Better Left Buried (6 page)

“Sarah, I'm sorry. I know it's bad timing, but I can't get out of it. Really.”

I stare at him, wondering why I feel so churned up. I mean, it's hardly the first time he's been off on business. And it's only a week. Why does the idea fill me with panic?

Then I remember the last time Dad went away. When he flew out to Sweden to identify my brother's body.

My chest tightens as I recall the taxi arriving. Only me and Aunt Helen to see him off. Mum upstairs, slurry with the drugs the doctor prescribed to calm her down. Dad fixated on leaving; on doing whatever had to be done.

Possibly the worst day of my life.

I close my eyes briefly. Shut off the memory before it makes me cry. “When are you going?”

“Day after tomorrow. Got a mid-morning flight.”

So soon. My heart swoops with panic. The thought of me and Mum, alone again, making me dizzy. Can she cope without him?

Can I?

“You'll manage, won't you, the pair of you?” asks Dad, reading my mind. Though my anxiety is probably written all over my face. “You'll be okay looking after Mum?”

Almost unimaginable that Dad would have to ask me that a few months ago. I'd have laughed. Mum was the one who managed everything – her job, the house, us – and still found time to go shopping with Aunt Helen or have lunch with her friends. Who went swimming three times a week, and even volunteered at the local cinema club every Wednesday evening.

Back then Mum could handle anything – just not the death of her only son.

“Sarah?”

I force myself to nod. “Sure, we'll be fine. Don't worry.”

Dad looks relieved, and I realize he's more anxious about leaving than I thought. “Your turn,” he says, leaning against the work counter and folding his arms.

“My turn for what?”

“You said you had something to tell me.”

“It's nothing.” I say it quickly, turning away so he can't read my expression. All at once I no longer feel like confiding in him. What's the point if he's not even going to be here? And even if he believed me – doubtful, given even Lizzie thinks I'm bonkers – I don't want him fretting all the time he's gone.

“When are your exam results out?” he asks, making a guess at what's on my mind.

“Next week.”

“Feeling confident?”

I shrug. I don't think I've done brilliantly – considering what happened in the middle of my exams – but with any luck I'll be okay.

Dad glances in the veg basket then abandons the hunt for something edible. “Pie and chips? I could go to the chippy over on Baker Street.”

My stomach curdles at the thought, but I say yes anyway. Dad, however, isn't convinced. He studies me again, letting his gaze linger. “You look like you could do with a good feed, Sarah. If you don't mind me mentioning it.”

I do mind, but don't say so. Just nod.

“Right then.” Dad goes to put on his jacket.

“I'll go,” I say quickly, grabbing mine.

It takes for ever to get served in the chip shop. They're out of cheese and mushroom pies, so I have to wait while they dig out a vegetable pasty and heat it through. By the time I emerge, the sky is wreathed in cloud, the daylight already dwindling.

I take the quick route home round the back of the park, cradling the bag of hot food. It may be August, but the evening wind has a nip in the air that feels autumnal. I should have worn something warmer than my thin summer jacket.

I walk quickly, anxious to get back before the chips congeal into a large soggy lump. Even so, passing the entrance to the park, I pause for a minute to watch a couple of kids mucking around on the swings. A girl and a boy – brother and sister probably. It seems late for them to be out – they can't be more than eleven or twelve – but I'm guessing they live nearby. Most likely in one of the houses that back onto the playground.

The girl, the smaller one, jumps off the swing and shouts something at her brother, and both of them burst into laughter. I swallow down a sensation like homesickness and the past comes slamming back.

“Sarah, jump!”

I'm up the tree in the woods near Aunt Helen's house, back when I was nine or ten. I've climbed too high and I'm stuck.

“Jump, Sarah. Jump. I'll catch you.”

I look down at Max. He's holding his arms outstretched, his face tipped up towards me. He still had freckles then, spattered across his nose and cheeks, and thick dark hair he hated having cut.

“Go on,” he says.

So I jump. And land right on top of him, his body cushioning my fall. And both of us are laughing, half-winded, but laughing so hard it's almost like crying.

The memory makes me gasp. A pain in my chest like being crushed. I thought he'd always be there, my older brother, to break my fall.

But now Max has gone. And suddenly it's as raw and unbelievable as the first moment I heard it.

He's gone. And he's left me alone.

I clutch the food to my chest, trying to breathe. You'll get over it, everyone says. You won't feel this bad for ever. Time heals everything.

But I'm beginning to wonder. Wonder whether something like this can leave things broken beyond repair.

I stand there, motionless, until my head stops spinning, then set off up Colfox Avenue. The place seems oddly deserted. There are no cars around, except for those parked along the kerb, and no one else out walking. I'm halfway down the road when I feel a chill down the back of my neck, a kind of icy shiver. I spin round, scanning the street behind me.

No one there. But I can't shake the sensation that I'm somehow being watched.

I blink back tears.
Get a grip,
I tell myself fiercely.
Stop it.

Crossing to the other side of the road, I take the shortcut behind the cinema. But a few metres along the alleyway, I become aware how dark it is, the large firs in the neighbouring gardens blocking most of the remaining light.

“Christ,” I mutter, clasping the bag tighter as the panic begins to rise, fighting the urge to turn again and look behind me.

Walk,
I tell myself. But I can't. I give in and spin around. For a second I think I see someone in the shadows, darting out of sight. Fear wells right up into my throat.

I stand there, paralysed, staring into the gloom. But as my eyes adjust to the twilight, I can see there's no one there.

Oh god. What the hell's the matter with me? Why can't I pull myself together? It occurs to me I'm having some kind of breakdown. Maybe it's all got too much and I'm starting to fall apart.

But then I hear the sound of footsteps and I turn round and see him, only a few paces behind me. A man. Tall and dark and eerily familiar.

I let out a small scream and drop the food on the ground as he runs forward and grabs my arm. “Sarah, isn't it? Are you okay?”

I stare at him for a moment, open-mouthed, then burst into tears.

“Oh god, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to give you such a fright. It's Pete. You know, Max's friend? We met at the…” He lets the words trail away.

I nod my head, struggling to get control of myself.
It's not him,
I repeat to myself.
You're okay. It's not that strange guy.

“I'm sorry,” Pete says again. “I wasn't trying to sneak up on you or anything. I only wanted to say hello…ask how you all were.” He bends down and picks up the plastic bag. Peers inside. A strong smell of grease and vinegar wafts into the air.

I nod again, using the back of my hand to wipe my face, and take a deep breath to steady the thump of my heart. “It's okay,” I stutter. “It's not your fault. You gave me a bit of a shock, that's all.”

He hands the bag to me. “No damage done – at least not to the food. Do you want me to walk you home?”

I muster a smile and shake my head. “No, really, thanks…I'm fine. Just tired. You know…”

Pete gives me a sympathetic look, and I remember him from the funeral. Sitting at the back with a group from Max's year in college. All of them dressed in black, clearly shocked and bewildered at finding themselves there, in that chapel, staring at a coffin. Like they, too, were struggling to understand how someone they'd known so well could suddenly be gone.

“You sure you're all right, Sarah? You seem kind of shaken up.”

“I'm fine really.” I grasp the bag. “I'd better get back or these will have to go straight in the bin.”

“Okay,” Pete says, looking dubious, but I'm already heading down the alleyway as fast as I can.

“Take care,” I hear him call after me, but this time I don't turn round.

Coming out of the supermarket, I spot a figure sitting on the opposite wall, eyes fixed on her phone. My heart gives a little skip of pleasure.

Lizzie!

I walk over. She lifts her gaze and sees me approaching, quickly shoving her mobile into her pocket as she gets up to greet me.

“Hey,” I say. “You got my text then?” I hesitate for a moment but can't help myself. I throw my arms round her neck and hug her tight.

Lizzie grins as we pull apart and I can't describe my relief. I didn't hear from her all weekend, was starting to think she was ignoring me. That our argument in her garden was actually a break-up.

“Sorry I didn't call back.” She goes a bit pink. “It was crazy at the bakery and Mum was piling me up with stuff to do at home.”

I smile, though truthfully I'm not sure why that would stop her texting me at least. And clearly she knows it's a lame excuse.

“C'mon,” she says, linking her arm through mine. “Let's get a coffee.”

We head towards the local Costa. I'm walking on air, buoyant with the hope that everything might be okay with us. I'll talk to her, I think. Try to get to the bottom of what's been going on.

Because I can't bear the thought that anything should come between us. With Max gone, Dad away and Mum out of action, Lizzie feels like the only person I have left.

Inside the cafe, Lizzie insists on buying one of those huge chocolate pastries for us to share. We sink into a couple of armchairs near the window. I stir my coffee, while she tears off bits of pastry and stuffs them into her mouth.

“I'd have thought you'd have had enough of those at the bakery,” I say and Lizzie laughs.

“Nah. I never touch the stuff in there. I've seen what goes in them.”

I watch her for another minute or so. There's something restless about her. Edgy even. But she does at least seem genuinely pleased to see me.

“Hey, you going to the results party?” I ask, remembering the invite Abigail posted on Facebook yesterday.

“Not sure.” Lizzie wrinkles her nose. “Maybe.”

I keep my face blank, so she can't read my frustration. The idea of Lizzie missing a major party would have been unthinkable a few months ago; now it just feels normal.

Normal, but exasperating.

A ding from Lizzie's phone. She digs it out her pocket and checks the screen. Shoves it back again with a hint of disappointment in her expression. As if she'd been waiting for something – and that wasn't it.

“So, how's things at home?” Lizzie takes the remaining half of the Danish and sticks it on my plate, wiping the sugary goo from her fingers with a paper napkin.

I shrug. “Okay, I guess. Dad went off to Scotland yesterday, so it's just me and Mum.” I don't tell her how abandoned this makes me feel.

“Scotland?”

“Work. Out on the rigs.”

“And your mum? She all right with that?”

My mood spirals at the memory of Dad's departure. Mum putting on a brave face, though I could see how much effort she was making to hide her distress. Dad acting like it was nothing, like he was simply popping out for a carton of milk.

That was until the taxi arrived.

“I could cancel,” he said suddenly, as the driver loaded his suitcase into the boot of the car. Dad looked at me, then at the house, though Mum had already retreated to her bedroom.

“Go,” I urged, standing on my toes to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “We'll be fine. Just go.”

He didn't argue.

“Mum will be all right,” I reply, in answer to Lizzie's question. Wishing I believed it myself.

Lizzie fidgets with her napkin, as if searching for something reassuring to say. “Look, Sarah, I just wanted to tell you…I'm sorry. I know I've been a bit moody recently…well, for a while. But I want to say it's not you…I mean, it's got nothing to do with us. I need you to know that.”

I stare at her. “So what is it, Lizzie? What's going on?”

She sits back. Chews her bottom lip and glances out the window. “It's nothing. It's just…” She falls silent again.

“Just what?”

Lizzie thinks for a few seconds, then opens her mouth to respond. Tries to force herself to look at me straight but doesn't quite pull it off. “There's some stuff I need to tell you. Things I probably should have told you a while ago actually.”

My pleasure at seeing my best friend ebbs away as I sense this is serious. And the way she can't meet my eyes tells me what she's about to say is not going to be anything I'll like.

“I'm not sure how to explain. The thing is…” She falters. “Oh god, this is so difficult.”

I lean forward and grasp her hand. “Lizzie, it's me, okay. You can tell me whatever. You know that.”

She squeezes my fingers in return. Manages a smile. “I do know that, Sarah. That's why I feel so bad about not talking to you before, but—”

She stops. Her eyes widen and seem to fix on something outside the cafe window.

I swing round to follow her gaze. I don't see anything at first. The usual clumps of shoppers cruising up and down the high street. Near the doorway a mother fiddling with a strap on a buggy while the toddler inside arches its back, face contorted in fury. A group of girls are hanging out by the benches – one pulls a pair of red jeans from a carrier bag and holds them up for inspection.