Megan sounds so unsure of herself that there’s no way this is convincing her, let alone me.
‘How could it ever be okay? It’s breaking and entering.’
‘I didn’t break anything.’
‘Entering, then.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She looks down to the album and then turns away, though it’s too late for me to miss the gentle upturn in her lips.
I bite my lip, but then let out a little snort. ‘I guess it’s not just me who gives apologies I don’t mean.’
Megan twists back and smiles wider. ‘We have that in common.’
I suddenly realise I’m still holding the knife, and so place it on the nearest box. Megan watches but says nothing.
‘What are you looking at?’ I ask.
‘Photos of Mum. I sort of found them.’
‘You let yourself in, came upstairs, went into the spare room, and “sort of found them”…?’
Megan gives that get-out-of-jail-free smile once more. ‘Mum said one time that the only photos of her from when she was young were at the old house where she used to live. She said everything was packed away in a spare room where nobody went. When I got inside and had a look around, I kind of guessed it was here.’
I pat the key in my pocket. ‘Did Mum really give you this?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Is that a yes, or a no?’
‘It’s more of a… borrowed.’
‘I think I get the picture.’
‘The key had a tag that said “old house” on it. I found it years ago when I was looking through Mum’s jewellery box.’
‘Why were you going through her jewellery box?’
The smile is back and I can imagine Megan using it to bluff her way through anything. I certainly can’t believe she’s ever been in serious trouble.
‘I was home alone and got a bit bored.’
‘Is her jewellery box the one with the red lining that plays Beethoven when you open it?’
‘I don’t know if it’s Beethoven, but it definitely plays something.’ She stops and then adds: ‘How do you know it does that?’
My turn to grin: ‘I was home alone and got a bit bored.’
‘So it’s not just me!’
‘I didn’t borrow a key and let myself into someone else’s house.’
‘I didn’t set out to do that… it just—’
‘Sort of happened. I know. That doesn’t answer much, though. Did Mum tell you about me? About this house? I don’t understand.’
Megan slides around the floor and presses her back against the unmade spare bed. I feel weird standing over her, so slip down to the floor myself. The carpet is scratchy and old, with holes through to the floorboards. I press myself up against a stack of boxes opposite her and we sit with the photo album between us. It’s not comfortable, but it feels right for the moment.
‘Mum’s terrible on the internet,’ Megan says. ‘We’ve got a laptop and she opens loads of windows and never closes them. She doesn’t know anything about browser histories, or firewalls, or anything like that. Not only that, she believes everything that’s on there. I’d picked up the laptop after her and it was running so slowly. I keep telling her she’s got to close things, or it stops working.’
Megan sighs and shakes her head.
‘I was closing the windows and then I saw that she’d opened this article about a man who’d been found dead in his home. There were hardly any details – with no name and no address. It just listed the road and said that an ambulance had gone out. I didn’t know why she was looking at it, but then she’d gone off googling “Dennis Coyle”.’
‘Did she ever tell you my dad’s name?’
‘No – but it wasn’t hard to figure out after that. She was looking for things like “Dennis Coyle dead”, trying to figure out if it was definitely him in the article.’
‘What did she find?’
‘Nothing. I don’t think there was anything that named him at the time.’
It sounds about right. There might well have been a small article in the paper, and online, about a man being found dead in his house. There were probably more after that, in which he might have been named. It’s not like the official funeral notice was the first time his death would’ve been noted. Besides, Mum already told me she still knows people around here. She could have quite easily phoned someone to ask what they knew.
‘Once I had the name “Dennis Coyle”, I got searching,’ Megan says. ‘I found out he lived here and about the house. Then I used one of those family tree apps and found out about you – and Mum.’
She sounds happy with herself – and I suppose she has every right to be so.
‘Mum never told you about me…?’
‘All she ever said was that she was married before. But once, when I was young and playing up, she told me off and called me “Abigail”. I asked her who that was and she said “no one”. It was too quick, though, and she got angry when I asked again. I used to write down the name in the back of my old schoolbooks, so I wouldn’t forget it.’
I should probably be offended at being called ‘no one’ but it fits with who my mother is.
‘How long ago was that?’ I ask.
‘Seven or eight years.’
I press back against the box and think about the little girl who spent seven or eight years searching for a long-lost sister who might not exist.
It feels like Megan can read my mind as she offers a sad-sounding ‘I knew you were out there somewhere…’
‘Do you have any other brothers or sisters?’ I ask.
‘Just you… unless you have other brothers or sisters?’
I shake my head. ‘Just you.’
We look to one another and I wonder if she sees in me what I see in her. She’s me as I could have been when I was sixteen. There’s a feisty exterior, but I’d bet there’s more to her than that. I’m almost forty now and the idea of someone being so ancient would have repulsed me at that age. Looking at me might be a grim glimpse into the future for her.
‘How long have you been checking Mum’s internet history, hoping you’d stumble across someone named Abigail?’
‘Years. She never said that she used to live in Elwood, but she’d mentioned it here and there. This one time, we were trying to get home from the seaside. There was loads of traffic backed up, but she knew a shortcut through Elwood. When I saw that story about the dead man and Elwood, I think I knew what it was.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Stoneridge.’
I know it by name. It’s a small town, or maybe a village, that’s around twenty miles from here. I’m not sure I’ve ever stopped there, or if there’s anything to see, but I’d have definitely been in a car with my dad when he was driving through it. Whenever I thought of my mother leaving, I imagined she’d gone to the opposite end of the country. She’d be in Scotland, or Wales – but she was only a short distance away. No wonder she said she still knows people in the town. They probably still meet up.
‘How did you get here?’ I ask.
‘Bus – but my friend, Carla, has passed her test and she’s dropped me off a couple of times. I knocked on the door, but you’re never home. I found out your name on the family tree app, but I didn’t know where you lived. They named the street where your dad died in the paper – but not the exact house. When I came here, it didn’t take much to figure out this was the right place.’
‘How?’
‘Because it looks like a dump and nobody ever seemed to be in.’
She has a point.
‘I didn’t know if you lived here,’ she adds. ‘I thought you might be back because of your dad – then I saw the notice about the funeral and figured I’d finally be able to meet you. I almost did. I saw you there, but you rushed away and I had a bus to catch back. Then I remembered the old key I found. I thought I could let myself in and see if there was anything with an address for you, or a phone number…’
I almost ask
her if she saw the note on the fridge.
‘You should get the locks changed,’ Megan adds.
I don’t understand what she means at first – but then I realise Mum kept her key from twenty years ago and that it still works. It’s hardly surprising how little has changed in all this time. If the lock ever got a bit stiff, Dad would’ve emptied a quarter-can of WD40 into it and carried on as if it was fine.
I don’t answer her, mainly because it won’t be my concern for much longer. I don’t want to tell her I’m leaving again yet.
‘I’m guessing Mum doesn’t know you’re here,’ I say.
‘No.’
‘She has no idea that we’ve met?’
‘None.’
‘Nor that you went to the funeral?’
‘No. After I saw that notice and decided to come, I waited outside the funeral place, hiding behind a car in case Mum showed up for some reason. I didn’t think she would but didn’t want to risk it. When it went past the start time and she wasn’t there, I went in. I was going to say something to you after the ceremony but, um…’
It’s probably tact that she doesn’t finish the sentence, given that I ran off to the pub.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say. ‘Sorry I didn’t hang around.’
She shrugs in the carefree way that teenagers do when they don’t think anything’s wrong.
‘Does that mean you forgive me for letting myself in?’
‘For the breaking and entering…?’
‘Just entering.’
She laughs and then looks down towards the photo album, which she nudges across the floor towards me.
‘Look at Mum there,’ she says.
I spin the book around, which helps to dislodge another loose page. I slot it back inside. On the open page is a pair of photographs that have browned and faded.
‘Didn’t anyone ever take photos in focus back then?’ Megan laughs as she says it.
‘It’s a lot easier with phones,’ I reply. ‘You’re too young to know about sending films off to be processed, or going into Boots and paying a fortune for them to do it in an hour.’
‘Sounds like a lot of faff.’
‘It was.’
Megan’s right that the photo is barely in focus. Even with that, the main figure is unquestionably Mum. She has an eighties perm and is wearing an itchy-looking pink top with shoulder pads. At her feet is a short girl with curly blonde hair that, for a reason that seems inexplicable now, is cut into a point at the top, before getting wide at the bottom to create a weird triangle.
‘Is that you?’ Megan asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Nice hair.’
She laughs, but there’s nothing mean there.
‘I always wanted a sister,’ she adds.
I’d love to say the same – and maybe I should anyway – but it never occurred to me that I’d want a sibling to put up with Dad on his bad days.
‘Who’s your father?’ I ask.
Megan’s face falls slightly. She takes off her glasses and starts to clean the lenses on her top.
‘He died two years ago of heart disease.’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘It’s okay. It was after that when Mum started talking about her old life. Not you – not even Elwood – but she’d let things slip. She’d get drunk and say things like she didn’t want to start over for a third time.’
We sit and stare across the album towards one another. I’m thinking it – but it’s Megan who says it first.
‘What now?’
Forty-One
MONDAY
It’s been six days since I arrived and when I get up and go downstairs, I finally do the dishes. Megan’s presence has almost willed me to do it, in order to stop myself from seeming like such a slob. There is wire wool under the sink and I get through two of them in attempting to get rid of the welded-on grime.
I’m drinking water from a clean glass when Megan edges into the kitchen with a curious smile on her face. ‘Morning…’ she says.
‘How was the spare bed?’
‘Couple of dodgy springs and it smelled a bit – but it could be worse.’ She looks towards the fridge expectantly. ‘What’s for breakfast?’
‘You have a choice. There are some tomatoes in the fridge that are a tiny bit mouldy. There’s some tinned fruit or half a box of out-of-date Weetabix – but no milk.’
‘That’s not a choice.’
‘Shall we go out?’
‘Hell, yes.’
We get a taxi out to the rest stop a little past the petrol station where I ended up interrogating Linda. Megan spends the whole journey pressed to the window, seemingly enchanted by Elwood. She watches the town, while I watch her. When I met her last night, I saw myself in her – but she’s more than that. She’s quieter than I ever was and, when she speaks, it’s far more thoughtful than I was at her age. She’s determined, kind and funny. I wonder if I was any of those things when I was sixteen.
Jo’s question rattles endlessly around my mind – Do you sometimes wonder if we are who we are because of our parents? – and it’s hard not to see the differences between Megan and me. We come from the same mother, but that’s only half the story. I never met him, and know nothing about who he was, but I would gamble a lot on the fact that Megan’s father was a great guy. I can see it in her – but that might mean she can see my father in me.
I’m lost in my thoughts as the taxi rolls to a halt. The rest stop is a giant car park – but that’s not why we’re here. Nestled at the back end is The Cosmic Café, which is perhaps the thing I miss most about living around here. It’s mainly for lorry drivers, but, because it’s in the middle of a few towns, it turned into a hangout for young people with cars. I’ve not been here in two decades but the moment I push through the doors, I’m transported back in time.
The walls are covered with the faded record sleeves of bygone eras. Vinyl records might be making a twenty-first century comeback, but the cardboard covers here are the originals. The café smells of baked beans, frying eggs and sausages. People don’t come here for salad or soup.
All of a sudden, I feel hungry. It’s the first time I’ve craved food since I got back to town.
Megan follows me in and we head to an empty booth off to the side. At one point, the bench would’ve been covered with red leather, but it’s long since faded to a mucky pink. Megan looks around the walls and nods approvingly.
‘I never knew this place was here,’ she says.
‘I used to come when I was about your age. We’d have six of us piled into a booth and would waste a whole night spending as little money as we could get away with until Rahul kicked us out.’
‘Who’s Rahul?’
‘The owner… or it was. I have no idea if he’s still around.’
I slide a menu across the table and Megan starts to scan it when her phone rings. She glances at the screen and then holds it up for me to see.
MUM
She doesn’t answer and the call rings off. Moments later, there’s a double beep and Megan picks up the phone again.
‘Text from Mum,’ she says. ‘She wants to know when I’m going to be home. What should I tell her?’
I consider whether to be diplomatic.
‘You could tell her that refusing to tell her two children that they each have a sister is a pretty terrible thing to do.’
Megan offers up her phone and, for a moment, I think she might reply with just that.
‘We kinda had that conversation on the phone last night,’ she says.
‘I heard the shouting…’
Megan’s smile isn’t genuine this time. It’s a mix of embarrassment, annoyance and, perhaps, fear.
‘If you’re sixteen, then you’re still legally a child,’ I say.
‘People can get married at sixteen.’
‘Only with a parent’s permission – and I’m assuming you’re not about to head down the aisle…’
She dips her head. ‘I’m not a ch
ild,’ she says.
‘I know you’re not, but Mum is still legally responsible for you. As much as I’d love to tell her to do one, you can’t.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘At the moment… I don’t know. Tell Mum you’ll be back later.’
Megan taps something into her phone and then places it on the table. She picks up the menu and then, without looking at it, asks me what I’m having.
‘I’m on the all-dayer,’ I say.
‘The all-day breakfast?’
‘When I was your age, my friends and I would try to get lifts out here from anyone with a car. We’d order a milkshake each and then try to make it last for as long as we could. I once had a strawberry milkshake last for almost three hours until we got kicked out. When I had a bit of money left over – and when my friend, Holly, wasn’t around – I’d order the all-day breakfast.’
‘Why wouldn’t you order if Holly was around?’
‘Because she was the slimmest person I knew and I wanted to be like her.’
‘Not now?’
‘Definitely not now.’
Megan glances back to the menu and then looks up. ‘I guess it’s two all-dayers.’
I leave her in the booth and cross to the counter, where I order two all-day breakfasts, plus a coffee and a Coke. I pay with the cash I found at Dad’s house and know he would approve of the food, if not the company.
Back at the booth and Megan is busy thumbing her phone.
I place the can of Coke in front of her. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘I had to Snap a pic of the walls,’ she says, nodding towards the record sleeves.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
She laughs and then puts her phone down on the counter.
‘If you’re sixteen,’ I say, ‘does that mean you’ve just done your GCSEs?’
‘A month or two ago.’
‘When do you get the results?’
‘Just over a week.’
‘Are you confident?’
She lets out a pfft. ‘I’d say I was quietly confident – but if I do say that, then it’s not very quiet.’
I want to ask her about what’s next: A-levels, GNVQs, or whatever else it is that kids do now. Does she want to go to university? Is she a budding entrepreneur? Is she desperate to get into work? It’s almost like those early days of a relationship where you can’t get enough of the other person and want to know everything about them. I hold back. It would be a lot for anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old.
The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 22