Black soul rose by John Jones... - HTML preview

Chantelle

On her way home, Chantelle wondered why the school was still persisting in trying to help them when there seemingly didn’t look like there was much that could be done.

Although the therapy class had ended, there was still a social worker assigned, and they could talk to them anytime, or would visit them and their parents, but once they stopped that should be it. No more probes. No more attention on them regarding their so-called traumatic event. Back to being a normal school kid.

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They just had to look like they were cured. No more need for any therapy. No more wrapping in cotton wool.

When she got home to her upmarket detached house, it wasn’t long before she was sat at their oak dining table with her parents Lilith and Blake, tucking into duck eggs, asparagus and herb salad.

“Just to let you know,” said Blake, “tomorrow we’re going to an open evening at Flint Hall school, because I think you have a good chance of getting in there”.

“I’m okay,” Chantelle said, “I’m happy where I am in school”.

“But Chantelle,” said Lilith, “don’t you want to better yourself? You’re a clever girl and you’ve done very well up to now, but you need to be thinking further ahead. We need to take you out of that school and put you in a place where you can be educated better than where you are now. If you carry on in that school you could end up...I don’t know…”

“Working in a supermarket,” put in Blake, “or a waitress, or a secretary or something. Jobs for those with not too much going on inside their heads. You want a real education with a real job at the end. That school is full of rough kids.

Most of them will end up in jail, and the rest serving fast-food, or being a cleaner somewhere. We don’t want that for our little girl”.

“What about what I want,” put in Chantelle, “what if I want to be a cleaner, or a drug dealer”.

“Chantelle!” Lilith shouted, “wash your mouth out. See, that’s the bad influence of that school. We’re bringing you up the correct way. Unlike the parents at the school you’re at now. Don’t care about their kids, but we do. We want what’s best for you”. Chantelle simply nodded as she ate her asparagus.

“Or else,” she muttered.

“When you get qualified you will be able to get a well-paid respectable job and not suffer the shame of living on benefits, or having a job that pays minimum wage”.

“You know,” said Chantelle, enjoying her afters of strawberry ice-cream. “I think I agree. I don’t want a job working for some corporation. Some faceless company who don’t care about their workers. Who would replace them in a second. Who expect me to be grateful for the chance to work for them. Work for the man, spend most of your life making them rich, and they only pay you enough to survive on so you can carry on making them money so they can live 56

in their mansions with their posh suits and sipping on tea in bone china tea-cups. You slave away and make me money, and I’ll throw you the scraps from my banquet table, and you’d better be grateful. Thank you Mr faceless corporation guy. Thank-you for your scraps. It’s an honour for me to work for you, for you to give me enough money so I can pay my bills. I am so grateful you pay me enough so I can eat. Would you like me to lick your fucking shoes clean?”

Lilith and Blake simply looked at each other, not knowing what to say, clearly understanding that this was unlike their little girl, who would usually agree to everything they said, and would have left for higher education when the opportunity arose. Her parents would not hesitate to take her away from friends to put her in company that they more ‘approve’ of. One of those families that controlled their children to make up for their own failures. To guide her in the direction they deemed suitable, and correct, whether Chantelle liked it or not.

“Chantelle I’ve never heard you use such potty mouth language. I’ll take you upstairs and I really will wash your mouth out with soap” said her father. “I’ve done it before remember?”. Chantelle stopped and glared at Blake.

“Have you now?” There was a few moments silence.

“Chantelle, you’re eight years old. I’ve never heard you speak like that before.

What happened on that trip?”

That bloody trip, Chantelle thought. It really was hard trying to be a kid.

“Sorry mummy. I’ll go tomorrow and see the new school”.

“That’s better,” said Blake.

“But could I choose to stay where I am if I would prefer it?” There was a few more moments silence.

“Eat your ice-cream,” said Lilith.

In the car on the way to the school, arms folded, staring out of the back window, Chantelle knew there was no way she was moving to this place, considering they’d already driven around four miles. They would simply have to accept it as she didn’t like to think what would happen if they didn’t. It wouldn’t be in their 57

best interests. So to show willing, she would jump through their hoops, but the time would have to come when they were disappointed.

“…so tomorrow we will go and see dad in his new home, see how he is settling in,” Blake said to Lilith as they left a bypass and entered another main road.

“What d’you say Chantelle? Want to go and see grandad after school?”

“Nope”.

“Why, he loves seeing you, before he started forgetting things anyway”.

“Where is he?” Chantelle asked.

“Come on Chantelle,” said Lilith, “have you really forgotten?”

“Let her try and remember,” said Blake.

“Erm…is he in jail?”

“Chant…no he isn’t in jail, he’s in a care-home where we put him a couple of weeks ago”.

“Sorry, don’t think I was around then,” Chantelle said with a smile.

Lilith just looked around at her, confused. There were a few moments silence and then Blake said, as they pulled up at lights:

“We still need to decide what we’re going to do with his pottery stuff”.

“Told you what we need to do, just get rid of it”. Blake nodded in agreement.

“We’ll just put it all in a skip and get shut”.

“Those fancy pieces of pottery around our house are what grandad made are they?”

“Yes Chantelle, they are, but you should know that. We only kept them to make him happy. Now we can get rid”.

“Why?”

“They’re not worth anything Chantelle,” Blake said on the approach to the school, looming in the distance.

“They’re cluttering the place up,” put in Lilith, so tomorrow we can bin them, and when we clear out his house and shed we’ll get a skip. Simple. He was a man of simple tastes. He had his pottery and not much else. He was president at one point of some ceramics club or whatever, but it doesn’t matter now. All his stuff can go”.

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“Alright maybe we can keep one bowl,” said Blake, “to remember him by”. He pulled into the gates, into the car-park where other cars were parking up and soon found a space, bringing the car to a halt.

“Let me get this straight,” said Chantelle. “Grandpops spends his life on a hobby which he loves. Making cups and bowls and whatever, and then he goes into a care-home…hang on, was it his own choice to go there? Or was he…well, persuaded?”

“He’s got Alzheimer’s Chantelle, so we didn’t really have a choice. He won’t remember much about his pottery anyway so it won’t matter. We’ll take a bowl or a cup into him”.

“You’re all heart,” Chantelle said. “Spends his life perfecting a craft. Those ceramics are very good I must admit, and here you are about to put his life’s work in a fucking skip. If there was money to be made you’d be all over it wouldn’t you? Isn’t this work lovely. He’s a master of his craft. Lovingly hand-made. Fifty quid please. You ought to be ashamed. Come on then, let’s go and see this school I’m not going to be attending”. She opened the door and got out.

To her surprise, Charlotte was fairly impressed with the school, and felt that under different circumstances it might not be too bad coming here, but knew she wasn’t.

Perhaps if they could possess pupils of this place…

Too late for that, although she could if she really wanted to, but it was okay, it would mean going and retrieving the black rose seeds. Getting a pupil to swallow one, and if not, by force, then Charlotte doing the same and transferring her soul.

Too much hassle now that she was settled and not worth the bother. It was a good school, a school for the more intellectually gifted children, and for those with rich mummys and daddys.

Part of the open evening for which they had set out stalls and booths in the gymnasium were several tours of the building, and Charlotte found herself with a few others walking around while the tour guide waffled his well-rehearsed

‘spiel’. She was genuinely interested though, especially when it came to the science area.

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“…and through here we have the science area where one section is devoted to learning about the human body”.

“Including the brain,” piped up Charlotte.

“Why yes,” said the guide, “a lot of our pupils go on to achieve accolades and awards in all aspects”.

“Brain surgeons?”

“Certainly. Is that what you want to be when you grow up young lady?”

Charlotte just smiled.

“Maybe. Do you do experiments here?”

“Why yes, we do a lot of things with plants. We dissect them and see how they work”.

“What about the black rose flower? Do you experiment on that?” she said with a grin.

“I…don’t think the black rose is a real flower, but they probably experiment with red roses”.

“Okay, what about experiments on live human brains?”. The guide went fairly red-faced and looked at her parents, but they were in a similar place. There wasn’t much to say or do but just let her speak.

“No, we don’t use real brains here, but when you grow up you can go to university and experiment on dead ones. You can look at slices of them under a microscope”.

“Did you know, that if you remove the top of a skull of a live person, you can’t actually see the electrical activity indicating consciousness. Indicating life. A live brain and a dead one look similar”.

“Chantelle,” whispered Lilith, “sorry,” she said to the guide.

“Why, it’s a fact. I know, I’ve seen it,” she said with a sarcastic grin. The guide hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Okay, we’ll move on down to the music studio”, he said, turning and walking away.

On the ride home later on, Lilith turned in her seat with leaflets and paraphernalia and handed them to Chantelle.

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“Here you go, read all this, and you’d better pass your exams in the autumn or they’ll put you on the reserve list. Up to now they’re taking applications for the next term and you’ll be in there by September”.

“No mother, I won’t. I’m not going”.

Lilith pointed an accusatory finger at her.

“Ever since that trauma you’ve turned into a right little madam. You will do as you’re told okay?”

“We’ll get a private child therapist,” said Blake, “and we’ll give the school the bill. They may even help with the application if need be. They may be able to open a few doors, make a few phone calls”.

“I’m fine, I’m sick of therapy”.

“But you’re not our little girl. You need help”.

“I don’t want to move away, I’m happy right here”.

“You won’t be moving away. It’s eleven miles away so you can just get the train. There’s a station not too far away”.

“So I can still stay at the house?”

“Yes,” said Lilith, “you’ll just have a train journey every day”.

The school was decent, she thought, and may actually learn more there. She thought perhaps she could immerse herself in the medical side.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. The others may not be happy about it, but she wasn’t really going away, simply potentially changing schools.

“Maybe,” she said, “I’ll think about it”.

“Good,” said her mother, “although there’s nothing to think about. We’ll make the application”.

Chantelle rested back in the seat, and looked out at the orange-lighted side street.

“Fine,” she muttered.