Girl, Missing

by Sophie McKenzie

Mr Tarsen looked at me with this strange mix of frustration and something else I couldn’t read. What was it? Pity? Fear?

  ‘I can see you’re not yet prepared to let this go.’ He checked his watch. ‘But we can’t talk about it any more now. Who else knows the two of you are here?’

  ‘No one,’ I said. ‘Just the bus driver from Burlington.’

  Mr Tarsen tugged at the neck of his jumper.

  ‘OK, this is what we’ll do.’ He fished a leather wallet from his pocket and drew out two notes. ‘Take this. Turn left out of the agency. Couple of blocks down Main Street and you’ll see the Piedmarch Motel.’

  He shoved the money into my hand.

  Jeez. $150.

  I stared at him. ‘You want us to stay here, at a motel?’

  Mr Tarsen nodded impatiently. ‘You get a good night’s rest. Then we’ll call up your parents in the morning and get them to come and take you home. They can pay me back later.’

  I frowned. What was going on? One minute the man was Captain Law Enforcement. The next he was offering me money and acting like some private parental liaison service. It didn’t make sense.

  I stood up. Mr Tarsen ushered me through the door.

  Jam was waiting outside, by the lift. Mr Tarsen’s hand rested on my shoulder, steering me into the lift, then out of the front door.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lauren. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said.

  And suddenly Jam and I were out on the street, alone. It was dark now. Nearly 5.30 pm. And even colder than it had been before.

  I pulled my jacket round me. ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Did you find anything out?’

  ‘Yup.’ Jam chewed furiously on his lip. ‘I know where your adoption file is. Or at least I know where the index is. But there’s no way we’ll be able to get a look at it while everyone’s still there. We’ll have to go back tonight.’

  10

  Breaking and entering

  I sat on the bed in the motel room and dialled room service. I’d never done anything like that before, and I had butterflies in my tummy as I gave the order. Which I guess sounds stupid, considering everything else I’d done – and was planning to do – that day. ‘One Piedmarch Burger with extra cheese and bacon. One Piedmarch Burger Lite. Two Diet Cokes. And one portion of chips – I mean fries, please.’

  Jam emerged, showered and changed, from the bathroom as I put down the phone.

  ‘Did you get some food?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

  I nodded.

  We were in the Piedmarch Motel. We hadn’t really wanted to come here, but it got too cold to be outside – and we didn’t know anywhere else we could go. There were no other places to stay on Main Street. We’d paid up front for the room, raising no more than an eyebrow from the droopy-faced man at the front desk. It was clean but ugly, dominated by the big double bed I was sitting on.

  Maybe we shouldn’t have chosen the cheapest – and smallest – room available. I suddenly felt embarrassed at the thought of sharing the bed with Jam.

  I stared across the room at the tiny wardrobe, which I already knew was empty apart from three wire coat-hangers.

  ‘I don’t want to spend the night here,’ I said.

  Jam shrugged. ‘We don’t have much choice.’

  I made a face, knowing he was right. Our plan was to break into the agency, find my file, then get the bus straight back to Burlington Airport. But the buses didn’t run overnight. The first one left at 6.30 am. Which meant we had to time our return to the agency for a couple of hours before that. The middle of the night.

  My mind wandered to Mr Tarsen. How much did he really know? And why had he been so helpful all of a sudden? I couldn’t work out why he hadn’t just made us call Mum there and then – or the police even. Whatever he was up to, the last thing I wanted was to hang around tomorrow morning, waiting for him.

  There was a sharp rap on the door.

  Jam opened it. A girl with blonde plaits stood in the doorway. She giggled as she handed Jam our room service food tray.

  He paid in cash, then put the tray on the table under the window. The girl didn’t take her eyes off him as she closed the door.

  ‘That girl was totally checking you out,’ I said, glad to change the subject for a minute.

  The back of Jam’s neck reddened. ‘No she wasn’t.’ He looked round at me. ‘Would you mind if she was?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I pretended to swoon, the back of my hand against my forehead. ‘Because I’ve been fancying you secretly for months.’

  Jam’s whole face now went bright red.

  Crap. Crap. Crap. He thinks I mean it.

  ‘Only joking,’ I said hastily.

  ‘Right.’ Jam shrugged. He pointed to the Piedmont Burger Lite. ‘What the hell is that? Some kind of diet food?’

  I glanced at the thin burger wrapped in its skanky sliver of lettuce. It looked a lot less appetising than his extra-cheese-and-bacon burger.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll taste OK,’ I said unconvincingly.

  ‘Why do girls worry so much about being fat?’ Jam snapped. ‘If you eat rubbish food you’re gonna end up looking rubbish too.’

  Whoa. I stared at him. Jam had never, ever, made any comment about how I looked before. My chest tightened.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said, not wanting him to see how hurt I was. ‘Tell me what Tarsen’s secretary said.’

  ‘I did.’ Jam glared at me for a second. ‘I asked her how they kept all their records. You know, geeky stuff like when they started storing things online. She told me there are still paper files for older contracts and some documents. The index is in the Resource Center.’

  There was an awkward silence while Jam ate his burger. I tried to think of something else to say.

  D’you really think I look rubbish?

  ‘So how d’you know where the Resource Center is?’ I said.

  Jam wiped his mouth on his sleeve. To my intense relief he grinned at me. And when he spoke the bitterness had gone from his voice. ‘Sometimes, Lazerbrain, I wonder how you manage to cross the road without getting knocked over. The Resource Center was the room you were in today with Mr Tarsen.’

  After we’d eaten we both dozed off in our clothes. It was only about 8 pm in Marchfield, but I guess we were both still running on London time – where it was past midnight.

  I had the dream again. This time I reached the rocks on the beach. I peered round one, then another. I ached to see her face. But she wasn’t there. My excitement turned to fear. Where was she? Then, at the edge of the furthest rock, I caught a flash of long black hair.

  I woke with a start. Jam was still sleeping beside me. A slick of hair had fallen over his face. It quivered as he breathed out.

  I checked the time: 4.10 am. We’d have to go in a minute. I wandered round the room, unsettled by my dream and the thought of what lay ahead. Jam’s PSP was lying on the table under the window, next to the food tray. I picked it up. Six short grooves had been scratched into the back panel.

  That was weird. I tilted the whole thing towards me, so that the grooves glinted in the light from outside the motel window.

  Why would Jam carve notches into his PSP?

  ‘What time is it?’ Jam sat up, yawning.

  I put the toy back onto the table.

  ‘Time to go,’ I said.

  Main Street was deserted. Everything was shut and dark – except for a lone twenty-four-hour cab firm halfway down the road.

  The pavements were thick with frost, the air bitterly cold. I hugged my fingers under my armpits to warm them as we walked towards the agency.

  Jam led me round to the fire escape at the side of the building. He picked up a large stone from the ground, then started climbing to the first floor. I followed, trying to make as little noise as I could on the iron steps.

  Jam stopped at the first-floor landing. Above the low railings in front of us was a large window. He held up the stone.

  ‘Ready?’

  I nodded. My breath came out r
agged and quick, misting in the cold air.

  Jam smashed the stone against the window. The noise of the glass shattering crashed into the night. He did it again. Then again. Smaller smashes, as he created a hole big enough for us to crawl through.

  My job was to keep a look out. I leaned over the fire escape, peering as far as I could up and down the street at the front of the building. My heart pounded harder with each smash, convinced the noise would wake the whole town. At last it was over. All I could hear was Jam breathing heavily beside me. I listened for the sound of shouts or police sirens.

  Nothing. Not even a burglar alarm. That was weird, wasn’t it? Surely a place storing important records would have a—

  ‘Come on.’

  I turned round. Jam was carefully picking his way through the window.

  I followed him through, making sure I didn’t cut my hands on the few shards of glass left in the lower pane.

  There was no sound from inside the agency.

  My mouth was dry as I felt for the carpet of the first-floor corridor.

  We were inside.

  I rubbed my sweaty hands down the sides of my jeans. The corridor stretched away from us into shadow. Jam was a metre or so in front of me, shrouded in darkness. I followed him past the lift we had used earlier, to the office where I’d talked with Mr Tarsen.

  A row of big files stood on a shelf behind the door. We quickly found the records for the year I was adopted.

  ‘Lauren Matthews Ref: B-13-3207,’ I read out. ‘The “B” is the code for the filing cabinet.’

  Jam walked up and down the row of three-drawer cabinets along the far wall. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the second from the window.

  He tugged at the top drawer. Then the middle one. ‘It’s locked.’ He turned and stared at me. ‘All the drawers are locked.’

  I looked quickly round the room. My eyes fell on the ‘Marchfield makes miracles’ poster on the wall. It had a thin, metal frame.

  ‘We can use this.’ I lifted the poster off its hook. With trembling hands I unclipped the back board and carefully removed the glass. I held the frame steady while Jam ripped the side of it away from the top.

  ‘Lucky it wasn’t welded,’ he whispered. He took the thin sliver of metal over to the filing cabinet and began working it through the top drawer.

  I tiptoed to the door, listening out for any noise. The agency was silent. Creepy. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.

  I turned round and stared at the broken bits of frame on the carpet. ‘We’ve ruined this,’ I said. ‘And their window.’

  Jam snorted softly from the filing cabinet. ‘So what d’you wanna do? Leave some of Mr Tarsen’s money to pay for it?’ He breathed out heavily, forcing his weight against the metal frame. ‘Come and help me with this.’

  It took several minutes to prise open the drawer. We both leaned so hard on the metal lever, driving it back on itself, that I was afraid it would break before it forced the lock. But at last there was a splintering snap. The drawer opened.

  I wondered how long we’d been in the agency. Too long already. Heart racing, I pulled the drawer open and began rooting through the files. After a few seconds my throat tightened. ‘It’s not here,’ I said. ‘This is A to G.’

  Jam stared at me from the door, where he was now listening out for anyone coming. ‘Must be in the next one down.’

  My heart was totally in my mouth by the time we prised open the second drawer.

  I scanned the files inside so quickly I missed my own name twice. Then I saw it. Lauren Matthews.

  Below the name-marker was a slim green folder, fastened on three sides like an envelope. I reached into the folder. My fingers closed on air.

  ‘It’s not here.’ I felt deeper inside the folder, desperate for something, anything to be inside it.

  ‘Lauren,’ Jam whispered from the doorway.

  ‘Wait.’ My hand grasped at a scrap of paper, tucked right in the corner of the folder. I pulled it out.

  ‘Lauren,’ Jam whispered again, more urgently. ‘Someone’s coming. We have to go. Now.’

  11

  Leaving . . .

  I shoved the piece of paper into my pocket. Raced to the door.

  The heavy tread of footsteps echoed in the distance.

  ‘Run,’ I hissed.

  We pelted along the corridor towards the broken window. The footsteps behind us grew louder and faster. I hauled myself out through the jagged frame, tearing my jeans on the glass as I did so.

  I could hear Jam panting behind me as we clattered down the fire escape.

  I looked back up to the window as I jumped the last few steps. A dark figure was standing, framed by the broken glass, watching us.

  It was Mr Tarsen.

  My skin erupted in goosebumps. The way he was just standing there. Why wasn’t he yelling out? Or chasing us?

  We tore back onto Main Street and along to the motel.

  ‘D’you think Tarsen’s called the police?’ Jam gasped as we let ourselves into the room.

  ‘Dunno.’ I shivered, thinking about the way he’d stared at us.

  ‘We gotta get out of here.’ Jam picked up his backpack, then took his PSP off the table and shoved it in his pocket.

  I checked the time on the clock by the bed. ‘It’s too early,’ I said. ‘The first bus doesn’t go for another hour.’

  ‘We can’t wait,’ Jam said. ‘We’ll have to get a taxi. From that twenty-four-hour place we passed.’

  I nodded, mentally going over the money we had left. Just over one hundred dollars. I hoped that would be enough.

  We rushed back up the road to the cab company. Main Street was still eerily silent. My mind kept going over what had happened. None of it made sense

  Why was my adoption file empty? I could think of only one explanation: Mr Tarsen had guessed we would come looking for it and had taken the contents himself. So why wasn’t he here, now? Why wasn’t he chasing us?

  As we hurried into the taxi office, I remembered the scrap of paper from the bottom of the file. While Jam went to order a cab, I sat down in the waiting area and pulled it out of my jeans pocket.

  It was obviously the corner of some official form. Several of the handwritten letters on the right were missing where the paper had been torn.

  Apt. 34

  10904 Lincoln Hei

  Leaving

  Jam finished talking to the taxi man and wandered over. ‘The guy says they’ll have a cab in a couple of minutes. $80 cash.’

  I showed him the paper. ‘It’s an address,’ I said. ‘Maybe Sonia Holtwood’s. Look. I think “Hei” means “Heights”. Lincoln Heights.’

  Jam frowned. ‘But that could be anywhere. And it says “Leaving” underneath. So even if Sonia used to live there, she’s obviously not there now.’

  I nodded, my mind still on the address. Surely there was no harm in asking if the cab operator knew where Lincoln Heights was.

  He was lounging on a stool, his legs propped up on the counter in front of him. As I walked over, he looked up and pushed back his long, greasy fringe. ‘Hey,’ he drawled. ‘I just told your boyfriend. Two minutes.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I was just wondering if you knew where this was?’ I laid the scrap of paper on the counter.

  The man scratched his head. ‘I got no idea about Lincoln Heights, but Leavington’s ten miles or so,’ he said.

  I stared at him, then back at the scrap of paper. ‘Leaving’ wasn’t ‘leaving’. It was the start of . . .

  ‘Leavington?’

  ‘Yep. It’s on the way to Burlington. But I thought you wanted to go straight to the airport?’

  My heart pounded. I ran back to Jam.

  He was looking out of the window. ‘I can’t hear any police up by the motel. But if Tarsen’s been watching us . . .’ He turned and saw my face, all eager. ‘What?’

  I explained about the address. ‘It’s got to be Sonia’s. She might still be there,’ I said, breathlessly. />
  I’d expected Jam to suggest we went to Leavington immediately. But instead he shook his head.

  ‘Get real, Lazerbrain,’ he said. He wasn’t smiling.

  My heart sank. ‘What?’

  ‘This could be anyone’s address . . .’

  ‘But it was in my file,’ I said.

  ‘Plus it’s at least eleven years old.’ Jam rolled his eyes. ‘Look, we tried to find your file. It wasn’t there. What else can we do? Don’t you . . . I mean, doesn’t it seem to you like you’re getting kind of obsessed?’

  I don’t think I would have felt more shocked if he’d slapped me. ‘No.’ I blinked and stepped away from him. ‘I’m not obsessed.’

  ‘Then why do you want to go to an old address on a random scrap of paper? It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ I said, stung. ‘If it was in my file, then it must have something to do with my adoption. And Mr Tarsen virtually admitted Sonia Holtwood was my mother, so . . .’

  ‘Even if the address is to do with your adoption, if you were stolen from your real family it’s not likely to be genuine, is it?’

  I was sure he was wrong. But what he said sounded so logical I couldn’t see how to disagree with it.

  ‘Fine,’ I snapped. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Jam turned on me. ‘Jesus, Lauren,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve just broken into a building for you. How much more help d’you want?’

  I stared at him, my breathing fast and my jaw clenched.

  ‘If that’s how you feel about it, I’ll go there by myself.’

  I marched over to the chairs on the other side of the room and slumped into the seat in the corner. The floor was stained and dirty. I kicked at a scuff mark. How dare Jam say I was obsessed? Let him try and live not knowing about his past. He’d soon realise how hard it was. Like walking through an earthquake. The ground always shifting under your feet as you imagined one possible history after another.

  I bent over, determined Jam shouldn’t see me cry.

  Silence. Then the cab operator called Jam over to his booth. I could hear them speaking in low voices.

  I wiped my eyes. Footsteps. A shadow fell over the scuff mark on the floor. Jam squatted down in front of me.