by Tanya Byrne
I guess that’s why Scarlett is the way she is – so brave, so restless – because her parents let her do whatever she wants. She always knows a window at school that’s been left open or a door that’s unlocked, and if it isn’t, we have the master key. Today we got into the new observatory, which still smelt of paint, the chairs covered in canvas drop cloths and the new telescope wrapped in plastic ahead of the unveiling on Saturday.
‘Be sure to thank Dominic for this the next time you see him,’ she’d told me, giving the telescope a playful pat. ‘His family donated it.’
‘Wow.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s quite a donation.’
‘Almost every boarding school in England has one. Or a new library. Dominic would never go to school otherwise; in the last year he’s been kicked out of Harrow and Eton. It’s a good thing his family have more money than God.’
‘What do they do?’
‘I don’t know, but they’re obscenely wealthy. His father invented the Internet, or something,’ she said with a regal shrug. ‘His parents spend most of their time travelling between Seoul, California and here, so Dominic never sees them, which is why he’s so horribly misunderstood.’
‘Have you known him long?’ I asked, stepping over a paint tray and roller and walking over to where she was standing.
‘As long as I can remember,’ she said, tipping her head back to look up at the domed roof. ‘He’s the boy next door.’
‘Really?’
‘Sort of. Technically he lives in Burbage. His house is on the other side of the canal, directly opposite mine. When we were little, we used to meet on the bridge, make paper ships and race them.’ She turned to look at me. ‘I always made mine out of a different coloured paper because he cheated.’
‘I didn’t realise you were so close.’
‘He was my first –’ she shrugged – ‘everything.’
I looked away, suddenly out of breath. ‘I had no idea.’
I was about to ask her if she loved him, but she’d already moved on, her eyes bright and a brush in her hand as she dared me to paint something rude on the wall.
I’ve never met anyone like Scarlett. Dominic has flirted relentlessly with her since I started at Crofton, but Scarlett hasn’t said a word. Yet she wants to know everything about me, about every boy I’ve kissed, every girl I’ve thought of kissing, about every crack in my heart. It’s as if my life is a cake she wants to gorge on while she doesn’t tell me a thing. Just the same old stories about her mother and Paris and the second-hand brass bed.
If I told Jumoke, she’d say that she had something to hide.
THE DAY AFTER
MAY
Signing the paperwork to get my car towed took forever, so I was late for my meeting with Madame Girard and had to run back to Burnham. I was in such a rush that I didn’t see Orla waiting for me until she grabbed my sleeve and led me around the side.
‘Orla, wait,’ I gasped, almost tripping on a tree root that had punctured through the grass. ‘I can’t. Not now, I’m late.’
She ignored me, finally stopping outside the door to the laundry room. ‘I saw him,’ she said, eyes wet, her fingers still curled in the sleeve of my cardigan.
‘Who?’
‘That policeman, DS Bone. The one you wanted me to speak to after –’ she stopped to suck in a sob – ‘after –’ she tried again, but couldn’t say it. ‘You know?’
I knew.
‘Bones was here?’
‘I saw him coming out of Headmaster Ballard’s study.’
‘Did he see you?’
She shook her head. ‘I hid behind a tree.’ She laughed and sucked in another breath. ‘How pathetic is that?’
‘It’s not pathetic, Orla.’ I frowned. ‘It’s not pathetic at all.’
‘Is that why he’s here?’ she asked, her eyelashes sticky with mascara.
‘He can’t be. That was months ago.’
‘But what if he is? What if he tells everyone?’
‘He won’t.’ I reached over and wiped a tear away with the pad of my thumb.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he can’t tell anyone. He doesn’t even know your name.’
‘So why is he here, Adamma? What if everyone knows?’ Her gaze flicked to the path and I turned to see Molly walking out of Burnham, the sun on her hair making it look even blonder. Orla lowered her voice. ‘What if it’s around school already?’
‘If it was, one of us would have heard.’
She nodded, but when I took a step back, she asked me where I was going. I told her that I was going to speak to him and I heard her release a breath.
‘You are?’
‘Don’t worry.’ I squeezed her arm. ‘I’ll find out, OK?’
‘Thank you.’ She pulled me into a hug. I could feel her trembling and when I smelled her sweet, pink perfume, I hugged her tighter. When she let go, she wiped her cheeks with the heels of her palms. ‘You won’t tell him my name, will you? I don’t want my father to find out. He’ll blame himself. He saves me from everything.’
‘Of course I won’t. Now go inside. I’ll text you when I’ve spoken to him.’
‘Thank you, Adamma.’
‘I have my one-to-one with Madame Girard, so I need you to cover for me, OK?’ She nodded. ‘Tell her that I can’t make it because someone tried to break into my car last night and I’m in the car park getting it towed.’
She nodded, but she looked so scared that I hugged her again.
I waited for DS Bone on the hood of his car, a battered green thing I’d nicknamed Kermit. I’d almost finished reading my newspaper when finally I saw him walking through the car park, his white shirt too bright in the sunlight, like something from a commercial for laundry detergent. I haven’t seen him since February, but he looked the same, tall and lean, though his cake-batter-coloured hair was shorter and noticeably lighter than the moustache/beard combo he was experimenting with, no doubt in an attempt to look older. It wasn’t working. But at least he hadn’t surrendered to the cheap suits police detectives seem to insist on wearing and was in jeans and a pair of aviator sunglasses that were too nice to be chasing criminals in.
He didn’t see me, he was too distracted as he undid the top button on his shirt and loosened his tie, so when I jumped down from the hood of his car, he stepped back.
‘Hey, Bones,’ I said with a grin.
‘Adamma,’ he said, hands on his hips, the corners of his mouth twitching.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Good,’ he said warily. ‘You?’
‘I’m good. How funny! Bumping into you here.’
‘I know, how funny, bumping into me, here, by my car.’ I saw the top of his eyebrow spring up over his sunglasses. ‘What do you want, Adamma?’
‘Why so suspicious, Bones? I’m just saying hello.’
‘OK. Hello, Adamma,’ he said, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out his keys. He opened the car door, then said, ‘Goodbye, Adamma.’
‘So why are you here?’
He stopped, fingers curled over the top of the open car door. ‘There it is.’
‘Come on, Bones.’ I winked theatrically at him. ‘You can tell me.’
The corners of his mouth twitched again. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘Please, Bones,’ I said as he started to get into the car. ‘My friend, the one I told you about, is worried sick. She thinks you’re here to talk to her.’
He stopped, then turned to face me again. ‘Tell her not to worry.’
‘So you’re not here about that?’
My heart thumped suddenly, but I tried to ignore it.
‘No.’
‘You’re here about Scarlett, aren’t you?’ I blurted out when he turned ba
ck to his car.
‘The case has been passed on to me, yes.’ I wanted him to take his sunglasses off, even though I didn’t know what would be more unnerving: being able to see his eyes or not.
‘I thought you were CID?’ I said, trying not to give into the panic punching at me. ‘Why has the case been passed on to you? Why? She ran away.’
‘Look, don’t panic, OK—’ he started to say, but I didn’t let him finish.
‘What’s this got to do with CID? She hasn’t even been gone a day.’
‘Actually, she has; she left this time yesterday.’
‘Yeah. But . . .’ I breathed, but he interrupted me this time.
‘CID being called in doesn’t mean anything, OK?’ He held up a hand. ‘We’re just being careful. If her family didn’t own half of Ostley, no one would give a shit.’
‘You weren’t called in last time.’
‘I have to get back to Swindon and I’m sure you have a lesson to go to.’ He nodded towards the main hall. ‘If you have any questions, speak to your housemistress.’
‘My housemistress? What the hell? Don’t give me that, Bones.’ My hand curled around the strap of my bag. ‘What’s going on? Her sister’s going out of her mind.’
‘It’s fine. I just spoke to her.’
‘Fine?’
‘Yes. Fine.’
‘So Scarlett’s OK? You know where she is?’
He sighed heavily and I thought he was going to fob me off again, but he took his sunglasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. ‘If she isn’t back by tomorrow morning, which she will be, then we’ll issue an appeal.’
‘An appeal?’ I repeated, but the word didn’t feel real – appeal – like a sweet that fizzes on your tongue then disappears. ‘So she hasn’t run away?’
‘That’s all I can say right now, Adamma.’
He turned and climbed into his car, but before he closed the door, I grabbed it with my hand. ‘It was you. You called the theatre about the tickets.’
‘I have to go,’ he said without looking at me.
I let him close the door, and watched as he drove out of the car park. As soon as he turned out of Crofton, I ran back to my room and got my other cellphone out of my tuck box. It took an eternity for the menu to load, but as soon as it did, I called him. It went straight to voicemail and something in me wilted. I wanted to hang up, but I made myself wait for the beep, then breathed, ‘It’s me. We need to talk about Scarlett.’
212 DAYS BEFORE
OCTOBER
Today I got my first assignment for the Disraeli. It wasn’t much, I was just asked to cover the Crofton/Cheltenham hockey match, but it was something. The trouble was, Dominic was the photographer assigned to work with me and that was never going to end well, was it? It didn’t help that I was still prickly after what he had said at the social last week, and when he showed up an hour late – sauntering with no trace of urgency towards the door to the girls’ changing rooms where I’d been waiting for him – I had to fight the urge to club him with a hockey stick.
‘I’ve already done the interview with Chloe,’ I told him, arms crossed.
‘Fine,’ he grinned, holding up his camera, ‘I’ll just take some shots.’
I grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat and tugged him back. ‘Like hell you’re taking photos in the girls’ changing rooms. This article is for the Disraeli, not FHM.’
‘I love cross Adamma. She’s my favourite.’ The skin around his mouth creased as his smile widened, but I ignored him.
‘Let’s just head over to the pitch, the match is about to start.’
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ He frowned and I had to take a deep breath; I hate it when guys think they can comment on what I’m wearing. He must have known I was pissed, because he held his hand up. ‘Not that you don’t look ravishing, as always, but you do know that it’s October and this match is outside, right?’ He pointed up at the ominous black clouds.
‘This is waterproof.’ I ran my hands down my Burberry trench coat. My Lois Lane trench coat purchased especially for my Disraeli assignments.
He didn’t look convinced. ‘If you say so, Miss Okomma.’
He stopped to talk to so many people on the way to the pitch – mostly girls whose hands lingered on his shoulders when he leaned down to kiss them on both cheeks – that I went on without him. I was nearing the pitch when I felt the first drop of rain, as it hit the top of my ear with a cold splash that made my shoulders jump up. I shivered and turned the collar of my coat up, wondering if there was enough time to head back to Burnham for an umbrella, but when I looked back at the changing rooms to see the players jogging out, I settled for a spot on the edge of the pitch next to a kind man with a big umbrella.
By the time the match started with a roar, the rain was biblical. To make matters worse, there was no sign of Dominic, so when Crofton scored early, I was livid and took some photos on my phone so I had something to include with my story.
Luckily, the shower was fierce but quick and after about fifteen minutes, it stopped. People began to close their umbrellas and that’s when I saw Dominic, the hood of his Crofton sweatshirt up as he weaved through the crowd, taking photos of the game and the mothers pacing the sidelines in their Hunter wellies, their hands balled into fists.
When he worked his way around to me, he grinned and said, ‘Let’s go.’
‘Dominic!’ I stopped to grab his coat as he turned to walk away. My fingers were so cold I thought they were going to snap. ‘The match has just started.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He held up his camera. ‘I have everything and you know what you’re going to write, right? Chloe Poole, scholarship girl done good. What more do you need?’
‘The score might be useful.’
‘Someone will tell you that!’ he shouted as the crowd cheered.
I looked at the pitch to see who’d scored and when I turned back to him, he was walking away. I went after him and snatched the camera out of his hands.
‘You’ve been taking photos for all of fifteen minutes, Dominic,’ I hissed, wiping the raindrops from the screen with the pad of my thumb. ‘You can’t have enough.’
As I scrolled through them, I was surprised to find that he did. There were dozens of the players, some great ones of Chloe and one of a little girl in a Cheltenham sweatshirt looking forlorn as the girl in the Crofton scarf next to her cheered. I probably should have stopped there, but when I saw the other ones he’d taken, I kept going. I expected to find a series of pictures of him and Sam with a parade of pink-lipped girls holding champagne glasses, but there was one of a farmer stopping outside a newsagent to frown at a poster in the window advertising pints of milk for 40p and another of a Google logo stuck to the door of a boarded-up library, and I was impressed. Then I got to one of Scarlett and stopped. She had her eyes closed and one hand covering her face as she laughed, but I knew it was her. When I realised that her shoulders were bare and saw her dark hair spilling across the pillow under her head, I almost dropped the camera.
The photograph was taken in the last week because Scarlett had bangs in it, but I had no idea when. She hadn’t mentioned it, yet there she was, in bed, laughing, and I felt like an idiot, not just because I didn’t know, but because she didn’t tell me. Did she think that I was going to judge her?
Would I judge her?
‘OK. You have enough.’ I handed him back the camera.
‘This way,’ he called out to me when I started to head towards Burnham.
‘What way?’
‘I have to show you something.’ He nodded towards the car park.
‘I can’t just leave, Dominic. I need to go back to Burnham and get a pass—’
‘We’ll go through the car park,’ he interrupted. ‘No one will see.’
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br /> ‘Forget it, Dominic. I’m cold and wet and I just want to go back to my room,’ I muttered. The rain may have stopped, but I was still shaking, my breath puffing out in front of me as I crossed my arms and told him that I’d see him on Monday.
But before I turned away again he said, ‘Fine. But you were at that dinner last week, Adamma. Do you think this –’ he nodded at the hockey players charging across the pitch – ‘is going to be enough to get Hannah and Mr Lucas’s attention?’
‘What can we do, Dominic? This is what we were assigned,’ I told him with a defeated shrug. But I can’t lie, I’d wondered the same thing.
‘Did you know that there are only two spots on the Disraeli for sixth formers?’ I didn’t. ‘One Senior Features Writer and one Senior Photographer. I’m up against someone who won Young Photographer of the Year. This face can get me pretty much anything I want –’ he sighed theatrically – ‘but I don’t think it can compete with actual talent.’
I sighed too and glanced at the pitch. Earlier, when I’d been looking for him in the crowd, I’d recognised some of the faces, but was too pissed at him to think much more about it. I still didn’t know everyone’s names, so I’d assumed I knew them from class or had seen them around school. But then I saw her, the girl whose short story was published in Granta, holding out a Dictaphone to Orla Roberts, who didn’t play today because she’d sprained her knee, and realised what Hannah had done: she’d assigned us all the same story.