Jenna
Jenna
Jenna shivers in spite of the tentative autumn sunshine. Overhead, thin shreds of cloud like cigarette smoke drift across the sky. She tries to focus on the conversation she and Callum are having with Mr Marlowe, Callum’s Head of Sixth Form, but she is distracted by a sense that everyone is watching her, silently questioning why she is there.
Glancing past Mr Marlowe, she sees Nicole talking to one of the other parents. Nicole, as always, is perfectly turned out: calf-length cashmere coat buttoned up to the neck, dove-grey pashmina draped across her shoulders, blow-dried hair, make-up so subtle it looks professionally applied. Jenna does not know Nicole well – nothing more than fleeting social niceties at sports day, school plays, parents’ evenings – but sometimes Jenna wonders about Nicole, wonders whether her life – so neat, so perfect on the outside – can be as ordered and well-organised on the inside. She cannot, in truth, imagine what either Abby’s or Nicole’s life is really like; cannot imagine not having to work for a living, to have financial security from husbands earning seven-figure salaries or generous life insurance policies. To have the freedom for leisurely lunches, exercise classes, meetings of the school parent committee. On the rare occasions she has spoken with Abby or Jenna, they have always complained about being busy, but Jenna has never been able to establish with what, precisely, they fill their days.
Studying Callum’s face, she sees the shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness of his jaw as though he is physically clamping down on his grief. Whenever she tries to talk to him about Isla’s death, he becomes withdrawn, says he is fine, and for now she just wants him to know she is there for him, whenever he is ready to talk.
Mr Marlowe pats Callum’s shoulder before moving on to talk with another family, and Jenna looks down at her watch, wonders whether or not it is a good idea for them to attend the wake. Since Callum’s break-up with Isla, she has been aware of his possible social isolation, and she cannot bear to think what he might do – with whom he may choose to associate – if his peers at school decide to exclude him.
‘Was it you?’
Jenna turns around, finds Abby standing close beside her, fury in her eyes, the full force of her anger directed at Callum.
‘What do you mean?’ There is a slight tremor in Callum’s voice, like the aftershock of a distant earthquake.
‘Was it you driving the car that killed my daughter?’
Callum is shaking his head even before Abby has finished speaking. ‘Of course not, of course it wasn’t.’
‘Abby, I know how hard this must be for you, but—’
Abby pivots her gaze, glares venomously at Jenna. ‘ You know how hard this must be for me? How could you possibly have any idea what this is like?’
‘I don’t, obviously, but—’
‘I know what your son did. I know what he did to that woman.’
For a moment, Jenna cannot move, cannot speak. But she knows she needs to do something, to stop Abby revealing whatever she has uncovered in front of the families who have halted their conversations to listen to her raised voice. But before Jenna has a chance to speak, Abby is turning back to Callum, announcing the secret Jenna has worked so hard to conceal.
‘Were you out joyriding again? Is that what happened? Were you out in another stolen car? Did Isla get in your way? Did you kill her just like you and your friends killed that other poor woman?’
All at once, the world seems to spin at a different speed. Jenna looks at Callum, watches the blood drain from his face, feels the past rushing to catch up with them. Something hardens within her, a determination that Callum’s future will not be ruined by past mistakes. She turns back to Abby. ‘Callum didn’t kill anyone. I know you’re grieving, but you can’t go throwing around accusations like that.’
Abby glowers at her. ‘Are you denying that your son was in a stolen car with...’ She looks down at the phone in her hand, then back up at Jenna. ‘... with Ryan Marsh and another boy when they killed a woman? Are you denying that he ran away from the scene, and left the woman for dead? Or that he was caught, that he was charged, that he got off scot-free?’
Poison bleeds through Abby’s words. Jenna looks at Callum, sees his panic, feels his fear.
‘That was not his fault. He was just a passenger. He was fourteen years old, for goodness’ sake.’
She takes hold of Callum’s arm, wants him to know she is there, by his side, just as she had been throughout those eight months of hell.
Memories play out in her mind like a film running at an accelerated speed. The phone call from the police station that night, telling her Callum had been arrested. The sight of him in the interview room when she arrived: so vulnerable, like a little boy. The torturous months until the court case, petrified he would receive a custodial sentence, painfully aware that if he did, the teenager who entered the youth detention centre would not be the same young man who emerged however many months or years later. The day of the court case, Callum in a suit she had borrowed from a friend’s husband, the material hanging from his shoulders. Sitting before the three magistrates, his face ashen with dread. Her own heart pounding so fiercely she thought everyone must be able to hear it. The three teachers from his former school who had lined up to be character witnesses for him, who had – she knows only too well – saved him from prison. The magistrates’ verdict – when it finally came – like a stay of execution. The relief palpable, visceral. And then the decision – the desperation – to extricate Callum from the possibility of ever getting embroiled in something like that again. The application to the local private school armed with a string of top predicted GCSE grades. The persistent encouragement for him to work hard, the constant hum of awareness that this was his chance – possibly his only chance – to escape a culture that might otherwise destroy his life. And then his acceptance to Collingswood, the offer of a full bursary, the beginning of new opportunities for him. A fresh start which – she had hoped – meant he could leave the past behind. But now, here it is, staring them in the face, witnessed by dozens of families from Callum’s school, destined to become common knowledge before the day is out.
‘Did you know Callum was seen arguing with Isla less than half an hour before she got killed?’
Thoughts race in Jenna’s brain as she scrambles to salvage something from the situation. She steadies her voice – consciously, deliberately – softens her tone. Thinks about how she would handle the situation if this were one of her social work cases. ‘I can only imagine how hard this is for you, Abby, but lashing out at Callum isn’t the answer.’
Abby shakes her head disbelievingly. ‘So you’re telling me it’s just a coincidence that my daughter got killed in a hit-and-run moments after having a row with your son – her ex-boyfriend – who also happens to be a convicted joyrider? Someone who’s already responsible for the death of another young woman? Do you really expect anyone to believe that?’
Jenna is aware of Callum’s body tensing beside her, fear emanating from him as though seeping through his pores. ‘Callum didn’t kill anyone. He was just a passenger in that car. He wasn’t even driving.’
‘And that makes it okay, does it?’ Abby stares at her, daring Jenna to contradict her in front of all these witnesses.
‘Of course it doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with what happened to Isla. You must be able to see that.’ She has kept her voice steady, but her pleading tone is unmistakable nonetheless.
‘So where was he? At the time Isla was killed? Where were you, Callum? Because I know you weren’t still at the party.’
Jenna senses Callum hesitate, feels the weight of a guilty verdict being borne down upon him from the silent onlookers, hears herself speak before she knows what she intends to say. ‘He was with me. At home. He was nowhere near the party when Isla was killed.’ The lie burns in her throat. She is sure they must all be able to sense it, must be able to hear that her words are alight with untruths.
Before Abby has a chance to say anything more, Jenna grabs hold of Callum’s arm, steers him away, through the spectating crowd, past the cemetery gates and on to the street.
‘Are you okay?’ She studies Callum’s face, tries to contain her rage towards Abby for having excavated his secret, today of all days. She knows she needs to keep calm for Callum’s sake. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’
Callum – six foot two, strong, capable – allows Jenna to lead him home, like a little boy who’s lost his way.
All the way back, as the two of them sit on the bus in silence, Jenna tells herself that Callum is not the person Abby thinks he is. What happened before wasn’t his fault. It was a moment of stupidity with tragic consequences. Callum has learnt his lesson, would never be so foolish as to joyride again. He would never run Isla down and leave her for dead. She knows it, indisputably, with as much certainty as it is possible to know anything. And yet she cannot silence the fears whispering in her ear, about what Callum and Isla were rowing about the night she was killed. About how he really got that red mark on his face that evening. And about where he was at the time Isla was knocked down if he wasn’t at the party and he wasn’t at home with her.