by M. A. Hunter
‘What are you thinking about?’ Jack asks, and I start at the question. ‘It’s just… you suddenly went very quiet.’
I’m about to respond when I realise where our random walk has brought us: the homeless shelter and canteen. I suppose on some subconscious level, my mind identified this place as the ‘normality’ it was craving.
‘Have you heard from Freddie recently?’ Jack asks next, as he spots the queue of people waiting by the door.
I shake my head. ‘Not since…’
‘You can go inside and see if he’s there, if you want? Probably best if I wait outside. He’s not my biggest fan.’
It’s such an odd dynamic in my life. Before Monsters was published, Rachel and Freddie were my closest confidantes, and since its success, Maddie and Jack have become good friends, yet the past and the present are always at odds with one another, like repelling magnets. I wish there was a way I could get them all together and show them that there’s no reason for animosity. I love them equally.
The queue for the former church hall with the leaky roof is already down the road and around the corner. Dragging Jack around to the rear entrance, I spot Barbara stirring a large pot and she waves as I head inside.
‘Hello, my dear,’ she says warmly, ‘what brings you down to our neck of the woods?’
‘I’m looking for Freddie,’ I respond. ‘Is he working tonight?’
Barbara shakes her head. ‘We really haven’t seen very much of him at all recently. I was going to ask you whether you’d heard from him, or whether you knew if he was unwell.’
I don’t tell her that I haven’t been able to reach Freddie since I pushed him to reveal the truth about what happened to him at Pendark Film Studios. That night, I saw in his face that we’d crossed a line from which our friendship would never recover, but a naïve part of me had hoped he might be willing to listen to my apology.
This place means so much to Freddie, and I don’t want to believe he’s given it up just to avoid seeing me.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ I ask.
Barbara stops stirring for a moment, and her eyes wander as she trawls through old memories. ‘I really can’t remember. A few weeks easily. One of the regulars mentioned spotting him out and about on the other side of the town, I seem to recall. Have you been by his flat?’
‘Freddie has a flat now? I didn’t…’ My words trail off.
There’s me considering myself a good friend of Freddie’s and yet I didn’t even know he’d secured himself a flat. What else has been happening in Freddie’s life that I’ve been oblivious to because I’ve been chasing ghosts and criminals? Have I really become so single-minded that I’ve closed doors on others?
‘If you see him, will you let him know I’m keen to speak?’ I ask, and Barbara nods.
‘You take care of yourself, Emma. There’ve been a few muggings around here of late. Not safe for a young lady like yourself to be walking alone so late at night.’
I haven’t heard anything about a small crimewave, but appreciate Barbara’s concern and reassure her that I’m not alone.
My heart sags as I step back out into the cool evening air.
‘No luck?’ Jack asks, and I shake my head despondently.
‘Do you mind if we head home?’
Jack reaches for my hand but I pull it away and move forwards, unable to escape the realisation that I’m putting his life in danger by keeping him close. We walk the lanes in silence, the salt in the air a reminder of a time when life was simpler.
From nowhere, we’re cast in a beam of bright light that has us both shielding our eyes, and I’m grateful when I feel Jack’s arm around me and he drags me to the safety of the pavement as a dark van accelerates past us.
‘Bloody delivery drivers,’ Jack curses, but my pulse is racing too quickly to even look back at the van.
‘W-we could have been killed,’ I gasp.
‘Not with me around,’ he replies, his voice far calmer, and I can no longer keep my fear and frustration at bay. Leaning into his chest I don’t stop the tears flowing, and I pray for a solution to all our problems.
Chapter Thirteen
Then
Portland, Dorset
Be careful what you wish for!
That was the warning Grandma always gave before Emma blew out the candles on her cake. She’d say that Emma could make one wish, which the fairies would try to make come true if she managed to blow out all the candles in one go. Anna said it was nonsense and that there was no such things as fairies. But then Anna also used to say that Santa Claus wasn’t real, and yet he brought them presents every year, so it wasn’t like she was always right.
But this was the second time this week that Emma had made a wish that had come true and that she’d subsequently regretted. Maybe there was more to Grandma’s warning. The school bell finally sounded, and Emma was able to put the last ten minutes in the playground behind her. Ten minutes of silent stares; ten minutes of pointing and whispering; ten minutes of none of her classmates coming to see her to ask if she was okay. She hated being the centre of attention, and for the last ten minutes it had been a living nightmare. Yet this return to school is what she’d wished for last week when she’d asked Polly when she would be returning, and Polly had said she’d have a word with her mum and dad. It had been boring being trapped at home, but right now she’d swap it for her current conditions.
Polly had walked her to school this morning, and the twenty-minute journey hadn’t been too bad. They’d talked about the book Emma had been reading. Polly said she hadn’t read it, but could remember watching a BBC television series about it which her little girl had watched. Emma asked Polly about her daughter, and her face had brightened significantly as she’d talked about her. Her name was Caroline, and she was aged fifteen, so now in secondary school and preparing for her GCSEs. Emma had asked whether Polly missed her, on account of the fact that she’d been living with them for the last week. Polly said she did, but that Caroline was lucky enough to live with her dad and his new wife, so she probably hadn’t even realised that Polly was away from home. This had saddened Emma. There were a couple of children in her year group whose parents had separated, and Emma didn’t want to picture what life would be like if her parents were to separate. They seemed to be arguing more and more, and although Polly had told Emma it was nothing to worry about, neither her mum nor her dad had offered any such assurances.
Since the police officer with the black caterpillar on his lip had made the appeal on television, Mum and Dad were famous. Emma and her mum had walked to the nearby petrol station to pick up a loaf of bread yesterday afternoon, and they had been approached by six different people before they’d returned, all asking questions or offering their condolences. It had left Emma’s head in a spin, so when Polly had suggested she walk Emma to school this morning, Emma and her mum had both leapt at the chance.
At registration, Mrs Murray formally welcomed Emma back to the class, and warned the other students to remember to be kind and check how Emma was doing throughout the day. Mrs Murray then asked to speak to Emma privately, and said how sorry she was to learn about Anna’s disappearance, and that if it all felt too much today, Emma was to come and find her to talk. Emma had appreciated that, and had been tempted to tell Mrs Murray that she’d changed her mind about returning to school, until Mrs Murray told her that she was welcome to go to the library at lunchtime if the thought of the playground was scary.
‘I imagine most of the other children saw the police appeal,’ she added, ‘and if they didn’t, I’m sure their parents did, and would have spoken to them about it. There’s no way to hide from the truth, but what I have learned about schoolchildren is that they soon forget. I bet by the end of the week, none of them will even be talking about your sister.’
This alarmed Emma, although she didn’t say so. Her mum had said that the more people who were talking about Anna, the more people would still be looking for her. It was now a week sin
ce she’d stomped away from the yard, and there was still no sign of her. When they’d gone to Brighton on holiday a couple of years ago, they’d shared a double bed in the hotel room they’d stayed in. Her dad had won the holiday through work, and the girls would stay up late, talking about what they wanted to do the next day, and inevitably what they wanted to be when they were older. Emma had talked about becoming a writer or a journalist, but Anna had said she wanted to be a vet, even though it did mean extra studying at university. Emma couldn’t help but wonder whether that was where Anna was now, though she hadn’t said as much to her mum and dad. But if there was still no sign of Anna by the weekend, she was determined to tell them.
Maths class passed without incident, though Mrs Murray came over and asked if she was okay three times, and three times she said she was fine, even though she could feel twenty-plus pairs of eyes staring at her for most of the lesson. That was followed by writing practice, and then drawing class came. Emma tried to draw the lion from her book, but she couldn’t get Aslan’s mane right, and ended up bursting into tears when she’d rubbed out the pencil lines so many times that the paper ripped. Mrs Murray took her out of the classroom to the sick bay where she could sit quietly and compose herself. Mrs Cross – a funny name given she oversaw the sickbay, and was supposed to offer the students care – said it wasn’t unusual, but agreed to watch Emma for a few minutes.
When the bell sounded for lunch, Emma told Mrs Cross that she was feeling better and that Mrs Murray had told her she could go to the school library to change her book. Mrs Cross looked relieved that she wouldn’t be late getting to the teachers’ lunch queue, and locked the door to the sick bay behind them.
Emma loved the musty smell of the library, and felt comforted for the first time that morning as she stepped in and took a deep breath. Some of her classmates complained about the smell of the books, but Emma saw it for what it was: the breath and wisdom of hundreds of writers who had slaved to craft their words into worlds of wizards and dragons, and princesses and potions. Hundreds of thousands – maybe even millions – of children had been entertained by the books squeezed into these shelves, and what finer profession was there than to entertain the world?
Emma was already reading above her age group, a fact that Mrs Murray strongly encouraged. ‘The more you read, the better your writing will be,’ she would tell the class. And so, if Emma wanted to be the best writer she could, it meant she’d have to keep pushing herself.
Disappearing to the back of the library, where fewer of the students dared to go because of the dark shadow overcast by the tallest of the freestanding book cabinets, Emma scanned the shelves for the next in C. S. Lewis’s series. She’d torn through the pages of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and she knew from the back of the book that the next instalment was called Prince Caspian: The Return to Narnia. But although searching high and low, she couldn’t find the right spine.
She was about to go and search for one of the library assistants – older students who were chosen to ‘work’ in the library as a reward for good work – when she heard two loud girls enter the library, clearly unfamiliar with the formality of silence in such a place
‘Did you see her standing all alone before school started this morning? I always used to think there was something odd about her… Do you know what I mean? Always had her head buried in a book when she could be running about in the fresh air. I mean, Anna was all right – a bit of a square – but her kid sister? Something not right about that one, if you ask me.’
Emma fell back against the bookcase, listening intently.
‘My parents forced me to watch the police appeal on the news, using it as an example of what can happen if I don’t listen to them,’ the second girl said.
‘Oh, I know what you mean. Mine are like this is why we always told you not to talk to strangers. I’m eleven for crying out loud!’
‘My dad said that their dad works up at the old prison at the top of Portland. A prison guard or something. Anyway, I heard Dad telling Mum that all that time spent with criminals was bound to rub off at some point.’
Emma’s chest tightened and her breaths came in shallow bursts.
‘He reckoned the police will probably find her body buried in their garden,’ the second girl continued. ‘Probably picked up tips from the prisoners he’s supposed to be guarding.’
The first girl erupted into a fit of giggles. ‘Gamekeeper turned poacher? Maybe. I just feel sorry for the parents. If you had to lose one of the sisters, you wouldn’t have chosen Anna to be the one to be taken. They should have snatched the weird one instead.’
‘The mum was probably in on it. That’s why the police haven’t checked the garden yet.’
The two girls turned the corner and suddenly came face to face with Emma. Their mouths dropped and their eyes widened, but neither acknowledged her, quickly turning and heading back to the exit of the library.
‘See what I mean?’ the first girl whispered loudly. ‘What kind of weirdo hears that and doesn’t speak up?’
‘You think she heard then?’
‘Duh, obviously! Come on, let’s get out of here before she starts plotting our disappearances.’
Emma felt the sting of tears at the edges of her eyes, but bit down on her tongue to keep them at bay. She’d never cried inside the library before, and she didn’t want to start now. Blinking to clear her vision, she took several deep breaths, trying to clear her mind of their words, but each sentence echoed louder and louder, as if someone had recorded the conversation and was now playing it back over a loudspeaker.
The police will probably find her body buried in their garden.
Emma covered her ears with both hands.
Probably picked up tips from the prisoners he’s supposed to be guarding.
Emma dropped to her knees and closed her eyes, willing the voices to stop.
The mum was probably in on it.
Emma’s mouth dropped open and she silently screamed. They didn’t know her parents like she did. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. They loved her and Anna equally, and they’d been inside when Anna had left, so they couldn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. And yet…
Emma shook the troubling thought from her head.
No, their arguments had nothing to do with them being involved in what had happened, and were simply a matter of neither being able to deal with the feelings of guilt and regret they were experiencing. That was what Polly had said on the way to school that morning. She’d said it was nothing for Emma to worry about, and Emma so wanted to believe her.
But if the Year 6s thought Anna was dead, how long would it be before the police reached the same conclusion? And when they did, how long would it be before they realised that Emma had ignored her grandma’s advice on Sunday afternoon and cast another wish she now deeply regretted?
Chapter Fourteen
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
Jack is in the shower when I wake, but has left me a mug of tea in the kitchen. Last night he insisted he was fit enough to sleep on the sofa bed, meaning I was back in my own bed after a quick change of the sheets. It made a huge difference to my sleeping pattern, and although it took a while to switch off my brain and drift off, once I did, I didn’t wake until just now. I’m not one who usually sleeps past seven, so to see it is just after nine tells me I must have needed the additional rest.
Outside, the seagulls are calling me to get out of bed and to welcome the promise of a new day. Last night, Barbara told me one of the regulars had spotted Freddie hanging out on the other side of town, and something is telling me if I go searching, I’ll find him. Life’s too short for regret, and I desperately want to patch things up with him. I know how thrilled he’ll be to hear of Anna’s return too.
Leaping out of bed, I dress quickly and leave Jack a note telling him I’ve popped out to buy us some pastries for breakfast. I sign the note with a heart after my name, but stare at it for a long time, before screwing
it up and rewriting the note, this time without the heart.
The air is electric when I step outside, and the pavement and road are wet from fresh rain, but tentatively sticking out my hand, the rain seems to be through. The sky over the town has glimpses of blue, and the heavier light-grey clouds are blowing eastwards, so I leave my umbrella in its stand and step out. Across the road, there are several dogs racing along the beach, sending up clouds of sand like mini volcanoes as they go. I remember running along that same stretch of beach when I was younger, and how it always managed to ground me. But I don’t feel the urge to hare along it today. Despite everything that’s up in the air, I feel calmer than I have for a long time, and optimistic that today is going to be a better day than yesterday.
Following the road into town, there are plenty of others milling about from shop to shop, and the occasional one catches my eye and nods or smiles in my direction. There are times when such gestures would have me heading for the nearest hat shop or even returning straight home, but today I greet each one with a huge smile, and none of them bother to ask for an autograph or selfie.
I keep my eyes peeled as I walk along St Thomas Street, until I make it to Town Bridge, crossing over the water and into the old end of town. I head along Trinity Road, stopping when I arrive at a narrow alley that leads up to the residential properties beyond. There used to be access to a bar and clothes shop up there, but both have long since been closed up, the businesses abandoned. For as long as I can remember the tiny gap between buildings has been used as a makeshift residence for some of the homeless who refuse to take up much-needed beds at the hostel. Instead, they brave all weathers and hunker down, out of sight and out of mind of most of those who pass by. It was where I saw Freddie the first time, and followed him to the hostel where I felt compelled to offer my support.