THE FOURTH OF February is a Friday. The UK experiences the heaviest snowfall since 1963. Approximately 360,000 people are born, and lightning strikes the Earth 518,400 times. 154,080 people die.
I escape my house at 5:24 a.m. I did not watch any films during the night. None of them seemed very interesting. Also, my room was kind of freaking me out because I pulled down all the Solitaire posts, so my carpet was now a meadow of paper and Blu Tack. I just kind of sat on my bed, not doing anything. Anyway, I’m wearing as many clothes as possible over my school uniform, and I’m armed with my phone and a torch and an unopened diet lemonade can, which I don’t think I’ll drink. I’m feeling slightly deranged because I haven’t slept for about a week, but it’s a good sort of deranged, an ecstatic deranged, an invincible, infinite deranged.
The Solitaire blog post appeared at 8:00 p.m. last night.
20:00 3 February
Solitairians.
Tomorrow morning, Solitaire’s greatest operation will take place at Harvey Greene Grammar School. You are most welcome to attend. Thank you for all your support this term.
Our former leader never truly explained the creation of Solitaire.
We hope that we’ve added something to what might have been a very boring January.
Patience Kills
I have a sudden urge to call Becky.
“. . . Hello?”
Becky sleeps with her phone on vibrate next to her head. I know this because she used to tell me how boys wake her up in the night by texting her.
“Becky. It’s Tori.”
“Oh my God. Tori.” She does not sound very alive. “Why . . . are you calling me . . . at five a.m. . . . ?”
“It’s twenty to six.”
“Well, that changes everything.”
“That’s a forty-minute difference. You can do a lot in forty minutes.”
“Just . . . why . . . are you calling . . . ?”
“To say I’m feeling a lot better.”
Pause. “Well . . . that’s good but—”
“Yeah I know. I feel really, really, really good.”
“Then . . . shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“Yeah, yeah I will, once I’ve sorted things out for good. It’s happening this morning, Solitaire, you know.”
Second pause. “Wait.” She’s awake now. “Wait. What—where are you?”
I look around. I’m nearly there actually. “Heading to school. Why?”
“Oh my God!” There’s some scuffling of her sitting up in her bed. “Jesus Christ, dude, what the fuck are you doing!?”
“I already told you—”
“TORI! JUST GO HOME!”
“Go home.” I laugh. “And do what? Cry some more?”
“ARE YOU LITERALLY INSANE? IT’S FIVE A.M.! WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TRYING TO—”
I stop laughing and press the red button, because she is making me tear up.
My feet sink into the snow as I hurry through town. I’m pretty sure that at some point I’m going to take a step and my foot won’t stop; it’ll just keep sinking down through the snow until I’ve disappeared entirely. If it wasn’t for the streetlights, it would be pitch-black, but the lights are painting the white with a dull yellowish glow. The snow looks sick. Diseased.
Fifteen minutes later, I push my way through a hedge to get into school because the main gates are locked. I get a big old scratch on my face, and upon inspection using my phone screen, I decide I quite like it.
The car park is deserted. I trudge through the snow toward the main entrance, and as I draw closer, I see that the door is ajar. I head inside, immediately noticing the white burglar and fire alarm box on the wall, or what used to be a white box on the wall. It’s been torn away and is hanging from the plaster by only a couple of wires. The rest of the wires have all been cut. I stare at it for a few seconds before moving on down a corridor. They’re here.
I drift for a while, a Ghost of Christmas Past. I’m reminded of the last time I was here at a stupid hour of the day—weeks ago, with the prefects and Zelda, and the violin video. That seems like a long time ago. Everything seems colder now.
As I draw closer toward the end of the corridor, I begin to hear unintelligible whispers coming from the corner English classroom. Mr. Kent’s classroom. I flatten myself like a spy against the wall by the door. There’s a light glaring from its plastic window. Carefully and slowly, I peer into the room.
I expect to find a horde of Solitaire minions, but what I see instead are three figures huddled by a cluster of tables in the middle of the room, illuminated by an oversized torch shining upward from the table. The first is the guy with the large quiff who I’ve seen Lucas with a hundred times, in a very Lucas-ish hipster getup—skinnies, boat shoes, bomber jacket, and Ben Sherman polo.
The second person is Evelyn Foley.
Quiff has his arm around her. Oh. Evelyn’s secret boyfriend is Quiff. I think back to the Clay. Had the Solitaire voice been a girl’s? It’s too cold for me to remember anything, so I focus my attention on the third figure.
Lucas.
Quiff and Evelyn seem to be kind of ganging up on him. Lucas is whispering hurriedly at Quiff. He told me he wasn’t a part of Solitaire anymore, didn’t he? Maybe I should jump into the room and start shouting. Waving my phone. Threatening to call the police. Maybe—
“Oh my God.”
At the other end of the corridor, Becky Allen blinks into existence, and I almost collapse. She points at me with an accusatory finger and hisses, “I knew you wouldn’t go home!”
My eyes, wild and unfocused, spin crazily as she storms down the corridor. Soon, Becky is beside me, in Superman pajama bottoms tucked into at least three pairs of socks and furry boots, along with a hoodie and a coat and all other kinds of woolly clothing. She’s here. Becky came here. For me. She looks very strange with no makeup on and her purplish hair all scraped into a greasy sort of bulb and I don’t know why or how this happens, but I am actually relieved that she’s here.
“Oh my God, you’re insane,” she whispers. “You. Are. Psychotic.” And then she hugs me, and I let her, and for several seconds I really feel like we’re friends. She lets go, withdraws, and cringes. “Dude, what have you done to your face?” She lifts her sleeve and wipes it roughly against my cheek, and when she draws it away, it’s stained red. Then she smiles and shakes her head. I am reminded of the Becky I knew three years ago, before boys, before sex, before alcohol, before she started to move on while I stayed exactly where I was.
I point toward the door to the English room. “Look inside.”
She tiptoes past me and looks. And her face opens up in horror. “Evelyn? What th— And why is Lucas—” Her mouth hangs wide-open as the sudden realization arrives. “Is this—is this Solitaire?” She turns back to me and shakes her head. “This is too much mind-fuckery for this time of day. I’m not even sure I’m actually awake.”
“Shh.”
I’m trying to listen to what they’re saying. Becky dives past the door and we stand, hidden in the dark, on either side of it, and by both carefully peering round the frame, we spy on the gathering. Vaguely we begin to decipher a conversation. It is 6:04 a.m.
“Grow some balls, Lucas.” Evelyn. She’s wearing high-waisted denim shorts and tights and one of those jackets with tartan lining. “I’m not even joking. We’re terribly sorry to tear you away from your teddy bear and your electric blanket, but can’t you just grow some balls?”
Lucas’s face, dotted with shadows, grimaces. “Can I please remind you that I am the one who started Solitaire in the first place—therefore my balls are in no position to be questioned, thanks.”
“Yeah, you started it,” says Quiff. It’s the first time I get a proper look at him, and for someone with such a large head of hair, he really is tiny. By his side on the table is a Morrisons shopping bag. His voice is also far more sophisticated than I’d anticipated. “And you left just when we started to do stuff that’s actually worthwhile. We’re doing something great, and yet here you are saying that everything you have worked for has been, and I quote, ‘total and utter bullshit.’”
“This isn’t what I worked for,” Lucas snaps. “I thought that messing with this school would help people.”
“Fucking up this school,” says Quiff, “is the best thing that’s ever happened to this town.”
“But this isn’t going to help anyone. It’s not going to change anything. Changing an environment doesn’t change a person.”
“Cut the crap, Lucas.” Evelyn shakes her head. “You’re not Gandhi, babe.”
“You must be able to see what an idiotic idea this is,” says Lucas.
“Just give me the lighter,” says Quiff.
Becky, her palms flattened against the wall like Spider-Man, whips her head around. “Lighter?” she mouths.
I shrug back. I stare harder at Lucas and realize that behind his back he’s holding what at first looks like a gun but is actually just one of those novelty lighters.
There’s only one thing you can do with a lighter.
“Er, no,” says Lucas, but even this far away I can tell that he’s nervous. Quiff lunges for Lucas’s arm, but he steps backward just in time. Quiff begins to laugh like some evil mastermind.
“Well, shit,” says Quiff. “You went through all this trouble, and now you’re just going to steal our stuff and run off with it. Like a little kid. Why did you even come here? Why didn’t you just go and tell on us, like the baby you are?”
Lucas shifts onto his other leg, silent.
“Give me the lighter,” says Quiff. “Last chance.”
“Fuck you,” says Lucas.
Quiff puts his hand to his face and rubs his forehead, sighing. “Christ.” Then, like someone flicked a switch in his brain, he swings his fist at lightning speed and punches Lucas in the face.
Lucas, with surprising dignity, doesn’t fall down; he lifts himself up to his full height and meets Quiff dead in the eye.
“Fuck you,” says Lucas again.
Quiff smashes Lucas in the stomach, this time doubling him over. He grabs Lucas’s arm with ease and wrenches away the lighter gun, then grabs Lucas by the collar, holds the barrel against his neck, and pushes him against the wall. I expect he thinks he looks like some kind of Mafia boss, but it doesn’t help him that he’s got the face of a seven-year-old and the voice of David Cameron.
“You couldn’t just leave it, could you, mate? You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you?”
It’s obvious that Quiff is not going to pull the trigger and burn Lucas’s neck. It is obvious to Quiff that Quiff is not going to burn Lucas. It is obvious to all the people who have ever lived and all the people who will ever live that Quiff does not have the strength, will, or malice to seriously wound a fairly innocent guy like Lucas Ryan. But I guess if someone is holding a lighter gun up to your throat, then things like that aren’t quite as obvious as they should be.
Becky is no longer at my side.
She karate kicks the door open.
“Okay, chaps. Just stop. Right now. Stop the madness.”
With one hand in the air, she strides out from our hiding place. Evelyn makes some kind of squealing sound, Lucas lets out a triumphant laugh, and Quiff drops Lucas’s collar and steps backward as if afraid that Becky might arrest him right there on the spot.
I follow her in and immediately regret it. Lucas sees me and stops laughing.
Becky stomps up and places herself directly between Lucas and the lighter gun. Her makeup-less face transforms her into a thin-eyed, pale-faced warrior.
“Oh, darling.” She sighs at Quiff and tilts her head, faux sympathetically. “You actually think you’re intimidating, don’t you? I mean, where in God’s name did you get that piece of crap? Costcutter?”
Quiff tries to laugh it off, but fails. Becky’s eyes turn to fire. She holds out her hands.
“Go for it, dude.” Her eyebrows are all the way up her forehead. “Go on. Set fire to my hair or whatever. I am relatively intrigued to see if you can pull that trigger.”
I can see Quiff desperately trying to think of something witty to say. After a few awkward moments, he stumbles backward, grabs the Morrisons bag, puts the lighter into it, and pulls the trigger. The lighter flame glows orange for approximately two seconds before Quiff pulls it away and casts the bag dramatically toward the classroom’s bookshelf. Whatever is inside the bag begins to smoke and rustle.
Everyone in the room looks at the bag.
The smoke gradually thins. The plastic bag withers a little before flopping off the shelf and onto the floor, upside down.
There is a long silence.
Eventually, Becky throws her head back and roars with laughter.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!”
Quiff has nothing to say anymore. There’s no way he can take back what just happened. I think this is just about the stupidest thing I have ever seen.
“This is Solitaire’s grand finale!” Becky continues to laugh. “Oh my God, you really are the most deluded of all the hipsters I’ve met. You bring a whole new meaning to the word ‘deluded.’”
Quiff lifts the lighter and sways a little toward the bag, as if he’s going to try again, but Becky grabs him violently by the wrist and with her other hand wrenches the gun away. She waves it in the air and withdraws her phone from her coat pocket.
“Take one step toward that plastic bag, bitch, and I’m calling the popo.” She raises her eyebrows like a disappointed teacher. “Don’t think I don’t know your name, Aaron Riley.”
Quiff, or Aaron Riley or whoever, squares up to her. “You think they’d believe some slag?”
Becky throws her head back for the second time. “Oh man. I’ve met so many bell ends like you.” She pats Quiff on the arm. “You do the whole tough-guy thing really well, mate. Well done.”
I steal a quick glance at Lucas, but he’s just staring at Becky, absently shaking his head.
“You’re all the same,” says Becky. “All you idiots who think that by playing the self-righteous intellect, you rule the entire world. Why don’t you go home and complain about it on your blog like normal people?” She takes a step toward him. “I mean, what are you trying to do here, dude? What’s Solitaire trying to do? Do you all think that you’re better than everyone else? Are you trying to say that school isn’t important? Are you trying to teach us about morals and how to be a better person? Are you trying to say that if we just laugh about it all, if we just stir up some shit and put smiles on our faces, then life’s going to be hunky-dory? Is that what Solitaire’s trying to do?”
She lets out a monstrous cry of exasperation, actually making me jump. “Sadness is a natural human emotion, you giant dick.”
Evelyn, who has been watching with her lips pursed the entire time, finally speaks up. “Why are you judging us? You don’t even understand what we’re doing.”
“Oh, Evelyn. Really. Solitaire? You’re with Solitaire?” Becky begins to flick the lighter on and off. Perhaps she’s as deranged as I am. Evelyn cowers backward. “And this prick has been your special secret boyfriend all along? He’s wearing more hair product that I’ve used in the past year, Evelyn!” She shakes her head like a weary old person. “Solitaire. Bloody hell. I feel like I’m in Year 8 all over again.”
“Why are you acting like such a special snowflake?” says Evelyn. “You think you’re a better person than us?”
Becky screeches with laughter and tucks the lighter gun into her pajama trousers. “A better person? Ha. I’ve done some shitty things to people. And now I’m admitting it. You know what, Evelyn? Maybe I want to be a special snowflake. Maybe, sometimes, I just want to express the emotions that I’m actually feeling instead of having to put on this happy smiley facade that I put on every day just to come across to bitches like you as not boring.”
She points at me again as if she’s punching the air. “Apparently, Tori understands what you guys are trying to do. I have no idea why you’re trying to destroy our crappy little school. But Tori thinks that, you know, on the whole, you’re doing something bad, and I fucking believe her.” Her arm drops. “Dear God, Evelyn. You severely piss me off. Jesus Christ. Creepers are the ugliest shoes I have ever seen. Go back to your blog or Glastonbury or wherever you came from and stay there.”
Quiff and Evelyn take one last horrified glare at Becky before giving up.
It’s kind of remarkable, in a way.
Because people are very stubborn and they don’t like to be proven wrong. I think that they both knew that what they were about to do was wrong, though, or they didn’t have the guts to go through with it, deep down. Maybe, when it came down to it, they’d never been the real antagonists. But if they’re not, then who is?
We follow the pair slowly out of the room and down the corridor. We watch as they wander away out through the double doors. If I were them, I would probably change schools immediately. They will be gone in a minute. Gone forever. They will be gone.
We stay there for a while, not saying anything. After a few minutes, I begin to sweat. Maybe I feel angry. No. I don’t feel anything.
Lucas is standing next to me, and he turns. His eyes are big and blue and dog-like. “Why did you come here, Victoria?”
“Those two would have hurt you,” I point out, but we both know this isn’t true.
“Why did you come?”
Everything’s so blurry.
Lucas sighs. “Well, it’s finally over. Becky kind of saved us all.”
Becky seems to be having a kind of stunned breakdown, slumped on the floor against the wall with her Superman-logoed legs sprawled out in front of her. She holds the lighter gun up to her face, flicking it on and off in front of her eyes, and I can just about hear her muttering, “This is the most pretentious novelty lighter I’ve ever seen. . . . This is so pretentious. . . .”
“Am I forgiven?” asks Lucas.
Maybe I’m going to pass out.
I shrug. “You’re not actually in love with me, are you?”
He blinks and he’s not looking at me. “Er, no. It wasn’t love, really. It was . . . I just thought I needed you . . . for some reason. . . .” He shakes his head. “I actually think that Becky’s rather lovely.”
I try not to throw up or stab myself with my house keys. I stretch my face into a grin like a toy clown. “Ha, ha, ha! You and the rest of the solar system!”
Lucas’s expression changes, like he finally gets who I am.
“Could you not call me Victoria anymore?” I ask.
He steps away from me. “Yeah, sure. Tori.”
I start to feel hot. “Were they going to do what I think they were going to do?”
Lucas’s eyes keep moving around. Not looking at me.
“They were going to burn the school down,” he says.
It seems almost funny. Another childhood dream. If we were ten, perhaps we’d rejoice in the idea of the school on fire, because that would mean no more school, wouldn’t it? But it just seems violent and pointless now. As violent and pointless as all the other things that Solitaire has done.
And then I realize something.
I turn around.
“Where are you going?” asks Lucas.
I walk down the corridor, back to Kent’s classroom, getting hotter and hotter the closer I get.
“What are you doing?”
I gaze into the classroom. And I wonder if I’ve lost it entirely.
“Tori?”
I turn to Lucas and look at him standing at the other end of the corridor. Really, properly look at him.
“Get out,” I say, maybe too quietly.
“What?”
“Take Becky and get out.”
“Wait, what are you—”
And then he sees the orange glow lighting up one side of my body.
The orange glow coming from the fire that is raging through Kent’s classroom.
“Holy shit,” says Lucas, and then I’m racing down the corridor toward the nearest fire extinguisher, tugging at it, but it won’t come off the wall.
There’s a horrific crack. The door to the classroom has split, and is burning happily.
Lucas has joined me at the extinguisher, but however hard we tug, we can’t get it off the wall. The fire creeps out of the room and spreads to the wall displays, the ceiling filling steadily with smoke.
“We need to get out!” Lucas shouts over the roaring flames. “We can’t do anything!”
“Yes we can.” We have to. We have to do something. I have to do something. I abandon the extinguisher and head farther into the school. There’ll be another one in the next corridor. In the science corridor.
Becky has leapt up from the floor. She goes to run after me, as does Lucas, but a giant wall display suddenly flops off the wall in a fiery wreck of paper and pins, blocking the corridor. I can’t see them. The carpet catches light and the flames begin to advance toward me—
“TORI!” someone screams. I don’t know who. I don’t care. I locate the fire extinguisher, and this one easily detaches from the wall. It says WATER on it, but also DO NOT USE ON BURNING LIQUID FIRES OR LIVE ELECTRICAL EQUIPMENT. The fire edges down the corridor, on the walls, the ceiling, the floor, pushing me backward. There are lights, plug sockets everywhere—
“TORI!” This time the voice comes from behind me. Two hands place themselves on my shoulders, and I leap around as if it’s Death itself.
But it’s not.
It’s him, in his T-shirt and jeans, glasses, hair, arms, legs, eyes, everything—
It’s Michael Holden.
He wrenches the extinguisher from my arms—
And he hurls it out of the nearest window.
