But today, mercifully, I am left alone. I speak to no one for the whole morning. I catch sight of Maya across the lunch hall, and she glances at the usual girl gabbing away at her side and then rolls her eyes. I smile. As I fork my way through mouthfuls of watery shepherd’s pie, I watch her pretend to listen to her friend, Francie, but she keeps glancing over at me, pulling faces to crack me up. Her white school shirt, several sizes too big, hangs over her grey skirt, several inches too short. She is wearing her white PE lace-ups because she has misplaced her school shoes. She is without socks, and a large plaster, surrounded by a multitude of bruises, covers a scraped knee. Her auburn hair reaches her waist, long and straight like Willa’s. Freckles smatter her cheekbones, accentuating the natural pallor of her skin. Even when she is serious, her deep blue eyes always hold a glimmer that suggests she is about to smile. Over the last year she has turned from pretty to beautiful in an unusual, delicate, unnerving way. Boys chat her up endlessly – alarmingly.
After lunch I take my class copy of Romeo and Juliet, which I actually read years ago, and ensconce myself on the fourth step down of the north stairwell outside the science block, the one least frequently used. This is how my wasted hours accumulate, much like my loneliness. I keep my book open in case anyone approaches, but I’m not really in the mood to read it again. Instead, from my concrete post, I watch a plane trace a white slash across the deep blue of the sky. I look at the tiny aircraft, shrunk down by distance, and marvel at the vast expanse between all those people on that huge crowded plane, and me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Maya
‘When are you going to introduce him to me?’ Francie asks me mournfully. From our usual position on the low brick wall at the far end of the playground, she has followed my gaze to the lone figure sitting hunched on the steps outside the science building. ‘Is he still single?’
‘I told you a million times: he doesn’t like people,’ I reply tersely. I look at her. She exudes a kind of restless energy, the zest for life that comes naturally with being an extrovert. Trying to imagine her going out with my brother is almost impossible. ‘How d’you know you’ll even like him?’
‘Because he’s fucking hot!’ Francie exclaims with feeling.
I shake my head with a smile. ‘But the two of you have nothing in common.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She looks hurt suddenly.
‘He doesn’t have anything in common with anyone,’ I reassure her quickly. ‘He’s just different. He – he doesn’t really speak to people.’
Francie tosses back her hair. ‘Yeah, so I’ve heard. Taciturn as hell. Is it depression?’
‘No.’ I play with a strand of hair. ‘The school made him see a counsellor last year but that was just a waste of time. He speaks at home. It’s just with people he doesn’t know, people outside the family.’
‘So what? He’s just shy.’
I sigh doubtfully. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement.’
‘What’s he got to be shy about?’ Francie asks. ‘I mean, has he looked in a mirror recently?’
‘He’s not just like that around girls,’ I try to explain. ‘He’s like that with everyone. He won’t even answer questions in class – it’s like a phobia.’
Francie whistles in disbelief. ‘God, has he always been like that?’
‘I don’t know.’ I stop playing with my hair for a moment and think. ‘When we were young, we were like twins. We were born thirteen months apart, so everyone thought we were twins anyway. We did everything together. I mean, everything. One day he had tonsillitis and couldn’t go to school. Dad made me go and I cried all day. We had our own secret language. Sometimes, when Mum and Dad were at each other’s throats, we pretended we couldn’t speak English, so we spoke to no one but each other for the whole day. We started getting into trouble at school. They said that we refused to mix, that we had no friends. But they were wrong. We had each other. He was my best friend in the world. He still is.’
* * *
I come home to a house full of silence. The hall is empty of bags and blazers. Maybe she’s taken them to the park, I think hopefully. Then I almost laugh out loud. When was the last time that happened? I go into the kitchen – cold coffee mugs, overflowing ashtrays and cereal congealing at the bottom of bowls. Milk, bread and butter still left out on the table, Kit’s hardened uneaten toast staring accusingly up at me. Tiffin’s forgotten book bag on the floor. Willa’s abandoned tie . . . A sound from the front room prompts me to spin on my heel. I walk back down the hall, noticing the dappled sunlight highlight the dusty surfaces.
I find Mum looking dolefully up at me from beneath Willa’s duvet on the couch, a wet cloth covering her forehead.
I gape at her. ‘What happened?’
‘I think I’ve got stomach flu, sweetie. I’ve got this pounding headache and I’ve been throwing up all day.’
‘The kids—’ I begin.
Her face dims and then reignites again, like a flickering match in the dark. ‘They’re at school, sweetie pie, don’t worry. I took them in this morning – I was all right then. It was only after lunch that I started—’
‘Mum . . .’ I feel my voice begin to rise. ‘It’s four thirty!’
‘I know, sweetie. I’ll get up in a minute.’
‘You were supposed to pick them up!’ I am shouting now. ‘They finish school at half past three, remember?’
My mother looks at me, a horrible, bottomless look. ‘But isn’t it you or Lochan today?’
‘Today’s Tuesday! It’s your day off! You always fetch them on your day off!’
Mum closes her eyes and lets out a little moan, modulated to elicit pity. I want to hit her. Instead I lunge for the phone. She has turned the ringer off but the answerphone’s little red light flashes accusingly. Four messages from St Luke’s, the last one terse and angry, suggesting that this isn’t the first time Ms Whitely has been extremely late. I instantly press callback, rage thudding against my ribs. Tiffin and Willa will be terrified. They will think they have been abandoned, that she has walked out, as she keeps threatening to do when she’s been drinking.
I get through to the school secretary and start blurting out my apologies. She cuts me off with a swift, ‘Isn’t your mother the one who should be calling, dear?’
‘Our mother isn’t well,’ I say quickly. ‘But I’m leaving right now and I’ll be at the school in ten minutes. Please tell Willa and Tiffin I’m coming. Please, please just tell them that Mum’s fine and Maya’s on her way.’
‘Well, I’m afraid they’re not here any more.’ The secretary sounds a little put out. ‘They were eventually picked up by the childminder half an hour ago.’
My legs buckle. I sink down onto the arm of the couch. My body has gone so limp, I nearly drop the phone. ‘We don’t have a childminder.’
‘Oh—’
‘Who was it? What did she look like? She must have given a name!’
‘Miss Pierce will know who it was. The teachers don’t let the children go off with just anyone, you know.’ Again the prim voice, coupled now with a defensive edge.
‘I need to speak to Miss Pierce.’ My voice shakes with barely controlled calm.
‘I’m afraid Miss Pierce left when the children were finally picked up. I can try and reach her on her mobile . . .’
I can hardly breathe. ‘Please ask her to come straight back to the school. I’ll meet her there.’
I hang up and I am literally shaking. Mum lifts the flannel from her face and says, ‘Sweetie, you sound upset. Is everything all right?’
I am racing through the hall, shoving on shoes, grabbing keys, mobile phone, pressing speed-dial one as I slam out of the house. He answers on the third ring.
‘What’s happened?’
I can hear laughter and jeering in the background, fading as he leaves his after-school revision class. We both keep our phones on at all times. He knows I’d only call during school hours in an emergency.
&nbs
p; I blurt out the events of the last five minutes. ‘I’m on my way to their school now.’ A juggernaut brays its horn at me as I streak across the main road.
‘Meet you there,’ he says.
* * *
When I arrive at St Luke’s, I find the gates closed. I start to shove and kick at them until the caretaker takes pity on me and comes over to unlock them. ‘Easy,’ he says. ‘What’s all the panic?’
Ignoring him, I run to the school doors and pound on them. I am buzzed through and lurch along the fluorescent-lit corridor which, stripped of the chaos of children, seems eerie and surreal. I spot Lochan at the far end, talking to the school secretary. He must have run all the way too. Thank God, thank God. Lochan will know what to do.
He hasn’t noticed my arrival and so I slow to a dignified walk, straighten my clothes, take deep breaths and try to calm myself down. I’ve learned the hard way, through the various dealings I’ve had with figures of authority, that if you start getting upset or angry, they treat you like a child and demand to speak to your parents. Lochan has worked hard on the art of appearing calm and articulate in these circumstances, but I’m all too aware what a terrible struggle it is for him. As I approach, I notice that his hands are shaking uncontrollably by his sides.
‘Miss P-Pierce was the only person to see them leave?’ he is asking. I can tell he’s having to force himself to meet the secretary’s gaze.
‘That’s right,’ says the horrible platinum blonde I’ve always despised. ‘And Miss Pierce would of never—’
‘But surely – surely there’s another number she can be reached on?’ His voice is clear and firm. No one but I could detect the subtle tremor.
‘I told you – I tried. Her mobile’s switched off. But like I said, I left a message on her home line—’
‘Please could you just keep trying her phone?’
The secretary mutters something and disappears back inside her office. I touch Lochan’s hand. He jumps as if he has been shot, and beneath the calm exterior I see that he is crumbling too.
‘She keeps talking about a childminder,’ he says to me raggedly, backing out into the corridor and grabbing my hand. ‘Did Mum ever say anything to you about paying someone to fetch them?’
‘No!’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Lying on the couch with a flannel on her face,’ I whisper. ‘When I asked her where Tiffin and Willa were, she said she thought it was our turn to pick them up!’
Lochan is breathing hard. I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath his school shirt. His bag and blazer are nowhere to be seen and he has removed his tie. It takes me a moment to realize he is trying to disguise the fact that he is still just a schoolboy.
‘I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding,’ he says, desperate optimism creeping into his voice. ‘Another parent must have come in late and picked them up. It’s all right. We’re going to get this sorted out, Maya. OK?’ He squeezes my hands and gives me a tense smile.
I nod, forcing myself to breathe. ‘OK.’
‘I’d better go back and speak to the—’
‘D’you want me to?’ I ask quietly.
The heat immediately springs to his cheeks. ‘Of course not! I can – I can sort this—’
‘I know,’ I back-pedal quickly. ‘I know you can.’
He leaves my side to cross the office threshold and takes an audible breath. ‘Still – still no luck?’
‘Nope. She could of got stuck in traffic, I s’pose. She could be anywhere, really.’
I hear Lochan exhale in exasperation. ‘Look, I’m sure the teacher wouldn’t have wilfully let them go with a stranger. B-but you’ve got to understand that, right now, these children are missing. So I think it would be best if you called the headmaster or the deputy or – or someone who can help. We’re going to have to notify the police, and they’re probably going to want to speak to the people who run this school.’
In the corridor, out of sight of Platinum Blonde, I sag against the wall and press the back of my hand against my mouth. Police means the authorities. The authorities means Social Services. Lochan really must think that Tiffin and Willa have been kidnapped if he is willing to risk getting them involved.
I am beginning to feel increasingly wobbly, so I go and sit down on the stairs. I don’t understand how Lochan can stand there being so controlled and sensible until I notice the damp patch of sweat on the back of his shirt, the increasing tremor in his hands. I want to get up and squeeze them, tell him it’s going to be all right. Except I don’t know that it is.
The headmaster, a stout, greying man, arrives at the same time as Miss Pierce – Willa’s teacher. It transpires that she waited for over half an hour with both children before a lady, Sandra someone, showed up, apparently under instructions to fetch them.
‘But surely you must have got a last name?’ Lochan is saying for the second time.
‘Naturally we have a record of each child’s parent or guardian or childminder. But the only contact information we were ever given for Tiffin and Willa was the mother’s name and a home number,’ Miss Pierce, a pinched, pink-cheeked young woman, is saying. ‘And despite all our attempts, we couldn’t get through. So when this lady arrived saying she was a family friend and had been asked to pick up the children, we had no reason to disbelieve her.’
I see Lochan’s hands clench into fists behind his back. ‘Surely checking who the children go home with is part of your job!’ He’s beginning to lose it now: the cracks are starting to show.
‘I would have thought it part of the parent’s job to pick up their children on time,’ Miss Pierce retorts, piqued, and suddenly I want to take her head and smash it against Platinum Blonde’s and scream, Don’t you realize that while you stand there acting all self-righteous and arguing over who is to blame, a paedophile might be speeding off with my little brother and sister?
‘Where are the parents in all this?’ the headmaster interrupts. ‘Why have we only got the siblings here?’
I feel the breath catch in my throat.
‘Our mother is ill right now,’ Lochan says, and even as he comes out with this well-practised line I can tell that he is struggling to keep his voice calm.
‘Too ill to come down the road and find out what has happened to her children?’ Miss Pierce asks.
There is a silence. Lochan is staring at the teacher, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly. Don’t react, I beg him silently, pressing my knuckles against my lips.
‘Well, look, I think we should alert the authorities,’ the headmaster is now saying. ‘I’m sure it’s a false alarm, but obviously we need to be on the safe side.’
Lochan is backing away now, tugging at his hair in a characteristic gesture of extreme distress. ‘OK. Yes, of course. But can you just give us a minute?’
He moves away from the office door and rushes over. ‘Maya, they want to call the police—’ His voice is shaking and his face glistens with sweat. ‘They’ll come to the house. Mum – she’ll have to be involved . . . Was she sober?’
‘I don’t know. She’s definitely hung over!’
‘Maybe – maybe I should stay here and wait for the police while you go home and try and get her together. Hide any bottles and open all the windows.’ He is gripping the tops of my arms so hard they hurt. ‘Do whatever you can to get rid of the smell. Tell her to cry or – or something, so that she appears hysterical instead of—’
‘Lochan, I’ve got it, I can do it. Go ahead and call the police. I’ll make sure they never know—’
‘They’ll take the kids away and separate us—’ His voice is fragmenting.
‘No they won’t. Lochie, call the police – this is more important!’
Drawing back, he cups his hands over his nose and mouth, his eyes wide, and nods at me. I’ve never seen him look so afraid. Then he turns and walks back across the hallway and into the office.
I break into a run, heading towards the heavy double doors at
the end of the corridor. The black and white lino disappears rhythmically beneath my feet. The bright colours on the walls seem to swim . . . The sudden shout from behind me rips like a bullet through my chest. ‘They’ve found Sandra’s number!’
One hand on the door, I stop. Lochan’s face is alight with relief.
When they finally come through the school doors after another agonizing ten-minute wait, Tiffin is blowing pink bubbles, his mouth full of gum, and Willa is brandishing a lollipop. ‘Look what I got!’
I hug Willa so tight I can feel her heart beat against mine. Her lemon-scented hair is in my face, and all I can do is squeeze her and kiss her and try and keep her in my arms. Lochan has one arm round Tiffin as he wriggles and giggles in his grasp.
It’s clear that neither of them have a clue that anything was amiss, so I bite my tongue to stop myself from crying. Sandra turns out to be nothing more sinister than an elderly lady, childminder to one of the boys in another class. According to her, Lily Whitely rang just after four this afternoon, explaining that she was too ill to leave the house and asking whether she could do her a favour and pick up the children. Sandra had kindly returned to the school, collected Willa and Tiffin and tried to drop them back home. Getting no reply when she rang the bell, she dropped a note through the door and took them back to her own charge’s house, awaiting Lily’s phone call.
As we cross the playground, I hold Tiffin and Willa tightly with each hand and try my best to engage in the prattle about their unexpected ‘playdate’. I overhear Lochan thanking Sandra and see him scribble down his mobile number, telling her to call him should Lily ever ask her for a ‘favour’ of this kind again. As soon as we leave the school, Tiffin tries to disengage himself from my grasp, looking for something in the gutter to kick and dribble down the road. I tell him I’ll play Battleships with him for half an hour if he holds my hand all the way home. Surprisingly, he agrees, bounding up and down like a yo-yo on the end of my arm, threatening to dislocate it from its socket, but I don’t care. As long as he keeps hold of my hand, I really don’t care.
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