Closer by Maxine Linnell Page A

the only thing in the house which isn’t new. I’ve grown up with this table. That’s a comforting thought somehow. I watch the marks and think of the scratches on Hannah’s arms and I know I have to talk, that this isn’t about me, or not just about me, it’s about Hannah. 
    I look up at Sabina for the first time. She must be about thirty, and she’s wearing a blue top, the same colour as Raj’s teeshirt, and that makes me like her a bit for some stupid reason and as I look at her she’s looking straight at me, not smiling but like she understands. 
    â€œWhat do you want to know?” 
    Mr. Duncan gets a new sheet of paper out and sits with his pen ready. 
    I shuffle in the chair. “I don’t know where to start.” 
    Sabina leans back. “Tell me a bit about yourself. I know you’re really good at art, Sally Griffin told me.” 
    â€œYou know Sally Griffin?” 
    â€œShe and I go back a long way.” 
    I think of Sally and the art room, the smell of paint. 
    I’m ready now.

Chloe 
    It’s later. The doorbell rings. I go to open the door, and Chloe’s there. She’s holding a wilting bunch of flowers. I take them. 
    She grins. 
    â€œFrom the garden – when no-one was looking. But I’ve had them in my bag all morning.” 
    She hands over the flowers. I’m still standing at the door. 
    â€œYou’re not in bed then. I thought you’d be dying when you weren’t at school – you never miss double art.” 
    â€œNo.” I don’t know what to say. 
    â€œI’m sorry.” She drops her visiting-the-sick act. 
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sounded off at you.” 
    â€œLook Mel, I don’t understand or anything, but we’re best mates. I don’t want to fall out with you.” 
    She’s looking like she wants to come in the house. 
    The social people are still here, talking to Hannah and Mum. I don’t want Chloe to see. 
    I edge outside, go and sit on the chairs on the decking, make sure Chloe’s not facing the kitchen window. 
    I put the flowers down on the table. They look crushed, gasping. 
    â€œCan’t you tell me?” 
    I shake my head. I don’t trust my voice. 
    She puts her arms round me.

Me and the black paint 
    When Chloe’s gone I head for the back room. There’s an easel set up in there, Dad found it in a skip and mended the broken hinges. I pin a big sheet of paper on the easel and grab the black paint bottle and the biggest brush and a palette. 
    I said no to having a medical. Having a medical: weird term for poking things up your fanny to see if you’re a virgin. No chance. Nothing to see anyway. I am and that’s an end to it. Wish I wasn’t. Wish all this wasn’t happening. Wish they’d all fuck off and leave me alone, all of them. It’s been enough without them all coming round like a bunch of crows picking at a dead fox in the road. I’m not roadkill. They’re not getting a piece of me. 
    I squeeze out the paint so it oozes over the palette. I push the brush into it and put layers and layers of black on the paper, lines again like the doors, crossing each other, building up into some crazy kind of grid on the paper, thick paint, layers of it until there are only a few specks of white left and the paper’s buckling under the strain. My left arm aches from holding the brush and I’ve got a headache from concentrating so hard. 
    Mum comes in as I’m stepping back to look. She stands beside me and puts her arm round me. I move away, I don’t want anyone near me. 
    â€œThey’ve gone,” she tells me. “Sabina’s coming back to see