Brother dead. Best friend missing. House ransacked. Stalked by a stranger. Attacked in the street…
… And Sarah has no idea why. She never knew her brother was hiding a dark secret when he died. But now his reckless actions have led the wolves to her door.
And the only way out is to run.
A tense, unnerving thriller that will set your heart racing, from the author of Now You See Me.
To James, Hetty, Chip, Flan and Josh
About This Book
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: friday 5th august
Chapter 2: sunday 7th august
Chapter 3: monday 8th august
Chapter 4: tuesday 9th august
Chapter 5: wednesday 10th august
Chapter 6: wednesday 10th august
Chapter 7: thursday 11th august
Chapter 8: friday 12th august
Chapter 9: monday 15th august
Chapter 10: monday 15th august
Chapter 11: thursday 18th august
Chapter 12: monday 22nd august
Chapter 13: monday 22nd august
Chapter 14: friday 26th august
Chapter 15: friday 26th august
Chapter 16: thursday 1st september
Chapter 17: monday 5th september
Chapter 18: monday 5th september
Chapter 19: monday 5th september
Chapter 20: tuesday 6th september
Chapter 21: tuesday 6th september
Chapter 22: tuesday 6th september
Chapter 23: wednesday 7th september
Chapter 24: thursday 8th september
Chapter 25: saturday 10th september
Chapter 26: sunday 11th september
Chapter 27: sunday 11th september
Chapter 28: sunday 11th September
Chapter 29: sunday 11th september
Chapter 30: monday 12th september
Chapter 31: tuesday 13th september
Chapter 32: wednesday 14th september
Chapter 33: wednesday 14th september
Chapter 34: wednesday 14th september
Chapter 35: wednesday 14th september
Chapter 36: thursday 15th september
Chapter 37: thursday 15th september
Chapter 38: thursday 15th september
Chapter 39: thursday 15th september
Chapter 40: friday 16th september
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Now You See Me
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Copyright
When it happens, I’m so lost in my thoughts I barely notice. A yank on the steering wheel and we spin into a U-turn, heading back up the road the way we came. I peer into my side mirror. Right behind us a large black car does the same manoeuvre.
My blood goes cold. Oh god…oh shit…it’s true. They’re really after us.
We’re racing down the carriageway. I watch the needle of the speedometer steadily climbing…sixty…seventy…eighty, before we veer off into a side road, accelerating along a narrow lane through the forest, pine trees whizzing by perilously close. A sharp left and we’re bouncing over a mud track. Things tumble around the car, and I grab the handle above my door to keep my balance.
“Hold on!”
The man hauls on the steering wheel again and all at once we’re in among the trees. The suspension groans as we hit a small rock and he swerves to avoid a stump. We come to a halt in a mass of moss and ferns.
“Stay here!” he barks, leaning over and sliding an arm under his seat. Fiddling with something, like it’s stuck.
“Damn!” He twists himself round so he can reach even further.
A faint ripping sound, and his hand emerges holding a fat brown envelope with duct tape hanging from each side.
What the… I don’t even get to finish the thought before he rips it open and my breath freezes in my throat as I glimpse cold grey metal.
A gun.
He’s got a gun.
I yelp in shock. But before I can say anything, do anything, think anything, he’s out the car and running through the trees.
I sit there, whimpering, my breathing jagged with fear and dread. I sit there and it’s as if time is suspended. No time at all and all the time in the world passes before I hear the shot.
And the silence that follows.
I keep perfectly still, too frightened to move or scream or cry, and wait for whatever will happen to happen. Until it feels as if that’s all I've ever been doing, just sitting here, waiting for it all to end.
“Not bad, Sarah.”
Mrs Perry inclines her head as I sing the closing bars of the Bach, then lifts her hands from the piano keys and turns to face me. “A little wobbly in parts, especially around the adagio.”
She pauses, waiting for my response.
“I’m sorry.” I shift the weight on my feet. “I’m a bit tired today.”
“Right.” Mrs Perry gives me one of her searching looks. “I can see that, Sarah. And this is a challenging piece. Well within your capabilities, yes, but if you’re going to be ready, you’ll have to work much harder on it.”
I nod, picking up my score from the music stand and putting it back in my bag. “I promise I’ll practise more this week.”
She smiles as she stands. “Remember those breathing exercises I showed you. And your posture, Sarah. You still need to focus on your posture.” Mrs Perry places one hand on her belly and lifts her chin; instantly her whole body seems taller.
“Okay.” I bite the inside of my lip, trying not to show that I’m upset. Or how exhausted I really am.
It doesn’t work. Mrs Perry walks over, taking both my hands in hers, and looks me full in the face. I get a faint tinge of perfume, something light and floral.
“Sarah, I hope you don’t feel I’m being too hard on you.”
“I don’t, I—”
“You’re so talented, and I know you can do this. But even with a voice as lovely as yours, you need to be well prepared. In a top-level audition like this, they’re looking for excellent technique as well as raw talent.”
She squeezes my hands gently, then takes a step back to get me in full view.
“Are you eating properly?”
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
“Seriously, Sarah, every week there seems to be less of you.” She frowns. “You’re not on a diet, are you?”
“No,” I say quickly, withdrawing my hands from hers and grabbing my bag. “Really. I…” I can’t think how to explain. That after everything that’s happened, food is somehow the last thing on my mind.
Mrs Perry gives me another questioning look. “So how are things at home?”
“Fine,” I lie, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to appear brighter. “Better, I mean. Mum’s doing better, I think.”
Mrs Perry sighs. Puts her hand on my arm. “I’m concerned, Sarah, that’s all. Worried this is getting too much for you…so soon after…”
She doesn’t say it. Thank god.
“I’m okay,” I say, more firmly than I intend. “I just want to get on…you know, keep going.”
I can’t bear the sympathy in her eyes any longer, so pull the money out of my purse and leave it on top of the piano.
“I’ll see you next week,” I say and dash out of the room, almost tripping over the cat in the hallway.
I know there’s nothing in the fridge at home, so I call in at the corner shop on the way back. Pick up four packs of sliced bread, three tins of baked beans, a few apples and some mild Cheddar. And more butter. The one thing Mum will always eat is buttered toast – she must be just about made of the stuff by now.
But she might have a cheese sandwich. Maybe an apple if I cut one up.
I’m queuing at the till when I spot a girl with long blonde hair over by the fruit and veg, laughing into her mobile phone. Abigail Turner.
“Oh god,” I mutter under my breath. I haven’t seen her since summer term ended three weeks ago – and I don’t want to see her now.
But it’s too late. She’s already spotted me.
“Hey, Sarah!” Abigail raises her hand and smiles. She says something into her phone, then pops it into her bag and heads in my direction.
“Hi! It’s so good to bump into you.” Her voice too bright for it possibly to be true. “How are you?”
“Hi, Abby. I’m fine, thanks. And you?”
“Oh, you know. Great. Fabuloouuus,” she drawls, stretching out the word like elastic. “I’m going up to Edinburgh with Jonas next week, then we’re off to Ibiza. You know, do all the clubs and beaches and stuff.” She beams at me and does a funny little shiver. “I’m so excited!”
I can tell she’s nervous. One of those people who smothers embarrassment by being extra bubbly. I try not to hold it against her.
“Wow! That’s an awful lot of bread.” She nods at the loaves crammed into the basket.
I muster a smile, trying to think of a polite exit. I’m sure Abigail is finding this as awkward as I am, and I need to get home and check Mum hasn’t actually fallen into a coma or something.
“Just stocking up the freezer.” I keep the smile fixed on my face in a way I’m hoping she’ll start to find off-putting.
“Right.” Abigail tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ear with a nervous giggle. She’s clearly struggling to think what else to say, and I almost feel sorry for her. She’s making an effort, I remind myself; she could simply have pretended not to notice me and run away.
After all, Abigail wouldn’t be the first. Since my brother died six weeks ago – barely a month after his twenty-first birthday – everyone at college seems to divide into two camps: those who go out of their way to avoid me, and those who go out of their way to show me how much they care.
Abigail falls in the latter. Six months ago she and I would hardly have exchanged a word if we’d bumped into each other like this. It’s not as if we’re actually friends or anything. Not like me and Lizzie.
But ever since it happened, since Max died, she’s one of those people who seizes every opportunity to be nice.
I guess I should be grateful. Instead, it makes me want to scream.
“Hey,” Abigail says suddenly, “I’m having a party when I get back. You know, to celebrate getting our exam results. Tanya and Zoë are coming – they’re mates of yours, aren’t they?”
I nod, though in truth I’ve barely seen them for weeks. I’ve hardly seen anyone except Lizzie since it all happened. I haven’t exactly been feeling sociable.
“I’ll try to make it.” I shuffle forwards as the person in front of me pays and moves away. “Better go.” I give Abigail what I hope is an appreciative look. “Have a nice summer.”
“And you!” she says, beaming, as I turn to face the cashier.
It’s hot, even for August. I’m sweating by the time I get to Foxton Road, and my arms feel like they might fall off. I stop for a minute, put down the shopping. Shake some life into my fingers, then slip off my rucksack and open it up, stuffing the apples and cheese and one of the loaves inside. I struggle to zip it up again and heave the bag back onto my shoulders.
As I straighten, I see this guy heading towards me, walking quickly, one hand thrust into the pocket of his jeans, the other punching on his mobile with his thumb.
We’re both near the point where the pavement narrows between the postbox and one of those tall silvery trees, the kind with peeling bark and a fat, knobbly base. There’s barely enough room for two people, let alone one hampered with shopping bags, so I pause to allow him past. He doesn’t notice me waiting. He’s too busy reading something on his phone.
He looks sort of familiar, though I’m pretty sure we’ve never met. I shudder. Oh god, please don’t let it be one of my brother’s friends – it’s more than I can bear right now.
I edge between the two cars parked beside me, intending to cross to the other side of the road. It’s a tight squeeze, and as I heave one of the bags over the front of the nearest car, the corner of the plastic catches on the wing mirror. A tin of beans spills out, bouncing off the bonnet and onto the ground, rolling under the bumper.
Damn. I bend down to retrieve it, hoping I haven’t damaged the paintwork. When I get up, the man is only a metre or two away.
His gaze fixes on mine. For a second he stares at me blankly, nothing registering in his features. I’m still not sure I recognize him, though his face is hardly the kind you’d forget. Lean and angular, with the lightest grey eyes, gazing at me with an intensity that’s almost startling.
But if anyone is startled, it’s him. His blank expression tightens into shock. He stops dead, and I take in the black hair, the leather jacket and dark-dyed jeans. And the twitch in his left eye; a rapid, blinking motion like a kind of tic. He doesn’t move, just looks at me as if I’m the last person in the world he ever expected to see.
The last person in the world he ever wanted to see.
I feel my cheeks flush. What on earth is this guy playing at? Why is he gawping at me like that?
I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.
“Shit,” he says under his breath, then suddenly he’s gone. Turns on his heels and starts walking back the way he came, only quicker, as if he can’t get away fast enough. I’m so stunned that I just stand there, watching, until he darts into Cambourne Avenue and disappears out of my sight.
Lizzie’s sitting on my bed, skimming through a magazine. Not reading, but flicking, as if she can’t actually be bothered with any of it. Her long, wavy hair drooping over her face, her fingers restless, curling the corners of each page.
I’m lounging on a cushion on the floor, my back against the wardrobe door, trying not to let this upset me. With both of us working full-time over the summer, I can’t help thinking we should be doing something decent with our day off, rather than moping around in my room. Especially when I could – should – be practising my singing.
Another lurch in my stomach at the thought of my audition in a little over a month. I push it away. “Hey, why don’t we go into town? See what’s going on?” I suggest, in my breeziest, most upbeat voice.
Lizzie doesn’t even raise her eyes. Just screws up her lips to show she’s not keen.
“C’mon, the sun’s out. We should make the most of it. You know, before it starts raining again.”
She yawns. “I’m not fussed, to be honest.”
I feel my mood sink further. Surely Lizzie should be cheering me up, not the other way round? If I can make an effort, why can’t she?
Not that I’m complaining. Not really. In those first days after we got the news about Max, I couldn’t have asked for a better friend. Lizzie was the one who rushed over and held me as I sat on my bed, too stunned to do anything. It was Lizzie who made me endless cups of tea and force-fed me slices of toast and pizza, and Lizzie who made sure I made it to my last few exams.
Lizzie cried with me. Lizzie cried almost as much as me.
It’s only now, six weeks later, as I recover from those first shock waves of grief, that I can see my friend more clearly. Something’s up with her, and has been for a while. Even before Max died, Lizzie had changed, I remember; all her energy and sparkle turned moody and listless.
I inhale, vetoing the urge to ask her again what’s wrong. Every time I do she says she’s fine. Sometimes, for a while, she acts all lively and breezy for my sake, but it’s obvious she’s faking.
“How’s work?” I venture, trying a different tack.
She sniffs and briefly lifts her eyes to mine. “Okay.”
“Sick of all the free stuff yet?” Lizzie’s summer job is at the bakery on Townsend Street and she gets the pick of the leftovers at the end of the day.
She pulls a face. “Mum’s in seventh heaven – she’s going to end up as fat as a pig.”
I grin. “More likely Toby will.”
Lizzie manages a smile at the mention of her little brother, then lapses back into silence. Flicks a few more pages of her magazine, her expression as blank as the models’ inside.
Only when there’s a beep from her phone does she show any sign of life. She grabs it, reading the message, her face contracting with concentration.
I’m about to ask who it’s from when I hear a creak from the bedroom next door. Mum, in Max’s room again. Ever since the police turned up on our doorstep, her existence has shrunk to this house – more specifically, my brother’s bedroom. Mum spends half her time in there now, amongst his books and magazines, the cupboards full of old games and stuff from when he was a kid.
Just sitting, staring. Trying to make sense of it all, I guess.
“Shit. My battery died.” Lizzie glares at her phone, shoves it back into her pocket.
“Anyone important?’
“Only my mum.” She says it too quickly, her eyes darting away from mine, and I realize I don’t believe her. But why would she lie?
I gaze at her, wondering whether to pursue it. Decide against it.
“Hey, you picked where you want to go yet?” I ask to change the subject. “To uni, I mean.”
Lizzie looks at me like that’s the furthest thing from her mind. Though she must be thinking about it. Lizzie’s wanted to study journalism since she got a piece into the school magazine – and university applications have to be in soon.
“How about we get these exam results out the way first?” she says, in a way that makes it clear she’d rather I dropped the subject. “Besides, you don’t need to worry – you’re all sorted.”
Her tone sounds almost resentful, though I can’t imagine why. Lizzie knows I have my heart set on going to the Royal Music School, which has the best reputation and the most intensive vocal course. But everything depends on my audition – flunk that and it’s game over.
At least Lizzie has options.
I suck in my lips and try to pick something less touchy. “So, how about your big day? You thought any more about what you want to do?”
Lizzie stops leafing through the magazine, her face blank.
“Your eighteenth,” I remind her. “It’s only three weeks off.”
“I dunno,” she mutters. “Nothing much.”
“A party?”
Lizzie shakes her head. “Too much hassle.”
I frown. Too much hassle? This time last year Lizzie was planning the biggest bash ever for her eighteenth. Christ, at one point she wanted a whole crowd of us to go to Ibiza – her, me, Tanya, Zoë, Roo and Tabitha.
What happened to that Ibiza plan? I wonder. Lizzie just stopped mentioning it. I assumed it was because of me, because of what happened with Max.
But now I’m not so sure.
“So what do you want to do then?” I persist, refusing to let the matter drop.
Lizzie lifts her mouth in a kind of shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t really given it a lot of thought. Not much, probably.”
“Come on,” I say, perplexed. “You can’t be serious. It’s your eighteenth, for god’s sake. You can’t just do nothing.”
Lizzie shrugs again, a proper one this time, using her shoulders. “I can’t think of much I want to do.” She keeps her eyes fixed on her magazine, ignoring me.
What’s got into her? I ask myself for the thousandth time. It’s as if she’s slipped away into some parallel universe, leaving the husk of my best friend. I mean, Lizzie was the original party animal, always the last girl standing wherever we went. The kind who was never short of an excuse to go out.
And as the oldest in our college year, Lizzie’s the first to hit eighteen at the beginning of September. Everyone’s expecting her to kick off our final year with a bang.
“Okay, you’re right.” She sighs and drops the magazine on the bed. “Maybe I should do something. Roo and Zoë keep on at me too. It’s just that I don’t feel like some mad celebration, that’s all. Perhaps we could all go somewhere for a day? I could do with a break from this place.”
“Where do you fancy?”
Lizzie thinks for a minute or two. “How about the beach or something? I haven’t seen the sea in ages.”
The beach. My mind flashes to that trip to Camber Sands when I was ten. “Coming to get you!” Max running towards me, grinning, a lump of seaweed in his hands, waving it in my face. Me trying to kick back at him as he laughs and dodges away.
“We could get the train down to Brighton,” Lizzie suggests, her tone brighter. “The four of us. Go round the shops. Chloe Miller said there’s some amazing little boutiques in the lanes off the seafront.”
“Great.” I push Max out my head and focus on my friend. “Sounds like a plan.”
She seems genuinely into the idea. For a moment it’s like having the old Lizzie back. The old Lizzie who was always up for everything.
“Right.” She gazes back at me for a few seconds, as if she can’t think of anything more to say. I realize I can’t either and feel another pang of unease. Best friends since primary school and now we’re having awkward silences?
“Hey, I forgot to mention,” I say, anxious to fill the gap, “something really weird happened to me on the way back from my singing lesson.”
“What?” Lizzie draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them with her arms. Finally giving me her full attention.
I tell her what happened a few days ago. “It was freaky. He just stared at me, then turned round and walked the other way.”
She wrinkles up the end of her nose. “Why is that weird exactly?”
“I don’t know. It just was. He saw me – I mean, he looked right at me – then suddenly did a U-turn and started off back down the road. But fast, as if he wanted to get away or something.”
Lizzie’s expression lifts into a grin. “Can you blame him?”
I pull a face at her. “Seriously. It was like he was running off.”
“Maybe he forgot something and turned back? Or perhaps he was lost.”
“But why would he look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“So…kind of…intense. As if he recognized me. But he couldn’t have done – I’ve never met him before.”
“You sure?”
I hesitate. “I think so. At least, I’m sure I’ve never actually spoken to him, but he did look sort of familiar.”
“Jeez, Sarah, I don’t know.” There’s an edge to Lizzie’s tone. As if she’s tired of this whole conversation. “Why does it matter? Was he really hot or something?”
I stare at her for a second or two. “Forget it,” I snap, dangerously close to tears. Why is she being like this? It’s never felt this awkward, not in all the years we’ve been friends, since that first day I stood alone in the playground and she grabbed my hand and refused to let go till home time.
I blink as the gap in the conversation grows into a chasm, pressing my lips together in an effort not to cry.
“Oh god, Sarah, I’m sorry.” Lizzie shuffles to the edge of the bed and lowers her head so it’s level with mine. “C’mon, I apologize. I was only kidding.” She kicks her foot gently against my arm so I’m forced to look up. “Honestly, don’t get worked up about it. You probably just imagined it.”
“I didn’t!” My voice indignant now. “He—”
“I don’t mean you made it up, Sarah…more you maybe got things a bit out of proportion. You know…because of Max.” She sees my expression and backs off. “I only meant you’ve had a lot to deal with. It’s bound to leave you a little edgy, that’s all.”
I sniff, my anger subsiding into doubt. Did he actually look at me that way? It’s not as if I’m anything remarkable. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair. Medium everything, really.
I rerun the whole scene in my head, fuzzier now. It was all so quick. Impossible to be sure what did happen. I can’t picture the guy’s face exactly so much as remember the way it made me feel.
Bewildered. Like there was something I was missing.
I give in and smile, letting go of my resentment. Lizzie’s right. I’m making a big deal out of nothing.
After all, it’s not as if I’m ever likely to see him again.
I hear the sobbing the moment I get back from work. I drop my bag and race into the living room. Mum is sitting on the edge of the sofa, shoulders hunched, heaving slightly with each rush of tears.
A letter in her hands.
I sit beside her, put my arms round her waist and rest my head against hers. I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.
After a few minutes Mum straightens up. She folds the letter and drops it onto the coffee table, dragging the heel of her hand across her cheeks as she looks at me and tries to smile. I notice lines on her forehead and around her eyes that I swear weren’t there a few weeks ago.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m okay. Really. Just…you know.”
Her gaze drops from mine, embarrassed. I’m almost relieved. I can hardly bear the pain I see there.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I should have left it for your dad to open.” She lifts a hand and smooths it over her hair. Her feet are bare and she’s still wearing the T-shirt and pyjama bottoms she had on yesterday. There’s a brownish stain on the right knee.
“Don’t worry.” I take the letter from her hand. “I’ll deal with it.”
“But…” Mum starts to protest, then sinks under the effort and gives me a grateful smile.
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
She nods. “Would you mind?”
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I hear her pad back upstairs and then the sound of the taps running in the bathroom. I unfold the letter.
It’s from the university.
I scan through it. Signed by Mr Brian Thomas, the head librarian, it says Max’s books are months overdue. Underneath is a list of maybe a dozen of them, with names like Thermodynamics of Chemical Processes and Reaction Kinetics.
Oh god. I guess no one told him what happened. I tuck the letter into the pocket of my jeans, and pour Mum’s tea.
I force myself to go up to Max’s bedroom. I hate coming in here. I hate even walking past on the way to the bathroom. My brother’s room feels like a black hole in the heart of the house, sucking all the light, all the joy from our lives.
Like a memorial. Or a dirge, playing on a loop in the background.
I open the door to a rush of memories. And pain. There it all is. His books, his old laptop, that giant King Kong poster on the wall, the Warhammer figurines he used to play with. On the windowsill his collection of Rubik’s cubes in different sizes, every one neatly solved. Everything in here a stabbing reminder, and somehow a reproach. Max – unbelievably – has gone, but his things remain. Abandoned. As if we’ve all turned our backs on him.
I close my eyes for a moment, pressing all the feelings down, and drag my attention to the books on the shelf. There’s dozens of them, all the ones he used for his exams at school, and plenty more. Half my memories of my brother have a book in them.
I read each title carefully, comparing it with the list on the letter. Pick out a couple and throw them onto the bed. My heart contracts as I touch them. Max probably handled these that last week he was home; after all, he was holed up in here most of that time, only coming down for meals, leaving us wondering what was wrong. Had his final exams gone badly? Had he fallen out with someone?
“Just leave me alone, Sarah.”
I’d opened the door to ask if he wanted anything from the shops. He was sitting in the chair, staring out the window as he said it.
“Leave me alone,” he repeated.
So I did. I left him alone and the next day he’d gone. Without a word to anyone. We rang, left messages, but didn’t worry much when he didn’t return our calls – Max was always slack about stuff like that. We assumed he’d gone back to London, was busy finishing up at university.
But ten days later the police were standing on our doorstep.
Max had been found in our summer house in Sweden. His heart had stopped. That was all they could tell us. No one knew why. Nothing revealed at the post mortem, though we’re still waiting for the inquest.
His heart just stopped. Dead.
A swoop of nausea. A picture in my mind, imagined, of my brother, lying naked on a cold, metal mortuary table.
Leave me alone, Sarah.
I shake away the image. Remember why I’m here. Check the list and scrutinize the bookshelves again, but I can’t see any more. I go through the desk and the drawers, but there’s no sign of them. They must be in the garage, in the boxes that came back from Max’s room in London – no one’s had the courage to deal with them since Dad dumped them in there several weeks ago.
“Sarah?” Mum’s voice calls from the bathroom. “Are there any clean towels?”
I doubt it, I think, making a mental note to grab the pyjamas she was wearing and shove them in the wash. Hard to believe only a few weeks can reverse everything. That my lovely, busy, capable mother, who held down a full-time job running a local building society and yet still managed to make sure Max and I never went short of anything, can now barely run a bath without my help.
Her whole life undone by what no one can undo.
“I’ll look,” I call back, wondering how much more of this I can take. Supporting her now is the least I can do, but sometimes it feels like I’m treading water, desperately trying to stay afloat while hidden currents drag me down.
As I turn to leave, I glimpse the back garden out of the window, the sprawling branches of the crab apple tree obscuring the end of the lawn. The flowers in the borders seem to glow in the warm evening light, not yet showing signs of their neglect, but the grass is now so long it’s leaning over in places, flattened by the recent rain and wind.
An ache wells inside me. I always wanted this bedroom. Sometimes, when I was smaller and Max was out, I’d sneak in here and lie on his bed and stare across the garden to the ivy covering the back wall, wishing he would vanish so I could have it for myself.
And now I could, I realize, with a hot pang of guilt and sorrow. Max has gone and there’s nothing to stop me moving in here any time I like. Dad wouldn’t mind, and I doubt Mum has the strength to object.
Only now, of course, I no longer want to.
Max. I whisper his name under my breath and feel something bitter breaking through. None of this was his fault, I know that, but it doesn’t help. No matter how much I miss my brother, I can’t stop myself blaming him for leaving me stranded here. For the chaos his death has brought into our lives.
And for condemning me to spend the rest of mine being very careful what I wish for.
“I said NO!”
My eyes leap to the woman in front of me, my heart skipping in alarm. But her irritation is aimed at the small boy hanging on to the sleeve of her jacket, grizzling, his face crumpled and peevish.
I pick up the packet of chocolate biscuits and scan them, twisting the wrapper several times before the reader catches the barcode.
“Thomas, pack it in! I said you can have one when we get home.”
The boy starts crying in earnest as his mother stuffs her shopping into bags with quick, jerky movements, her eyes hollow with exhaustion. As she pauses to slot her credit card into the machine, I let my eyes roam to the clock above the flower stand.
Half past two. One whole hour to go till break time.
To think I was actually excited at getting a summer job in the supermarket. My first proper job, if you don’t count Dad paying me to help paint the spare bedroom.
But now every minute I spend here is a painful reminder of what might await me if I flunk my audition. I’m not clever like Max…like Max was. I’m not university material. Without my music, my singing, I could be stuck doing this – or something like this – for the rest of my life.
Which would be okay if it was my choice. If I enjoyed it. But it’s not, and I don’t. All I ever wanted to do was sing. It’s the only thing I know how to do well. Max got the brains; all I have is my voice.
The next customer, an older woman in a fuschia-pink coat, is already piling her shopping on the conveyor belt in precarious heaps. It jerks forward, and several bags of frozen peas start to avalanche. I jump up, grabbing them just before they hit the floor. As I sit back down I glimpse someone halfway up the newspaper aisle, over by the magazines.
A chill runs through me. I leap to my feet again, straining to see past the other customers.
There. A brief flash of dark hair by the greetings-card display. Black leather jacket, indigo denim jeans.
My breath dies in my throat. It’s him. The guy I bumped into a week ago. I’m sure of it.
The pink-coat lady looks at me quizzically. “Is everything okay?”
“Excuse me!” I mutter. I slip out from behind the till and walk quickly up to the intersection by the cards, glancing around me.
No sign of him. What the hell?
“Sarah!” I turn to see Mrs Lucas, the supervisor, eyes widened into a furious question.
I spin about again, looking right along the aisles.
Nothing.
“Sarah!” Mrs Lucas’s voice rises half an octave. I scarper back to my till, cheeks burning. “Sorry,” I blurt. “I thought I saw someone drop their wallet.”
Mrs Lucas frowns, staring up towards the card racks. Purses her lips and says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat to the pink-coat lady, pulling out a wodge of plastic carriers. Notice my hand trembling as I try to separate them.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” she says, her face crinkling into a kind expression.
I gaze at her helplessly, but she’s already turned her attention back to her shopping. I grab the next item off the conveyor belt, trying surreptitiously to watch the checkouts and the exit as I work.
Still nothing. It’s like he’s completely vanished.
Or wasn’t there at all, I think, as I help load the bags into the trolley. What was it Lizzie said before?
You probably just imagined it…Got things out of proportion.
She’s right, I tell myself, feeling foolish. Max’s death is obviously affecting me in ways I never realized. Making me paranoid. In that bereavement leaflet the doctor gave Mum, it said it was common to see the person that died for months, even years afterwards. Imagining you’ve glimpsed them in the street, that sort of thing.
It hasn’t happened to me, though I kind of want it to. I’d like to see my brother again, even if it does mean I’m going a little bit crazy. When you miss someone that much, it’s a trade-off you’re happy to make.
But no Max. Nothing. Just an empty bedroom, and a mother who’s fallen into a chasm of grief. A father who’s barely coping himself.
Instead I’m seeing other kinds of ghosts. Inventing stuff where nothing’s going on.
Going more than a little bit crazy.
I get up at six the next day, determined to put in an hour or two of practice before work. But it’s hard to sing when you’re shivering. The shed is cold this early in the morning, dark clouds looming outside the window in mockery of summer. The mess of plant pots and garden tools, the half-used packets of seed and dried-out compost, all make my skin feel itchy and crawly.
I flip back to the beginning of the score, prop it up on Dad’s old potting bench, and press play on my iPod dock. The sound of Mrs Perry’s Schubert piano accompaniment fills the tiny space. A little tinny, but it’s clear enough and I start again, this time sensing my mind and body loosen as I sink into the music, letting it pull me in until everything else drops away and there’s just the swoop and soar of my voice above the piano.
I’m just reaching the end of the song when there’s a knock on the shed door. I switch off the music, turn to see Dad standing there with a cup of tea.
“Morning,” he says, putting it down on the bench in front of me. “Sorry to interrupt.”
I shake my head. “I’m nearly finished.”
“I heard you from the kitchen.” He walks up and puts an arm round my shoulder, pulling me towards him so he can kiss the top of my forehead. “Lovely. Really haunting.”
I smile.
“Sad,” he says. “Your music always seems so melancholy these days. Lovely, but sad.”
I look up at him in surprise. I guess he’s right. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been drawn to these pieces, their solemn, evocative beauty. Somehow, since Max died, I can’t face anything more upbeat, more cheerful.
“”