frankie [episodes 1-3]

-5-

Mum swoops down on me like some kind of spindly bird of prey the moment I step into the hallway. She sweeps me into a bony hug then holds me out in front of her.

"Darling, where have you been? I was so worried. It's late. You didn't call. You must call. I thought something terrible had happened."

There are dark smudges under her eyes where she has rubbed at her makeup and strands of her usually neat blonde hair hang out of her bun. I look at her squarely under the dim light of the chandelier.

"Something terrible already did happen, remember, mum?"

I shrug her off and make my way up the staircase – the file under my coat damp against my skin

"Don't talk like that. Sweetheart, where have you been? Come back down here. Come sit with me and your father for a bit. Tell us about your day."

"Give it a rest, Margaret," my dad's voice follows me onto the landing, "she doesn't need you constantly fussing over her."

I power up the next flight of stairs and storm into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I throw my coat onto the bed, pull out the file, then head over to my old mahogany dressing table. I smashed the glass out of the mirror a long time ago, but a couple of pots of makeup still glare mockingly at me from the corner of the surface.

I close my eyes as I remember the time I'd attempted to cover up my new, ugly face. I'd been unable to conceal the bumps and scars with foundation and so had settled on a pink lipstick to try and make me feel better.

Everyone at school called me the bride of Frankenstein that day.

It was the last time I wore makeup.

I swipe them off the wood surface, their contents painting my cream carpet, and place down the file in the centre. I think of the way that Rebecca's eyes lingered on the flower tattoo on my left forearm.

The name Daisy Malone looks up at me.

Part of me wants to open the file.

Part of me just wants to throw it away – get it as far away from me as possible. I don't want to know who had to die for me to have this pathetic existence. I don't think I'm strong enough to bear it.

But still my fingers linger on the cover.

Quickly – before I can change my mind - I open it, catching sight of a photograph of a dark haired, scrawny looking girl on the first page. There's writing scribbled over the glossy surface but I don't read it. The girl is around my age now, sixteen – stood with a forced smile on her face by the skate park along the South Bank. There is a tattoo of a daisy on her left arm.

I feel sick.

I slam the file shut and hurry over to my bed, my insides squirming. I quickly peel off my damp clothes, trying not to look at any part of my body as I do so, and slip on my pyjamas. I get in between the covers then glance at the tattoo of the daisy on my left arm.

No. Not my left arm.

Daisy Malone's left arm.

I ram it out of sight under the covers then squeeze my eyes shut – forcing away the image of her sad smile. My heartbeat thuds against my chest; I wait for it to ease, I wait for the nausea to be replaced by the usual feeling of hollowness. When it does I turn, sinking my face into my pillow, and wait for sleep.

***

I'm in a skate park. I'm loading a gun. I'm in a tattoo parlour. I'm heading to a club.

I see a mirror. I walk towards it. My will struggles against it. I don't want to look in there. But my legs keep on moving. I can't stop myself.

I reach my reflection. My heart jolts. It's not me.

Daisy peers out at me. She is mouthing something through the glass.

Meet Mark? Meet mark it? Me marker?

I can't understand.

Suddenly I jolt awake, covered in a sheen of sweat. My mum is peering through the door, letting in a thin beam of light from the hallway.

"Night, darling," she says. "I love you."

I turn my back on her until finally she sighs and quietly closes the door. Then I shut my eyes and go back to sleep. This time my dreams are filled with chapels, demons, and for some reason Jared's eyes.