Follow Me Down (14 page)

189 DAYS BEFORE

NOVEMBER

Ever since Orla told me what happened to her, it feels like I’ve been holding my breath. I hold my breath if I hear someone crying in the shower or if I pass a huddle of girls in the dining hall, heads stooped and whispering furiously, and I do it every time I reach for my phone to check the news. I hold my breath and think,
This is it.
He’s done it again.

It’s become a habit, I guess. I don’t even notice I’m doing it any more. This morning, I caught myself doing it again, before I even got out of bed, my lips pressed together as I waited, hoping not to hear doors opening and the excited
slap slap slap
of Molly’s bare feet on the floorboards as she darts from room to room, delivering the news.
He’s back. He’s back
. I held my breath and waited, but there was nothing, just the cranky creak of the radiators and the far off howl of a magpie.

One for sorrow.

I still held on to the breath, though, and didn’t relax until Orla and I were walking to chapel and I half-heard my name. Normally, I would have turned around to see who had said it, maybe even blushed, but when I heard Scarlett’s name a second later, I let go of the breath because it meant that nothing happened last night; the biggest news from the Alphabet party was my argument with Scarlett.

I wouldn’t usually be so cool about it; I’m not like Scarlett, hearing my name in the corridor doesn’t make me lift my chin and smile, but I could live with it if it meant that the creep who was driving around Savernake Forest hadn’t come back. Besides, the whispering waned briefly when Scarlett and I saw one another going into chapel and hugged fiercely, then started again a few minutes later when Dominic saw me and winked.

It continued right through brunch and it must have been bad because Orla noticed and asked if I was OK. I was –
really
– I just wanted to go to the library and finish the piece I had to file for the
Disraeli
about Mr Crane retiring, but when Orla offered to go for a walk, I was so surprised that I almost erupted into tears. She’s been reluctant to leave her room, let alone school grounds since the last Alphabet party, so I didn’t hesitate, the relief making my hand shake a little as we signed out of Burnham then walked together into Ostley.

Today was one of those perfect November days; tensely cold but bright, the browning leaves making everything slightly yellow, like an old photograph. Orla laughed at me as I tugged on a pair of leather gloves, her cheeks pink as she told me that it wasn’t that cold. I ignored her, huffing and making a show of fussing over my scarf before woefully reminding her that it was 31 degrees in Lagos. She conceded with a giggle, kicking at the leaves under our feet. I did it too, and I can’t remember the last time I did something so silly, the last time I kicked at a pile of leaves without worrying about what might be underneath or if I’d scuff my shoes, and it felt kind of nice. More than nice; I was happy, I realised, and so was Orla, if just for that second, before we passed under the shadow of Savernake Forest and she went rigid.

My instinct was to reach for her arm and ask if she was OK, but she wasn’t like Scarlett. We didn’t hug or play with each other’s hair or elbow one another. It always felt like there was something between us, a fence she’d let me get close enough to peer over, no more than that. So we walked in silence and when we passed the forest and stepped into the midday sunshine, I started babbling about the hockey social and asked her what she was going to wear, but she wasn’t listening.

‘You and Scarlett weren’t arguing about Dominic last night at the party, were you?’ She didn’t look at me. ‘You were arguing about me, weren’t you?’

I stared at her, hoping that she was guessing and hadn’t heard, because that was another thing I could live with: everyone thinking Scarlett and I were bickering over Dominic if it meant that Orla didn’t find out what Scarlett had really said.

‘I – we –’ I fumbled, the words fighting with one another on their way out.

She sighed and shook her head. ‘She told you about Sam, didn’t she?’

‘She—’

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ She interrupted with a frown, crossing her arms. ‘But whatever she told you, don’t believe her. He’s completely different when it’s just us.’ She shrugged, her voice a little higher. ‘He’s sweet. He doesn’t talk to me like he talks to everyone else. Even his smile is different. She doesn’t know him like I know him.’

I thought of Sam squeezing Scarlett’s hand at the party and it turned my stomach inside out. I didn’t know what to say so I looked away, the spent leaves under our feet suddenly louder as we continued on towards the village.

She tried to fill the silence. ‘I know he’s a bit of a bastard,’ I stopped myself from raising an eyebrow at
bit
, ‘but he isn’t like that with me.’

There was another moment of silence and I don’t know whether she was waiting for me to refute that, but when I didn’t say anything, she shrugged. ‘He’s no Nathan, he’s not perfect. He’s never given me flowers or a Chanel bag,’ she said bitterly, kicking at another clump of leaves. ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

I’d heard that before, of course, heard friends question whether their bad boy boyfriends were really
that bad
while I smiled and nodded and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. So it’s not that I was surprised (even if I doubted if Sam Wolfe was capable of such depths of emotion), it was that I found myself nodding.

‘Perfect is overrated,’ I told her, but I wasn’t thinking about Nathan, I was thinking about him and I found myself doing exactly what she was doing: wondering if he was different with me, if his smile was different, if he spoke more quietly to me, more softly. And it’s ridiculous –
insane
– he and I. The moment I let myself consider it, the same thoughts darted through my head – it will never work, my parents will never approve, he’ll never be the boyfriend I need him to be – but they suddenly weren’t as loud, as
certain
, as I thought about all the times I’ve caught him looking at me and asked myself if it was in my head.

I think Orla knew that, because she smiled for the first time in weeks. ‘I guess I’m not the only one with a weakness for bad boys.’

If she’d done that yesterday, I would have denied it, but something told me to keep quiet as I thought about the dream I’d had about him, my hand in his hair, trying to see his eyes, as he turned his face away.

So I changed the subject back to the hockey social and what she was going to wear. That was it for the rest of the afternoon, as we tested the lipsticks on the rickety plastic stand in the chemist (it’s hardly Space NK, but needs must); then we went to the newsagent and stocked up on magazines that I’d never have time to read and candy bars I really shouldn’t eat, while she asked me more about the party.

I was approaching the counter when I was aware of someone next to me.

‘Hey, Buffy.’

‘DS Bone,’ I gasped, falling against it and almost decapitating the tiny woman behind it as a copy of
Marie Claire
flew from my grasp.

‘I didn’t come in here for cigarettes,’ he said, putting his hands on his hips and raising an eyebrow at me. ‘Because smoking’s bad, OK?’

‘OK.’ I pretended not to notice as the woman behind the counter put a box of Marlboro Lights back on the shelf. ‘But I can still binge drink, right?’

‘Not until you’re eighteen.’

Orla approached with an armful of magazines of her own and I hoped she would be too distracted by the candy bar she was devouring to notice him, but he turned to her, his gaze narrowing. ‘Have you paid for that Dairy Milk, young lady?’

She stared at him, startled, then at me as my brain clumsily grabbed at an excuse to get her out of the store, but before I could find one, she made the connection. I thought she was going to choke, but then she yanked the chocolate bar out of her mouth and pointed at him. ‘He’s that policeman you were telling me about! Is this a set-up? Did you tell him that we’d be here?’

‘Of course not, Orla.’ I was mortified, but she wouldn’t listen.

‘Was the
I didn’t come in here for cigarettes
thing code?’

‘This isn’t a le Carré novel, darling,’ he laughed, and I turned to glare at him, but when I turned back to Orla, she’d abandoned the magazines on the counter and was running between the narrow aisles towards the door.

I barked an apology at DS Bone, then ran after her. We were halfway to Crofton before I got close enough to reach for her sleeve. ‘Orla, please.’

She pulled away, furious, but it was enough to make her stop. ‘I can’t believe you did that, Adamma,’ she said with a sob. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘I can’t believe you did that,’ she said again and she was
shaking
. When I saw a tear roll down her cheek, I wanted to cry too, cry and tell her that I would never do that to her, that we’d been having such a lovely day and I was
so
proud of her. I’d never ruin it by confronting her with a police officer.

‘It was just a coincidence, Orla, I swear.’

‘Oh yeah,’ she put her hands on her hips, ‘
big coincidence
. You’ve been telling me for weeks to speak to the police and guess what? The police officer you were speaking to just
happens
to be in the newsagent while we’re in the newsagent.’

‘You think I’d do something like that? You think I’d ambush you like that?’

I stared at her and she stared back and for a moment I thought she was going to shout at me again, but she seemed to calm down. ‘So why was he there?’

‘I don’t know.’ I put my hands up. ‘I swear.’

The skin between her eyebrows smoothed. ‘So it’s just a coincidence?’

‘They happen sometimes.’

‘You didn’t tell him to come and speak to me?’

‘No. I said I’d leave you alone and I meant it.’

‘OK.’ She took a breath, then puffed it out again. ‘OK.’

I watched her pace on the spot for a minute or so and, when her breathing had settled and she turned to look at me again, I frowned at her. ‘Are we good?’

She nodded. When she’d caught her breath and her shoulders fell, I thought that would be it, but then she said, ‘So what did you tell him?’

‘About what?’

She gave me a,
You know what I’m talking about, Adamma
look. ‘About me.’

‘Just what happened.’

‘Did you tell him my name?’

‘Of course not. You told me not to.’

‘Did you tell him that I don’t remember anything?’

I nodded.

‘And what did he say?’

I shivered as I recalled what he’d said and hoped she didn’t notice. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

I nodded.

‘So he thinks I was roofied?’

‘I guess,’ I muttered and immediately regretted it.

She jumped on it. ‘You
guess
?’

My heart started pounding with panic, so I made myself take a breath and chose my words more carefully. ‘He thinks you might have short-term memory loss.’

‘You said the same thing. You said it might be triggered by stress.’

I nodded.

‘So what aren’t you telling me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re such a bad liar.’ She crossed her arms and tilted her head at me.

‘Forget it, Orla.’ I sighed and crossed my arms as well.

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Please, Orla. You’re upset enough as it is. I think we should just leave it.’

‘No. I want to know. I want to know what he’s been saying about me.’

‘He hasn’t been saying anything.’

‘Well, he said something that you won’t tell me.’

‘It’s not that I won’t tell you, it’s just that I don’t think this is the right time.’

‘When is it going to be the right time? Tomorrow after registration? Or how about before my hockey match on Saturday, in front of my parents?’ She laughed, then smiled sourly. ‘It’s never the right time, Adamma.’

I shook my head, but she was right. ‘Fine,’ I said with a defeated shrug. ‘He said that you might not remember because you don’t want to remember.’

She frowned. ‘So? What’s so bad about that? That makes sense.’

I should have stopped there – I
wanted
to stop there – but I could feel something digdigdigging at me and I wanted to know. I had to know.

I had to know.

I licked my lips, then lifted my chin to look at her. ‘He said that you might not want to remember because you know who did it.’

She went from hot-cheeked to deathly pale in a second and I took a step forward, sure that she was going to faint. She took a step back. ‘What?’ She didn’t wait for me to respond. ‘So he thinks I know who did it, I’m just not telling anyone?’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘No. I think he means
subconsciously
. I looked it up,’ I said and I wished we were at Burnham where I had my laptop and printouts. Things I could show her. ‘Sometimes, when something really bad happens, you forget the details. It’s like your brain’s way of protecting you. It’s called dissociative amnesia.’

She considered this for a long moment, then sucked in a breath and said, ‘Do you think that’s what happened to me?’

‘I have no idea. I wish I did, but I don’t.’

She started pacing again and I watched her, watched the skin between her eyebrows crease as she bit her lip. ‘If it is memory loss, how do I get it back?’

‘You need a trigger.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘Like a smell or a song.’

She stopped pacing and looked at me. ‘What if I never remember?’

‘That’s why you should talk to someone.’ I said it carefully, as though it was a magic trick that wouldn’t work if I didn’t say it properly, but it didn’t work.

She still looked livid.

‘It always comes back to this, Adamma!’ I could feel myself losing my temper so I looked down and kicked at a chestnut, its spiky green shell split to expose its mahogany heart. When I didn’t respond, Orla took a step towards me. ‘Why do you keep telling me to talk to someone?’

I tried not to let her provoke me. ‘Because that’s the only thing you can do.’