Blood Ties (6 page)

My answers got shorter and shorter as I lied about my surname, the name of my school and where I lived.

I guess Rachel must have seen how awkward I felt, because after a few minutes she gave this nervy little cough from the doorway, where she was still standing.

‘Theo said he would help me with my biology homework,’ she said. ‘He’s doing a big project on genetics.’

Mrs Smith nodded. She had the weirdest eyes. They were set almost flat against the stretched-out skin around them.

‘Fine,’ she chirped. ‘I’ll leave you both to get on, then.’ She narrowed her spooky eyes at me. ‘I’ll just be next door. Let me know if you need anything.’

She trotted out of the kitchen. I breathed out heavily.

‘Sorry.’ Rachel came and sat down opposite me. ‘My mum’s a nightmare.’

I shrugged, privately agreeing, but sensing it might be rude to say so. There was a big clock on the kitchen wall above Rachel’s head. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet.

‘When does your dad get home?’ I said.

‘Not for a few hours.’ Rachel looked up at me apologetically. ‘Maybe we should work out what your project’s about. Then I’ll go and ask Mum if you can stay for tea.’

I groaned inwardly. At this rate I wouldn’t be home until ten or eleven. Mum would be going mental. She might even call the police. Still, I was here now. I had to make the most of it.

My eyes fell on a framed photograph of a girl on the wall underneath the kitchen clock. She was smiling. Really pretty.

‘Who’s that?’ I said.

Rachel stiffened. ‘My sister,’ she said, staring down at the table.

I raised my eyebrows, imagining what Jake would say if he was with me. ‘When does
she
get home?’ I said, trying to sound casual.

‘She doesn’t. She’s dead.’ Rachel got up and shuffled over to the fridge. ‘D’you want a drink? I’m getting an orange juice.’

‘Er . . . yeah . . . thanks.’ I looked away, embarrassed.

After Rachel brought over our glasses, we talked through what my school project should be about. Still barely looking me in the eyes, Rachel explained more about what her dad did. It didn’t sound as if he’d been involved in any kind of genetic research for a long time.

Mrs Smith came back into the kitchen and Rachel asked if I could stay for tea. Her mum looked annoyed.

‘But won’t anyone be expecting you at home, Theo?’ she said.

I told her my parents were away on holiday and I was staying with cousins who were easy-going about what I did.

After so many other lies, I figured, how could one more hurt? Mrs Smith reluctantly agreed I could stay for tea.

Rachel’s dad came home at about six-thirty. Rachel looked up, surprised, as his voice drifted through from the hall.

‘He’s back early,’ she said. ‘Mum must’ve called him.’

My heart hammered as heavy footsteps crossed the hall floor. Now Mr Smith was here, I felt terrified. I suddenly couldn’t remember what on earth we’d agreed to say – how I was going to get him to talk about the past.

The door opened. A shortish, grey-haired man walked in. Like Mrs Smith, he was old. More like a grandad than a dad, really. He stared at me as if he’d never seen a boy before.

Man
, this family were weird.

I stood up and held out my hand again.

But Mr Smith didn’t seem to notice. He was still staring at my face. ‘What’s your name?’ he said at last.

‘Theo.’

Mr Smith shook my hand and kissed Rachel on the side of the head. He leaned against the kitchen table. ‘My wife tells me you’re helping Rachel with her homework?’

‘I’m doing this genetics project,’ I said. My mouth felt dry. ‘The history of genetic research. Where science was and is and where it will be in five years’ time.’

Mr Smith smiled. ‘Bit ambitious for a Year Ten project, isn’t it?’

‘I’m Year Eleven,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable. I glanced at Rachel. Surprise, surprise – she was staring down at the floor. She looked like she might be about to cry. I suddenly felt massively sorry for her. Okay, so my mum had her faults, but Rachel’s parents were really weird.

Mr Smith was staring at me again. I plunged on.

‘Rachel said you used to work at a clinic that did genetic research.’

Mr Smith shook his head. ‘I don’t know why she said that.’ He glanced at Rachel and smiled. ‘I’m a manager not a researcher. I’ve never been involved in actual genetic research.’

‘But Dad,’ Rachel muttered. ‘You still worked at research clinics . . .’

‘For goodness’ sake, Ro.’ Mr Smith rolled his eyes. ‘I might have worked briefly at a couple of the clinics, but I had nothing to do with any of the genetic research they were doing. Look, I’m going to get out of my suit.’ He turned away and strode out of the room.

Rachel and I stared at each other across the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I guess my dad isn’t going to be much help.’

I nodded. But my mind was whirring away. I was sure Mr Smith knew more than he was letting on.

Rachel got out her school bag and appeared to be doing some kind of art homework. A weird picture of lots of tiny heart shapes – all red and dripping with blood. I bent over my English comprehension. We worked silently for a while. My mind kept sliding over the words on the page in front of me. I knew I couldn’t leave here without asking Mr Smith about my dad. Somehow, I had to do it. Even if he refused to tell me anything.

My chance came an hour or so later. Mrs Smith had been bustling about in the kitchen making some kind of stew. It smelled delicious and I was starving. I usually had a couple of sandwiches when I got in from school, then a big tea later. But Rachel hadn’t eaten so much as a biscuit yet – and no one had offered me anything either.

At last Mrs Smith told us to clear our homework away and set the table. Rachel brought out these shiny knives and forks, then some long-stemmed wine glasses and cloth napkins.

I was feeling more and more awkward. The last thing I wanted was to sit down with Rachel’s weird parents and have some kind of formal dinner. On the other hand, I had to ask about my dad.

Plus, I was so hungry now it felt like my stomach lining was eating itself.

At last Mrs Smith plonked two bowls on the table – one, a steaming bowl of rice, the other full of a meaty mince dish.

‘Richard,’ she called. ‘Supper’s ready.’

She indicated I should sit on one side of the table. ‘So what does your father do, Theo?’ she said in this high, brittle voice.

‘Er . . . er . . . my dad died,’ I said. ‘A long time ago,’ I added, embarrassed by the wide-eyed look of concern spreading over Mrs Smith’s face.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said. Then she shouted ‘Richard’ again.

Mr Smith appeared grumpily in the door. ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Well. As you’re home.’ Mrs Smith gave this false-sounding, tinkly little laugh. ‘And as Theo’s here.’

Mr Smith glared at me as he sat down. ‘When do you have to leave, Theo?’

The sub-text was obvious.
How quickly can I get rid of you?

I took a deep breath. ‘I’ll have to go after dinner,’ I said slowly. ‘But I was wondering if I could ask you about the genetic research clinics you worked at again.’

Rachel’s mum’s mouth dropped open.

Mr Smith shrugged. ‘I told you, I wasn’t involved in any of the actual research.’

‘I just wondered if you knew anyone else who was. Involved, I mean. Like one of the scientists. Maybe I could talk to them about the research they were doing back then.’

Mr Smith stared at me.

Crap.
Even to my own ears I sounded phoney. I mean, I was good at science. I always had been. But the idea that I might be so into a science project that I’d actually go and interview real-life scientists was beyond ridiculous.

Still, now I’d started, I might as well go on.

‘Did you ever meet that guy called the Gene Genie?’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘I read about him on the internet. I think his real name was Elijah Lazio?’

Mrs Smith’s shiny fork clattered onto her plate.

‘Elijah Lazio?’ Mr Smith shook his head. ‘I know the name, but we never met.’

I was sure he was lying. He’d worked at the man’s clinic, for goodness’ sake.

I nodded. ‘Okay. Maybe you remember some of the people he worked with.’ My heart hammered. ‘Er . . . there was one guy, one of the researchers I think.’ I paused, as if trying to remember. ‘James Lawson?’

Mr Smith pressed his lips together, then stretched them into a completely unconvincing smile. ‘Never heard of him,’ he said.

Again, I was sure he was lying. But why? And what did I say now?

I ran my hand through my hair. And then it happened. This look crossed Mr Smith’s face. Immediately he covered it. Turned away and started talking to his wife, who was still sitting rigidly at the end of the table.

I looked down at my plate. Suddenly my hunger had vanished. Because the look that had crossed Mr Smith’s face was unmistakable.

Terror.

Pure, total, terror.

What the hell was going on?

Theo left straight after dinner.

He stood at the front door, staring at me with those serious brown eyes, like he was trying to tell me something but couldn’t because of Dad hovering nearby. Then he pushed a tiny, folded piece of paper into my left hand and squeezed my fingers tightly over it.

‘See you,’ he said under his breath. It was half a statement, half a question.

My heart thumped as he let himself out of the door. My hand where he’d touched it felt branded – like when they stamp animals to say who they belong to. Like Theo had marked me out as his.

Even if he didn’t realise it.

I kept my fingers closed over the hard ridge of the paper as I turned round. Dad was behind me, watching – eyes hard, arms folded.

I was furious with him. Okay, so he didn’t remember Theo’s dad, but I couldn’t believe how rude he’d been. I mean, I know Theo wasn’t telling him the whole truth, but that was just to protect his mum. The poor guy. He just wanted a bit of information and Dad had totally refused to talk.

I stomped upstairs without a word, still clutching the tiny piece of paper.

I unfolded it in my bedroom. My heart raced. It had clearly been torn out of some workbook. Next to the printed line of text, Theo had written his phone number. Not a mobile. A home number.

For a second I let myself imagine he’d given me his number because he wanted to ask me out. But this voice in my head told me not to be so stupid. He’d given me his number so I could let him know if Dad said anything about James Lawson.

I wanted to cry. How sweet that he cared so much. His life must be so hard. His mum in constant misery. Theo, himself, searching, yearning to know more about his father.

I lay on my bed, picturing his face. Remembering his eyes when he looked at me. But gradually my thoughts turned to how hopeless it was. I’d probably never see him again. And, even if I did, he would never be interested in
me
. Fat, ugly me.

And then I remembered how he’d asked about Rebecca. How his face had lit up when he’d seen her picture on the wall. A hole opened up inside my stomach. I was nothing. I was worthless. I was worse even than Jemima and her friends said I was.

I got off the bed and crept downstairs to the kitchen. I walked quietly, not wanting Mum to see me. I found the cupboard I was looking for and reached inside for the round, steel biscuit tin. I eased the lid off and crammed a chocolate biscuit into my mouth.

The chocolate melted against my mouth – all rich and creamy. I crunched on the biscuit, letting my saliva smooth out the rough, sugary texture of the wheat. I swallowed it down. Then I took another. And another.

Five biscuits later, I shut the lid on the tin and slid it back in the cupboard. As I closed the cupboard door I filled up with misery again. Why had I done that? I was only going to get fatter and fatter.

And Mum would see. She would know what I’d done. Not that she’d say anything directly. She’d just start going on about carbs again.

I crept out of the kitchen as silently as I’d entered it. But this time as I passed the living-room door on my way to the stairs I heard Mum and Dad talking.

‘I don’t think you should do anything.’ Mum’s voice was sharp. ‘He’s just a boy.’

‘But it was him.
Him.
I saw it when he put his hand through his hair.’ Dad sounded terrified. ‘We’ve got to do something or they’ll find out about Rachel too.’

I paused, frowning. What was he talking about?

‘I’m going to email Lewis,’ Dad said firmly. I could hear him pacing across the room. ‘He’ll know what’s going on.’

‘No.’ Mum’s voice rose. Now she sounded scared too. ‘No. Email’s too risky.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Dad’s footsteps stopped. ‘I had to get rid of the secure phone, didn’t I? So there’s not any choice. Anyway, not doing anything’s riskier. Didn’t you hear the boy? He was talking about Elijah
and
he knew about James Lawson.’

My stomach gave a sickening lurch
.

Mum knew about the secret phone too. Which Dad was now referring to as a
secure
phone for some reason. Worse, Dad had lied flat out. He
did
know Theo’s dad. And that Gene Genie guy.

The footsteps suddenly got louder. Closer to the door. I scurried to the stairs. Raced up to my room. I stood just inside the door, panting, my heart pulsing in my throat.

Footsteps coming up the stairs. I peered through the crack in my bedroom door. Dad marched past, head down, making for his office.

I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Then I crept down the landing corridor and peered round the office door.

Dad was sitting in his big leather office chair, hunched over his laptop. He looked up. Saw me. Smiled, distractedly.

His hands pulled the lid of the laptop down a fraction, as if he was unconsciously trying to stop me from seeing what he was doing.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I said, awkwardly.

He frowned. ‘That boy earlier,’ he said. ‘Theo. Did you really meet him at your school disco?’

I nodded, feeling myself blush.

‘Then you didn’t see him for months and he just turned up today?’ Dad’s eyes bored into mine.