Before the parties, Richard would let us put nails in fence posts for the Catherine wheels, dig holes in the cold, wet earth for the rockets. He let us do everything. We would make lanterns out of washed-out jam jars and brown string, put tea lights in them, light them ourselves with matches and climb the ladder to hang them in the pear tree. Helen and I would write our names with lit sparklers, trying to get from the first letter to the last before the ribbon of white light was swallowed up in darkness. Rory would throw firecrackers at us from up in his tree house. Charlie told him to stop it, but Rory just laughed. He only did it because Helen shrieked so much. We told her that, but she didn’t listen.
Remember, remember. I remember it all, the scratch of hats and gloves and socks, the hiss of spent sparklers in buckets of cold water. All their friends arriving. The feeling it was a grown-up party, and we were staying up late. One time, we came down the next morning in our pyjamas to a hoarfrost, and the buckets had turned to ice with the sparklers stuck inside. Anna made us eggs on toast, the steam from the boiler pipe blowing clouds over the kitchen window. The kitchen tiles were cold, she brought me green socks to borrow. It’s funny, the things you remember.
Now, they are dead, their house in ruins. The garden a wasteland of bricks, a cement mixer, tarpaulins. The massive bonfire heaves and breathes and paints the bricks a luminous orange. The heat over the bonfire makes the tall windows seem to wobble, like a circus mirror. It feels like an apocalypse. I look at the discarded cans and cigarette butts that litter the beautiful garden, the rotting fruit from Anna’s beloved pear tree. I wonder what Helen’s parents would think of their children now.
HELEN
‘Where did you get that dress?’
My words snap like teeth. For once, Rachel has the grace to look embarrassed.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. It was in your bottom drawer. I hadn’t seen you wear it before – I thought maybe you didn’t like it.’
‘What were you doing in my bottom drawer, Rachel?’
‘You did say I could borrow something,’ she says. She looks puzzled, as if she doesn’t understand. ‘Remember?’
For God’s sake. I had said vaguely, once, that she could borrow something. It hadn’t been an open invitation to rifle through my drawers.
‘And you left that red dress out for me, the other time, when we went to Rory’s thing,’ she adds, frowning. ‘I thought you’d be cool with me taking something else for tonight.’
I stare at her. I have no idea what she means about the red dress. I’d never seen that thing before, and even if I had, I would never have dreamed of suggesting she wear it to a dinner at Serena’s house. What is she talking about? But as she fiddles with the hemline of her blue velvet dress, I remember the real source of my fury.
‘I know you’ve taken other things,’ I say, a tremor in my voice. ‘I know you took that note from inside my book. That photograph – it was you that stuck it back together, wasn’t it? Why did you do that, Rachel? Where did you even find it?’
‘What note? I didn’t take anything from your book. I didn’t stick any photograph back together. Seriously. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Helen.’
I ignore her. I am shouting. ‘What is this all about? Look, I found your hiding place!’ I point at the hole in the floor. ‘What have you done to my passport, Rachel? Was that some kind of sick joke, cutting my face out?’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘No, hang on,’ she is saying, looking upset. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. It wasn’t me that did this.’
‘For God’s sake, stop lying! I found your hiding place.’ I throw the passport down in front of her. ‘I let you stay here. And this is how you repay me – snooping around? Stealing things? Cutting up my passport? Lying?’
Rachel holds up the palms of her hands, looks me in the eye. ‘I didn’t take a note from your book, Helen,’ she says slowly. ‘Or a photograph. Honestly. That must have been someone else. Whatever it was about, someone else is on to you – not me.’
I hear the blood pounding in my ears, still not drowning out the incessant noise of the dehumidifier. On to me? She’s insane. Completely insane.
‘Rachel,’ I say, ‘you stole our laptop. You stole my passport – cut up my bloody passport! You stole my mother’s dress …’ I pick up the note from her suitcase, the one addressed to W. ‘So what’s this, then? Is this yours? Or did you steal this as well?’