Saving Silence

by Gina Blaxill

  The same woman as last time opened the door. This time she was wearing a baggy sweater over leggings. She looked pale, but at the sight of me her eyes lit up.

  ‘Thank goodness! Someone who might know.’

  ‘Eh?’ I said, thrown off balance.

  The woman gave me a look that said it should be obvious what she meant. ‘Do you know where Sam is?’

  ‘Isn’t he here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea where he is!’

  ‘What?’ I said, confused.

  ‘Maybe you can help me . . .’ The woman held the door open. I hesitated before entering.

  Inside the house was as pristine as it had been on Tuesday – but silent. I followed the woman into the kitchen. This time the counter was spotlessly shiny. There was a sheet of paper in the centre, very white and conspicuous. The woman pushed it at me. The handwriting was big and clear and reminded me of Benno’s.

  Dear Tamsin, it read.

  I don’t want you to worry or think I’m missing or have run away or anything. I want a break so I’ve gone away for a bit. I’m not living rough and I’ll be perfectly safe and I’ll come back soon. Please don’t stress out and no need to let Dad know. I’m fine and will give you a call later.

  Bye. Sam.

  I looked at the woman, who I guessed was Tamsin. Her face fell when she realized I was as clueless as she was.

  ‘He’s never done anything like this before.’ She sounded like she was about to cry. ‘He says he’s safe, but Sam would say that even if he was being dangled over a crocodile pit. He’s far too polite, and he hates to bother people with his problems.’

  That sounded familiar. Funny, I’d never have put Sam and I down as being on the same page there. I read the note again. One phrase jumped out as odd.

  ‘What is it he needs a break from?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Tamsin flung up her hands. I wondered if she was an actress. She was certainly glam enough to be, and it might explain why she was knocking round the house in the middle of the day when most people were out at work. ‘I don’t understand the way Sam’s mind works. I’m only the stepmother. I don’t understand anything.’

  You and me both, I thought. I wondered what had happened to Sam’s real mum. Perhaps Sam’s dad was one of those men who had affairs with younger, prettier women and then divorced their wives for them. Somehow I’d always pictured Sam as a bit of a mummy’s boy. Wrong again, clearly.

  ‘What’s his dad think?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve not said anything. Phil’s in Copenhagen right now. Business. Very important.’

  ‘I’m sure Sam is OK. He’s definitely weighed up what he’s doing, else he wouldn’t have left a note.’

  ‘Left a note! God, it sounds like we’re talking about a suicide.’ Tamsin laughed, sounding slightly hysterical. ‘I’m not so sure. He’s really been affected by this accident.’

  ‘It’s probably just shock.’ I knew how I’d felt on Sunday – weird and dislocated and slightly outside the world. ‘Has he done anything else out of the ordinary lately? Other than pulling this vanishing trick?’

  Tamsin perched on the counter. ‘Sam’s been a creature of habit ever since he came here. Up at the same time every morning, breakfast at half seven, goes to school, comes back, does his homework, goes jogging with the dog, then mostly stays in his room. But about two weeks ago he changed. His cousin Mia was visiting from Yorkshire. He was out late with her on Saturday night and he seemed fine when they left. But the next morning, after Mia went home, he seemed so jumpy. After that he stopped going running. He even asked if I could start dropping him off at school, and Sam . . . well, Sam’s not hot on spending time with me, or putting people out of their way . . .’

  She went quiet. I felt a little relieved. Tamsin going full steam was almost as overwhelming as sitting in the front row when Ms Paul was booming speeches in assembly. ‘Did you ask what was up?’

  ‘I just hoped he’d tell me in his own time.’

  ‘Do you think Sam’s in trouble?’

  ‘Imogen . . .’ Tamsin said quietly. I was surprised she’d remembered my name. It made me like her suddenly. ‘If you know anything, even if it means betraying Sam’s confidence . . .’

  Tamsin had very intense hazel eyes. Right now I felt they were burning into me. ‘Sam’s never let me in.’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  Tamsin sighed heavily. ‘There’s no one else I can think to ask. I was glad when you came the other day, you know. I thought, good, he does have friends.’

  I winced. Way to make me feel bad! I glanced round the kitchen, picturing Sam, happy to chat about rubbish like baking, but defensive when it came to what was really important.

  ‘He’s running scared,’ I said, everything becoming clear. Sam in Mmm Hot Chick, looking wild. Saying he hadn’t wanted to do this, but that he had to tell me something. The car speeding towards us. Sam, too scared to go into school. Switching stories, trying to throw me off. Now he was hiding – but from what?

  ‘Do you think this is serious?’ Tamsin asked, looking frightened and suddenly little girl-like.

  ‘You’ve tried calling, right?’

  ‘Obviously! As far as I know he took his mobile, but it just went to voicemail.’

  There could be lots of reasons for that. Some less pleasant than others. Christ, Sam, I thought. If you were lying about what you really came to tell me on Saturday, does that mean I’m in danger now? You said you knew something about me. Is it connected to what’s happening to you? How do I even begin to find out?

  I took Sam’s dog for a walk. Maybe it was a weird thing to do, but Jessie had strolled up while I was with Tamsin and I realized that with Sam away she’d probably not gone out all day.

  I glanced at Jessie as we walked through the gates to the park. She gave me a weary look that almost made her seem human. She wasn’t spritely on her feet. From the grey muzzle, I guessed she’d been with Sam growing up. He probably spent more time with her than with actual people.

  The air was chilly and it was starting to drizzle. No one seemed to be about. Still, I wasn’t going to palm Jessie off with a short walk. Deciding to warm up, I began to jog, Jessie trotting beside me on the lead. As we crossed on to the central path, I saw that I wasn’t alone after all. Two people were slouched on a bench about two hundred metres ahead. They were too far away for me to really make out, but I was almost sure that they were looking my way.

  Whatever, I thought, carrying on. But when I got closer and saw that they definitely were looking at me, I became concerned.

  Then they stood up. One wore a cap and a heavy khaki coat, the other a black hoody. Scarves were drawn up high over their faces. They were totally anonymous. There was a path branching off to my right, just before I reached their bench. I decided to take it. When I looked back, I saw that they weren’t standing still any longer.

  They were running. After me.

  Panic kicked in. I broke into a sprint. I felt Jessie’s lead tug. She was doing her best with the sudden change of pace, but I knew it wasn’t enough. She was too old to sprint for longer than a few minutes. The guys weren’t as fast as I could be, but thanks to Jessie they were gaining on me.

  One of them yelled out. The words were lost on the wind. Did they have knives? Did they want to hurt me? I couldn’t see. The gates looked impossibly far away. But beyond was a busy road. There I’d be safe. Jessie’s lead cut into my hand.

  ‘Phone!’

  They were closer. Close enough for me to hear what they were shouting. ‘Phone, phone, phone . . .’ – again and again. Seeing them almost on my heels, I did it. I dropped Jessie’s lead. I heard her yelp but I didn’t look back. I bolted towards the exit. It felt as if I’d never run so fast. Every second, every moment, I was sure I’d feel a hand grab my arm. But there was nothing. When I did turn round, they’d given up. If they were still shouting, I couldn’t hear.

  I’d lost them.

  I’d also lost Jessie.

  *

  It
was only once I’d reached the nearby shopping street that I was able to think again, surrounded by familiar sights and smells and people. I crashed down on a bench at the bus station, drawing long, ragged breaths.

  If I hadn’t let Jessie go, I’d have been toast. What had they wanted? Just to nick my phone?

  The timing was almost funny. In fact I did start to laugh. I stopped when some schoolkids looked at me like I was a nutter. I half wanted to explain that I was perfectly sane, only I bloody well had enough on my plate this week without getting mugged. Talk about coincidences! Someone up there was having a right joke with me.

  A nutter, I thought. Yeah, that’s what I am now. Whatever happened to normal?

  The answer was, normal hadn’t gone anywhere. It was all around. Buses were drawing in, people were pushing forward to get seats and teenagers were hanging about eating chips. I just wasn’t part of normal any more.

  All my life I’d felt safe where I lived. People talked about the dark side of north-east London, but I’d never experienced it. But now things were different. I was different. Because I knew I had reason to feel afraid.

  I’d never felt so alone.

  SAM

  THURSDAY 14 NOVEMBER

  On the tube everyone seemed to be looking at me. They weren’t of course – it was hardly as though the sight of a teenager with a rucksack and a stitched-up chin was jaw-droppingly spectacular. My imagination was just running riot. It felt as if I had a neon sign saying ‘Running away from home’ flashing above my head. Not that I was running away, not really. I’d tried to do it as well as I could, leaving Tamsin the note, and I would call her later, and it wasn’t as though I was planning on staying away forever. I didn’t have much with me. Nothing had seemed that important when push came to shove, only some clothes, cash from my savings account and my not-very-smart phone. I definitely wasn’t leaving that.

  I’d thought so much about what to do that now I was doing it I really didn’t know if it was right any more. But then, when things got to this stage, did right and wrong even matter any more?

  It’s your fault, Mum, I thought. ‘Be a real man – protect the people you care about, no matter what.’ It’s all very well you telling me this; it sounds great on paper. You never mentioned how difficult it is in practice.

  I hadn’t wanted to come down to London when Mum died. I’d have been happy staying in Yorkshire, but my grandparents would’ve struggled and my aunt and uncle didn’t have the money to provide for me. I hated the idea of being a burden on people, even family. When Dad stepped in and actually seemed to want me, it seemed like the easiest solution.

  On the surface, Dad is all teeth and tan and flash suits and business calls and he drives a Mercedes. He’s easy to stereotype. People were often surprised when I told them that he’d been OK with me, visiting every so often and sending regular cheques. He and Mum even got on reasonably well. Their relationship had been pretty short and they’d never been married, so I guess there wasn’t so much to feel bitter about. He wasn’t affectionate, but that was fine – Mum more than made up for it. She could be clingy though. When I was younger, this had annoyed me, but when everything changed I forgave her for it.

  Dad didn’t really engage with Mum being ill. I’m sure he felt guilty. Maybe taking me in was his way of dealing with that. Even now I wasn’t really sure where I stood with Dad or what he thought of me. I’d learned that he could be quite old-fashioned and that he was surprisingly sentimental, especially about Walthamstow, which was where he grew up. I liked both these qualities, but it didn’t make building a relationship any easier. At the start he tried to do ‘father–son activities’ like going fishing on the nature reserve, but they weren’t my kind of thing – or his, I suspected. The only thing we really had in common was we both liked stories – Dad worked in TV, developing scripts and concepts. And when the weight I’d piled on looking after Mum towards the end fell off, he’d been hot on buying me new gear – smart, older-looking stuff. I felt weird wearing it, but then I’d’ve felt weird wearing anything new, so I let him have his way. Eventually we slipped into a relationship where we talked but didn’t really talk, and as Dad was so busy with work, I guessed that was the best I could expect.

  At first I’d thought I was taking moving in with Dad pretty well. I couldn’t help being off with Tamsin – no one wants a step mum who’s younger, prettier and healthier than the mum you’ve just lost – but I managed to find things to like about the house. My room was fine, the kitchen was great and the area wasn’t too bad, with the old houses and nature reserve where I could take Jessie, who Dad had been cool with taking in. It was on the first day of school that I realized how out of my depth I was.

  For starters, there was a big hefty security guy at the door who checked kids and their bags for weapons. Coming from a sleepy town in Yorkshire, I’d always assumed that this kind of thing only happened in films. It turned out I was wrong. Then there was my tutor group, which I couldn’t help but notice was incredibly multiracial. Where I’d lived before almost everyone had been white. Not that race bothers me, but it was a bit overwhelming and I was terrified of accidentally saying something that could be taken the wrong way. Later I realized that despite all their different backgrounds, the kids weren’t so different after all. Even the kids for whom English was a second language seemed to speak in the same aggressive-sounding London way, and they all dressed the same outside school and hung out together.

  What I was aware of was how I came across to them. The first time I’d spoken, someone went, ‘Ohmydays!’ and the others laughed. A girl had asked, ‘Which country you from then?’ and I hadn’t known how to answer. My accent wasn’t that Northern, and yet these kids acted like I was impossible to understand.

  When a tall blonde girl who spoke in a way that said she was something marched up at break and announced that she was going to show me round, I was stressed out enough to be sure this was a joke. It didn’t make it easier that the girl was pretty, though not the in-your-face way lots of the others were, with their long nails and bling jewellery.

  I let her take me on the tour because she wouldn’t take no for an answer, but the more I saw, the more out of place I felt. Everyone seemed tough and loud and upfront and grown-up, talking about people and things I’d never heard of in slang that made no sense to me. They made me feel immature and somehow empty. How could I connect with anyone when most of them laughed at my accent every time I opened my mouth? The stuff I enjoyed – reading books, watching classic old films and making good food – didn’t seem to matter here. Forget up north; I might as well have been an alien.

  By the time Imogen Maxwell – the bossy blonde girl – rounded up a group and took me to lunch in the canteen, I’d had enough.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a phone call to make.’ It was the first excuse I could think of.

  ‘No mobiles allowed.’ Imogen’s wry tone told me this wasn’t a popular rule. ‘Keep it on silent and in your bag, OK?’

  Frustrated, I tried, ‘I’m really not hungry.’

  ‘Hey, the canteen food’s not that bad! There’s no rule that says you’ve got to eat. Just sit and chill instead.’

  What did she think I was going to find to talk about with her and her mates for a whole hour? It was already clear we were worlds apart. Imogen’s assumption that I wanted to hang out, like I should be grateful for her time, really got my back up. It was my choice who I did or didn’t make friends with, and it was my choice if I wanted to be alone. Who was she to decide I needed looking after, when I’d done a perfectly good job looking after myself and Mum for so long?

  ‘I said no, thanks,’ I snapped. Imogen called something I didn’t catch as I walked away, but I didn’t bother turning back. I spent lunchtime in an empty classroom playing games on my phone, trying to convince myself I was better off on my own. During my afternoon lessons I pointedly avoided making eye contact with anyone. I was hoping that English literature last thing would at least
give me the opportunity to lose myself in a book for an hour or so, but the teacher had to fight with the rowdy class to get them to pay any attention at all to William Blake’s poems. Shame really – if they’d just shut up long enough to actually read one, they might realize how brilliant they were.

  The next day I felt even less like being around people. At break I was wandering the corridors looking for somewhere quiet where I could read when Imogen and Nadina found me.

  ‘Need a hand finding anything?’ Imogen asked, rather pointedly.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I said.

  She tilted her head to one side, folding her arms. ‘So, what kind of things are you into?’

  After English yesterday, I thought it better not to mention books. I’d only have the piss taken out of me. And saying that I liked classic old films and was good at cooking were both a definite no-no. I shrugged and said something about having a dog. Nadina snorted.

  ‘Ain’t no dog-walking club here. She’s asking cos she wants to see what you might want to join.’

  ‘What makes you think I want to join one of your clubs?’ I said, more rudely than I’d meant to. Did this girl even realize how bossy she was? After a silence that went on a bit too long, Imogen said coolly, ‘We’ll leave you to it then,’ and left. A week down the line, no one was bothering with me at all. They’d written me off and I was glad. Being a nobody, a loner, was something I was comfortable with.

  A nobody to everybody but Imogen, that was. I caught her frowning at me in lessons, like I was some kind of equation that she couldn’t quite solve.

  Well, I don’t get you either, and I don’t know why you’re so interested, I thought. For one of the in-crowd, Imogen was pretty odd. She genuinely seemed to care about school stuff, like charity sales and shows and sports day, things cool kids always take the mick out of. But Imogen simply steamrolled over the mick-taking and acted as if they were the weirdos. She was very businesslike about it all. Was she really a good person or just going through the motions? I couldn’t tell. Everyone had a story that made them who they were. What was hers?