After She Fell: A haunting psychological thriller with a shocking twist. Mary-Jane Riley

not sure what to say next. This is new territory for me. A private video. I run my tongue around my lips, tasting the stickiness of my lip gloss, then smile at the screen. ‘Did you mean what you said? That you found me beautiful? That you wanted to hear what I had to say about things? That you …’ I hesitate for a moment, ‘were really interested in me? As if what I thought matters? As if I matter?’

      I pause the recording. That’s what I miss about Mum since she got married: she didn’t seem to have any time for me, to listen to me. What with Mark and the job I might as well be invisible. There is a prickling at the back of my eyes. I blink the tears away. Enough of that. I’ve got someone who understands about that. Who said the same thing had happened to them – Mum married someone younger and was busy with work – so understood what I was going through. I could forget about Mum with her job that physically took her away and her new husband who mentally took her away. I take a deep breath and smile again before pressing record once more. ‘You said you hadn’t met anyone like me before. Anyone as beautiful. Did you mean that? You did, didn’t you? I could see it in your eyes.’

      I press stop. It’s all too exciting – talking about what could be seen in each other’s eyes. Or is it soppy? Stupid? I press record.

      ‘The eyes are a mirror for the soul, you said. Well my soul overflows with you. With the thought of you.’

      Too much. Too wanky. Sounds like something a bad poet would say. I delete it. Clear my throat. Press record. ‘I know you said you wanted to hear from me; you wanted me to send you a vid, but I’m not sure what to say. It’s all so … new.’ And exciting. And bad. I know it’s bad. Haven’t we had all that stuff drummed into us about responsibility and abuse of power and all that crap? But I’m sixteen, almost seventeen, for fuck’s sake: I know how it works. Or think I do. A kernel of doubt enters my head. Am I being taken for a ride? No. I do know how it works.

      There is a loud knocking on the door and the handle rattles. ‘Hey, Lee, what you doing in there? Why’s the door locked?’ Tara sounds petulant. ‘Come on, Lee, I wanna come in.’

      I quickly turn my phone off and open the door.

      ‘What you doing in here, Lee?’ Tara looks around the room, eyes suspicious. ‘Is there someone with you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why are you dressed up? Make-up and everything? Didn’t I hear you talking?’ She pounces on the box of chocolates on my desk. ‘Ooo, who are they from? Not Theo. Not his style.’ She undoes the red ribbon, takes off the cellophane and dives in. ‘Let me guess. Max? I’m right, aren’t I?’ She gives me a chocolate giggle.

      I shrug. We have laughed about Max fancying me but I don’t want to laugh now. Now I can understand how raw his feelings must be.

      ‘Whatever,’ she says, and takes another chocolate. ‘So?’

      ‘So what?’

      ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

      ‘I was talking to myself.’ Now I blush. That’s when I really hate myself and the way my body lets me down. ‘And I’m not dressed up.’

      ‘You so are. Is it Theo?’ Her eyes light on the phone on the bed. ‘Were you talking to him? How’s it going?’

      How is it going? Nowhere, really. He is a good cover, that’s all. Though how long I can keep up the pretence, I’m not sure.

      It happened like this.

      I get a text from him – Theo – and manage to sneak out of school and meet him in the old summerhouse at the very edge of The Drift’s grounds. We aren’t supposed to go there: it has been condemned as unsafe, but I know it is the place he and his friends take their girlfriends to smoke skunk and shag. It’s known in the sixth form as the ‘knocking shop’. The boys stay the same – Theo, Felix, Lucas and Ralph, occasionally Ollie – it is the girls who are interchangeable.

      ‘Sssh,’ says Theo as he opens the door. We go in, the torch on his phone lighting the way.

      ‘Where did you get the key?’ I ask.

      He grins, tapping the side of his nose like some detective in a bad cop show. ‘Don’t you worry about that, sweetie. Come on.’

      He goes around drawing the tatty old curtains before sitting down on one of the wicker settees that still has life in it. It actually does have cushions on it, almost making it inviting, as long as you don’t look at the broken weave sticking out ready to pierce your arse. The shadows cast by the harsh light of the phone dip and dance around the room, giving it an eerie quality. During the day, I know, the sunlight streams in, illuminating the dirt and the dust. Being here at night feels uncomfortable and strange. It smells musty and of something sweet. There is also the definite tang of dead mouse.