by Kirsty McKay
Flynny came to visit me in the hospital one day, after visiting her. He was full of apologies – for locking me in the garage to stop me from going without him, and for leaving the car running, and for being too busy saving Ms Lasillo’s life to come and save mine. I told him he didn’t need to worry, I’d done a pretty good job of saving my own life.
I haven’t seen him since. He sent my artwork on to my new school. Mrs Ellington said there was a nice note.
Umfraville is closed. Ezra lost ninety per cent of his pupils when it got out that there’d been a wannabe serial killer amongst the pupils. I’m interested to know who the other ten per cent were.
And Alex? They picked him up, half-dead and floating, a couple of miles out to sea. He’d tried to swim for it, but the tides had other ideas and started to carry him over to Ireland. I followed the news about him for a while, but I don’t want to know any more. There will be a trial. Until then, I’ll shut him out.
After the recuperating, the police interviews, the dodging of the press – I had the weirdest Christmas ever, my family pretending everything was normal. And if there was any drama to be discussed, my parents managed to make it all about them. Apparently there’s some terrible tax thing with Skola. They’re moving to Spain and selling the island – to the RSPB, I think? The birds will be so noisily pleased. And now I’m living with my dad’s cousin, two streets away from our old house in South London, and going to school at the comprehensive I would have gone to if the money had never happened. Some of the kids here are nice, and the rest judge me only by the brands I’m wearing and the bands I like, which I can live with. I even kind of like it.
I haven’t heard much from any of my Umfraville friends, and for now, that’s fine. I can’t stop thinking of them as their usernames, and yes – we worked them all out, in the end. Daniel was Nimrod, who posted about three messages in total. I should have guessed, just from that, but also because of ‘Nimrod’. We googled it; it’s a famous violin piece, and slang for someone who’s socially awkward.
Daniel sent me a letter just before Christmas. How old-school of him. It was long, apologetic, and from America. His parents also wrote to me, and apologized. They told me they are trying to get him into Juilliard, and in the meantime he’s seeing a therapist. Which is good, I suppose.
I saw Marcia, in London, once. She was going back to Spain – not far from where my parents have landed, actually. I might visit, sometime. I emailed her, but I haven’t heard anything back yet. She must be feeling weird. We’ll see.
Apparently Emily totally recovered from her spider attack; she’s enjoying a long recuperation in Barbados, which is nice. And Rick? We shouldn’t have been surprised; that boy is made from thick bricks and steel girders. He was in a coma for two weeks, I read in the paper . . . and then one day, he woke up. He’s doing OK now. Not the muscleman he once was, but maybe that’s no bad thing. At least he has his whole life ahead of him.
This snow is getting thicker now. The cinema is a little further up the road, the bright lights welcoming through the hurrying flakes. Someone’s waiting for me, in the doorway, holding popcorn.
‘Get a move on, I told you!’ he shouts at me.
‘Vaughan, you didn’t have to stand out in the cold, you dork.’ I stomp up the steps, smiling at him, anyway. ‘And if you’re working here, can’t you start the film late?’
He gives me a look. ‘As ever, you overestimate my modest powers. Here.’ He shoves the popcorn at me. ‘It’s getting cold.’
We hurry inside. Vaughan takes me through the little foyer, nodding to the bloke collecting tickets, before leading me down the corridor and in through the heavy auditorium door. ‘Pick a seat. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
He leaps up the stairs, and I follow, slower. A trailer reel is playing; there are only a dozen people scattered throughout the auditorium. Hmm, where to sit? Is it really obvious if I pick the back row?
I settle for the second-from-last row. Behind me, in the projection box, I see his shadow moving. He says he likes it here. Zero future – projectionists are a dying breed – but fun for now. Not computers.
A few minutes later, the main feature begins. It’s old, from the sixties? The titles start, and on the screen there’s a little girl being presented with a big pink diamond pendant necklace. What is this film? Then the animation starts, and that music with the tinkling triangle, and of course I immediately know. The title flashes up:
THE PINK PANTHER
I laugh. Inspector Clouseau. Very droll, Vaughan.
He jumps into the empty seat from behind me. ‘Good choice?’
I don’t say anything, but hog the popcorn, and smile at the screen. Yeah, we’re taking it slow. Vaughan doesn’t know this yet, but we are.
The film is funny – old, and a bit corny in places and a bit dull in others, with some crazy hairstyles. But it’s nice to be here, with him, laughing, eating popcorn, just hanging out. A little while into it, he whispers in my ear.
‘Got to go and change the reel. I’ll be back in a mo’.’
I nod, and he climbs over the back of his seat, heading to the projection room. My mouth is all dry with that yucky coating of popcorn grease. I wish he’d got a drink too – no, wait, I’ve got my water bottle in my bag. I put the rest of the popcorn on the arm of the chair, and bend down to get my bag, but as I do I knock the stupid carton off the chair, and popcorn is flung everywhere.
‘Jeez!’ I hiss, picking up the empty box. I hope Vaughan isn’t going to be cross; he probably has to clear up all of this crap at the end of the movie. I set the box down, and start shovelling popcorn, and as I deposit it back in the box, I spot something already in there. I hold the box up, scraping the popcorn away, but it’s too dark to see properly. I empty the box on the floor again, my heart beating. Is that writing? I find my phone, and use the light to read what’s on the inside:
WATCHING YOU
My heart jumps into my throat and I spring up from my seat, clinging to my bag, hunting for my keys to grip like knives in my hand, running to the end of the aisle, down the stairs and towards the door, the tears blinding me, half-stumbling, half-falling, towards the outside.
‘Cate!’ Vaughan is suddenly there, his hand on my shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Get off me!’ I burst through the door, into the light.
‘What is it?’ He follows me, as I run down the corridor, my hand feeling in my bag again for my phone, ready to dial. ‘Stop!’ He grabs my shoulder.
‘Let go!’ I scream.
‘You need to calm down,’ he says. ‘What is it? Tell me.’
‘The popcorn box,’ I stammer. ‘A message, from him. “Watching you”. He’s here, Vaughan, we have to call the police!’
Vaughan’s face pales. ‘Oh no, I’m so sorry.’
‘What?’ I say, looking around. ‘We need to go!’
‘No!’ He takes my hand. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think – look.’ He drags me to a poster on the wall. ‘This.’
I look up, the words and images dancing before me. Black, a pair of bloodshot eyes, long eyelashes. A streak of red behind them. And the title, of a movie, above them:
WATCHING YOU
‘It’s a new movie, and the popcorn box is a promotion.’ He runs to the concessions counter, leans over and grabs an empty box. ‘Look, it’s got it written in all of them.’
I take the box. The same words, at the bottom, on the inside. I put a hand out and steady myself on the wall. ‘I thought . . .’
‘I know,’ Vaughan says. ‘It’s not him. He’s locked up, Cate.’
I look into his calm green eyes. ‘We never asked Alex if he sent those notes to me, did we? We thought it was Skulk who was writing them, but we never found out for sure . . .’
‘Come on,’ Vaughan puts his arm around me. ‘Let’s go back in, see the rest of the movie.’
I nod, and he holds my hand, and takes me back through the doors. Some of the people look up at us, as we walk up the
steps, back to our seats. I count them as we go. Eleven, and Vaughan and I make thirteen. Thirteen players, one Grand Master . . .
I sit down in the darkness with him, and the movie rolls on. His hand snakes into mine, and I grip it, tightly, my breathing steady now, my heartbeat slowing.
This time, nobody runs away, and nobody gets left behind.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks as ever to all those who watch my back and kick my butt: Veronique Baxter, Laura West, Imogen Cooper, Barry Cunningham, Laura Myers and all the fabulous team at Chicken House, John Mawer, Didi McKay, the JP moms, and finally the Gripers (especially Sonia Miller for keeping me in fries and frappés). Thank you so much to my readers; you’re the best. No seriously, you are. You are.
ALSO BY KIRSTY McKAY
UNDEAD
When their ski-coach pulls up at a cafe, and everyone else gets off, new girl Bobby and rebel Smitty stay behind. They hardly know each other but that soon changes when through the falling snow, they see the others coming back.
Something has happened to them. Something bad.
Soon only a pair of double doors stands between those on the bus and their ex-friends the Undead outside.
CHARLIE HIGSON
Paperback, ISBN 978-1-906427-87-0, £6.99 • ebook, ISBN 978-1-909489-20-2, £6.99
ALSO AVAILABLE:
UNFED
Paperback, ISBN 978-1-908435-32-3, £6.99 • ebook, ISBN 978-1-908435-66-8, £6.99
TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE
FIRE & FLOOD by VICTORIA SCOTT
Tella’s brother is dying. He’s got cancer and Tella is helpless to save him. Or so she thought.
When an invitation arrives for Tella to compete in the Brimstone Bleed, a deadly competition that will lead her through a treacherous jungle and scorching desert, she doesn’t think twice. Because the prize is a cure to any illness. But Tella will be facing more than just the elements . . .
THE BOOKSELLER
Paperback, ISBN 978-1-909489-62-2, £6.99 • ebook, ISBN 978-1-909489-63-9, £6.99
ALSO AVAILABLE:
SALT & STONE
Paperback, ISBN 978-1-910002-06-3, £6.99 • ebook, ISBN 978-1-910002-07-0, £6.99
TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE
IF YOU WERE ME by SAM HEPBURN
Not long after Aliya’s family escapes Afghanistan for Britain, her brother is accused of a bomb attack. Aliya is sure of his innocence, but when plumber’s son Dan finds a gun in their bathroom, what’s she to think?
Dan has his own reasons for staying silent: he’s worried the gun might have something to do with his dad. Thrown together by chance, the two of them set out to uncover a tangled and twisted truth.
Paperback, ISBN 978-1-909489-80-6, £6.99 • ebook, ISBN 978-1-910002-42-1, £6.99
Text © Kirsty McKay 2015
First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2015
This electronic edition published in 2015
Chicken House
2 Palmer Street
Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS
United Kingdom
www.doublecluck.com
Kirsty McKay has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of the publisher.
Produced in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Cover and interior design by Steve Wells
British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.
ISBN 978-1-909489-11-0
eISBN 978-1-910002-82-7