Follow Me Back

by Nicci Cloke

  ‘Yo, Kendrick!’ Undeterred, Honeycutt hops down off the bar and lopes over. ‘Thought they’d locked you up.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me, Deacon,’ I say warily.

  ‘Sure.’ He grins at me. ‘Sure.’

  People are watching. People watch everything Deacon Honeycutt does, and of course, now I’m Murderer Most Wanted, this is viewing gold. Deacon turns, lets the audience in on the show a little. Diamond studs sparkle in his ears. Everything he wears is designer and his light brown skin looks like it’s been airbrushed. He looks, basically, like a Premiership footballer, and he thinks he’s one too. So did everyone else: he was the school’s sports star, the golden boy, the one who’d make it big. Until I came along.

  So now he pretty much hates me.

  ‘Always did think you looked a bit rapey,’ he says, in a stage voice loud enough to carry across the whole room. He should really do drama.

  ‘Leave it out, Deacon,’ Scobie says, and it’s pretty convincing except for the fact his pale skin goes instantly pink, right up to the roots of his so-blond-it’s-white hair.

  ‘Pipe down, Scabby,’ Deacon says, and everyone laughs.

  I look around at all the staring faces. Might as well get it over with. ‘Look,’ I say, loud enough for everyone to hear, and not even looking at Deacon. ‘I did speak to the police about Lizzie. I told them everything I knew, which is not much, probably about the same as most of you, and they thanked me and let me go. Okay?’

  Everyone looks away, embarrassed. ‘Yeah, whatever,’ Deacon says, but he’s bored too, and he wanders off, back to the group of girls waiting eagerly to giggle at his every joke.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ Scobie says, when it’s just the two of us again. ‘That’s it? Just a couple of questions?’

  I shrug. ‘There wasn’t much I could tell them.’

  Scobie looks away and I realise I haven’t even asked him how he’s feeling. He was at primary school with Lizzie, infants too, I think, although I guess that’s not unusual here; there are only a couple of schools in Abbots Grey. He and Lizzie aren’t exactly close, and the three of us never hung out together, but still, it must be weird. But he speaks before I can.

  ‘I didn’t even know you and Lizzie were still mates.’

  ‘We’re not. I haven’t spoken to her properly in months.’ This is almost, almost true.

  ‘They tell you anything about this guy she’s meant to have been talking to?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Apparently he was some guy in London,’ Scobie says, looking thoughtfully at a smudge on his glasses. ‘Paedo, you reckon?’

  ‘Hardly,’ I say. ‘Lizzie’s sixteen.’

  You wouldn’t know it to look at her, though. And the idea of some forty-year-old weirdo messaging her makes my stomach turn.

  ‘Gives me the creeps,’ Scobie says, and I nod.

  THE FIRST TIME we actually spoke – the first time I remember anyway, because Lizzie always disagreed – was the day after the Ophelia day. It was breaktime and I was heading for the lockers to meet Scobie, so far the only person at Aggers who’d spoken to me about anything other than the subject of a lesson. He’s a bit of a loner, I guess, although everyone likes him – he’s smart and funny and friendly, but quiet. Keeps his head down. As far as I was concerned, that was perfect.

  The lockers are in a place called the ‘Locker Room’, which might make you think of American high schools and jocks; a big glamorous place with steaming showers and lockers big enough to live in. This is misleading. The Locker Room is a kind of raised area in front of the main block of toilets. It smells like bleach and there’s the constant sound of hand-dryers. They’re not proper lockers like you’d see in those American films, not even like the skinny bashed up ones we had at my school in Hackney. These are just small and square and a weird greenish-grey colour. Big enough to put a couple of books or your lunch in, but that’s about it.

  I was meeting Scobie there but I was early; our tech teacher, Miss Foster, always let us out early. The hallway was pretty deserted as I climbed up the steps to the lockers, which run in two rows. Mine was in the second line, closer to the door to the boys’ toilets, and as I went to open it, I glanced down the long row and saw Lizzie by an open locker, a dark-haired girl talking animatedly beside her. Marnie Daniels.

  ‘…total, utter prick!’

  I fumbled with my padlock. I’d never spoken to Marnie Daniels before, and the force and fury in her voice was pretty unexpected. Also, it was Lizzie, who had somehow retained some of her Ophelia gold, even in the ugly greenish striplighting of the Locker Room.

  ‘You’re maybe overreacting just a tiny bit.’ Lizzie was rummaging around in her locker, a jumper and an overstuffed notebook tucked under her arm.

  ‘I’m not!’ Marnie said. ‘I asked a simple physics question –’

  ‘Not that simple,’ Lizzie said, laughing. ‘I didn’t understand it.’

  ‘– a simple question,’ Marnie continued, ‘and that sexist pig tells me to just sit there and look pretty.’

  ‘And instead of letting it go, you rose to the bait and now you’ve got detention!’

  ‘He deserved it,’ Marnie said, unrepentantly, and at that moment they both looked up and realised I was there.

  ‘Lyons?’ I asked.

  Marnie nodded. ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘He’s my biology teacher. He told a girl in my class not to talk over the boys once,’ I said.

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Marnie said, but she wasn’t raising her voice any more. ‘You wait til my father hears about this.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Alright, Draco Malfoy!’

  She said it at the same time as I said, ‘Malfoy!’ and we looked at each other and laughed.

  I think it was then that I knew we’d be friends.

  AT HOME THAT night, I’ve only just turned my laptop on when the first message pops up.

  Scobie.

  Didn’t see you after school, you okay?

  yeah, fine, I type.

  just made a quick exit from all the staring

  lol

  They’ll forget about it by tomorrow

  I hope so

  How much of the Pure coursework you got left to do?

  err… all of it

  lol

  No doubt Scobie’s already finished his. He’s been a good friend to me, but making me look bad just comes naturally to the guy. Before I can reply, another bubble pops up.

  Hey

  Marnie Daniels. That’s… unexpected.

  hey

  I wanted to talk to you at school today but I felt weird about it

  Marnie

  I really hope you don’t think I had anything to do with Lizzie going missing

  the police just wanted to talk to me cos we messaged a bit, that’s all

  Honestly.

  There’s a long pause before I see the little ‘…’ that means she’s typing. I hold my breath.

  I know

  I let the breath go.

  she always said you were a nice guy

  I don’t know what to say to that. It makes me feel really sad. It makes me realise that this is Lizzie we’re talking about. That Lizzie has gone missing. That Lizzie used to think I was a nice guy.

  She …s again, and then stops, like she’s deleting what she’s written. There’s a long pause and then:

  …

  I need your help

  I look at the words for a minute. Four little words, but looking at them makes me feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff. About to step off.

  what you mean?

  …

  I can’t say here. meet me tomorrow after 2nd period?

  ok. Where?

  Rec. Balcony.

  I agree and log off. But my head is spinning. What could Marnie need my help with? I want to log on again and look at Lizzie’s profile, see her face, but I can’t. I’m too afraid.

  Lizzie is a girl who thinks of everyone before
herself. She’s a girl who loves her family, who tries hard at school, who would never just get up one day and walk away.

  Except she has. And nobody knows where, or why. Some guy she met on the internet. I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that.

  I try not to think about it. I cross Facebook away. I check my emails. A load of spam, a few notifications. One from Doug, my coach at Norwich. It’s the new training schedule, which he’s sent to us all, but he’s added a message to mine.

  Let’s meet again end of month and discuss options.

  It’s not like there are many options. There’s his: drop out of school and train full-time as part of the youth team. And there’s mine: finish my A Levels and have a back-up, in case football doesn’t work out. I know which one makes sense for me, but that hasn’t stopped Doug from pushing his plan.

  It’s not that I don’t love football. I do. I live, breathe and dream it. Like, seriously. Every night. Matches that go on and on until I wake up. If I’m not bruised and in pain at the end of the week, I haven’t trained hard enough and I hate myself. I want to be a professional footballer. Having a chance at Norwich is something I pinch myself about on a daily basis.

  But something’s stopping me. And I can’t tell if that thing is Mum, giving me her worried eyes, her ‘Well, whatever you think is best, love’ in a voice that makes it clear what she thinks is best, or Dad, non-committal and hard to read as always, or Kevin with his motivational speeches: ‘If they want you now, mate, think how much they’ll want you if you make them wait’. Or if it’s just because the idea of giving up school and going for it gives me that edge of a cliff feeling again.

  So, it’s cool. I’ll carry on with my A Levels, but in the meantime I’ll train harder than anyone else on the squad. I’ll need to, to keep up with the guys who’ve already gone full-time, already committed themselves.

  ‘Aiden?’ Mum shouts up the stairs, breaking my train of thought. ‘Dinner’s ready.’

  I head down. When I see myself in the mirror this time, I look weird and pale. It’s not just me who notices, either. As soon as I sit down at the table, Mum looks at me, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  I nod. ‘Bit tired.’

  ‘You’re training too hard.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I look down at my plate. Toad-in-the-Hole. My favourite. Except I really don’t have any appetite.

  ‘It’s been a stressful couple of days,’ Kevin says, sawing off a chunk of sausage. ‘Has there been any news about your friend?’

  Hang on a second. Kevin eats things like white fish with brown rice and vegetables I’ve never heard of that are all steamed and green and sad on the expensive white plates. Ever since we moved in with him, he’s made it his mission to change our diets; to make everything we eat organic and artisan, stuff grown locally or imported responsibly (and expensively) and not from shrink-wrapped supermarket packs. He’s got rid of all the things that used to be our favourites in an attempt to make us as healthy and happy as him. It’s all low-carb, low-fat, high-cost. So why are we having Toad-in-the-Hole on a Tuesday?

  They’re worried about me. The thought makes me feel awful.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s talking about her running away with someone she met on the internet.’

  ‘That’s awful.’ My mum takes a sip of wine. She’s the only one having a glass – Kevin doesn’t drink during the week and, even though they’d happily let me, I’m not supposed to drink during the season. Not that it always stops me. ‘Her poor parents.’

  ‘You know, we talked about investing in social media,’ Kevin says, reaching to get more peas. ‘But this was one of the reasons we didn’t. It’s so difficult to safeguard, and we just didn’t want to take on the responsibility, not without the software to protect young kids from this exact thing.’

  Kevin’s company was originally an auction site, kind of like eBay, but now it’s what he calls a ‘global marketplace’. It basically means people can set up their own stores – again, like eBay – but the focus is on ethically-sourced and environmentally friendly products. Lots of vegan chutneys and hemp handbags. People pay a lot of money for that stuff. Advertisers pay a lot of money to be on the site. Kevin owns a load of other businesses now – a web design firm, a security company, a life consultancy (don’t even ask) – but he’s mostly a silent partner, with investments all over the place. Fingers in many pies, as my dad would – and does – say. As far as I can tell, Kevin’s day-to-day work involves checking a lot of emails and giving the occasional keynote speech at technology conventions in random exotic places. He sometimes gets calls from the big newspapers who ask for a quote or an opinion piece if there’s a story involving internet trading or responsible consumerism (whatever the hell that means).

  ‘It’s so scary,’ Mum says. ‘I mean, as parents, we have no idea what our kids get up to online.’ She sounds like she’s being interviewed on a chat show.

  I’m pretty sure Kevin could quite easily find out what I get up to online, given that I use his wifi and that he’s basically Minister of the Internet, but I don’t say that. And, besides, Kevin has always been pretty adamant about treating me as an adult, letting me have privacy. Since I moved in here, I’ve never had a curfew, never been told I can’t go anywhere. Maybe it’s because he wants me to like him, maybe it’s because he doesn’t have kids of his own, but actually I think that’s just the kind of guy he is. He trusts people. He believes in them.

  ‘I don’t really know if it’s true or not,’ I say. ‘I don’t think Lizzie would just go and meet a stranger.’

  ‘Sounded like that was the police’s theory, huh?’ Kevin says.

  ‘It’s just awful,’ Mum says again. ‘Anything could have happened to her. You just don’t know who’s out there.’

  I stare down at my plate. Has something really happened to Lizzie? Is this actually real?

  Kevin must see my face, because he lays a hand over Mum’s and briskly changes the subject. ‘Have you been in touch with Doug? Have you asked him about taking a couple of weeks off in the summer?’

  Mum wants us both to go with Kevin when he gives one of his keynote speeches in Miami next June. Technology convention = not my kind of thing. Miami beaches = very much my kind of thing.

  ‘Yeah, he said it’s okay as long as the hotel has a gym.’

  ‘I’ll check,’ Kevin says, as if he’d stay anywhere that didn’t have a gym, a five-star restaurant, a butler service.

  We eat quietly for a bit, our cutlery clicking against the plates. Each room in Kevin’s house is carefully optimised by various systems that are constantly assessing air quality, temperature, light levels. Occasionally you’ll hear a dull beep or a click as the room reaches the perfect level of something and the system goes to sleep. The temperature in the room has clearly reached its ideal degree because it clicks softly off, and then we can hear a faint tapping, the pipes cooling.

  ‘So, Aiden, how’s training going at the moment?’ Kevin asks, chasing a pea around his plate.

  ‘Good. My leg’s getting stronger again.’ I was out of action for about six weeks a few months ago, and it really, really scared me. One injury can ruin your whole career before it’s even started and that’s pretty terrifying. I don’t get it when guys on the squad go on skiing holidays and stuff. It’s like gambling with your whole life.

  ‘And how’s school?’ Mum asks. She’s always careful to mention my A Levels whenever football comes up.

  I finish chewing my mouthful and nod. ‘Yeah, good. Really enjoying history at the moment.’

  ‘World War Two, wasn’t it?’ Kevin asks. This is one of my favourite things about him. He listens, like really listens, and remembers things people tell him about themselves. His brain is basically like the most efficient computer ever; he’s about ninety per cent android. I guess that’s why he’s done so well for himself.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘You should ask your dad to get some of your gra
nddad’s things out for you,’ Mum says. ‘He has them all in the loft, I think.’

  ‘Cool. I will.’

  ‘Is it next weekend you’re going down there?’

  ‘One after,’ I say. ‘He’s at Nanna’s this weekend.’ My nanna lives in Scotland. She’s eighty-six and her husband, my granddad, died five years ago. Since then Dad and his brother take it in turns to go and look after her, because she won’t move off their farm. I can’t blame her. I love it there. Just hills and more hills, as far as you can see. You could run for miles and still just see hills and sky. It’d be perfect if it wasn’t always raining.

  Mum’s got a dreamy look on her face. She loves it there too. ‘We should go and visit her one weekend,’ she says. ‘She’d like that.’

  She would. Nanna and Mum were always close, and I know that Mum misses her and my uncle, especially since we moved here, where she doesn’t really have any close friends. Don’t get me wrong, she’s far happier here, but I guess it’s hard; when you get divorced from someone there are so many little things you have to leave behind, not just that person.

  They told me they were splitting up about a month before they actually did. I was twelve at the time and Mum said they wanted to give me time to get used to the idea. Instead it just made the month the most awkward and uncomfortable period in our whole family life, especially as, instead of bickering constantly like they usually did, they made an effort to be polite to each other. It was weird, like living with a stage family. Rather than being sad, I was just kind of relieved when it was over and Dad moved into his flat.

  ‘I’d better get back to work,’ Kevin says, and as he pushes his chair back, he frowns. ‘I’ll call someone about the heating first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Mum says, pouring herself another inch or so of wine.

  ‘What’s wrong with the heating?’ I ask.

  ‘Air in the system, I think,’ Kevin says. ‘That clicking. Probably a good idea to get it serviced anyway – the news this morning said there’s a cold front moving in. Maybe even early snow next week.’ He turns to go.