whenever I thought about him, but I didn’t care.

When we got to school, things felt strange. I couldn’t put my finger on what the change was, but then I remembered that it was Thursday, the day of the funeral. Most of the Year 10 students were not in, they were saying their goodbyes to David Pearson. It made me feel guilty for not remembering.

There was a sombre cloud hanging over school, like a wet blanket. There were no whoops and cheers, no running feet bounding down the corridors. I felt smothered by it, its heavy, moist fabric tried to suffocate me; it clung to me, threatening to enclose me completely in grief. I was able to hold it back; I was able to lift the blanket off me, and surround myself with thoughts of Drew. I felt guilty for wrapping myself in light when all around me the school was in darkness and shadows.

Joy and grief, the two emotions swirled like oil and water, no matter how much they churned together, they stayed separate, distinct.

In Art, after lunch, Mrs. Ashburn wanted us to finalise our plans for the memorial. Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Pearson had okayed the sculpture and were deeply touched that the student body of Newlington wanted to do something so personal to remember David.

It felt weird working with Claire and Ian on our initial drawings, I felt far more connected to the project than I should be, felt that somehow I should have the final say on what the sculpture should look like. Luckily, on the back of my success with my piece in reception, Claire and Ian were both happy to go along with my decisions. Well, Ian was happy; Claire just looked her usual bitter self. I decided that the sculpture should be tall, lean and grey, it seemed fitting.

When the final school bell rang I stayed behind to do a few more sketches. I was pleased with how the design was looking and Mrs. Ashburn was full of frothy praise, like an over excited puppy.

The classroom clock said it was half past four, Drew and I hadn’t set a time for today but I knew he’d be there at the memorial at five, he always was. I gathered together my gear as the warmth in my belly turned, like a Bunsen burner, to a powerful blue flame. The flame burned brightly, warming me, pushing back the shadows that had spent days wrapped around the wretched stones.

I smiled to myself, sure the task of finding out what had actually happened to him was the prerogative here, but right now at this moment, all I was thinking about was being near him again.

Of course, he was there.

Just like he must have been for the last fifteen years, I mused as I walked towards him, a breath-taking smile on his face. Fifteen sad and lonely years spent wondering about the details of that night, hating who had caused it to be his last, with no way of finding out the truth. But he had a way now, me, and knowing that he needed me filled me with a heady feeling of joy.

When I looked at his face, saw the way his grey eyes shone when he saw me smile back, it was pointless to try and pretend that I didn’t know what the blue plume in my chest really was. Pointless to pretend that I didn’t know why my heart was hammering so loudly in my chest.

I was in love with him.

I was in love with a ghost, a not real boy who belonged somewhere else. When I thought about it like that it made me feel sad, miserable even, to know that he couldn’t ever love me back, couldn’t ever want to belong with me when he was waiting, treading water, ready to move on.

It was easy to shake off the sadness when I got to the bench and his face was lit up like the Blackpool illuminations. My family had holidayed there when I was about seven; Laura who was sixteen at the time had hated it. She’d hated having to still go on family holidays, but I’d loved it. I’d been mesmerised by the lights that hung in the night sky, like bright stars over the black water, but they paled into insignificance compared to the light that was shining from Drew’s perfect face. He lit up the sky in a way that those lamps, even if they had all the power in the world wired to them, never could.

“I knew you’d be here,” I gushed. My exclamation sounded high pitched and sort of breathy; I sucked in a quick gulp air, trying to steady my wild heart as he stood up, stretching out his lean frame.

“Of course,” his smile twisted into a grimace. “Where else would I be? It’s here or the market, the market or here.” He shook his head and the frown dissolved from his face, leaving it open and bright again. He looked deep into my eyes, down to the bottom of my very being and said. “So, how are you, Beth?”

And just like on that first day (was it really only five days ago?) every minute detail of my day spilled out of my lips. I told him about walking to school with Jess and her ability to talk non-stop, never needing a breath. I told him about the plans for the memorial sculpture. I even told him about the horrid sausage roll I’d had for lunch. When I finally found a way to cease the drivel that was pouring from my mouth, I realised that he wasn’t looking at me anymore and that he was staring out into the park, the easy smile gone from his face.

“What’s wrong?” I frantically looked back, searching, sifting through the crap I had been chatting about to see what could have made him look so sad and distant all of a sudden.

“Nothing,” he said. His shoulders sagged and his voice was grey and bleak. He absentmindedly knocked his feet together making the silver laces flop from one side of his trainers to the other, and as I stared at them they made me think of skinny eels let loose in a river. “I was just wondering what my parent’s would have said about the sculpture.”

I thought about that for a while.

“I bet Mr. Sharpe will have to ask them if it’s okay to put your name the memorial as well,” I finally said. “I guess he’ll have to ask Sherrie Murphy’s dad too.” I was still looking at his flapping laces whilst I spoke so I noticed straight away when his whole body froze, his feet stopped swinging and the laces dropped. “What’s wrong?” This time it wasn’t a simple question, it was a demand. What had made him turn to stone, as motionless and grey as the monument behind him?

“He’ll have to ask them?” It was a whisper, a quiet strangled sound and if I hadn’t been so focussed on him, panicked about his sudden stillness, I might have missed it.

“Of course.” My eyebrows furrowed in confusion and I tilted my head to the side, unsure about why he was acting so shocked.

“You mean, they’re still here? In Newlington?”

And then I got it, I understood.

For the last fifteen years he had been in one of two places, here or the market. He didn’t know that his parents still lived here.

I nodded slowly, realising the enormity of the revelation I was giving him.

“My mum said that they still live here.” I looked at him with caution and picked my words carefully, with precision. “She’d said so when I told her about David Pearson, when I asked about you.”

I was worried about what this knowledge would mean to him; do to him, so I was surprised to see the calm calculating look appear on his face again. Instead of freaking out he appeared to be planning something.

“You said that Mr. Sharpe would have to ask my parents for their permission?” he asked. I nodded, not sure where his question was leading. His calculating tone was turning enthusiastic, and his face, which had been frozen so static before was now eager and animated. “You should ask them.”

“What?” I squeaked, my eyes wide with shock, incomprehension.

“You are involved in the project,” he laughed, a quick, sudden bark. “Both projects, the school one and this one,” he gestured to himself. All humour drained from his voice and his words came out fast, insistent, as he looked me square in the face. “You should go and ask for their permission. Talk to them about the sculpture, see what they say, about me.”

I sat still, motionless; it was my turn to become a stone statue. I needed to squeeze a few words out of my frozen lips, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I cracked them apart slowly, painfully. “What do you want me to find out?”

“What they think happened, of course,” he said, as if he was stating the glaringly obvious. “Ask them what they really think happened fifteen years ago.”

He was genuinely excited, confident that I would agree to this insane plan.

He leapt up off the bench.

“This is it, Beth, I can feel it.” As he jumped to his feet his tee shirt flapped up and he reached down with long fingers to pull it back down over his stomach. He was so excited that he was oblivious to the change that I could see, that I had zoned in on as everything else seemed to melt away into darkness.

His belt buckle was glowing, almost pulsating with light. I blinked, blinded by the dazzling gold that was shining out as brightly as the metallic silver of his shoe laces.

When I’d rubbed my eyes enough and the bright spots had finally stopped dancing, faded from my vision, I looked up to tell him, but he had gone.

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