Follow Me Down (12 page)

It would make me feel the surge of something in my chest and I wouldn’t be able to sleep. My legs would shiver under the sheets until I had to kick them away. Then I’d creep down to his study and stand in the doorway in my pink nightgown, watching him at his desk, the nib of his fountain pen whispering words and words and words into the quiet room. I would look through the window at the trees in the garden while I waited for him to notice me – the breadfruit tree, the palms with their sharp green leaves, the cashew tree, red fruit hanging like Christmas-tree ornaments – and when he finally looked up, he’d smile and gesture at me to come to him.

I was lucky to see him like that, I know, without his armour, in just a shirt, his jacket and tie discarded on the leather chair by the door and his top button undone to reveal an inverted triangle of perfect skin. I’d press my cheek to his chest and wait until I could hear the steady beat of his heart, then I’d ask him where my light was because I couldn’t see it. ‘Here,’ he’d say, tickling my chest until I’d nearly choke giggling.

I don’t know when I forgot that. It’s still there, I think – I hope – the light. I can feel it sometimes, at night, when I can’t sleep and I try to remember what it was like to be the girl who thought she could do anything. But then the morning comes and I tell a lie, then another and another. One more and I’ll never feel that light again.

One more.

When I think of the nights that I fell asleep in my father’s lap, lulled to sleep by the steady scratch of his fountain pen, the cotton of his shirt cool against my cheek, I wonder how I can lie to him. But you’ll never know what you’re capable of until someone takes your heart in their hand and shows it to you. That’s another thing I never thought I’d do: love another man as much as I love my father. But I do and oh it’s scary. I love him more than the doubt that nudged at me as I thought about where Scarlett could be and why she had a disposable cellphone like mine, but I knew she couldn’t be with him, so I wasn’t going to say a word.

‘Adamma,’ my father said, suddenly sweeping into the room.

I couldn’t look at him and I realised then, as he stood over me, why I’ve been sneaking around – lying – why I haven’t told him about any of this. I thought it was because he wouldn’t understand, but it’s because I don’t want him to know who I am now. I want him to see me as that four year old forever, asleep in his lap, hand fisted in his shirt, not the seventeen year old who is lying to protect her boyfriend.

‘Mr Okomma,’ DS Hanlon gulped, the legs of her chair scraping on the lino as she jumped to her feet. ‘Who let you up here?’

‘I did,’ Bones said, appearing in the doorway.

‘Mike,’ she hissed, her cheeks red, which seemed to piss my father off more.

‘He was right to,’ he said, tightly. ‘What on earth is going on here?’

‘I’m ever so sorry, Mr Okomma,’ Mrs Delaney interjected. I’d never seen her so flustered. ‘You were on a conference call with Australia—’

‘That’s fine, Mrs Delaney,’ he interrupted, lifting a hand. But he wasn’t looking at Mrs Delaney. ‘I was led to believe that this was an informal chat at Crofton, not at the police station, DS Hanlon, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.’

‘She isn’t under caution, Mr Okomma,’ DS Hanlon said, hands on her hips.

‘I should hope not. Adamma is under eighteen, so my diplomatic immunity extends to her and you can’t interview her without permission from the Nigerian Embassy, as you well know.’

‘I do, Mr Okomma. I was just asking Adamma some questions about Scarlett Chiltern. She’s been missing for thirty-six hours and we’re anxious to find her.’

‘Of course. But why are you talking to her here and not at Crofton?’

‘Because it’s easier.’

‘Easier? I assume that’s why you’re recording this, because it’s
easier
.’ He arched an eyebrow and held out his hand. ‘Give me the tape.’

She shot Bones a look, who sighed. ‘Just do it, Marie. You can’t use it.’

‘It’s digital.’

My father nodded. ‘Delete it, then.’

She snatched the dictaphone from the desk and pressed a button. ‘Done.’

‘Thank you, DS Hanlon,’ he said, with a polite nod. ‘Come along, Adamma.’

Bones and I exchanged a look as I shuffled after my father across the office to the double doors. ‘Adamma,’ he barked, holding them open as I stopped to look over to the office where I’d seen Dominic waiting. I jumped and followed him down the stairs and out of the station.

When I got outside, my mother was pacing back and forth on the pavement, muttering something in Igbo into her phone. When she saw us walking towards her, she ended the call with a swift,
Kaomesia
, then raised an eyebrow at me. I knew that she was livid, but I still felt the same surge of joy I feel every time I see her. My mother is magnificent. That’s the only word big enough to describe her. There we were – my father and Mrs Delaney in their dull, dark suits, me in my black and white Crofton uniform – and there was my mother, in an ankle-length, strapless dress with a lime-green and purple print, her hair down, dark, tight curls frothing in all directions. Next to us, she looked like a piece of turquoise in a box of buttons.

Mrs Delaney stared at her, as she always does, as everyone does. Whenever she comes to Crofton, people stop and gape. ‘You’d think they’d never seen a black person,’ Scarlett says whenever they do, but it’s nothing to do with her being black; people stare in Nigeria, too. Men rush to open doors while women mutter under their breath that she should relax her hair. Not that she notices; she’s usually too busy asking me about school or trying to persuade my father to try a restaurant. Today she didn’t notice the man staring at her as he walked his dog past the police station, she just nodded at me to get in the car. I didn’t wait for her to tell me twice, and as I was climbing in, I heard my father offering to give Mrs Delaney a ride back to Crofton.

‘It’s fine, Mr Okomma. Thank you. It isn’t far to walk at all.’

‘Are you sure?’ he offered, if a little half-heartedly.

When she refused again, he waited for my mother to get into the car next to me, then slid in himself. He didn’t look at me as he did, just unbuttoned his suit jacket and asked the driver to take us to Crofton.

I waited for them to tell me off, but my mother just asked, ‘Is there anything you need to tell us, Adamma?’

I closed my eyes as everything inside me fizzed up – the guilt, the confusion – like bubbles in a champagne glass, as I wondered what had happened to Scarlett. And it was right there –
I’m so scared, Mama
– right there on the tip of my tongue, but I just shook my head. ‘No, Mama.’

190 DAYS BEFORE

NOVEMBER

The last few weeks have been strangely quiet. Half-term helped, but still, no one has got together or fallen out or been caught in the A/V Equipment Room.

Even Scarlett’s been behaving herself, probably because she got the part of Ophelia in Crofton’s production of
Hamlet
, so with her rehearsals, and my desperation to make up for not making it onto the staff of the
Disraeli
by taking any assignment Hannah is willing to offer, we’ve hardly seen each other. It’s my fault too, because I’ve kind of been avoiding her. We haven’t had an argument or anything, but things have been weird between us since she ran away to New York last month. I’ve calmed down and I even get that she didn’t want to jinx it, having to come back to school and tell everyone that she didn’t get the part would have been excruciating, but she could have told me. I was worried out of my mind.

I miss her, of course. I miss going to her house for tea in that hour before I have to get to swimming practice or Debating Society or Spanish Club or the hundred and one other things I have to do now. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with my parents that lasted more than ten minutes. It feels like all I say to them now is,
I’ll call you back
. Jumoke thinks it’s amusing, though. ‘I’ll give your regards to Bendels,’ she told me yesterday me when I said I’d call her back because I needed to take a shower after Cross Country and it made my heart ache a little.

But being apart from Scarlett has been kind of nice, too. I do my own thing now. I have a routine (frantic as it is). I’ve learned everyone’s names and can find my philosophy classroom without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Crofton is starting to feel like my school, too. And I’m not the only one who’s busy; everyone else has been settling into the slog of sixth-form life, too, which is probably why it’s been so quiet. They’ve even stopped whispering about Chloe Poole, so Orla has been venturing out of her room more. We have dinner together now and, as we share a weakness for bad horror movies, we sit in bed on Sunday nights, watching them on my laptop and scaring ourselves silly. Mrs Delaney has threatened a
Saw
intervention.

But all of this good behaviour also means that everyone is bored out of their minds, so I wasn’t surprised when word went out this morning that the Alphabet parties are back on. Thanks to the promise of drama, everyone seems to have forgotten why the last one was called off. I suppose it helps that Sam Wolfe ‘accidentally’ sent everyone a video of Rachel Flock going down on him yesterday so everyone’s too busy discussing that to worry about what happened to Chloe Poole the last time there was a party in the forest. Besides, this school would be nothing without its traditions and the Alphabet parties have been happening here since the forties. They’re as much part of Crofton as tartan skirts and tantrums.

Speaking of tantrums, today was the first time Scarlett has shown any regret for running away to New York. Of course she isn’t sorry for worrying us all sick, rather, she is sorry for herself because she’s grounded and can’t go to the party. A few weeks ago, I would have raged with her, but I stopped listening halfway through her rant as I wondered if I had my Kate Spade dress with me or if I’d left it in London.

I must admit, it was kind of satisfying to see her sulking. That’s mean, I know, but I keep hoping that absence will make the heart grow fonder and we can go back to how things were before, before I knew that she’d lied to me about Dominic, before she ran away and went to parties without me. Back when she was my bright, fearless friend who made me feel like I could do anything. So I figured another weekend apart would do us good, but who was the first person I saw when I got to Savernake Forest tonight?

She was dancing with Dominic, her back to him and her arms up as he held on to her hips with his hands. She saw me, I know she did, I saw the red curl of her mouth as she flicked her hair back and forth. If I hadn’t walked there with Molly, who was standing next to me, all but panting as she waited for a reaction, I might have turned around and gone back to Burnham. Sam came over, his hand lingering on my waist as he kissed me on both cheeks. He kept it there as he leaned over to kiss Molly, and I pulled away as it began to edge over my hip to my ass.

‘Got any ice?’ I asked, holding up the bottle of vodka in my hand. I’d bought it for the first Alphabet party with my fake ID the last time I was in London. It had been hiding at the back of my closet since then in case Mrs Delaney found it.

He reared back, registering the threat, then grinned. ‘On the table.’

It was my first forest party and I was impressed; the Bedwyn boys had done a good job. I mean, Martha Stewart wouldn’t be calling them any time soon, but they’d strung some lights between the trees, which swayed lazily over our heads, and there was a DJ, a fire pit (which I’m pretty sure they weren’t supposed to dig, but I was too grateful for the heat to care) and a table with an impressive array of bottles given most of us are under eighteen. But then you never truly understand the resourcefulness of teenagers until it comes to acquiring alcohol; I’m sure there are drinks cabinets and wine cellars all over Wiltshire that are a bottle or two lighter this morning.

Molly was immediately distracted by a couple who were kissing against a tree and went off to investigate, cellphone in hand, which left me rooting around on the table for a clean plastic cup. I was scooping one into a bag of ice when Scarlett bounded over, squealing as though she hadn’t seen me for three weeks, not three hours. She gathered me up into a huge hug, smelling of cider and Chanel, and when I didn’t give her the satisfaction of asking what she was doing there, she told me anyway, regaling me with her epic tale of how she snuck out of the house, which probably involved elves and trolls and dragons, but I wasn’t listening.

‘Yum!’ She thrust her cup at me as I poured myself some vodka. She watched me fill her cup, then arched an eyebrow at me. ‘So. Why are you so late?’

‘Am I?’

‘I’ve been here ages.’

‘I would have been here earlier, but I was trying to persuade Orla to come.’

Scarlett laughed, but when I didn’t, she stared at me. ‘You’re joking.’

‘No. Why?’

‘Orla?
Orla Roberts
?’

‘Yes, Orla Roberts. What’s the big deal?’

‘She would never come to this party!’

‘Why not?’

‘Not after Sam dumped her.’

I blinked at her. ‘She went out with Sam?’

I tried not to look horrified, but I must have failed, because her eyes lit up. ‘Yeah. For
ages
. He dumped her after the last Alphabet party.’

‘Orla dumped him,’ I muttered, turning to check if there was any cranberry juice. When I couldn’t find any, I settled for Coke, my hands shaking as I picked up the bottle.

‘You didn’t even know they were going out,’ she told me when I turned back to her. She tried to hide her smile behind her cup as she took a swig from it, but I saw and I made myself take a breath in case I bit back and gave her what she wanted.

‘I knew she was seeing someone.’ I did. Orla had told me that she’d broken up with her boyfriend after what happened because she couldn’t bear him touching her, but she didn’t say that it was Sam. It made sense when I thought about it; he didn’t seem the type to be sensitive about something like that. ‘But I’m not surprised she left out the fact that it was Sam,’ I added with a sweet smile.

I knew that she wasn’t going to agree with me, but I was still surprised when she feigned confusion and asked, ‘Really? Why’s that?’

I humoured her. ‘Because he’s vile.’

‘And Orla isn’t?’

I thought she was joking, so I laughed.

She didn’t.

‘You weren’t at the Abbott party, Adamma. You should have seen her—’

‘Oh yeah,’ I interrupted, and I don’t know whether I lost my temper or the music got louder, but I raised my voice. ‘And why wasn’t I there, Scarlett?’

She knew what I was getting at, but waved her hand at me and carried on, raising her voice as well. ‘Orla was a
mess
that night. She was absolutely wasted, falling all over the place in a dress that she really shouldn’t have been falling all over the place in,’ she said and I was astonished. I would never describe Scarlett Chiltern – Scarlett Chiltern with her unbrushed hair and red lipstick and bread-making father – as sanctimonious, but
my God
.

I stared at her. ‘And you didn’t think to check that she was OK?’

‘Why would I?’ She looked equally bewildered, then she gasped, her blue eyes wide. ‘Holy shit! Is Orla the girl you think was raped at that party?’

I looked around, my cheeks burning as I wondered if anyone had heard. The only people close enough to hear were two girls, who were standing behind Scarlett, but they didn’t seem to be listening as they bickered over the last bottle of gin.

When I didn’t deny it, Scarlett laughed, long and hard. ‘Oh, Adamma.’

All of my muscles clenched at once. ‘What?’

‘Silly, Adamma,’ she sang, tilting her head at me with a nasty smile that I wanted to slap right off her face. ‘Orla wasn’t raped.’

I was so angry, I couldn’t breathe, my heart thumping. ‘Says who?’

‘Says me.’

‘And how would you know, Scarlett?’

‘I know.’

‘Why? Were you there?’

‘I didn’t need to be. Everyone thinks it’s bullshit. Even Dominic.’

My heart reared up like a startled horse mid-gallop. ‘Dominic knows?’

‘He told you, Adamma.’

‘He told me about Chloe Poole, not Orla.’

‘Same thing.’ She flicked her hair and looked at me like I was mad. ‘He told you about the pervert in the car, didn’t he?’

‘So?’

‘
So
, Orla heard about that and is using it as an excuse.’

It was my turn to stare at her like she was mad. ‘An excuse for what?’

‘For shagging a random.’

I took a step back and stared at her. ‘What the hell, Scarlett?’

‘I’m just saying, Adamma –’ she snapped, so loudly that the girls behind her stopped wrestling with the gin bottle and looked at us – ‘she can’t go around behaving like that, drinking herself silly and fawning all over boys, then cry rape.’

I wanted to tell her to lower her voice, but I knew that would make her worse, so I took her by the arm and tugged her towards the other end of the table.

‘You’re disgusting,’ I hissed when we were far enough away from the girls with the gin.

‘Why? It’s true, Adamma. You didn’t see the state of her.’

I couldn’t look at her. My hands were shaking so much that I put my cup down on the table, terrified that I was going to drop it. I would never give her the satisfaction. ‘God forbid something like that ever happens to you, Scarlett.’

I don’t know whether what I said registered or she was horrified at being compared to a drunken slut like Orla, but she was suddenly furious and pointed at me. ‘And you’re gullible, Adamma. She’s just saying this for attention.’

‘Why in God’s name would she say something like that for attention?’

‘You’d be surprised the lengths some girls will go to, to be noticed.’

I arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’

I didn’t mean it to sound as nasty as it did, but as soon as I said it, her eyes went black and I couldn’t hear a thing over the sound of my heart in my ears. I thought she was going to slap me, but then Molly was between us, gushing about catching two Year 10 girls kissing. When we didn’t react, she frowned.

‘What are you two talking about?’

I gave Scarlett a look that pleaded with her not to say anything and when she smiled, I thought that was it, that was her retaliation for what I’d said, but instead she sighed. ‘We’re just talking about what a drama whore Orla Roberts is.’

She said it with such relish, the word rolling long and loud from her tongue –
whore
– but I was so relieved that I reached for my cup and drained it in two gulps. However, I shouldn’t have been relieved, because when I looked at Scarlett, she was still smiling and I knew that it wouldn’t be the end of it.

She’d call the favour in soon.

Molly laughed. ‘Oh God. Remember last year? With Mr Lucas?’

They both laughed and it made my nerves rattle. ‘What about Mr Lucas?’

Molly turned to face me, standing next to Scarlett. ‘She had this ridiculous crush on him. She wrote him poetry and everything.’ She and Scarlett exchanged a glance then giggled again. ‘It was pathetic. She let me read it.’

‘She probably let you read it because she thought you were friends.’

‘Oh well,’ Molly said with a smirk as she reached for a bottle and refilled her cup. ‘I was only friends with her for the key to the broom cupboard.’

She and Scarlett laughed again and it made me shudder.

‘Didn’t she say they did it?’ Scarlett laughed, her nose wrinkled.

‘They kissed.’ Molly rolled her eyes. ‘And then she gave him a hand job.’

‘As if!’ Scarlett squealed.

At least Scarlett and I agreed on that.

‘Come on, Molly.’ I crossed my arms. ‘Orla’s gone from having a ridiculous crush on him to giving him a hand job? Which is it? Either it happened or it didn’t.’

‘That’s my point,’ she said slowly, the way the kids at my last school did when I started, as though they didn’t expect me to speak English. ‘She’s a fantasist.’

‘Pot, kettle, black, Molly.’

She and Scarlett exchanged another glance, then Molly turned back to me, her gaze narrowed. ‘She is. She makes stuff like this up all the time for attention.’

Scarlett looked at me as if to say,
Told you so
.

I could feel myself losing my temper and I couldn’t, not in front of Molly, of all people. So I took a deep breath. ‘I’m not saying that she didn’t have a crush on him,’ I said, carefully. ‘I’m just questioning the bit where it was reciprocated.’

‘Exactly! My family has known him for years and he
never
would,’ Scarlett said, completely missing that it wasn’t Orla I was doubting, rather Molly’s version of events. I almost corrected her, but it would have been futile; Scarlett was on a roll. ‘Besides,
Daniel
is gorgeous,’ she added, saying his name grandly, as though it was something we were lucky to know. ‘He’d never go for someone like Orla Roberts.’