Flesh and Blood (3 page)

“Are you two, er…?” I said, swinging a hand between Liam and Jo.

Jo blinked at me. “What? No! No, just mates,” she laughed.

“Just mates,” said Liam, a touch less earnestly. He’d finished his pie and chips.

“We’re both complete nerds,” said Jo. “We both love comics and old sci-fi movies and the same TV.”

“Really?” I said. I admitted to my own nerdiness at once.

“Nooooo,” grinned Jo. “We’re
three
nerds! Yay! What are your favourite comics?”

“
Watchmen
.”

“Ding!” declared Liam, striking an invisible mid-air bell. “And?”

“Early
Spider-Man
, Ditko and Romita.”

“Ding!”

We chatted enthusiastically, the rest of the room
and the morning fading away behind me. It turned out that Jo even drew comics of her own.

“She’s the school’s top artist,” said Liam, holding his gaze on her. “Have you seen the painting near Stainsby’s office?”

“The big one?” I said. “On the stairs, pop art that looks like a Roy Lichtenstein?”

“That’s Jo’s,” said Liam. She blushed and returned his gaze.

“Wow,” I said. “It reminded me of that one of his with the drowning girl.”

“Liam can’t draw, but then I can’t do science,” said Jo. “Did he tell you he’s got a lab at home?”

“A lab?”

“In the garage,” said Liam. “I experiment with making electronic gadgets. I started with a couple of kits I got ages ago, but I make my own from scratch now. Are you doing electronics and DT?”

“No, they clashed with English lit and politics, so I’m doing those.”

I was beginning to suspect that everyone at this school had something brilliantly impressive in their CV. How the hell was I ever going to measure up?

It was at that moment that a subtle ripple ran
through the canteen. You know when you get an odd sense that someone significant has walked into the room? Maybe it’s the combined effect of everyone suddenly taking notice of someone. Or maybe it’s more psychological, something in the collective subconscious, if you happen to believe in that sort of thing. I suppose some people have a presence. One of them was the girl who was now in the dinner queue.

On any number of websites, you’ll see pictures of the most attractive women on the planet – film stars, pop stars, models. Even at first glance, this girl made every last one of them look like a tired old hag. You didn’t want to blink, in case you missed a single millisecond of her.

She was athletic, but not obviously sporty; graceful, but not fragile; vibrant, but not flashy. She was smoothly sculptured, with an elegantly contoured face and large bluey-grey eyes. A gentle flow of russet hair fell about her shoulders. As she talked to the friend standing next to her in the queue, her smile seemed to radiate across the room. She was exquisite, extraordinary.

Liam’s face was suddenly beside mine. I think I must have been staring.

“That,” said Liam quietly, trying to suppress a grin, “is Emma Greenhill.” He sat back, giving me a look that seemed to suggest that this was all anyone needed to know.

“Miss Perfect,” muttered Jo, with a caustic edge to her voice as she watched the girl over her shoulder. “Academically excellent, good at the piano, star of the hockey team, large circle of friends, a hit in the school plays, obvious candidate for Most Popular Girl In The School.”

“Yeah, she seems nice,” I said, as off the cuff as possible. Liam smirked to himself.

“She is nice,” said Jo, with a sigh. “Genuinely kind and thoughtful. Makes you sick.”

I suppose it was unthinking bravado that made me say: “Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Believe it or not, no,” said Liam. “I always get the impression she’s not interested.”

“Oh,” I said. “Does that mean she’s…?”

“No, she’s not,” said Jo. “She’s just too busy being cool to bother. Dedicated to being completely great. Come on, have we finished?”

She stood up. Liam and I followed her across to put away our plates. Then, on our way out, we
walked right behind the queue.

Emma Greenhill was being glared at by the dinner lady at the till.

“Sorry, can’t I owe it?” said Emma.

“You know that’s against the rules. Another 80p, or put it all back.” The woman was all hairnet and housecoat, with a scowl in between. Emma’s friend, behind her, was rummaging in her bag.

I’d acted almost before I thought about it. I dug into my pocket for my change, and dropped the coins into the dinner lady’s hand. “There you are.”

Emma turned. Her beautiful face shone at me. “Thank you,” she said. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” I smiled. Wow, I was so smooth.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Emma. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“No need,” I said. “What’s 80p?”

She laughed. A sound like the singing of an angel.

“You going to stand there talking all day now?” grunted the dinner lady.

Emma moved aside. Her focus was still on me. “Well, thank you. I had a bit of a late night, and forgot my card. I should carry more change. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Sam,” I said. “Sam Hunter.” Bond, James Bond.

“Nice to meet you, Sam-Sam Hunter. See you around.”

“See you,” I smiled.

Ding!

I didn’t dare look back. Liam scurried up to me outside the canteen.

“That was cool,” he declared. “She was totally flirting with you!”

“What? Really?”

“She was doing the curling her hair with her finger thing,” spluttered Liam.

“Was she?” I said, frowning.

“I can see you’re a hit with the lay-deez,” he went on, jabbing me in the ribs.

“Actually, no, never,” I said, feeling a little unsteady. “But I was cool, wasn’t I?”

“You were. You were.”

I took a deep breath. This had to be the weirdest day of my life.

“Where does she live?” I asked.

“Emma? Oh, just down the road,” said Liam. “There’s a little cul de sac called Priory Mews. She
lives in this whacking great mansion – her family is loaded. Bierce Priory, that’s the place.”

I told him my new address.

“You,” said Liam slowly. “Live. Next door. To Emma Greenhill?”

“Apparently.”

I had separate lessons to Liam after lunch. The afternoon seemed to go by in a blur. English with Miss Marlo was OK, but the group I was in for politics were nothing but braying snobs. I kept myself to myself.

When the bell went for the end of the school day, I felt an immense sense of relief. It was only then that I realized how tense I’d been.

The school gradually exhaled its pupils. Jo waved as she sped ahead of me on her bike and, coming back out on to Maybrick Road, Liam caught up with me.

“Do you think the police are still down there?” he asked, nodding towards the path across the road.

I could see where this was going. “Probably not. I expect they’ve got everything they need and gone.”

“Show me the spot, then,” said Liam.

I sighed wearily. “Do I have to?”

“Yeeeah, go on, I’m interested.”

“You’re sick.”

“Come on, they’ll have cleaned up all the blood. I just want to see where it happened.”

I shrugged and followed him. The sky was glowering overhead, with heavy clouds drifting slowly and darkly over the town, the daylight already fading.

I was wrong. The police were still tramping around in white coveralls. A plastic tent had been put up over the crime scene. I got the impression that they were close to leaving, however, because equipment was being packed into black zip-up bags. A large police van was parked where the car had been that morning. We turned round and went back the way we’d come.

“Not my day, is it,” grumbled Liam. “Oh well, see you tomorrow.”

He trudged off in the opposite direction to me, his tall, angular figure loping along. He lived at the far end of Maybrick Road, close to the point where the River Arvan ran under the stone road bridge we’d driven over on our drive around town the day before.

I kept an eye out for Emma all the way home,
but didn’t see her. I guessed she was staying late at school, doing something extra-curricular.

As I walked into Priory Mews, I could see Mum and Dad chatting with the neighbours. The ones from Nos. 1 and 2, that is, not Emma Greenhill. There was the old couple I’d seen Dad talking to the day before, and a much younger couple, with a wriggling toddler in the man’s arms.

A delivery van was parked outside our house. A tightly shrinkwrapped washing machine was being unloaded on to a battered trolley by the driver.

Mum spotted me as she signed for it. “Hello – good day at the new school?” she chirped.

“Not bad,” I said. “What are you doing home this early?”

“Induction day. I finished at dinner time.” She all but dragged me over to the neighbours. I was impatient to write the article I’d mentioned to Jo, and email it over to her, but Mum insisted. “Everyone, this is Sam. He’s started at Maybrick High today.” She said it as if she was saying ‘Eton’ or ‘Cambridge University’.

“Hi,” I said weakly.

The old couple from No. 2 were Mr and Mrs
Gifford. They were both short and wore fawn cardigans which, while not actually matching, definitely looked like they’d been bought in the same shop. Mr Gifford was beaky and peering, with a neat green collar and tie. Mrs Gifford spent the whole time delicately holding the lowest bead of her necklace. Both of them had the same very slightly runny nose, a single thin line of yellow visible on their upper lips. Mrs Gifford dabbed hers with a hanky. Mr Gifford sniffed.

The people from No. 1 were the Daltons. Michael, Susan and their two-year-old Greye. With an ‘e’. Greye, for God’s sake! The child wriggled and whined. His multi-coloured socks dangled off the ends of his pudgy feet.

“Are you cold, sweets?” cooed his mother. “Daddy get you your coat.”

Mum flashed the sunny face at me she reserved for social situations. “Did you make some new friends today?” she said. And to make it worse, she added an aside to the neighbours. “He finds it difficult to make new friends. We’ve moved around a lot.”

“Yes, they do these days,” smiled Mr Gifford. That didn’t make any sense, did it? He nodded
sagely, and Mrs Gifford nodded sagely, too.

I wanted to die. Greye whined.

“Has Daddy not got you your coat yet, sweets?”

Without a word, Daddy handed the child to Mummy and headed back into their house.

“Sam?” prompted Mum.

“Er, yes, I made a couple of friends,” I said, in a smart-alec tone. “I met the girl who lives over there.” I indicated the Priory.

“Oh, Emma,” smiled Mrs Gifford.

“Emma,” said Susan Dalton. “She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”

“Lovely girl,” agreed Mrs Gifford.

Susan Dalton dabbled at Greye’s rosy cheeks. “She’s your favourite babysitter, isn’t she?”

“They’re a lovely family,” smiled Mrs Gifford.

“Pillars of the community,” added Mr Gifford. “Emma’s father, Byron Greenhill, is a surgeon. Or was. I believe he’s in research now. One of the country’s leading psychopharmacologists.”

“Crikey, there’s a word with a big Scrabble score!” said Dad.

Mum laughed a little too loudly.

Michael Dalton came back holding a chunky
little anorak that Greye kicked and grumbled over while it was put on him.

“There you go, sweets,” said Susan. “Daddy get your tea ready in a minute.” They both smiled amiably at their squirming little brat, then at the rest of us.

“And Byron’s father lives at the Priory, too,” smiled Mrs Gifford.

“Solid fellow, Ken Greenhill,” smiled Mr Gifford. “Served over thirty-five years on the town council. Half the amenities in this area are his doing. Very sound fellow. The Greenhills are a very respected family. The library up in town is reopening soon, saved from closure and fully refurbished by the Greenhills.”

“How marvellous,” said Mum.

“Pillars of the community,” repeated Mr Gifford. “Byron’s brother is the local chief constable, and I believe they have relatives in Whitehall. A couple of senior civil servants, and one is in parliament.”

“An MP, yes,” smiled Mrs Gifford.

“I might pop over later and say hi,” said Dad.

No, please don’t
, I groaned inwardly.

“The Greenhills’ annual Halloween Ball is the
social event of the year,” smiled Michael Dalton. “That’s where I met Susan.”

Susan bobbed a finger on Greye’s nose. “That’s where Mummy met Daddy.”

I was beginning to feel slightly creeped out by these people. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

“Is there a Mrs Greenhill?” said Mum.

“Oh, yes, Caroline,” smiled Mrs Gifford. “She’s our local GP. Wonderful doctor.”

“She delivered you, didn’t she, sweets?” burbled Susan.

“Caroline Greenhill?” said Dad. “I know that name from somewhere.”

“She was on the television a few years ago,” smiled Mr Gifford. “One of those medical advisers, sitting on a sofa and answering viewers’ queries.”

“Oh, yes!” declared Dad. “I remember. On that morning thing on ITV. Good-looking woman. Well, well, two celebs in the same street.”

He meant himself. He actually meant himself.

The van driver emerged from our house. “You’re plumbed in. All set.”

“Thank you,” said Mum, as if she was about to add “my good man” at the end. Immediately, you
could tell she wanted to go and play with her new toy. “Well, I’m so glad we’ve met you all. We’d better let you get on.”

Greye wriggled and griped. “Has Daddy not got your tea ready yet?” said Susan.

It was only as she said it that I noticed something about her and Michael. Both of them had the same slightly runny nose as Mr and Mrs Gifford, a thin yellow reflection off their top lips. Michael wiped at his with a crumpled handkerchief as they went back indoors.

Eurgh
, I thought.
Some bug going round.

Inside our house, I almost tripped over the seven rolls of carpet that were laid along the hallway, all of them wound in plastic sheeting. New carpet smell was even better than new car smell.

“Don’t tread on them!” cried Mum, hearing the crinkling of the plastic from the kitchen. “The fitter’s coming in the morning.”

“Which one is for my room?” I called.

“You said you wanted dark blue, kiddo,” said Dad, pottering about in the living room. “You got dark blue.”

“Thanks!”

As I dropped my school bag underneath the coat hooks in the hall, and hung up my blazer, the letter box clattered and a newspaper dropped on to the floor.

I picked the paper up. Not the one Jo’s dad worked on. This was one of those thin advertising freesheets. The headline on the front said ‘Runaway Girl: No Contact’. Beside a slightly fuzzy picture of a teenager was a breathless report in tabloid-speak about a nineteen-year-old from Elton Gardens who’d gone on the run from her drug-dealing boyfriend. Her family hadn’t heard from her since she’d vanished overnight the previous week.

I frowned at it.
Was that murder a gang killing after all?
I thought. Everyone at school was so sure about it. It
was
possible that I was mistaken, wasn’t it? Perhaps there were just some very strange and nasty gangs in this part of the world…? I chucked the paper on to the small table beside the coat hooks.

Looking back, I was too ready to take that report at face value. I was too ready to dismiss my own doubts, too willing to set aside the revulsion I’d felt at the snobbish attitudes of everyone around here to Elton Gardens. Believing that report fitted too
neatly into the background information I’d need for my own article, the one for Jo’s dad, the opportunity I wanted to grab.

If only I’d read between the lines. But we’re all wise in hindsight, I guess.

Mum’s voice came from the kitchen. “I’ve unpacked the microwave! Pasta or curry?”

Dad’s voice came from the living room. “Curry!”

“Yes, curry!” I called.

We had pasta. I sat in my room until dinner was ready, tapping out my article. As soon as it was done, I emailed it to Jo, then sifted through the homework I’d been given. I tried to ignore the fact that my bed frame was still sitting untouched in the corner.

My mind kept wandering back over the events of the day. Once or twice I looked out of my window, across to the Priory, wondering if I might catch sight of Emma. It was hard to even imagine a girl like that living in such an austere place.

We ate in silence, apart from Dad’s occasional humming, and a brief conversation about what we could do with the two smaller downstairs rooms. Mum suggested an extra guest room. Dad suggested a cinema room with a projector. I quite liked that
idea. Then he suggested a room in which to display his music-industry memorabilia. So, basically, a room full of his useless junk. That idea, I was less keen on.

After a while, Mum piped up. “The neighbours seem very nice. Decent people.”

Dad mmm-ed through his pasta.

“What do they all do, Mum?” I said.

“Mr Gifford was a solicitor, he said. I think Mrs Gifford said she did something at a shop? Anyway, they’re both retired, obviously. The Daltons are very swish – he’s an interior designer and she does websites.”

I wrinkled up my nose. “Don’t they all strike you as a bit … dopey?”

“What? No, of course they don’t. Why do you have to think the worst of people?”

“They seem a bit odd, that’s all,” I said. “They don’t stop smiling.”

“What’s wrong with being cheerful? Honestly, Sam.”

“They creep me out a bit,” I muttered.

Mum started clattering plates and clearing up. That was normally her wordless signal that I’d
annoyed her. “They’re our neighbours now, and they probably will be for years, and you can make sure you get on with them whether you like it or not,” she said. She thought for a moment. “What’s this Emma like, then? She sounds like a lovely girl.”

“She’s OK,” I said.

“You want to keep in with her,” said Mum. “It’d be good to get an invite to that Halloween party the Daltons mentioned.”

You could almost see pound signs in her eyes. Her approval of someone generally rose in direct proportion to their income. I’d been dragged to her work’s Christmas thing the previous year, where she’d spent the evening laughing at nothing and telling me to ask the manager’s daughter to dance.

“I fancy a good party,” said Dad, in between swigs of beer. “Bloody hell, I live in the same street as that Doctor Caroline. Phhwooar.”

I winced. Dad let out a long, low belch.

Mum frowned at him and tutted. “Richard!”

I suppose most people wonder what the hell their parents ever saw in each other. I’d often wondered why Mum put up with Dad’s spendthrift habits, and his so-called collecting, especially when she
could be such a cheapskate herself. I always got the impression that she was far from blind to his faults. Maybe, deep down, she was almost as much of a dreamer as he was. Maybe, years ago, she saw him as full of potential.

And then, all those years without progress, without success. I think she was disappointed with how things had turned out, but she kept on being supportive of him so she wouldn’t be disappointed with him, too. She held on to the idea that he was one of those great undiscovered talents who’d never quite got a break. She nagged at him, sometimes relentlessly, but she never stopped believing in him. Of course, neither of them ever said anything of the sort to me. But, I guess, as you start to grow up, you start to see your parents as they really are. It’s very unsettling.

Since the arrival of the massive song royalties, their relationship had definitely moved on. She wouldn’t be moaning at him to get off his fat arse any more. Now they were too busy flashing each other loved-up glances. It was enough to make you heave.

To change the subject, I told them about my article. They seemed genuinely impressed, and it boosted my confidence that Jo’s dad might actually
get it in the paper.

I went to bed early. I settled down on the mattress, the glow from my lamp at my shoulder, listening to the soft rush of the central heating system. I tried reading for a while, but other thoughts kept demanding attention. Everything was churning around in my head. I remember thinking how bright the future seemed.

I didn’t feel particularly tired, but I must have drifted off to sleep with the book flopped on my chest and the lamp still throwing grey mountain shadows on to the opposite wall.