Better Left Buried (12 page)

I can't face going back to college. I get to the bottom of Rydon Road and my chest feels tight and my eyes are stinging with the effort not to cry.

Lizzie's not coming back. I can't believe it. I feel winded. Wretched. Wounded.

How could she leave, without a word? Without even saying goodbye?

I stick my earphones in and put some Bach on to soothe myself. Set off home, the sky gloomy and dark as my mood, walking fast, rhythmically, hoping the exercise will work off my agitation.

I don't see him coming. Or hear him. The first moment of awareness strikes halfway along Argyle Street, an arm thrust tight around my throat, stopping my breath.

I jerk backwards and try to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth and all that emerges is a muffled sound, while the pressure on my neck increases. An overwhelming, cloying smell fills my nostrils. Thick and suffocating. Like heavy aftershave.

A second later my rucksack is wrenched away and I'm released with a forceful shove. I pitch forwards, losing my balance, my head glancing against a nearby garden wall, dislodging my earphones.

A pain in my skull. A sharp, stunning pain, and the world falters.

I drop to my hands and knees, fighting to breathe. There's a buzzing noise in my head, a high-pitched whine above the percussive thump of my heartbeat. I grope for something to pull myself up with, hearing a low moan I barely recognize as my own.

All at once I'm yanked to my feet. I try to cry out, but again a hand blocks the sound. Summoning all my strength, I drive my elbow behind me. It meets solid flesh. At the same time I bite down on the flesh covering my mouth.

“Jesus!” a male voice yelps, and the hand withdraws. I feel myself being shaken, then a harsh whisper close to my ear. “Be quiet!”

“Let me g—”

“I said
be quiet
!” He gives me another hard shake.

Taking a deep breath, I twist round fast. My assailant loses his grip and suddenly I'm facing him.

Him.

“HELP!” I shout, as loud as I can, but my voice is rough and hoarse and there's no one around to hear.

He grabs both my arms and restrains me. “Shut up!” he hisses, one eye twitching wildly as he glances up and down the street.

He raises a hand and for a moment I think he's going to hit me, but he just rakes it through his hair, his cool grey eyes staring into mine. Something about the intensity of his gaze stops the scream right in my throat. I've no idea what he's capable of, and I don't want to find out.

I sink onto the low garden wall, crying.

“Did you see him?” the man asks urgently.

I try to drag air into my lungs. I have to run, I think. I have to get away. But I can't move. I'm all out of fight and flight.

“
Did you see him?
” He stoops down and grabs me by the shoulders, bringing his face terrifyingly close to mine.

“Who?” I gasp, trying to pull away.

“The man who attacked you. Did you get a look? Or see where he went?”

I stare at him. I have no idea what to say. I start to shake. The shock of what's happening hitting me in full force.

“What did he take?” he asks, more insistently.

I just blink. This is insane.

“Look, Sarah…”

I flinch at the use of my name.
He knows my name.

Of course he does. He burgled our house. He stole my notebook. Of course he knows my name.

The man spins round again, checking we're alone before crouching in front of me.

“Why are you…?” A sob chokes out the words. I want to run but I know it's pointless.

He ignores my question. “C'mon, Sarah, concentrate. Did he take anything?”

I carry on staring at him. He grips my arm again, giving it another shake. I cry out in pain. My hand flies up to my head and comes back with blood on my fingers.

My attacker looks aghast. “Oh shit… Are you okay?”

I glare at him, incredulous. He assaults me, knocks me over, and then asks if I'm
okay
?

As if realizing what I'm thinking, he lowers his gaze to mine. “Listen, it wasn't me, all right? I'm not the one you should be afraid of.”

He lets go of my arm and reaches his hand to my head. My eyes widen in alarm. I jerk it back with another flash of pain.

“Keep still,” he says. “Let me have a look.”

I feel his fingers on my scalp, gently parting my hair. I force myself not to shrink back from his touch, figuring my best chance is to humour him. Pretend I'm fooled by this whole charade until I can get away.

He draws back his hand and I see more blood on his fingertips. “You've cut your head.” His voice softer now. Concerned.

This is mad.
Crazy.

“I don't think it's too bad,” he adds. “Just a break in the skin. You feel all right?”

I nod.

“You sure?”

I nod again.

He sighs, rubbing his cheek, his face restless with tension. Seeing him close up, I realize he's older than I first thought – mid-twenties at least. I notice a small, thin scar running diagonally across his top lip. Make a mental note to mention it to the police.

“Sarah, please. Listen to me. Did he take anything?”

“Who?”

“The bloke who attacked you.”

I swallow.
Play along with him,
repeats a voice in my head.
Wait for your chance.

“My rucksack.”

“What was in it?” He scans the street again, his eyes nervous, catlike.

“Only my college stuff,” I mumble. I feel sick, confused, my head ringing from the knock it took. Why bother to ask? He's got it after all. “My music. My purse.”

“Nothing else?”

I reach into my pocket. Thankfully I still have my phone. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” I snap, unable to take it any longer. “Why? Why are you asking me this? Is it some kind of game? Take my stuff, then interrogate me about it?”

He narrows his eyes. “Sarah, listen. It wasn't me, okay?” He steps back, turning right round to show he's empty-handed. “Where is it? If I took your stuff, where have I put it?”

I check the ground around us. It's true, I can't see my rucksack anywhere. But maybe he hid it, while I was dazed.

“It wasn't me. Honestly.” He hesitates, as if he's going to say something but changes his mind. “Don't worry. Forget it.”

He's dancing round on his feet now, clearly anxious to get away.

“Who are you?” I blurt. “Why are you still following me?”

“Still?” There's a note of surprise in his voice. As if he doesn't understand. I notice he doesn't deny the stalking.

“Haven't you done enough damage?” I say, my voice fiercer now.

He looks at me hard, and suddenly I'm more afraid than ever. I swallow down a swell of fear, remembering PC Wilson's words.

Don't approach him… He might be dangerous.

He regards me for a minute. Then reaches into his pocket, and draws something out. I instinctively recoil, imagining a knife or some other weapon.

He holds his hand towards me. In it is a ten-pound note.

“For the bus,” he adds.

I look at him dumbly.

“You just lost your purse, remember?” He shoves the money into my palm. I take it, my hand visibly trembling.

He glances down the road again. “I've gotta go.” His feet still doing that little dance. “You sure you're all right?”

I nod again.

“Go straight home, Sarah,” he says. “And stay there, okay? It's safer.”

An instant later he's gone.

No sign of Mum when I get home. I take a mug of tea down to the garden shed, clear the picnic rug off the old wicker chair in the corner, and lower myself into it, ignoring the musty smell and the cobwebs all around me. I'm beyond caring about spiders.

Right now I need to think, and I don't want any interruptions. If Mum gets home soon, it won't occur to her to look for me in here.

I lean my head back against the wooden panelling and close my eyes. Try to run it through from the beginning.

I was on the left side of Argyle Street when it happened, near that big house with the oak tree in the front garden. He must have come up behind me, via the cut-through that leads to the high street. I might have heard him if I hadn't been wearing my earphones.

I shudder, reliving that pressure on my throat. That terrifying moment where I could barely draw breath into my lungs.

My eyes snap open, my heart pounding and my mouth uncomfortably dry. I pick up my tea and cradle it in my hands. It's still too hot to drink, but the heat radiating through the mug is strangely comforting.

Focus on what you can remember,
I tell myself, trying to slow my breathing.

The arm around my neck. The shove. Hitting the wall.

I reach up to the lump on the side of my head, now a tight little dome. A slight throbbing pain as I run my fingers over it, making out a sticky crust of dried blood on the hair by my scalp.

I should go to the doctor, I know. Before I go to the police. But for some reason I can't fathom, I can't face explaining to my GP what happened, nor having to make up a convincing lie.

Besides, the man said it was only a skin wound. I don't know why this should reassure me, but it does.

I have to think. Try to sort this out in my mind a bit before I call PC Wilson. I shut my eyes again and his flash before me, the colour of steel. His face, I realize – there was something in his expression. Right from the moment I swung round to look at him. Something that doesn't fit.

He looked worried. No, not worried exactly…concerned.

But what about?

Not about himself, I think, or he would simply have run off. No, he looked concerned about
me
.

That's what doesn't make any kind of sense. If he attacked me, why did he hang around? Why help me up? Why speak to me?

Why offer me that money?

It doesn't add up. You burgle someone's home. You mug them.
Then you give them the bus fare home?

A sudden cloudburst, rain thumping down on the roof of the shed, like someone throwing pebbles. I glance up at the house. It all looks quiet, undisturbed, the light I left on in the living room visible through the gap in the curtains.

I force my thoughts into focus.
What about my rucksack?
If he was the one that mugged me, where was my bag? Did he have time to hide it? And where?

I scroll back in my mind. All the houses along that bit of Argyle Street have open front gardens, some separated from the pavement by a low wall. I can't think of a single place he could have concealed my rucksack, especially that fast.

Also, I saw him leave, and he definitely didn't have it then. Surely if he'd mugged me, he'd take my bag with him? And why bother asking me what I'd lost if he had it anyway?

The throb in my head steps up a gear, worsening with the effort of thought. I resist the urge to go up to my room and crawl into bed. Remember something about concussion, about not going to sleep.

Besides, I have to figure this out. Now, before I lose any of the details.

Okay, if he wasn't the one who attacked me, then who did? A mugger, I guess, though I hardly look like someone with anything worth stealing.

A plunging feeling as I remember I've lost all my music and college work. But I can't think about that now. I take a sip of my tea and wince. A soreness is creeping into my throat. A bruised sensation round my neck where it was crushed, and I'm seized by a momentary panic.

What if I can't sing?

Relax,
I tell myself, as firmly as I can manage.
You're okay. You'll be fine in a couple of days.
I inhale deeply, trying to try to keep my anxiety from going into free fall, but see those eyes again. Pale and cool as clouds.

Him.
He's been watching me – I know that from the map. We were burgled. And now I've been mugged. There has to be a connection, and he's the only one I can think of.

I pick up my phone, intending to dial PC Wilson. Then remember I no longer have her card. It was in the front pocket of my rucksack. Damn. I'll have to go to the station. And soon, because I don't want Mum to know – this would tip her over the edge.

I abandon my mobile and gulp down the rest of my tea. But I can still see his face. The way he looked at me, the way he kept watching the road, as if on the lookout for someone.

And again, the feeling that I've seen him somewhere before. Way before all this began.

Then I think of Lizzie. And realize that if I go to the police, if I get this guy arrested, I'll never get a chance to ask him about her. Because the more I consider it, the more I believe there's a connection – between him and her, and her sudden decision to go off like that.

No, I resolve. I need to talk to him. I know this as suddenly and as forcefully as I know that Lizzie is in some kind of trouble, even though she's pretending to her mum that she's okay. I
have
to make him tell me what he knows.

He might be dangerous.
PC Wilson's warning echoes around my mind.

But what about today? The street was deserted. If he really wanted to hurt me, there was nothing and no one to stop him. Instead he checked me over, then gave me the money to get home.

I'm not the one you should be afraid of.
Wasn't that what he said?

I am afraid, very afraid. But somehow I believe him. I believe he didn't do it – at least not the mugging.

And there's something else. Something in the way he spoke, something in the way he warned me to stay at home.

I think he knows who did.

The house phone rings while I'm getting ready for college the next morning.