by Tanya Byrne
When DS Hanlon realised that she wasn’t getting a response, she opened the manila folder and took out a photo, sliding it across the table at me. ‘We found this in Scarlett’s bedroom.’ I lifted my eyelashes to look at the photo, then looked away again, as my heart began to thump and thump. ‘Do you know what it is, Adamma?’
‘It looks like a credit card,’ I lied.
‘Really, Adamma? Why don’t you look at it again?’
I didn’t have to. I knew what it was. I knew the colour, the shape, recognised the grey line scratched back to reveal the number, but I made myself look at it as I wondered when the trash in my room was last emptied. ‘It looks like a top-up card.’
‘A top-up card?’
‘For a disposable phone.’
‘Why would Scarlett Chiltern have a disposable phone, Adamma?’
‘How would I know?’ I didn’t mean to sound so surly, but when I heard myself, I looked at the door. Run, the muscles in my legs twitched again. Run.
‘You’ve never seen her with one, Adamma?’
‘No.’ That wasn’t a lie, at least.
‘What phone have you seen her with, Adamma?’
‘An iPhone with a red case.’ I stopped for breath. ‘The screen was cracked.’
She nodded. ‘Why would Scarlett have two phones?’
My heart was beating so hard she must have heard it. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Was she seeing someone?’
‘I’m the last person she’d tell.’
‘That doesn’t mean you don’t know.’ She sat back and looked at me. ‘You’re a very bright girl, Adamma. You write for the school newspaper, don’t you?’ She waited for me to nod. I didn’t – couldn’t. I was too scared that, if I moved a muscle, she’d know I was lying. ‘You know that Scarlett bought two theatre tickets for a play on Sunday night. I know you called the theatre to check that she’d picked them up. That was very clever.’ She paused again and I don’t know whether she was waiting for me to thank her for the compliment, but I didn’t. ‘Who was she seeing, Adamma?’
‘I don’t know.’ And I don’t.
I don’t.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, sitting forward with another faint smile. ‘You won’t be getting her into any trouble. Her family just needs to know that she’s OK.’
I felt dizzy and made myself take a breath. ‘I don’t know.’
She licked her lips and sat back. ‘Could she be seeing Dominic Sim?’
I thought of Dominic sitting slumped in the other office and panic started kicking at me. ‘Scarlett is capable of anything.’
‘Yes. But what is Dominic Sim capable of?’
Mrs Delaney raised a hand. ‘I think that’s enough.’
But before DS Hanlon could object, I heard my father and my heart leapt. ‘Where is my daughter?’ I heard him say and we looked up in unison at the door.
My father isn’t a big man, even if that’s what my grandmother likes to call him. ‘My son the Big Man,’ she tells him whenever we visit, fingers lingering on the collar of his pinstripe suit as she hugs him. But he isn’t big. Sure, he isn’t as fine as my uncle Som, who, as my mother always says, has to run around the shower to get wet. But then he isn’t as big as my uncle Oluchi, either. He doesn’t have uncle Oluchi’s big hands and great big laugh. My father is average, I suppose. Neither fat nor thin, tall nor short. Yet there is something solid about him, something immovable. He doesn’t raise his voice and throw his hands about when he loses his temper, like my uncle Oluchi. He doesn’t lose his temper at all, in fact. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, never even heard him curse. But I’ve seen him silence a room with a look and make men twice his size step back.
It’s a look that would derail a freight train, but it’s never been directed at me. He always has time for me, even when I call and interrupt a meeting or linger in his study, complaining about school or another hopeless crush. He never tells me that I’m disturbing him, just listens and nods in all the right places until my breathing isn’t as furious, then tells me to go to bed. And I miss that. I can’t talk to him about those things any more. The exams are harder and there’s more at stake – university, a future, freedom – and the crushes aren’t so hopeless. I’m seventeen. This isn’t puppy love any more. The boys are nearly men, when they bite they leave scars.
I suddenly wished that I was four years old again, back when my heart still felt new and my father would make me think that I could do anything. He’d stand in the doorway of my room while my mother plaited my hair before bed, and when she’d kissed me goodnight, he’d come in and tell me a story. There was one about a drummer boy and one about a leopard who gets his claws, but my favourite was the one about the little boy who had to cross the Niger River. Every time he finished it, I would tell him that even though I was a girl, I was that brave. ‘Of course you are, Adamma,’ he’d say, tucking me in so tightly that I couldn’t move and when I’d stopped giggling, he’d kiss me on the forehead and say, ‘You have a light.’
It would make me feel the surge of something in my chest and I wouldn’t be able to sleep. My legs would shiver under the sheets until I had to kick them away. Then I’d creep down to his study and stand in the doorway in my pink nightgown, watching him at his desk, the nib of his fountain pen whispering words and words and words into the quiet room. I would look through the window at the trees in the garden while I waited for him to notice me – the breadfruit tree, the palms with their sharp green leaves, the cashew tree, red fruit hanging like Christmas-tree ornaments – and when he finally looked up, he’d smile and gesture at me to come to him.
I was lucky to see him like that, I know, without his armour, in just a shirt, his jacket and tie discarded on the leather chair by the door and his top button undone to reveal an inverted triangle of perfect skin. I’d press my cheek to his chest and wait until I could hear the steady beat of his heart, then I’d ask him where my light was because I couldn’t see it. ‘Here,’ he’d say, tickling my chest until I’d nearly choke giggling.
I don’t know when I forgot that. It’s still there, I think – I hope – the light. I can feel it sometimes, at night, when I can’t sleep and I try to remember what it was like to be the girl who thought she could do anything. But then the morning comes and I tell a lie, then another and another. One more and I’ll never feel that light again.
One more.
When I think of the nights that I fell asleep in my father’s lap, lulled to sleep by the steady scratch of his fountain pen, the cotton of his shirt cool against my cheek, I wonder how I can lie to him. But you’ll never know what you’re capable of until someone takes your heart in their hand and shows it to you. That’s another thing I never thought I’d do: love another man as much as I love my father. But I do and oh it’s scary. I love him more than the doubt that nudged at me as I thought about where Scarlett could be and why she had a disposable cellphone like mine, but I knew she couldn’t be with him, so I wasn’t going to say a word.
‘Adamma,’ my father said, suddenly sweeping into the room.
I couldn’t look at him and I realised then, as he stood over me, why I’ve been sneaking around – lying – why I haven’t told him about any of this. I thought it was because he wouldn’t understand, but it’s because I don’t want him to know who I am now. I want him to see me as that four year old forever, asleep in his lap, hand fisted in his shirt, not the seventeen year old who is lying to protect her boyfriend.
‘Mr Okomma,’ DS Hanlon gulped, the legs of her chair scraping on the lino as she jumped to her feet. ‘Who let you up here?’
‘I did,’ Bones said, appearing in the doorway.
‘Mike,’ she hissed, her cheeks red, which seemed to piss my father off more.
‘He was right to,’ he said, tightly. ‘What on earth is going on here?’
> ‘I’m ever so sorry, Mr Okomma,’ Mrs Delaney interjected. I’d never seen her so flustered. ‘You were on a conference call with Australia—’
‘That’s fine, Mrs Delaney,’ he interrupted, lifting a hand. But he wasn’t looking at Mrs Delaney. ‘I was led to believe that this was an informal chat at Crofton, not at the police station, DS Hanlon, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.’
‘She isn’t under caution, Mr Okomma,’ DS Hanlon said, hands on her hips.
‘I should hope not. Adamma is under eighteen, so my diplomatic immunity extends to her and you can’t interview her without permission from the Nigerian Embassy, as you well know.’
‘I do, Mr Okomma. I was just asking Adamma some questions about Scarlett Chiltern. She’s been missing for thirty-six hours and we’re anxious to find her.’
‘Of course. But why are you talking to her here and not at Crofton?’
‘Because it’s easier.’
‘Easier? I assume that’s why you’re recording this, because it’s easier.’ He arched an eyebrow and held out his hand. ‘Give me the tape.’
She shot Bones a look, who sighed. ‘Just do it, Marie. You can’t use it.’
‘It’s digital.’
My father nodded. ‘Delete it, then.’
She snatched the dictaphone from the desk and pressed a button. ‘Done.’
‘Thank you, DS Hanlon,’ he said, with a polite nod. ‘Come along, Adamma.’
Bones and I exchanged a look as I shuffled after my father across the office to the double doors. ‘Adamma,’ he barked, holding them open as I stopped to look over to the office where I’d seen Dominic waiting. I jumped and followed him down the stairs and out of the station.
When I got outside, my mother was pacing back and forth on the pavement, muttering something in Igbo into her phone. When she saw us walking towards her, she ended the call with a swift, Kaomesia, then raised an eyebrow at me. I knew that she was livid, but I still felt the same surge of joy I feel every time I see her. My mother is magnificent. That’s the only word big enough to describe her. There we were – my father and Mrs Delaney in their dull, dark suits, me in my black and white Crofton uniform – and there was my mother, in an ankle-length, strapless dress with a lime-green and purple print, her hair down, dark, tight curls frothing in all directions. Next to us, she looked like a piece of turquoise in a box of buttons.
Mrs Delaney stared at her, as she always does, as everyone does. Whenever she comes to Crofton, people stop and gape. ‘You’d think they’d never seen a black person,’ Scarlett says whenever they do, but it’s nothing to do with her being black; people stare in Nigeria, too. Men rush to open doors while women mutter under their breath that she should relax her hair. Not that she notices; she’s usually too busy asking me about school or trying to persuade my father to try a restaurant. Today she didn’t notice the man staring at her as he walked his dog past the police station, she just nodded at me to get in the car. I didn’t wait for her to tell me twice, and as I was climbing in, I heard my father offering to give Mrs Delaney a ride back to Crofton.
‘It’s fine, Mr Okomma. Thank you. It isn’t far to walk at all.’
‘Are you sure?’ he offered, if a little half-heartedly.
When she refused again, he waited for my mother to get into the car next to me, then slid in himself. He didn’t look at me as he did, just unbuttoned his suit jacket and asked the driver to take us to Crofton.
I waited for them to tell me off, but my mother just asked, ‘Is there anything you need to tell us, Adamma?’
I closed my eyes as everything inside me fizzed up – the guilt, the confusion – like bubbles in a champagne glass, as I wondered what had happened to Scarlett. And it was right there – I’m so scared, Mama – right there on the tip of my tongue, but I just shook my head. ‘No, Mama.’
190 DAYS BEFORE
NOVEMBER
The last few weeks have been strangely quiet. Half-term helped, but still, no one has got together or fallen out or been caught in the A/V Equipment Room.
Even Scarlett’s been behaving herself, probably because she got the part of Ophelia in Crofton’s production of Hamlet, so with her rehearsals, and my desperation to make up for not making it onto the staff of the Disraeli by taking any assignment Hannah is willing to offer, we’ve hardly seen each other. It’s my fault too, because I’ve kind of been avoiding her. We haven’t had an argument or anything, but things have been weird between us since she ran away to New York last month. I’ve calmed down and I even get that she didn’t want to jinx it, having to come back to school and tell everyone that she didn’t get the part would have been excruciating, but she could have told me. I was worried out of my mind.
I miss her, of course. I miss going to her house for tea in that hour before I have to get to swimming practice or Debating Society or Spanish Club or the hundred and one other things I have to do now. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with my parents that lasted more than ten minutes. It feels like all I say to them now is, I’ll call you back. Jumoke thinks it’s amusing, though. ‘I’ll give your regards to Bendels,’ she told me yesterday me when I said I’d call her back because I needed to take a shower after Cross Country and it made my heart ache a little.
But being apart from Scarlett has been kind of nice, too. I do my own thing now. I have a routine (frantic as it is). I’ve learned everyone’s names and can find my philosophy classroom without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Crofton is starting to feel like my school, too. And I’m not the only one who’s busy; everyone else has been settling into the slog of sixth-form life, too, which is probably why it’s been so quiet. They’ve even stopped whispering about Chloe Poole, so Orla has been venturing out of her room more. We have dinner together now and, as we share a weakness for bad horror movies, we sit in bed on Sunday nights, watching them on my laptop and scaring ourselves silly. Mrs Delaney has threatened a Saw intervention.
But all of this good behaviour also means that everyone is bored out of their minds, so I wasn’t surprised when word went out this morning that the Alphabet parties are back on. Thanks to the promise of drama, everyone seems to have forgotten why the last one was called off. I suppose it helps that Sam Wolfe ‘accidentally’ sent everyone a video of Rachel Flock going down on him yesterday so everyone’s too busy discussing that to worry about what happened to Chloe Poole the last time there was a party in the forest. Besides, this school would be nothing without its traditions and the Alphabet parties have been happening here since the forties. They’re as much part of Crofton as tartan skirts and tantrums.
Speaking of tantrums, today was the first time Scarlett has shown any regret for running away to New York. Of course she isn’t sorry for worrying us all sick, rather, she is sorry for herself because she’s grounded and can’t go to the party. A few weeks ago, I would have raged with her, but I stopped listening halfway through her rant as I wondered if I had my Kate Spade dress with me or if I’d left it in London.
I must admit, it was kind of satisfying to see her sulking. That’s mean, I know, but I keep hoping that absence will make the heart grow fonder and we can go back to how things were before, before I knew that she’d lied to me about Dominic, before she ran away and went to parties without me. Back when she was my bright, fearless friend who made me feel like I could do anything. So I figured another weekend apart would do us good, but who was the first person I saw when I got to Savernake Forest tonight?
She was dancing with Dominic, her back to him and her arms up as he held on to her hips with his hands. She saw me, I know she did, I saw the red curl of her mouth as she flicked her hair back and forth. If I hadn’t walked there with Molly, who was standing next to me, all but panting as she waited for a reaction, I might have turned around and gone back to Burnham. Sam came over, his hand lingering on my waist as he kissed me on
both cheeks. He kept it there as he leaned over to kiss Molly, and I pulled away as it began to edge over my hip to my ass.
‘Got any ice?’ I asked, holding up the bottle of vodka in my hand. I’d bought it for the first Alphabet party with my fake ID the last time I was in London. It had been hiding at the back of my closet since then in case Mrs Delaney found it.
He reared back, registering the threat, then grinned. ‘On the table.’
It was my first forest party and I was impressed; the Bedwyn boys had done a good job. I mean, Martha Stewart wouldn’t be calling them any time soon, but they’d strung some lights between the trees, which swayed lazily over our heads, and there was a DJ, a fire pit (which I’m pretty sure they weren’t supposed to dig, but I was too grateful for the heat to care) and a table with an impressive array of bottles given most of us are under eighteen. But then you never truly understand the resourcefulness of teenagers until it comes to acquiring alcohol; I’m sure there are drinks cabinets and wine cellars all over Wiltshire that are a bottle or two lighter this morning.
Molly was immediately distracted by a couple who were kissing against a tree and went off to investigate, cellphone in hand, which left me rooting around on the table for a clean plastic cup. I was scooping one into a bag of ice when Scarlett bounded over, squealing as though she hadn’t seen me for three weeks, not three hours. She gathered me up into a huge hug, smelling of cider and Chanel, and when I didn’t give her the satisfaction of asking what she was doing there, she told me anyway, regaling me with her epic tale of how she snuck out of the house, which probably involved elves and trolls and dragons, but I wasn’t listening.
‘Yum!’ She thrust her cup at me as I poured myself some vodka. She watched me fill her cup, then arched an eyebrow at me. ‘So. Why are you so late?’
‘Am I?’
‘I’ve been here ages.’
‘I would have been here earlier, but I was trying to persuade Orla to come.’
Scarlett laughed, but when I didn’t, she stared at me. ‘You’re joking.’