The Sleepover

by Samantha King

  “Look, I know you’re clever. You made it look like it was Jason’s website. You got rid of it to cover your tracks. But nothing really disappears from the Internet. You obviously know a lot about computers. You must know—”

  “More than you,” he scorns. “And the police. They won’t find anything. My dad sells software. He got me a widget that nukes stuff. I tanked it all. Jason’s text. The website, Nick’s Facebook.”

  “Actually, the police managed to reactivate that. But why set it up in the first place?” I want to scream as I remember how that misdirected the detectives, convincing DS Clarke that Nick was holed up somewhere—not lying half-dead less than a mile from his home.

  Adrian grins, clearly impressed by his own cunning. “Nick always said you ban him from social media. I thought it would be funny to send you a friend-request from him.”

  “I never got one,” I say dubiously.

  “Yeah, well. I changed my mind, didn’t I? People started liking his Facebook. I had to get rid of it.”

  “You mean, you only wanted people to follow you. You didn’t want them to like Nick’s stuff. Even if he didn’t actually post it.” I tut. “Identity theft is illegal, you know.”

  “What? I didn’t steal anything, did I? I didn’t hack your bank account. I could have,” he brags. “People are so dumb about passwords. Their kids’ names. Favorite, uh, pet.”

  “Oh my God. You killed Marzipan.”

  “No, I didn’t. She ate the poison,” he says cheekily. “I never made her.”

  “You really are proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I am, as it goes. Jason had the nerve to call me dumb. He was the idiot. He didn’t even know his name was on the website. Or that I sent the text from his phone. True friends don’t tell. He went mental when I told him. But it was too late. Nick was gone. And Jase was stupid enough to hide his phone for me. I said, ‘Dude, if you don’t hide it, they’re gonna find that text and come knocking on your door.’”

  “Nick never even read it.” I can’t hide my scorn now.

  “Yeah, well, it didn’t matter anyway. I knew Jase would never tell on me. I told him, ‘Shut the fuck up, man, or I’ll show everyone what you look like naked.’”

  “You took photos at the sleepover. You threatened him with those. You told him if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, you’d humiliate him. Expose him.” As understanding dawns, my pity for Jason grows. Katie was right: his toughness was skin deep.

  Adrian lifts his hands, shaping his fingers as though to frame me in a shot. “‘One click and the world sees,’ I told him. I never thought he’d go and top himself.”

  “How could you? Nick may have survived. No thanks to you,” I spit. “But you’ll have Jason’s death on your conscience forever.”

  “I didn’t mean for him to do it!” Hands back in his pockets, Adrian scowls petulantly. “See, nobody gets me. It was all supposed to be a joke. Why can’t anyone see that? Sammy freaked out, too. I told him, ‘Nick’s only in the woods. Jase didn’t have to go and jump in the river!’ It was just a game. I was gonna get Nick out of there.”

  “But you didn’t. You didn’t tell anyone until it was almost too late.”

  “Yeah, well. I had to stick to the plan.”

  “Plan?” My heart leaps. “And was it just your plan?” I press, again wondering if Adrian’s childish spite provided an opportune platform for a very adult crime—if he was merely the go-between and the real villain is still out there.

  “’Course it was.” He gives me a dirty look. “It was my sleepover. My game. I couldn’t let Sammy blow it. He said he was gonna tell the police. I said, ‘Mate, no one’s gonna believe you.’ He said, ‘Mr. Newton will.’”

  “So you got in there first. You defamed an innocent man,” I say angrily, guessing what’s coming next. “Telling the police he’d abused you. And it was all just more lies. I suppose you lied to Mr. Newton about Nick seeing a girl, too.” Bitterly, I remember the fleeting hope that unexpected news gave. “Do you even know a Cass Parker?”

  “I heard the name in assembly a couple of weeks ago.” He shrugs. “Mr. Newton was being such a slimeball. The others fell for it, but I didn’t. ‘You can tell me, boys,’” he mimics. “I just told him what he wanted to hear. Then I told the police exactly what he did to us in the book group.”

  “But it wasn’t true! Any of it. And Mr. Newton has been arrested. Because of you.”

  “He deserves it. He’s a teacher. He’s not supposed to have favorites. But he kept banging on all the time about Nick being ‘so talented,’ such a ‘poetic soul.’ Why does it always have to be about Nick?” he whines, jabbing a finger toward the bedroom door.

  He’s so wrong, I don’t know how to begin to put him right. “Your teacher could go to prison, Adrian. You said it was all a game, but . . .” Words fail me. I reach for my phone.

  “Go ahead,” he sneers. “Who’s gonna believe a teacher over a kid?”

  I think I’m going to faint. He’s such a sweet boy. That’s what everyone thinks. It’s what I’ve always thought. Then I remember him prodding Marzipan as she lay dying, and it reminds me of the cupboard under the stairs in his home—his dad’s taxidermy collection.

  He’s seen his dad cut up dead animals. He’s watched Mike Atkins pose disemboweled wildlife to look as though it’s still alive. How confused, how desensitized Adrian must have become about the finality of death, growing up absorbing the idea of dying as some kind of game—or to win a paltry fifteen minutes of fame by posting shocking stunts on YouTube . . .

  I think of the website he pretended Jason set up: it made celebrities of the kids who posted on it, he told Nick. And as Adrian reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out his own phone, I suddenly grasp what his Plan B is, and why he’s come here: to film one last video.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Put that down!” The words are in my head, but they come out of Nick’s mouth as the bedroom door swings open and he flies through it, bowling toward Adrian.

  “Adrian. Put the phone down. Now,” I order, standing up, too. “My son is not your clickbait.” I leap forward, managing to intercept Nick and pull him against me, gently restraining his arms. Fumbling to grab my own phone, I pray I can get a signal this time.

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. Brookes.” Adrian pitches forward, still filming. “It’s your turn now. This is your big moment. Don’t spoil it.”

  Taking me by surprise, he snatches the phone from my hand, and I watch in horror as he lets it drop to the floor. Then stamps on it. Glass splinters everywhere, tiny slivers embedding themselves into the oatmeal carpet. Still Adrian keeps filming, angling his phone as though trying to get the best shot.

  “No!” I run at him, reaching for it.

  “What is your problem?” Nick gets there first, but Adrian dances away.

  “That’s it, Nick. Keep it coming,” he encourages. “How many likes d’you think I’ll get for this one? Shame you look like a ghost. Never mind, I’ll zap a filter on it.”

  Nick shoves Adrian with the little strength he has, the tendons standing out on his neck telling me what the effort costs him. Over the years, he has always heeded my advice to walk away; he’s learned to grit his teeth and save his tears for his pillow. He never, ever, fought back. Now, as I see his face contort with rage, I hate Adrian for spreading his poison, provoking my son into a battle he cannot win. Not against someone whose biggest goal in life is to be in the spotlight, by whatever means, good or bad.

  “That’s enough.” I push myself between the boys, trying to smack Adrian’s phone out of Nick’s face. Once again, he dodges out of the way.

  “Screw you, Adrian Atkins. You want to be famous? You think some stupid video is going to make people like you?” Nick yells at his friend-turned-enemy.

  Or was he ever truly his friend? I have a sudden flashback to Nick’s video diary, how he spoke of the sleepover: It’s showdown time. Maybe he planned to do more than appeal to the boys abou
t the website; perhaps he knew even then that Adrian was a false friend and wanted the chance to confront him, with Jason and Samir there for moral support.

  “I’ve got hundreds of followers,” Adrian brags. “How many have you got, loser?”

  “Give me the phone, Adrian. Give it to me!” I watch the rapid rise and fall of Nick’s shoulders. I sense him summoning up energy to go for Adrian; I hear the beginnings of wheezing low in his chest. Fearing an asthma attack, I lay a hand on his arm. “Nick. It’s OK.”

  “Jason’s dead, Mum. Dead. He can’t get away with it.”

  “He won’t,” I say firmly, bracing myself to grab Adrian.

  Before I can take a step, a strident ringtone I’d recognize anywhere blares out. I whirl around at the same time as Adrian lurches forward, hand outstretched to grab the small Nokia that Nick takes out of his jeans pocket. But this time, I move faster.

  “Nick?” a familiar voice barks as soon as I connect the call. “It’s DCI Maxwell.”

  “No. It’s Izzy. I’m here with Nick. We need help. Can you—”

  “Is Rogers there, too?” the detective cuts in. “He’s not picking up. Is he with you? Izzy, listen to me very carefully. Jason didn’t commit suicide. We know who killed him. We need to find Adrian. We’ve got Molly, but we can’t find her brother anywhere.”

  “He’s here. He—”

  “He’s there? Right. We’re on our way. But Izzy, you need to get out of the cottage. Immediately. I think—”

  I don’t hear what he says next. Just for a split second, my attention is distracted as Adrian suddenly backs away toward the other end of the room. My eyes are on him; my head is stuck on the news that Jason was murdered. My whole body feels like it’s gone into shock, and I don’t see the impact until it’s too late. The first I hear is a fizz, followed by a loud pop; the first I feel is a powerful draught, like a wall of wind pushing me backward.

  My arms flail and I scramble helplessly as Nick’s phone slips from my hand; my back twists awkwardly as I sprawl onto the floor. Fighting pain, I look up in time to see the pretty view of the garden crack and fold in on itself. Tiny chips of gray sky and weeping willow explode, firing off in all directions like multicolored shrapnel as the sliding doors splinter in a shimmering mass of flying shards. Then I feel heat. I smell smoke. I see flames . . .

  “Nick!” I scrabble toward him, running my hands quickly over his head, back and arms, brushing away sharp crystals of glass. “Are you hurt? Are you OK?”

  “Mum. Mum, I can’t breathe.”

  I sit back on my heels, giving him space, hurriedly scanning our surroundings. The carpet where I was standing seconds ago is now covered by huge, jagged sheets of glass; dense smoke billows in front of me, rolling up to the ceiling, clogging the air and obscuring visibility. But beneath the heavy ash-colored cloud I can see the unmistakable lick of fire.

  “Nick, we have to get out of here. Now. As fast as you can, OK? DCI Maxwell’s on his way. We just have to get out of the cottage.” I stare at the carnage behind me, shivering with the recognition that I was within inches of losing my life. “Can you walk?”

  He manages to pull himself onto his knees, but remains bent double. “The rock. It was coming right for you, Mum,” he gasps, pointing.

  “But it didn’t get me, sweetheart.” I grip his hand, trying to transmit a confidence I don’t feel. Staring numbly toward the shattered doors, I have to squint to try to make out if anyone is there. Smoke writhes through the broken glass, and it suddenly dawns on me that the cold air rushing in will feed the fire. I haul Nick upright, shielding his body just as a sudden flare of heat confirms that the flames are gaining force.

  “Let’s go!” I haul Nick away from the small but vicious blaze beginning to eat up the carpet. He coughs, and I feel it gurgle all the way up through his back. Racking my brains to think where his inhaler might be, I realize it’s in my handbag. In the kitchen . . .

  “Where’s Adrian?” Nick digs his heels in to the carpet. “We can’t go without him.”

  I look into his bright blue eyes, watery from smoke but piercing with conviction, and I feel a momentary pang at the undeserved loyalty. But he’s right: I can’t leave without knowing Adrian is safe. “Go—wait for me outside the cottage.” I give Nick a gentle push. “Your inhaler’s in my bag. In the kitchen. Grab it first. And shut this door behind you!”

  As soon as the living room door closes, I turn back to face the hot acrid cloud that is beginning to thin out slightly now, but still burns my eyes, ears, and lungs. “Adrian?” I call out, then bend over, coughing as smoke is sucked into my throat.

  “Hello?” a voice yells back. “Anyone there?”

  “Adrian, is that you?” Still coughing, I head blindly in that direction, arms stretched ahead of me to feel my way. I only manage two steps before I hear the air-pistol crackle of flames grow stronger, and see fire leaping up a shelf unit like an acrobat up a rope.

  “Step back!” the disembodied voice calls again.

  I watch transfixed as a dark shadow charges through the smoke. It sweeps past me to grab a blanket from the sofa, twisting around to throw it over the hissing, yellow curl of flames, before stamping down on it and beating at what’s left of the wicker shelves. The fire is extinguished in seconds; a lingering smell of lighter fluid betrays the cause, the pungent chemical stench reminding me incongruously of bonfires and autumn barbecues.

  Briefly, I close my eyes, picturing Craig and Nick dragging a homemade Guy Fawkes to sit in triumphant doom on top of branches they’d gathered together in the woods. Instantly my mind’s eye pans to the shed where Nick was tied up. The association makes me feel sick and I start to sway dizzily, before strong hands grasp my forearms.

  “That was a close call. Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

  The shadowy figure materializes into a slim, dark-haired man whose face is smudged with the sooty residue of smoke but nevertheless instantly recognizable. “Thank God it’s you!” The plainclothes officer spooked the hell out of me last night, with his face pressed against the window, but I’m mighty glad to see him now. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Are you OK? You’re not injured?”

  “I don’t think so. But . . . Who did this? Did you see anyone? DCI Maxwell just phoned to warn us. He told us to get out.” I burble anxiously, at the same time hunting for Nick’s phone, seeing no sign of it. Or Adrian. “There’s another boy. Did you see him?”

  Hyper with adrenaline, I don’t wait for a reply but hurry into the hall to check on Nick, panicking when I see the front door shut. I yank at the handles, top and bottom; neither gives. Of course they won’t. I’ve kept the stable door locked at all times, to stop intruders getting in. I never imagined someone would blast their way through the windows instead. I left the keys in the door, though. So where is Nick?

  “Mum! I’m in here!”

  “Nick! Are you all right?” I quickly follow his voice into the kitchen, relieved to see him sitting at the table, my handbag open in front of him, inhaler pressed to his mouth.

  “Did you find Adrian?” His voice rasps as he takes another puff of medicine.

  “I got him.” The officer appears behind me. “Thankfully he had the sense to hide in the bathroom. Safest place in a fire. He’s just splashing his face. Feeling a bit sick.”

  “Thank God he wasn’t hurt.” Despite what Adrian has done, I realize I mean it.

  “Or you guys, too,” the officer says, pulling out a chair and slumping down on it.

  I cross to the sink, filling a jug with water and grabbing glasses from the drainer before setting it all down on the table. Then I sit down, too, resting a hand on Nick’s chest to check that the ominous gurgling sound has cleared from his lungs. Hearing his breathing slow and steady, I lay my cheek against his hair, fighting to control my own panicky breaths.

  Craig was right: this place is so far off the radar that we could only have been found if someone was following us. I think of Adrian�
�s comment that he was “sticking to the plan,” and terror trickles through me as I wonder again if the events of the sleepover were part of an even bigger bully’s grand scheme: if punishing Nick was just the first step. Jason is dead, and DCI Maxwell said on the phone that it wasn’t suicide. The sudden attack cut off the end of his warning, but I got the gist: someone wants me dead, too. You’re next, slag. And even though the fire may be out, whoever started it could still be outside . . .

  I watch the officer help himself to water. “They might come back,” I say anxiously. “Should you go and check? See if anyone’s out there?”

  “No point. I came in round the back. I saw someone making a dash for it as I came down the path. Kids, probably. Time on their hands. Looking to get into trouble.”

  “Oh. You think?” I frown, not convinced. “Even so. Shouldn’t you—”

  “Really, I’d never catch them. They’ll be long gone. I’ll call 999 if you want, though? You’ll need to report this for the insurance. I can help you take photos, too, if you like?”

  I think about Craig, wondering again where he is, knowing how upset he’ll be when he arrives to find such devastation in his haven of peace. No doubt he’ll have the place insured up to the nines, but that’s the least of my worries. “It’s not my cottage. I don’t care about the insurance,” I say impatiently. “I just want to know who did this. I want them caught.” I want the officer to interrogate them about what other crimes they’ve committed . . .

  I wish Adrian would hurry up. I haven’t forgotten how he scampered away from the doors at the critical moment—or the way he was peering out of the window only seconds before. I want to ask him if and how he knew the attack was imminent. What Adrian did to Nick is horrendous, but if he was under someone else’s influence, he might have one last chance to redeem himself—if he confesses and leads us to that person . . .

  “You should install CCTV,” the officer advises. “Isolated place like this, you can’t be too careful. I’ll happily recommend the best systems. I’m a bit of a tech geek, you could say.” He takes a black iPhone out of his leather jacket pocket and waggles it. “This beauty hasn’t even gone on general release yet,” he says proudly. “Always got an eye on the latest gadgets, me. Security doesn’t have to be expensive. Or obtrusive. Cameras these days are pretty neat.”