Missing Abby

by Lee Weatherly

  Also by Lee Weatherly

  Child X

  Breakfast at Sadie's

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks and gratitude to the following people:

  DCI Martin Fotheringham of the Hampshire Constabulary, who generously took the time to answer my questions regarding police procedure. Any mistakes along these lines are solely the fault of the author!

  My lovely friend Liz Kessler, for her razor-sharp editorial eye and our inspiring friendship.

  Katherine Sunderland and the East Barnet School's Reading and Writing Group, for taking part in reading early drafts of the story – with special thanks to Daniel Bartholomew, Christopher Costigan and Ben Greenbury.

  And Ian, Becky, Frances and James, for the use of their cat.

  For my husband, Peter – words cannot express

  Day One

  Missing Person's Report,

  Hampshire Constabulary

  Date: Sunday 5th September 2004

  Full name and address of Missing Person:

  Abigail (‘Abby’) Marie Ryzner, 17 Rosemont Street, Garemont,Brookfield, Hants

  Age: 13 years, 2 months

  Full circumstances of events and details leading up to the report:

  Abby was last seen around 10.00 on Saturday, 4th September,when she left the family home on Rosemont Street. She told hermother she was going shopping with friends and then to see amovie in Brookfield. However, her friends claim that she was not due to meet them until that evening (see overleaf forinterview details). Abby was expected at her friend SheilaLangley's house around 18.00 that evening, but never arrived.Sheila then rang the Ryzner residence at around 19.30,alerting Abby's family. After trying her mobile repeatedly, Abby's family searched the neighbourhood and Brookfield,and finally reported Abby as a MP at 00.16 this morning.

  Mental state of the Missing Person, and details of anything that may make them particularly vulnerable:

  Mental state normal, so far as her family and friends areaware. MP is considered vulnerable because of her age.

  Details of any vehicle used:

  MP would have taken the 56 HantsLink Bus service into Brookfield. No other vehicles known at this time.

  Full description, including what the Missing Person was last seen wearing:

  About 5'5” slight build (approx 81/2 stone), long brown hair dyedblack. Was wearing black combat trousers, black T-shirt andsilver jewellery, and was carrying a rucksack (contentsunknown).

  Based on interviews, possible reasons/specula-tion why this person may have disappeared:

  None known.

  Police Constable taking report: Elizabeth Lavine

  Day Two

  THE FORCE IS STRONG IN THIS ONE

  I was already lying awake, but I still started like I had been cattle-prodded when Darth bellowed at me. He does that to me every morning, even if he is only nine inches tall and plastic. GET UP AND FIGHT LIKE A JEDI, he breathed, waving a glowing light sabre.

  ‘You are so predictable. It's just sad.’ I pushed the button beside Darth's foot.

  A knock rapped on my door. ‘Emma!’ called Jenny. The door opened, and my stepmother peered around it. She almost looks like a kid herself, with her freckles and tumble of brown hair. ‘Hey, well done you! Thought you might have overslept.’

  ‘On the first day of Year Nine? You're mad!’

  I hummed as I pulled on my green uniform. Normally I completely loathe uniforms, but I have to admit that I sort of like the ones we have at St Seb's – crisp and dark green, like a school full of forest sprites. I shook my head. Note to self: do not share that thought with Jo and Debbie; they'll think you're demented.

  I looked in the mirror as I brushed my hair, admiring how the light caught its new tints. My hair used to be sboring brown, like my eyes, but I'd had gold and auburn streaks added to it the week before (ignoring Dad's predictable moaning). And the difference was amazing. I actually looked halfway interesting for a change.

  A quick touch of mascara – which, contrary to what our form head would have you believe, you can get away with – and I was done. I smiled at myself in the mirror. This year was going to be the best ever, I just knew it. Last year I had been the new girl, but now I had Jo and Debbie for friends. People actually liked me, knew who I was. I still couldn't get used to it.

  My smile faded as I saw myself being slammed against a wall, books flying. A chorus of shrieking laughter: ‘Hey freak, you've dropped something – clumsy cow!’

  Ancient history; nothing to do with me any more. Taking a deep breath, I twisted the top back onto the mascara. Popping it into my handbag, I snapped it shut with a sharp click.

  I had put Balden Comp completely behind me. And that's where it was going to stay.

  By the time I slid into my place at the kitchen table, my six-year-old half-sister Nat was already there, grimly mashing a banana into a bowl of cereal. The ribbon on one of her thick plaits was coming undone already. Nat's hair is like this thing in science called chaos theory.

  ‘Can I tempt you, Emma?’ Jenny was grilling bacon. I don't know how she stays so thin when she has a bacon sandwich every morning for breakfast.

  ‘Just tea for me, thanks. Here, I'll get it.’ I jumped up from the table. Watching Nat assault the banana was making me feel seriously ill.

  ‘Oh, have some toast, too – live it up.’ Jenny glanced over her shoulder. ‘Natalie, just eat your breakfast, don't play with it.’

  Nat heaved a sigh like this was just too much to ask, and let her spoon drop with a clatter. ‘Emma, can we play a game?’

  ‘Not now ! I've got to go to school.’

  ‘So do you, Natalie,’ pointed out Jenny. She poked at the bacon with a fork, flipping it over.

  ‘No, I want to play with Emma! Please, Emma? Please please please?’ She clasped her hands under her chin, like a music-hall heroine begging for mercy.

  ‘Maybe later.’ I poured boiling water from the kettle over a tea bag. Yeah, maybe. If Jo and Debbie were nowhere to be seen. I'd die if they knew about the babyish games I played with Nat. Definitely weird, to enjoy hanging out with a six-year-old.

  ‘Fine, I'll go watch TV, then!’ Nat flounced away from the table and ran into the lounge. Jenny started to stop her, and then shrugged as the sound of the TV drifted in.

  ‘Never mind, we can have our breakfast in peace, can't we? Or until the next catastrophe, at least.’

  We sat down at the table. I had to shove a pile of books and papers out of my way, because Jenny uses the kitchen table as a desk during the day. She wants to be a child psychologist, so she started taking classes at the local tech college last year, to get the qualifications she's missing. Which gave Dad a bit of a shock, but Jenny's completely determined. I think it's great – I wouldn't want to sit at home all day polishing the furniture, either.

  I spread marmalade on my toast, licking a bit off my fingers as I glanced at her textbooks. A-level psychology and GCSE maths.

  Jenny grimaced. ‘I put the maths off for as long as I could, but I have to do it now … I'm worried about it already; I have to get at least a C grade.’

  I bit into my toast. ‘You'll get it.’

  ‘I'll have to ask Tom for help.’ She made a face, scraping her curly hair back. ‘Never mind – thick as a brick, me, but I'll get there eventually. Even if it takes me ten years to get to uni.’

  ‘Jen -ny, you're not thick!’

  ‘At maths, my dear, I am definitely thick.’

  Silence draped over us as Jenny started reading the Daily Post. I sat eating my toast, lost in a marvellous daydream of what this year would be like. Jo and Debbie and I, striding down the corridors with our arms linked, laughing … Smiling to myself, I reached for another of the golden triangles in the toast ra
ck.

  That's when I saw the headline on the folded-back bit of Jenny's newspaper.

  ‘Oh, my god!’ I gasped.

  ‘What?’ Jenny lowered her newspaper to look at me.

  ‘No! Give me your paper!’ I jumped out of my chair and grabbed at it, flipping it over. The headline said, HAMPSHIRE TEENAGER REPORTED MISSING. And there was a photo of Abby.

  Jenny's hand flew to her mouth. ‘It's that girl you used to know, isn't it?’

  I didn't bother answering her. I was too busy gulping down the story in short, terrible bursts.

  Abigail Ryzner, 13, was reported missing by her parents late Saturday evening … She had said she was going shopping in Brookfield and later to a friend's house, but CCTV footage of the town centre has so far failed to corroborate this … she never arrived at the friend's house, and has apparently not been seen by anyone since around ten o'clock on Saturday … witnesses who saw Abby that day are urged to come forward …

  ‘Oh, Emma! Oh, I hope she's all right.’ Jenny had been reading over my shoulder, and now she sank back into her seat, her face pale. ‘She lives over by your old house, doesn't she? I remember seeing you with her a few times, when Tom and I used to pick you up for weekend visits. Oh, her poor parents …’

  The realization hit me like a lorry-load of concrete. ‘But Jenny, I saw her!’

  My stepmother's gaze sharpened. ‘What do you mean? In town?’

  ‘No – no, I saw her, on the bus, on Saturday! We were coming home from town at the same time – we sat together, we talked—’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Around – I don't know, about one o'clock or so. Because you and I were going swimming at two, remember?’

  My gaze fell to the paper again. Not been seen by anyone since ten o'clock on Saturday … Oh my god, was I the last person to have seen her, then? I couldn't have been!

  A sick lump rose in my throat, and I started to babble helplessly: ‘But – but we sat and talked – I mean, what could have happened to her? She must be OK, don't you think? I mean, she was fine, there wasn't anything wrong—’

  ‘I don't know, love.’ Jenny squeezed my shoulder as she rose and crossed quickly to the kitchen phone, her slippered feet padding on the floor. She picked up the receiver and started to dial.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, staring at her.

  ‘Calling the police, of course.’

  When I had spotted Abby at the town centre bus stop that afternoon, my first thought had been, Oh, no! Hide!

  She was looking even stranger than usual, dressed in black combat trousers and a black T-shirt with a screaming green skull on it. Dozens of slithery silver chains hung around her neck, like metallic snake-skin. She stood leaning against the bus shelter, reading a paperback with a dragon on the cover. Even from where I was standing, I could see that her nails were long and pointy, painted black.

  God, not her!

  I started to duck back behind the corner of the bus station, but a sudden flare of anger stopped me. Why should I be stopped from going home just because of Abby? The next bus wasn't for half an hour; I'd be late if I didn't catch this one!

  What was she going to do, bite me?

  Mind you, she looked a bit vampireish these days.

  Abby solved the problem by glancing up and seeing me. At first she looked stunned, and then she smiled uncertainly. ‘Emma … ! How are you doing?’

  Trapped. Slowly, I crossed the few steps to the bus stop, trying to smile. ‘I'm OK. How about you?’

  ‘All right.’ She turned down the corner of the page she had been reading, and stuffed the book into the battered grey rucksack that sat by her feet. She looked up at me as she zipped it, tucking a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. ‘I haven't seen you for ages.’

  Her eyes lingered on the bright embroidery that swirled up the legs of my jeans. My face felt hot as I remembered how she used to laugh at what she called the fashion clones.

  That was a lifetime ago! But I couldn't quite meet her gaze as I flipped my hair back, scaldingly conscious of its glimmering new tints. ‘Um, yeah, it's been a while. How are things at Balden?’

  She shrugged, standing up. I could hardly even see her eyes, with the amount of black eyeliner she had on. ‘Same ol', same ol' … the teachers are all idiots, as usual. How's life at the wonderfully-rated St Seb's?’

  ‘Oh – great.’ My flush deepened.

  The bus came just then, lumbering into the station like a prehistoric beast. We shuffled along in the queue together, surrounded by Saturday shoppers clutching plastic bags.

  ‘How's your mum doing?’ The bright sunlight showed the green flecks in Abby's eyes. ‘Does she like it in America?’

  Thank god, a neutral topic! ‘Yeah, she loves it. I spent three weeks in Chicago with her last month.’

  Mum remarried a couple of years ago, to this bloke called Paul. He's OK, I guess. Except that right after they got married, he got this offer to go work in Chicago for three years. Mum kept talking about what a fantastic opportunity it was for me, so she was a bit narked when I told her I didn't want to go. Then there was this big conference with her, Dad and Jenny, and the upshot of it was that Mum would have the fantastic opportunity on her own, and that I'd live with Dad and Jenny for three years.

  Weird as it was to think about now, I had actually been sort of gutted to move into Dad's house when Mum left – because it had meant not living across the street from Abby any more.

  We showed our passes to the driver. Abby took a seat about halfway back, shoving her rucksack down by her feet. And I couldn't keep walking down the aisle and sit somewhere else; it would be too rude, too obvious. I sank down beside her, willing the journey to go faster than usual.

  The bus lurched away from the stop. It felt like a sauna on wheels. How could Abby bear to wear black in this heat? Well, I suppose the Goth Fashion League would kick her out if she wore anything else.

  Guilt pierced me. This was Abby, even if we weren't friends any more. I took a breath and smiled at her. ‘Um, how are Greg and Matthew?’

  She grimaced, wrinkling the spray of freckles across her nose. ‘Little terrors … they get worse all the time.’ She glanced at me, and something like her old mischievous expression played about her mouth. ‘Remember all the wars we used to have?’

  A flash of memory hit me, and I snorted softly, smiling. ‘Yeah … like the time Matthew got hold of Sparkles. I was ready to kill him.’

  ‘Oh, yeah! I had forgotten all about Sparkles. And I had Zeus, didn't I?’ Abby deepened her voice: ‘Fly away to the crimson forest! Away!’

  I almost laughed as it all came back. Playing My Pretty Ponies with Abby had been like playing it with no one else in the world. I bet no one else's green pony turned evil and would have destroyed all ponykind, if we hadn't captured it and put it through elaborate healing rituals. We played that game, in instalments, for the better part of the whole year that we were nine.

  Freak. The word slithered into my mind, breaking the spell.

  There was an awkward silence. I shifted on my seat, praying for the bus to go faster.

  Suddenly Abby leaned over to root about in her rucksack. ‘Here, look at this,’ she said, prying open a long, white box.

  There was a chunky gold necklace inside, made up of golden-striped stones. Completely gaudy, but beautiful in a way, like a garish sunset. Just the sort of thing we would have loved to pretend was magic when we were about ten.

  ‘Isn't it great?’ Abby turned the box from side to side.

  ‘Yeah, fantastic.’ I looked away, wondering whether she was allergic to normality, or what.

  ‘They're called tigers’ eyes – they're supposed to symbolize courage.’ Abby tried to get the box into her backpack again. As she shoved aside a two-litre bottle of Pepsi, I saw a sleek blue and gold book with Monster Manual on the cover.

  Abby grinned. ‘Don't worr y, I haven't started keeping gargoyles in the back garden. It's for Dungeons and Dragons
. I play with some friends of mine.’

  She pulled the book out and leafed through it. Drawings of bizarre creatures, with descriptions about each one. Troglodyte. Yellow Musk Creeper and Zombie.

  I stared at the book as the creatures flipped past. The artwork on its glossy pages was incredible.

  Abby's brown eyes glinted at me. ‘You've heard of Dungeons and Dragons, right? D&D?’

  ‘Ah – no, actually.’ I looked away from the book, picking at a bit of embroidery on my jeans. But her voice just kept enthusing on, not noticing that I wasn't exactly enthralled.

  ‘Oh Emma, you'd love it! See, you invent a character that you play, and then a Games Master takes you through a pretend world – it's fantastic! I'm just about to start GM-ing myself, actually; I've written the story and everything.’

  My shoulders tensed. She hadn't changed at all, then, with her weirdness and imaginary games! God, I was so glad I'd left Balden.

  Abby turned a page. ‘Usually you play it sitting around a table, but that's kind of boring, compared to the great stuff you and I used to do.’

  ‘Mmm, yeah.’ I stared out the front window. Almost there, almost there.

  ‘So I'm about to get my group into live action gaming instead … not that they realize it yet.’ She glanced at me almost shyly, playing with one of her silver chains. ‘Um … you know, you could play with us, if you wanted to. I bet you'd love it.’

  I couldn't believe she was suggesting this. I'd have to be frothing-at-the-mouth mad to get involved with her again, after everything that happened at Balden!

  ‘Great,’ I said tightly.

  ‘We're playing tonight, if—’

  Oh, god, no! ‘No, um – Dad wants me home for this sort of … dinner thing.’

  ‘Well … what about coming along with me this afternoon, then? That should be almost as much fun. Remember the Esmerelda game? It's sort of like that, but even better.’

  I felt hot and cold at the same time. ‘Sorry, but Jenny and I are going swimming.’

  There was a long, stiffening pause. Finally Abby clapped the book shut, shoving it back into the rucksack. ‘Oh, right. Well, that sounds interesting. Never mind, then.’