Girl, Missing (3 page)

It was funny how alike Jam and I were. Not interested in going out with anyone, just wanting to be friends. Well, friends with each other.

Jam caught up with me as I set off up the high street.

‘What did you mean?' he said. ‘About tomorrow night?'

I grinned at him. ‘I was hoping you'd help me get Mum out of the way so I can look through those diaries.'

My plan was simple. Jam's mum, Carla, was always saying she and my mum should get together, what with me and Jam being such good friends. So that night, after school, I asked her if Mum could visit her the very next day.

‘She'd really like to get to know you,' I lied.

Carla was typically enthusiastic, if a little vague: ‘How lovely, darling, but tell her to come before seven, that's when I start seeing clients.'

Of course Mum didn't want to go. Partly because she hates going anywhere. And partly because she thinks Jam's mum is a total nut. She's right, in fact – but that's another story.

‘What does “come before seven” mean?' Mum said. ‘Suppose they're having tea when I get there?'

I sighed. ‘They don't “have tea” like that. They all just drift in and out, getting food when they want it. Come on, Mum. Please. It'll be really embarrassing if you won't go.' In the end Mum agreed.

I reckoned Carla would keep Mum talking for at least an hour. Plenty of time for me to find the diaries in the attic and have a good look at them.

Mum left our house at quarter past five the next day, still grumbling and issuing instructions about Rory not having chocolate before tea. Ten minutes later, Jam rang from his house.

‘The package has arrived,' he said.

I giggled. ‘Don't forget to ring me as soon as she leaves again,' I said.

As soon as Jam hung up, I raced down to the kitchen to grab as much chocolate as I could carry. I panted back up the stairs and into Rory's room. His pudgy little face was bent over his PSP. Jam – in a heroic gesture of friendship – had lent him his
Legends of the Lost Empire
game.

‘Here.' I thrust the chocolate bars at him. ‘Now keep quiet.'

I picked up my mobile and charged into Mum's office.
All her keys hung neatly on a row of hooks behind the desk. I shoved the set marked ‘attic' in my pocket, then ran into Mum and Dad's room, pulled down the loft ladder and climbed up.

I'm guessing, of course, but I imagine most people's attics are a bit of a mess. Bin bags, bits of old equipment, suitcases. That kind of stuff.

Not ours.

Mum has everything organised in trunks. Labelled trunks.
Clothes. School. University. Letters
. There.
Diaries
.

My hands were shaking as I fumbled with the keys, trying one after the other in the lock. At last one of the keys turned with a satisfying click. I opened the trunk and peered inside at the neatly stacked rows of black notebooks. They were labelled in quarter years:
Jan–Mar
,
Apr–Jun
and so on.

All disgustingly well-organised.

I rummaged around and found the year I was adopted. I picked out
Sep–Dec
: the three months that covered Martha's disappearance and my own adoption.

Heart pounding I scanned the pages, searching for my name.

There were references to me on
Sept 25
and
30
. But at that point I was just a possibility. An idea of a child they hadn't met. Then . . .

Oct 7 – We met Lauren at Marchfield. She smiled at me. At least I'm telling myself it was a smile. Dave said it was more of an accidental curl of the lip. Lauren doesn't smile much. Not surprising, I suppose. With Sonia Holtwood involved, everything's very tense and I'm sure she picks up on it
.

I put the diary down. For the first time since I'd found the information about Martha Lauren Purditt on the net, I wasn't sure if I wanted to know any more. My stomach twisted into a knot. Who was Sonia Holtwood? And what exactly were they all involved in?

I sat there for a few moments, the diary in my lap.

Then I picked it up again. It was too late to turn back now.

Oct 14 – I daren't hope. I don't want to be disappointed again . . .

Oct 20 – Sonia's attitude is unbelievable. But we're going to go ahead anyway. Nothing's going to stop us getting Lauren. Nothing
.

Oct 30 – Lauren. My Lauren. After all this time, it's really happening. We're bringing her home from Marchfield in two days
.

That was it. No more references to Sonia or Marchfield.
Just loads of stuff about what it was like when they got me home.

So what and where was Marchfield? I flicked to the back of the diary, to a clear plastic sleeve containing a selection of business cards. I saw it instantly – a yellowing card with the words
Marchfield Adoption Agency
embossed across the front.

The doorbell rang – a long continuous screech.

I leaped up and raced to the trapdoor.

‘Hi, Jam,' I heard Rory saying.

‘Lauren! She's almost here.' Jam's yell echoed urgently up from the hall.

I pocketed the Marchfield Agency business card, tossed the diary back in the trunk and raced down the stepladder. Jam pelted into Mum and Dad's bedroom in time to help me push the stepladder back up into the attic. It clicked into place just as the front door shut.

‘I'm home,' Mum shouted.

‘Why didn't you call me?' I said to Jam, as I carefully replaced the keys on their hook.

‘I did. Your phone kept going to voice mail. I had to run all the way here – the long way round, too.'

I checked my mobile. The volume was turned right down.

Rory was standing in the study doorway, grinning at me. ‘I did it while you were getting my chocolate,' he said.

‘You little . . .' I lunged for him, but he slipped out of my grasp.

‘Do anything and I'll tell Mum you were looking at her things,' he said.

I stared at him. ‘Fine.' I'd get him back some other way.

We went downstairs. Jam slipped out, unnoticed by Mum. She was in a good mood, clattering about in the kitchen. I suspected Carla had given her more to drink than a cup of tea.

‘Totally chaotic,' Mum said. ‘Poor Jam. They live in the most unbelievable mess. Frankly, the place could do with a damn good clean as well. But of course, Carla's too busy with her hypno-flexology-colour-in-your-own-aura nonsense.'

I nodded without really listening. My mind was on the Marchfield business card in my pocket. I slipped out of the kitchen and went up to my room.

Hands shaking, I took out the card:

Taylor Tarson, Director

Marchfield Adoption Agency

11303 Main Street

Marchfield, Vermont, USA
.

America. I was adopted from America?

The ‘missing' poster from the website flashed into my mind. Martha Lauren was American too. My skin erupted in goosebumps, sending a shiver snaking down my back.

I was getting closer and closer to the truth.

Part of me wanted to run back downstairs, burst into the kitchen and confront Mum with what I'd found out. But what good would it do?

She's too young
.

Mum still wouldn't tell me anything.

Plus – she would totally freak if she knew I'd been nosing through her diaries.

Whatever I was going to find out from the Marchfield Adoption Agency, I would have to find out alone.

5

Carla

The last week of September was hot and sunny. With the weather like that, I much preferred being at Jam's house to mine. The grass in his back garden was always long and soft – perfect for lying out on.

The day after I'd read Mum's diaries, we rushed back there after school. I reckoned we should be able to sit outside for at least an hour before Mum rang to demand I went home and did my homework.

As I sat down on the grass, Jam emerged from the kitchen carrying a bunch of bananas, three vegetarian sausages and several packets of biscuits.

‘So how far away from each other are Marchfield and Evanport?' he asked, ripping open one of the biscuit packs.

‘Not far – just a few centimetres on Rory's atlas.' I tipped my face to the sunshine. ‘They're in different states, though.'

Jam carefully placed a veggie sausage between two wholewheat digestives. ‘What're you going to do?' he said.

‘I don't know,' I sighed.

What options did I have? I couldn't talk to Mum and Dad. And I already knew no adoption agency would tell me anything without their approval.

Marchfield wasn't even in this country, for God's sake.

Everywhere I turned was a dead end.

I detached a banana from the bunch and broke off the tip.

‘That all you're having?'

I shrugged. It's not like I'm a diet freak or anything. But I hate being so much bigger than the rest of my family. I mean, Mum's basically a bony elbow on legs. I'm even taller than Dad.

Jam stretched out across the grass and bit into his sausage and biscuit sandwich. ‘You know, Laurenzo. It's a shame you can't
remember
all this stuff about your adoption. It would save an awful lot of time.'

I stared at him. For some reason it had never occurred to me that the one place all the answers to my past could be found was inside my own head.

The front door slammed. Jam sat up and groaned. ‘The lunatic has re-entered the asylum.'

A minute later Carla poked her frizzy head round the back door. ‘I'm back from my colonic, darlings.'

I blushed.

‘Gross, Mum.' Jam made a face. ‘Way too much information.'

Carla stepped out into the garden and fluffed up her hair. ‘Don't be so uptight, darling. I'm sure Lauren's heard it all before. What are
you
guys doing?' Her eyes twinkled.

Jam's face went red. ‘Mu-um,' he muttered.

Carla winked at me.

‘Just so you know,' she said, ‘I have a new client at seven-thirty, for which I will need Absolute Quiet.'

She padded inside again.

Jam flopped back onto the grass. ‘Could she
be
more embarrassing? Last week I caught her telling that new games teacher how she'd unblocked some woman's energy through her big toe.'

I giggled. ‘Sounds painful,' I said. Then my eyes snapped wide open. ‘Maybe your mum could help me remember my early life? I mean all that stuff she does – rebirthing, reflexology, hypnotherapy – it's got to—'

‘No way.' Jam stared at me. ‘My mum's a nut job.'

‘Come on, Jam,' I wheedled. ‘It's worth a try. She might help me.'

‘Help you go insane, you mean.'

There was no convincing him, so I wandered into the kitchen by myself. Carla was standing at a cupboard, pulling out a baking tray.

‘Can I ask you something?' I said.

‘Sure.' She indicated I should sit down, then placed a bowl full of an oily, orangey sludge in front of me.

Last time I was here, Carla had made nut cutlets in the shape of parts of the body. We had to guess which they were. ‘A little Biology homework, darlings.'

I wondered what the sludge in the bowl was.

‘Homemade hummus,' Carla announced, handing me a wooden spoon. ‘Go on, stir,' she said.

I picked up the spoon and looked at her, hesitantly.

‘So you've been thinking about your birth parents?' Carla said, sitting down beside me.

My jaw dropped. ‘Did Jam say something . . . ?'

‘Oh for goodness' sake.' Carla shook her head so hard all her frizzy curls trembled. ‘He's a man. Strong and silent, God love him. No. It was Mrs Worrybags.'

For a second I had no idea who she meant. Then my eyes widened.

‘My
mum
told you?' I said, incredulously.

‘Not exactly.' Carla shook her bangles down her arm. ‘But I use my intuition for a living. I can see the signs.'

I picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the slimy, orange hummus. ‘What signs?'

Carla waved her hand vaguely. ‘Oh, darling. The point is, how can I help?'

I could feel my face reddening. I loved the way Carla treated kids like adults – but the truth was, I was just a teensy bit scared of her. She was so different from my mum.

I took a deep breath. Then it all tumbled out in a rush: ‘I was wondering if you could hypnotise me and I could find out about my real mother, my real family. About before I was adopted.'

Carla arched her eyebrows. ‘And what d'you think Mrs Worrybags would say to that?'

I blushed.

Carla stared at me. She seemed torn, unsure what to do. ‘I suppose I could put you in a state of deep relaxation,' she mused. ‘It couldn't hurt.'

I stared back at her, now torn myself. What had seemed like the obvious thing to do, in the glare of the afternoon sunshine, now felt a bit silly. Scary, even.

I opened my mouth to say perhaps it wasn't such a good idea, but Carla jumped up impulsively. ‘Oh, come on then. If we're going to do it, let's do it now.'

My heart leaped into my throat. ‘No,' I squeaked. ‘Not right now. Not yet.'

Carla tossed back her hair. ‘Better now than when you've had a chance to create internal blockages. Come on.'

She strode out of the kitchen. I had no choice but to follow.

6

The memory

I realised I was in deep trouble when Carla started introducing me to her candles.

‘This is Evie, this is Elsie and this is Tom,' she said, pointing to three stout wax balls, ranged in saucers across a low shelf. ‘At least this is the home of their spirit-flame. They are drawn to the fire, here in my Room of Utter Peace. Let their spirits enfold you, take you into another space and time.'

Carla's Room of Utter Peace – or Room of Utter Piss, as Jam liked to call it – was at the top of the house, a converted attic. There was one tiny window and the walls sloped down to the floor on both sides, giving the room a cosy, shadowy feel.