Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  I only sit up straight when my computer pings with a new message. It’s from Mr Gaydon.

  Dear Apple,

  I just read your poem. I don’t want to give you a big head, but let me tell you that I’ve now read two of your poems and I don’t think their excellence is a fluke. I think, perhaps, you have talent. But as with all talents, it must be nurtured. Have you been using the book I gave you to write other poems? Perhaps you’ll email them to me?

  I have attached a copy of an extract from a poem by Rupert Brooke called ‘The Great Lover’ which we read in class today. Your homework is to write about things you love using this poem as a template. I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job. Good luck!

  Mr G

  I gape at the screen. I don’t think a teacher has ever told me I’m talented, not even Mr Rowls who proclaims that everyone, even the percussion players, have ‘musical gifts’. I open my poetry exercise book and flick through its pages. I must have written ten or fifteen poems already, and loads of other unfinished snippets. I hardly even noticed myself doing it.

  I open a fresh Word document on my laptop and start to type up some of the poems. As I do, I end up changing them. Not to make them less real but to make them better, to add in some alliteration or rhyme or dramatic punctu­ation. And then I write Mr Gaydon another email. I type quickly.

  Dear Mr Gaydon,

  I don’t know whether or not I have a talent, but as I’ve been off school for a while, I’ve had time to write more poems. I have included them with this email, so you can see that I’ve not been lazy and that I like English.

  Thank you,

  Apple

  I press Send. Most of my poems are about Mum or Nana or Rain and a trickle of fear runs through me as I wonder what Mr Gaydon will do with the poems. He could forward them to anyone he wanted. He could forward them to our school’s child protection officer.

  I’m too jittery to read or write any more so I sit by the window waiting for Mum – watching. Every car that pulls up makes my heart race. Every click-clacking pair of shoes makes me crane forward to see who it is.

  Then I start imagining Mum lying in a hospital bed after being attacked on the train or laid out on a slab of concrete, dead, because someone’s stabbed her. I can hardly keep the horrible thoughts from rolling in.

  ‘Where is she?’ I say aloud.

  ‘Maybe she went back to America and left us both here,’ Rain says. She turns a page in her book.

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘Wasn’t a joke.’

  A motorbike revs its engine. I watch it drive by.

  Would Mum do something like that? Would she book a ticket to New York and leave us to fend for ourselves? She knows Nana would show up eventually. And maybe that’s her plan. Maybe it was her plan all along – to force Rain and I together and when she knew we were OK, dump us.

  ‘She’ll be here any second. Let’s stay calm,’ I suggest.

  ‘I am calm,’ Rain replies. She has almost finished the Roald Dahl book. ‘But if she doesn’t come back, can I stay with you?’ she asks.

  ‘She’ll come back,’ I say. She has to come back.

  40

  When seven o’clock arrives, I’ve convinced myself that Mum is in Brooklyn. But instead of dwelling on it, I keep busy. I make more Ready brek, this time with water because we’re out of milk. Rain won’t eat it. She finds half a cucumber to chew on instead. We sit oppos­­­ite each other at the dining table, miserable and hungry.

  ‘We need money,’ Rain says.

  ‘I know,’ I say. My tummy rumbles and I look in the fridge again. There’s an onion, two beers, and a knob of butter. I take out one of the beers and open it. It tastes a bit like dirt, but it’s cold and fizzy and better than the Ready brek. I pour it into a clean glass.

  ‘I don’t mind cucumber, but Jenny needs formula,’ Rain says. Jenny is propped on her knee. She pats the doll’s head.

  She still thinks that the flour she’s been using and which I’ve been restocking, is formula.

  ‘Jenny’s in good shape,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I’m only saying that in the morning we’ll need milk or formula. Right?’

  ‘Give it a rest, Rain.’

  ‘Why should I give it a rest?’

  I rub my forehead. ‘I have enough to worry about, don’t you think?’

  ‘Just because you don’t care about Jenny, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.’

  I stare at her unbelieving. All day she’s had her head in a book and hardly bothered about the doll. Jenny prob­­ably had her nappy changed once since breakfast and none of us have been for a walk. But suddenly Jenny’s hungry and we all need to rally around taking care of her.

  ‘Get real,’ I say. I take another sip of beer.

  Rain won’t give it up. ‘What do you mean, get real?’

  I glare at her. ‘What do I mean? Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Mum’s missing, the school is on my back, we have no money for food or drink and your only concern is for Jenny.’

  ‘She’s a baby.’

  ‘Is she, Rain?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, she is. She’s my baby.’

  I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. Rain’s delusion is too much on top of everything. ‘You’re ten years old. When exactly did you have her?’ I ask.

  ‘Jenny’s my baby,’ Rain mutters.

  I lower my voice. ‘No. She. Isn’t. You know she’s a doll. Don’t you?’

  She holds up Jenny for my inspection. ‘She isn’t some doll,’ Rain says.

  I grab Jenny and pull her to my face. I sniff her. ‘She smells like plastic, Rain,’ I say. And then I shake her. Hard.

  Rain gasps.

  ‘She doesn’t sound like a real baby either. Not a murmur.’

  ‘Give her back,’ Rain groans.

  ‘Do you think she feels what a real baby feels?’ I ask.

  Rain stares at me, frightened. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ she says.

  ‘I couldn’t if I tried. Can’t you see that she isn’t real? She isn’t real,’ I say.

  Rain tries to snatch Jenny back. I hold the doll above my head.

  ‘Stop,’ Rain pleads.

  But I can’t stop. I won’t. Rain needs to hear the truth. It’ll make everything easier for everyone.

  I release my grip on Jenny and she drops to the floor. Rain starts to cry. And then I’m crying too. I look down at Jenny and, without thinking, kick her across the room. Jenny hits the wall and slides to the ground.

  ‘Jenny!’ Rain shrieks.

  I move towards them. ‘Keep away from us! I hate you. I hate you, I hate you.’ Rain can hardly breathe.

  I can’t believe what I’ve done. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I manage. And I am. Rain didn’t deserve it. And neither did Jenny.

  I drop the beer bottle.

  ‘You’re a monster!’ Rain shouts. She dashes into our bedroom with Jenny in her arms. ‘I wish you’d never come to live here. I wish you were dead!’

  ‘Rain, wait,’ I say. No one’s ever hated me before. Not with such fire and pain. But I don’t go after her. I don’t know what to say. I can’t take back what I’ve done. And she’d be right never to speak to me again. As far as she’s concerned, I’ve tried to kill her child.

  I slump on to the floor. Where is Mum and why isn’t she here to make sure nothing terrible like this happens? That’s her job – to take care of us and help us take care of each other. I want to call and leave a long, nasty message on her mobile. But I’m sobbing too hard to speak.

  41

  It’s dark when I wake. I glance at the display on the microwave – it’s five o’clock in the morning. I pull myself off the couch and run down to Mum’s bedroom. I push open her door. The room is empty. The duvet is untidily piled at the end of her bed where she left it. ‘Mum?’ I say aloud. But it’s pointless. She’s not here.

  I sigh and go into my own room. I lie on my bunk in the dark, hugging a pillow.

  ‘Rain?’ I want her to talk to me or even sh
out at me. I don’t want to be alone. But if she can hear me, she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move a muscle. And it’s so quiet in the room I think that maybe she’s holding her breath. ‘Rain.’

  I stand on my tiptoes and scan the top bunk. Jenny is lying naked across the pillow. I pull back the duvet, expecting to find Rain tucked into the bottom corner.

  The bunk’s empty.

  ‘Rain,’ I say again.

  She wasn’t in Mum’s room or in the bathroom when I walked by. I look again in both rooms anyway, turning on as many lights as I can.

  ‘RAIN!’ I shout.

  I dash into the sitting room, and search every tiny space. Behind the couch. In the cupboards. Under the chairs.

  But I can’t find her. I can’t find her because she’s gone, along with her coat and boots.

  And the most frightening thing about it: she’s left Jenny behind.

  42

  I call Mum again and again and again, but every time I do, it goes straight to answerphone. I’ve no choice but to stick a note on the front door for Rain telling her to call me if she gets back before I do, and head out to search for her. I jam Jenny into a dress, strap her into the carrier and bring her with me. I can’t leave her in the flat alone – not after what I’ve done.

  I close the front door behind me and pull up the hood of my coat. The streets are deserted and all I want to do is go back inside. I want to hide and pretend none of this is happening. But I can’t do that with Rain missing. Not after she was so upset. And especially not when it’s my fault.

  I turn right at the end of the road then left on to the high street. The shops are closed, the shutters down. Homeless people in sleeping bags are curled up in cold doorways. A van rattles along the road, stops outside the newsagent’s, and a man throws a bundle of newspapers by the door. The bakery is dimly lit and a smell of fresh bread wafts its way on to the street.

  I trek up and down the high street three times. But Rain is not here. I don’t know why I thought she might be.

  A woman in white dungarees is fiddling with a key in the lock of a car door. She sees me and stares. ‘You all right, love?’ she asks. She coughs and drinks from a thermos.

  ‘Have you seen a little girl with curly red hair?’ I ask.

  ‘Is someone lost? Do your parents know you’re out in the dark?’

  I swallow. ‘Yes, of course. My sister is missing. Mum and Dad have gone to the police station,’ I lie. And as I say it, I know that’s exactly where I should be: at the police station filing a missing person’s report, not jeopardising Rain’s safety by searching myself. Then I think about Mum and what would happen to her if the police got involved and I know I can’t go anywhere near the station. Not yet. I just have to look harder.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ I tell the woman and take off down the high street towards the pier.

  I hear the ocean before I see it – the heavy sound of the night waves roiling against the sand. I walk along the pier and it creaks under my feet. Gulls circle the navy sky. It’s still too dark to see along the full length of it. Water growls against its bones.

  A few metres ahead is the silhouette of a man in a rain jacket. The figure turns my way. ‘Hello?’ he calls.

  My hands sweat. My heart pounds. I walk towards him.

  As I get closer, I see he has a fishing rod propped up against a bucket and a line dripping into the sea.

  ‘I’m looking for a little girl,’ I tell him.

  ‘Not seen no one,’ he says. His face is in shadow.

  I turn and head back to the promenade.

  ‘What’s her name?’ he calls after me.

  I ignore him and check my phone for the hundredth time to see if Mum or Rain have called. They haven’t, and it’s six thirty already. It means Rain has been missing well over an hour at least. I put my arms around Jenny. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone.

  But I might have one friend I can call on for help.

  Then I’ll have to go and see Nana with the terrible news.

  43

  I ping pebbles at the top storey windows of Del’s house. After a few seconds he pushes one open. ‘Hey there!’ he says casually, like he was expecting me.

  ‘I need your help,’ I whisper.

  Del opens the front door a few minutes later. He’s fully dressed in school uniform and carrying his mermaid bag.

  ‘You’re ready for school? That was quick,’ I say.

  ‘Not really. Sometimes I sleep in my uniform, to save time.’

  I can’t tell whether he’s joking or not, but I’m not in the mood to quiz him. ‘Oh, Del, I kicked Jenny,’ I tell him.

  ‘Where’s Rain?’ he asks.

  ‘I kicked Jenny across the room. Rain’s run away and I keep thinking she must have jumped off the pier or fallen in front of a train or been kidnapped or something.’

  Del chews his lips. ‘Did your mum call the police?’

  ‘No,’ I say. I hold my head in my hands. ‘Mum’s not been home in two days. She went to London to try to get some part in a film and we haven’t heard from her. She’s missing too. And I’m too scared to go to the police. What if they arrest Mum for neglect or something?’

  We sit on his front wall. The sun is turning the sky into a pastel orange paste.

  ‘Look, we’ll find her. And you can’t blame yourself. Rain’s fragile,’ Del says.

  ‘I know she’s fragile. So, why did I kick her doll? I’m a terrible person.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I like you, and I hate terrible people,’ Del says. ‘If you weren’t so upset and Rain wasn’t missing, I’d try to kiss you. Like on the lips.’

  I stare at him. Kiss me? I’ve no make-up on and I’m dressed in a dirty jumper. My face is red from crying and my eyes are probably bloodshot with bags underneath them.

  ‘Don’t seem so surprised,’ he says. ‘You’re quite kiss­able. But enough of that. Let’s work out where Rain is.’

  ‘Oh God, I hope she’s alive. What if she isn’t?’

  ‘Let’s work on the assumption that she is. Right, so who does she know in Brampton-on-Sea?’

  ‘Jenny,’ I say unhelpfully.

  ‘Jenny. Yes. Who else?’

  ‘You?’

  Del nods. ‘Well, I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘I looked everywhere I could think of. She doesn’t know Brampton at all and she doesn’t know anyone except us.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I think for a second. ‘Well, she knows Nana, but if she’d turned up there, Nana would have called. She wouldn’t hide her and not tell anyone. She’s über-responsible.’

  ‘Good point. So, in conclusion, she knows no one and has nowhere to go. What would you do if you were her?’

  ‘Kill myself,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that’s just silly, she didn’t do that. She’s somewhere. We simply have to find her. Who do you know with a car?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘Nana, but I can’t ask her. I can’t tell her yet.’

  We sit in silence. The only other person I know with a car is Egan Winters and I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m the stupidest person alive. He’d never help.

  ‘You know someone,’ Del says, reading me.

  ‘I don’t,’ I say.

  ‘Not to be dramatic or anything, but Rain’s safety sort of depends on us finding her.’

  ‘Well, there’s this boy in the sixth form with a car, but . . .’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Right.’ He looks at his watch. ‘It’s only seven fifteen. Let’s retrace your steps to make sure you didn’t miss anything, pick up a couple of croissants for breakfast, then go to school and wait for him.’ He jumps up. ‘You coming or what?’

  ‘I can’t ask him to drive us around. It’s complicated,’ I say.

  His mouth slips into a smile. ‘What? Were you lovers or something?’ He kisses his own hand, biting and sucking the skin. It’s kind
of disgusting but also quite funny.

  ‘Stop,’ I say, laughing, and because I’m laughing it means I don’t have to explain why it’s complicated with Egan Winters. Anyway, Del’s right. It isn’t complicated. Not at all. It’s just really, really embarrassing.

  He takes my arm and we go the long way to the bakery for breakfast, where Del buys me an almond croissant. Then we head to school to wait for Egan.

  Egan scuffs his hubcaps against the kerb and clambers out of his car. ‘All right, Egan!’ Del says, like they’ve been friends for years.

  ‘Who are you?’ Egan is suspicious. Then he sees me. ‘Apple. Hey. I thought you’d left the school. Everyone thought you’d gone to America with . . .’ He doesn’t finish his sentence because he doesn’t want to mention my mum.

  ‘Remember my sister?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Well, she’s missing,’ I say.

  And I tell him everything about Rain and Jenny, and about Mum leaving us and going to London. ‘Basically, I don’t know anyone with a car except you. Can you help us find her?’

  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He checks his phone. It’s obvious he wants nothing to do with this, but he owes me a favour after humiliating me. ‘I’ve gotta be back for orchestra,’ he says.

  ‘Great. Come on,’ says Del.

  We pile into Egan’s Punto, which smells a bit of cheese and onion crisps. Del jumps into the back. I sit next to Egan in the passenger seat.

  Egan stalls the car a couple of times before pulling away.

  ‘When did you pass your test?’ Del asks. He pokes his head between the seats.

  ‘It’s a sticky gearbox,’ Egan says to explain his bad driving.

  ‘Ah,’ Del says. ‘Anyway, the best way to do this is if Egan drives and we hop out to look. That’ll save us time trying to find parking and whatever.’

  ‘Seat belt,’ Egan barks.

  Del sits back.

  I scan the map on my phone. ‘Let’s try the streets near my house first,’ I say.

  ‘Did she pack a bag? We should think about what was going through her head when she left,’ Del says.