A Seven-Letter Word

by Kim Slater

  She slides over my tile rack.

  ‘Why d-did you st-stop pl-playing Scrabble?’ It’s something I’ve often wondered.

  ‘My uncle loved the game and taught me to play when I was very young. When he saw I had a talent, he entered me into competitions where I began to win against kids nearly twice my age. The whole family got so excited, I just sort of got carried along with it for a while.’

  ‘D-do you m-miss playing?’

  ‘Not really.’ Maryam smiles. ‘I am happy to be following my own dreams. I am proud I achieved a good level with the game, but it was never something I wanted to do for the rest of my life.’

  I nod, understanding. Maryam picks up my tile bag from the table by the drawstring and rotates it so it catches the light.

  Mum’s embroidery looks really beautiful out here in the sunlight. I’ve only ever looked at it indoors and if I’m honest, I’ve had it so long now that I stopped noticing the intricacy of her stitches some time ago.

  ‘So pretty,’ she breathes. ‘Your mum was a clever lady.’ Coloured threads intertwine and catch the fabric in a thousand different ways, forming complicated geometric shapes that transform the plain cream muslin cloth underneath. ‘Did she give it to you before she left?’ Maryam asks.

  I nod. I reach for the bag so I can make my letter selection, but Maryam empties all the tiles out on to the table and flattens the bag in front of her, loosening the drawstring so the bag is a perfect square again.

  ‘W-what are you d-doing?’

  ‘Just looking.’

  I can hear kids squealing and laughing in the garden next door, chasing each other, but I can’t see them because of the high hedges.

  ‘Interesting,’ I hear Maryam murmur.

  I watch her run her fingertip backwards and forwards over the glinting silver initials ‘FM’ that Mum embroidered on the bag for me. I feel a bit guilty for not appreciating it enough. These days, I barely look at the bag any more.

  Maryam taps her fingernail on the initials. ‘There is something under here,’ she says. ‘You can feel it.’

  I reach over and press my fingertip on the lettering. There is a small square of something, flat and hard underneath the stitches.

  ‘Have you never noticed this before?’ Maryam asks.

  I shake my head. It’s probably just something Mum put in so the material lies flat and the initials show up better.

  ‘I am not surprised it has escaped your notice. On a bag filled with tiles, it would be virtually invisible to spot,’ Maryam says, almost to herself.

  ‘M-maybe she left it in by m-mistake,’ I offer.

  Maryam shakes her head. ‘Your mum would have known it was there when she sewed the initials.’

  She gets up without saying anything and disappears into the house.

  I pick up the tile bag and pinch around the stitches. It feels like a tiny, hard square of plastic directly under my initials.

  ‘Finlay, do you trust me?’ She holds up a tiny pair of scissors. ‘These are very sharp and precise. I could make a tiny slit on the inside of the bag, to extract whatever is there. It will not spoil the bag and no one will ever know.’

  I don’t know about cutting into Mum’s bag: I don’t want to spoil it.

  ‘Afterwards, I can sew it up again with the tiniest stitches you can imagine.’

  She opens up the empty bag and shows me the piece of inside lining she wants to snip.

  ‘OK th-then,’ I agree. It’s just a bit of plastic, I don’t know what she’s expecting.

  I watch as Maryam sticks out her tongue in concentration and begins to snip at the fabric, before I hear a sharp intake of breath. The tile bag falls from her hands and she holds something up in the air. I shade my eyes from the sun and hold my palm out flat as Maryam places the object in my hand.

  It is a tiny black square of plastic with a metal edge.

  A memory card.

  PLAYERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO USE FOREIGN WORDS WHEN PLAYING SCRABBLE IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

  When I get back home, Dad’s van is gone. I keep calling his work mobile but it goes straight to voicemail each time. He’s probably been called out on an emergency job.

  It took me ages to get away from Maryam. She pleaded to come back with me to speak to Dad about our discovery but I managed to convince her that he and I needed a bit of time together to sort our heads out. She doesn’t know Dad. He’ll do his nut if he knows I’ve got other people involved in our problems.

  I run upstairs and slip the memory card into my computer. After a few seconds, a new driver begins to load. It seems painfully slow. Every second feels like a full minute and the buzzing sound in my ears seems to grow louder with each moment.

  Finally, the screen springs into life.

  A logo I haven’t seen before – three intertwined letters, ‘MKF’ – flashes up and is swiftly replaced by a black box containing two blank white rectangles, labelled Username and Password.

  I enter various combinations: CHRISTA and FINLAY, CHRISTA and PASSWORD, CHRISTA and PASSWORD123, and about a thousand more guesses.

  Not one of them opens the program.

  I bang the top of my desk with my fist. I need to think hard because this is important, really important.

  Mum went to the trouble of concealing this memory card in the most ingenious way possible. It’s almost as though she didn’t even want me to find it. The stuff on there must be pretty top secret.

  Maybe, one day, she intended coming back for it. I like the thought of that.

  I flip the memory card out and place it safely on my bookshelf. Then I log on to the Scrabble online portal and wait.

  I distinctly remember Alex telling me he’s a bit of an IT whizz. What if he can help me to crack Mum’s password? It’s worth a try.

  Five minutes later, Alex logs in. It’s amazing, he always seems to know whenever I’m online.

  Hey Finlay. Long time, no speak, he types.

  I don’t waste any time.

  I found something, I say. I was looking for clues as to why Mum left. And I found something.

  What? What did you find? Alex pings back immediately.

  A memory card but it needs a password. I wondered if

  Then Alex cuts in:

  You need to get that memory card to me right away.

  I’m grateful Alex seems willing to help out, but this new, urgent tone is a bit startling.

  That’s why I came online, to ask you if you’ve got any tips on breaking the password, I say.

  Don’t meddle with it. I’ll meet you in town in an hour to pick it up.

  This is crazy. Alex is acting as if the memory card belongs to him.

  I type my reply quickly.

  Thanks but I don’t want you to take it away, just help me to crack the password, I type. Me and Dad will have to take it to the police.

  What he says next nearly knocks me off my chair.

  If you don’t want to get hurt, you’ll meet me and bring the memory card with you. Understand?

  I feel like I’m going to be sick. I really wish Dad was here. I suddenly feel very unsafe and nervous.

  Is this Alex?

  Maybe someone has logged on as Alex, pretending to be him.

  Yes, this is Alex. You need to give me the memory card, do you understand?

  I press my hand on my chest to try and slow my heartbeat.

  I don’t understand what’s happening here and yet part of me does. I’ve put my faith in a complete stranger. How come Alex is suddenly here in Nottingham when he said he didn’t know when he’d be visiting? Has he been here all along?

  I’m reaching for the mouse to log off when another message flashes up.

  Finlay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.

  Everyone knows that other users can easily adopt a persona they want you to believe is them. I try to think for a moment.

  Look, something happened today, something bad, Alex types. Would you meet up with me to talk about it?
<
br />   He sounds normal again.

  But I really don’t want to get involved with his personal problems. I have enough of my own to deal with.

  See, I didn’t tell you the whole truth . . . there’s something you need to know, Alex types. It’s about your mum. I’ve found something out that means she might be in danger and you might be, too.

  This doesn’t sound like you, I send straight back.

  My breathing comes in short, sharp bursts and my hands are shaking. I feel hope, dread. Mostly, I feel sick. What does he mean about me and Mum being in danger?

  I swear it’s me, Finlay. I had to be horrible to make you listen – I didn’t think you were taking me seriously. Please, meet me at the coffee shop at the end of your road in an hour.

  How come you’re suddenly in Nottingham? I ask.

  We came up last night, Dad has an urgent job on. I was gonna message you to meet up anyway and then you beat me to it. I’m worried about you, Finlay, that’s all.

  I suppose that could make sense at a push. And I almost feel bad now, when Alex seems to only have my interests at heart.

  Why do you think my mum might be in danger? I type. Shall I ring the police?

  No! It could make everything worse. Let’s crack the memory card code together and then I can tell you everything.

  He definitely sounds like Alex again and it feels good that he seems to really want to help me, even though I feel nervous about the fact that he says Mum and me might both be in danger.

  Now we’re finally going to meet up, Alex will find out about my stutter but I can’t hide it forever. However much I hate it, it is a part of me and it will probably always be there.

  I’ve still got a lot I want to say.

  Somehow, I’m not sure why, I think that Alex will understand. And more importantly, I need to know what he has to tell me about Mum.

  OK, I say. Meet you at the coffee shop I told you about before at the end of Bolton Grove. You take the main road out of Colwick and

  I know where you live, he interrupts before I’ve even finished typing my message.

  I feel a chill at the back of my neck. Unconnected events start to move around in my head, sliding slowly towards each other like random tiles on the board that eventually line up to make a word.

  I feel like there’s something really obvious I’m not seeing yet. I’m not joining up the letters in the right way.

  You told me, remember? Alex continues. You said you lived just up the hill from the coffee shop.

  I did. I did say that. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Alex seems to know Nottingham pretty well, even though he hasn’t visited much – but I guess with Google Earth and online maps, you can pretty much see where anybody lives.

  I need to know what he knows about Mum. If my mum lives with him and his dad it would be crazy. But in some weird way, maybe it would make us almost like . . . brothers, or something.

  I shake my head to stop my brain running away with all these mad ideas.

  OK, I say. My heart is pounding and I can hardly swallow, my mouth is so dry, but I have to say it. My fingers fly over the keys, pushing out the words before I change my mind: Meet you in an hour. Bring a photo of your family and I’ll bring one of mine.

  I’m electrified and terrified about the idea of finding out the truth at last.

  Fantastic! he sends back instantly. And Finlay . . .

  I’m already moving away from the computer to get my journal. But I reach back and type with one hand.

  Yes?

  Don’t forget to bring the memory card!

  Monday, 25 May

  Dear Mum,

  I’m meeting Alex in one hour but I have to write this down to get it out of my head. It feels the whole world is going mad – the house broken into, Dad admitting you contacted him after you left, Alex acting weird . . . and now the MEMORY [13] card.

  You hid it so carefully, as if you didn’t want anybody to find it at all, even me. It’s torture knowing that tiny plastic card holds information you wanted to keep safe. Did you write me a letter explaining why you left, and save it on there, thinking I’m cleverer than I am, and that I’d find it well before now?

  I’ve tried everything to try and crack the password but I’ve had no luck at all. I’m hoping Alex will be able to help me. He says there’s something he needs to tell me.

  About you.

  Maybe you made a mistake? Maybe you thought you wanted a new family, or got into trouble at work?

  Whatever happened, Dad would have you back here tomorrow, I really believe that.

  I can’t help wondering if you left other clues, too. I can’t IMAGINE [10] ever getting to the bottom of it all. But I’m going to try.

  Love,

  Finlay x

  SCRABBLE IS AVAILABLE IN TWENTY-NINE LANGUAGES.

  Fifty minutes later I arrive at Coffee ’n’ Cream, the cafe at the bottom of our road. It’s quite busy, but there are still some free seats.

  There are no lads already in there who are sitting on their own, so I choose a table tucked away in the corner from where I can see the door clearly. I imagine Alex to be a bit taller than me, someone who looks as though they’ve got a lot of self-confidence.

  I don’t know why I think that. Alex says he hasn’t got many friends but I never imagine him as being lonely. It must be something to do with the way he talks and the things he says. I feel confident that I’ll know him when he walks in.

  I tap my hand on the edge of the table, watch a plump baby in a pushchair dribbling and squealing in delight at his own fingers, stare out of the window at an old tramp shuffling by, pushing a wonky shopping trolley piled up with all his worldly goods.

  My skin starts to itch. My hands move to my arms but I force them back down again. If I can relax a little, the itching will disappear on its own. I glance at my watch again, it’s ten past six and still no sign of Alex.

  I look around at the tables. Mums and pushchairs, a businessman, an elderly couple, and a girl about my age sitting on her own. She looks over just as my eyes settle on her. A second of eye contact then we both look away again. I sigh and look back out of the window. I dip my fingers into the inside pocket of my denim jacket, just to make sure it’s still in there.

  Something makes me look across the room again. The girl is watching me and this time she doesn’t look away.

  She has mousy brown lank hair and a pale, thin face. She’s probably about fourteen or fifteen, but she has shadows under her eyes that make her look older, tired. I want to stop looking but I can’t. She’s standing up. She’s coming over.

  Alex is going to be here any moment and it’s all going to get complicated.

  The words will stick together in my throat if I try to explain that I’m waiting for a friend.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. She nibbles her nails and then snatches them out of her mouth like an invisible person is telling her to stop.

  She sits down in the empty seat opposite me.

  ‘Are you Finlay?’

  It feels like my cheeks are bathing the whole cafe in a rosy glow.

  I start to cough and I can’t stop.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ she says, and before I can answer, she stands up. I want to call her back, explain I’m meeting someone, but it’s too late, she’s at the counter, picking change out of her purse to pay for the drinks.

  I glance at my watch; it’s a quarter past six.

  Where the hell is Alex? How does that girl know my name? I’ve never seen her at school or at the youth club.

  A few minutes later she’s back, holding two regular lattes. ‘I got sugar,’ she says, piling a few sachets up in the middle of the table. ‘Just in case.’

  I don’t touch the coffee and neither does she.

  She keeps shifting around in her seat, eyes darting around the cafe. Now she’s chewing her nails again.

  ‘I – I –’

  I’m meeting someone: I see the words dancing tantalizingly in front of my eyes.
I try again.

  ‘I – I’m m-mee—’

  The words won’t come. My heart is hammering, I feel hot and out of breath. Alex will arrive any second and my stutter will be ten times worse than ever.

  She looks at me.

  ‘Are you meeting someone?’ she says. ‘Someone called Alex?’

  I nod. I don’t know how she knows all this stuff, but hopefully she’ll leave me alone now.

  ‘Alex is here,’ she says.

  I look around the cafe but there’s still nobody who fits his description.

  ‘Here, silly,’ she says, jabbing her own forehead. ‘I’m Alex.’

  PLAYERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO ATTEMPT TO FEEL THE TILES IN THE BAG IN ORDER TO GUESS THE LETTERS.

  My jaw drops open but Alex seems unfazed. She tears open a sugar sachet and empties it into her drink.

  ‘Y-you’re A-Alex?’

  ‘Well actually, I’m Alexandra,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Alexandra King. But everyone calls me Alex.’

  My head is about to explode. With heat, with panic . . . with pure embarrassment. I’ve been pouring my heart out to a girl called Alexandra?

  I decide I want to die. Right here, right now.

  ‘What’s wrong with your face?’ she asks. Then she grins. ‘Oh, I see, you thought I was a boy.’

  I don’t smile back.

  ‘Don’t give me the evil eye, Finlay. I never said I was a boy, you just assumed it.’

  That’s the worst thing about it. I did. Early on, I’d pictured Alex as a boy who I might become mates with, and that was it. As far as I was concerned, Alex was male. But somehow, I can’t stop feeling really angry at her. It’s like she knew I’d made that mistake and hadn’t said anything. If she’d told me her full name – Alexandra – there would have been no misunderstanding.

  All those thoughts are quickly swept aside as I remember that ‘Alex’ has finally brought the proof I’ve been waiting for.

  ‘D-did you bring a ph-photograph of y-your f-fa-family?’

  She shakes her head.

  I bang my fist on the table and Alex’s coffee wobbles in its cardboard cup, throwing a bit of milk froth over the edge.