by Tanith Morse
He squeezed me more tightly to him, and I could feel the wild beating of his heart. His body felt so strong and powerful against mine, I knew he could have broken me in half if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He held me with gentleness and restraint, as if I were some delicate china doll.
Words were not necessary. The intensity of his grip told me all I needed to know. Lost in his arms like this, so warm, so snug, it felt safe to let my barriers down, and allow myself to truly open up. I was that little lost seven-year-old again and he was shielding me from the cruelty of the world.
After a moment, I came up for air. He was staring down at me like some kind of tortured angel, a burning fire in his eyes that took my breath away. He’d told so many lies, tricked and deceived me in a way that was wholly unforgivable; by rights I shouldn’t have wanted him anywhere near me. And yet, somehow I did. More than ever, in fact. All I cared about was that my best friend was alive. And that was all that mattered right now.
“Come on, I’ll take you home,” he murmured.
TWELVE
Reconciliation
A little after one, we pulled back onto my street. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still loomed ominously above. I hadn’t wanted to leave Elliot, but he’d insisted on it. He said he needed time to think, time to get his head together—and in all honesty, who could blame him? It had been an intense twenty-four hours for the both of us.
I was still having trouble processing what had happened. And I knew it was important for me to carry on as if nothing strange had happened. Any major change in my behavior might arouse suspicion.
“So when will I see you again?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch,” he replied brusquely.
“You’re not gonna run out on me, are you?”
“Not if you keep your side of the bargain.”
“Of course I will. I’ve given you my word.”
“Then you’ll hear from me in a couple of days.”
For a moment, I sat silently, my hands folded in my lap.” You will think about it though, won’t you?”
“Speaking to my parents?”
“Yes.”
“Like I said, it’s under consideration. I’ll let you know my decision when I next speak to you.” He clenched his lips and got the engine started. “Listen, you’d better go inside now. Your Mum’s gonna be wondering what happened to you.”
“Okay.”
When I got in, I found Mum in the living room with Greg. As soon as I walked through the door, she stubbed out her cigarette and raced toward me.
“My god, darling, where have you been? I was just about to phone the police. We’ve all been worried sick. Frasier called earlier looking for you. He said something about a fight in a club, and how you’d disappeared afterwards.”
“I didn’t disappear,” I said. “He’s being overly dramatic. A friend took me home and that’s where I’ve just come from. No big deal.”
“Which friend is this?” she asked sternly. “I thought you were supposed to be staying with that Becky girl.”
“No, this is a different friend. You don’t know them.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits. “What the hell happened here?” She clutched my swollen cheek and tilted it toward her. “So Frasier was right. You have been fighting.”
“Mum!” I glanced pointedly at our visitor. “Can we do this another time? My head’s so sore, I really need to lie down.”
Her mouth became a taut, bitter line. “Can you give us five minutes, Greg? I need to have a word with my daughter. Alone.”
“No problem,” Greg said, getting up. “I’ll go make us some tea.” He hurried out to the kitchen.
I stood by the door, shifting my weight awkwardly. I really couldn’t take a grilling right now.
“You might as well sit down,” she said, gesturing to an empty space on the sofa. “You’re not leaving this room till you tell me what’s been going on.”
Reluctantly, I obliged. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, let’s start with what Frasier said this morning. Apparently you got into an altercation with a man and you were seen leaving the club in a hurry.”
“So I got in one little argument. So what?”
“I’d say that mark on your face is the product of more than just a little argument, wouldn’t you?”
“Okay, so I had a bit of a scrap. Big deal. It’s done, so why’s everyone making such a fuss?”
“Well, I haven’t finished telling you what Frasier said, have I? He says about an hour after you left, a man was found lying in an alley behind the nightclub. He’d taken such a beating he’s now in intensive care and they say his condition’s touch and go.”
A tremor ran through me, but I managed to remain calm. “So . . .? What does that have to do with me?”
“Your friend seems to think the man in the alley is the same man people saw you having the ruckus with. Frasier was concerned for your safety. He thought maybe the man had gone after you or something.”
I held my breath. The knife! I couldn’t remember what I’d done with it. If the police had gotten hold of it, they’d find my fingerprints on it—and Elliot’s. That might lead to some awkward questions.
I knew I had to distance myself from this as much as possible. At the end of the day, I had nothing to be ashamed of. That psychopath had tried to kill us, and we had only been defending ourselves. If he’d taken a beating that had landed him in hospital—well, too bad. He only had himself to blame.
I decided to play it cool. “I don’t know anything about any guy in an alley. All I know is, some creep tried to grope me, so I slapped him. Then my friend stepped in and took me home. End of story. But,” I continued carefully, “if this was the same guy who groped me, then I’m not surprised he got beaten up. The way he was behaving, he was bound to pick on the wrong person.”
My mother’s face relaxed a little, but her eyes were still shrewd. “Well I’m certainly glad you stood up for yourself. You might have to start carrying a pepper spray around with you. But perhaps you’d better give clubbing a miss for a while, eh?”
“Well, you’re the one who’s always forcing me to go out. If I had my way, I’d have been at home on my cross-trainer.”
“That’s true,” she agreed. “I only wanted you to do normal teenage things, that’s all. It would appear no good deed goes unpunished.”
I faked a yawn, stretched, and got up. “If that’s all you wanted to say, then I guess I can go to my room now?”
“Sit down!” Mum commanded. Her voice was shrill.
Hastily, I obeyed. She didn’t lose her temper easily, but when she did, she was a force to be reckoned with.
“You still haven’t explained what happened to your face.”
I looked away from her. “I … I fell over. It happened when I was running for the car.”
“You’re lying.”
“No I’m not! Why would I lie to you?”
“And you’re being very cryptic about this so-called friend you stayed with last night. Wouldn’t happen to be that Lee person, would it?”
“Maybe, maybe not. What’s it to you?”
“I thought you weren’t talking to him any more?”
“Listen, I don’t have to explain anything to you. It’s my life and I’ll do whatever I want. I’m not a child anymore.”
“Look at your hands,” she interjected. “You’re trembling like a leaf. Something bad has happened, I can feel it. Why can’t you just be honest with me?”
I buried my hands between my knees. She was right. I was shaking. Damn it. “You’re a fine one to talk about honesty. I mean, what exactly is Greg doing here? Did he spend the night again?”
It was now her turn to look awkward. “That’s none of your concern.”
“It’s a simple enough question. Did he or didn’t he?”
“Keep your bloody voice down. He might hear you.” She felt around in her pockets and retrieved a packet of Pall Malls. Sha
kily, she lit another cigarette. “All right, I admit it. He stayed the night again. I’m sorry.”
“Oh Mum, you promised! You promised to take things slowly. We agreed no more sleepovers till I was comfortable, and now you’ve gone back on everything you said.”
“What can I do?” she shrugged, tapping the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “I screwed up. At least I’ve the guts to admit it. You’ve got to understand I couldn’t help myself. He’s so … good.”
“That’s it!” I stood up and headed for the door. “You’re a disgrace. I can’t believe my own mother‘s behaving like a …”
“Oh, will you be quiet?” she shouted. “You’re right. I think it’s best you go to your room now. I don’t want to see you for a while.”
As I stormed into the hall, I was just in time to see Greg ducking back into the kitchen. He’d obviously been eavesdropping, but I didn’t care.
I’d only half meant what I’d said. Most of my bratty speech had been just for show, a way of throwing Mum off the scent. The reality was, I had way bigger things to worry about than her boyfriend’s sleeping arrangements. Still, if it got her off my case, then it was worth it.
When I got to my bedroom, the first thing I did was change out of Elliot’s clothing. He’d had to loan me one of his T-shirts and some tracksuit bottoms because Becky’s dress was ruined. This wasn’t the greatest outfit, but it was better than walking around naked.
After I’d slipped into something more comfortable, I crashed out on the bed to meditate. I badly needed to gain some perspective on things. For the next hour or so, I walked three miles round my room, standing outside myself, trying to assess the situation from every angle possible. In the end, I’d narrowed it down to three main points—there were others, but my brain just couldn’t handle more right now.
First, I wanted to know how Elliot funded his lifestyle. The Lotus, the flash apartment, the designer clothing—did he go to work, and if so, what sort of work did an eighteen-year-old do to earn that sort of money?
Second, how much of the “Lee Weaver” story was true? Did Elliot really go to art college? And what about these so-called parents who lived in Lebanon? Were they real people? I’d heard stories about childless couples having kids “snatched to order.” Was it possible Elliot had been taken by the Gruesome Twosome and sold to some rich family who’d kept him abroad until the furor died down in Britain? Elliot had mentioned he’d done a lot of traveling.
Third—and most important— why had his physical appearance altered so much? Had his captors forced him to have plastic surgery? Bizarre as that sounded, it was the only possibility I could think of.
Reaching across to the dresser, I picked up the photograph of six-year-old Elliot and studied it intently. Those cute, cherubic features bore no resemblance to the catwalk model he’d become. His nose was now straighter and more defined, his lips thicker and more accentuated at the Cupid’s bow. Even his eyebrows looked different. And that beauty spot—where had that come from? Six-year-old Elliot’s face was virtually blemish-free. Mentally comparing this image with the person I‘d just been with convinced me that there must have been some cosmetic surgery involved. Nobody’s face could change that drastically without a surgeon’s hand.
This conclusion seemed to back up the theory that he’d been abducted to order for a wealthy family and been raised as their own. Strange as it sounded, that was the only thing that made sense.
On the face of it, whoever had taken him certainly hadn’t treated him badly. He was in great shape. He’d obviously been clothed and fed, and had large sums of money put at his disposal.
But that opened another whole can of worms.
Was Elliot purposely protecting his captors’ identities out of some misplaced loyalty? Was that the reason he was so reluctant to reveal his whereabouts? Did he feel some kind of warped allegiance to the people who’d taken him, which prevented him from speaking about his past?
Stockholm Syndrome, they called it. I’d seen a movie about it once. A group of employees were held captive during a bank robbery, and when the police came, they switched sides and helped to defend the robbers. It was as if the employees had become emotionally attached to their captors to the point where they endangered their own salvation.
Could this be what happened to Elliot?
Placing the photo back on the dresser, I unplugged my phone from the charger and switched it on. I’d forgotten to take it with me to Becky’s, so I hadn’t checked any of my messages since yesterday morning.
The moment the screen lit up, about a dozen texts flashed up. Most were from Becky, sent at ten-minute intervals in the early hours of the previous morning.
Text one: What happened? R u ok? Plse call me.
Text two: R u still with Lee? Did he take u home?
Text three: Plse call me. Luv Becky xx
And so on …
For a while, I deliberated whether or not to respond. I decided she ought to at least know I was alive.
Unhurriedly, I texted back: Hi Becks, I’m fine thanks. Lee took me home and am now resting. Speak 2 u 2moro. Luv Sam xxx
About two seconds after I sent it, the phone started ringing and her caller ID flashed up. She obviously wanted to know what had happened between me and Lee (sorry, Elliot) after we left the club, but that was a conversation I wasn’t ready for. Not yet. So I let it ring.
Then I dialed Frasier’s voicemail to leave him a message. As he’d gone to the trouble of coming to my house to look for me, I figured he at least deserved to hear my voice, even if I wasn’t quite ready to speak to him yet.
“Hi Frasier, it’s Sam here. Listen, thanks for caring. My mum told me you came by today. That was really sweet of you. Just wanted to let you know that I’m home safe now, so you can stop worrying, okay? I’ll see you in English tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, that whole guy in the alley thing, that has nothing to do with me or Lee. You hear me? We went straight home after the club. Nothing happened. Well … you take care, bye.”
I snapped the phone shut and rested it temporarily on the pillow, wondering if I’d sounded convincing. Had I laid it on a bit thick perhaps? Would Frasier see through my charade?
I stared down brokenly at the handset with a dull, leaden feeling growing in my heart. I hated that I had to carry the burden of Elliot’s secret alone. Keeping it to myself meant shutting off the people I cared about. The idea infused me with a loneliness that was almost too much to bear.
I desperately needed to hear a friendly voice; someone to tell me everything would be okay.
I needed my father.
Picking up the phone, I dialed his number, my palms sweating around the handset. “Hello, Dad?”
“Sweetheart, is that you? The reception’s a bit fuzzy.”
I shifted positions. “Is that better?”
“Yeah, I can hear you better now. How are you my darling? I haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope everything’s okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Dad’s dulcet tones ensconced me like a warm, comforting blanket. “How’s Dublin?”
“Same old, same old. Still looking for a job. Gran and Granddad send their love and want to know when you’re coming up to see us again.”
“As soon as I get some time off school.”
“Well don’t leave it too long. We miss you terribly.”
“Me too, Dad, me too.” I squeezed the phone against my chest, biting back tears.
“Sam, you still there?”
I nodded mutely. “Y-yes, I’m still here.”
“Are you sure you’re okay sweetheart? You sound as if something’s wrong.”
For a split second, I debated whether or not to tell him. “Um, Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If someone told you a secret, would you …” I trailed off.
“Go on. If someone told me a secret …?”
I rephrased the question. “If someone you cared about was hurting really bad, and
you knew how to stop it, would you? Even if it meant breaking a promise?”
“Sweetheart, you’re not making any sense. Is this about someone in particular?”
“No, hypothetically speaking.”
“Okay.” He paused, thinking. “Yes I would. Definitely. If I knew something that could end a loved one’s misery, I’d tell them—even if it meant breaking a promise. That would be the right thing to do.”
I felt sick. “Are you sure?”
“Sweetheart, what is this all about? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No. Just a silly tiff with a girl from school, that’s all. Nothing major,” I lied.
A long moment passed in silence, the two of us divided by the privacy of our thoughts.
“How’s your mother?” he asked.
“She’s great. Really great.” I drummed my fingers on the bed, feeling increasingly anxious at the direction the conversation was heading.
“She still dating that work colleague of hers? What’s his name, Glenn?”
“Greg.”
“Ah, that’s it. Greg.” Dad enunciated the word with deep and utter loathing. “I trust all’s well between the two of them?”
“Um, yeah, I guess. He seems like a nice guy.” I faltered, realizing this wasn’t what my father wanted to hear. “Dad, is it okay if I call you back in a bit? I think Mum’s calling me.”
“Okay, no problem. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
As soon as I hung up, there was a knock at the door.
“Go away Mum, I don’t want to talk to you,” I shouted.
“It’s me, Greg. May I come in?”
“Yeah.”
Slowly, the door creaked open and Greg came in. His face looked anxious, his dark brow knotted in mental perplexity. His eyes quickly scrutinized my bedroom with uninhibited curiosity before settling warily on me.
“Is it okay if I sit down?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Tentatively, he perched at the foot of my bed, the mattress caving under his weight. “I heard you and Lisa arguing earlier. I didn’t catch all the details, but I got the gist. Now, I know this is probably none of my business, but I’ll say it anyway, because I’m an upfront sort of person.”