I took a few steps back when you pulled the door up. I was afraid I was going to see Alice in there, and didn’t know what I was going to do if I did. I thought I’d have to play along, like I knew you had her and I’d come to warn you about the police being at school asking questions. I’d have to say, What shall we do with her? and I’ll help you and stuff like that till I got the chance to knock you out.
She wasn’t in there. There was just a rusty blue Nissan Micra and garagey stuff round the walls: rakes and a spade and a rolled-up rug. No cat, of course.
‘I definitely heard a miaow,’ I said, stepping closer and peering inside. I didn’t go too close. Not close enough for you to grab me and pull the door down, but close enough to smell your sweat.
You unhooked a torch and went down on your knees, flashing it under the car.
‘Here, puss,’ I called a few times while you checked round the back of the garage and tipped a sunbed forward. I couldn’t see the canvas tool bag either.
Then you hung the torch up again and came out, fixing me with your dark eyes. You raised an eyebrow. ‘No cat,’ you said.
I pulled a face, shrugging, and said ‘That’s weird’, except my throat was so dry the words didn’t come out properly, and then I was going to try and say something like It must’ve been next door when there was a sudden scrabbling sound the other side of the fence and a cat appeared over the top. It froze for a second, staring at us with big yellow eyes, then jumped onto your garage roof, sat down and started licking its leg.
You pulled the garage door down again and went back past me and into your kitchen.
I thought I shouldn’t go in your house, but then I thought of Alice and followed you. I closed the door because of Bea, even though she’d got in her basket, but I stayed close to it. ‘Can I have some water?’ I said.
You rinsed a mug, filled it up and handed it to me. I drank it down in one I was so thirsty.
Then you filled the kettle at the sink.
‘So was it OK last night?’ I said. ‘That woman didn’t call the police?’
‘No,’ you said, turning the tap off.
‘Sorry for shouting at her.’
You switched the kettle on and got a teabag out of the cupboard.
‘She was so mean,’ I said.
Then, without turning round, you said, ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
I swallowed, afraid again suddenly, wondering what I was even doing there, why I hadn’t just told DI Burke about you and let the police come and search your house. I said, ‘They sent us home. A girl’s gone missing.’
You turned round then. You leant against the worktop and folded your arms. ‘Oh, right,’ you said. You scratched the side of your head above your ear. ‘Do you know her?’
I shook my head and shrugged as if it wasn’t really anything to do with me, but your eyes on me were making me really nervous. ‘No,’ I said.
You nodded slowly. You didn’t ask when she’d gone missing or say How terrible or anything like that. You just kept watching me, and then after a few seconds you said, ‘I expect she’ll turn up.’
‘Yeah, probably,’ I said and then I got this funny sense as the kettle got louder and louder that you were watching me and I was watching you and you knew I was watching you and I knew you were watching me. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it was like that mirror thing, when there’s one mirror in front of you and one behind and it looks like you go on forever and ever.
‘Anyway,’ I said, looking away and shrugging like it was no big deal, ‘it’s good for me because I get the day off.’
The kettle switch popped and you turned to stir in the water.
‘I thought I could maybe take Bea for a walk,’ I said. I didn’t want to take Bea for a walk obviously. I wanted to get upstairs and look in that back room. But I didn’t know how I was going to do it, so I just kept talking. I said, ‘So when are you going to start redecorating?’
‘Oh,’ you said, ‘soon,’ half-turning away to make a roll-up on the worktop. Then I suddenly thought if I told you my ideas for redecorating your house, I could maybe get upstairs.
I said, ‘Only I’m good at design. I mean, I’m not bragging or anything. I just mean I like it.’
‘Oh, right,’ you said and ran your tongue along the Rizla and sealed it. ‘As in interior design.’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
You picked your tea up and started going through to the front room.
‘So can I tell you what I was thinking?’ I said, following you and then suddenly I really did want to tell you my ideas, and not just to get upstairs, because I’d thought a lot about how brilliant your house could look. I waited for you to sit down, but you just put your tea and your roll-up on the little round table by the chair and went out again, into the loo.
I stood there waiting for you, hoping you’d love what I was going to say, and then my brain actually started working because I realised I didn’t have to try and talk my way into getting upstairs now that you were in the loo – I could just go – so I went into the hall and called, ‘Just going to wash my hands,’ then started up the stairs quick.
Halfway up, though, I stopped. I must be completely thick, I thought. Like mega-thick. Because if Alice is up here, in about thirty seconds’ time, you’ll be up here too . . . I peered up through the banisters. There were three rooms – a bathroom at the top of the stairs, a bedroom back along the landing above the front room, and the room that overlooks the garden. And that door was shut.
I listened. Nothing. Nothing from upstairs or down – only the cuckoo clock and the faint sound of the fan from the loo. I couldn’t even hear Bea. It was like I was completely alone, the only soul in the house. I thought I should maybe go back down before you came out, but then I thought of Alice and I knew I couldn’t. I have to look, I told myself and ran up the rest of the stairs, pushing open the bathroom door. I washed my hands quick, rinsing the bar of soap because my gravelly hands had made it all dirty. Then I went along the landing, checking the front bedroom to make sure Alice wasn’t there, checking the ceilings in case there was a hatch to a loft or anything. Then I was outside the door to the back room. My heart was thumping in my ears so loud I couldn’t hear anything else – like if you were coming out of the loo – but I had to look and I knew the quicker I did it the better, so I held my breath and turned the handle.
One of the curtains was pulled open a bit so that the room was bathed in dark pink light and, as I went in, there was that same warm, clinging smell of sweat I’d smelt on you outside, mixed with smoke. The duvet on the bed was tangled, the pillow pushed in where your head had been and, on the other side, on a bedside table, a lamp, a black and white photo of someone in an old silver frame and bits of paper, keys and coins. I went to pick the pillow up to smell it, but let go quick because I heard the stairs creak.
You were coming.
It’s OK, I told myself, Alice isn’t here. I looked at the pink rosebud wallpaper so I could pretend I was thinking about the decorating, then when you got to the landing, I called, ‘It could be great when you do it up. The rooms are really nice.’
‘What you doing in here?’ you said, standing in the doorway and even though you weren’t very happy at all, I couldn’t help looking at your chest again.
‘I came up to wash my hands,’ I said. ‘I did tell you,’ and I smiled at you, trying to ignore the look on your face. When you didn’t say anything, I looked away, down at your duvet, but then I realised that where I was staring there was a wet stain. ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, embarrassed because I knew you’d seen me looking at it. ‘I just wanted to see,’ and I went out, past you.
There was a really awkward silence as we went down the stairs and I wished I could think of something to say. Then I remembered I hadn’t told you my ideas for doing the house up and, as well as wanting to move away from the wet-stain moment, I really did want you to hear them, so I said, ‘I thought a minimalist look would be good, especially as the room
s aren’t that big.’
You still didn’t say anything, so I went on. ‘I was thinking white walls. Or off-white . . .’ I thought even though you weren’t happy about me being in your room, you probably believed I’d gone in there to look at how you could do it up. ‘Then if it’s floorboards underneath,’ I said, glancing back up at you, ‘we could take the carpet up and varnish them and in the front room we could buy a black leather sofa and chair, and a glass coffee table, and a shaggy white rug.’
Then, when I was in the hallway, I realised you weren’t behind me anymore, so I turned round. You were standing at the bottom of the stairs watching me, your hand on the banister post. For a horrible second I thought you knew what I was doing. I thought you were going to say, We both know why you’re really here, don’t we, Yasmin? You didn’t, though. You scratched the side of your head, held the banister post again and said, ‘We?’
I felt my face go red. Had I said ‘we’? ‘Well, only because I’d help,’ I said quickly. Then when you didn’t say anything, I said, ‘What do you think?’
You just stood looking at me. Then you said, ‘I think you probably shouldn’t come round here anymore.’
I felt the blood drain out of my face. ‘Why?’ I said. I hadn’t expected that at all. I didn’t understand. And you were being so calm about it, like you were talking about something that didn’t matter. Like you were talking about the weather or something.
You said, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘Why?’ I said again.
You shrugged all casual, like it was no big deal. Then you said, ‘People might get ideas.’
‘What people?’ I said, and then I knew. ‘You mean your neighbour.’
‘Yes,’ you said, ‘my neighbour,’ as if your neighbour was just one person that might get ideas.
‘But that’s their problem,’ I said, because I didn’t understand why you were saying any of it. Because who cared what your horrid neighbour thought? Who cared what anyone thought? ‘It’s not like there’s anything going on,’ I said. ‘I’m only taking Bea for walks. I’m only helping you out. We’re friends.’
You took your hand off the post and started smoothing your hair down at the back. Then you did the same silent laugh that you’d done when you were doing the trick with the glass, shaking your head and looking at the ground. ‘You don’t want to be friends with me,’ you said and you sounded so sad, I swear I forgot for a second who you really were and why I was really there, because all I wanted to do was go to you and hug you like I had the night before, to tell you that I knew why you were saying I shouldn’t be your friend and that you didn’t have to, because I knew what you’d done and I didn’t care.
Instead, I just said, ‘Why not?’ and then, because I was scared you’d answer, I said, ‘I do want to be your friend.’ But you’d turned away and were going to the front door. ‘I’m sixteen,’ I said, even though I’m not yet.
‘Exactly,’ you said and opened it.
I said, ‘It’s old enough to know who I want to be friends with,’ but you weren’t listening. You wanted me to go.
My head was all over the place walking home. I didn’t know what was going on, why I felt so upset about you saying I shouldn’t be friends with you when it was Alice I should be upset about. And I was upset about Alice. I kept whispering, ‘You took Alice, you took Alice’ over and over and telling myself that you were totally one hundred per cent right – that I didn’t want to be friends with you, that being friends with you was the last thing I wanted. But even though I told myself that, I knew it wasn’t true because, if I didn’t want to be your friend, why hadn’t I told the police about you? I’d even thought about hugging you and telling you it didn’t matter that you’d taken Alice, when of course it did. Of course it matters! I thought. What’s wrong with me?
Then when I got to our road and saw all the black wheelie bins out along the pavement, I panicked. I started running past them all to Gary’s house, going ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God’ and jabbing my key at the lock to get it in because it was bin day and I’d put Alice’s things in the bin and I wanted them back. Even though I hadn’t told the police about you, and even though I liked you, I still wanted Alice’s things. It was different now she’d gone. I didn’t have to grow up or stop thinking about her. I think part of me also thought that if I got her things out again and taped her box back together and put it all like it was before, maybe none of this would be happening – that maybe I’d go to school tomorrow and she’d be there and the whole thing would’ve just been in my head.
The kitchen bin was empty. There was a new bag in it.
I put my hands over my mouth. I ran back outside and looked in the wheelie bin, but the bin men had been. It was nearly 3 o’clock. Of course they’d been.
I got the phone off the side and took it down the hallway and sat on the stairs. Do it, I told myself. Do it now. I even dialled 999, but then I hung up because I remembered your face and how sad it’d looked when you’d said, ‘You don’t want to be friends with me’ and all of a sudden I realised why you’d said it. You’d said it to protect me, because of who you were, because you didn’t want me getting mixed up with someone like you, because you knew you were no good. Because if you’d meant it, you’d have said, I don’t want to be friends with you, wouldn’t you? Not the other way round. Not You don’t want to be friends with me. Not looking so sad. And I knew then that you did like me – that you cared. That you cared so much you were willing to lose me rather than put me in danger.
And then I remembered the wet patch on your duvet and how you’d seen me looking at it, and I laughed out loud and had to bury my face in my hands thinking how embarrassing it was – for both of us, but especially for you. You must’ve died! That was probably another reason why you’d said I shouldn’t go back, because you were so mortified about me seeing it, and I sat there on the stairs with my head in my hands, squirming more and more every time I thought about it, and going, ‘Awww, poor Samuel! Poor Sammy!’
By midnight the Help Find Alice Taylor page had more than five hundred hits, with comments from people all over the country and uploaded pictures of her – family ones, school ones, one from a wedding or something like that, with her beaming at the camera in a bright green dress and a ring of white flowers on her head. There were loads of prayers too, with suggestions like, was she hiding at a friend’s house, had they checked with the trains, were the police looking at CCTV, had they contacted Missing Persons? It said there’d been a search at seven o’clock across the football pitch that runs alongside Rectory Road. At the top, it said: Still no Alice. No sightings. No signs. Police co-ordinated search goes out again at 9 a.m. Please help. Meeting at The Bell on the High Street. 9 a.m.
I looked at the status bar at the top of the screen. It said Write something. I wrote I know who took her. Then I got scared I’d post it without meaning to and deleted it. I wrote I hope ur ok Alice instead and stared at it for ages, chewing my cheek and wondering if I should delete that too. In the end I posted it and shut my laptop down.
I turned my bedside light off too and lay in bed staring at the red light from my bubble lamp moving slowly over the walls and across the galaxy on the ceiling. I remembered DI Burke’s big eyes at school that morning and wondered why I hadn’t told her about you, why I hadn’t done what I’d been planning to do since I’d first seen you watching Alice from the wooded path. I thought it was probably shock – discovering that something that’d only existed in my head was suddenly happening for real. Because deep down I don’t think I’d believed you’d take Alice – not for real – so it turning out that I was right wouldn’t compute. Because I’m never right about anything – ever. You know, like Here lies Yasmin Laksaris: never right about anything, but loved a jammy donut.
The other thing that was so weird was that, even though it was happening for real, it wasn’t anything like it’d been in my head. It’s a bit like when someone tells you about someone and you get
this vivid picture of them and then you meet them and they’re nothing remotely like that picture.
I wondered if there was another reason I hadn’t said anything, though – if part of me didn’t really believe you’d taken her, and that like all those people were saying on her Facebook page, she might be hiding out somewhere – that she’d just turn up, like you said. I mean, she definitely wasn’t in your house. I thought maybe she was somewhere with Darren – that they’d planned her vanishing together and he was only outside the chippy that night to get himself an alibi, then, later on, in a week or something, he’d join her wherever she was. Maybe she was pregnant . . .
I didn’t really believe that, though. I knew Alice wouldn’t get pregnant or run off. And I kept remembering you with that tool bag and your eyes avoiding mine when you handed me Bea’s lead.
Then I realised something that made me sit up, made shivers run down my arms and up my neck into my hair. ‘Oh my God!’ I breathed, going over the thought again, realising it had been sitting there in my head all day, only I hadn’t noticed it till now. I realised if I had called the police – if I’d said about you – they might not believe that I’d got to know you just so I could protect Alice – especially as I’d taken so long to tell them. They might think I’d known you for ages. And then, once they found out I was looking after Bea when you took her, they’d think I was in on it – as in really in on it – that I’d planned it with you . . .
It was on the local news the next morning. When I went into the kitchen, Mum was standing staring at the telly even though the toast had popped, a butter knife in her hand.
A woman in a beige mac was talking into a microphone outside our school gates, then the man in the news studio was saying Alice’s name and showing the picture of her that was on the Help Find Alice Taylor page and saying she’d failed to arrive home on Sunday evening. He said her phone had been recovered from the grass verge on Rectory Lane – the lane where she was last seen by witnesses.
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