I nod and show him the photograph.
“We’re looking for my mom,” I say. “She was cleaning here a couple of nights ago.”
Thomas looks at the photo, runs a hand along the smooth skin of his brown scalp, and laughs. “Of course I remember her! Loved her accent. Gorgeous woman, she is.”
My heart begins to hammer with anticipation. I quickly put the photo back in my pocket so that Thomas and Jermaine won’t notice my hands shaking.
“Did you happen to see her leave the building that morning? Like after she was done her shift?”
“Sure. I’m usually just coming on duty then. We need to let the cleaners out because the building still locked up at that time.”
Hope surges through my body. “Did my mom say where she was going when she left?”
“Funny that. She did, actually. I guess she didn’t know the buses well because she asked me where the nearest place to get a good cup of coffee was and which bus would get her back to New Cross or Lewisham the quickest. I told her there was a Starbucks that would be open right by the 29 stop and that the 29 would take her to Trafalgar Square where she could pretty much catch a bus to wherever she needed in South London.”
“So last you saw her, she was headed for Trafalgar Square, then?” Jermaine asks.
Thomas slowly nods. “Well, last I saw her, she was headed out that door,” he says, pointing to the glass doors at the entrance of the building, “on and her way to Starbucks.”
We hastily thank Thomas and hurry back outside before he can ask any questions. Jermaine whistles loudly at the concierge and gives him a sarcastic wave goodbye on our way out. The concierge shoots him a withering death stare in return.
“I guess we retrace Mom’s steps,” I say, breathing deeply. I feel alive and optimistic. By the end of the day, I’m going to be with Mom. I just know I am.
CHAPTER 22
I order a coffee from the barista at Starbucks and then show her the photo of Mom. She shakes her head.
“I wasn’t working that day,” she says, handing me a steaming paper cup of coffee. “But I think Simon was on. Just a minute and I’ll get him for you.”
Simon finishes putting whipped cream on top of a drink and comes over. He’s really young and really cute with spiky blond hair and blue eyes that dance when he smiles.
“Hiya,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, smiling widely back at him. I recognize the accent from the old Crocodile Dundee movies Mom used to watch when I was little. He’s Australian — and gorgeous. I continue smiling.
“Edie,” Jermaine hisses, giving me a slight shove.
“Um, yeah. So the girl that served us said you were working the other day. This is a long-shot, but we think my mom came in here and I was hoping you might recognize her.” I put the photograph on the counter.
Simon peers at it. “Is she your birth mother or something? Are you adopted?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“Are you looking for your biological mother? Is this her?”
“Sort of,” I reply. “I mean, yeah that’s her.”
“I remember her. She came in with a man. Her boyfriend or something?”
All the blood in my body rushes to my feet. I nod at Simon, though I’m not sure if I really want to hear anything else.
“They were arguing something fierce. That’s why I remember them.”
I can feel hot tears welling in my eyes. Everything blurs.
“What did he look like? The guy she was with?” I ask, my voice cracking.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Simon says apologetically.
I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. I need to be stronger than this.
“Decent-looking bloke, probably about fifty. Black hair. Dark eyes.”
That’s all I need to hear. I grab Jermaine by the arm. “We need to go. Now,” I say.
He nods. “Thanks so much,’ he says to Simon.
“Hey, your coffee!” I hear Simon shout as we run out the door.
“Why do you carry around his work number if he’s such a wanker?” Jermaine asks. He watches me leaf through my diary, the same one that, only a few days ago, was unceremoniously kicked around on the wet ground by Precious and her cronies.
“I don’t know … he’s my dad.”
“But he’s a complete twat. No offense.”
I stop looking through the diary for a moment. “I guess I always hoped that somehow things would change.”
“You mean like a fairytale ending? One day you ring your dad and suddenly he becomes Mr. Nice Guy?” Jermaine asks, leaning back against the bench we’re sitting on and lacing his hands behind his head.
“I’m not stupid, if that’s what you mean,” I snap. I go back to searching for Dad’s number.
“No, I don’t mean that. It’s just I don’t even know who my father is,” Jermaine says. “Sometimes I see someone on the train or just walking down the high street and catch a glimpse of myself in the bloke’s eyes or in the shape of his lips and I wonder. But I don’t really give a toss. I don’t need him.”
I put my finger on the page where I scrawled Dad’s work number in blue ink a couple of years ago.
“Can you hand me that phone card?” I ask.
Jermaine reaches into his pocket. “You okay to do this? What if they put him on the phone?”
I smile at Jermaine. “That would be a dream come true at this point.”
I tear the plastic off the phone card and flip open Jermaine’s mobile phone.
As the phone begins to ring far away on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, I glance at my watch. It’s two o’clock. That means it’s nine in the morning in Toronto. Dad will have been at work for at least an hour already. He likes to be in his office early.
The phone stops ringing and the click of the receiver being picked up sounds in my ear. There’s a brief moment of silence.
“Toronto Police Services. How may we help you?”
I’m not sure if I can speak. Words stick in my throat like peanut butter.
“May I speak with Bryce Fraser?” I finally manage to choke out.
“One moment, please.” I’m put on hold.
Jermaine looks at me questioningly. ‘What’s up?’ he mouths.
“On hold,” I say, flashing him a thumbs-up.
“Hello? I’m sorry, but Doctor Fraser is out of the office for two weeks. May I take a message?”
My hand begins to shake. “Did he leave a contact number?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jermaine’s expression darken with concern.
“We wouldn’t be able to give out that kind of information even if he did, Miss.”
I pause. It’s useless to even ask whether he’s away on holiday or if they know his whereabouts. The answer will be the same. And there’s no way I’m going to risk identifying myself just to get answers.
“Well, thanks anyway,” I say.
“What happened? You’re as white as a ghost,” Jermaine says as I finish the call.
“He didn’t say anything. He’s out of the office for two weeks. This is exactly what I was afraid of. Seriously, it’s like he has some sort of evil magical power and can pick up our scent, no matter how hard we try to escape.” I hand his phone back and bury my head in my hands.
Mom needs me. I know this. We’ve been in danger all along; that’s why she moved us here: for one last chance at having a normal life.
I sit up, tuck my diary securely back into my bag, and look at Jermaine.
“Let’s go,” I say, standing up.
“Go where?” Jermaine asks. “You really think your dad is here in London? There are loads of places he could’ve gone on holiday.”
“I know my dad. We need to just keep retracing Mom’s steps the morning she disappeared and see if we can find any further clues about what happened to her.”
“And what if there aren’t any clues?” Jermaine asks, falling into step with me as I hurry to
the bus stop.
I look at him, my lips pressed into a tight grimace. “That’s not an option. I have to find her.”
CHAPTER 23
“Ouch!” I cry out as the bus lurches sharply to the right, sending me to the left, causing my elbow to connect hard with a metal railing. Navigating the stairs of the bus is more difficult than I expected. I mean, I know I’m a klutz at the best of times, but come on! It’s like trying to dance on the deck of a ship in the middle of a stormy sea.
Jermaine keeps laughing even after we reach two seats at the front of the upper deck of the bus and sit down. “Haven’t you ever been at the top of a bus before?” he asks.
I rub my elbow. “We don’t have stupid, two-storey buses in Toronto. At least not ones for regular people; they’re only for tourists.”
“Blimey,” Jermaine says, still laughing. “You’ll get your legs for it soon enough. And since you’re still a bit of a tourist, you’ll get the best view of London from here.”
The view from the top floor of the bus is pretty amazing. The streets of London stretch out in front of us, bustling with people and activity. Leaning forward, I rest my arms on railing and my chin on my hands. I think about what Jermaine said about the likelihood of Dad actually being in London. I desperately want to believe he’s right; that the probability of Dad coming here of all the places in the world is next to nothing. But I can’t shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach. When it comes to controlling and destroying my life and Mom’s, if the past is anything to go by, the probability that he’s here is actually very, very good.
As the bus pulls away from the curb once more, fat raindrops begin to splatter onto the windows. The smell of French fries, vinegar, and ketchup fills the air and I instinctively turn to see where the smell is coming from. My stomach rumbles uneasily as two guys around our age walk onto the upper deck with soggy cardboard takeout boxes. One boy, who’s built like a tree stump, surveys all the passengers, a smirk plastered across his acne-riddled face.
“Shut yer pie hole, ya bleedin’ poof!” the other boy shouts back down the stairs at someone. He’s wearing a red Arsenal football jersey and his hair looks like it’s taking a vacation from water and shampoo.
They jostle into seats a few rows behind us. I roll my eyes at Jermaine. The smell of the fries is making my stomach do hungry somersaults and that’s when I make the mistake of turning around again to glance at the two of them.
The shorter one, with the raised blotches of acne running along both cheeks and across the width of his forehead, notices me first. Nudging his friend, he stuffs a massive wad of fries into his mouth, smiles grotesquely, and winks at me. It isn’t a friendly wink, but more of a suggestive smirk. I feel my face flush hotly in embarrassment and annoyance. I quickly turn back around.
“I think we’re getting close to Leicester Square. It’s where all the big movie openings are held and all the actors come and walk along the red carpet giving out autographs and stuff. See?” Jermaine moves closer to me and points out the window.
I look out the window to where he’s pointing. There are loads of people and restaurants, including the biggest Burger King I’ve ever seen. But it’s pretty hard to concentrate on anything outside the bus for too long with Jermaine so close to me. He reaches over and takes my hand. The feeling of his skin touching mine sends tiny shocks through my body. Every cell in my body is warm and tingly.
And that’s when I hear it.
“Oi, beautiful!”
I know it’s one of those idiots behind us and am not about to give them the satisfaction of me turning around and showing them that I heard or cared.
But the atmosphere in the bus seems to have changed; the air has thickened with tension like a well-cooked pudding. Several passengers suddenly become more interested in their newspapers and novels.
“Oi, lovely! Come on back here and give us a cuddle and squeeze, rather than wasting yer time with that jungle monkey.”
The woman across from us draws in a sharp breath and Jermaine’s hand tenses against mine. I don’t believe in God, but find myself pleading with whatever higher power might be up there to make the two idiots spontaneously combust. If this were Toronto, lots of passengers would’ve said something by now, but no one on this bus is reacting at all, aside from one woman who hurriedly gathers her shopping bags, grabs her daughter’s hand, and retreats downstairs. Everyone else continues to ignore the situation like turtles retreating into their shells.
“Let’s get off,” I whisper to Jermaine. The feeling of dread I’ve been experiencing on and off since Mom’s disappearance is intensifying.
“Yeah, let’s. ’Cos that’s just what those tossers want, innit?” Jermaine shoots back, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Before I can even reply, something hits the back of my head. It doesn’t hurt and the impact is hardly enough to even startle me. I reach back. Whatever it is, it’s soggy and warm and stuck in my hair. Gross. I pull it out. A French fry dangles limply between my thumb and index finger, its greasy surface still coated in ketchup.
From behind me, raucous hoots of laughter ring out.
My face is hot with anger. I’m as furious with myself for not saying anything to the idiots as I am with this whole, stupid situation. Our bus rolls past the entrance for the National Portrait Gallery and then we’re in Trafalgar Square. I recognize the gunmetal grey lion statues and long, fingerlike column from photos and movies. Masses of tourists are milling around in the square, some taking photographs, others perching on the edge of the fountains or feeding the pigeons.
“Next stop, we’re off,” Jermaine says, getting out of his seat. He’s still holding on to my hand, but now it feels like a gesture of defiance more than anything else.
There’s a flash of red and suddenly the boy in the Arsenal jersey is standing in front of us.
“Leaving so soon?” he asks, spittle flying from his bottom lip as he speaks.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Jermaine begins, but the boy cuts him off.
“Nice one. You lot have brought us nothing but trouble. Maybe you should’ve thought about not wanting trouble before you left your own country, yeah?”
“I’m British,” Jermaine says, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “South London born and bred.”
The boy reaches behind his back and pulls something out of his back pocket. All I see is a flash of sliver. It’s a knife. I freeze behind Jermaine.
“Like I said, I don’t want any trouble,” Jermaine repeats. This time his voice is low and even. He grasps my hand tightly as he speaks. The bus lurches away from Trafalgar Square. We’ve missed our stop. The world suddenly seems to be moving in slow motion.
The boy smirks, drawing his lips back from his yellow teeth like a rabid dog. He looks Jermaine right in the eye.
“Blacks ain’t British,” he says. “You was brought here to serve us.”
The crown of Jermaine’s head connects with the boy’s chest with an audible, cracking thud. A surprised and enraged roar emits from the boy in response to the attack.
“Look here!” shouts an elderly man in a well-worn brown suit who just neatly folded his newspaper in half in preparation for getting off the bus.
Seconds later, I’m being pulled along the aisle and down the stairs to the lower platform of the bus. I don’t dare look back, though several people are yelling down to the driver.
“Don’t stop if the driver comes out,” Jermaine shouts over his shoulder to me. The panic in his voice sends shivers through my body. “That prat isn’t going to care if he kills me right here. And I don’t fancy ending up being another Stephen Lawrence.”
We land on the lower level of the bus with a thud and dash toward the open back exit. Though the bus isn’t moving very quickly, I can’t believe it when Jermaine lets go of my hand and leaps out of the bus and onto the sidewalk with the fluidity and grace of a cat.
He looks back at me and waves frantically, signalling to me to jump. I stand, frozen.<
br />
“Edie! Jump!” he shouts. The urgency in his voice propels me into action. I hold my breath as if I’m about to leap from a high diving board and throw myself toward him.
I slam into Jermaine and we fall together onto the pavement in a heap. The bus rounds the corner and continues out of sight.
He helps me up. “You okay?” he asks. Several people stare at us disapprovingly as they pass by.
Embarrassed, I wipe at my jeans. “That was totally terrifying. I thought he was going to kill you back there.”
“Yeah. I can’t say I’m not relieved myself,” he says. “There’s no doubt, given the chance, he’d have slit me open like a pig.”
“Shouldn’t we tell someone? Go to the police or something?”
“Wouldn’t do any good, Edie. If I tell them some bloke was after me with a knife on a bus, they’ll just think it was some kind of gang thing and that I done something to deserve it.” He laughs.
“It’s not funny,” I say. “How can you not be furious? I mean that guy was a total racist pig.”
Jermaine shrugs. “If I got mad every time somebody was racist against me, I’d be fighting every day of my life. I’ve managed to stay out of gangs this long ’cos I don’t want to have one foot in the grave every day. I pick my battles. If I don’t, I might end up like Stephen Lawrence or Anthony Walker or one of them lot.”
“Who are they?’ I ask, as we begin walking back toward Trafalgar Square.
“Some black blokes who got murdered ’cos of their colour,” he says matter-of-factly.
We walk along without speaking for a few moments. The more I find out about London, the less I like it. Racially motivated murders, knife-wielding psychopaths on buses … not to mention people who decided to blow themselves and everyone around them up on the subway.
“I’ll tell you what though,” Jermaine says.
“What?”
“You make London exciting. Escaping from the lady your mum used to work for and getting attacked by racist wanks with knives. What’s next?”
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