Saving Silence Read online

  ‘The men in these films, they’re what real men ought to be like,’ Mum had said one day when we’d just finished watching Casablanca. ‘Stoic, reliable, brave. Grow up like them, Sammy, and I can leave knowing I brought you up right. Do the right thing. Treat the people you care about like they’re precious. Protect them at all costs. It’s a good way to live.’ Maybe I was just suggestible, but I’d taken that to heart. I hadn’t wanted to let Mum down, though now I was older I did half wonder if that had been her medication talking.

  Either way, her words had struck a chord – must have, else I wouldn’t have made the decision I just had. The problem was, just shutting up didn’t feel brave at all.

  IMOGEN

  MONDAY 11 NOVEMBER

  Today, everything was worse.

  While I’d known the story of Saturday night would spread, I’d seriously underestimated the stir it would cause. Even before I reached school I was mobbed by people wanting to know details.

  ‘For God’s sake! Can you at least wait until I drop my little brother off?’ I snapped when someone asked whether it was true that there’d been a gunfight. Benno had taken my arm, which told me the questions were upsetting him. Usually he stood a little way back, trying to look as though he wasn’t being walked to school. I suspected this was more because he thought that was the done thing than because I actually embarrassed him.

  I managed to snatch a moment to say goodbye. Benno was wearing the horrible mauve uniform I’d had to put up with for five years before moving on to sixth form. The blazer was my old one and too big. Benno almost vanished within it. I felt annoyed with Mum for recycling. Starting big school in your sister’s leftovers, great idea. Benno might as well be wearing a label saying: ‘Please pick on me.’ Luckily he seemed to have fitted in just fine.

  ‘Don’t be surprised if you get nosy idiots pestering you,’ I told him. ‘Just tell anyone who asks what happened and then leave it. If they give you grief, text me and I’ll pop across to the lower school at lunchtime and sort them out.’

  Benno hesitated. ‘You know the guy you saved? Do you think he’ll be in school today?’

  ‘Sam? It depends how he’s feeling, I guess. Why?’

  ‘Just wanted to know if he was OK.’ When Benno saw my confused expression he said almost defensively. ‘He’s my reading tutor at after-school club. He’s nice.’

  Benno was dyspraxic. He’d been really self-conscious until about a month ago when the school reading club had changed everything for him. His reading tutor had done a great job getting him enthusiastic about words. So that had been Sam! To have turned things around like that for Benno was really impressive.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I said, trying not to look surprised. ‘Never knew Sam did that kind of thing. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, OK? Now off you go.’ I gave him a friendly push. ‘See you later, soldier.’

  In the sixth-form common room I faced the music.

  ‘It wasn’t a big deal,’ I said, banging the kettle down on the sideboard hard enough to splash my hand. We had a tiny little kitchen area for making hot drinks. It could only fit three people – we’d tested that one – though the common room itself had plenty of chairs. ‘The car came along. I pushed Sam out the way. End of.’

  ‘Why were you and Sam even outside in the first place? Has anyone told Ollie?’ There were some nasty giggles. Deciding I’d had enough, I poured my half-made tea down the sink. As I left, I heard someone call, ‘Too up yourself to speak to us? You get all the good stuff, Little Miss Perfect – and now you’re a lifesaver too. Everything comes easy to you. Ever wondered what it’s like to have to work for things?’

  Outside I almost collided with Ms Paul, the head teacher. Oh help, I thought, as she started congratulating me loudly on my sharp thinking. All this praise would have been embarrassing even if half the year weren’t listening in. I hotfooted it to the loos as soon as I could, locking myself in a cubicle and ignoring the girls preening into mirrors. It’s like I’m a scared Year 7 in her first week, I thought, sitting down on the seat. Get a grip, Imogen! You saved Sam. That’s a good thing. No need to get all hot and bothered.

  But I was hot and bothered, and not just because of Ms Paul embarrassing me. That remark about me ‘getting all the good stuff’ stung – because it was true.

  If I wasn’t me, I could really hate me. The realization was so startling that I winced. I’d never thought about how others saw me. I preferred not to think when I didn’t have to. My life was pretty sorted. I knew where I fitted in and where I was going and I liked it that way. No thinking. Just doing.

  Now I saw myself through everyone else’s eyes. It was totally surreal, almost as though I was looking in a mirror. Imogen Maxwell, who’d been head prefect in Year 11, liked by all the teachers. Organizer of the school cabaret two years running, head of the Amnesty Student Action Group, two A*s, seven As and one B in her GCSEs. Captain of the Walthamstow youth volleyball team and the fastest sprinter in the year. Girlfriend to Ollie, the sixth-form poster boy. And now a lifesaver on top of everything else.

  It must seem like all the good stuff just fell into my lap. It kind of had. I found lessons and sports fairly easy, and when I tried something new, I usually did it well. It must make others sick. It made me a little sick. There were so many people I knew who had so much less.

  So if I did have it all, why didn’t I enjoy it more? Why did I feel empty inside? Christ. Here I was being ungrateful. Even worse!

  I slammed my foot into the cubicle door, feeling a surge of impatience. I didn’t do this soul-searching crap! Last week everything had been fine. Normal. Why did I have to start asking questions about my life and not liking the answers? Why did it feel like I’d suddenly woken up?

  Sam didn’t share any lessons with me and so I didn’t get a chance to sound him out until lunchtime. A once-over of the buildings told me he wasn’t in. Not surprising, I guessed. Even if he was feeling OK, he was probably wary of being the centre of attention.

  Ollie met me for lunch on the picnic benches outside the sports hall. It was chilly there, but it was quiet so I didn’t care. I sat on the table and opened a packet of crisps. Ollie perched beside me and took one when I offered.

  ‘OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Been better,’ I said. ‘Did you get that sports science homework finished?’

  Ollie rolled his eyes. ‘Look, you don’t have to pretend everything’s normal.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say. What happened happened. End of.’

  ‘It’s not end of though, is it? Nothing’s resolved. I’ve been thinking, Im, and I’ve got questions. Why did you follow Sam outside? What was he saying to you? You don’t even know him, do you? Unless there’s something you’re not telling me . . .’

  ‘Whoa, cool it!’ After what Nads had said I wasn’t surprised that we were having this conversation, but I was taken aback by the anger in his voice. Very different from the touchy-feely, sensitive, almost embarrassed Ollie of yesterday. Clearly relief at having me safe had worn off quickly. ‘Nothing’s going on. He wanted to talk, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, away from everyone else. Away from your actual boyfriend. You seemed pretty happy to go outside in the freezing cold with him. Obviously you know each other a lot better than you’ve let on. Everyone’s been gossiping about you two today and it’s really humiliating! Are you cheating on me?’

  I groaned. ‘You are joking, right?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ Ollie really didn’t. His lower lip had a dissatisfied twist to it which told me how pissed off he was.

  ‘No, you look like you want to punch something.’

  My bad joke didn’t lift the mood. I sighed, laying the crisp packet down in my lap. I felt a speck of rain fall on to my palm. ‘Take a chill pill, Ollie. Me and Sam? He’s really not my type. What he wanted – your guess is as good as mine. I don’t fancy him, OK? Come on, stupid.’ I gave Ollie a gentle push. ‘Why would I want him when I’ve got you?’

&nbs
p; He didn’t smile. ‘You’ve always liked him. When he started here you went way beyond what was needed to be friendly to him, even after he threw it back in your face. Remember that? So stop lying to me! How many times have you seen him on the sly?’

  Annoyed now, I said, ‘None! I’m not lying. Like I said: I’ve got you. And unless you’re trying to use what happened on Saturday night as some lame excuse to break up with me, I’m happy with that.’

  ‘I wish I believed you.’

  ‘Ollie!’ I cried in frustration. ‘Sam doesn’t even like me! You said it; he’s thrown every attempt I ever made to be friendly back in my face.’

  ‘So what was he saying?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I felt like yelling, but just about managed to keep my voice calm. ‘I never got the chance to find out.’

  Ollie looked as though he wanted to say something else. Instead he glanced away. I put a hand on his arm. ‘What do I need to do to convince you I’m telling the truth?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Ollie slid off the bench.

  I grabbed his hand. ‘I’m not leaving things like this. It’s a stupid misunderstanding. You’re the only guy in my life, Ollie. Not Sam.’

  The buzzer went for the end of break. Ollie sighed. After a moment he said, ‘Fine, whatever you say. I’ll see you later. You are OK after Saturday though, seriously?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, relieved that I seemed to have got through to him. ‘I’m always OK, aren’t I?’

  ‘Hard to tell with you.’

  Ollie headed off. I wondered what he meant. It didn’t feel as if we had patched things up, exactly. Ollie still seemed reluctant to believe me. It was weird. Why would a popular, confident guy like Ollie feel so threatened by a loner like Sam?

  My mind wasn’t on business studies that afternoon. I zoned in and out, doodling on the corner of my notepad. The conversation with Ollie had thrown up a problem. Before lunchtime I’d been all set on visiting Sam. Calling wasn’t an option as I didn’t have his number, but I did know where he lived. There’d been an episode last year about Sam’s dad wanting to build an extension and neighbours complaining and it had been in the local paper. They had only mentioned the road, not the exact address, but I’d recognize the house from the photograph when I saw it. Going round didn’t feel right now. Ollie being jealous was stupid, but I didn’t want to rub him up the wrong way.

  Then again, what about me? Didn’t I have a right to do what I wanted?

  In the end I went for the good-girl option. I dropped Benno home, made us something to eat and went to volleyball as usual, turning over in my head all the questions I hadn’t asked Sam.

  But the next day, when Sam wasn’t in again, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.

  Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, I thought. What Ollie doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Tuesday was Benno’s reading club day so I didn’t need to pick him up after school. Sam wouldn’t be there obviously, but there were other tutors. So I was free to go to Sam’s place straight from sixth form. Luckily the bus to his also passed the high street, so if anyone did mention it to Ollie it wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Not that anyone would. Imogen gets on a bus! Hardly a newsflash.

  Sam’s place was one of those Edwardian houses with big gardens, up near Lee Valley Nature Reserve. It was quiet there. Almost like not being in London at all. I couldn’t help but feel a little excited. I knew so little about Sam and now I was going to see where he lived.

  A woman wearing a dressing gown answered the door when I knocked. She had a very pretty face, but it was her hair that made an impact. It was waist length, exceedingly thick and a red-brown colour that had to have come out of a bottle. This house ain’t the only thing with extensions, I thought. Behind her I could see a greyhound wearing a fluorescent collar.

  ‘Hi, I’m Imogen,’ I said. ‘Came to see how Sam is.’

  The woman blinked at me sleepily. She looked a bit young to be Sam’s mum. Perhaps she was his sister, though her accent said London rather than the North. ‘That’s nice. He’s in the kitchen.’

  She drifted back into the house, leaving the door open. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I stepped inside. The interior was pretty grand compared to what I was used to, all marble floors, furniture that definitely wasn’t Argos or Ikea and modern art on the walls. So Sam’s folks were well off.

  I wasn’t sure whether the woman meant me to follow her, but I could smell baking wafting from the direction she was heading so I followed. We entered the kind of kitchen you see in TV adverts. It had plush wooden units, an enormous fridge and an island in the centre with a stylish low-hanging light. Sam was standing there up to his elbows in flour. In front of him was a ball of dough. As I watched he smacked it against the surface, kneading it with an anger that took me aback. Clearly his bandaged wrist wasn’t giving him too much grief. To his side was some sort of loaf and a line of biscuits. From the cracked eggs and open packets on the sideboard I guessed they were freshly baked. When Sam saw me he stopped dead.

  ‘Sam, your friend’s here,’ The woman picked up one of the biscuits, then wandered out the way we’d come. I wasn’t sure what to make of her. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the dog settle down on a blanket in the corner with an elderly-sounding sigh.

  I looked at Sam. He didn’t look at me. Now I was here, it felt surreal. Disconcerting. In just a few minutes I’d discovered more about Sam than I had in two years. He had a dog. He made bread. From the vibes I was getting off this place, his home life might not be so great.

  And it was so weird to see him like this. Sam always dressed really smartly. It was a look that suited him, but he never seemed entirely comfortable. Was what I was seeing now, a guy in an old T-shirt and sweats and covered in flour, the real Sam?

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  Sam gathered up the dough and slammed it down one last time. He then rolled it into a ball and set it aside, rubbing the dough off his fingers. I could see a line of blue stitches just underneath his chin. It was a surprisingly square chin. Macho even. It looked like it had been stolen from someone else’s face – strange I hadn’t noticed before. The muscles on his arms were more defined than I’d anticipated too. He looked wiry, but strong. Maybe making bread was more of a workout than I’d realized? I’d always looked at Sam and just seen someone with smart clothes and a funny accent, but actually he was pretty good-looking. And as it happened, I rather liked the way he spoke. It was different.

  ‘Just baking,’ he replied, finally looking me in the eye.

  ‘I noticed. I wouldn’t want to be that dough! You were kneading it like you wanted to kill it.’

  ‘It needs a bit of force else it won’t rise properly. I don’t do this stuff much any more.’ Sam moved the flour packets so they were next to each other, then placed the bottle of olive oil at a right angle. I seemed to be hitting a nerve.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘We missed you at school.’

  ‘Who’s we?’ For a second Sam half smiled. ‘I didn’t feel like coming in and Tamsin didn’t make me. I’m OK. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Did the stitches hurt?’

  ‘They look worse than they are.’ Sam paused. ‘I know, classic line but it’s true. The nurse said it would scar but I figure that’s OK. Scars are sort of cool, right? Shame they didn’t need to call the plastic surgeons in the end. I could’ve got them to make me look like Robert Pattinson.’

  Despite myself, I laughed. ‘Would that have made what happened worth it?’

  ‘Would you like one?’

  It took me a moment to realize he meant the biscuits.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. The biscuit was lukewarm and golden brown, and I could see that it had some kind of nuts in it. I took a bite. Spice and sugar – strong but not too strong – filled my mouth.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘These are really good. What are they?’

  I could have sworn Sam blushed slightly. Perhaps he didn’t get too many compliments. ‘They’re called biscotti. You sound like G
regg from MasterChef; he always goes for the sweets and he makes funny expressions too. I saw an episode when someone made a lemon pavlova and he looked like he was about to pass out.’

  ‘I’ve not seen MasterChef,’ I said. Sam started rearranging his ingredients again. Could he still be in shock? Then it hit me. This was probably the first time someone from sixth form had dropped round. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know anything about the real him. And I’d stepped right in it.

  ‘You can take some biscuits, if you’d like.’ Sam broke the silence. ‘For your brother, I mean. And the sourdough loaf. All this won’t get eaten otherwise.’

  ‘How’s sourdough different to normal bread?’ I wondered out loud.

  Sam explained that you needed something called a ‘starter’, which you added to the flour – apparently this was some gloopy wild-yeast mixture he kept in a jar in the fridge and ‘fed’ with rye flour when it was hungry. For the first time Sam seemed animated, and I found myself liking him more and more. Despite saying he didn’t do it any more, baking bread was clearly something he was enthusiastic about. Sure it was an unexpected hobby for a guy his age. But it was certainly interesting.

  ‘I never get time to do things like this.’ I said. ‘Always seems to be something more important that needs doing.’

  ‘It’s dead easy.’ He grinned and part of me couldn’t help noticing how attractive he looked when he smiled.

  All this had left me feeling a little jealous. Of what exactly, I wasn’t sure. ‘Maybe I can bake something with my bro. He’ll be well pleased with your biscuits; he even thinks the school muck’s amazing.’

  ‘Gross!’ Sam laughed. ‘I really don’t rate that canteen. They use fake cheddar in everything. Of all the cheeses in all the world, they choose processed stuff that tastes of nothing . . .’

  ‘Processed stuff’ll be cheaper,’ I said.

  Sam’s grin vanished and for a moment he looked embarrassed. ‘I didn’t think of that.’ He hesitated. ‘Is he OK? Your brother, I mean.’