SweetFreak Page 5

  ‘But . . . how would I know to go to all that trouble to hide my tracks?’

  ‘In my experience teenagers are capable of a lot more than they let on,’ DS Carter says with a frown.

  I turn to Mum. ‘I didn’t do this, Mum. I swear I didn’t.’

  Mum nods, but what she’s not saying is clear: how can I believe you about one thing, if you’ve lied about another?

  DC Kapoor narrows her mean eyes. It’s clear she doesn’t believe me either.

  My mind races about, trying to think what else I can say to convince them.

  ‘I just remembered something.’ My stomach gives an uneasy twist. It feels horribly disloyal to accuse my sister of being SweetFreak, but what choice has she left me? ‘When I got home after seeing Amelia I was sure someone had been in my room. My laptop was open though I’m sure I left it shut.’

  ‘Carey!’ Mum’s voice sounds a warning note. ‘Stop right there.’

  ‘I think my sister, Poppy, must have come into my room while I was out,’ I persist. ‘I think she used my computer to make it look like I sent that horrible message.’

  Mum glares at me.

  ‘Right,’ DS Carter says, clearly unconvinced. ‘I’d say there might be easier ways to frame someone, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘It’s also interesting that since we took away your phone and laptop the SweetFreak messages have stopped,’ DC Kapoor says drily.

  ‘And we haven’t found any fingerprints other than yours on the keys,’ DS Carter adds. ‘Does your sister even have the password for your laptop? Does anyone?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘But Poppy could have seen it over my shoulder.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Carey,’ Mum mutters. She turns to DS Carter. ‘What about street cameras? If Carey was running around the streets like you suggest, they’d have picked her up.’

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any local CCTV, apart from on the main roads. If Carey stuck to backstreets as we suspect, she wouldn’t have been seen,’ DS Carter says. He sighs. ‘Cutbacks.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’ Panic rises wildly inside me. It’s like I’ve been thrown out of an aeroplane without a parachute. I’m spinning, whirling through space, lost and confused. ‘I didn’t do this.’

  Mum frowns, her face suffused with doubt.

  ‘Did you have some reason to be angry with Amelia, Carey?’ DS Carter asks.

  ‘No, we’re best friends.’

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Amelia herself?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Absolutely. She was nowhere near any electronic device other than her own phone, which we’ve examined thoroughly. She did not send herself a death threat.’

  ‘But somebody sent it,’ DC Kapoor adds. ‘And all the evidence points to you, Carey.’

  I shake my head. ‘No,’ I protest. ‘No way.’

  ‘Oh, Carey.’ Mum’s voice trembles. ‘Is this something to do with Dad leaving? Now you’re getting older without a father around I—’

  ‘No,’ I snap, now embarrassed on top of everything else. ‘I’m not upset, I’m fine. And I didn’t do anything. Please, I’m telling the truth.’

  But as I look into Mum’s eyes I see that she no longer believes me.

  There’s a tense silence, then DS Carter clears his throat. He explains that there is no public interest in pursuing a prosecution against me and, anyway, he’s confident I do not pose a credible threat to Amelia, that I’m just acting out. ‘So all we are doing for now is giving you a serious warning, though I would strongly urge you to take responsibility for your actions.’ He turns to Mum. ‘We can recommend a local counselling service. Sessions are subsidised as part of the local initiative on zero tolerance for bullying I told you about before.’

  Mum nods. I stare at my lap.

  ‘But make no mistake,’ DC Kapoor chips in. ‘Any further threats of this nature and we’ll be forced to consider charging you under the Malicious Communications Act.’

  Mum is tight-lipped and stern-faced as we leave the station. The sun shines in my face as I lean against the rough brick wall while we wait for a taxi. Neither of us speak. I’m still in a daze and Mum seems lost in her own thoughts.

  ‘Carey?’

  I turn.

  Mum is frowning, clearly exasperated. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes. No, I . . . I didn’t hear what you said.’

  ‘I said that I have no idea what to say to you. I don’t know who you are any more. I can’t begin to think of a suitable punishment, though you’re definitely not getting your phone back.’

  ‘What? You can’t be serious. Mum, I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘How could you, Carey?’ Mum says. ‘To Amelia of all people? Your best friend. I brought you up better than this.’

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘This is the worst thing, that you persist in refusing to take responsibility for—’

  ‘How many more times do I have to tell you it wasn’t me?’ All my pent-up rage bursts out of me. ‘You believed me until that stupid police officer came out with all that rubbish about my laptop and fingerprints and delay functions.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘If you’d just admit what you’d done—’

  ‘I didn’t do it!’ I’m shouting now, tears stinging my eyes.

  Mum looks away.

  It’s the last straw. At least when she believed me I felt less alone. Now I’m totally isolated. I clench my fists. Poppy is going to pay for this.

  7

  We pick Jamie up from his playdate on the way home. He chatters on about a game he and his friends played. Mum nods and makes out she’s listening but I can tell she’s still thinking about what an evil daughter I am.

  As soon as we get home I leap out of the taxi and rush into the house, determined to force Poppy to confess what she’s done. But my sister isn’t in her bedroom, just the lingering scent of her flowery perfume and a scatter of clothes across the bed and the floor.

  I hurry down to Mum.

  ‘Where’s Poppy?’ I ask.

  ‘At a friend’s house for a sleepover.’

  I demand to know which friend, but Mum won’t tell me, pointedly asking me to make Jamie’s tea because she has a headache and wants to lie down upstairs.

  ‘Fine,’ I snap, swallowing down the resentment that burns inside me. I stomp around the kitchen, fetching some slices of cheese and ham from the fridge and plonking some bread and hummus and tomatoes on a plate. Jamie plays in the living room, jumping on and off the sofa. If Mum were here she would tell him off, but she’s already upstairs.

  I have to talk to Poppy. No way can I wait until she lopes home tomorrow. It’s not fair: Friday night and she’s off out with her friends while I’m stuck at home without anything to do and everybody thinking I’m a horrible cow. And what about Amelia? It’s bad enough she’s upset over the messages but I can’t bear how much more she’ll be hurting thinking I’m behind them. She needs to know the truth.

  I’m certain Mum knows where Poppy is. She usually insists we tell her exactly where we are and what we’re doing. I check the Poldark calendar on the wall.

  P @ Louisa is scrawled under today’s date.

  Well that’s something, at least: Louisa is one of Poppy’s oldest friends and lives just a few streets away. As soon as Mum thinks I’ve gone to bed, I’m sneaking out and going over there.

  My plan goes without a hitch. After he’s had his tea, I play with Jamie until Mum reappears. She looks just as harassed as when she went upstairs, a deep line riven between her eyebrows, but her voice is calm when she calls me into the kitchen and asks me, yet again, to admit what I’ve done ‘so we can begin the healing and the learning from all this’.

  I protest my innocence again but Mum has clearly decided I’m guilty. Only concrete proof will convince her otherwise.

  Mum comes to bed soon after I’ve gone upstairs myself, which delays my exit from the house. I wait while she potters about, then peek outside to check her l
ight is off. I cross the landing to listen at her door. I can hear her soft, shallow breathing: regular and even. For months after Dad left I used to do this every night, terrified that if one parent could walk out on us with no notice or explanation then Mum might suddenly be taken away too.

  With Mum upstairs and fast asleep, there’s no need to clamber out the bathroom window. Instead I tiptoe downstairs and let myself out the front door. I race along the few streets to Louisa’s house. My heart beats fast as I reach her road. I’m not at all sure I can remember exactly which house she lives at. I used to come here with Mum to pick up Poppy sometimes, but that was a long time ago when we were both much younger. As it turns out I needn’t have worried. A huddle of teenagers stand in the road outside number twelve, talking and laughing. Three of them are puffing away on cigarettes, I recognise Sam, a good friend of Poppy’s, immediately.

  I go up to him. Normally I’d be quaking at the thought of talking to a sixth former in front of his mates, but right now I’m so intent on confronting my sister I don’t even think about it.

  ‘Hey, Sam?’ I ask. ‘Is Poppy inside?’

  He makes a silly face. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ He laughs as if he’s said something hilarious. He’s clearly drunk. They all are.

  I grit my teeth. ‘What’s going on? Party?’

  ‘Louisa’s parents are away for the weekend so, yeah, I guess.’ He sniggers. ‘D’you wanna drink?’

  His friend nudges him. ‘She’s a kid, Sam.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s got big hair,’ Sam laughs.

  I curl my lip. ‘That doesn’t even make sense,’ I say, smoothing my curls self-consciously.

  Now all of them start laughing.

  ‘You lot are the kids.’ I stomp inside, their raucous voices echoing in my ears. Inside the house, the whole open-plan downstairs area is heaving. Poppy isn’t here. I spot Louisa in the corner. She’s swaying to some music, clearly off her face. Mum thinks Poppy’s such a goody-goody, I’m itching to call her up and let her know exactly what’s going on over here. But of course I can’t, having no phone and not being supposed to be here myself.

  I head up the stairs in search of my sister. There’s a couple eating each other’s faces on the top step. I wriggle past, peering into the bathroom where two girls are perched on the edge of the bath, deep in conversation. As I walk along the landing I hear Poppy’s voice coming from inside a room on the left. She’s pleading with someone.

  ‘But you have to believe me.’ She sounds close to tears.

  I push the door open to reveal my sister in the middle of what is clearly Louisa’s parents’ bedroom, complete with four-poster bed. George, Amelia’s brother, stands in front of her, a pained look on his face.

  He sees me before Poppy does.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he says accusingly.

  Poppy’s head whips around. ‘Carey!’ she gasps.

  ‘I can’t be in the same room as her.’ George stalks off.

  Poppy rounds on me. ‘See what you’ve done? I’d just got him up here to try and talk to him and you’ve ruined everything. Again.’

  I square up to her, my fury mounting.

  ‘You have to start telling the truth,’ I snarl. ‘You have to tell Mum and the police that it was you who sent those messages from my computer, because whatever I did to you, it doesn’t justify what you’ve done to me. And to Amelia.’

  Poppy stares at me. There’s what looks like genuine bewilderment in her eyes. ‘It wasn’t me, Carey.’

  For the first time I doubt what, up to now, seemed so certain. I know Poppy better than I know anyone. She might hate me, but as I look into her eyes it’s hard to believe she would have gone so far to get her revenge.

  ‘Well it wasn’t me,’ I say.

  We stand, facing each other. There is definitely no hint of a lie in her expression, only a terrible sadness. Most of which, I’m guessing, is to do with the boy who’s just walked out of the room.

  ‘I know I upset you about George,’ I go on. ‘I’m really sorry. And I’m sorry he reacted like he did but . . . but . . .’ I hesitate, a previously unspoken thought hovering on my tongue. ‘I don’t mean to upset you again but don’t you think if he really loved you he’d have listened to you about that Spanish guy, trusted that you meant it when you said it was just a stupid one-off kiss, that it didn’t mean anything, that you loved him?’

  Poppy stares at me. I brace myself, waiting for her to yell that it’s none of my business. But she doesn’t look angry. And, unlike the guys downstairs, she doesn’t seem drunk either. Just deeply unhappy.

  ‘Mmmm,’ Poppy mumbles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m saying that maybe you’re right about George.’ Poppy heaves a bitter sigh. ‘The fight we just had . . . I realised what he’s most upset about is how he looks to everyone else. He doesn’t really care if I was with someone else or not. I . . . I’m starting to think he doesn’t really care about me at all.’ Her lip trembles. ‘It’s hard, though, because I liked him. A lot.’

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ I say. ‘You’re worth ten Georges.’

  Poppy offers me a wan smile. ‘Maybe I’m the idiot.’ She grips my arm. ‘Carey, I’m so sorry about what’s happened with Amelia and the messages. I can see how upset you are.’

  We look into each other’s eyes. She seems genuinely concerned.

  ‘So it really wasn’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Poppy sighs.

  I’m sure, suddenly, that she’s telling the truth.

  ‘And you’re not still accusing me of doing it?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ she says again. ‘And I hate the fact that it’s got you into so much trouble and upset Mum so much.’

  ‘And Amelia,’ I point out.

  ‘Yes.’ She pauses. ‘And Amelia. She might be a bit silly and careless. You both are. But you don’t deserve what’s happening now.’

  I take a deep breath, relief that my sister believes me washing over me.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ I say, ‘I’m truly sorry that I sent Amelia that stupid video of you with the Spanish boy.’

  Downstairs the music thumps, the volume surging.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ Poppy asks. ‘If it wasn’t you and it wasn’t me, then who is SweetFreak?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It’s hopeless. I can say over and over that I didn’t do it, but my laptop says I did. The police are convinced. Mum is too, now. There’s all this evidence against me.’

  Poppy makes a sympathetic face. ‘I’ve been thinking . . . maybe it’s someone hacking your computer. That would explain the lack of fingerprints and—’

  ‘The police already told us my laptop wasn’t hacked. They say they’re sure,’ I explain.

  Poppy shrugs. ‘They don’t know everything. Maybe somebody really good could make it look like it wasn’t hacked. I can think of loads of people in my year who might know how to do that, especially some of the guys.’

  I nod. She’s right. But who on earth hates me – and Amelia – enough to go to those lengths?

  ‘You should get home before Mum realises you’ve gone out,’ Poppy says with a smile. ‘She might just explode if you get into any more trouble.’ I gulp, fresh emotion welling inside me. This conversation is the longest and nicest talk we’ve had in weeks.

  ‘Thanks.’ I squeeze her hand, then turn and hurry down the stairs and outside, where the night air is cold against my warm cheeks. George is leaning against the front garden fence.

  ‘Here comes SweetFreak,’ he growls as I pass.

  I turn on him. ‘It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘And you should give my sister a break.’

  ‘Shut your face.’ George swears, rearing fully upright so that he towers over me. I shrink back. ‘You little cow. My sister is in bits because of you. And that death threat . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m telling you, it’s you who deserves to die.’

  We stare at each other for a second, then I race away along the street,
a new thought unfurling in my mind:

  Could George be SweetFreak?

  The police were insistent that the death threat came from my laptop, which they also claim never left my room. But suppose Poppy is right and someone hacked into it without the police realising? Could George have done that? I remember Poppy telling me before that he was always messing around on social media, and really into online pranks. What if he’s secretly an it genius who planned the SweetFreak messages to get back at his sister and at me for humiliating him? I’ve never thought he was very nice, he used to be horrible to Amelia whenever I went to their house, always teasing and sneering – not in the light way my sister and I did it, but with a real edge. And the way he’s behaved with Poppy proves that even more. So do the nasty comments he made to me just now.

  By the time I get home and let myself gently in the front door I’m convinced: George is SweetFreak.

  Now all I have to do is prove it.

  8

  The weekend turns out better than I was expecting, thanks to Poppy. Mum is still angry and upset, but at least my sister believes in me now.

  I tell them about my suspicions about George. Unfortunately Mum thinks the idea he might have hacked into my laptop is ridiculously far-fetched: ‘The police already ruled that out, Carey,’ she points out with a weary shake of her head.

  Poppy at least admits it’s possible.

  ‘George is certainly mean enough,’ she says with a sigh. ‘It was so cold, the way he shut me down. Wouldn’t even listen to my side of the story. And he does know loads about programming and IT stuff. I’m just not sure he’d go to all those lengths to take revenge on you and Amelia.’ Her voice wobbles. ‘I mean it’s me he’s really angry with.’

  I reach out impulsively and touch her arm. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, Rey Rey.’ Poppy uses my baby name as she draws me close. I breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume – light and flowery. It’s a huge relief we’re not fighting any more. It helps, as does being around Jamie, who clearly doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. He can sense Mum is in a bit of a state and gives her lots of hugs over the weekend, but when we’re alone together he’s the same dreamy, affectionate little boy he’s always been. I play with him a lot – mostly watching then re-enacting scenes from Warriors of the Doom Wood with him.