Watch Me. Angela Clarke

full of paper takeaway cups bagged in forensic plastic. They had to be kidding. Why keep this crap? Bloody police – always so proper. She shoved it aside and opened the next. Finally! She pulled out her skinny jeans. Black. And under them her DM boots. Black. The jeans were loose, so she rolled the waistband to sit low on her hips. She could do with a pizza. She was hungry. When had she last been hungry? Pulling on her boots, she felt the familiar tilt and wear to the leather, shaped on the streets of London. They were made for city streets, not country lanes or, even more insulting, suburban pavements. Was it hunger or was it excitement? There was a strange sensation in her stomach: fizzing. Her body felt different, and it wasn’t just that her checked red shirt and purple hoodie hung off her, unexpected gaps between her skin and the material. It was that she felt it at all. It had started downstairs with that warm, damp feeling inside, and it had spread through her, tingling her fingers, wriggling her toes. A switch had been flicked. She’d experienced a surge. Was she ready for this? Could she leave this house? This street? This town? Could she get in a car with Nas and drive back to London? She could – should – call her counsellor. And do what? Talk about her bloody feelings? There was a girl out there who needed her help. Who gave a toss about her feelings? She shoved the small present from her mum, still wrapped, into her pocket. Running down the stairs, she grabbed her denim jacket on the way.

      The cold March air blew through the flapping fabric of her clothes. No meat on her bones to keep her warm, that’s what her gran would’ve said. The strange car parked in the driveway brought Freddie back to the present. To what she was about to do. And how does that make you feel? she heard Amanda’s voice say in her head. Fuck you, Mandy. Fuck you and your feels. Walking with purpose towards the car, she faltered when she spotted the outline in the driver seat: a woman with red hair. Nas was on the passenger side. Freddie didn’t much fancy making chit-chat. Pulling open the back door she slid into the car. It smelt of pine air freshener, and the faint hint of disinfectant that seemed to cling to all police property. Did they buy it in bulk? Or did it just permeate everything, seeping in from stations, cells, hospitals, morgues …

      She didn’t want to think of Chloe’s body lying cold on a stainless-steel slab. Would they have taken her to the same hospital her sister worked at? Would Gemma have been there when they brought her in?

      Freddie had always liked Gemma’s mum. She didn’t do ‘the face’ when she asked after Freddie’s parents. So many adults – teachers, the librarian, other mums and dads – had done ‘the face’. Head tilted, lips pursed into a solemn pout, eyes full of false concern. They’d only wanted gossip. More dirty titbits about how terrible her drunk father was. She remembered being eight or nine, walking into the entrance to the village hall for Brownies and hearing Sally Perkins’ mum: Sally says Freddie is always getting into trouble at school. She’s disruptive. It’s hardly a surprise with a father like that. He’s an alcoholic. Freddie had looked the word up on Ask Jeeves later: she hadn’t known what it meant, but she knew it was bad. She’ll probably be a drug addict before she’s left secondary. It’s genetic, isn’t it? I won’t let Sally play there anymore.