Better Left Buried (13 page)

“Sarah?”

“Dad.” His voice sounds so clear, like he's the other side of the room rather than somewhere in the middle of the North Sea.

“Hey, how are you, darling? Where have you been? I called home a couple of times yesterday and no one answered, and I couldn't get through on your mobile either.”

A wrench of guilt. The truth is I've been screening Dad's calls. I'm not even sure why. Part of me wants to tell him everything: the man, the mugging, Lizzie – all of it. After all, I've thought of little else since. But Dad would probably quit his job and jump on the first plane back home, and with Mum not working, that's the last thing this family needs.

And besides, I am far from convinced there's anything Dad could do.

“Sorry, I keep forgetting to charge it,” I fib. I feel terrible about it, but it's better than the alternative.

“Where's your mum? Is she okay?”

“Yep. She's off choosing paint with Aunt Helen. They're going to redecorate the kitchen and the living room.”

“Really?” says Dad, momentarily lost for more words.

I know what he's thinking: Mum's barely got out of bed the last couple of months, let alone gone off to a DIY store. Weirdly the burglary seems to have had an energizing effect, like it's jogged Mum out of some kind of trance. She even insisted on clearing Max's room by herself, emerging with several carrier bags destined for the charity shop.

The other day I found her cleaning out the kitchen cupboards, the radio on in the background. A few weeks ago she couldn't bear anything but silence.

“Well, that's good,” Dad says, recovering himself. “What about you? How's the singing going?”

“Great,” I lie again. I've hardly done any practice since my last lesson with Mrs Perry. And now I haven't even got my sheet music.

“When are you coming back?” I ask to change the subject.

A heavy sigh at the end of the line. “I'm still not certain, love. Not for another week, I don't suppose. There's still an issue with a leak on the well head.”

“Okay.”

“I'm sorry,” Dad says. “You know I had no idea I'd be gone this long. If I had, I'd have made them send someone else, but now I'm here—”

“It doesn't matter,” I say. What's the point of making him feel any worse?

“But I called the insurance company, and they're going to pay the money into our account. I've sorted out everything I can this end.”

I'm just deciding how to respond when I hear someone calling his name, adding something about a change of shift. Dad says he has to go.

“I'll call again in a couple of days,” he adds, hurry in his voice. “Oh, and make sure you charge up your mobile.”

I sit on my bed with my new laptop and go into Facebook. Check for messages from Lizzie, or any sign of activity on her timeline. Nothing. I check my emails, just in case. Scroll down the list. Nothing but spam and a newsletter from the local choral society.

No sign of Lizzie's name.

Back in Facebook, I open a new message window and start to type.

Lizzie,

I don't know where you are or what you're doing. I've no idea why you're ignoring all my messages and texts. Your mum tells me you're okay, but I'm still worried, and I have to speak to you – urgently.

Something is going on here, Lizzie. Something to do with that guy I was telling you about.

I desperately need to talk to you. Please.

Sarah xxx

He's there when I come out of college. Standing by the Starbucks on the other side of the road.

My heart ups tempo when I see him, and I suppress the urge to turn and run.
He didn't do it,
I remind myself.
He wasn't the one who mugged you, remember?
Anyway, we're surrounded by people – and I need answers.

All the same, better safe than sorry. I grab my phone and punch in 999. Put it back in my pocket with my finger on the dial button.

Ready.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to approach him, half expecting him to turn on his heels as I close the distance between us. But this time he stands his ground.

“Who are you?” I say, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. My heart beating so loudly it feels it might explode.

Don't approach him… He might be dangerous.

I make myself meet his gaze head on. “Why are you following me? And how do you know my name?”

His left eye twitches. That rapid movement he clearly can't control. He looks right at me, checking me over, then finally speaks.

“I can explain. Can we go somewhere quiet to talk?” His voice is tense, agitated, and he looks almost as nervous as me. “Anywhere,” he adds, reading the apprehension on my face. “You choose.”

He lifts his hand to his hair and I automatically take a step backwards, flinching. He bites his lip, inhales.

“Sarah, I'm not going to hurt you, all right?” He closes his eyes briefly then lets out a long sigh. “Yeah, you're right…I was following you. Sort of. More like looking out for you. Keeping an eye on you, making sure you were okay.”

I snort. “Looking out for me? You're kidding, aren't you? You nearly killed me outside the cinema!”

His face colours. “Yeah, I'm really sorry about that. I was just trying to get away. I was flustered. I didn't mean to scare you.”

I study him. He seems genuinely embarrassed, and my fear fades a little. I relax my finger on the dial button. “And the mugging?” I ask, watching his reaction carefully. Not yet sure I can trust him not to hurt me.

“You still think I was the one that attacked you?” He looks stunned.

I don't reply.

“Christ,” he says, taking a step backwards himself. All sorts of emotions seem to be crossing his face. “Listen, I swear—”

“Give me one good reason not to go straight to the police.”

He stares at the ground. Doesn't speak for several seconds. “I can't.” He raises his eyes to mine. “But you haven't, have you? Because you don't seriously believe I did that. I tried to help you, Sarah.” His expression appears almost hurt.

“So why did you keep running away when you saw me? Why bolt like that?”

“I don't know.” He shrugs. “I wanted to keep my distance. Didn't want you involved any more than you had to be.” He sighs. “God, this is such a mess.”

“What is?”

He presses his lips together. Thinks for a minute. Several girls from my year walk past, giving us curious glances. I feel calmer, suddenly, more in control.

“Listen, Sarah, I know how this looks. I can see you haven't got a single reason to trust me. But I'm asking for a chance to explain. For your sake, not mine.”

I consider this. In all probability he burgled our house and I should stay as far away from him as possible. On the other hand, it has to be my best hope of getting to the bottom of all this.

“Okay.”

He smiles with relief. Then glances around. “Not here, all right? We need to go somewhere less obvious.”

I catch the anxiety in his expression, and feel another flash of fear. Who is he afraid will see us? The police?

“The cafe.” I point to the little place over by the bus station. Less crowded than Starbucks, but hopefully with enough people around to ensure I'm safe.

The cafe is half full. One man sitting alone near the door, reading the paper as he eats a plate full of bacon and beans and fried eggs. A younger couple with a toddler at the next table. An older couple sitting opposite.

I should be okay.

I order a cup of tea up at the counter. “I'll get you that,” he insists as I retrieve my new purse.

“Why?” I say, trying to ignore the overpowering smell of frying meat. “After all, I owe you a tenner.”

He crinkles his eyes and I realize he's smiling. “Forget the money.” He nods at my mug of tea. “Want a bacon sarnie to go with that?

“I'm vegetarian.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Okay. A slice of cake then?” He points to a slab of something dense and dark, probably some kind of brownie.

“No, thanks.”

“You sure?” He gives me a quick once-over. “You look like you could do with it.”

I wince, wishing he hadn't said that, and sit at a table in the corner. Next to me is a sickly-looking rubber plant, its trunk long and spindly, its leaves curled under at the corners. He picks the seat opposite the window, eyeing the street beyond my shoulder. I stir my tea, trying not to stare at the hair-thin scar near his lip.

“How's your head?” His eyes swivel up to my hair.

“It's fine,” I lie. It's as sore as hell, but I'm not about to admit it. Though at least I don't seem to have concussion.

He looks at my bag. “You got a new one.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you manage to replace all your stuff?”

“Not yet.” Not worth telling him how much hassle I'm going to have getting new books from college. Renewing all my sheet music.

“You haven't lost anything?” he asks. “Anything important…private.”

“How do you mean?”

“Nothing really.” He looks down at the table. “You know, diaries, notebooks. Stuff like that.”

Notebooks?
I frown at him. “Why are you asking?”

His eyes dart around, looking everywhere except at mine. “No reason. Forget I said it.”

“No.” I say it loud enough that the couple sitting opposite glance over. “I won't forget it. I want you to tell me who you are. And what the hell is going on. You want me to believe you didn't mug me? Well, explain!” I'm surprised by the confidence in my voice. I sound so determined.

I
am
determined, I realize. I've had enough of being left in the dark.

“Shhh…” he hisses. “For god's sake, keep it down.” His eyes flit around the cafe, taking in the other customers. The older couple turn back to their food.

He chews the side of his cheek and stares out of the window, eyes darting the length of the street. Then pulls out a cigarette packet and lays it on the table, fidgeting with it. The cafe owner looks over disapprovingly, inclining his head towards the
No Smoking
sign.

“Who are you?” I repeat.

He flips the pack from one side to the other. Over and over. “It doesn't matter.”

“I found your map,” I say. “You dropped it. You were watching our house, weren't you?”

He fixes me with those grey eyes, but doesn't answer.

“Checking the place out, were you?”

“I told you—”

“So was it worth it?” I butt in.

He looks at me questioningly. “Worth it?”

“Stealing our stuff. Wrecking our home.”

“What do you mean? I've no idea what you're talking about.”

“Burgling us.” I gauge his reaction carefully as I say it.

His eyes widen. “You were burgled? Shit. When?”

I examine his face. If he's acting surprised, I have to admit he's making a fair job of it.

“A few weeks ago.”

“Jesus, Sarah…” He grips the cigarette packet. “This isn't good.”

I frown at the use of my name again when I have no idea of his. “Are you saying you didn't do that either?”

His head jerks up. “Of course I didn't!”

I keep my eyes level with his. They don't look away. They don't twitch or move. Again that weird certainty he's telling the truth.

“What did they take?” he asks after a pause.

I pick up my cup of tea, willing my hand not to tremble. “Not much. Some money. A couple of laptops.”
And my notebook with your map,
I think, but say nothing.

“Not jewellery, DVDs, stuff like that?”

I shake my head.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

I narrow my eyes. “So you know who did it?”

“Who did what?”

“If it wasn't you who broke into our house, stole our stuff, who did?”

Again he doesn't answer. And I can't work out if that's worse than an outright lie.

“You do know, don't you? Why else would you ask me about stolen notebooks?”

Get out of here,
a voice says in my head. You're sitting having a cup of tea with a criminal. Or at least someone who hangs out with criminals.

You should be more careful.

He fiddles with his cigarettes, gazing outside over my shoulder.

“We need to get you away.” He says it suddenly, without looking at me.

I stare at him, astounded. “Get away? Where?
Why?
”

“Anywhere,” he adds, keeping his voice so low I can barely hear him. “Abroad. Out of the country, out of the way. Just not here.”

I actually snort with laughter, though there's nothing funny about any of this. “You're joking, aren't you? Why would you even suggest that?”

He sweeps his hand across his cheek, as if trying to contain his own frustration. “Look, Sarah, you have to clear off. I can't protect you here. It's not safe.”

“Protect me? What from? This is insane. What the hell are you talking about?”

The blood is starting to pound in my ears and I'm aware I'm speaking too loudly. I see him wince before he leans in.

“You just have to trust me.”

“
Trust you?
” I explode, not caring who might hear. “I don't even know who you are, for Christ's sake. You've been stalking me for weeks, you turn up everywhere I go, scaring the shit out of me, and now you expect me to trust you?”

“Sarah, please, listen to me…”

I wrench my arm away. “I
am
listening, whatever your name is, but you're not telling me anything, are you?”

“Jack.”

“What?”

“My name is Jack.” His voice is nearly a whisper. He turns and stares down the couple at the next table, now openly observing all of this. Without a word, they get up and leave.