Hide and Secrets Page 5

  Now here I am, pacing up and down while I wait for a bus I rarely catch with a boy I barely know to start tracking down a father I can hardly believe is still alive.

  Find your dad and warn him, before it’s too late.

  ‘Cat?’ I realize Tyler has been speaking.

  I look up. He’s gazing at me, a look of bewilderment on his face. ‘I just checked the timetables on my phone,’ he says. ‘It says there are only two buses a day.’ He frowns. ‘A day. Ones that go through Brockledore Village. Is that right?’

  I grin. ‘Yeah, welcome to the countryside.’

  The bus approaches. We get on board, which takes a while as the driver chats to everyone in front of us in the queue.

  We find seats at the back. Tyler slides in next to me and whispers: ‘This is so weird.’

  ‘Why?’ I regret the question as soon as I’ve asked it. I don’t want to look stupid in front of him. But Tyler doesn’t act like it’s a silly question. Instead he frowns. ‘I… I guess I’m just used to millions of buses and people not talking to each other.’

  ‘In London?’

  He nods.

  ‘Where exactly do you live?’ I ask.

  ‘Archway,’ he says. ‘It’s in north London. It’s… well, compared to this it’s all traffic and people crammed into flats.’ He gazes out of the window. We’ve already left the village and are zooming along an empty country road, fields on both sides.

  ‘After your mum… the cancer… Was it hard, just you and your dad?’ I ask.

  ‘I guess. I don’t really remember.’ Tyler sounds awkward. Which I understand. Until our conversation earlier, it’s how I’ve always felt talking about Dad. ‘I was thinking…’ he goes on, clearly trying to change the subject. ‘Have you heard of that local gang Rik mentioned before? What was it called?’

  ‘The FFG.’ I shake my head. ‘Rik said they operate “under the radar”. That means in secret, doesn’t it?’

  Tyler fishes his phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Me too.’

  We sit, side by side, both intent on our mobiles. I search both the FFG initials and the boss’s name: ‘Fran Farmer’. No hits that suggest anything linked to a violent, local gang – though when I search for news on local gangs themselves, it’s obvious there are plenty of them operating across Devon, smuggling stolen goods past customs and selling them in the towns and cities. I sit back, and snatch a sideways glance at Tyler, frowning in concentration. He catches me looking and grimaces.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I’ve found lots of mentions of gangs in the area.’

  ‘Yeah, nobody seems to know who exactly runs them –’ Tyler’s eyes fill with worry – ‘but they sound really dangerous. It’s the same in London… I’ve seen about gangs like this on the local news.’

  ‘Have you and your dad got family in London?’ I ask.

  Tyler shakes his head.

  ‘My family’s lived in our house for, like, a hundred years,’ I say. ‘My grandparents are dead now, but my mum grew up there and her dad did too.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Tyler looks like he can’t believe such a thing is possible. ‘Dad and I have lived in four flats in the past five years.’

  ‘Wow.’ I can’t imagine what moving around all the time must be like.

  ‘Tyler sits back and gazes at his phone again. I wonder again if he’s left someone behind. Someone important to him.

  The bus is trundling into Buckton Stanleigh, a small town where lots of girls from my horrible school live. It judders to a standstill at the first stop, on the outskirts of town. I watch, nervously, hoping no one I know gets on board.

  There’s a bustle of people with shopping bags and pushchairs and then, to my horror, I see Delilah Jenkins in a canary-yellow swing coat, sashaying her way along the aisle. I shrink down in my seat, shielding my face from view. If she sees me she’s bound to make a sarcastic comment about that time she glued my cardigan to the desk – she always does. But, to my relief, Delilah strides past us without so much as a glance in my direction. I relax a little. And then, from between my fingers, I catch a glimpse of someone else following Delilah along the aisle, a sheet of long black hair hanging down her back.

  No. My heart seems to stop beating.

  It’s Cindy Cho, who was once my best friend in the whole world.

  Until the point where it was clear she wasn’t my friend at all.

  Is she really mates with Delilah now?

  My mind catapults back, slinging snapshots of memory at me: Cindy and me bonding over puppy pics on YouTube on the first day of Year Seven; playing in the snow with Pirate – who Cindy adored almost as much as Bess and I did.

  For most of that winter, Cindy and I were inseparable. She’d come back with me after school two or three days a week and we’d walk Pirate, then go back home for platefuls of Mrs Trimble’s chocolate-chip cookies.

  Then, a year later, Dad died. At first, Cindy was sweet, calling and sending me texts and offering to come round to the house. I noticed her messages, but I didn’t reply to any of them. You can’t when you’re in the middle of a big shock. It’s like being in the heart of a tornado. Just trying to stand up takes all your effort. There’s no room to notice other people.

  I’d had nearly two months off school and was really looking forward to seeing Cindy when I went back after Easter, but it was clear straight away that she’d moved on. Or perhaps that we’d never been as close as I’d imagined in the first place. Whatever it was, she acted like everyone else: wary of what I might say or do. As if I was a dangerous wild animal she didn’t know how to handle.

  The bus groans and judders and we set off again. Next to me, Tyler is still absorbed in his phone. Over his shoulder I can see he’s selecting music, though at this angle I can’t work out which tracks. He takes a pair of ear buds from his pocket and inserts one in each ear. I wonder what kind of stuff he listens to? I used to listen to all sorts but, after Dad died, all I wanted to hear for ages were the nineties tunes he used to play around the house. And then, gradually, I stopped listening to those too.

  Tyler doesn’t look round at me and I stay hunched low in my seat. The bus is almost full now; a murmur of voices humming alongside the rumble of the engine and the gentle hiss from Tyler’s headphones. My ears find Delilah’s voice as it rises above the chatter.

  ‘Yeah, so, that party was crazy,’ she says.

  ‘It totally was,’ Cindy agrees, enthusiastically.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ Delilah goes on. ‘Everyone was there. It was so great you could make it.’

  I shuffle even further down in my seat, horribly aware that Delilah’s ‘everyone’ doesn’t include me. I’m glad that with his earbuds in, Tyler isn’t likely to hear anything Delilah says – and potentially discover just how friendless I am.

  ‘You have to come to the next one too,’ Delilah goes on.

  ‘Yeah, er, I’d love to.’

  It sounds as if Cindy has had no problem finding a new best friend. The thought is like a stone lodged in my stomach.

  A few minutes later the bus slows down as we near the stop by the shopping centre. I raise my hand to my face again, hoping to shield myself from view in case Delilah and Cindy get off.

  I’m too late.

  ‘Hey, Glue Girl!’ The yellow swing coat is right beside me. I glance up, through my fingers. Delilah is standing right next to me, a huge, stupid grin on her face. ‘What are you doing here?’ Delilah asks. Then, without waiting for a reply, she turns back to where she was sitting and calls out: ‘Look, Cindy, it’s Glue Girl!’

  My cheeks burn as Cindy appears beside Delilah.

  ‘Hi, Cat,’ Cindy’s voice sounds strangled. I’m clearly the last person she wants to see.

  ‘Hi.’ My mouth shapes itself into a trembly smile.

  ‘Come on!’ Delilah orders, turning and sauntering away along the aisle.

  C
indy and I stare at each other for another fraction of a second, then she gives me an uncertain frown, before hurrying off after Delilah.

  The bus stops. I stay hunched in my seat as they get off and we rumble into action once again.

  ‘You okay?’ Tyler asks. He’s taken out his earbuds and is gazing at me, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say quickly.

  Tyler hesitates. ‘Did you know those girls?’ The rasp of the music from his earbuds drifts faintly towards us.

  ‘Not really,’ I lie. ‘Maybe vaguely, from school.’

  Tyler’s frown deepens. ‘Why was that first one calling you Gl—?’

  ‘What are you listening to?’ I interrupt, desperate to change the subject.

  Tyler stares at me, thoughtfully, then offers me an earbud and I put it in. A soft, trance-like dance track plays. It’s haunting, beautiful, mesmerizing. Nothing like the music I was expecting. I smile to acknowledge I like it and then the bus passes the sign for Covington and the reason for our journey leaps back into my head along with a fresh wave of anxiety as I remember Rik’s words:

  Find your dad and warn him, before it’s too late.

  ‘We’re here,’ I say, grimly.

  Tyler nods, suddenly as serious as I am. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Let’s go and find Aunt Sandy.’

  9

  We get off the bus into the damp heat of Covington High Road. The stench of traffic fumes and from refuse sacks waiting for collection on the nearby kerb fills the air.

  ‘So where’s Thresham Street?’ Tyler asks. His T-shirt is sticking to his back from the bus ride. He pulls it free and I catch a glimpse of the toned brown skin of his back. I can feel myself blushing and busy myself with the map on my phone.

  ‘This way,’ I say briskly, pointing to the left.

  We make our way, taking another left, then a right, then following a long road for five minutes. Thresham Street is a turning on the right, a row of terraced cottages. Number 18 is a small apartment block in the middle. The block is set back from the street with a communal patch of grass in front. A group of mums and little kids are out there, picnicking on rugs. They stare suspiciously at me and Tyler as we walk up to the front door. The name ‘Sandy Williams’ is printed over the bell for number 4. I press the keypad.

  No reply.

  ‘She’s not in,’ I say, crestfallen.

  Tyler glances over his shoulder at the women on the rugs, then presses 3, then 5. Silence.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss.

  Tyler presses 1 and 2 in quick succession. ‘I’m just—’

  As he speaks, the door buzzes. Tyler pushes it open, grinning. ‘Come on.’

  We go inside. The hallway is wide and cool. The concrete floor is scattered with junk mail and two pushchairs are lined up against the back wall, next to a thick glass door leading out into a grubby concrete yard. There are four doors off the hallway. Tyler heads straight over to the one numbered 4 and gives a sharp knock.

  No answer.

  He grimaces. ‘I was hoping maybe it was just her intercom but…’ he sighs. ‘I guess she really isn’t in.’

  I open the back door, shove one of the pushchairs to hold it in place and walk outside. The concrete yard is surrounded by a high wall. It’s empty apart from rubbish bags and litter overflowing from bins. There’s a smell of rotting food. A single droopy pot plant beside the far wall does nothing to brighten the place up.

  I hurry along the yard, to the window that belongs to flat number 4. A neat living space is visible through the glass: tiny, with a single armchair in front of a small TV. Photos are ranged across the mantelpiece. I shield my eyes from the sun and press my nose against the glass.

  In pride of place, in the centre of the mantelpiece, is a picture of Rik.

  This is definitely Sandy’s flat and, having come all this way, I’m not going home without looking inside.

  Tyler strolls up behind me. ‘I guess we’re stuck with waiting or coming back another time?’

  I shake my head, pointing to the latch swinging freely to the side of the window. ‘Maybe there’s a third option.’ I give the window a push. It glides open, revealing enough space for us to climb through. I turn to Tyler, my eyebrows raised. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but I feel suddenly free and unafraid.

  All that matters is saving Dad.

  Tyler’s jaw drops as he looks from me to the open window. ‘You want to break in?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to. But it’s not like we’d be stealing anything, and this is definitely Rik’s aunt, who definitely called my dad the day before he disappeared. And, right now, she’s the only lead I have for tracking him down.’

  Tyler frowns. ‘If we get caught—’

  ‘We won’t.’ The thrill of the risk surges inside me. ‘We’re not really doing anything wrong. Just investigating. We’ll just have a look round, be out again in no time.’

  Tyler chuckles. ‘You are full of surprises,’ he mutters.

  I’m not sure what to make of that, so I ignore it.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I urge, gripping the window ledge. ‘Help me inside.’

  Tyler makes a stirrup with his hand. I step into it, clutch the sill and let him hoist me up. I hook my knee over the ledge and clamber awkwardly sideways. For a second, all I can think about is how I really don’t want Tyler seeing me splayed clumsily over the window sill, then I remind myself I need to focus on getting into Aunt Sandy’s flat.

  I extend my leg carefully, looking for a toehold on the sideboard beneath the window. I find a space between a glass vase and a china ornament of a little girl holding a balloon. I rest my foot for a second, then twist my body and leap down. There. I land with a clunky thud on the patterned carpet and straighten up, catching my breath.

  I move the breakables out of the way while Tyler follows me inside, but it’s soon clear I didn’t need to worry. His movements are swift and sleek, far smoother and quieter than my own.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Tyler whispers.

  ‘Letters, postcards - something that might tell us where my dad is.’

  Tyler wrinkles his nose. ‘Won’t all that stuff be on her computer… or phone?’

  ‘Look around you.’ I indicate the cluster of china figurines on the table beside the TV and the doily set to the side of the armchair. ‘She’s an old lady. Old school.’

  Tyler nods and hurries across the room to the pile of magazines on the coffee table. I busy myself with the contents of the sideboard.

  After thirty seconds or so I blow out my breath, frustrated. ‘This is just cups and coasters.’

  ‘All I’ve got here are knitting magazines,’ Tyler says with a sigh. ‘Let’s try another room.’

  We scuttle along the narrow corridor. It’s a tiny flat, with a little bathroom and kitchen on one side, and a bedroom on the other. Tyler dives into the kitchen, exploring the row of cupboards. I turn into the bedroom. There’s hardly anywhere to store anything, but I rummage guiltily through the chest of drawers full of neatly folded clothes.

  I turn to the bedside table, intending to open its one drawer and take a quick peek inside. But a postcard on the top shelf above the bed catches my eye. It’s of a gentle sea, with a boat that looks a lot like the Marvista bobbing on its waves. It’s just the kind of card Dad would send.

  I snatch it down and turn it over.

  Happy Birthday!

  Regards, Alan

  It’s definitely from Dad; he’s even drawn the tiny sailing boat he always put next to his signature. I turn, intending to show Tyler but, as I move, the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock meets my ears.

  Tyler is staring at me from the kitchen across the narrow passageway. His eyes are wide with fear. ‘Hide!’ he mouths, ducking beside the fridge, out of sight.

  I just have time to hurl myself under the bed, when the flat door creaks open and footsteps pad inside.

  Aunt Sandy is home.

  10

  I hol
d my breath, watching as she walks past. I’m expecting to see old-lady shoes, but Aunt Sandy is wearing orange trainers that peek out from under her black trousers. She grunts as she plonks her shopping bag on the kitchen counter. She must be inches away from Tyler. I imagine him squeezed flat against the side of the fridge. Another step and she’ll see him.

  But, instead, Aunt Sandy shuffles back into the corridor and heads into the bathroom. As soon as I see the door to that room close behind her, I scramble out from underneath the bed. Tyler emerges from beside the fridge at the same time. We meet in the narrow corridor. I open the front door softly, heart thudding, as the toilet flushes.

  Tyler grabs my arm to stop me leaving the flat. Shakes his head.

  ‘What?’ I mouth. Is he mad? We need to get out of here fast, before Aunt Sandy comes out of the bathroom.

  Tyler holds the front door open and calls out ‘Hello! Anyone home?’

  I stare at him, horrified.

  A second later, Aunt Sandy bustles out from the bathroom. She’s exactly the same as in her picture – though now she’s not smiling.

  ‘Hello?’ she says warily.

  Tyler gives her his warmest smile. ‘Hi, sorry to barge in,’ he says, ‘the door was open.’

  My jaw drops at his daring. He gives me a gentle nudge. ‘This is Cat Mooney. She… er… she knows your nephew, Rik.’

  Aunt Sandy frowns. ‘I thought I’d shut it behind me,’ she says, indicating the door.

  There’s an awkward pause. I can feel Tyler’s gaze on my face. I need to speak, but my tongue is thick in my mouth, my muscles frozen. ‘Hi,’ I manage, at last.

  Aunt Sandy tilts her head to one side. Her eyebrows knit in a suspicious frown. ‘So how do you know my Rik?’ she asks.

  I force myself to smile as I answer. ‘He was friends with my dad… er, Alan Mooney. I - I’m trying to meet people who knew him… my dad, that is… to find out more about him.’ I stammer to a stop.

  A huge beam spreads across Aunt Sandy’s face. ‘You’re Cat? Alan’s eldest?’