Wrecked
By Louisa Reid
()
About this ebook
SELECTED FOR 2021's NATIONAL POETRY DAY
Joe and Imogen seem like the perfect couple - they've been in a relationship for years and are the envy of their friends at school. But after accidentally becoming involved a tragic fatal accident, they become embroiled in a situation out of their control, and Joe and Imogen's relationship becomes slowly unravelled until the truth is out there for all to see ... Structured around a dramatic and tense court case, the reader becomes both judge and jury in a stunning and page-turning novel of uncovering secrets and lies - who can be believed?
Louisa Reid
Louisa Reid has spent most of her life reading. And when she's not doing that she's writing stories, or imagining writing them at least. An English teacher, her favourite part of the job is sharing her love of reading and writing with her pupils. Louisa lives with her family in the north-west of England and is proud to call a place near Manchester home.
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Wrecked - Louisa Reid
"After reading Wrecked, I am the title. Ate it up
in one gulp because I couldn’t look away.
Tragic, compelling, real, and beautifully written."
Teri Terry
www.guppybooks.co.uk
Also by Louisa Reid:
GLOVES OFF
BLACK HEART BLUE
LIES LIKE LOVE
Praise for GLOVES OFF
‘Written with feeling, honesty and conviction, this is a story about body image and self-esteem that packs a punch’ Sunday Times Children’s Book of the Week
‘Gloves Off is an intense, original and profoundly moving verse novel, filled with the fierce, hard joy of finding your power’ The Guardian
‘A beautiful, lyrical read. Buy it for your daughters – and sons’ The Sun
‘Beautiful, brave and inspiring, Lily’s story will have you weeping one moment and cheering her on the next. I loved it.’ Lisa Williamson, author of The Art of Being Normal
‘Touching on so many important subjects, Gloves Off is simply a must-read, no matter what your age’ Happiful Magazine
www.louisareid.com
WRECKED
is a GUPPY BOOK
First published in 2020 by
Guppy Publishing Ltd,
Bracken Hill,
Cotswold Road,
Oxford OX2 9JG
Text © Louisa Reid, 2020
978 1 913101 39 8
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
The right of Louisa Reid to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permissions of the publishers.
GUPPY PUBLISHING LTD Reg. No. 11565833
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in Gill Sans by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd, www.falcon.uk.com
You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I?
The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald
PART ONE
NOW
BOXED
Court room,
Caught room.
I’m in the dock.
There’s no way out.
All exits blocked.
ALL RISE
Jury,
then judge.
There’s a hush.
I want to burst it,
take a pin to its weight,
explode the silence –
escape.
Head down,
arms out,
I’ll speed through these walls,
like I’m made of steel –
like I can’t fall.
I’ll
spread my
wings wide,
taste air,
breathe
sky.
But facts are – I’m trapped –
stiff shirt like a noose,
new suit, buttoned up;
strait-jacketed truth.
CHARGES
"Joseph Goodenough.
In the early hours of
The first
Of January
Two thousand and nineteen,
You are accused of causing the
Death
Of Stephanie White.
To the charge of
Death
By Dangerous Driving.
How do you plead?"
STOP
I’m winded,
almost doubled over –
That’s all it takes to put me
there – again,
in that black, dark night,
on that black, dark road,
with Imogen, just Imogen,
by my side.
And I shut my eyes
to hide from the scene,
but
there’s light
coming at us
from around a dark corner
it’s tunnelling forwards
it’s upon us,
almost,
it’s
bright,
it’s
full beam
it’s
up
in our faces –
and
we’re driving
straight
at
it
can’t stop –
are we braking?
But
there’s no
way
out
because
these seconds are small,
and this car is so huge,
and the wheel won’t turn
it’s heavy and slow
we’re out of control
it’s still coming at us
so fast,
horn blaring
lights flashing
Jesus,
please
STOP –
IMOGEN –
NO.
DEAD
Not Imogen, not me,
but
the woman in the other car.
I staggered up the road
towards the wreck
and saw
a body,
(or something like)
and a jagged
hole
where the side of the car
should have been.
I stared at
white bones.
Saw
red skin stretched
into a silent scream.
Torso twisted,
face glassed
into
p
e
e
i
c
s
I howled.
She didn’t twitch.
Her blonde hair in a plait.
Scalped.
Finished.
DAWN
When I’m lying in bed
crawling up, out of whatever sleep
I’ve caught that night
it’s almost not there,
I’ve almost forgotten to remember,
and then
before I can open my eyes on the day
that dead body slaps me awake.
She’s always wearing white,
her blood pulses and glows
dripping, staining, seeping
over her clothes.
And I’m running to the bathroom
throwing up in the sink
spewing nothing –
empty belly
twisting with
guilt.
WHAT DO YOU PLEAD?
They’re waiting.
Why can’t I say it?
I need to respond,
and I open my mouth like I practised this morning
in front of the mirror, in front of my mum.
Not guilty, I said then,
pulling the words up and out from inside,
like fish
flapping and flailing,
caught on a line.
I try once again –
open my mouth, and breathe
but
the
sounds
are stuck
in
my
t
h
r
o
a
t
I can’t
squeeze
them
free,
N-
the first sound comes
and then the rest in a rush,
Not guilty,
I say
convincing no one,
not even myself.
Because I’m still at the scene –
stuck
in the past, in the frame,
here in the dock,
frozen with shame.
TRUTH (i)
It shouldn’t be this hard to tell the truth –
to
spit
it
right
out,
(like the teachers used to tell me,
when I couldn’t make a sound).
Small Joe stuttered and big Joe’s no better,
not now he’s trying to makes sense of the senseless.
Because – and don’t ask me why – the truth is
elusive, it swerves and it slides –
like the car did that night –
now it’s greasy with lies.
The truth is shattered, like the glass on the road
that I find in my hair, in my dreams and
my clothes. It’s a mouth ripped open, it’s a tongue
that
lolls.
The truth is in hiding, it’s scared, it’s weak.
You see, I’ve been waiting so long
for my chance to speak.
WAY BACK THEN – YEAR TEN
ONCE UPON A TIME
Imogen sat down next to me.
Hey,
she said,
Joe, show me your notes?
Tongue between her teeth,
she sat and copied every word –
my homework too –
then handed back my book with a smile.
Thanks, babe,
she said
and I caught the smell
of mint and roses
and something else.
Imogen was in my form.
The new girl,
who didn’t mind the spotlight’s shine
every time a teacher asked her for her name
her London voice
sounded posher than mine.
She laughed and didn’t care
when someone took the piss and called her
snob –
she flicked her hair,
Yeah?
she said.
Prove it.
She sat next to me again that day,
Hey, Joe,
she said and nicked a chip,
leaning across me to talk to Ryan Wall
who was on my team and played in goal.
I nearly gave her all my dinner,
nearly said, here, go on, you finish it,
instead the blush
that flushed my face
made me so hot
I couldn’t even look up
and meet her eye.
I legged it outside –
trailing fire.
After that I tried
so hard to understand
everything
before the teacher even taught it –
I read books
actual books,
the librarian nodded when I snuck in before school
when no one was around to take the piss,
I sat in the corner
gulping down
thousands of words:
particles and plateaus
algebra and allegory
bloody poems
and
stories,
tragedies,
comedies.
I was going to get expert
just in case
she needed me to explain
something
inexplicable –
like why I couldn’t tell her
how she made me feel.
There had to be a word for that –
some biological term
that explained
the way
my tongue tied itself up
in knots –
tight like the laces on my football boots –
my words
frayed and tattered
and got stuck
before I could
present them to her
in a perfect bow.
SO NOW
I’m outstanding at biology
and geography, maths and English too –
top of the class.
And all because
I have traced
the particularly perfect web of Imogen’s veins
on the insides of her arms,
and on the soft skin of her neck,
and over her ribs,
and back, and body,
so many times
that I could
make a map of her from memory,
turn her into a sonnet,
calculate her heart rate down to its last beat.
POPULAR
I burned
and Imogen was the match
that set me alight –
I knew how close she was, how far away,
and wondered if she’d talk to me again –
I heard her voice echoing up and down the corridors
as she sang her way through school.
Small.
Fierce.
Head high,
dancer’s stride.
Sheet of long hair,
hot in the sun.
Pure alchemy –
everything began to glow –
as Imogen wandered around our school
striking gold into its bones.
Imogen wore headphones everywhere
and didn’t seem to care
that no one else was dancing.
I watched the other girls
watching her
and then
coming to school in
matching messy buns,
crowding round her table at lunch,
asking her what it was like down south
in London,
if she knew
the queen.
I thought that if I liked a girl,
maybe she’d be the one I’d choose.
But I’d been happy with my mates and the way my life
ticked over, like an engine, newly tuned.
If you’re forcing me to describe myself, I’d say I was
an all right looking lad,