Imo tosses and turns, wishes she could take her batteries out and sleep. Maybe take them out permanently and welcome oblivion.
Chapter 20
Sunday 2 October
Imogen
It’s gone noon, and it’s hot and bright in bed. Imo gets up. Silence. Phoenix has pushed a note under the door to say she has archery club. Tegan will have gone off with the Conservation Volunteers to annihilate rhododendrons. As the intranet is working again, Imo has no excuse for not getting on with the reading links that Dr Wyatt gave them in the last seminar. It’s about the Third Gender and Imo doubts anyone on Tinder will be able to help. Amber would have plenty to say on the topic. But she’s not here.
Something shifts in her belly and her muscles tense. Is a person any less lost if they send a text before dropping off the face of the earth? Amber’s mother has accepted it and, although she sounded disappointed, didn’t seem surprised. But she wasn’t with Amber in her first two days at uni. Didn’t see her confidence, excitement. A bit fond of histrionics, maybe, but not about to throw in the towel before the first lecture.
Imo can’t leave it, but who can she tell? The police? And say what? If they took her seriously, they’d question Amber’s family.
She shivers, recalling that first phone call her dad made. The first of many. Three in the morning. Her eighteenth birthday. She was back from the clubs and at the kitchen table, trying to conceal the double vodkas in her speech. But her parents didn’t notice. Their eyes wide, faces white. Mum listening as Dad spoke. In her drunken state, Imo didn’t know at first who he was calling; she could only hear his side of the conversation. But it wasn’t long before the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes hit home. And she understood.
“Doesn’t live here, but was expected hours ago.”
“Nottingham.”
“That’s right, a master’s student.”
“There wasn’t a row.”
“Not on medication, no.”
“Hasn’t left a note, not with us.”
“Facebook? … We’ll check.”
“Never, nothing like this before.”
No, Imo shivers. She won’t do that to Amber’s mother without good reason. Maybe years of Amber’s flights of fancy have exhausted the woman. No energy left to fear the worst. Why should Imo start a police rollercoaster, when the only direction is down through gloom, confusion and disbelief?
Surely Amber notified someone in the university hierarchy that she was giving up the course. Perhaps she had to fill in a form stating her reasons for leaving and her future plans. Imo’s no way of accessing that, but the student reps might know.
She gets her laptop and sits on the bed. The University of Abbeythorpe website has a section on Student Welfare Services. A head-and-shoulders shot of a girl, with a shiny smile in one of the official pink T-shirts; welfare rep for first year undergraduates. Imo clicks the link and makes an appointment for 11 a.m. the next day.
Too exhausted for her German reading, she lies on the bed and sends her mother an upbeat text. Mum’s done well so far today; fewer than ten texts – one or two with family trivia – not all urgent advice for keeping safe. Imo presses send, leaving out her concerns about Amber. The last thing her mother needs is another lost girl.
When Daisy Was Twenty Months Old
Tummy full of Mummy’s egg and soldiers, Daisy sits contently in her car seat in the back, breathing in the tang of Mummy’s peppermints. They sing songs and Mummy chuckles in that happy, pretty voice of hers.
Mummy sings: “This is the way we wash our …”
“Fay.” Daisy wipes her cheeks with her fists.
“This is the way we comb our hair.”
“Comb a hair.” Daisy points her fingertips down the sides of her head.
“Clever girl.” Mummy laughs. “You can say more than all the other babies.” She pops another mint in her mouth.
Why is Mummy talking when Daisy wants singing? “Again,” she demands.
“Sorry, sweetie. Where was I …? This is the way we brush our teeth.”
Daisy smiles and gets ready to sing.
Suddenly, the car brakes and Daisy’s head knocks against the side of the seat. Everything inside her body stops, and she can’t move. Then the hurting bursts across her forehead and into her hair. She starts to howl.
Mummy turns round, eyes thin and face red. “Shhhhhh. Not now. Be quiet.”
Through blurry tears, Daisy can see flashing lights and men in hats on the road ahead. “Don’t make a noise,” Mummy says. She sounds angry and there’s a look in her eyes that Daisy has never seen before. Mummy turns the car another way, before the men in hats reach them. Her face is all dark and scary. The car speeds up. Mummy’s jaw is tight and she keeps looking out of the back window.
“This is the way we put on our clothes …” Mummy sings, but her voice sounds gritty and she keeps repeating the same line. Her forehead is shiny with sweat and Daisy doesn’t feel like joining in.
The agony in Daisy’s head and the effort of not screaming force her to close her eyes. For ages and ages, until Mummy has stopped singing and there are no sounds except the fast engine and Mummy’s noisy breathing. Even when she senses the car finally stop, Daisy keeps them shut, only looking up when she feels herself lifted and pressed against Mummy’s soft, quilted jacket.
“What is it, sweetie? Tell Mummy.”
Daisy bursts into fresh crying. “Bump a head,” she sobs.
“Where, sweetie? How did you bump it?” She holds Daisy’s chin and scans her forehead. “There’s nothing to see.”
“Car,” Daisy says, pain still fizzing across her skull.
Mummy rocks and shooshes, all the while patting across Daisy’s hair. “Naughty car.”
Pain throbs again and Daisy rears away from Mummy’s chest in a new wave of howls.
“Shall Mummy kiss it better?”
Solemnly Daisy leans forward to receive Mummy’s special magic. Tired out from crying, she relaxes as Mummy settles her in her car seat.
“No one hurts my baby. No one,” Mummy mutters as they get back in the car and drive on. “They won’t find us.”
Chapter 21
Monday 3 October
Imogen
The Accountancy lecturer changes his figures on the interactive whiteboard, nodding gratefully to the nerd kid at the other end of Imo’s row who reads out his answers. Imo feels for the man, worries how his confidence has dissolved so completely within twenty minutes of their first lecture. The class’s attention wavered the second time the nerd piped up with a correction. Now, with the nerd’s third intervention, they chat openly, ignoring the lecturer. Tegan plays on her phone.
Poor guy. He’s younger than most lecturers and looks like he might actually give a damn. He’s vaguely familiar too. A mad idea that he was at the nightclub last week makes Imo squirm. God, she hopes not; she made enough of a fool of herself in front of her flatmates without a lecturer having a ring-side seat.
She makes a point of concentrating, taking notes as he talks through the balance sheet. She’s the only one listening, so he seems to address the lecture directly to her. She tries to look intellectual and silently prays he won’t ask her a question. She suppresses several yawns. After a day in bed, sleep didn’t come through the long night.
The nerd’s hand shoots up again and the lecturer has to erase more figures. Imo studies him. Early forties, maybe. Wispy hair and a suit that looks as if it’s made of wood. What’s gone wrong for him? Why isn’t he a hotshot accountant? He’s not even a proper academic. The ones with PhDs waste no time in affixing “Dr” to the start of their name, but he introduced himself as plain Sean Hennessey. Has life not quite worked out? Imo feels a wave of affinity.
She’s chosen the seat nearest the door for a quick getaway but feels bad when she slips out ten minutes early for the welfare interview. Hopes Sean Hennessey won’t take the loss of his one attentive student to heart. She vows to read some chapters from the
accountancy textbook before the next lecture, or at least buy it.
She’s left it a bit late and has to run. The Student Welfare Services is on the ground floor of her hall of residence, next to the reception area where she picked up her keys on the first day. She knocks on the open office door and steps inside, hot and thirsty. Two students sit over computers at desks facing each other. One is a mixed-race guy in a sleeveless shirt and blue trousers. He smiles.
The other student is the shiny-smiled white girl from the website photo. Imo’s forgotten her name, even though she read it last night.
“Imogen? Would you like to come through?” She brings her to a room at the back of the office and invites her to take a seat on one of the sofas. She sits down on the other one and picks up the iPad that’s on the seat.
“Can you explain why you’ve come to see me?” Straight down to business, no preamble. Don’t uni reps go on empathy courses?
“I’m worried about my flatmate. No one has seen her since Tuesday afternoon.”
The rep nods expansively but her blank expression doesn’t change. “So where do you think she is?”
Imo squirms under the girl’s intense gaze. The blinds billow slightly; the window is open behind them. Family-sized bottles of Fanta line the wall beside a filing cabinet. Imo’s mouth is so dry she has trouble swallowing.
“Imogen?”
“Her mother thinks she’s gone travelling, but Amber seemed happy here to me.”
The girl – is she ever going to introduce herself? – opens the iPad. “Has her mum told the university officially? What’s her name?”
Imo shrugs. What’s her mother’s name got to do with it? She’s starting to wish she hadn’t come. Maybe she could call back when it’s just the other student here. He might be more help.
“You don’t know your flatmate’s name?” The girl’s face is still passive, but she can’t keep incredulity out of her voice.
Imo realizes the misunderstanding. “Amber,” she says confidently but feels stupid again because she doesn’t know Amber’s surname.
The girl asks for the address of their flat and looks them up on her screen. “Amber Murphy, Room 2, Flat 17. Yes, I’ve got her. It says here she quit her course on the twenty-seventh of September.”
“But why?” Imo perches forward on the sofa. “Why did she leave?”
The girl doesn’t reply for a moment. She reads something on her screen and scrolls down. Then she puts the device aside and rests her hands on her lap. “Have you made other friends?”
“Me? Of course.” Tegan, Phoenix, Lauren, Riku. Friends right? The Fanta bottles stare at her and she can feel her lips cracking.
“Good. So you’ve got people to talk to?” The girl’s gaze is intense again.
Imo bites her tongue. Someone to talk to, isn’t that what this shiny girl is here for?
“What are you doing for fun?” the rep asks.
The question crushes Imo as she realizes what this welfare rep sees. A spotty girl with greasy hair and in Saturday’s sweatshirt, clinging to the transient friendship of someone who chose to leave. She stands up. “I’ve got a lecture.”
The girl stays seated, a smile on her lips. “Are you getting enough sleep? It’s a problem for freshers, all those party nights.” She laughs like a granny.
Imo gives a tight smile back. What could she tell her: people like her mostly don’t sleep?
The rep reaches out and taps Imo’s arm. “Don’t worry about Amber. It’s confidential so I can’t say what, but there’s more information in the file.” She moves her hand to the iPad. “It’s not surprising she left university. We see it every year. The best thing you can do is forget about it and enjoy yourself.”
When she escorts Imo through the front office, the male student doesn’t look up from his computer. Imo has a panicked feeling that he’s heard every word.
“Try making a plan of what you’re doing at each hour of the day. Time for work, for fun, eat, sleep, that sort of thing,” the girl says. “Pop back if ever you want to talk. Bye Imogen. Thanks for coming.”
As Imo climbs the staircase towards her flat, she mulls over the rep’s words. Could she be right? Maybe she does need to focus on herself. Are her memories of the tragedy at home clouding her judgement? She can’t let Sophia go, but that’s no reason to cling onto Amber.
Chapter 22
Tuesday 4 October
Imogen
The glass vibrates against her forehead as Imo leans on the train window. Being in the countryside is a reminder that there’s a world outside Abbeythorpe. It’s as if the train has pierced a bubble. Jagged hedges flash past. Dips and hollows, mounds of verdant earth, escarpments. Tips of trees are speckled yellow and copper although most leaves are still green, clinging to twigs, to branches, to solid trunks. But soon they will shrivel and fall.
Sheep dot across a field, eating grass. Above the horizon, skies are pale blue and vast. Imo is a speck on the earth. Like the sheep.
Her phone vibrates and makes her shiver guiltily. Is it Mum? Does she sense Imo’s on a train despite her promise never to travel on one alone? A blur slams against the window and she jumps. It’s a train going the other way. How would it be to fall in front of it? Life extinct in a nano-second. No more uncertainty, no more waiting.
That was what Inspector Hare thought at first and he coordinated searches along the Nottingham line. He advised Imo’s family to stay away, but they watched it live on Sky News. Lines of anoraked civilians in a synchronized sweep of the embankment. Eyes down, brogging the undergrowth with sticks. Looking for a corpse.
Imo opens her purse for the tenth time to check for her railcard and the bangle, wishing she had a box or an envelope. It’s going to look weird plonking it in Mrs Murphy’s hand. But as the woman must already have doubts about Imo, Amber’s weird flatmate, it probably won’t matter.
She had a dream again in the night. Amber appeared on one side of a badminton net with the welfare rep on the other. They batted Get me, won’t you and Forget about it between them with Imo scouring the spectators for Sophia. By the time it was light, Imo, drenched in sweat, knew she had to speak to Amber’s mother. The bangle occurred to her halfway through the phone call. So she told Mrs Murphy she wanted to return it without the risk of it getting lost in the post. The woman reluctantly agreed, but explained Tuesday was her only day off this week from her garden centre job. Imo offered to go immediately and mentally composed a grovelling speech to Dr Wyatt to explain her absence.
The train slows and trundles past a farmhouse. Rusting equipment languishes in the yard. It would have been pristine once. A wall of hay bales wrapped in black plastic sheeting divides a field. One side is meadow. The other has been cleared to flat, bare earth. The train enters a tunnel, bright with graffiti. Big, sharp-edged words that say nothing.
Finally a platform appears alongside and people at Chadcombe station wait to board. After a screech of brakes and a lurch, the train halts. Imo gets out. It’s chilly after the train but not as cold as Abbeythorpe. It’s like everyone says: the climate is better down here.
There’s a rank of taxis outside the station. She gives the address to the first driver in the line and gets in the back. The journey passes in silence. He pulls up outside a solid semi-detached. Privet hedge, neat lawn, fuchsia bushes in the flowerbed. The house must be worth a lot this far south despite the flaking paintwork. Imo worries no one’s home as there’s no car in the drive, but a dark-haired woman in her early twenties answers the door. She wears black trousers and a purple shirt with Pizza Pedro embroidered on the breast pocket. Imo gives her name.
“Come in,” the woman says stiffly. “Mum’s expecting you.”
Imo follows her through a narrow hallway and into the cosy lounge. Quality three-piece suite, worn on the arms. Velvet curtains, open fireplace.
Mrs Murphy stands up and points to an armchair. “We’ve just made a pot of tea. Would you like a cup?”
Imo accepts and sits do
wn, feeling nervous and wondering whether she has made the right choice in coming. Amber’s mum retakes her place on the sofa, looking tired.
“Thanks, Jade,” she says when the young woman brings in the tray.
Jade serves the tea and sits on the other armchair. Both women look at Imo. She balances her cup on her lap and retrieves the bangle from her purse. Takes a deep breath.
“This is Amber’s. At least I think it is. We found it on the ground at uni.”
Mrs Murphy puts it on the arm of the sofa. “That’s kind. I’ll make sure she gets it when she comes home.” She swallows, her eyes pensive.
The reaction doesn’t surprise Imo. Even if the woman’s not worried about Amber going travelling, she must want to know when she’ll be back. It’s her other daughter’s reaction that strikes Imo as odd. Jade glares at the carpet and shakes her head.
Imo notices three photos on the mantelpiece. One shows Jade smiling into the lens, with a figure on either side raising champagne glasses towards her. Mrs Murphy on her left. A Goth girl with jet-black plaits and thick eyeliner to her right.
“That was taken two years ago,” Mrs Murphy says, following Imo’s gaze, “when Jade got made branch manager.”
“So that’s …” Imo looks at the Goth.
“Amber in her gloom phase. It’s funny how your children change.” Mrs Murphy’s eyes fall on one of the other photographs. A dark-haired girl of about thirteen has her arm round a younger, auburn-haired child. They look to be at a theme park. “They both had curly hair in those days. All that straightening can’t be good for it.”
The Roommates Page 8
