Better Left Buried (8 page)

She gives me an appraising look. “Blind luck, possibly. Or they may have knocked on the door to check first. But given that your mum says she doesn't go out much, my guess would be that someone was watching the house.”

I recall the shadow under the street light and take a deep breath. “I might know who did this.”

Her head jerks towards me. “Really?”

“Um…the thing is, I think someone has been following me.”

“Following you?” Her gaze is sharp. “Are you sure?”

“I don't know… Maybe.” I feel suddenly foolish, imagining what Lizzie would say if she could hear me. I shove my doubts aside. “I mean, I keep seeing him. This man. He ran away when he saw me and…”

Then I remember the map.

“Hang on a minute.”

I run upstairs to my bedroom, but freeze in the doorway. Where did I put it? I try to remember. I'm pretty sure I took it out my bag, and put it in the drawer of my bedside table.

I glance over towards my bed. The drawer has been pulled right out and is lying on the floor with everything scattered around it. I pick my way across the room, trying not to step on anything, and crouch down. Sift through the contents – tissues, pens, a lip salve, a couple of old sweets. My iPod. I stare at it for a few seconds, amazed it's still here, then carry on searching.

Where is it? It has to be here somewhere.

I check through it all again, but there's no sign of the fold of paper. I rummage through the heap on the rug, then scan the surfaces of my desk and chest of drawers.

Nothing.

I stand up, my heart beginning to race. I remember where I put it now. Tucked in the notebook I keep for singing, homework and other stuff. Things I need to keep track of. Things I need to do.

Where's my notebook? I recall seeing it on my bedside table just last night. I search all around the floor and under the bed, but there's no trace of it.

What the hell? Why on earth would anyone take my old notebook?

A lump forms in my throat, and suddenly I feel dizzy and queasy, like I've drunk something too fast and it's gone to my head.

I'm scared, I realize. For the first time I feel truly out of my depth.

Where ARE you?

I press Send, adding it to the half-dozen texts I've already sent Lizzie over the last two days.

Not a single reply. Not even to the one telling her about the burglary.

Looking up, I see Amanda Godfrey walking up the drive with a bunch of her friends, their faces all fluttery and apprehensive. I watch them disappear into the college building, then check the time.

Nearly ten past eleven. I've been here over an hour and no sign of Lizzie.

Maybe she's lost her phone or it's broken or something? But then, I've left her several messages on Facebook – hard to believe she hasn't even checked there. Lizzie's a complete social media addict; she has hundreds of online friends and usually updates her status several times a day.

I cover my eyes and squint into the sunshine. Finally spot someone who looks like Lizzie heading towards me.
At last,
I think, with a flush of relief mixed with annoyance.

But as the girl emerges from the shadow of the trees lining the drive, I realize my mistake. It's Tanya, not Lizzie. I forgot they bought the exact same purple summer dress, when it was on sale in that shop at the end of the high street.

“Hey, Sarah,” Tanya says, as she approaches. “You got your results already?”

I shake my head.

“Coming in to get them then?” She smiles.

“I'm waiting for Lizzie. God knows where she is.”

Tanya frowns. “Yeah, what's up with her? I texted her the other day about Abby's party and she ignored it.”

“I've got no idea,” I sigh.

“You're going though, right? To the party?”

I nod, though if Lizzie's not going I can't say I'm keen. I've enough on my plate with work and singing without a late night and a hangover into the bargain.

“Okay, well, I'll see you Saturday. Good luck!” Tanya gives me a little wave as she disappears into the building. I check the time again. Christ, the office shuts in half an hour – at this rate, we're going to miss it.

Then it occurs to me that maybe Lizzie isn't coming at all. But we always planned to collect our results together. And surely she won't wait for them to arrive in the post? Lizzie needs pretty decent grades this year if she wants to study journalism at uni – she must be dying to know what she's got.

I feel my irritation grow. Not only for being left in the lurch like this, but there's all the other stuff I need to discuss with Lizzie. The burglary. And the map. Because if the two are connected – and I'm increasingly convinced they are – she should be as worried as I am. After all, it showed her house as well as mine.

Something about her lack of curiosity over the map doesn't add up; it's as if she doesn't even want to consider what it means. And that man, I think, remembering the incident in the cafe. I'm
sure
Lizzie saw him – the guy that burgled us – although she refused to admit it. And I want to know why.

Five more minutes, I decide, glancing at my phone, then at the door leading into college. I'll give her five more minutes and then I'm going in.

Inside, I join the small queue for the secretary's office, my stomach pulsating with nerves. Mrs Ogden sticks her head out the hatch and asks for the name of the guy in front of me, then disappears to retrieve his envelope.

I watch a group of girls from my year open their results together, four pairs of eyes scrolling down their letters. A couple of faces break out into wide smiles. Jane Thomas gives a whoop of delight, but her friend Frances stares hard at the piece of paper in her hand, her face pale and withdrawn.

The guy in front moves aside. I glance along the corridor one last time for Lizzie – still nowhere to be seen – then give my name to Mrs Ogden.

“Good luck,” she says, handing me my envelope.

I resist the urge to open it immediately. Go outside and sit on the bank by the sports pitch and study my name printed on the front in neat capitals. Drag some air into my lungs and slip my finger under the flap and slide it free.

My eyes jump to the capital letters in bold print. B in music, a D in drama, a D in English and an E in citizenship.

Oh god. I feel my stomach drop into the ground and have to bite my cheek to take the edge off my disappointment.

I should have got an A in music at least.

Shit. I thought the exams went all right, despite what happened with Max. I thought I'd held it together enough to get reasonable grades. Not great, but okay.

But then I've been sleepwalking through my life for weeks now. What do I know about okay any more?

“Bad news?”

I glance up to see Pansy Levinson hovering a few metres away.

“Could have been better.” I shrug. “You?”

She looks a bit embarrassed, like she doesn't want to rub it in. “Four As,” she says, her voice sheepish.

“That's great.” I force myself to look pleased. Pansy is nice as well as clever and I don't want to make her feel bad.

“Anyway, you don't have to worry,” she adds quickly. “You're going to study music, right?”

“Fingers crossed.” My fake composure wavers as I quell another flush of anxiety. I've barely done any practice in the two days since the burglary. It's taken me and Mum and Aunt Helen all that time to clean up.

“I'd better go.” Pansy tucks her results into her bag. “My parents will be on tenterhooks.”

“You could ring them.”

“Nah,” she says, finally letting her mouth widen into a broad smile. “I want to see the look on their faces.”

When I get home Mum is kneeling by the bookshelves in the lounge, a pile of photo albums laid out in front of her. She's looking at the pictures taken at the summer house that she and Aunt Helen inherited from our Swedish grandmother. I catch a glimpse of Max around age seven, standing on the wooden porch, smiling and wrinkling his nose up at the camera. In one hand, a fishing net on a stick – the kind kids use; in the other, a glass jar full of water, in which you can just see the dark shadow of a tiny fish.

Mum climbs to her feet, closing the album. The corners are a bit bashed from where it was thrown on the floor, but the pictures inside seem okay. Thank god. I can't bear to imagine what she'd be like if we'd lost those.

“I'm going to get them digitalized.” Mum picks up the stack of albums and puts them back on the shelf. “Helen's offered to do it. Uncle Derek's bought a scanner and she says it won't even take her that long.”

“Good idea,” I say. “Then they'll be safe.”

Which is more than can be said for the rest of our stuff. Loads got broken, especially in the kitchen. We've had to go and buy new cups and plates, bowls and everything. Even a new kettle.

When Dad called from the rig he said we'll get it back on the insurance, so it's not about the money. What hurts are the things we can't replace. Like the vase Max and I got Mum on her fortieth. And that lovely old clock Dad's grandfather left him, the one with the little pillars and glass-covered dial that sat on the mantelpiece.

Strangely, Mum, despite my worst fears, seems to be taking it all surprisingly well – even the devastation in Max's room. When Dad rang and said he'd come straight home, she insisted he stay put. Told him we were handling it.

On the coffee table I spot the list we're making for the insurance company. “Have you thought of anything else?”

She shakes her head. “I've been racking my brains. But no, nothing.”

That's what's weird, I think, reading through the items on the claims form. Most are for things that were smashed or damaged. Beyond that there wasn't a great deal missing. Some cash Mum kept in a pot in the kitchen – only sixty quid or so. My laptop, and Max's – the one he left behind in his room.

PC Wilson says that whoever broke in knew he didn't have much time, or wasn't able to carry anything large. He was probably just looking for money and valuables.

But he didn't take my iPod, which was practically new. Or Gran's gold wedding ring, or the little diamond necklace Dad got Mum for their twentieth anniversary. It was all there, scattered on their bedroom floor around her discarded jewellery box.

It doesn't add up. Why would he leave those, yet steal my crummy old notebook? Did he know his map was inside?

I flash back to PC Wilson's face when I told her about it and the man who'd been following me. How she tried to act as if it wasn't some mad thing I'd invented. Made notes, like she was taking it seriously.

But without the only piece of evidence I had to back up my story, it all sounded ridiculous. Some mysterious guy stalking a seventeen-year-old girl, dropping cryptic maps on a bus – a map that had suddenly vanished. I could see how easily PC Wilson could put it down to the aftermath of Max's death. Grief. Stress. Pressure.

Being plain bonkers.

“Anyway,” Mum smiles, nodding at the envelope in my hand, “how did you do?”

Damn. I was beginning to hope she'd forgotten. I'd told her where I was going, of course, but these days Mum lives in a universe all her own. There's no knowing what she takes in.

I hand over the envelope. She removes the letter and reads it. I can't help watching her face. She keeps her expression steady, apart from the faintest twitch of her lips and a small, barely audible, intake of breath before she speaks.

“Well done, darling.”

She steps towards me and gives me a hug, but I'm not fooled. There's nothing to congratulate me for. Especially not compared to Max, who took five A-levels and cruised A-stars in all of them. Not to mention a place to study chemistry at the best university college in London.

And made the whole thing look effortless.

Mum releases me, examines my face. “I can see you're disappointed, sweetheart. But it's not your fault. Considering what…considering what you've been through, darling. What we've all been through.” Her voice trails off and she looks down at her feet.

I know what she's referring to. Dad asked the college to inform the examining board about Max's death, but they only boost your marks by five per cent as special consideration. Clearly that hasn't made much difference.

“Actually, it's my fault,” Mum continues. “I haven't been able to offer you a great deal of support since…” She can't bring herself to finish.

I'm just thinking how to respond when she lifts her shoulders and takes a deep breath, letting it out with a long sigh before looking right at me.

She reaches for my hand and enfolds it in hers, squeezing it as she speaks again.

“I'm very proud of you, Sarah, and I've every faith in you. I want you to know that. And I want you to know I couldn't have got through any of…of this without you.”

She gives my hand a final squeeze before letting it go.

I lean forward and hug her tight so she can't see my face. “Thanks, Mum.” I try to keep my voice steady. But despite all my vocal training, there's a tremor there I can't hide.

“I should be thanking you,” she says. “And try not to fret over your results. You've another year yet to bring your grades up. Anyway,” she adds, making her voice brighter, “you'll have your place at the Royal Music School. You'll be fine.”

I blink a couple of times, wishing I could be so certain. The days are slipping away and I don't feel I'm anywhere near ready. Nor, I'm sure, does Mrs Perry, though she's kind enough not to put it so bluntly.

All I can hope – my only hope – is that there's still enough time left to turn it around.

I press the reset button on my iPod and “
Ombra mai fu
” pours out, filling my bedroom with its lovely, lilting melody. I've been practising for over an hour, but I'm still struggling with the opening crescendo, and getting just the right amount of vibrato on the high F at the end.