Better Left Buried (2 page)

I edge between the two cars parked beside me, intending to cross to the other side of the road. It's a tight squeeze, and as I heave one of the bags over the front of the nearest car, the corner of the plastic catches on the wing mirror. A tin of beans spills out, bouncing off the bonnet and onto the ground, rolling under the bumper.

Damn. I bend down to retrieve it, hoping I haven't damaged the paintwork. When I get up, the man is only a metre or two away.

His gaze fixes on mine. For a second he stares at me blankly, nothing registering in his features. I'm still not sure I recognize him, though his face is hardly the kind you'd forget. Lean and angular, with the lightest grey eyes, gazing at me with an intensity that's almost startling.

But if anyone is startled, it's him. His blank expression tightens into shock. He stops dead, and I take in the black hair, the leather jacket and dark-dyed jeans. And the twitch in his left eye; a rapid, blinking motion like a kind of tic. He doesn't move, just looks at me as if I'm the last person in the world he ever expected to see.

The last person in the world he ever
wanted
to see.

I feel my cheeks flush. What on earth is this guy playing at? Why is he gawping at me like that?

I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

“Shit,” he says under his breath, then suddenly he's gone. Turns on his heels and starts walking back the way he came, only quicker, as if he can't get away fast enough. I'm so stunned that I just stand there, watching, until he darts into Cambourne Avenue and disappears out of my sight.

Lizzie's sitting on my bed, skimming through a magazine. Not reading, but flicking, as if she can't actually be bothered with any of it. Her long, wavy hair drooping over her face, her fingers restless, curling the corners of each page.

I'm lounging on a cushion on the floor, my back against the wardrobe door, trying not to let this upset me. With both of us working full-time over the summer, I can't help thinking we should be doing something decent with our day off, rather than moping around in my room. Especially when I could –
should
– be practising my singing.

Another lurch in my stomach at the thought of my audition in a little over a month. I push it away. “Hey, why don't we go into town? See what's going on?” I suggest, in my breeziest, most upbeat voice.

Lizzie doesn't even raise her eyes. Just screws up her lips to show she's not keen.

“C'mon, the sun's out. We should make the most of it. You know, before it starts raining again.”

She yawns. “I'm not fussed, to be honest.”

I feel my mood sink further. Surely Lizzie should be cheering me up, not the other way round? If I can make an effort, why can't she?

Not that I'm complaining. Not really. In those first days after we got the news about Max, I couldn't have asked for a better friend. Lizzie was the one who rushed over and held me as I sat on my bed, too stunned to do anything. It was Lizzie who made me endless cups of tea and force-fed me slices of toast and pizza, and Lizzie who made sure I made it to my last few exams.

Lizzie cried with me. Lizzie cried almost as much as me.

It's only now, six weeks later, as I recover from those first shock waves of grief, that I can see my friend more clearly. Something's up with her, and has been for a while. Even before Max died, Lizzie had changed, I remember; all her energy and sparkle turned moody and listless.

I inhale, vetoing the urge to ask her again what's wrong. Every time I do she says she's fine. Sometimes, for a while, she acts all lively and breezy for my sake, but it's obvious she's faking.

“How's work?” I venture, trying a different tack.

She sniffs and briefly lifts her eyes to mine. “Okay.”

“Sick of all the free stuff yet?” Lizzie's summer job is at the bakery on Townsend Street and she gets the pick of the leftovers at the end of the day.

She pulls a face. “Mum's in seventh heaven – she's going to end up as fat as a pig.”

I grin. “More likely Toby will.”

Lizzie manages a smile at the mention of her little brother, then lapses back into silence. Flicks a few more pages of her magazine, her expression as blank as the models' inside.

Only when there's a beep from her phone does she show any sign of life. She grabs it, reading the message, her face contracting with concentration.

I'm about to ask who it's from when I hear a creak from the bedroom next door. Mum, in Max's room again. Ever since the police turned up on our doorstep, her existence has shrunk to this house – more specifically, my brother's bedroom. Mum spends half her time in there now, amongst his books and magazines, the cupboards full of old games and stuff from when he was a kid.

Just sitting, staring. Trying to make sense of it all, I guess.

“
Shit
. My battery died.” Lizzie glares at her phone, shoves it back into her pocket.

“Anyone important?'

“Only my mum.” She says it too quickly, her eyes darting away from mine, and I realize I don't believe her. But why would she lie?

I gaze at her, wondering whether to pursue it. Decide against it.

“Hey, you picked where you want to go yet?” I ask to change the subject. “To uni, I mean.”

Lizzie looks at me like that's the furthest thing from her mind. Though she must be thinking about it. Lizzie's wanted to study journalism since she got a piece into the school magazine – and university applications have to be in soon.

“How about we get these exam results out the way first?” she says, in a way that makes it clear she'd rather I dropped the subject. “Besides,
you
don't need to worry – you're all sorted.”

Her tone sounds almost resentful, though I can't imagine why. Lizzie knows I have my heart set on going to the Royal Music School, which has the best reputation and the most intensive vocal course. But everything depends on my audition – flunk that and it's game over.

At least Lizzie has options.

I suck in my lips and try to pick something less touchy. “So, how about your big day? You thought any more about what you want to do?”

Lizzie stops leafing through the magazine, her face blank.

“Your eighteenth,” I remind her. “It's only three weeks off.”

“I dunno,” she mutters. “Nothing much.”

“A party?”

Lizzie shakes her head. “Too much hassle.”

I frown. Too much hassle? This time last year Lizzie was planning the biggest bash ever for her eighteenth. Christ, at one point she wanted a whole crowd of us to go to Ibiza – her, me, Tanya, Zoë, Roo and Tabitha.

What happened to that Ibiza plan?
I wonder. Lizzie just stopped mentioning it. I assumed it was because of me, because of what happened with Max.

But now I'm not so sure.

“So what do you want to do then?” I persist, refusing to let the matter drop.

Lizzie lifts her mouth in a kind of shrug. “I don't know. I haven't really given it a lot of thought. Not much, probably.”

“Come on,” I say, perplexed. “You can't be serious. It's your eighteenth, for god's sake. You can't just do
nothing
.”

Lizzie shrugs again, a proper one this time, using her shoulders. “I can't think of much I want to do.” She keeps her eyes fixed on her magazine, ignoring me.

What's got into her?
I ask myself for the thousandth time. It's as if she's slipped away into some parallel universe, leaving the husk of my best friend. I mean, Lizzie was the original party animal, always the last girl standing wherever we went. The kind who was
never
short of an excuse to go out.

And as the oldest in our college year, Lizzie's the first to hit eighteen at the beginning of September. Everyone's expecting her to kick off our final year with a bang.

“Okay, you're right.” She sighs and drops the magazine on the bed. “Maybe I should do something. Roo and Zoë keep on at me too. It's just that I don't feel like some mad celebration, that's all. Perhaps we could all go somewhere for a day? I could do with a break from this place.”

“Where do you fancy?”

Lizzie thinks for a minute or two. “How about the beach or something? I haven't seen the sea in ages.”

The beach. My mind flashes to that trip to Camber Sands when I was ten. “Coming to get you!” Max running towards me, grinning, a lump of seaweed in his hands, waving it in my face. Me trying to kick back at him as he laughs and dodges away.

“We could get the train down to Brighton,” Lizzie suggests, her tone brighter. “The four of us. Go round the shops. Chloe Miller said there's some amazing little boutiques in the lanes off the seafront.”

“Great.” I push Max out my head and focus on my friend. “Sounds like a plan.”

She seems genuinely into the idea. For a moment it's like having the old Lizzie back. The old Lizzie who was always up for everything.

“Right.” She gazes back at me for a few seconds, as if she can't think of anything more to say. I realize I can't either and feel another pang of unease. Best friends since primary school and now we're having awkward silences?

“Hey, I forgot to mention,” I say, anxious to fill the gap, “something really weird happened to me on the way back from my singing lesson.”

“What?” Lizzie draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them with her arms. Finally giving me her full attention.

I tell her what happened a few days ago. “It was freaky. He just stared at me, then turned round and walked the other way.”

She wrinkles up the end of her nose. “Why is that weird exactly?”

“I don't know. It just was. He saw me – I mean, he looked right at me – then suddenly did a U-turn and started off back down the road. But fast, as if he wanted to get away or something.”

Lizzie's expression lifts into a grin. “Can you blame him?”

I pull a face at her. “Seriously. It was like he was running off.”

“Maybe he forgot something and turned back? Or perhaps he was lost.”

“But why would he look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“So…kind of…intense. As if he recognized me. But he couldn't have done – I've never met him before.”

“You sure?”

I hesitate. “I think so. At least, I'm sure I've never actually spoken to him, but he did look sort of familiar.”

“Jeez, Sarah, I don't know.” There's an edge to Lizzie's tone. As if she's tired of this whole conversation. “Why does it matter? Was he really hot or something?”

I stare at her for a second or two. “Forget it,” I snap, dangerously close to tears. Why is she being like this? It's never felt this awkward, not in all the years we've been friends, since that first day I stood alone in the playground and she grabbed my hand and refused to let go till home time.

I blink as the gap in the conversation grows into a chasm, pressing my lips together in an effort not to cry.

“Oh god, Sarah, I'm sorry.” Lizzie shuffles to the edge of the bed and lowers her head so it's level with mine. “C'mon, I apologize. I was only kidding.” She kicks her foot gently against my arm so I'm forced to look up. “Honestly, don't get worked up about it. You probably just imagined it.”

“I didn't!” My voice indignant now. “He—”

“I don't mean you made it up, Sarah…more you maybe got things a bit out of proportion. You know…because of Max.” She sees my expression and backs off. “I only meant you've had a lot to deal with. It's bound to leave you a little edgy, that's all.”

I sniff, my anger subsiding into doubt. Did he actually look at me that way? It's not as if I'm anything remarkable. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair. Medium everything, really.

I rerun the whole scene in my head, fuzzier now. It was all so quick. Impossible to be sure what did happen. I can't picture the guy's face exactly so much as remember the way it made me feel.

Bewildered. Like there was something I was missing.

I give in and smile, letting go of my resentment. Lizzie's right. I'm making a big deal out of nothing.

After all, it's not as if I'm ever likely to see him again.

I hear the sobbing the moment I get back from work. I drop my bag and race into the living room. Mum is sitting on the edge of the sofa, shoulders hunched, heaving slightly with each rush of tears.

A letter in her hands.

I sit beside her, put my arms round her waist and rest my head against hers. I don't say anything. I don't need to.

After a few minutes Mum straightens up. She folds the letter and drops it onto the coffee table, dragging the heel of her hand across her cheeks as she looks at me and tries to smile. I notice lines on her forehead and around her eyes that I swear weren't there a few weeks ago.

“I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm okay. Really. Just…you know.”

Her gaze drops from mine, embarrassed. I'm almost relieved. I can hardly bear the pain I see there.

“I'm sorry,” she says again. “I should have left it for your dad to open.” She lifts a hand and smooths it over her hair. Her feet are bare and she's still wearing the T-shirt and pyjama bottoms she had on yesterday. There's a brownish stain on the right knee.

“Don't worry.” I take the letter from her hand. “I'll deal with it.”

“But…” Mum starts to protest, then sinks under the effort and gives me a grateful smile.

“Do you want a cup of tea?”

She nods. “Would you mind?”

As I wait for the kettle to boil, I hear her pad back upstairs and then the sound of the taps running in the bathroom. I unfold the letter.

It's from the university.

I scan through it. Signed by Mr Brian Thomas, the head librarian, it says Max's books are months overdue. Underneath is a list of maybe a dozen of them, with names like
Thermodynamics of Chemical Processes
and
Reaction Kinetics
.