Dear Charlie

‘You brought too many. I said three, max.’

‘Come on, there’s only six of us,’ pleaded Dougie.

‘Seven,’ corrected Izzy, motioning towards me.

I could feel people’s eyes on me, so I lowered my head until part of my face was hidden in the collar of my coat.

‘Fine but if anyone catches you, you tell them you sneaked in. OK?’

Dougie shrugged and slid past his cousin. ‘Didn’t even see you.’

Inside, music blasted from all around me, crushing my head like heavy stone. It would take at least a couple of days for my ears to stop ringing. Sweaty bodies danced too close to each other and flipped their heads back and forth to a song that seemed to consist only of screaming and loud banging.

‘Do you like punk rock?’ screamed Izzy over the noise.

‘Love it!’ I yelled back at her, possibly too quickly. Was punk rock a sub-genre of rock? Or, did it refer to a specific band? Honestly, I hated whatever was happening on the stage in front of me. Aside from the singer who was dressed in a torn tuxedo, there was no real music to be found. Ten years of piano lessons had embarrassingly left me with only a preference for the classics. And whatever this was, it was definitely not classical.

Within fifteen minutes, I had found my place for the next three hours – in a corner by the men’s bathroom. While Debbie flailed her arms around on the dancefloor like she was having an epileptic fit, Worm, Max and Neall bartered to get two older guys to buy them beers. I hadn’t seen Dougie since we walked in. Eyes scanning the room, I searched for him and Izzy. When a group of dancers left the floor for another round of some white-coloured liquid that was served in a test tube that belonged in a chemistry lab, I saw her. Standing alone by the stairs, Izzy stared out momentarily transfixed. Her face glistened in the strobe lights, and she clenched her jaw. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Dougie propped against the bar, beer in hand, talking to two girls. One had red streaks in her hair and the other had a lip ring. Whatever he was saying must have been funny, because they were laughing and throwing their heads back.

When I looked back at the stairs, Izzy was gone. I wouldn’t see her again until the end, when we all met up back at the exit.

‘Dougie, where were you all night?’ asked Worm.

‘Who’s hungry?’ grinned Dougie, as he headed out the exit.

Three streets down and one street left, I found myself inside a 24-hour cafe near the city bus station. Izzy had clearly forgiven Dougie because they were holding hands by the time we got a booth for seven people.

I sat down in the chair at the end of the booth, while the others poured onto the frayed red leather benches. Menus lay on the table in front of us and I could see that the top one had a sticky red stain, like tomato sauce. My fingers pressed into the edges of the chair until I awkwardly looped them together on my lap. Looking at Dougie’s faded black David Bowie T-shirt and torn plaid shirt, I was suddenly very aware of my appearance. The round collar on my saggy navy-blue jumper itched and I squirmed uncomfortably in my beige cords.

Izzy sat directly to my right, huddled into Dougie as his arm carelessly hung around her shoulders. In the fluorescent overhead lights, I could see that her eyes were thickly rimmed with black liner. It made her eyes look smaller than they were. Debbie had told me that Izzy only started hanging out with them last year, that before that she was ‘Isabel’ and too popular to even acknowledge them. I had asked Debbie why that was, but all she said was Izzy had ‘had a bad year’. Then one morning she came to school and she was different. It was as if she’d woken up and decided to become a new person. Soon she started going out with Dougie, dyed her hair black, began organising student rights protests about better food sourcing for the cafeteria and became fixated on the 1970s era. Now she looked like Deborah Harry, with her thick make-up and dyed hair cut short with a heavy long fringe resting on her eyelids. I don’t know why she picked the 1970s. Perhaps she didn’t know that it was a period heavily shadowed by the Vietnam War and social propaganda.

‘You hungry, Sam? See anything you like?’ she asked, a wide grin stretching across her face. Did she see me looking at her?

I quickly looked away, before Dougie saw me staring too. ‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled. Honestly, I didn’t know if I was hungry. I was only hungry if everyone else was and I would only order a drink if someone else did. But the waitress approached me first.

After a few moments of silence and an exchange of glances around the table, the waitress finally snapped. ‘Are you going to order something or not?’ she said.

I looked to Dougie for some sort of cue to what I should order, but he was staring across the table at Debbie and Neall with a smirk and a slight gleam in his irises.

‘Well?’ the waitress hissed, her pink lipstick smearing across her front teeth.

‘Um… I… just a bowl of cornflakes with milk,’ I eventually stammered. I hadn’t looked at the menu and didn’t even know if cereal was available, but at the time it seemed like an appropriate choice. It wasn’t. The whole table erupted in laughter and my face burned red. When I looked away from my sweaty palms in my lap, I saw that the only one who wasn’t still laughing was Dougie.

‘Make that two bowls of cornflakes,’ he added, still smirking.

The laughter faded out as the waitress scribbled down six more orders of cornflakes before tearing off the sheet and begrudgingly handing it through the open hatch to the kitchen. She looked back over at our table, and rolled her eyes contentiously the way my brother used to whenever Dad tried to talk to him after a few beers. After a while, the only person Charlie talked to was me. And soon that stopped too.

After a few minutes of steady silence, the waitress came back over and slammed down seven individually wrapped boxes of cornflakes, seven bowls, spoons and a jug of milk. Quietly everyone began pouring their cereal, sneaking small smiles back and forth. Finally, Dougie slammed his spoon down on the table, and with cornflakes falling out of his mouth, he yelled, ‘You’re so weird, Sam. I love it!’

Soon several chaotic conversations ensued, my eyes darting back and forth hungrily consuming all of them. Dougie and Max were talking about a music band I’d never heard of, and Debbie was showing Izzy her newly tattooed wrist, which was covered in tiny blue stars. On top of that, Debbie would intermittently interrupt Max to chime in with her opinions of the depiction of women in music videos, while Izzy and Dougie shared the occasional inside joke and stolen exchange. Worm and Max competed for the best impersonation of John Major, while Neall talked even louder to block out Debbie’s voice.

I’d never been to a tennis match but I would imagine that it would be close to what I was experiencing. After a few minutes, my neck ached so I started counting through my pennies to pay the bill. I immediately wished I had brought more so I could have paid for the whole bill, rather than just for my measly share. Maybe they would want to hang out with me again if I paid the whole bill. I would remember that next time. A dull ache suddenly grew in my belly – would there be a next time?

I was still kicking myself for not bringing more money when I noticed that Izzy was lagging behind the group on the walk home. She seemed to have slowed her steps to walk with me, but I knew there had to be another reason. She occasionally glanced up and smiled, before eventually nudging me. ‘I’m really glad you came tonight.’

When I looked up, I noticed tiny dimples in the corners of her smile. Her eyes were bright even in the darkness. ‘How are you enjoying Knightsbridge?’

‘It’s OK,’ I mumbled. Maybe she did want to walk with me. My palms started to sweat and I resisted rubbing them on my trousers in front of her.

‘I went to nursery with Noel Taylor and he hasn’t changed one bit,’ she laughed. ‘He’s an idiot, and he enjoys making people’s lives miserable so don’t worry about him. He’ll get bored soon.’

‘Yeah, she should know. She went out with him!’ yelled Debbie from in front of us. ‘Sam, why are you sixteen and in our year? Did you get moved up or something?’

‘Yeah, Pembrook moved me up,’ I said, feeling a stare from Dougie.

‘You must be really smart. Cool. Why did you move from…?’ she continued, quickly trailing off before she got elbowed in the ribs by Max. ‘Sorry, Sam. I forgot –’

‘– It’s fine, really,’ I shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

‘Have you checked out the old art theatre yet? It got refurbished last year, only just opened,’ Izzy said, eyeing up Debbie who was still blushing from embarrassment.

I slowly shook my head. ‘What do they show there?’

‘Old films, foreign films. In the lobby they sell retro sweets. Do you like Roman Polanski?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Of course I was lying. Was that a retro sweet or had I missed the transition into another topic?

‘Maybe we can all go see a film sometime?’ she asked, a genuine smile beaming across her face.

I hadn’t watched a movie since Pembrook, but I didn’t know whether that was because I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts, or whether movies just seemed frivolous to me now. There was more violence, drama and tragedy in my life. I didn’t really need to watch a movie. I could just turn on the news and see the latest Charlie report.

Before I could tell her that I’d love to go to the cinema with her, Worm jumped in a puddle and sent sprays of muddy water towards Debbie. Screaming something about a vintage skirt, she stormed off. When we got to the bus stop, she was sitting on the bench wiping mud streaks off her skirt. Leaning against the doorway of the bus shelter, I glanced at Izzy and noticed that she was staring back at me and smiling.

I hadn’t really responded to her question. And even though it unnerved me not knowing who I was or what I liked any more, I still went to bed early that morning with her words burning sweetly into my thoughts. And when I awoke early in the afternoon, I discovered both a broken framed photo of Charlie at the bottom of the stairs, and that my parents hadn’t even noticed that I had gone out the night before.

Chapter 5

‘6 Underground’ (Sneaker Pimps, Autumn 1996)

Peering over the top of my notepad, I saw Dr Albreck’s almond-shaped hazel eyes flitting from my shaking foot to the pen twirling in my fingers. Two swirling masses of greenish-browns burrowing into my thoughts, watching my every move, analysing each moment. Catching her eyes, my attention darted back down to the notebook.

A low humming seeped out of the monitor on her table, and from somewhere in the waiting room, I heard a phone ringing. A slight breeze flowed through the trees, making some of the branches bend and sway. Peeling my eyes away from the window, I checked back to see if Dr Albreck was still watching me. She was.

‘Ready?’

She’d decided on a new approach for today’s session since I had spent the previous appointment attempting to inquire about her personal life. Although perhaps invasive and rude at times, I thought the questions were reasonable, and warranted. How was I supposed to confess my deepest darkest thoughts to a woman who I knew nothing about? Perhaps she too harboured some dark notions that made her emotionally incapable of helping me with mine.

Unfortunately, she was less than forthcoming about her marital status, university grades and personal food preferences, which left me still unsure of her capabilities to assist me during the worst time of my life. That day she had ended the appointment early – without offering me a reimbursement of the minutes retracted – and changed the direction of the next session.

This afternoon I was to write down three emotions I had felt in the past week. Since I had arrived twelve minutes late for our therapy session because of the late night I had had the evening before, the first emotion on my list was remorse. After that, the page was blank.

‘Sam?’

‘I’m having a difficult time collecting my thoughts.’

‘Do you have anything written down?’

‘Yes, remorse.’

‘Excellent. Let’s start with that. Tell me why you think you felt remorse this week?’

‘Because I was twelve minutes late today and I really dislike people who aren’t punctual.’

She took a long deep breath, and then straightened back up. ‘Do you feel remorse for anything else? The events of the past year, perhaps?’

I felt my body retreat, my spine pushing into the back of the armchair until it became uncomfortable. A bitter taste in my mouth caused me to swallow, but I couldn’t get rid of it. Was she implying that I should feel remorse for my brother’s actions? I thought I was coming here to let go of feelings of guilt and blame, not to accept them. One emotion suddenly became clear to me – anger. But instead of writing it down or simply saying what I was thinking, I did exactly what I had been doing for the past few sessions. Afraid of the discussions being about me, my family, I turned it back on her. ‘Have you ever felt remorse? Maybe for something that you did in your past?’

‘Sam, like I told you last time, these sessions aren’t about me. They’re about you.’

‘Right, I remember,’ I said, my response sounding sharper than I’d intended.

She uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them in another way, her eyebrows pinching together. Taking another deep breath, she dropped her pen on her notepad as if surrendering. ‘Sam, do you think you’d be more comfortable talking with another counsellor? Maybe a male counsellor?’

‘Are you… firing me? Am I being fired from therapy? Can that even happen?’

‘Not fired, but transferred to a more suitable pairing. And it can happen if the client would feel more comfortable meeting with another psychologist. Of course, I want to keep seeing you but I worry that our sessions aren’t moving forward. I want you to feel that this is a safe space where you can talk about anything. I want these sessions to help you, and I don’t think they are.’

‘Sure, if that’s what you want?’

‘Again, it’s not about me, it’s about you.’

What did she want me to say? No? Did she want me to beg? So, I responded in the only way I knew how, ‘Um… OK?’

She paused, as if she wanted to say something more but instead picked up her pen to make her final notes. Head down, she continued talking to me without meeting my eyes. ‘OK. So I will make a recommendation to one of my colleagues who I feel would be a good communication partner for you and he will contact you to arrange therapy days and times.’ She finally looked up at me, her eggshell-coloured frames sliding down the bridge of her nose slightly. ‘Sam, do you have anything you’d like to say or ask me before we end our last session? And no, I don’t mean ask me a question about my personal life.’

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I considered the many questions that pushed against my head causing me pain, but couldn’t find the right one to ask. So, I said nothing and shook my head in silence.

‘Right. Well, good luck, Sam. I hope you find more success in your next therapy,’ she said, standing up. She smoothed down the front of her skirt and readjusted her glasses. Even though she tried to hide it with her thick glasses, too-tight bun that pinched at her scalp and beige clothing, she was pretty. And there was something about her that made me feel comfortable in her office. Had she not given up so easily, I may have actually opened up to her someday. But like all the adults in my life, she was too busy to wait. Asking her too many personal questions – strike one. Arriving late to a session – strike two. Failing to immediately spill my thoughts, fears and the crushing weight of grief to her – strike three. Three strikes and I was out.

Leaving the notepad on my seat, blank except for one word written on it: Remorse, I slumped out of her office feeling like I’d just failed an exam. I considered turning back to wave, but a strange feeling of the very emotion that I had written down washed over me and I didn’t want her to see. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to tell her to just be patient for a little while longer. I wanted to explain to her that this was how everyone in my family handled their emotions, by bottling them up until they explode like a shaken Coke bottle. But like my family, I was too stubborn to apologise, too scared to ask for help, and too selfish to care. So, I walked straight to the exit door and pushed it open, not turning back to see if it closed properly behind me.

The next morning, I awoke to the usual muffled voices of my parents from the kitchen. Although the conversation was brief and void of emotion, they didn’t seem to be fighting today. Perhaps we’d have a normal Sunday morning, like a normal family who dealt with normal problems, like whose turn it was to do the dishes or whether there were enough whites to do a light-coloured load of laundry.

‘Sam?’

‘Yeah, Dad?’

‘I’m going to need you to go to the library today. Just between 10am and 2pm.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re having an open house for prospective buyers today.’

‘You never told me that,’ my mum said, turning around to face him. My dad ignored her and continued making his coffee. ‘Dan? You never told me.’ Her voice was getting louder, more desperate.

‘What does it matter?’

‘I just didn’t think we were in a rush to sell?’

‘Of course we are. We can’t stay here. Do you know I got my headlights smashed out again?’

‘Why don’t you park in the garage then?’ I shrugged, sliding a cup towards my dad for him to fill with strong black coffee. He ignored me.

‘I’m not ready to sell, Dan,’ my mum blurted out suddenly.

So much for my normal Sunday morning. I braced myself for my dad’s response, moving my empty coffee mug out of the line of fire.

‘I’m not getting into this right now.’

‘You’re not listening. I’m not ready,’ she said again.

‘The sign’s been up for weeks! And now you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think we’d have any interest this soon. I thought because of the journalists still outside that it would take months, maybe even a year? I thought we had more time here.’

‘Well, we do have interest. Two people have already contacted the agent.’

‘So cancel!’

‘We’re having the open house today. I’m not cancelling. And that’s the end of it.’

‘And what about me?’ she cried.

‘For once, let’s not make this about you,’ he snapped, slamming down his coffee cup. Drops of black liquid seeped over the edge and trickled down the cup, forming a circle on the tile. After he went into the garage and Mum stormed upstairs, slamming the door behind her, I cleaned up the coffee with a dampened rag by the sink, worried that it would stain.

Quickly showering and throwing on some jeans, I packed a bag with textbooks and a notepad and jogged to the bus stop. But instead of taking bus 09 to Knightsbridge town centre for the library, I took bus 11 to Priory Road in Pembrook, where the town’s cemetery was located.

When I got off the bus, a dark gloomy cloud hung in the sky and seemed to follow me overhead. I hadn’t worn my raincoat, but whether it rained or not was the furthest thought from my mind. A path snaked around the cemetery and eventually led to the back section where a dozen new graves sat. Slowly making my way from one to the other, I read each headstone carefully, absorbing the names, the birthdates, the messages from their loved ones. Too many deaths. Too much loss. Mr Healey, Gregory, Mr Smith, Nick, David M., David R., Stephen, Laura, Michael, Cara, Geoff, Andrew, Robert, Joseph. There they all were, six feet underground, beneath the soles of my shoes as if they’d never existed at all. It was like their voices had never carried in the hallways, as if their laughter hadn’t filled the classrooms. But they had existed. I had seen them. I had heard them. And now they were reduced to merely bones and decaying flesh.

I hadn’t thought much about the afterlife before that morning in June. The theory of heaven and hell isn’t exactly a popular discussion topic for teenagers. When you’re sixteen years old, death isn’t a possibility. It’s a story that you read about in the news, a sadness that spreads through hospitals, a tragedy that frequently visits the elderly, but never the young. Death should never meet the young. But it did. Thanks to my brother, death made fourteen new friends that day. Maybe even fifteen, if you count Charlie. But I don’t think death came for him. I think something darker and more sinister took his soul. When I imagine those students looking down, like that dark cloud above, I know my brother isn’t with them. I don’t know where he is.

Walking over to section B of the cemetery, I glanced back at the new graves as they withered into rows of stone and fresh flowers. Section B was starkly different, its headstones made of remnant material and the flower bouquets reduced to a single stem. And there it was. It looked smaller, less worthy of the attention it had gathered. No amount of protest and headline could stop the development of Charlie’s stone. I didn’t know why people had got so angry. His body wasn’t even buried there. We had had him cremated, as he wished, with the intention of scattering his ashes at Harper’s Beach, where we had played as children. But the urn still sat on my mother’s bedside table, allowing her a place to think of my brother, away from my dad’s judging eyes and my face, which reminded her too much – and not enough – of Charlie’s. But my parents, or rather my mum, had decided on a granite bevel marker to represent a place of rest. As per my dad’s wishes, she had kept it simple: his name, date of birth and date of death. No message or prayer, just facts.

When I got to my brother’s stone, I dropped to my knees. Someone had poured soil on top and garnished it with headless thorny rose stems. Scooping the earth off, I polished the granite beneath with the sleeve of my jumper until a pale greyish blue shone through. Words sizzled in my mouth, rising to the surface, but when I opened my mouth, images of fourteen graves entered my mind. So I left the cemetery, having not done what I had gone there to do – forgive my brother.

I returned home earlier than I should have. Not even one o’clock. A silver Jeep Cherokee sat in the driveway. I quietly sneaked in and up the stairs, hearing my dad talk business to a guy who looked to be in his twenties. He looked a little young to be buying a house, especially for this neighbourhood. But when I reached the top, it quickly sunk in why he was there. Positioned in the doorway, almost too afraid to step any closer, was a young woman taking photos of my brother’s room.

‘You should leave before my dad catches you,’ I said, as she spun around, dropping the camera by her feet.

‘I… I was just…’ But she didn’t finish her sentence, unable to find a good reason to explain why she was doing what she was doing. She grabbed her camera, called down to her boyfriend and hurried to the Jeep. I met my dad at the front door just in time to see their car reach the end of the street, tyre streaks still visible on the concrete.

‘Dad, they were – ’

‘ – I know.’ He sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘I know, Sam.’ He sauntered back into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge and quietly closed the garage door behind him. A minute later, I heard him slam something hard against the door. He would later emerge that afternoon in need of a bandage to cover his bloody fist.

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