Susanna could remember, very vaguely, a time when she thought she was normal, but the memories were fragmentary.
Once, she thought, she had been somewhere green and spacious – probably nothing more exotic than the local park. She was conscious of the unfamiliar feel of her new shoes – emerald green, with a little leather flower opposite each buckle. Enjoying the novelty of it, she skipped alongside the wheels of her brother’s pushchair, running ahead to jump into puddles.
“Stop that, now,” her mother said, “you’ll spoil Millie’s lovely shoes.”
Susanna desisted – she was a good child – and returned to her mother’s side. She didn’t even ask why they were Millie’s shoes when they’d been given to her. As it happened, at that moment she saw Millie herself, just ahead of her, holding her mother’s hand.
“Look,” she said, pointing, “there’s Millie, there.”
To her surprise, instead of rushing to greet Millie’s mother, her own mother laughed and said, “Silly billy! She’ll be at school, now.”
More dreadful was the time when Susanna told her mother that she could see Grandma in a box. She expected some sort of approval, of the kind she got when she drew a picture of Grandma or made her a birthday card. But her mother’s face twisted so that it looked angrier and sadder than Susanna had ever seen it, and she said, in an odd sort of voice, “You must never – never say things like that again.”
Things like what? Things about Grandma, or about people being in boxes? Only a little while later, Susanna’s mother took her to a place where everyone was dressed in black, and they all stood around a box with Grandma in it, so it couldn’t be that. But Susanna could tell that the – way she’d seen Grandma in the box, and Millie in the park, and things like that, was different to the way she saw other things. It was like your reflection in a window compared with the view through it. You could talk about reflections but it must be really, really naughty to talk about the sort-of-reflected people that you sometimes saw. So Susanna never did again.
As she grew older, she came to realise that this other way of seeing wasn’t something that everyone shared. But, since she had learnt early on not to speak of it, she made quite a good show of being normal; and, as her teens progressed, she became, rather to her surprise, accepted as such. It turned out that if she pretended to be like everyone else then they would let her hang around with them in the schoolyard, and if she told her mother that she was going to watch a film at her friend Christina’s that she would be allowed to stay out late, even though they were actually going to join the others in the park.
What were they doing there? Not much. It was the days before smartphones. They didn’t play games. They didn’t so much converse as issue verbal nudges. They were young animals who simply needed to herd together. And they watched each other: the boys watched Chris, who always looked so sleek; and Susanna watched Duncan Fraser.
He was the year above her; they weren’t in the same group at school. In subsequent years she could only remember him in shadow. His hair, cropped short, might have been anything from dark blonde to dark brown. Perhaps he was a little taller and broader than average. She remembered snapshots: the angles of his nose and cheekbone lit up by a cigarette lighter as he leant into it; his broad-shouldered silhouette disappearing into the darkness at the end of the night. He lived near to her, but they never walked home together.
It was an evening in June, and it barely felt late, because the air, smelling of grass-clippings, was so warm, and because it had only just got dark. However, there was school tomorrow and people had begun to slip away homewards.
As Susanna reached the park gates, the ones with “1882” in cast-iron, a voice said, “Susie!” And there, as if he’d been waiting, was Duncan – the lit end of his cigarette glowing. She had no need to see his face to know it was him.
“I’ve come in the car,” he said, “I’ll give you a lift home.”
“Thanks!” she said, unable to stop the grin from spreading across her face. “It’s just round the corner,” he said, and they walked on together. Presently he put his arm, heavy in his coat, around her shoulders, and she settled into the side of his body. Their feet fell into step.
A few yards further on, there was a high, stone-pillared gateway, set back slightly from the road – the entrance to a Victorian Gentleman’s Residence. They paused; then Duncan half lifted, half pushed her into the gateway, and kissed her.
For an instant there was nothing but the warmth of his arms around her body, and his lips on her cold face, and his smell of boy and Lynx and cigarettes.
And then. She saw hands on a steering wheel, tense and knuckly under street-lights, and his body in the driver’s seat, braced against the brake pedal. She heard a scream and a sickening crunch of scraping metal, and saw it crumpling and lurching like geological strata.
“‘C’mon,” he said, “it’s just round here.”
“It’s getting cold. C’mon.” And she followed.
As they crossed the road to the car-park, Susanna heard her own name again: “Susie! Soo-seeee!” She turned; it was Chris, almost trotting to catch them up.
“Hi, Chris,” said Duncan, as if nothing had happened. “Fancy a lift?”
“Don’t!” cried Susanna, caught off-guard.
The others looked at her. “Why not?” said Duncan, and Chris’s eyes said, “I know why not.”
“We can walk,” said Susanna, “it’s a nice night.”
“You can walk!” said Chris.
“What’s wrong? C’mon!” said Duncan again, keys at the ready.
“Don’t!” repeated Susanna. “I can’t explain, just..”
But she had already lost them, she knew. They were high on the midsummer night and on their youth and beauty and their sense of endless possibility. She had no more right to ask them not to go, and no more hope of being obeyed, than if she’d asked Duncan not to smoke. And she couldn’t go with them: she tried stepping nearer to the car and it made her stomach lurch and her head spin, as if she were standing on a clifftop looking down at rough seas.
The next morning, her anxious eyes scanned the schoolyard for him; but she knew, first of all, that this was nothing but habit, retained after it could be any use; and, secondly, that it was delusional – seeking a refutation of something that she knew to be true.
Miss Bryant entered the classroom, her face set into a mask of noble suffering. Sit down, she said, be quiet, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. But Susanna barely listened while the others heard that Duncan and Chris were dead, because we don’t want to hear bad news twice. As some of the other girls cried and hugged one another, their hair entangling, she held herself poised in her grief, as she had done throughout the whole of the previous, dreadful night.