The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Read online

  Contents

  Four Years Earlier

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Two Months Later

  Getting Help

  Acknowledgements

  Emma Smith-Barton was born in South Wales to Pakistani parents. Growing up between cultures has heavily influenced her writing and she is especially interested in exploring themes of identity and belonging. Before writing, she taught in secondary schools for six years and is passionate about increasing awareness of mental health in young people. Her short stories have appeared in various publications such as Mslexia and The Bristol Short Story Prize 2016 anthology (under her pseudonym for adult fiction, Amna Khokher). The Million Pieces of Neena Gill is Emma’s first novel for young adults.

  For Oli, for everything

  The moon is full and bright, and I try to focus on that, try to distract myself, but it’s not working. Nothing’s working.

  We’re standing in the middle of the garden, Akash and me. Bare feet on crisp, dry grass. Akash has brought me out here because Mum and Dad are arguing inside. Their voices are getting louder.

  I feel sick. I’m breathing fast, as fast as I can, because there’s not enough air and I need more. My chest is tight. It hurts. My whole body hurts. I try not to cry.

  Akash crouches down next to me. ‘Breathe in deep,’ he tells me, his voice low and calm. ‘Like I showed you, yeah? Deep into your belly.’ He presses his hands against his stomach.

  I nod. Akash knows all about helping me breathe. He’s fourteen and I’m eleven. We’ve done this before.

  I close my eyes, ready to breathe into my belly. But everything – my chest, throat, my whole body – is too tight. Dad’s still shouting, but Mum’s now quiet. Somehow that’s even worse. Pain shoots across my chest, up my arms, my legs. ‘I can’t!’ I tell Akash, my eyes flicking open.

  There’s a lump in my throat the size of the moon. The moon has fallen out of the sky and down my throat. That’s impossible, I know, but this is how it feels. The tears I’ve been holding back drip down my cheeks.

  Akash buries his hands deep into his jeans pockets, his eyes bright. ‘You can. Try again. And think of somewhere nice this time. Remember?’

  I nod. Dry my cheeks. Yes, somewhere nice. A happy place. I keep my eyes open this time; focus on Akash’s wonky smile and straight teeth. I picture the seaside we go to in the summer. See Mum and Dad lying on the beach. I hear waves crashing against rocks. Feel my toes sink into warm sand. Smell salt and doughnuts.

  And I breathe. Deep. Into my belly. Eventually, my chest stops hurting. My body feels looser. And, although my chest is still a bit tight, the moon is back in the sky, not in my throat.

  ‘Do you think they’re … getting a divorce?’ I ask, remembering my best friend, Raheela. She cried for months when her dad left. Even in lessons.

  ‘Nah. It’s just a disagreement.’ Akash shrugs. ‘It happens.’

  ‘Really? You’re sure?’

  He nods. ‘Don’t worry, OK?’

  We sit down on the grass, facing away from the house, looking towards the shed at the back of the garden. Mum and Dad are now quiet. Maybe Akash is right.

  ‘You’re very wise,’ I tell him, smiling now.

  Akash laughs. He drapes his arm round my shoulders and I press my face into his soft, cosy hoody. He smells like he always smells: of deodorant, mints and cigarette smoke. ‘Yeah, full of the wisdom, me! What would you do without me, eh?’

  I’m staring at my sky-sea. It’s my favourite painting in the world. I love how Van Gogh makes the inky sky look like it’s water, and the stars and moon have fallen in, making hundreds of golden ripples around them. My brother bought me the framed poster for my birthday. Starry Night, it’s called. The picture’s unbalanced. Unsteady. It’s how the world feels when I worry. It’s how I feel.

  But then is it so surprising that I’m worrying a lot lately?

  Mum hasn’t left the house for months.

  Dad’s impossible to be around since everything happened.

  And I don’t know who my friends are any more. Don’t know who I am.

  I’m falling into my own sky-sea.

  Because my brother disappeared.

  It’s been ten months.

  And I’m shattering into pieces.

  ‘Neena?’ Mum knocks on my bedroom door and fumbles with the handle. ‘You still awake?’

  I pull my eyes away from the sky-sea poster above my dressing table and quickly slip into the chair at my desk. All my schoolbooks are out ready for this moment, so I just grab a pen and fix a look of concentration on my face. Furrowed brows. Twisty lips. Totally natural, not staged at all.

  ‘I’m awake,’ I call, burying my head in the books. ‘Come on in.’ I say that last bit under my breath because Mum always barges in after she knocks, like she really doesn’t get the point of knocking. Not that she’d notice the sarcasm, even if she heard me. She doesn’t notice much these days.

  ‘Ach, still studying!’ she says, coming into the room.

  Laughter and chatter drift in with her. Mum and Dad’s friends are over. They’re here almost every evening now. It’s their way of helping, I get that – it’s just a bit much. I wish they’d leave us alone. But it does mean I can sneak away without Mum and Dad paying too much attention. Silver lining and all that. And tonight I’ve got a party to go to. So, double silver lining. They’d never let me go if they actually knew I was going …

  I glance at Mum. She’s balancing a tray on her hip. Her long black hair is plaited neatly and pulled to one side, draping over her right shoulder. There’s always this transformation when her friends come over: she washes her hair, changes her clothes and wears lipstick and everything. Today it’s a berry shade.

  I shrug. ‘Yeah, still going … Got all this homework to do, so … It is GCSEs …’

  Mum sighs in this really exaggerated way, like she’s the one working. ‘You need a break,’ she says. ‘Are you taking breaks?’

  ‘I’m fine!’ I try not to roll my eyes. The moment I actually take a break, she stresses about me not studying. Dad’s the same. Can’t win. Anyway, if I take a break now, she’ll want me to hang out with their friends. Which is not happening. At least if they think I’m studying, they’ll leave me alone.

  ‘Hmm … Well, you must be hungry.’ She puts the plate of food she’s carrying down on my desk. Nudges it towards me.

  It’s piled high with rice, lamb curry and minty yogurt. A fat leg of tandoori chicken is carefully balanced on top. I don’t get hungry much these days, but cooking’s pretty much all Mum does since she stopped leaving the house. I
f I say I’m not hungry, she’ll want to know why. And when did I last eat? What exactly did I have? It’s easier to always be hungry. ‘Mmm. Thanks, Mum.’

  She grins. She has a smudge of lipstick on her front tooth.

  I pretend to read Hamlet, thinking Mum will leave now – usually, she can’t wait to get back to her precious crowd in the kitchen. But she hangs around forever, and all I can think of is when she’s going to leave so I can get ready for Fi’s party. She perches on the edge of my desk and it creaks under her weight. I know it’s mean, but I’m worried it’ll collapse. I look up at her again.

  ‘You’ve been … very quiet,’ she says, fiddling with a loose strand of grey-black hair round her face. ‘Everything … OK?’

  I glare at her. Is she serious? I’ve been quiet for months! Ten, to be exact. We all have. And is anything ‘OK’?

  ‘You sleeping at night?’ she goes on. ‘You look tired.’

  I carry on staring at her. She really is unbelievable sometimes. ‘So do you,’ I say. She has huge dark patches under her eyes. I hear her sometimes, making tea in the kitchen at two in the morning. At least I sleep most nights. ‘It’s not a big deal, Mum.’

  Mum frowns and smiles at the same time. Wrinkles crease round her puffy eyes. ‘Oh, jaan,’ she says, and I’m worried she might cry. She does that a lot lately. Well, since everything happened, which is understandable, but even more recently.

  She touches my cheek, fingers gently brushing my skin. I smell her perfume, a deep lavender smell, and it’s so awkward, the way she’s just caressing my cheek and staring, that I flinch and push her hand aside.

  Which just makes everything even more awkward.

  She snatches her hand back. Looks down at the floor. I turn back to Hamlet. I hate these moments that remind us how much easier it used to be to hug and talk. It feels like a lifetime away now, those days when I’d curl up on her bed with hot chocolate and tell her about my day. It’s been years.

  I grab the leg of chicken and take a bite out of it to make her happy. ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. I stick a smile on my face because I am actually. I really am. ‘You’re right. I’m tired. I’ll eat then go to bed.’ I give a fake yawn.

  Mum nods. Pats my shoulder. ‘OK, my jaan. You eat. And sleep well, huh?’ She gives me a small, polite smile. ‘Goodnight.’

  She’s itching to get back to her friends now, I can tell. I put down the chicken leg. ‘Night, Mum.’

  As soon as the door clicks shut again, I go back to my dressing table. But this time I don’t look up at my sky-sea. Instead, I pull Akash’s yellow-and-purple cap out of the drawer and put it on before looking in the mirror. Be happy. That’s the last thing my brother ever said to me. My throat goes tight as I remember his words, remember that night, but I quickly gulp down the lump. I’m an expert at that. I’ve become an expert at loads of stuff I never thought I’d be any good at.

  I line my eyes with kohl, swap my blue jeans for black and slip on the silky red vest top I’ve borrowed from Fi. Then I shove a couple of towels under my duvet so it looks like I’m asleep. I check that my room’s tidy: books on shelves; easel stowed in corner; my clothes off the floor and hung up to keep Mum happy. Then I remember the food Mum brought me. Crap. I find an old carrier bag in the bottom of my wardrobe and empty the plate into it before tying it up. I’ll take it with me and shove it in the bin outside. I do feel bad, but there’s no way I can eat right now.

  OK, everything’s in place. I’m ready. I grab my bag, switch off the lamp and climb out through my bedroom window before pushing it shut. Well, almost shut – I leave a gap so I can open it again later.

  It’s almost too easy. Honestly, one of the few advantages of living in a bungalow is how simple it is to sneak out.

  The garden smells of curry, drifting from the kitchen. Not exactly what I want to smell like at the party, especially as I’m hoping Josh will be there. I sling my bag over my shoulder and get away as quickly as I can.

  As I hurry round the side of the house, I bung the carrier bag of food in the bin and think about the first time I did this. It was two months after Akash disappeared. I was so scared Mum and Dad would catch me that I was shaking. But there was also this fire burning in my chest. Fi and I were already chatting by then, and when she invited me to her birthday party it was perfect. I could finally find out if she knew any more about what happened to Akash.

  In the end, it turned out she knew nothing more than I did about the night he disappeared. But she also wanted to know more. So I kept going to her parties, got better at sneaking out, better at drinking, and Fi and I became friends for real. She gets me … like Akash.

  I imagine him with me now, my brother. By my side as I make my way up the drive. The bounce in his step. His shiny dark eyes. His black hair gelled sleek and a grin on his face. He was always happy, wasn’t he? And the smell of him: whisky, deodorant, cigarettes and mints, and something deeper, sweeter, that was just him.

  My throat tightens and again I gulp down the lump. Take in a deep breath. I smile, like he would. I slip off my shoes and speed up – try bouncing like him. It feels good. Like he’s me and I’m him. I quietly laugh into the still, warm air. Because that’s what he would have done. Everything was an adventure for him. Always.

  Moving further from the house, I breathe a little more freely. I wish I could tell Akash – confess that after months of sneaking out myself I finally understand why he did it. Though it is different for me. Poor Akash got so much hassle from Dad. With me, they don’t suspect a thing. I guess I’m lucky they still think I’m the ‘perfect’ daughter I once was – studying, sleeping, not up to much else.

  I stop walking for a moment. I almost look back at the house but stop myself.

  Do they really think that? And what would they do if they caught me? I wouldn’t be able to go to parties any more. Wouldn’t see Fi, or Josh.

  And then I think about the art college I’ve applied to, for after GCSEs: it’s basically the only thing I’ve got going for me. My stomach tightens as I remember how hard it was to persuade Dad to let me apply: months of Mum, Akash and me begging. He finally agreed after Akash disappeared.

  A couple of cars speed along the main road, jolting me out of my thoughts. The world spins around me as the worry kicks in: pavement, street lights, houses. What am I doing, standing in the middle of the street? Has anyone seen me? Mum? Dad? Someone they know?

  I rush along the main road again, high heels dangling from my hands, head down and eyes focused on the road ahead. I don’t look back. Although looking back is definitely one of the things I’ve become an expert at, this is not one of the times I do it. I don’t let myself.

  Music blasts through Fi’s house. I push my way along the crowded hallway, past the family photos of Fi and her parents on the walls, and through the wafts of perfume and aftershave, beer and wine, and smoke that’s strong and sweet. I nod some hellos, but I don’t actually stop until I reach the small rose-pink kitchen at the back of the house. It’s packed, but there’s no one I recognize, so I squeeze through and find a bottle of white wine. I pour some into a plastic cup and down it, before topping it up again and looking around to see who else is here.

  I’m looking for Josh, I realize. There’s no sign of him. My stomach tenses: a mixture of excitement and nerves. But I’m being ridiculous. I don’t know if Josh is coming tonight and, even if he is, I have no idea what’s going on with us, other than a bit of flirting. I think. I can’t even be sure of that. We’ve known each other for so long that it could be my imagination.

  And anyway, even if we have been flirting, nothing can actually happen. No boyfriends: that’s Mum and Dad’s number one rule. They’d go ballistic.

  I mean, if they found out, that is …

  I drink some more wine and peer into the living room through a gap in the crowd, this time looking for Fi. Normally bright and airy, the room is lit up by just a few candles tonight. But I soon spot Fi’s dyed red hair. She’s perched on the
arm of the forest-green sofa, laughing at something, her head tilted towards the ceiling. When she finally stops laughing, she sees me too. Waves. She slides off the sofa and comes through to the kitchen.

  ‘You made it!’ she shouts over the music. ‘Yeah!’

  She’s gorgeous, Fi. Like, seriously stunning. She’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, jeans with trainers and a black leather jacket. And she looks like a model. The feathery layers in her shiny, long hair frame her face. Her eyes are clear pale blue. Her skin is glowing. I can totally see why Akash liked her so much; they’d been going out for almost a year. Beautiful and totally cool. She holds out her arms and sways into me. I get a waft of vodka as we hug, or I hold her up, it’s hard to tell which.

  She giggles. ‘You need to catch up!’

  ‘On it,’ I tell her, downing another glass of wine. My muscles relax as the warmth of the alcohol spreads beneath my skin. At the same time, a flutter of guilt crawls across my chest. It’s hard to believe I’d never even tasted alcohol until eight months ago and sometimes I still imagine the look of horror on Mum and Dad’s faces if they could see me. No drinking: that’s another rule of theirs. All these rules are not just because I’m fifteen – it’s also cultural stuff, family stuff – but Mum and Dad have become a lot stricter since everything that happened with Akash.

  I try not to think about Mum and Dad now. I push the guilt away. Fi offers me more wine and I let her top up my cup. Akash never worried about my parents. And I mean look at me! I’m living my life. At a party. Having fun.

  ‘You curled your hair,’ Fi says. ‘Looks good! Top suits you too.’

  ‘Thanks, Fi,’ I say, feeling proud of myself now. I mean, I know me and Raheela aren’t exactly friends any more, but I imagine her standing here instead of me. Ha! No way could she do this. She’d be panicking more than I ever did, I reckon. I’ve come so far since the first time I came and hid in the corner.

  Fi’s eyes light up. ‘Let’s dance!’ she shouts, grabbing my arms.

  And I can’t help it – I dance with her right there in the kitchen. We could go into any room in the huge house, but no. Instead, we dance, surrounded by the kettle and microwave and oven, laughing as we sneak in some ridiculous dance moves. Around us, people join in. A couple of Fi’s older friends, who go to college, high-five us as they squeeze past to get drinks. Someone turns off the light and there’s cheering as the dancing moves into the living room.