Better Left Buried (18 page)

Jack eyes me carefully. “Sarah, I can't say what they'll do or how long you should stay away. I don't have all the answers. But don't you understand how much this is worth to them?”

I nod. I'm not going to try to put a figure on it, but I'm guessing it's a very big number.

“Listen to me,” he says, glancing around again. “I know the lengths they'll go to when they want something this badly. They're like wolves, these people. They hunt you down till they get what they're after.”

I feel my breath catch but don't let my anxiety show.

“Face it, right now you're the best lead they've got.”

“What about my parents?” I ask, voicing the concern that's haunted me since our last meeting.

Jack looks at his feet. “I don't think they'd bother with them. They know that if your mum and dad were in any way involved, they'd have gone to the police. Besides, what kid ever tells their parents anything? They can be pretty sure Max didn't drag them into it.”

I let his words sink in. Feel a small measure of relief.

“But I can't simply up and disappear for good,” I say quietly, kicking at a stone under my swing. “I can't give up college and my music and everything. I can't do that to my parents – not after what happened with Max.”

Jack ponders this for a while. “So why go at all?”

“I don't know. I just feel I have to.”

It's not the whole truth, but it's a big part of it. I want to piece together what happened to my brother. To make sense of something that right now feels pretty senseless.

“So what are you going to tell your parents? About going away, I mean.”

“My dad's not here. He's working on an oil rig and there's been a lot of problems, so I doubt he'll be home before I get back. And I've managed to persuade Mum to go off for a few days.”

It's taken some doing. I had to ring Aunt Helen and get her to suggest it, or else Mum would be suspicious. Luckily they both decided it was a brilliant idea. “Exactly what your mum needs,” Aunt Helen said. “Bit of a holiday. We might go down to Totnes, where we used stay when we were little. She's always saying she wants to go back.”

Which is perfect, I now realize. If Jack's wrong, if the gang do decide to target my parents, they won't be easy to find. They'll be safe for as long as this will take.

So all I have to do now is fake another sick note for school. Say I need some time off on compassionate grounds, something like that.

“You planning to go on your own?” Jack asks.

I nod.

He leans back, elbows crooked round the chains holding up the swing, and gazes up into the clouds high above our heads. “I should come with you,” he says finally.

I shake my head. “No.”

He drops his gaze to mine. “So when are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

Jack lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

“Like I said,” I shrug, “I've got to get back soon.”

“For your audition?”

I nod. Six days. It's enough. Six days to get there, find what I hope I'll find, and get back. Just in time for my big day on Saturday.

It means cancelling a session with Mrs Perry, but I'll have to live with that. I'll text her en route. Pretend I've got a headache or something.

Jack carries on gazing at me. Thinking. “Are you going to tell me why you want to go to Sweden?” he asks after a minute or so. “It's a bit gruesome, isn't it?”

“I can't explain. It just feels important.” I hold his gaze, resisting the urge to blink. I've no intention of telling him more than I absolutely have to.

“You still don't trust me, do you?”

I let my silence serve as an answer.

Jack sighs. “I guess I can't blame you.” He twists his swing round so it's facing me. “But listen, let me come with you. It's not right, you going all that way on your own. And I can be there…just in case…”

“Just in case what?”

He rubs his nose. “You know. In case you run into any kind of trouble.”

I feel a hot flush of anxiety. “You don't think they'd follow me up there? I mean, how would they know? They're not watching me, are they?” I glance about quickly.

Nothing but playing fields and trees. A few people walking dogs. A gang of kids kicking a football while their parents look on.

“I'm not sure,” Jack says. “I don't think so. They generally stick to their own patch. I haven't seen anyone about, certainly not Tommy or Kev or any of the other blokes I know. But I still reckon you shouldn't go alone.”

“Why do you care?”

Jack kicks at the ground, frustration all over his face. “Look, Sarah, I told you. I've been watching out for you. I'm trying to
protect
you.”

“But why?” I persist. “
Why
do you care so much what happens to me? Is it just guilt or what?”

He stays silent for a moment, then his shoulders slump downwards.

“Guilt, yeah. And I guess you remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

Jack looks away. “My sister.”

A pang of something I can't define. “You have a sister?”

He nods. “Yeah. Younger than me. A bit younger than you too. She still lives with my mum and my stepfather.”

I study his face. “How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-three.”

He looks older somehow. Like he's lived through more than his years.

“Do you see her?”

“Who?”

“Your sister.”

His face clouds. That twitch in the corner of his eye. “Not often. I had to go away for a while and afterwards he…my stepdad…didn't want me near her.”

I can imagine. What father wants a drug dealer around his daughter?

There's a tightness in his jaw and his throat moves as he swallows. “I used to go to her school sometimes, stand outside the playground, just to check she was okay. That's when I saw him…one of the pushers from the gang, hanging about, trying to get in with the older kids.”

He stares off towards the cricket pavilion, then looks round at me. “That's when I knew I had to get out.”

I gaze back at him, trying to see past those ash-grey eyes and fathom what sort of person lies behind.

But all I see is myself. My own face, reflected in his.

Should I trust Jack? I wonder again. How do I know he's telling the truth about any of this? How can I be sure he's no longer working for these people?

Perhaps I really should go to the police. Tell them everything. Let them handle it. God knows I've come close a dozen times this past week.

I remind myself why I've held back – it would all come out, and Mum and Dad would find out about Max. I couldn't bear that, not when Mum seems to be emerging from that dark hole she fell into after his death.

I inhale deeply, tasting the cold, evening air. Admit to myself that there's another reason. One I've grappled with over and over. I'd have to tell the police everything I know about Jack – and somehow I'm thinking that wouldn't work out so well for him.

Because the truth is I want to believe what he's said. That he's been looking out for me, keeping me safe. And that he wants out. So how can I walk into a police station and dump him in it?

I gaze towards the clumps of trees lining the river. A pair of dogs are racing about, chasing each other as their owners watch. It's so normal, so ordinary, that I have to look away. I feel outside all that now – the everyday stuff going on around me. It all feels a million miles away.

If I turn Jack in, I'll be in this alone. And if what he's told me about this drug gang is true, getting the police involved wouldn't be the end of my problems. Because Jack said, didn't he, that they haven't been able to pin much on this Tommy guy. And what proof do I have of anything? Nothing that would convince the police that we require protection.

I need Jack, I realize. He's the only person who knows who these people are, what they're truly capable of.

I turn to look at him, but he's facing away from me now, gazing into the distance, his black hair a little wind-blown, a faint shadow along his jawline, like he forgot to shave. Even at rest, he exudes a tight, taut energy, an agitation that never seems to subside. Always alert. Always watchful.

When your life is in danger, I think, who do you really want on your side? Someone good, someone decent, someone who only ever does the right thing?

Couldn't the opposite be true? What if, when your world grows dark, you're better off with someone who's lived in the shadows? Someone who's seen and done things you can't even imagine. Someone who's prepared to do whatever it takes.

Maybe, when your life threatens to collapse beneath you, the only person who can help is the last person on earth you should actually trust.

I stare at the car. It's an old Ford Fiesta, a hatchback with a big door in the boot and a black plastic trim. The kind of car Aunt Helen might drive.

I can't stop myself. I do the last thing I thought I'd be capable of right now. I start laughing.

Jack looks annoyed. “What's so funny?”

“Your car.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing. It's just not the sort I'd expect a drug dealer to drive.”

“I've told you, I don't deal any—”

Another fit of giggles. I run my hand along the dark green paintwork. “I mean, it's not very gangsta, is it?”

Jack's scowl morphs into a smile. “What makes you think I haven't got a Maserati tucked away in a lock-up somewhere? Anyway, the whole point is not to draw attention to ourselves.”

I grin. It feels like the first time in for ever I haven't had to force one.

“Besides,” Jack sniffs, “it's not mine. It belongs to a friend.”

“What about your SUV?”

“I borrowed this instead.”

I don't ask him why. I have a horrible feeling I know the answer. To throw
them
off our track. Clearly he's more worried about them following us than he's letting on.

He grabs my holdall and flings it in the back. Then opens the passenger door for me with a little bow, like a chauffeur. I can't help smiling again.

My good mood lasts for as long as it takes for him to climb into the driving seat. I do up my seat belt, praying he'll start the engine before I change my mind. About going, about letting Jack come with me. About everything.

It's still not too late,
says a voice in my head.
You don't have to do this. You can go on your own.

But the truth is I'm far more scared than I'm willing to admit. And when it comes down to it, I'm not sure I can handle travelling all that way alone. Because, if what Jack said about these people is true, there
is
a risk they might follow me. And if they did, would I stand a chance on my own?

No, I think. No chance at all.

Better the devil you know and all that.

So I sit and wait for Jack to drive off, but he's resting both arms on the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead. I'm not the only one having second thoughts, I realize.

“Are you really sure about this, Sarah? Wouldn't it make more sense to join your friend or something?”

I pick at my nail. It's not like I haven't considered it. I'm certain if I put enough pressure on Lizzie, I could get her to tell me where she is. Or at least agree to meet me.

But either way, as a plan, it has one flaw. A big one. When would we ever come home again? From what Jack told me, this gang won't give up so easily. I imagine they're perfectly prepared to bide their time.

So that would be it. We couldn't come back. Probably not for months. Years even. And what would I tell Mum and Dad? What about college?

My audition?

No, there's only one way I'm going to get them off our backs. Make us all safe again.

And that's to give them exactly what they want.

It's turned sunny, one of those hot days you sometimes get in September, like the last gasp of summer. Jack's car hasn't got air conditioning, and it smells funny, so I open my passenger window and let the fresh breeze blast in.

As we pull on to the ring road that leads to the motorway I'm almost enjoying myself. I always loved travelling, even as a kid. Not the arriving, but the process of getting there. There's something about moving from one place to another that makes you feel suspended, as if all your problems have receded to the margins and you can simply enjoy the ride.

Most people moan about long journeys; right now I'm thinking the longer the better. I'm dreading arriving in Sweden. Dreading what I might have to deal with there.

And just as worried I may find nothing at all.

Up ahead the traffic slows for roadworks. I stare out the window while Jack fiddles with the satnav he's plugged into the car's cigarette lighter. We're down to a few miles an hour now, inching past houses and fields at barely more than a walking pace.

I find I'm checking out the vehicles around us, wondering who might be in them. I'm half tempted to ask Jack more about this gang, what they look like, what kind of car they'd drive, but stop myself. What's the point in making myself any more paranoid?

I have to trust that Jack knows what he's doing. After all, he's already swapped his car. He's clearly given this some thought.

We crawl towards an office building faced with a line of trees and bushes running parallel to the road. I notice several squat little plants, studded with bright blue flowers. I crane my head to gaze at them as we pass.

“Ceratostigma,” Jack says.

“Cerato-what?”

“That shrub. It's called ceratostigma.”

I turn and stare at him. “How do you even know that?”

He shrugs. “I had a Saturday job for a while in the local garden centre. You pick things up.”