Girl, Missing (10 page)

‘Hey, Lauren. How you doing?' His accent was American but tinged with a slightly singsong twang.

I swung my legs off the bed, placing my feet on a faded rug on the floor. ‘I'm good,' I said.

It wasn't rational to be nervous. The guy had saved our lives. But what was he doing here in the middle of nowhere? I mean, did he live out here like some kind of weirdo hermit?

Glane looked at me. It made me feel uncomfortable, as if he could see what I was thinking.

‘Now Lauren's up I guess we'll have to go,' Jam said. He sounded slightly reluctant.

‘How long was I asleep?' I said.

‘All last night, Sunday, and most of the day today.' Glane grinned. ‘It's too late to go anywhere now. But if it is not snowing tomorrow morning, we will set off then.'

I glanced at Jam. ‘Did you call Mum?'

He shook his head. ‘There's no phone here.'

‘You're kidding?' I said, shocked.

Glane's laugh was like a rumble of thunder. ‘No phone. No electricity. No modern conveniences of any kind.'

I looked round the room again. It was certainly spartan. And yet there were soft touches too – the wood carvings, a tawny-coloured curtain at the window and a bowl of pine cones on the table. ‘But we need to get back,' I said.

I guess I should have been thinking about Mum and Dad and how worried they'd be now. And part of me was certainly worrying about Sonia Holtwood – scared she would somehow realise we had been rescued and come after us again.

Yes. All those feelings were there, like background noise in my head. But they faded beside the image of my mother – the beautiful woman on the beach. Now I'd seen her face – now Sonia had admitted she stole me – nothing was going to stop me finding her as soon as I got out of these woods.

‘There is no problem.' Glane sat down at the table. ‘The nearest town from here is Wells Canyon. About twenty miles away. We should be able to cover it in a day – but you'll have to borrow my spare boots. Yours are split.' I followed his glance over to the corner where my trainers lay on their sides. Even from the bed I could see the cracks in the soles.

Glane stood up, his huge frame dominating the small room. I stared at his enormous feet.

‘I don't think your boots will fit me,' I stammered.

Glane laughed – a rich, low, belly laugh. ‘No. So I will make a lining for you. Tonight.' He turned to Jam. ‘I have killed a couple of rabbits outside. Will you help me skin them?'

Ugh.
A weirdo hermit rabbit butcher
.

I looked at Jam, expecting to see him making a disgusted face. But, astonishingly, Jam had already leaped to his feet and was halfway to the door.

He had to be kidding? Take the skin off an animal? How gross was that?

‘Lauren?' Glane smiled at me. ‘D'you want to help?'

I shook my head.
Do you want me to hurl?

‘Bet you enjoy eating them though,' Glane grinned.

I blinked.

‘You rest up,' Glane continued. ‘Put another log on the fire if you like. And you are welcome to look around.'

He and Jam disappeared outside. I explored the cabin. In one of the large cupboards was some dry food and a stack of plates and mugs. In the other were three violins with parts of their wooden panelling missing. The books were a strange mix. Lots of hardbacks full of stiff, glossy pictures of ancient musical instruments. And a row of flimsy manuals with titles like
How to Pluck a Chicken
and
Basic Outdoor Cookery
.

Who was this guy?

Glane came back in just as I was tearing off another hunk of bread. I stepped back guiltily.

‘Eat,' he said. ‘It is OK.' He picked up a large wooden bucket and turned to go back outside.

‘How long have you lived here?' I said.

Glane grinned. ‘I do not live here. I just come for a month each year. I was going back home today. Back to Boston.'

I tried to imagine him in a busy, bustling city.

‘You live in Boston?'

Glane nodded. ‘I have a job. Repairing musical instruments.'

I watched him stride across the snow to where Jam was waiting beside a tree stump. The sun glinted on a massive axe at his feet. Glane picked it up like it was a toy and swung it behind his head. He was obviously showing Jam how to use it.

Great. A weirdo hermit butcher violin-mender with an axe.

Jam took the axe and copied Glane's swing. Up, up in the air, then thud. The axe slammed down into the tree stump.

‘Very back-to-nature,' I muttered. I took a deep breath and sighed it out.

Jam walked over to a snow drift. Glane gave him the bucket he'd taken from the cabin and pointed at a patch
of snow. I pulled on my cracked trainers and went outside. The sun was low in the sky, but warm on the back of my head.

Jam's face was glowing with delight as I strolled up.

‘Glane's showing me which bits of snow to take to melt for water,' he said.

I wanted to laugh.

Oh, great. That'll come in handy when we get back to north London
.

But Jam looked so excited and pleased with himself that I said nothing.

After a couple more minutes I could feel the snow seeping in through the cracks in my shoes. I trudged back to the cabin.

My mother's face was still in my head. A stronger presence than the woods and the snow. Stronger even than Jam.

I sat by the fire and stared into the flames. If I could only find her, then everything else in my life would make sense.

I would know who I was, at last.

17

More real than
real life

Darkness fell. Glane lit two lanterns, then cooked a stew with the rabbit meat and some herbs. It smelled delicious, but the thought of eating it after knowing the others had skinned the rabbits made me feel slightly sick.

Jam smacked his lips. ‘Awesome.'

‘Really?' I said.

Jam's mouth stretched into this wide grin. ‘Try it.'

Tentatively, I sipped a spoonful of the meat sauce. It was good. And I was hungry.

I tucked in.

After we'd eaten, Glane took the dishes outside. I didn't think I was tired, but when I lay down on the bed I drifted into this warm, comfy sleep.

She was there again. My mother. Her face full of love for me. She bent over me. She gently stroked my cheek. Her finger was soft and warm. Just the lightest touch.

My heart leaped. It was real. She was there. It was really happening.

I strained, trying to swim up out of my sleep.

I forced my eyes to open.

No one was there. I looked round. The cabin was empty, except for Jam standing a couple of metres away looking at one of Glane's books. He was frowning at the page, clearly completely engrossed in what he was reading.

I lay back, letting the waves of loss flow through me.

Glane stomped inside, bringing with him a blast of icy air. He strode over to the fire and sat down.

‘Time to make your boot lining,' he said. ‘Want to help, Lauren?'

I didn't see how I could refuse.

For one horrible second I thought he might be planning to use the rabbit skins from earlier.

Then he rummaged in a basket on the floor and drew out some lengths of fleece. I sighed with relief.

Glane wrapped the material round my foot, then measured it against a pair of walking boots. I helped him cut and stitch the fleece. Soon it began to take a rough boot-shape.

Jam still hadn't looked up from his book.

‘Doesn't Jam need boot linings too?' I said.

‘His boots did not fall apart,' Glane said.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. How did Glane
manage to make everything he said sound like the end of a conversation?

Jam finally put down his book. He walked to the door.

‘I'm going outside,' he grinned. ‘For another freeze-ya-butt-outdoor-peeing experience.'

As he shut the door behind him, it struck me that Jam was actually enjoying being here. He certainly felt more comfortable around Glane than I did.

A twinge of jealousy twisted in my stomach. I wasn't used to sharing Jam with anyone.

I wandered over to look at the book he had been reading, one of the flimsy manuals:
Making Fire Without Matches
.

For God's sake
.

Glane had put down the boot lining and was gazing at me. My heart thudded.
Here it comes. Weirdo hermit axe-murderer attacks defenceless teen in deserted wood cabin
.

‘So you are searching for your past?' Glane said matter-of-factly.

I stared at him, shocked. ‘Jam told you?'

Glane nodded. ‘Of course. Do you not think I asked why you were here in the woods dying of the cold?'

I turned away. It was my secret. My story. Jam had had no right.

‘Don't be angry,' Glane said softly. ‘He thought you were going to die. He was very frightened. Very upset. Ashamed that he had lost his temper, run away.'

I looked up. ‘He told you about that too?'

Glane nodded, turning back to the fleece. His fingers were like great, fat sausages, yet they moved deftly over the material. ‘We talked for a long time about it while you slept. We agreed it is not what a man does.'

I shook my head, my irritation with Jam turning into annoyance with Glane. OK, so maybe the guy wasn't an axe-murderer, but he was definitely an insufferably pompous jerk-head.

‘I don't see what being a man's got to do with it,' I snapped. ‘Anyway, Jam's only fifteen. Not exactly a man.'

‘He is trying to become one,' Glane said. He tugged at the stitched fleece, testing to see if it held. ‘It's not as easy as you think. Especially without a father to guide you. Here. Your linings are finished.'

He handed them to me. They looked like thick, furry socks.

‘Jam
has
a father,' I said. ‘His parents are divorced, not dead. It's me who's lost my parents.'

Glane moved the lantern closer and started tidying away scraps of fleece.

The words were out of my mouth before I realised I was going to say them.

‘I've seen her face,' I said. ‘In my memories. My real mum. I found her. I mean . . . in my dream. But I know she's there, waiting for me.'

I stopped. What was I doing? My memories were private, secret, fragile. And here I was, blabbing about them to this weird guy I'd only just met.

Glane stared at me. ‘But Lauren,' he said. ‘This is all only inside your head. It is not real.'

I pulled on the boot linings.

Glane didn't understand. How could he? It's impossible to explain what it feels like, when something inside your head is more real than your real life.

18

Out of the woods

We left very early the next morning. A few snowflakes whirled down from a cloudy sky, but Glane was confident there wouldn't be a storm. He loaned us jumpers and hats and gloves.

The fleece linings Glane had made padded out his enormous walking boots well, but they still felt big and heavy on my feet. My legs ached by the time we stopped for a brief meal of bread (baked in the cabin fire in a sealed tin the night before) and water (fresh melted snow – boiled then cooled).

We walked and walked, past endless trees and along snow-covered tracks. Glane never looked once at a map, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going the whole time.

It was almost dark when we arrived at Wells Canyon Lodge, on the outskirts of what Glane said was a small town about two hundred miles east of Burlington. My legs were totally exhausted and my eyes were sore from the sun and snow.

Glane booked us all in and we went upstairs. As Jam and I trudged along the corridor to our rooms, my stomach churned. I dreaded calling Mum. She would be mad enough with me for running off. How on earth was I going to get her to understand how much I needed to find my real mother?

Jam looked pretty anxious too. He went into his room without saying anything. Mine was a few doors down. Bare, but clean. I smoothed my hand over the nubby cotton counterpane. A large, old-fashioned white phone stood beside the bed. I stared at it.

It took me five minutes to work up the courage to dial Mum's mobile number.

‘Hello?' A voice like a wound-up spring.

‘Mum?'

‘Lauren.' The voice almost collapsed in on itself. ‘Are you all right? Are you safe?'

‘I'm OK, Mum, everything's fine.'

‘Oh my God, Lauren.' Mum dissolved into tears.

I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I'm sorry, Mum.'

‘Where
are
you?'

I told her. But when I tried to explain what had happened, she just kept asking over and over if I was really all right.

‘We're still in Boston, but we can be with you in a few hours,' she said. ‘Dad's here too. And the FBI. They tracked you to Burlington, but no one remembered you after that.
You'll have to talk to them about who took you from the airport, but—'

I sat up, my heart thudding. What was she talking about? ‘Wait. Mum. Listen. Back at Logan Airport – we left on . . . on purpose. It was me. I got Jam to do it. But I had to find out. About where I come from.'

Shocked silence.

‘What?' Mum gasped.

‘You wouldn't talk about it so I . . . we went to Marchfield. I—'

‘I thought you'd been abducted by some lunatic from the airport,' Mum shrieked. ‘I thought you were
dead
, Lauren.'

‘But I texted to say we were all right,' I stammered. ‘I didn't want you to worry. You're always saying how psychos are very rare.'

‘Not worry?' Mum shrieked. ‘How was I supposed to know someone hadn't
made
you send that text?'

My head flooded with guilt. That possibility hadn't occurred to me.

Mum sucked in her breath. ‘So while I've been sitting here unable to sleep or eat for five days solid, you've been gallivanting around America with your boyfriend, trying to find out things which we didn't want to tell you because we thought you weren't old enough. A decision you have just confirmed in its rightness by your absolute selfishness . . .'