A Seven-Letter Word

by Kim Slater

  ‘I know,’ he says without looking up. ‘I’m just getting everything straight in my head, first.’

  He’s been trying to get everything straight in his head since the break-in on Friday. Anyone can see it isn’t working.

  After the forensic man left, I tidied up as best I could, but the house is still upside down and Dad hasn’t touched the mayhem in his own bedroom. For two days, he’s sat in the middle of all the mess, barely moving. Thinking, he calls it.

  ‘You c-can’t get everything st-straight in your h-head, when h-half the in-f-formation is m-missing,’ I point out, but he doesn’t reply.

  Monday

  When I come downstairs early on Monday morning, I expect to find Dad in the living room, fully clothed and unshaven again. But he’s in the kitchen and his hair is damp from the shower.

  ‘I’m cleaning up my bedroom today,’ Dad says while we eat cereal together, even though neither of us is hungry. ‘I know I’ve got to get moving on things, get things straight in the house, start throwing stuff out.’

  He means getting rid of Mum’s stuff. The things he said he’d already thrown away.

  ‘I’ve g-got some t-time be-before I m-meet M-Maryam,’ I say. ‘I’ll h-help you.’

  Dad doesn’t look very keen but I follow him upstairs anyway and stand in the doorway of his bedroom. The mess is even worse than I remembered it.

  I think about Neville and I have to close my eyes to try and break up the pictures in my head. I’ve searched drawers and cupboards, places he could never even reach.

  Nothing. No Neville . . . and nothing that Mum could’ve left behind.

  I start to scratch my arms, lightly at first, then harder, but nothing seems to ease the itching.

  ‘Finlay,’ Dad says, grasping my arms gently. ‘You’re going to hurt yourself. Relax.’

  I let my hands fall to my sides.

  ‘Let’s just get everything back in the chest for starters,’ Dad suggests.

  ‘You t-told me you th-threw all Mum’s pho-photo-g-graphs and clothes aw-away,’ I say quietly as I start to gather things up.

  ‘Yes, well, I was going to,’ Dad says without looking at me.

  ‘Th-then w-why d-didn’t –’

  ‘I just didn’t, OK?’ Dad snaps. When he looks at me his face is red and his eyes are even redder. ‘I thought – oh, I don’t know. Idiot that I am, I thought she might come back one day.’

  I keep my eyes on the floor, keep gathering up the photographs and setting them in small piles.

  ‘It was the hardest thing in the world for her to leave you.’ Dad sighs. ‘Her face – I’ve never seen anyone look so torn up before.’

  But she still left, I think.

  We work for a few minutes, with Dad cocking his head to one side now and then, as though he’s listening. ‘There it is again,’ he whispers after a moment or two. ‘I thought I heard something.’

  I stop shuffling photographs into piles and listen. I can’t hear anything. Then, just as I’m about to tidy the photos away into the wooden chest, there it is: a faint scrabbling, a scraping sound coming from the other side of the wall.

  ‘It’s either rats,’ Dad says, pressing his ear to the wall and grinning at me, ‘or it’s our Neville.’

  ‘N-Neville!’ I jump up from the floor.

  Dad puts a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet, now. We don’t want to spook him.’ He stands up straight. ‘He must’ve got in there through here.’

  He points to a small, square door in the wall leading to the attic that now stands slightly ajar. ‘I was in there the other day, looking for something. I must’ve forgotten to close it properly.’

  If it is Neville in the attic, he must somehow have got out of his cage – probably when the robber(s) kicked it over – and scurried along the landing into Dad’s room. The attic is enormous and runs the full length of the eaves. We’ll never find Neville in there; he has a million places to hide away.

  ‘I have an idea,’ says Dad. ‘Wait here.’

  I hear him rattling around downstairs in the kitchen and then he is back. Armed with peanuts.

  ‘Open the attic door a bit wider,’ he whispers, like he’s worried Neville might overhear him.

  I do as he says, and then we lay the peanuts in a long line, leading into the middle of Dad’s room.

  ‘We’ll put one or two inside the door so he gets a taste for them.’ Dad winks.

  He grins at me and I grin back. He seems to want to find Neville as much as I do.

  Dad goes downstairs again and comes back up with two steaming mugs of tea. Then we sit on the bed and wait.

  It’s ages since we’ve just sat together without Dad reading his paper or watching TV. We’re staying really quiet because we don’t want to scare Neville off, but it’s a nice kind of quiet.

  I’m staring into space, thinking about all my problems, when Dad gives me a sharp nudge. I look at him and he nods to the attic door. Neville’s tiny paws appear on the door ledge and then he pops his head up and sniffs the air. In a jiffy, he’s clambered down on to the floor and is carefully packing the peanuts, one by one, into his bulging cheeks.

  Soon he’ll have enough in there to see him through until Christmas.

  When he’s moved to the fifth peanut on the trail, Dad whispers, ‘I think it’s safe to nab him now. Quick as you can, Finlay.’

  I move like lightning and, just a few seconds later, I have Neville’s warm, furry body safely in my hands. I kiss the top of his head.

  ‘Neville’s Great Adventure!’ Dad grins, marking it out as a headline in the air. ‘Sounds like an action movie I’d like to see.’

  We go straight to my room and I put Neville in his cage and securely fasten his door. He looks decidedly peeved that he had to leave the other peanuts behind.

  ‘Th-thanks, D-Dad,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t have to thank me, son,’ Dad says, ruffling my hair. ‘Neville’s family. And in this family, we look out for each other, right?’

  THERE IS A FLOURISHING ONLINE SCRABBLE COMMUNITY.

  I’m still too early for meeting Maryam at the youth club, so I walk up into Colwick Woods and sit on a bench.

  From here, I can see the sails of Green’s Windmill in the distance, turning lazily in the light wind. The sun is battling to get through the thick clouds and failing miserably. I feel glad of my cosy fleece but inside I have a warm glow all of my own.

  Neville is safe again.

  There’s hardly anyone around, just a dog walker talking on his phone and a runner who pounds by without even glancing my way. I’d like to talk to someone about the break-in and the man who’s been phoning Dad, but it would be impossible getting all those words out in one piece and in the right order.

  Nobody can help, anyway, because nobody knows the full story. Not even Dad.

  I can’t help wondering if he’ll ever go to the police and what he’ll say to them if he does. It seems he knows lots of little bits about Mum’s disappearance but nothing solid, nothing that makes sense.

  I get to the club just after ten but Maryam isn’t due to arrive for another half an hour. From what I hear, Oliver is still in hospital, so he must be in a pretty bad way. Although there’s nothing that would make me happier than seeing Oliver get a taste of his own medicine, I still wouldn’t wish this on him.

  I get a Scrabble box out of the cupboard and sit at a table in a quiet corner. Then I pull my tile bag from my rucksack and empty out the contents, turning each one face up, so I can see the letters.

  I slide them around and make random words.

  MYSTERY [15]

  There are so many mysteries whizzing around in my mind, it’s hard to separate them all out. But I have a go:

  • Why did Mum leave so suddenly and without saying goodbye?

  • Why would Dad say he’d destroyed Mum’s stuff but secretly keep it all?

  • Why is Alex so friendly online but doesn’t seem to want to meet up?

  • Who is Nicole? Could sh
e really be Mum, or just some other woman who left her family behind?

  • What were the people who broke into our house looking for?

  Worst of all, I think that if this man, whoever he is, is willing to threaten Dad on the phone and break into our house, then what might he be willing to do . . . to Mum?

  I can’t sit around any longer.

  I tip the tiles back into my tile bag, pick my rucksack up and walk out of the youth club.

  PLAYERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO USE WORDS THAT REQUIRE HYPHENS OR APOSTROPHES ON THE BOARD.

  The next thing I know, I’m standing on Maryam’s doorstep, ringing the bell. I’ve scared myself silly with thoughts about Mum being in danger, but Dad doesn’t seem to share my fear.

  A lady who has the same eyes as Maryam, and is dressed in a long tunic and headscarf, answers the door.

  I start to panic. I shouldn’t have just turned up like this.

  ‘Are you Finlay?’ the woman asks.

  I nod.

  She has a stronger accent than Maryam but her eyes dance with amusement, just the same. ‘Well, I am pleased to meet you.’

  I nod and smile, and shake her small, warm hand.

  She stands aside and sweeps her arm back.

  ‘I am Maryam’s mother. Please, come in.’

  I smile and nod again, hoping I can avoid speaking. I step inside the hallway on to a rich, mahogany, highly polished wooden floor. I look down at my scruffy trainers and bend down to untie them.

  ‘Don’t worry about your shoes, Finlay. Please, just come through. Maryam mentioned you’d had some trouble at home, I hope everything is OK?’

  I give her a small smile and nod. I’m not about to tell her everything is in pieces at home. I follow her down the hallway, my eyes taking in intricate embroidered wall hangings and what look like framed, hand-printed prayers in letters and signs that I can’t understand.

  The air smells of polish and sweet spices, and I can hear faint strains of voices coming from somewhere inside the house.

  She stops at the bottom of the stairs and calls Maryam down.

  ‘She will be down in a moment,’ Maryam’s mum says. ‘Please, come through to the lounge.’

  I follow her into a large room with glass doors that face out on to the garden.

  The television is on but muted, and in the corner of the room, a very old, wrinkly woman sits propped up with cushions, watching me like a small, hungry bird.

  ‘Who is this?’ she barks in a surprisingly powerful voice.

  The old lady leans forward and Maryam’s mum plumps up the cushions behind her.

  ‘This is Finlay, Maryam’s friend from school, Ammi. She is helping him to better his Scrabble game for the championships, remember?’

  The old woman mutters something and shakes her head in disapproval.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, Finlay?’ Maryam’s mum says, ignoring her.

  I can’t just shake my head without looking rude.

  ‘N-no, th-thank you,’ I say as quietly as possible. I glance over at the old lady but she is still muttering to herself. I wonder if Maryam has told her family I have a stammer. What on earth was I thinking, coming here?

  But Maryam’s mum doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Please, Finlay, take a seat,’ she says, smiling. The old woman leans forward and looks me up and down through narrowed eyes, tutting her disapproval. I can’t imagine her as a young woman, sewing sequins on to her hijab.

  ‘He is thin like a stick,’ she mutters in a very thick accent. ‘You had better feed him up, Beti, before he falls down a drain.’ The old lady cackles, rocking backwards and forwards, enjoying her own joke.

  ‘Nani!’ I look round with relief as Maryam appears at the doorway. ‘Don’t be so rude!’ She looks at me and then scowls at the old lady. ‘Sorry, Finlay, the closer Nani gets to her hundredth birthday, the ruder she gets.’

  ‘Bah!’ The old woman frowns and waves us away with a hand.

  Maryam pulls my arm and we move back into the hallway.

  ‘Ignore her.’ Maryam grins. ‘It is nice outside, let’s go and sit in the garden.’

  Maryam leads me through the kitchen, where her mum is cooking something that smells sweet and delicious.

  Outside we sit on the patio, at a large wooden outdoor table. The garden is large, with mature trees and immaculate flower beds. I close my eyes and lift my face up to the sun for a couple of seconds, listening to the birdsong. The grey clouds of this morning have all but vanished.

  ‘So you visit at last.’ Maryam nudges my hand. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘I’m s-sorry,’ I say, feeling ashamed. ‘I sh-should have w-waited f-for you at the you-youth c-club –’

  ‘It is fine to practise here,’ Maryam says. ‘You are welcome any time, Finlay. But I must say, you do look troubled.’

  The back door swings open and Maryam’s mum glides outside, carrying a tray.

  ‘Sweet tea and a treat.’ She smiles at us both, and touches Maryam’s head with affection, before disappearing back inside.

  Maryam hands me a cup of tea. It doesn’t look like any tea I’ve drunk before. I take a sip and it is comforting: sweet and creamy. It tastes very different to the bitter builder’s brew that Dad makes.

  ‘You like?’ Maryam watches me drink, smiling.

  I nod.

  ‘It is chai, and this –’ she hands me a small golden, baked ball on a china plate – ‘this is my favourite sweet treat, besan ke ladoo.’

  I take a bite and it tastes like heaven; a light, warm, almond-flavoured dough with a crisp coating. Somehow, I feel safer and calmer.

  Maryam beams as I finish the treat and reach for another. I’m suddenly starving hungry.

  ‘Ammi is a very good cook,’ she says. ‘But be careful of Nani. She is plotting to keep you prisoner here and fatten you up.’

  Her face is deadly serious but when I give her a worried look, she bursts out laughing.

  ‘Sorry, it is only a joke. Nani is getting –’ she taps her temple – ‘a little eccentric in her old age.’

  Maryam’s pride and love for her family shines out and a longing for Mum settles on my chest, refusing to budge. I give her a weak smile and take another sip of chai.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Maryam says. ‘Everything.’

  Slowly I relay the events of the past couple of days. I tell her about the break-in and about Mum’s Bunny village emergency plan and Dad’s conviction that Mum left something behind that someone out there seems determined to get their hands on.

  I don’t tell her about the mystery man who’s threatened Dad and I don’t tell her about the accusation that Mum’s been stealing information. I don’t know why. It just seems too extraordinary to wrestle with and to try and explain, when it doesn’t even make sense to me.

  My words choke me at first, refusing to roll out smoothly. But as I relax in Maryam’s company, talking gets a little easier.

  ‘Can you think of anything, Finlay? Anything your mum might have left behind?’

  I shake my head, staring at the expanse of neat, green grass.

  ‘Wh-what would she l-leave?’

  Maryam shrugs.

  ‘Maybe a clue as to why she left home so suddenly in the first place?’

  A bird warbles in the hedgerow next to where we’re sitting, clear and sweet, like it’s sending a message of hope.

  ‘I c-can’t think st-straight at all,’ I say. ‘My m-mind is just one big m-mess.’

  ‘I’ve got the perfect cure for that,’ Maryam says, standing up. ‘If there’s one thing a game of Scrabble can do, it is to straighten out your mixed-up thoughts.’

  PLAYERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO USE WORDS THAT START WITH A CAPITAL LETTER.

  The last thing I feel like doing is playing Scrabble, but I can’t just turn up here at Maryam’s home, expecting her to listen to all my problems and ignoring anything she wants to do.

  So I open my rucksack and take out my tile bag.

  Maryam comes ba
ck and sets out the board and timer on the table. Then she sets down some headphones and jacks them into an iPad.

  ‘I want you to do something, Finlay,’ she says. ‘Can you put the headphones on and read this aloud, please?’

  She hands me a piece of paper with a paragraph about me written on it.

  ‘W-what is it?’

  ‘Just do it, Finlay.’ She grins. ‘Read it aloud over the noise of the music. I will explain very soon.’

  I sigh and put on the headphones. My ears fill with a tune that’s currently top of the charts. An annoying pop song I don’t like.

  I’m about to ask again what we’re doing this for but Maryam signals for me to read.

  I pick up the paper.

  ‘My name is F-Finlay McIntosh. I live in Nottingham and I am a Scrabble genius. I have a pet hamster called Neville and a very cl-clever friend called Maryam.’

  The music stops.

  I take the headphones off. I think I just read that almost without stammering.

  Maryam’s eyes are shining. She presses her phone screen and a recording plays back of what I just read.

  ‘I s-sound n-nearly perfect.’ I gape.

  ‘You were perfect, Finlay,’ Maryam says. ‘When you speak against a background of music or singing, your stammer almost disappears.’

  ‘H-how?’ I say.

  Maryam shrugs. ‘Something to do with the rhythm, the way you’re breathing. Who knows. Who actually cares? You did it!’

  I did. I really did it.

  ‘Not that you can speak with music playing all the time . . . but that’s not the point,’ Maryam continues. ‘What matters is that it’s another technique you might be able to use, and also, that you know there is nothing wrong with your voice.’

  ‘Th-thank you,’ I say, handing back the headphones. ‘I n-never knew I c-could do th-that.’

  I wonder if Maryam will write about this in her science project. But do I really care? It feels like I just conquered the world.

  ‘I think we should do this more often, Finlay,’ Maryam says, sweeping her hand around the garden. ‘Perhaps we should create a new activity – Extreme Scrabble, played outdoors.’