Don't Look Back (7 page)

‘Don't keep the lady waiting,' I urged. He picked up the cups from where he'd placed them on the table, and
regarded me intently, but now it made me feel like an insect under a microscope. ‘Hope we don't meet again,' I added.

‘You're still the rudest girl I've ever met,' he said.

‘And you still must have led a really sheltered life,' I quipped, but this time almost wistfully.

He walked towards the exit without giving me another glance, but he had the nerve to check out a pretty girl sitting in the corner. A stern female traffic warden was just about to put a ticket on his car when he breezed through the glass door. Unbelievably, he blew her a kiss, raised a cup as if to say cheers and she put away her machine and waved him on his way. He even honked his horn in appreciation. Harry returned with a giant sandwich and I tried to hide the overwhelming feeling of misery that had descended as quickly as fog. The beach boy and his girlfriend looked so happy, without a care in the world, and I felt ten years older and weighed down by burdens I couldn't even express. I sipped my tepid coffee and tried to console myself with the thought that a passing lorry might shower his girlfriend with loose chippings and grit.

I couldn't get him out of my head. My first assumption had been totally wrong; he didn't look like a backpacker today, more a public schoolboy with his own expense account. I was usually so good at putting people into categories, but he seemed to elude me. And he'd been so outspoken about my rudeness. This wasn't the first time, but his words hurt like never before.

I fidgeted in my seat, already knowing the answer to my question. ‘Harry? Do I have an anger problem?'

‘If I say yes, will you punch me?' he joked.

‘So I do?'

‘Sometimes you're on a short fuse. You know that,' he answered diplomatically.

I nibbled my fingernails. ‘Give me an example.'

Harry sat up straight and folded his arms stoically. ‘OK. You get angry at wasps, men with beards, people who don't queue … people who do queue … anyone who sneezes next to you …' He took a breath. ‘Women over forty who wear skinny jeans or Lycra, ring-pull cans, cartons of milk, pips in oranges, traffic cones –'

I held up both hands to stop him. ‘OK, I
am
the most intolerant person in the world.' I took a minute to reflect on this, astonished to find that it really bothered me. In an instant it felt as if someone had held up a mirror and I'd seen myself in all my ugliness. When had I turned into the kind of person that I despised? The realization floored me and I was overtaken by an unnatural urge to spill my guts to Harry. There was even a wobble in my voice.

‘Do you remember the fairy tale about the Snow Queen?'

Harry smiled weakly.

‘It's about a magic mirror that magnified and distorted everything and everyone so they looked horrible and repulsive. The mirror broke into millions of pieces and some people got splinters of glass in their eyes and only
saw the ugly things in life, and some people got a shard in their heart, which turned into a lump of ice –'

‘And you think that's what happened to you?' he asked softly.

I let a breath go. ‘Sometimes I imagine I don't even have a heart. There's a hole in my chest where it should be and my … mission is to rush through life frantically, trying to fill the void.'

‘That's so daft, Sinead. Being a bit impatient and snappy doesn't make you a bad person … and it's understandable, after what you've had to cope with. You spend your life worrying about your mum and Patrick … more than they deserve. Repeat after me,' he said sternly, ‘“My heart's in good working order.”'

I spaced out momentarily.
You know your heart's beating. You felt something when you looked at that boy – you felt your heart sing, and that's scared the life out of you.

‘Sinead … ? What's brought this on?' Harry was asking.

‘Don't know,' I said morosely, already regretting the confession. First the priest and now Harry; since Patrick disappeared I'd become an emotional wreck. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and remain focused on finding him. I clenched my hands under the table. ‘It's been twenty-four hours and I've got no more leads, Harry. I'll have to break the news to my mum. It'll be awful … no, worse than awful … She'll fall apart completely.'

‘Has she filled in the missing persons report?'

I pulled a face. ‘I put it to her, but she isn't keen. Patrick's had a few minor run-ins with the police and she thinks they're not sympathetic to him. She wants this to stay in the family.'

Harry picked at his worn sleeve, seemingly at a loss for what to say. Eventually we decided to leave. We tried the local job centre but our computer search there flagged up nothing useful, and then we spent a hot and sticky afternoon mooching about, trying to come up with more leads. Harry wanted to find a shady tree to sit under and relax but I couldn't. The lack of direction had made me more wired than ever.

He tried to calm me down. ‘Patrick couldn't be sure how long it would take you to find his clues. Just because you haven't found another one doesn't mean it's not there … somewhere.'

I considered his words, remembering the Bible. ‘You're right. I'm going back to Patrick's flat. There might be something else I've overlooked.'

Harry offered to keep me company but I let him down gently. ‘I need some time alone to think.' I looked at him and sighed. ‘Maybe this is part of Patrick's game.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Taunting me. He knows how impatient I am. Waiting for anything tortures me.'

We reached the flat and Harry left me at the door. His parting smile looked sad, beaten. ‘One day, Sinead, you might find something … or
someone
worth waiting for.'

My eyes flew open and I clutched at my throat, gasping for breath. For a moment I was a little girl again, back at home in my bedroom, feeling the night thicken around me and the darkness smother me. I actually pummelled the air with my fists before I remembered where I was. I was in Patrick's flat. I was safe. It was 3 a.m. and still dark. I strained to listen. For a moment I thought I heard a noise outside the door, but it was probably just my nightmare still weighing heavy. It had never felt so vivid before – the sensation of not being able to breathe stronger and more terrifying than ever. I padded into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Feeling restless, I walked over to the window. Under the lamp post there was a figure looking up at the flat, which made me draw back into the shadows. There was something familiar about it and in my sleepy state I was convinced it had to be Patrick.

Without thinking I ran out of the door, down the stairs and on to the pavement, calling his name, but the street
was now empty. I crossed over to the lamp post and stared at the glowing butt lying on the pavement. Whoever it was had been smoking a cigarette. I would have extinguished it but my feet were bare.

It took me another minute to realize how dangerous it was, out in the middle of the city in the early hours of the morning. Suddenly there were shadows everywhere, in doorways, behind cars and in alleys, a million places where someone could hide. I must have been sleepwalking to have come out here like this. I wrapped my arms around myself and tiptoed back across the road to the flat, thankful the door hadn't closed, because it locked automatically and my keys were inside. Tiny bits of gravel were embedded in the soles of my feet. Apart from a few creaking timbers and the sound of water filtering through the pipes, everywhere was as quiet as a grave. I climbed back into Patrick's bed, but I knew that sleep would elude me; I was in a strange room, feeling horribly uneasy, and worries always seemed magnified in the small hours. My mind took me back to the clock tower, reliving what I had feared would be my last moments.
It's always later than you think.

It wasn't until dawn began to break that I dozed off again; this time my head was full of crazy dreams all involving me in pursuit of Patrick. The most vivid and memorable one came closest to waking; I was climbing a steep hill, chasing a purposeful figure that refused to slow down or turn around, but I knew it was Patrick. I began screaming at him, punching the air with my fists and
bawling, when he stopped abruptly and launched himself downward as skilfully as a bird of prey swooping for the kill. I wanted to follow but the drop was immense; I was teetering on the edge of a precipice. And when I looked into the depths they resembled the inside of a volcano, billowing smoke and ash scorching my face and my hair. And Patrick was swallowed up inside. Then the cries began, so awful that I had to cover my ears.

My phone alarm beeped and buzzed, a loud, intrusive sound that shocked me into instant consciousness. As I tried to switch it off I knocked the phone from the cabinet and heard it skitter across the wooden floor. I tumbled out of bed, still woozy, and crawled on my knees until I grabbed it with both hands and cut the beeps. I stood, stretching, my sleepy eyes trying to focus. The door was open and I blinked at the strange sight that greeted me, and then blinked again to make sure I wasn't still dreaming. Dazed, I lurched into the living room and ran one shaky hand across the startling image that now covered at least a square metre of the white wall.

There was a church, identifiable by a large cross on the apex of its roof. It was positioned on a sheer rock face that rose out of some kind of chasm filled with layer upon layer of bodies, a writhing, seething mass, their arms held out in supplication, their faces stricken. Misshapen trees jutted out of the rock. Some of the tormented figures had branches woven like vines around them, some had hair made of serpents that imprisoned them in the same way.
Most of the image was drawn in black, but the chasm was surrounded by a lake, the ripples stained a startling blood red. This was unreal. Panic flooded through me, my legs gave way and I dropped to the floor again. With shaking hands I texted Harry just five words.
Urgent. Get over here NOW.

*

Harry must have been so worried by my text. Even in shock I noticed that his shirt was inside out and he was wearing odd socks. As I brought him inside and showed him the wall his face blanched.

‘Is it ink or paint?' he asked, copying my first instinct and running his hand over the surface.

‘Who cares about the technique?' I said. ‘This has to be Patrick showing me the Red Lake and the pit on Station Island.'

‘It's very fine,' he went on. ‘Some kind of line drawing?'

‘Harry! You're missing the point.' This was mean of me because until he arrived I had been perched on the end of Patrick's bed too frightened to move. ‘I was here all night … sleeping. How was it done? When was it done?'

Harry still looked too stunned to speak. He jumped up to examine the door in a strangely male way. He was completely impractical and wouldn't have been able to tell if the lock had been tampered with, but his concern was touching.

‘It doesn't look as if the door's been forced, but you can't stay here any longer, Sinead.'

I narrowed my eyes. ‘Patrick is behind this.'

‘I don't know how,' Harry said.

Gingerly I lifted my foot, a memory slowly filtering through. There were still tiny scratches on the sole where the gravel had pitted the skin. It hadn't been a dream.

I coughed, squirmed and steeled myself for the confession. ‘Thing is … I ran outside in the middle of the night, when I noticed someone under the street light … and I left the flat door open.'

‘Sinead!' Harry said my name with disbelief. ‘Anyone could have walked in.'

I looked sheepish, knowing it had been an insane thing to do. ‘Well, whoever it is, they don't mean me any harm,' I tried to joke. ‘I mean, everything was normal at three o'clock, and if someone slipped inside when I left the door open, they only wanted to decorate the wall.'

‘We're going back to the police,' he said firmly.

I rubbed my nose, still annoyed with myself. ‘We can't. Strange art appearing on the walls would go down even worse than the flat-tidying story. There hasn't been a break-in and nothing's been taken. They'd accuse me of wasting police time.'

‘So what'll we do?'

‘Sit tight, I guess.'

‘Did you go straight back to sleep?'

‘Yes,' I fibbed, choosing not to mention my strange dream. He might think I really did need a shrink.

I went into the kitchen to get some coffee. The full glare of the morning sun bathed everywhere in a golden light that bounced off the walls, the floor and worktops. It was a high-spec design – solid wood cabinets, granite worktops and a slate floor. Mum always spoiled Patrick. Harry appeared at my shoulder.

‘I don't mean to depress you, Sinead,' he began, taking a mug from one of the open shelves. I took the hint and filled it with coffee, certain that he
was
going to depress me. ‘I did some research last night, and apparently thousands of people go missing every year in Britain.'

‘That's impossible,' I said. ‘How could so many people disappear from such a small island?'

He gave a meaningful shrug. ‘Some of them want to disappear; they engineer it.' He took a sip from his mug and winced, probably because there was no milk. He stirred the coffee anyway. ‘Some just need a break and then find it hard to return … some start a new life or escape from a bad situation … only a small percentage are genuinely unexplained.'

‘Patrick wouldn't run away deliberately,' I said with complete conviction.

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘Because he can't survive without an audience. All this he's doing now … this is for my benefit. If he was completely alone, cut off and no one cared what he did … I think he'd just … fade away into nothingness.'