Better Left Buried (9 page)

Not to mention the Italian lyrics.

It doesn't help that all the while I'm singing, I'm listening out for the ringtone on my phone, always alert for a response from Lizzie. Every time I've called over the last few days her mobile clicks straight into voicemail. I've left three now, along with several texts and a couple of messages on Facebook.

I even went over to her house on Saturday, after work, but no one was in. I was so anxious I popped in to Abby's party later that night, just to see if she was there. Abby's large, detached home was heaving. Most of our year were there, it seemed, and half the one above. But there was no sign of Lizzie. I went from room to room, and all round the garden, asking if anyone had seen her.

No one had.

It's left me almost sick with misery. It's been a week since Lizzie ran out on me in the cafe, and I can't even think of another time when we've gone this long without speaking.

What on earth have I done to piss her off like this?

One more run through the Handel and I give up. Go over to the new laptop Mum bought me and check my email account. There's a message from Dad. I click it open and skim through. More apologies for not being able to get home yet. Weather bad out on the rig, etc. Will ring soon.

A PS at the bottom.
Don't sweat your results, love. Just focus on your singing and you'll be absolutely fine.

I grimace and log on to Facebook. Go to Lizzie's profile and scroll through her homepage. There's a post from Finn Johnson, tagging her in a photo taken at college back in the spring. Another from Alice in her geography set, asking about her exam results. Quite a few from people I don't even know – it's beyond me how Lizzie accumulates so many friends.

Both Tanya and Roo have posted on her timeline demanding to know why she wasn't at the party. Sally Donaldson has even sent a cartoon of a sad-looking kitten, with
Don't be a stranger
written underneath.

But Lizzie hasn't responded to any of them. Which is odd. Lizzie's usually religious about keeping up with stuff like that. She'll happily while away hours on the internet, putting up pictures and updates and commenting on other people's status. The week we were on the school ski trip and there wasn't any Wi-Fi, she practically went into withdrawal.

I stare at her profile pic, the two of us hugging and pulling silly faces, Lizzie sucking in her cheeks and lips, opening her eyes wide so she looks like a duck. We took it on the coach, on that Year Eleven outing to the Eden Project. Not long afterwards Lizzie fell asleep, her head resting on my shoulder, and I didn't have the heart to shift it; by the time we got home I was so stiff I could hardly move.

Usually that picture makes me smile. Today it just makes me feel sort of desolate.

God, I can't stand this any longer. I grab my bag, shouting to Mum that I'm going out. She calls back something I don't catch – I'm already halfway through the door.

I walk briskly to the bakery, sweating in the August heat, wondering with each step what I'll do when I get there. Racking my brain as to what I could possibly have said or done to make Lizzie behave like this. After all, she was fine with me in the cafe, wasn't she? At least at first.

I run through what happened again in my head. She came to meet me, she wanted to say something, obviously something important.

There's some stuff I need to tell you. Things I should have told you some time ago.

And then she looked out the window and…

She saw that man.

It wasn't simply that she noticed some strange guy looking at us. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure she
recognized
him.

I stop and catch my breath, feeling dizzy, and not just from walking so fast. Why did Lizzie say she hadn't seen him? Why deny it? It doesn't make any kind of sense.

Was it something to do with what she was going to tell me? I wonder. Could he somehow be the reason she's ignoring me now?

There's only one way to find out: make her tell me the truth.

By the time I get to the bakery, they're closing up. I cup my hands round my eyes and peer through the glass. No sign of Lizzie. She must be out the back, tidying up.

I check my watch – ten past five. She should be finished soon.

Sitting on the bench just opposite, I tip my head towards the late afternoon sunshine, trying to focus on its warmth rather than the tension around my chest.

I'm nervous, I realize. I'm actually scared of seeing my best friend. Afraid that whatever's going on, there's no way back. That Lizzie and I are history.

And that's something I can't even contemplate. Without her, I'd have sunk without trace, I think, remembering when Max died. As I discovered, grief doesn't bring families together; it drives them apart. Mum disappeared into herself, barely speaking to anyone, while Dad lost himself in the practicalities – identifying the body, talking to the police, arranging the funeral. Even Aunt Helen was preoccupied with looking after Mum.

Only Lizzie was really there for me. When being in my house got too much for either of us to bear, Lizzie grabbed a couple of sleeping bags and suggested we camp out in the garden. We lay on the lawn, gazing up at the stars, and somehow having her there made it possible for me to keep breathing.

Lizzie saved my life when my brother lost his. Losing her now would break my heart, and it's this that keeps me waiting, long after the other shop assistant emerges, pulling her cap from her hair and stuffing it into her coat pocket.

Half an hour later Mrs Cavendish, Lizzie's boss, comes out.

“Excuse me.” I approach her as she bends to lock the door to the shop. “Is Lizzie Montgomery there?”

Mrs Cavendish straightens up and turns to look me over. “No, she isn't. Are you a friend of hers?”

I nod. “Sarah Marshall. We're at college together.”

Mrs Cavendish eyes me with displeasure. “Yes, I noticed you come in once or twice.”

I smile. Her face remains stony.

“Actually we haven't seen Lizzie for over a week. Not a word of explanation. I've rung her mobile several times and she's never even bothered to call me back.”

I stare at her. I don't know what to say.

“I've no idea where she is or what she's up to,” says Mrs Cavendish, zipping the shop keys into her bag, “but when you find her, you can tell her from me that she's fired.”

I walk round to Lizzie's house rather than take the bus. It's well over a mile, but I barely notice. I'm too busy panicking.

She must be ill, is all I can think. But too ill to ring in sick at work? Too ill to reply to any of my messages?

As I round the corner into Argyle Road, I'm starting to imagine something really bad has happened. Maybe she's lying in some hospital bed somewhere, unconscious.

But then surely I'd have heard? Either through school, or her mum would let me know. Lizzie's mum may be a bit scatty, but she's not that hopeless.

Even so, by the time I ring her doorbell, I'm convinced Lizzie is in intensive care, hooked up to a life support machine, doctors shaking their heads as her mum and Toby stand weeping by her bedside. I can see the slow green
blip-blip-blip
of her heartbeat on the monitor, hear the faint whoosh and swish of the ventilator struggling to keep her alive.

I fidget on the doorstep, dreading what I'm about to discover, yet desperate to get it over with. Nothing happens for nearly a minute after I ring the bell. I stand there, waiting, every nerve in my body jittery with apprehension.

Everyone's out, I think, wondering where. Probably at the hospital, I realize, with a jolt of dread that makes me feel almost faint.

I'm fighting a rising tide of anxiety when finally the door opens. Lizzie's mum, her hair swathed in a towel, wearing a dressing gown and an impatient look that shifts to something else when she sees me.

“Sarah…goodness…what are you doing here?”

I stare at her, puzzled. “Um…how do you mean?”

“I just wasn't expecting you back so soon, that's all.”

I stand there, bewildered. What on earth is she talking about?

“Where's Lizzie?” Her mum looks over my shoulder.

“I don't know.” I glance behind me as if my friend might somehow be hovering there. “I mean, I came round to see her. Is she okay?”

“So when did…?” Her voice trails off as she sees my expression, her look of confusion shifting into unease. “You mean, she isn't with you?”

“With
me
? Um…no. I haven't seen her since last Monday.”

“But Lizzie told me you were both going away together,” her mum says, anxiety deepening the lines on her forehead. “To celebrate her eighteenth.”

“No…I mean, yes, but only to Brighton. We're planning to go down for the day.”

Somehow that's looking more and more unlikely, I think, staring at Lizzie's mum. She's not speaking. Just hovering there, gazing with blank eyes that aren't seeing me at all. I feel increasingly nervous and awkward. And guilty, though I've no clue what I might have done wrong.

Besides blow Lizzie's cover.

“Where's she gone?” I manage to ask. “I mean, what did she say?”

Lizzie's mother adjusts her focus to my face. “She said you were going on holiday together. Camping down in Cornwall. Near St Ives.”

“Cornwall?” I feel instantly wretched. Lizzie's gone to
Cornwall
? Why would she do that without even telling me? And who the hell is she with? There's no way she'd go on her own.

“How long is she going for?” I say, almost giddy with anguish.

“I'm not sure…ten days or so. I did ask, but she was rather vague. Said she'd see how it went but she'd be back before college started. I didn't think anything of it at the time. You know, she's a sensible girl and I can trust her to take care of herself. But now…” Her voice drifts away.

“Have you heard from her?”

Lizzie's mum nods. “She's rung twice. Claimed you were both having a great time.” Her lips press into a thin, tense line.

“So she's taken her mobile with her?” I ask, a heaviness forming in my heart before I even hear the answer.

Her mum nods again.

“I've been calling her,” I say. “But I thought her phone was turned off cos it always goes straight into voicemail.”

“She said it's not working properly. That's why she can only call me.”

I frown, trying to make sense of all this. “But she told you I was there too?”

The expression on Lizzie's mum's face tightens. “Yes,” she says, her voice whispery with worry. She pulls up her shoulders and puts a hand up to her head to tuck in a bit of loose towel. “Right. Oh god. I'll try to get hold of her. Find out what on earth's going on.”

“When did she leave? I mean, she didn't turn up the other day to pick up her results. I waited ages.”

“Wednesday. She left that morning, said she was meeting you at the station.”

“But why go the day before our exam results?” I exclaim. “It doesn't make sense. Why not wait twenty-four hours at least?

“She said she wasn't bothered, Sarah, so they sent them here.” Lizzie's mum pulls at the skin over her brow, her expression increasingly anxious. “I told her what she got when she rang – not that she seemed interested. She didn't even ask if they'd arrived.”

I haven't the heart to ask how Lizzie did in her exams. Suddenly it doesn't seem important. All that matters now is where she's gone, and why she left in such a hurry.

Because last Wednesday was only two days after we talked in the cafe, and she didn't say a word about a holiday. Surely she couldn't have arranged it all so fast? And who with? Everyone was at Abby's party on Saturday – at least, everyone I can think of who Lizzie might go camping with.

I swallow, feeling weirdly dislocated, like the world has shifted around me, become somehow less familiar. Why didn't Lizzie tell me she was going? Why leave without a word?
I'm her best friend
, for god's sake.

Or rather, I thought I was.

“Do you think she's all right?” Her mum clutches the door frame, her features pinched with anguish. “I mean, should I call the police?”

I shake my head. “I'm sure she's fine,” I say, with more conviction than I feel. “She rang you, after all. You spoke to her, so she must be okay. It's just that I don't understand why she didn't tell me. She never said a word about going away.”

I don't add how hurt I am. I guess Lizzie's mum can work that out for herself.

“So you've no idea then who she might be with? Not a fella, or anything?”

I frown. “Lizzie doesn't have a boyfriend.”

The instant I say it I start to wonder. The way Lizzie kept checking her phone. Almost like she was expecting someone to call or something. Might that explain why she's been so off recently? Some kind of bad romance?

But why wouldn't she talk to me about it? Confide in me? Why keep it a secret?

“I'm just surprised you don't know anything, that's all.” Lizzie's mum gives me a sceptical look and I have to swallow to keep calm. I've always got on well with her, but suddenly it's like she thinks I'm hiding something.

And I suppose I am, in a way. Because instead of speaking up about the cafe, about the map and the man that burgled our house, and whatever connection he might have to Lizzie, I shake my head again. “I don't. Honestly.”

It's sort of the truth. I don't know anything, not for certain. Just speculation. Suspicions.

Lizzie's mum sighs heavily, tightening the cord of her dressing gown around her waist. “Okay…well, I'll try to find out what's going on.” She gazes at me, her expression softening. “I'll ring you if I have any luck. And you'll tell me too, Sarah, won't you, if you hear something? Let me know she's all right? I mean, I'm aware she's almost an adult now, but…”