Voices from Beyond the Grave

Chapter Seven

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The clatter of Steph's lunch tray on the table next to mine drew my thoughts back from the dark hole they had descended into. Lately they had been spending a lot of time in that lacuna.

'Some people are saying she did it to herself, you know, suicide,' Steph's voice sounded as matter of fact as if she were recommending the new vegan option on the lunch menu.

I gawked, appalled.

'Steph! You can't seriously be spreading rumours about a dead girl?!'

Ameera has been dead barely a week. The whole town was still reeling. She remained the topic of every conversation, the name you heard whispered in every crevice of the school, but, in between, the tones of reverence had begun to creep inevitable malicious, petty gossip. I just couldn't believe to have heard my best friend fuelling it.

'I didn't say!' Steph defended herself, 'don't bite my head off. I just said some people were saying it'.

She addressed this last part to her salad, too embarrassed to meet my eye. The heat in Steph's cheeks rose to match the colour of the tomatoes she was pushing around her plate.

There was a moment of silence between us before she confronted my disapproving gaze. 'I just mean that, well, you never know what's going on in people's lives, behind closed doors. Lord knows she had enough pressure on her shoulders living in that shadow and all.'

She was referring, of course, to Ameera's older brother, the hallowed Will Chauhary. Three years ago, he had been the school's Head boy and the Captain of the Rugby team. Now, he was halfway through his medical studies at the University of Cambridge. Neither Steph nor I had ever met him, having joined the school after his reign, but we had heard his name enough times – if our school represented a beach, we were all grains of sand and he a shiny pebble in comparison. My biology teacher, Mr Barnes regularly cited Will's summer lab project on myocarditis, which was published in some prestigious national Science Journal and, even in my English class, Mrs Jemec still pulled out his essay on King Lear as an 'example for us all to learn from'

I had seen his name, in gold engraved writing, on the school's Honour Wall. His was also the first face that confronted anyone who logged onto the school website. It was a photo taken from the one – and only – time the rugby team had won The Times Rugby Cup. Will is covered in mud, surrounded by his teammates. His shirt is untucked, his black hair tousled rakishly over one eye, and he's grinning proudly at the camera as he lifts a huge silver cup above his broad shoulders. I had heard more than one girl in my year swoon over that photo. One could only imagine what it was being the younger sibling of such a guy. He sounded like a bit of a tool.

Then something about what Steph had just said that recruited, unbidden, a forgotten memory. It was about a year ago, when we'd just been given back our first set of mock exam results. I had studied copiously for weeks on end and been really quite pleased with my maths result. It was not a great result by any means, but, for someone who really struggled with the work of Pythagorus and Fibonacci, I was over the moon with my 68%. As everyone was exchanging results, I kept quiet, glowing inside, until an outspoken, know-it-all girl in my class had looked over my shoulder to see what I was grinning at.

She gave me a sort of pitying look, 'Aww Alina, don't worry – it's just a mock. There's plenty of time to improve.'

I think my crushed feeling must have been writ across my face as Ameera, who also sat in our class, gave the girl a dirty look, then turned to me with a radiant smile. 'Alina, that's a fantastic score – you should be really proud! Don't let anyone put you down, lord knows they'll keep do everything they can, but we cannot let them.' She had given a conspicuous wink, as though we were in on some secret mission together against the world, but there had been a silent sad look in her big doe eyes, barely hidden behind the act of bravado. My heart had really warmed to her in that moment. I was too choked up over her standing up for me to puzzle over what sadness she might be masking.

Now I couldn't help wondering if she had been trying to communicate something in her wording – had there been someone also trying to put her down? There had always seemed to be a million emotions conveyed in the depths of those eyes. I sighed inwardly, wishing, not for the first time that week, that I'd made more effort to get to know the girl whilst she'd still been alive.

'Maybe you're right,' I conceded to Steph.

Just then, Nathan plopped down next to us, with his own tray of food – none of which looked very nutritious. As he stuffed a handful of chips in his mouth and chewed with his mouth open I struggled to remember just how I could ever have consisted him hot. The guy was such a slob.

Leaning across, Nathan gave Steph a quick peck on the cheek whilst she, promptly and predictably, turned a deeper red to match the beetroot still left on her plate. I took that as my cue to leave. The two of them together didn't bother me as much as it had and I would never - not in a million years - admit how I used to feel about Nathan to Steph. I was genuinely happy for them... but that didn't mean I was willing to sit front row for their public displays of affection and try not to hurl up my lunch.

That night, for the first time in a week, my dreams took on a different narrative. Silvia appeared, as usual, but this time, she was standing in my school corridor, her dark eyes clouded and ominous. She indicated, impatiently, for me to follow her.

I followed silently as she led me to the graveyard, then she turned and held up a hand up, commanding me to stay where I was. She ducked ahead until she was emerged in the fog that had descended. I waited but she didn't return. Voices were starting to fill the graveyard with the familiar words of my oft-visited other dream hissed, 'Intruder! Intruder!' I started to panic, stumbling to get away.

I tripped on a hand emerging from a grave, long spindly, white fingers clutching at my ankles. Putting my hand out to regain my balance, I met the grip of a tree I was now stood under. I looked up, paralysed with fear as the angry voices got louder. There in front of me was the bench I'd seen in the graveyard on Friday night, but, this time, the crying girl was facing me. It was Ameera.