‘Well spotted.’
She slid into the room, shutting the door behind her. She was wearing jeans and a hot pink top with Ballerina on it. ‘Mummy said to let you sleep. She said you're having a rough time.’
The pillow muffled my voice. ‘So why are you in here, not letting me sleep?’
‘Because it's Saturday! You said you'd play with me today.’
I was completely positive that I hadn't said anything of the sort, actually. I lay there for a few seconds, thinking about telling her to bugger off, and then I slowly sat up, collapsing the warm cave of covers.
‘OK. Come sit here, and we'll play.’
Her face split in delight, and she bounded across the room, bouncing onto the bed. I shoved my hair back. It felt ropy. ‘Right … where were we?’
‘We were entering the chamber where Jasmine awaited!’ breathed Nat, her eyes gleaming. ‘Wands at the ready!’
That's right. God, that was ages ago. ‘OK, close your eyes.’
She popped them closed, leaning against me. I put my arm around her sturdy little body, feeling her warmth, and lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘Now, Jasmine's chamber is made of … of seashells. The insides of seashells, all sort of shimmering pink and grey. Can you see them yet?’
Nat's hair tickled my arm as she shook her head, eyes still closed.
‘Keep trying. Seashells, glistening on the walls … Just think about Jasmine's palace, and you'll be there.’
‘Ooh, I can see it!’ she breathed. ‘And Jasmine's sitting on a throne of shells! She looks evil !’
‘She is, but we have to go in and face her. She has green hair, like seaweed, and as we approach her, she sort of draws herself up and says—’
Both of us started as someone knocked on my door.
‘What?’ I called.
‘Phone's for you,’ said Jenny. ‘Someone called Sheila.’ She opened the door and tossed me the cordless extension, rolling her eyes as she spotted her wayward daughter. ‘I told you not to come in here, didn't I? Come on now, let Emma take her call in peace.’
‘No! We're playing a game … !’
‘We'll finish later, Nat.’ I stared down at the extension like it was about to explode in my face. Sheila?
Nat flung herself dramatically off the bed, and Jenny drew her out of the room. As the door shut behind them, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. ‘Um … hello?’
‘Emma, it's Sheila. From the re-enactment.’ Her voice sounded as spiky as her hair.
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Look, I'm ringing because a group of us got together last night to watch Crimewatch. A group of Abby's friends, I mean. And since we're closer to her than anyone, right, we're going to try to figure out what's happened to her. And we have some questions we'd like to ask you.’
‘But the police have already—’
‘Duh, yes, obviously. They've spoken to all of us, too, but we want to have a go ourselves. So we're meeting at my house this morning … if it's not too much trouble for you to come around, that is.’
What, go to her house ? How could I face Abby's friends when they all hated me? I licked dry lips. ‘Um – how did you get my number, anyway?’ She huffed out a breath. ‘There are fourteen Townsends in the phonebook. T Townsend, presumably your father, is number twelve. Look, I don't have time for this – we're all going to be here at eleven o'clock, and it's number four Auburn Street in Garemont. If you want to help Abby, you'll turn up … though I really don't expect you will.’
Click.
Of course I wasn't going. I'd have to be completely barking! It would be suicidal to go present myself to a bunch of Abby's friends – like sauntering into the lions' den, only worse. At least the lions don't have anything against you personally as they rip you to shreds.
I got out of bed, throwing the covers back. I was due to meet Debbie and Jo at one o'clock, in the town centre, and it was only around half nine now – I'd have a nice, relaxing morning, maybe go for a swim with Jenny.
I paused in front of my wardrobe, staring at my clothes. Yeah, a relaxing morning … except that I kept hearing Sheila's voice buzzing in my ears, taunting me. If you want to help Abby …
They hated me, though. They hated me. My stomach lurched as I pulled on a pair of jeans. When I glanced in the mirror, my expression stared back at me, wide-eyed.
Abby would do it for me, even if we hadn't spoken for ten years, let alone one.
Slowly, I finished getting dressed. My fingers were cold and clumsy, and when I looked at myself in the mirror again, I didn't exactly look determined.
Turning away from the sight of my pale face, I snatched up my handbag and left, shutting the door behind me.
I told Dad and Jenny I was going into town, and then took the bus to Sheila's house. It was the number 56, the same one I had taken with Abby, exactly a week ago now. Hopefully it wasn't the same exact bus. Trying not to think about it, I stared out at the familiar shops and houses, wondering if I had gone completely mental. Why was I doing this?
Auburn Street was just a minute or so away from where I used to live. I stood on the doorstep of number four for ages, watching my finger hover over the doorbell. Finally I clenched my jaw and jabbed it hard. Crossing my arms over my chest, I listened to the sound of approaching footsteps, willing myself not to run.
The door flew open and it was Sheila standing there, wearing a black T-shirt with a dragon on it, and about twenty silver earrings. Her eyes widened when she saw me. Then she tossed her head and the familiar sneer dropped back into place.
‘Oh, so you actually came. Well, come on then – we're all upstairs in my room.’
She shut the door behind me and stalked up the stairs, her back ramrod-straight. I swallowed and followed her, neither of us saying a word.
I don't know what I expected – black and more black, I suppose – but Sheila's room had these amazing fantasy posters everywhere, and a prism hanging in front of the window that scattered tiny rainbow-lights across the room.
‘That's Rob, and that's Gail,’ said Sheila, flopping onto the bed. ‘This is Emma, everyone.’
Rob gave me a sort of salute – a gangly, dark-haired boy in a flapping black trenchcoat. Gail was heavy-set with crimson hair, wearing a black corset-type dress with dramatically flowing sleeves. She nodded at me. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ I hugged my elbow, feeling stupidly trendy in my flared jeans and tight brown top. I sank down on the floor beside Sheila's desk.
Suddenly I saw that there were four cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. Every one of them had a black and white poster of Abby taped to the front. MISSING: ABIGAIL RYZNER, known as ‘Abby’. I looked quickly away.
‘Should we wait for—?’ started Rob.
Sheila's earrings rattled as she shook her head. ‘No, he said he might be late. Let's just get started.’
Gail drew a notebook out of her bag, opening it to a page with lots of writing. She cleared her throat, not looking at me. ‘Um – right, Emma. What did Abby say when she first saw you?’
For a second my brain felt completely out of step. I took a breath. ‘Um – well, you know, we said hello … it wasn't anything important.’
Sheila rolled her eyes. ‘You can't know it wasn't important. Come on, what exactly did you say?’
So I struggled to recall exactly what we had said, and Gail scribbled down all the banal stuff about how's your mum, how are your brothers. It had been such a nothing conversation, so why did I feel like they were taking my clothes off?
‘What did you talk about on the bus?’ asked Rob. He had a scattering of acne, and dark eyes that squinted at me like I was a theorem he was trying to work out.
I looked down, picking at a bit of carpet fluff. ‘Um … she said that she was getting ready to start GM-ing, or whatever it's called, and that her game was going to be more exciting or something … she showed me this book, the Monster Manual … ’ Gail wrote it all down without commenting, the black lace of her sle
eves making a spider-web pattern against her arm.
Against my will, my eyes were drawn to the four boxes again. Feeling sick, I jerked my gaze away, looking instead at the D&D books bulging in Sheila's bookshelf. She had the Monster Manual, too.
Sheila's eyes were narrow blue slits, sneering at every word I said. ‘What was in her knapsack?’ she barked.
I felt my face redden as I glanced at her. ‘You already know that from the re-enactment—’
‘Remind us, will you?’
‘Fine!’ My voice wavered. ‘There was the box with the necklace in it, and the book – and I think a bottle of Pepsi—’
Her nose jabbed at me like a pointing finger. ‘You think ? Can't you even try to remember?’
‘I am —’
‘Look, let's go on to something else,’ broke in Rob, tapping his fingers on the thigh of his jeans. ‘What sort of mood was Abby in? Did she seem upset or anything?’
Sheila flopped back against the headboard with her arms across her chest. ‘Probably she was fine until Emma here told her to piss off. Right, Emma?’
A prickling burned my throat. ‘We were both upset; it wasn't like—’
Gail looked up from her notebook. ‘Yeah, but do you think the stuff with you was all that was upsetting her? Or was there something else?’
I looked away, trying not to think of the cautiously happy look on Abby's face when she first caught sight of me. I could feel them all watching me. ‘It was just
– the stuff with me, I guess,’ I managed finally. Sheila's mouth twisted. ‘Yeah, what a total surprise. Right, next question. Did you—’
‘Look, forget it! This is – I mean, maybe I should just go.’ I started to scramble up, grabbing blindly at my handbag.
‘No, wait!’ Gail held her hand up. ‘Come on, Sheila, leave off, will you? She's trying to help us, at least.’
Sheila snorted and looked away.
‘OK?’ said Gail to me.
My heart thudded as I sank slowly back down again. ‘Yeah, whatever. But, um – I have to leave soon.’ Coward! Why didn't I just leave now ?
Rob let out an impatient breath. ‘Look, let's get back to Abby. The way I see it, one of three things could have happened to her.’
‘Go on, then.’ Gail's pen was poised over the notepad.
Rob ticked the options off on his fingers. ‘Right. One, she ran away. Two, she had some sort of accident somewhere. Or, three – she was, um, kidnapped.’
‘Well, I don't think she ran away,’ burst out Sheila.
Gail and Rob stared at her.
‘Because … she had plans and ever ything.’ Sheila's mouth trembled slightly, and a ferocious scowl darkened her face. ‘And frankly, I don't think what happened with Emma was enough to make her freak out and run off somewhere.’
That word again, freak. As if on cue, all three of them turned and stared at me. Some tiny part of me managed to hold myself together, and I jerked my chin up, staring back at them.
Gail looked away first. Her voice was husky as she spoke. ‘And – and if she had an accident between the bus and her house, someone would have found her, wouldn't they? It's only a few minutes away, and it's not like it's – wilderness or anything.’
Silence choked over the room. I pressed against the desk, hugging my knees, and suddenly wanted to say something, anything, that would help. But I couldn't. I knew the fear that was gripping all of them, because it was my fear, too – that Abby had been shoved into a car by some psycho murderer, that she had been hurt, terrified …
Killed.
Suddenly Sheila swung her feet off the bed. ‘What's the point of this, eh? What's the point – come on, let's get out of here.’
Rob swallowed. ‘But I thought we were—’
‘Forget it! It's stupid!’ Sheila lunged across the room to the cardboard boxes, hefting one at Rob. ‘And you —’ she spun on me, almost crying. ‘Yeah, why don't you just leave … we're all Abby's friends here.’
So I did; I left the room, and stumbled down the stairs in a haze. As I got to the bottom, the doorbell rang, and a moment later Sheila and the others came pounding down the stairs, carrying the cardboard boxes.
Sheila shouldered past me and wrenched open the door. A boy with longish blond hair and a pierced eyebrow stood there. ‘Thank god you're here,’ said Sheila. ‘Here, take this.’
She shoved one of the boxes at him. He clutched it, glancing at me with a startled frown. ‘Um, weren't we going to—’
‘Forget it!’ snapped Sheila. ‘What do you want to talk to her for; she's useless, bloody useless—’ Without missing a beat, she turned and bellowed, ‘Mum! We're leaving! ’
I left, pushing past the boy with the pierced eyebrow. I wasn't about to do the social polite thing with Mrs Langley, when her daughter would happily nail me to a tree.
As I waited for the bus, hugging myself, I saw the four of them fanning out down the street, taping posters to utility poles, walls, sides of houses. Once they had disappeared down the next road, I went over and looked at one. I couldn't stop myself.
Abby Ryzner, 13, missing since Saturday, 4th September … She was wearing black trousers, a black T-shirt, and silver jewellery … If you have seen Abby, or have any information …
Her smiling face looked out at me from inside a plastic folder. I touched it, thinking, I guess they put the posters in plastic to stop them getting wet or whatever … oh, very clever, Emma, go to the head of the class! I shoved my hands in my pockets, struggling against tears, and turned and left, heading back to the bus stop.
Or that was my plan. Instead, I found myself walking straight past it and down the next road.
I walked down my old street slowly, feeling like I had just landed from another galaxy. It was all exactly the same, and completely different. The big magnolia tree at the bottom had been cut down. Number twelve had paved their front garden to make a parking space.
Abby's house stood across the street from my old house, a few numbers down, a brick mid-terrace just like all the others. Seeing it again felt like slipping into a favourite old jumper. Abby and I used to practically live in each other's houses, running back and forth across the street a dozen times a day.
Plus we had loads of special places, dotted around the area like pirate treasure. We even made a map of them once – like the cluster of birch trees in the park two streets over, which we decided was a portal to other worlds, and the fence outside a crumbling old house down the road. We'd peer in and make up stories about it …
‘Emma?’ called a man's voice.
I whirled around. Our old next-door neighbour was standing outside his house, looking quizzically at me.
‘Hi, Mr Yates.’ I straightened my shoulders, trying to look casual. Right, like I just happened to be strolling past.
Mr Yates came over and leaned against the gate, his bald head gleaming in the sun. ‘Aye, I thought that was you. How's your mum doing? Enjoying America?’
So there was a bit of small talk – yes, she's fine, she loves it – and all the while I was dreading the conversation turning to Abby, inevitably, like an earthquake. Sure enough, finally he said, ‘Come to help the Ryzners with their posters, have you?’
I glanced over at their house again. It looked so weirdly silent, like a relic from a ghost town. I shrugged, swallowing hard. ‘Yeah … I thought I could help.’
‘Good for you! I've put some up myself, but it's a bit hard to fit in with work. Still, you want to do whatever you can, don't you?’ Mr Yates shook his head. ‘Such a terrible thing … well, Charles is in now, I think, if you want to pop across.’
He turned away, dead-heading pink and purple flowers from the hanging basket beside his door. I just stood there, gulping like a fish. How had I got into this?
He glanced back at me, eyebrows up. ‘Go on, pet; he's in.’
No, I can't, I have to leave now. I made a mistake; I didn't mean it! I couldn't say any of it, not with Mr Yates staring at me.
‘Yes, OK. Thanks.’ And before I could think about it, I turned and crossed the street.
The closer I got to Abby's house, the spookier it seemed. It was just … silent. I could practically hear the forsythia bush rustling in the wind.
The Ryzner's house used to be anything but silent. You could hardly approach it without being deafened by the wall of sound that was Abby's music, or being flattened by Greg and Matthew as they came roaring out of the house.
The Terrible Twins. We used to have mini-wars with them, plotting these elaborate campaigns in Abby's playhouse. Ten Things to do to the TTs. Boiling oil, we decided, and cascaded dead leaves and twigs over them the next time they tried to invade.
Feeling Mr Yates' eyes still on me, I took a deep breath and rang the bell.
‘And this was taken last summer … I think you had moved away by then, hadn't you?’ Mr Ryzner rubbed his stubble-laden chin as he stared at a photo of Abby on a beach. His throat moved, and he passed it to me quickly, diving back into the stack of photos in front of him.
‘This is on the Costa again … she and Greg got very into building sand castles …’
‘Wow, that's really artistic,’ I said weakly.
I was sitting, trapped at the Ryzner's massive dining table as photo after photo of Abby piled up beside me. When I had asked whether they needed any help putting up posters, Mr Ryzner had started out talking very matter-of-factly about how many posters they had, and how they had decided which photo to use, and then somehow this had drifted into him bringing out their holiday snaps. And now he looked like he was about to cry.
‘This was a nice one … we almost used this one, actually, except she wasn't … wasn't wearing the sort of clothes she usually wears …’
I nodded, clutching a mug of almost-cold tea that I hadn't wanted and couldn't drink. In the kitchen, I could hear Abby's grandmother moving about, talking softly to herself in Polish. I longed to be in there with her, smiling and nodding and not understanding a word she said.
Mrs Ryzner and the twins were out putting up posters. ‘I'd be helping them, but someone has to be here to catch the phone, you see … if it rings …’ Mr Ryzner had tried to smile when he said this. It was horrible.
Missing Abby Page 5