Better Left Buried (5 page)

I dry my hands quickly on a towel and grab the piece of paper from the laundry bin. Orient it so the larger cross is in the top right-hand corner and study it carefully, checking off each line against the map in my head.

Oh god, I'm right.
I'm right
.

It
is
a map. Of here, of this town.

The big cross is St Stephen's church, and the line running beside it must be Winchester Road. I trace off Carrick Road with my finger, follow it along to the intersection with Graves Avenue, sliding it across to Hensham Green until my fingernail rests on the smaller X at the end.

My breath catches in my throat. I have to swallow before I can breathe.

X marks the spot. Lizzie's house. Or bloody close.

I trace the road back up to the other small X in the corner, feeling almost sick as I see it matches exactly. The supermarket where I work.

I glance at the third X. The one with the circle. This time I don't need to calculate where it is. I know from a single glance.

Our house.

I stare at the paper, the lines dancing and weaving as it begins to tremble in my hands.

“Go on, have a look.”

I toss the map towards Lizzie and it lands in front of her on the picnic blanket.

She glances down, then carries on painting her toenails, sitting almost cross-legged and leaning forwards to reach her foot. “Wait a sec. What's the hurry?”

I chew the inside of my lip, listening to the buzz of insects on the flowers around us, watching her splodge a second layer of pink varnish across her big toe. It seems to take for ever. And she has another nine to go.

I lift my face to watch the clouds drifting across the sky. Thin, high summer clouds, not dense enough to block the heat from the sun. Birdsong in the trees in the neighbouring garden, sharp and sweet.

“Saraaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Toby bursts out of the back door and dive bombs onto the lawn beside us, jogging Lizzie's hand. A gob of varnish lands on her ankle.

“Christ, Toby!” Lizzie glares at her brother, grabbing his arm and yanking him away. “Leave us alone, can't you?”

I ferret in my pocket and find a half-eaten packet of wine gums that's been lurking there since Dad last took me out for a driving lesson. Pick off a bit of fluff and chuck them towards him. Toby catches them with a deft swoop of his hand.

“Right. Now bugger off.” Lizzie's harsh tone makes me wince. She never used to be so impatient with him.

The lack of reaction on Toby's face shows he's grown used to it. He retreats back into the house with a wrinkle of his nose that makes him look just like his sister, slamming the door behind him.

“For god's sake,” Lizzie mutters under her breath.

“He's okay,” I say, trying not to show my discomfort. Lizzie was always so great with her brother, especially after their dad cleared off three years ago. She was forever playing Lego and other games with Toby, taking him to the park to clamber all over the climbing frame, babysitting him while her mum was at work. Lots of the time we did it together.

“You only think that because you don't have to put up with him,” she says, smearing more varnish across her toes. There's so much on the surrounding skin that her nails look crooked.

“Here, I'll do that.” I gesture at her foot. “Have a look at this.” I nod towards the map.

Lizzie sighs and hands me the bottle, spinning around so I can reach her foot. I screw the lid back on and give it a good shake. While she squints at the network of lines and crosses, I reapply the varnish in smooth, neat strokes, covering the bits she's missed or gone wonky.

“Okay, I give in. What is it? Some kind of puzzle?” Lizzie raises her head and looks at me.

“He dropped it. That guy.”

“What guy?”

“You know, that man I told you about. The one who ran off when he saw me. He bumped into me on the bus yesterday and this fell out of his pocket.” I don't mention last night's figure on the street. Even if there
was
someone hanging around, I don't know it was him.

Lizzie frowns. “So why didn't you give it back?”

“I did try, Lizzie. I got off the bus and called after him, but he acted like he hadn't heard me.”

She twists the paper around, examining it. “How old was he, this guy?”

I shrug. “Early twenties, maybe?”

“What did he look like?”

“Dark hair. Slim. Really pale eyes. Kind of intense-looking.”

Lizzie looks down at the map again. Studying it more closely now.

“At first I thought it was just some sort of drawing, a pattern or something,” I say. “Then I showed it to Tony at work, and he figured it was a map.” I finish her foot and beckon for the other one, leaning over to spin the sheet back so she's seeing it the right way.

“Look at it, Lizzie. That's St Stephen's church, and this is Firth Street running off it. See?”

I trace the line to the X below. “This is my house, I reckon.” Then I trace up ten streets or so to the other X. “This is pretty much where the supermarket is.”

I complete the triangle at the final X. “And this is your road. It all fits.”

Lizzie pulls her foot away, even though I haven't finished. She leans forward, staring intently at the paper, her finger touching the cross by her house. She doesn't say a word. Her eyes are sort of glazed and unfocused.

I wait for her to speak. She must be as puzzled by this as I am. What on earth is it all about?

But then Lizzie looks up at me and laughs. A shiny, brittle kind of laugh.

“Christ, Sarah, you really are getting paranoid, aren't you?” She tosses the map back at me and a breeze picks it up and blows it into the nearby flower bed. “Honestly, you could read anything into this.”

I lean over to retrieve it and stare at her, dazed. “I don't think so, Lizzie. Look, if you count up the roads it matches exactly.”

“I bet you could make it fit a thousand towns in England. They're all the same. It doesn't mean a thing.”

There's something in her voice that isn't quite right. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's pressing her lips tight together. I know that expression. Whenever we had a sleepover and stayed up watching scary films, Lizzie would make this face when the tension got too much for her.

“He must live round here, though,” I protest. “I mean, why else would I keep bumping into him all the time?”

Lizzie snorts. “You reckon he's stalking you or something? Come off it, Sarah. Don't be stupid.”

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. “I'm not being stupid, Lizzie. And I'm not imagining this, am I?” I fold up the map and hold it up in front of her face. “Or do you think I drew this myself, to get attention or whatever? Is that what you believe?”

I wait for her to deny it, but Lizzie holds my gaze with arched eyebrows. A hardness in her eyes I've never seen before. Something defensive, almost defiant. I stare at her for a few more seconds, then look away.

I don't understand anything about Lizzie's reaction. She's clearly rattled by what I've just shown her, so why pretend it's nothing? And why be so horrible about it?

I'm bewildered. I mean, it's not as if we haven't argued before, but it's never been like this. So tense…almost hostile. Even that time we fell out over the little silver cup we won for our junior science project, it didn't feel this precarious; a few days later we were laughing over the whole thing – and Lizzie let me keep the cup.

But this – this moodiness, this distance – has been going on for months. I can't for the life of me think of a reason for it, and I'm sick of asking and being fobbed off.

“Okay.” I screw the cap back on the varnish bottle and drop it onto the picnic rug. “In that case, forget it.”

I don't bother with goodbye, just grab my bag and leave by the side gate, half expecting to hear her voice calling me back.

But there's nothing. Only the sound of Toby, somewhere in the house, turning up the volume on the TV.

“Sarah?”

A hand on my shoulder. I give a little yelp of alarm and spin round to see Mrs Lucas – the supervisor – gazing at me.

“Are you okay?” she asks, looking concerned.

I nod. “Sorry. You caught me by surprise.”

Mrs Lucas frowns. “I was wondering if you wanted another late shift on Saturday? Jonathan can't do it, something about his mum's birthday. Could you fill in for him?”

“Okay,” I mumble. “No problem.” Though truthfully the prospect of another eight hours in this place makes my heart sink.

Mrs Lucas looks me over again. “You sure you're all right? You look…well…rather peaky.”

“I'm fine.” I smooth down my uniform and try to appear more composed. “Really.”

She gives me a brief smile and leaves me to finish stacking the row of biscuits. I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to check the aisle when she's gone.

He's not here,
I repeat to myself silently.
He's not here.

I never used to be like this. So nervous. Before Max died, I didn't worry much about stuff. I grew up assuming things would go well, that all you had to do was work hard and hope for the best. I was one of life's natural optimists.

But my brother's death was so sudden, so senseless, it's turned my world upside down. Made me see disaster round every corner.

And now I can't stop thinking about that guy. Can't shrug off the feeling that he
is
around here somewhere. Watching. Waiting. That map has me shaken. I mean, I might be overreacting. I might be imagining things. Maybe seeing him several times in a few days
was
a coincidence. But that map?

My house. Lizzie's house. The supermarket. What could it possibly mean?

I glance over my shoulder, still unnerved. Scan the shoppers milling around me. Most are women, one with a toddler slotted into the front of her trolley. A youngish man with a basket, browsing the crisps further up the aisle.

No sign of
him
.

Why?
I ask myself, for the thousandth time, as I unload another box of biscuits. Why would anyone be following me?

And for the thousandth time I have no answer. I can't think of a single reason. It's ridiculous. Crazy. It's no wonder Lizzie reacted so badly.

Lizzie. My chest tightens as I remember yesterday. She hasn't been in touch since, and that hurts. No way she didn't clock how upset I was. No way at all.

I think back to that night we heard about Max. A feeling in my heart like a bruise as I recall Lizzie's arms around me, holding me tight.
I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm so, so sorry.
Over and over she said it, like Max's death was something she could somehow have prevented.

Like it was
her
brother that died.

I'll ring her, I decide, folding up the cardboard box and stashing it at the back of the cage. Text her at least. I nearly did this morning, before I came in, but something held me back. Something about the way she looked at me just before I left. As if…as if right at that moment she couldn't stand being anywhere near me.

Stop it,
I tell myself firmly, as I open another box of biscuits.
Stop being so bloody paranoid. Lizzie doesn't hate you. And there'll be some sort of rational explanation for all this.

As I stack the digestives onto the shelf, I notice I've put the custard creams in the wrong slot. I sigh. Start again.

I'll talk to Dad, I resolve. Tonight, after I've been to Mrs Perry. I'll show him that piece of paper, tell him what happened and see what he thinks. If he says it's nothing to worry about, then I'll throw the thing away and put all of this out of my mind.

And I'll definitely call Lizzie.

When I get back from Mrs Perry's, Dad's already home. Squatting on his heels on the kitchen floor, searching through the food cupboard.

“Good lesson?” he asks, as I dump my music on the table.

I shrug. “Not bad.” In truth I made a mess of the Strauss, never quite able to bring out the haunting beauty of the song. I could see Mrs Perry fighting to keep the disappointment from her expression.

“You're back early,” I say, thinking this is a good omen. It will give us a chance to talk.

Dad looks up and smiles and I feel my heart lift a little. “I had a meeting over in Wandsworth. It wasn't worth returning to the office.”

He shoves a few cans aside to get to one at the back. Picks out a tin of ravioli and sets it on the counter. “Actually, there's something I need to tell you, Sarah.” He straightens up and fixes me with a serious expression and I feel a buzz of worry.

“Me too,” I say quickly. “There's something I want to talk about as well.”

“What?” Dad sounds immediately concerned.

“You go first.”

He loosens his tie and exhales loudly, not quite meeting my gaze. “I've got to go away for a few days. Maybe a week. Up to Scotland.” Picking up the ravioli, he checks the use-by date on the bottom. Chucks it in the bin.

“Scotland? Why?” My voice a good octave too high.

“There's a problem out on the rigs. I have to go up and sort it. No one else can.”

“Right,” I say, wondering how they'd cope if Dad had an accident or fell ill or something. I stare at his back as he moves his search to the fridge, my heart sinking in a slow kind of panic. He's so like Max, I can't help thinking – at least in some ways. Forever focused on what he's doing at that moment. Taking it for granted that everyone else is as strong as he is.

I wish I could say this to him, actually mention Max's name, but Dad's way of coping seems to be to pretend he never existed. So I keep quiet, but my silence clearly gives something away because Dad stops picking through the leftovers and looks right at me.