A Seven-Letter Word

by Kim Slater

  Somewhere between writing Mum’s letter and running home from the park, an idea has crystallized in my mind and I need to test it out. Those pictures are the only things she left me. Those and the tile bag.

  There are seven photographs, all printed out on ordinary paper and all depicting games we’d played in the last couple of weeks before Mum left. I’ve never really looked at them properly before now. I pick up one and study it. Mum played a great word, T-R-A-N-Q [14], on her first turn. I remember challenging her, saying that there was no such word, but of course, she found it in the Scrabble dictionary and waved it in my face.

  Suddenly I feel a flutter of possibility. I’m so relieved that I decided to meet up with Alex first, before I trusted him with Mum’s precious secrets. I take the memory card from its hiding place on my book shelf and insert it into my computer.

  THE LONGER WORDS ARE NOT NECESSARILY THE HIGHEST-SCORING WORDS.

  The letters ‘MKF’ flash up and then disappear, leaving the empty log-on boxes. I enter Mum’s name and then ‘TRANQ’ as the password.

  Incorrect. Try again.

  I pick another word. PODGE [10]. This one was one of Mum’s favourites; it’s what she used to call me when I was little. I tap in the letters and press enter.

  Incorrect. Try again.

  I let out a groan of frustration and look back at the photos, willing a word to stand out from the others. For the first time, I notice the top photograph is numbered with a small, black handwritten number ‘3’, in the left-hand corner. I pick it up and scrutinize it.

  Nothing special about it. I try one or two of the words on that sheet, but nothing works.

  I spread out the photographs on my bed in a fan shape and see that each one has a tiny, handwritten number in the top left-hand corner. I nearly shout to Dad to come upstairs but decide against it. It doesn’t mean anything yet and the police are on their way. It’s my last chance to make sense of everything and there’s no time to lose.

  It occurs to me that Mum might’ve just numbered the games in the order we played them. But that theory is soon disproved because I distinctly remember our last game together and that one is only numbered ‘2’. I’m just about to gather the papers up, before the police get here, when something else catches my eye. A single Scrabble letter in the top left square of the board, disjointed and separate from the other words. Even stranger, I see there is one on every single photograph.

  On sheet number 2 it’s an ‘A’, on number 4 it’s an ‘S’, and number 7 has an ‘L’.

  Will they make a seven-letter word?

  My hands are shaking a little but I place the photographs in line, in numerical order, and say the letters out loud.

  ‘W-A-L-S-A-L-L’

  Walsall? I’ve heard of Warsaw in Poland, but I’m not sure where Walsall is. I think it might be a football team. I type the word into Google and discover it is a town eight miles north-west of Birmingham.

  ‘Finlay!’ Dad’s shout makes me nearly jump out of my skin. ‘Coppers have just pulled up.’

  ‘C-coming!’ I shout back.

  I type the word ‘WALSALL’ into the password box and the screen jumps into life. The company logo appears again and the whole monitor fills with some kind of code. My heart seems to hammer in time with the flashes of html. When it all clears, I’m left with a small list of database files, labelled ‘MKF Tenancies 1–150’.

  Evidence that can put Alex’s dad in prison.

  They send different policemen to the two who came before. They listen carefully to everything Dad tells them and take notes. They seem to understand when Dad explains that we don’t know exactly who Alex and her dad are.

  ‘I knew Christa seemed to be getting close to the guy she worked for . . .’ Dad takes a strangled breath. ‘But I’m guilty of turning a blind eye. I threw myself into work and pretended there wasn’t a problem.’ He squirms in his seat and I can see his fingernails digging into his palms.

  This is so hard for him, but he’s doing it.

  ‘We’d all act differently with the benefit of hindsight, sir,’ the younger policeman says kindly.

  ‘We should be able to trace him through our colleagues in the Leicestershire force,’ the older policeman says. ‘Our priority will be to make sure the girl, Alex, is safe.’

  I tell them that King admitted he was the one who scared Oliver so much he ran into the road and was hit by a car. And I give them the memory card. I write down the username and password on a separate piece of paper.

  ‘Don’t worry, son, we’ll take good care of it,’ the younger policeman says, taking it from me and popping it into a self-sealing plastic bag. ‘I’m sure our digital team will appreciate you managing to crack the password. Might even offer you a job.’

  When the police have left, I feel strangely deflated. I ask Dad about the significance of Walsall but he shrugs his shoulders. ‘It’s not a place your mum ever mentioned to me,’ he says, rubbing his whiskery chin. ‘I know it’s hard, lad, but try not to put too much stock on it meaning anything; it was probably just the first thing she thought of at the time.’ He puts the television on, turns the sound down to mute and stares blankly at it.

  My insides crackle like heated-up popcorn. I feel like we should be doing stuff, but I’m not sure exactly what. Anything would be better than sitting about uselessly. A lot of questions have been answered today, but not the most important one.

  Where is Mum?

  I don’t know why, but when I go back upstairs, I log into the Scrabble site. Alex’s ID icon is green. I almost knew for certain it would be.

  Finlay?

  I ignore her. If it even is her, and not her dad. I’m going to delete my account.

  Are you OK?

  Against my better judgement I send a snappy reply back: What do you care?

  I’m sorry.

  I want to be angry at her, to tell her to just get lost, but I can’t help but remember the terror on her face when her dad appeared in the park.

  I want to tell you some stuff about your mum. Stuff I didn’t dare say in front of Dad.

  I’m not going to fall for that again. Don’t bother, I type. I’m done.

  He threatened her, Finlay. Her reply comes back right away, before I can close the window. She left to protect you both.

  My whole body feels wobbly and my hands are shaking so badly I can’t type anything.

  He told her he’d hurt you and your dad if she went to the police or showed her face ever again. It’s the truth, Finlay. I’m so sorry.

  I shut the message box and delete my account.

  Monday, 25 May

  Dear Mum,

  After what happened in the park today, I thought I was OK, thought I’d taken it all in my stride. But later, when I went to bed, I found myself SOBBING [12] into my pillow.

  I keep thinking about Alex, being stuck with that thug of a father. I’m so angry about what she did. But I don’t think she’s a bad person. I just don’t think she had a choice.

  Like you didn’t think you had a choice. But you did.

  And you still do.

  It’s the Scrabble championships in two days. There’s been so much going on I’d almost forgotten about it. I realize now it was just a silly dream, thinking I could win and that you’d see me, wherever you are and come back.

  I’ve decided not to go.

  I want to be around in case the police need to speak to me.

  For the first time, I think I’m beginning to understand why you felt it was impossible for you to stay.

  Your son,

  Finlay

  SCRABBLE WAS ORIGINALLY NAMED ‘LEXICO’.

  Tuesday

  My alarm goes off. I hit ‘snooze’ and pull the covers over my head.

  The first train whooshes by at 6.05 a.m. and I think about all those people already on their way somewhere, dressed and out of the house. Wondering what their day will bring.

  At nine o’clock Dad taps on my door.

  ‘Finlay? M
rs Adams just rang. You’re supposed to be at the youth club now, playing practice matches for tomorrow’s championships.’

  ‘I’m n-not going,’ I say, my words muffled by the pillow.

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘N-no. Y-yes, I’m f-feeling s-sick.’ Which is true.

  I hear my bedroom door open and Dad comes into the room.

  ‘Let’s have a look at you, then.’

  I stick my head out of the covers.

  ‘You look all right to me, lad.’

  ‘I’m n-not,’ I say.

  Dad sits on the end of my bed. ‘I know all this is unsettling . . . but it’ll all come out in the wash, son.’

  ‘It fl-flaming won’t,’ I cry, suddenly wanting to lash out and kick him off my bed. ‘Y-you always s-say it will b-be all right and s-sometimes it j-just isn’t.’

  Dad’s eyes widen at my outburst and then he looks down at his hands.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says quietly. ‘I think it’s a case of me saying it because that’s what I’m praying for.’

  ‘P-praying might n-not be enough, D-Dad,’ I say. ‘M-Mum could be in r-real danger.’

  Dad winces at the mention of Mum, and that makes me angrier. Even though the idea that Mum had an affair with King makes me feel sick, I still need to know she’s OK.

  ‘Th-this is your f-fault,’ I shout, sitting up in bed. ‘If y-you’d talked about it, m-maybe we c-could’ve found her b-before n-now.’

  I expect him to start swearing, defending himself, before storming out. But he doesn’t do any of those things. He looks at me, and I look back at him, and his face kind of looks all squashed up, like there’s nothing solid holding it up underneath.

  ‘I loved her, Finlay. I loved your mum more than anything. For months after she left, I cried myself to sleep at night. I had to push the memory of what she’d done away. I had to do it to keep my sanity.’ He reaches for my hand and squeezes my balled fist. ‘I’m sorry, son. It was selfish of me but I had to find a way to keep going, you know?’

  He presses a knuckle against his lips. ‘I wanted to talk to you about everything that had happened, I planned to – I swear that’s the truth. I didn’t know anything about the fraud she’d uncovered at work. If I had, it might’ve shocked me into doing something. I might have realized that King was trying to blackmail her to keep quiet about something more than . . .’ He trails off and scrubs at the carpet with his foot. ‘If I’d fought to keep her here, she might have told me more, but I just thought . . . if she wanted to leave so much, how could I stop her? I’ll never forgive myself for that.’

  We sit for a while, with Dad just holding my hand. His grip is strong and sure, and I feel better for it. For what must be the first time since I can remember, he doesn’t smell of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Now get ready and I’ll run you to the youth club,’ he says finally, standing up.

  ‘I-I’m not g-going,’ I say.

  ‘Fair enough, I’m not going to argue with you. But you’re daft not getting some practice in for tomorrow.’

  ‘I-I’m not g-going t-tomorrow,’ I say.

  Dad sits down again.

  ‘Bloody hell, Finlay,’ he says.

  I shrug and pick at the stitching on my quilt cover. It’s the Ninja Turtle one Mum bought me for my eleventh birthday. I’m way too old for it now, but since Mum went, some things have just stayed frozen in time.

  ‘Your mother would be fuming,’ Dad says. ‘She’d raise the roof, turning an opportunity like this down.’

  He’s right, she would. But she isn’t here.

  ‘You’ve got a talent for it,’ Dad says. ‘Words. That’s your skill.’

  That’s a laugh. Words torture me every day of my life. Besides, he’s only ever wanted me to be good at football and he knows it. He’s never even seen me play Scrabble.

  ‘Look, I know I haven’t been your best supporter,’ Dad says awkwardly. ‘But Mrs Adams . . . well, she says you’re up there with the best in the country. That’s one hell of a compliment, lad.’

  ‘I w-want to be ar-around if the p-police need us,’ I say.

  ‘You heard what the coppers said, there’s a lot of work, a lot of investigating to take place. One day isn’t going to make any difference.’

  I can’t believe Dad is actually trying to convince me to play Scrabble when he’s spent the last few weeks concerned that I should be out playing footy with my non-existent mates.

  ‘Look, how’s this?’ he says, twisting to face me. ‘I’ll come with you, to support you, like. I’ll have my phone with me so we won’t miss anything the police might want to tell us.’

  I’ve never known Dad take time off work to do something together. Yes, he’s moped around for the last few days, but his diary is full again and he’s been back working since talking to the police after the break-in.

  ‘Y-you’ll come to B-Birmingham?’

  ‘Yep. And I’ll stay all day. That’s supposing you’re not knocked out first round, mind.’ He grins. ‘I’ve done my best for you, son, but that best hasn’t been nearly good enough. And . . . I’m sorry for that.’

  I can’t speak. Not for a few moments.

  ‘D-deal,’ I manage eventually, hardly able to believe he means it.

  ‘Now, get dressed and let’s get you to that youth club.’ Dad grins, standing up again. ‘And I’ll nip out and do a bit of clothes shopping while you’re there.’

  Dad hasn’t bought new clothes for at least two years.

  ‘What’s that look for?’ Dad says, pretending to be affronted. ‘We can’t have the winner’s dad looking less than smart, can we, lad?

  Tuesday, 26 May

  Dear Mum,

  So it turns out I am going to the championships after all. I had a good practice session at the youth club with Maryam, so I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be, I guess.

  It’s funny how much things have changed. Now the police are involved, for the first time I really feel like it won’t be long until we find out where you have been for the last two years. I know we’re going to find some answers, even though I’m scared they might not be the ones I’m hoping for.

  Whatever happens, I’ve decided this will be my final journal entry to you.

  I’ve written an envelope, I’ve stuck on the stamps, and Dad has given me your PO Box address. When I’ve finished writing today, I’m taking the journal to the post box at the end of our street.

  It will all be down to you then, Mum.

  If the police can’t find you, if I don’t win the championship and get into the papers, and if you reading this journal doesn’t work, I suppose it’s time to admit that nothing will.

  It’s hard to separate what’s true and what are lies any more. I’ve realized that, sometimes, the only thing you can do is just accept that people do the best they can at the time. I’m talking about Dad mostly, but I guess you did the best you could, too.

  It’s hard to imagine how bad things must have got in order for you to just walk out. And some of the stuff I’ve heard, I can’t believe you’d do. Like having an affair with that PSYCHO [16], King. But there’s one thing that shines through all the darkness like a beam of light. Remember what it is when you read this journal.

  You’re my mum. You’ll always be my mum.

  No matter how awful the truth turns out to be, I will always love you.

  Love,

  Finlay x

  BEGINNER PLAYERS SHOULD LEARN THE TWO-LETTER WORDS TO MAXIMIZE THEIR PLAYING CHANCES.

  Wednesday

  The school minibus holds sixteen people and it’s jam-packed full.

  There’s me, Maryam and Dad, Mrs Adams, and most of the after-school Scrabble club members too.

  ‘They all want to come and support you,’ Mrs Adams had said yesterday at training.

  On the one hand, it’s really nice that everyone wants to come along. On the other, it means more pressure.

  ‘By the way,’ Maryam says as we shuffle to get comfy in the small seat
s. ‘I want you to know that I have got your back. I think that is the correct phrase.’

  I frown at her, not understanding.

  ‘I have agreed to act as the school’s substitute player in the absence of Oliver.’ She grins. ‘I have always said my playing days were behind me, but for you, my friend, I shall make an exception this once. Although of course I know I will not be required to play because you will win every game, no problem.’

  ‘Th-thanks.’ I smile. I know Maryam wouldn’t do this for anybody else and it feels good that we’re a team today. There isn’t anyone I’d rather have on my side.

  The driver puts the radio on and everybody starts chattering. Dad and a teacher who’s come along discuss Nottingham Forest’s latest games and Maryam throws me some words for last-minute anagram training.

  Just over an hour later, the minibus pulls up outside the Britannia Hotel in Birmingham. It’s a big, tall old building with fancy shops on the ground floor.

  A twitchy fluttering starts up in my belly, making me want to dash for the loo.

  Mrs Adams tells us all to stay seated and pops into the hotel foyer to confirm arrangements. Two minutes later she’s back, and the driver heads round to the car park at the rear. When the minibus turns into the parking area, we all sit up straight and gape. The area is a seething mass of people and parked coaches. Officials in green blazers are dotted around, taking names and consulting their clipboards.

  All different kinds of people in all different kinds of uniforms gather in groups, chattering excitedly.

  That’s when I realize the scale of the event.

  And that’s when I start to feel a bit sick.

  OK, a lot sick.

  ‘You feeling all right, lad?’ Dad asks me half an hour later when we’re registered and queuing to gain entrance to the large function room of the hotel, where the first rounds of the championships will take place.

  ‘F-fine, th-thanks,’ I say, looking straight ahead.

  My legs feel restless; they want to walk, to stride away from here but I hold them firm. It’s just my nervousness making itself known.