Better Left Buried (21 page)

Nearly three hundred Danish kroner. How much is that? I work it out. About thirty pounds. Jeez. All this is costing far more than I imagined. I should give Jack some money, I think, but when I tried to pay him for the boat ticket he refused. He could afford it more than me, he said.

But how?

You know how,
says a voice in my head, but it's not one I want to listen to right now. So I push the thought from my mind and sit in silence as Jack drives into the centre of Malmö. We don't hang around. I only have time to dive into a coffee shop and get us both a cardboard cup full of strong, black coffee while he goes to the cashpoint to get some Swedish kronor.

A shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds as we head up the coastline, illuminating the waves and the distant chimneys barely visible across the water. My heart lifts a little at the sight of it.

Jack fiddles with the radio, but all the stations are in Swedish, or playing music he clearly doesn't like. He clicks it off in disgust.

“Talk to me, Sarah.”

I turn to look at him. “What about?”

“Anything. Just help me stay awake.”

I rack my brains for something to say. There are so many things we can talk about – and so many things we can't – that I draw a blank.

“Your sister,” I venture finally. “What's she like?”

The moment I ask I regret it. I see Jack's jaw tense, his hands clenching on the steering wheel, as if riding out a wave of physical pain.

“Not much to say,” he replies after a pause. “She's an ordinary kid.”

“What's her name?”

“Phoebe.”

“What does she want to do?”

Jack's mouth lifts into a smile. I can tell he's picturing her now. Remembering something she said. “She wants to be a marine biologist.”

“Really?” I say. “Wow!”

Max wanted to be a research chemist. The kind that works on new drugs, discovering ways to cure people, to make them better. I close my eyes briefly. The irony isn't lost on me.

“Ever since I took her to the aquarium,” Jack says. “You know, the big one down in Southampton. She decided that's what she wants to do.”

I smile too. She sounds nice. “I can tell you're proud of her.”

Jack nods. Overtakes a lorry in the slow lane. “She works hard, determined to do well in her exams. And she will.” He glances over at me. “She's like you – gritty, single-minded.”

Like me? I'm not sure how to respond to that. Is that really how Jack sees me?

“She wants to go to university. Get on a good course. She's got her head screwed on right.”

“So you have different dads?” I ask. “Your mum remarried, you said.”

Jack's eye twitches. Again the sense that I've gone too far. “My real dad died when I was three. Had a brain aneurysm. Dropped down dead at work, apparently. I can hardly remember him.”

“But you don't get on with your stepdad?”

A sharp intake of breath. “No.”

“Cos of the drugs?” I add before I can stop myself.

Jack doesn't respond for a minute. Then snorts. “Like he can talk. He drinks like a bloody drain, but according to him that's different.” There's no missing the contempt in his voice. “Booze is legal. Which makes it okay, I guess, to slap people around.”

“He hit you?” I stare at him aghast.

“Now and then. Usually it was just words. Insults. He could be really nasty when he'd had a few.”

“What about your sister? Does he hit her too?”

“Wouldn't dare.” Jack takes one hand off the steering wheel and rubs his chin. “Not now.”

“How do you mean?”

He sighs. Does that hand in his hair thing. “The last time – I mean, the last time he laid into me, over my school report when I was fifteen – I lost it a bit. Hit him back.”

Glancing at me, he sees the look on my face. “Not that hard – he was drunk, I didn't need to. It was only to get him to back off. But that was kind of the end of the line for me, you know? I'd had enough. So I left. Told him if he ever laid a finger on Phoebe, I'd kill him, then I walked out and never went back.”

I can't speak for a minute. I feel shivery. Shaken. “When was this?”

“About eight years ago. Phoebe was quite little.”

“So I guess you don't get to see much of her then?”

He shakes his head. “Now and then. When he's not around.”

I exhale slowly, and turn to Jack. “Would you have done it?” I ask quietly. “Killed him, I mean.”

Jack looks round at me and laughs. A short, hard bark of a laugh. “You don't think much of me, do you, Chicory?” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not that I can blame you.”

I sit there in silence, watching the scenery flash by. I've run out of questions. I'm feeling drained. As if every last ounce of energy has been sucked out of me. I shut my eyes. Listen to the sounds of the engine, the wheels on the tarmac.

“Tell me about a movie you watched,” he says out of the blue.

I open my eyes. He keeps his on the road. I think back to the last thing I saw at the cinema – that stupid romcom, right before Jack almost ran me over in the car park. No, not that.

Then I remember the film Max and I watched that last week he was home, one night while Mum and Dad were out. Max only came down to check the news, but when it started he was glued the whole time, barely speaking until nearly the end.

His face floats before me and I have to swallow before I can speak. “Did you ever see that documentary they made about the French man who crossed between the World Trade Centre buildings on a tightrope?” I try to remember what it's called, but the title escapes me.

“The towers are gone,” Jack says, almost irritably.

“Yeah, I know that. It was back in the seventies, long before 9/11.”

“Never saw it.” Jack glances at me. “Did he make it?”

I nod, remembering how Max leaned forwards, staring intently at the screen as the man set one foot on that impossibly high wire, cautiously testing his weight before taking his first step. Then another. And another. He had one of those long, bendy poles held out in front of him and he swayed slightly as the wind blew between the towers.

It was painful to watch. It seemed to take for ever and you could barely breathe during any of it. But it's not the film I remember, so much as what Max said to me afterwards.

I turn to Jack. “Imagine you were there, back then, in that crowd in New York.” I choose my words carefully, keeping my eyes fixed on his face. “Standing there on the ground, looking up between those huge buildings that stretch up into the sky. And right at the top, halfway between the two, you can see this tiny pinprick.”

Jack swings his eyes to mine. “Your point being?”

“Just listen. You know it's a man. He's up there, on a tightrope, moving one step at a time, incredibly slowly.”

He gives me a longer, more questioning look. “Where exactly are you going with this, Chicory?”

“Imagine, when he's about halfway across, he starts wobbling. Most of the people around you gasp, but one or two begin to cheer. The point is, most people want him to keep his balance, to make it safely to the other side. But some want to see him fall. So what I'm asking you is, which one are you?”

He frowns and clears his throat. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, do you want him to survive, or do you want him to fall? You choose. You don't have to tell me,” I say, “but you do have to know. You need to know what kind of person you have in the heart of you.”

Jack doesn't say anything, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He has his lips pressed firmly together and he's not even blinking. I can tell he's thinking it over.

And I have to ask myself again what that face is hiding.

I shut my eyes again. Remember Max watching me as he asked the same question. His searching gaze, like he was trying to peer into the very soul of me.

Though he didn't have to look so hard. He knew which one I'd choose. And all this time I'd assumed Max would make the same choice.

But now I wonder. What kind of person did my brother really have at the heart of him?

We never know, I realize, not about anyone. Not until things go bad. It's only then you discover what people are made of, by the choices they make.

But by then it's often too late.

No sign of Jack when I wake, only a mess of blankets on the sofa. I try to check the time on my phone, but still can't get it to turn on, so get out of bed and peek through the curtains. It's light, but barely. All I can make out is a grassy bank surrounding the car park.

A small frisson of relief when I see Jack's car is still over in the corner.

I turn on the motel room TV and find the news. It's in Swedish, but a digital clock at the bottom of the screen tells me it's only ten to seven. I consider going back to sleep for a bit – I still feel exhausted – but decide to use the extra time to get in some practice. If I sing softly, I shouldn't disturb anyone.

I'm limbering up with a few scales when there's a knock on the door. “You decent?” Jack calls out quietly.

“Hang on.” I splash water on my face in the bathroom and run my fingers through my hair, then let him in. He barely glances at me.

I go over to the window to draw back the curtains.

“No, leave it.” Jack's tone is sharp and my hand shrinks back. “We need to go.” He picks up his rucksack and disappears out the door.

I stuff my things into my bag and follow Jack to the car. He's taking long strides, like he can't get out of here fast enough.

“What's the hurry?” I ask as I do up my seat belt. Jack doesn't answer, just looks behind him, swings the car out in reverse, and accelerates through the exit.

I lapse into silence as we roar up the main road. He seems to have forgotten the speed limit. We're hitting nearly eighty-five and overtaking every other vehicle on the road.

A lorry pulls out suddenly, right in front of us, and Jack has to swerve to avoid it. A blare of horns as we race past.

“Jesus,” I gasp.

“Sorry,” he mutters, but doesn't slow down. Signs to towns with unpronounceable names whizz by. I stare out the side window at the blur of the landscape – it's less scary than looking ahead. My head feels woozy and my stomach is cramping with lack of food. I'm thirsty too, craving something to remove the stale taste of sleep.

A couple of hours later we pull in at a garage and Jack fills the tank, looking impatient, his eyes fixed on the cars streaming past.

“Want something to eat?” he points towards the Burger King on the other side of the road.

I nod. We drive over to the car park. Three lorries are pulled up opposite. A man eyes me hungrily from one with a Bulgarian plate; Jack glares at him till he turns away.

“Wait here,” Jack says, locking the door behind him.

“Water,” I call after him. “Not Coke. And just a roll or…”

But he's gone. Five minutes later he returns with a couple of burgers that fill the car with the stink of grease. I get out and sit on grass that's still damp with dew.

“Here.” Jack passes me the smaller bag as he bites into his burger.

I shake my head.

“Check it out.”

I peer in and pull out a round package. Unwrap it, waiting for the smell of meat to assault me, but it's a veggie burger. I give it a sniff. Not bad, and thankfully it comes with a generous helping of salad. I look back into the paper carrier – there's a small portion of chips and a bottle of Ramlösa mineral water.

I throw Jack an appreciative glance, but he keeps his gaze directed at the entrance to the car park.

“Thanks,” I say. This gets his attention. He leans out and offers me a bite of his burger, smirking as I shy my head away.

“Go on,” he says. “I reckon you need the protein.”

I pull a disgusted face. “I'd rather die.”

Jack's expression reverts to something more serious. “Don't say that, Chicory. Ever.”

My cheeks flush with shame, and I'm wondering again about this whole “chicory” thing when a loud trilling sound distracts Jack. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen. Hesitates before accepting the call.

“What do you want, Manny?”

I watch Jack's face darken as he listens to the reply. Notice the stubble that's appearing, giving his cheeks a shadowy, more sinister look. He keeps the phone pressed close to his ear. He doesn't speak, but his expression hardens. All at once he punches a button to end the call and opens the passenger door.

“Get in,” he barks. “We have to go.”

I grab my food and clamber in, and Jack speeds off up the road. The sky comes over gloomy again, grey clouds hanging low, leaving only a small, bright band of light towards the horizon. Jack turns towards Stockholm on the E20.

“Who's Manny?” I ask, once the car is cruising steadily north.

Jack runs his hand over his cheek, leans back in his seat. “Did you know the magnetic field of the Earth has flipped over many times?” he says after a minute or so of silence. Changing the subject.

I don't reply, annoyed he won't tell me what's going on.

“Think about it,” he adds. “If you'd stood around here with a compass three-quarters of a million years ago, it would have pointed south.”

“Really?” I decide to let the whole Manny thing go for now. Clearly Jack has no intention of telling me who he is.

“Yeah. And they reckon it could start to shift again, any time.”

“
Really?”
I repeat, only more sceptical this time. Maybe he's making it up. Who knows if anything Jack says is true?

He looks at me and laughs. “I'm not kidding, Chicory. Check it out on the net if you don't believe me.”

I try to imagine it. True south. A world turned upside-down. And it hits me that it's already happened – at least to me. My whole world flipped right over so it's impossible to get my bearings.