The Death Club Read online

  Have any of you guys ever heard of something called THE DEATH CLUB?

  It’s this thing where this anonymous person apparently gets you to kill someone you know then kill yourself on webcam, then he sells the video on the dark web. It’s pretty grim, and I don’t know why someone would agree to it, but I’ve heard there are loads of videos doing the rounds. I’m just worried that Linda had something like this happen to her. I don’t know.

  Hey, this is the internet, so I’m sure many of you will be willing to share your conspiracy theories. Please just be respectful. She was a great member of our community and I know we all wish her family the best.

  RIP Linda. Sorry you felt you had to do this.

  I feel really sad. I remember @LuvvaGirl99, she replied to a lot of my posts, and we were friendly in a way. She seemed like a really nice person.

  I add my comment to the bottom of the post:

  Author: @SmallGirl22

  Subject: RE The Death Club

  Really sorry to hear this. RIP Linda, you were too good for us all.

  I click post and I pause, for a moment, then go to the kitchen for a glass of water, still thinking about her. It’s sad that someone feels the need to take their own life, but I understand, in a way. Sometimes it feels like the only escape from pain is death. When school is horrible, home is horrible, and inside my head is horrible, the only way to stop it all is to end it. I often wonder whether the world is better off without me.

  Then I realise the world doesn’t care enough to be better off without me.

  Nothing would change. Nobody would notice the empty seat where I used to sit. I doubt anyone would even recognise my name.

  I’ve considered it before. A few times.

  I wouldn’t hang myself; that would be too painful. I’d overdose. Like Linda did. End it quickly. Hopefully I’d pass out before the pain arrived.

  This is not a world for people like me.

  I finish my glass of water and place the glass in the bowl. I notice a few empty wine bottles poking out of the bin. I ignore them and return to the computer.

  I’ve already had six comments on my post.

  They all seem to be from the same person.

  And they all seem to say the same thing.

  Author: @PussyMagnet69

  Subject: RE RE RE The Death Club

  Wht da fuck you know about it?

  Author: @PussyMagnet69

  Subject: RE RE RE REThe Death Club

  Probly just some middle-class stuck-up bitch who likes to pretend to feel bad bout someone else.

  Author: @PussyMagnet69

  Subject: RE RE RE RE REThe Death Club

  You deserve to be fucking raped.

  I don’t want to read on.

  I deserve to be raped?

  Who writes that?

  I’ve heard things like this said to me by boys at school, horrible things, but somehow this feels worse…

  I’ve been on this message board for years.

  This is where I’ve made friends.

  This is where I belong.

  How could someone say something like this?

  I go to close the browser. Then I read the rest of the messages.

  Author: @PussyMagnet69

  Subject: RE RE RE RE RE RE The Death Club

  Hope your crying you fucking slut.

  Author: @PussyMagnet69

  Subject: RE RE RE RE RE RE REThe Death Club

  Don’t pretend to give a shit. You probly just a stupid cunt with tiny fkin tits you fkin slut.

  Author: @PussyMagnet69

  Subject: RE RE RE RE RE RE RE REThe Death Club

  Don’t comment on shit u dnt know. Fk off.

  I want to cry.

  I want to find this person and scream at them that I do care, that I’m not stuck-up, that I do understand what it’s like to be lonely, to be sad, to want to end things.

  But I don’t.

  I close the browser. Close down the computer. Then sit.

  And stare.

  How could someone write something like that?

  It sounds silly, I know, but it’s like my home’s been destroyed. Like the only place that I can go to get away from everything is now ruined. Tainted. Ripped away from me.

  I wipe my eyes. Shut myself in my room. Tell the world to go away, and daydream about how I would end it.

  Daydream about what it would be like to no longer exist.

  10

  Will

  Last period goes by slowly. My year elevens have their exams in a few months and we go through a previous year’s exam paper, which is immensely boring, even for me, and they sit there in tired silence, everyone in daydreams as I drone on.

  The bell goes and I dismiss them and I sit at my desk and stare at my emails and ignore them. No one says goodbye, or thank you, or see you tomorrow. They all file out in desperation to get home or meet their friends or do whatever it is they wish to do.

  I barely even notice the girl who waits behind.

  “Hi, sir,” she says, and her voice is sultry, too deep for her age. Just like many other girls in the class, her skirt is too short, and she’s pulled it up to her navel to make it even shorter. Her top button is undone, as is the second and third, and her tiny tie only just covers a glimpse of her bra.

  It is incredibly inappropriate, but what am I meant to do? I was told that I should correct students on their uniforms, and tell girls when their skirts are too short, but there’s not a chance I’m going to do that. Imagine if a student took such a comment out of context. Imagine what kind of accusations could be thrown at me. I refuse to do it.

  “Hi,” I reply, noticing that she is staring at me in a really odd way, like her eyes are transfixed. She keeps smiling and it highlights her freckles. Her hair is long and red and she holds her bare arms behind her back like she’s presenting her body to me. Boys her age must go crazy for her.

  “I enjoyed your lesson,” she tells me.

  I try to recall her name, then remember it’s Destiny, and I think the same thing I thought when I first saw her name on the register at the beginning of the year — what a ridiculous name. Why can’t parents just give their kids actual names? What’s wrong with Sally and Kirsten and Jenny and Elizabeth — why do they have to give them made-up names like Destiny or Serenity or Peace. As soon as I look on the register and see someone with a name like that, I know they are going to be annoying.

  “I’m glad,” I say, wondering why she is still here.

  “I just wanted to say that I’m pleased to have you as my teacher,” she says. “You are quite inspiring.”

  “Inspiring?” This girl can’t be for real. “We were just going through a test; not sure I’d call it inspiring.”

  “It wasn’t the test, sir. It was you. There’s something about you that makes me think I’m going to do really well.”

  I don’t know what the hell this girl is seeing, but it clearly is not in this reality.

  “Well,” I reply, trying to find something to say, “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  “I was just wondering…”

  “Yes?”

  “What made you want to become a teacher?”

  I stare at her. Bemused. She looks so eager, so desperate to talk to me. She rests all of her weight on one foot, tilting her head to one side. Her finger rises from behind her waist and fiddles with a loose strand of hair.

  “I, erm… I don’t know, to be honest.”

  I became a teacher because I didn’t know what else to do. I have regretted it most days since. I don’t know what this girl wants from me.

  “You best be getting home, I imagine,” I say.

  “Oh, no, my mum doesn’t get home until way later, she works all day. She’s a paediatrician. She split up with my dad and said I have to change my surname to her maiden name.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She shrugs. “It’s fine. I prefer seeing my dad on weekends. It makes it more special, you know?”
/>   I lean back. Chew the end of my pen. Wonder how I can get this girl out of my classroom.

  “I do have some work to do now, Destiny. It was nice to talk to you.”

  She smiles. A really wide, big smile.

  “You really mean that?”

  “Mean what?”

  “That it was nice to talk to me.”

  “Sure,” I muster.

  Her body moves back and forth, like she’s unknowingly doing a little dance of happiness.

  “Well, it was very nice to talk to you too, sir.”

  I force a smile.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” I say, once again hoping I can prompt her to leave.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  And she finally leaves.

  What a strange girl, I think — then I retrieve a load of books and begin marking.

  11

  Harper

  An alert pings on my phone.

  I have another reply to my comment.

  I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to go back on that message board ever again. But curiosity tempts me, and see that I have a reply from a different user.

  Author: @HeyThere01

  Subject: RE RE RE The Death Club

  Wow. I am ever so sorry to hijack this thread, and I am sorry if this is too forthright, @SmallGirl22 — but @PussyMagnet69 appears to be an absolute bellend.

  Firstly, let’s start on your username. I could forgive the blatant and unfunny use of 69 in your username if it weren’t for the preceding claim that you are a pussy magnet.

  In truth, I do not imagine you to be a pussy magnet. Honestly, I picture you either as a middle-aged man with little hair who hasn’t had sex in at least six years, or a pre-pubescent child who probably isn’t old enough to know what a ‘pussy’ actually is.

  Secondly, I think you should learn to write before you throw accusations around. Your use of ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’ in the ‘Hope your crying’ part of your message does not only demonstrate your lack of ability to use the English language, it also indicates that you must have an IQ almost low enough to rival anyone with a mental deficiency.

  Lastly, your comments are needlessly vile and abusive and can only suggest that you are some sort of psychopath. @SmallGirl22 was giving her sincere condolences on what is a tragedy that has affected all of us, and your treatment of her can only lead one to conclude that you are a monstrous, nasty, piece of shit, who does not deserve the oxygen you are granted.

  Go back to jacking off, you complete tool, and don’t reduce this message board to bullying. No one cares about what you have to say.

  I can’t help but smile.

  I don’t know who this guy is, but he has left a huge grin on my face.

  No one has ever stuck up for me before.

  Ever.

  And here he is, not only telling this horrible, nasty person where to go, but doing it in such a smart way that there is surely no comeback.

  He didn’t just put him down, he tore him to shreds.

  And this stranger will have no idea how happy I am.

  I want to message him. I want to say thanks. I want to say something. I want to tell him what he did was cool, and that I can’t believe he did it, and… and a million other ways of saying thank you.

  I click on his username, then click on a button that says send private message, then my thumb hovers…

  What do I say?

  I’ve never private messaged anyone before.

  I consider backing out of it, but I can’t. When someone is this nice, you can’t just leave it. I have to say something.

  I take a big, deep breath and type.

  Hey.

  Just wanted to say thank you. So much. That guy really bothered me and I’m really grateful.

  You made me smile.

  Harper

  I sound like a dork.

  I hit send before I can change my mind.

  Then I stare at the message.

  And I feel stupid.

  It is a really pathetic message.

  You made me smile? I actually wrote that?

  What was I thinking?

  And I can’t delete it now. It’s done.

  God, I’m ridiculous.

  I stand up. Huff. Feeling awful again. Feeling like I just want to be buried in the ground and—

  A ping.

  He’s replied.

  I open it, quickly.

  Glad I could make you smile ;)

  My breath catches.

  Then I get another reply.

  So how are you, anyway?

  Danny.

  His name is Danny.

  And he wants to know how I am.

  I picture him. Short, brown hair. Tall. Good dresser.

  I know that may not be what he looks like, but it still intimidates me. He wants to talk to me, and he has no idea how pathetic I am. If he knew, he wouldn’t bother sticking up for me. He wouldn’t bother asking how I am.

  At first, I decide not to reply. Then I think… what if he’s a nice guy? What if he’s not like any of the kids at school?

  What if he’s actually genuine, and wouldn’t mind it if I’m a dork?

  I pick up my phone. Click reply.

  Butterflies flutter around my belly. I feel sick.

  But I also feel excited.

  I begin typing.

  12

  Will

  I cook tea as soon as I’m home.

  I say I cook tea — I put pie and chips in the oven and boil some tinned carrots.

  I call Harper and she joins me at the table, staring at her phone. Even when I place her tea in front of her, she does not put it down.

  Natalie joins us. She looks pale. She’s thirty-eight, same as me, but you would think she was over fifty. Her hair is matted and, from the smell of her pyjamas, I’m pretty sure she’s only just gotten out of bed.

  She sits opposite Harper and pours the wine I didn’t even realise she’d brought to the table.

  “Are you sure—” I go to say, but the look she gives me shuts me up.

  She drinks a few large gulps of wine then devours the pie. I prod at my chips, not feeling too hungry, and notice Harper hasn’t touched hers yet; she is still on her phone.

  “Honey, could you put that away while we’re at the table?”

  She ignores me. I stay calm.

  “Honey?”

  She still ignores me. I feel rage firing through me.

  “Harper?”

  When she ignores me again, I slam my fist on the table.

  Natalie laughs.

  And I know I’m pathetic. The only time I can show my anger and act like I’m in charge is with my daughter, and even then, I’m undermined by my wife.

  “Harper, could you—”

  “Oh, just let her,” Natalie says. “If I had a phone when I was her age, I’d be texting all the boys too.”

  Harper glances at Natalie, and I see the disappointment in her face as she watches her mother drink her wine like it was juice. I want to save Harper from this, I want to show her that this isn’t what family is, and that it’s not how it should be.

  But I can’t.

  I’m helpless. Even if I had the guts to tell my wife to leave, I’d let her back as soon as she barged through the front door drunk later that night.

  And Harper would be a child of divorce, just like I was. Resenting her father for breaking up her family when she sees him every weekend.

  No, I am doing everything I can to hold this family together.

  “I just feel,” I say cautiously, “that when we’re at the table—”

  “What?” Natalie barks. “We’re going to talk? Share stories about our day?”

  She laughs as she chokes on a mouthful of chips. She leaves the carrots.

  “It’s polite,” I say.

  She laughs again, her chuckles mixed with a cough.

  Harper looks back at her phone and, in a way, maybe it’s better she’s on her phone
. That way she doesn’t have to look at what her home’s become.

  “Are you going out again tonight?” I ask Natalie as I take a polite spoonful of carrots on my fork.

  “Probably.”

  “Could I be excused?” Harper asks, suddenly.

  “Why?”

  “I just…”

  She doesn’t say it, but I know what she wants to say.

  She doesn’t want to sit there and hear more about her mother’s plans to get wasted.

  She doesn’t want to sit and hear her father speak like a pathetic, scared little boy to his own wife.

  She doesn’t want to be in this family.

  And I wish there was a way to make her love me. Like she did when she was little. Like she did before she learned I’m a screw up.

  “Yes,” Natalie says, breaking the silence, and Harper gets up before I can object.

  “Don’t forget your tea,” I say, but she leaves it, engrossed in her phone, and she stomps upstairs.

  I drop my head. Close my eyes. Pretend this isn’t how things are.

  “What?” Natalie grunts.