Haunting of Lily Frost (16 page)

‘Max?'

I edge down onto the bank. I shouldn't, but I can't help it. My feet just want to walk closer to the water. And then there's something behind me and it bumps against me. I'm sure because I feel water on my legs and I spin round in the dark – but there's nothing. I touch behind my knees and the material is damp. Then it happens again, something bumps my arm and I jump forward, desperate to get away from whatever it is, but it happens again. Another bump and I can feel the ground sloping away under my feet. And there's a push and I'm bending forward, my toes trying to grip in the mud. One last bump and I'm skidding all the way down, screaming and terrified that something is sending me in.

‘Lil!'

And hearing his voice, I grab at a branch overhead and stop just before my feet hit the water.

‘Max? Max, where are you?'

There's a scrabble in the dark, a noise like an animal or something bigger, and it's running.

‘Lil? Help!'

‘Where are you? I can't see.'

‘I'm down here.'

More scrabbling, a scream, a splash and I know where he is. I pull myself up so fast, and run along the bank to the splash. My feet are burning up the mud as I slide down and into the river. I see an arm go up, a leg. I grab at something – his arm – and pull. But we're both being yanked along and his hand slips out of mine.

‘Max!'

His head's up out of the water and now I've got both his hands and almost rip them from his body.

‘Lil. Lil!' He's crying as I thrash sideways against the current and I grab his belt buckle, pull his weedy little body on top of me, then we slam down hard onto the bank, our feet still in the water, but we're safe.

‘Max? You okay?'

He spits water over my shoulder. He's shivering. His skin is freezing.

‘Lil.'

‘Yeah.'

‘I slipped.'

‘Yeah.' And we stay like that, draped on the riverbank, our feet in the muddy water, simply breathing. And then I remember that our parents will be home soon and I pull Max up and drag him to the slope.

We must look insane, the two of us shuffling along the track. I'm still holding his arm and I can't believe I've touched his skin for this long. Max and I normally avoid all physical contact unless we're locked in an arm wrestle.

‘Did you follow me?' I say.

‘Yeah.'

‘Why did you stay down here?'

‘I was mucking around. Wanted to see what you'd do.'

‘Don't do that again.' I want to rant at him like Mum would, but I can't. I don't know what to say. I don't want all this. I just want to go back home – my real home, with Ruby – where the only things we worry about are homework and teachers and finding ways round our parents. It's my fault that Max almost drowned and I don't know how to explain that to him or me or anyone else.

My hand's shaking as I try to put the key in the lock, but Max grabs it and opens the door easily.

‘I told Mum you were in the shower when she rang.'

‘I sort of was.'

‘Funny.'

‘Don't tell her.'

‘I'm not planning to.'

‘Sorry, Lil.'

‘Hey, you know when you followed me, did you see anything? Any
one
, I mean.'

‘Nah. Just you, running back home. You looked white, like you'd seen –'

‘A ghost?'

‘Yeah, I'm starving.'

‘I ate all the spag bol. Toasted cheese or toasted cheese?'

‘Tough decision!'

While he puts on something dry I cut cheese and bread and try to light the stupid gas grill. When Max comes back in, he looks more like the brother I know.

‘It's just a cheese sandwich. Sorry – the grill won't light.'

We sit at the little table in the kitchen and eat. The bread's hard and stale, but it was like that when Mum bought it, because she insists on bread packed with grain that birds like more than humans, but now we have to rip into it with our front teeth before we can start to chew. Max looks up at me, his hair still wet and slick. He grins, a piece of crust in his teeth and crumbs all around his mouth. I laugh at him; that's what he wants. He laughs back and the bread he's chewing sprays from his mouth, and that only makes me laugh even more. It's been a long time since we've sat in the kitchen and
laughed together like we did when we were little, and now
we can't stop.

Without us hearing them come in, Mum and Dad suddenly walk into the kitchen and the look of them both dressed up, clutching their doggy bags, makes us laugh even more.

If I thought Gideon was a sad little place, the town of Maine is even smaller. It's probably not one of my best ideas, but I really have to know what's going on. Tilly's mum will be more likely to talk to me in person than on the phone, so here I am: sweaty, tired, wondering what to say and hating the idea of riding all the way home again on my bike.

It takes about a minute to find the block of flats because they are basically the only flats in the whole town. They look small and run down and I wonder if she's moved here because she had to. I can't believe she's living in number 4. What is it about that number that would make her choose it again?

I knock on the door, hoping she's not home so I can say that I tried. And I'm just about to shuffle off, as the front door opens. She looks nothing like she did in the papers. There's no bright lipstick or styled hair. Actually she looks awful. Gaunt. Big black rings under her eyes. She's still in a dressing gown, even though it's like three in the afternoon.

‘Hello, Mrs Sarenson. I'm Lily Frost.'

‘Oh? Do I know you?'

‘No, you don't, but I'm living in your old house.'

‘In Gideon? Oh. Is something wrong?'

Maybe when your daughter goes missing, you start believing things are wrong more often than not.

‘Um, can I come in?'

She looks past me, checking to see if I'm alone. Then she nods and says okay.

Inside it stinks of stale cigarettes. The house in Gideon doesn't smell like this and I wonder if she took up smoking when Tilly went missing. The flat is basically just one room with a little kitchen at the back and a couch, a TV, dresser and a door leading off – I guess to the bedroom and bathroom. It's a lot different from the large, imposing Gideon house. I wonder what's brought her here.

She sits down on one end of the couch and I perch on the other. Now I'm here, I'm not really sure what I'm doing. Before I can say anything, I notice a line of photographs, framed and arranged along the edge of the dresser. They're all of Tilly, staring into the camera, her hair long and shiny. The photo they used in the papers is there too. It's the biggest one and right at the front. She sees me looking at them.

‘That's my daughter,' she says.

‘Yeah. Tilly.'

‘Do you know her?'

She says ‘do', not ‘did'. So she must think she's alive.

‘No.'

‘Most of them, they were taken last year.'

‘Oh.'

‘We had a photographer friend. Always said she was such a pretty girl.'

‘Yeah she is.'

I'd like to open the curtains and let some light in, but she obviously keeps the room dark for a reason.

‘You're the ones who bought the house then?' she says. ‘John and—'

‘Ruth. My mum. Yeah.'

‘I love that house. So does Tilly. It was hard leaving,' she says, looking down. ‘I lost my job after she went missing. So I had to sell, move here. Not too far away, though.' She smiles. ‘So what did you come here for?'

‘Just to talk about Tilly, actually.' Now that I'm here, though, I'm not sure any of this is a good idea. ‘Where do you think she's gone?'

‘Off to find her dad.'

‘Oh right. And where's he?'

‘I don't know.'

‘So would she know where he was?'

‘Probably not.'

‘Right.'

She sits up straighter, sharpening herself. I guess I assumed because she was grieving she might answer whatever I asked, but I think it's made her more wary. ‘Why do you want to know?'

‘It's just that living in your old house – I just wondered about her,' I say, not quite sure I can tell her after all.

Her eyes find mine. ‘Wondered what?'

‘I sense her sometimes,' I say softly.

‘Like a ghost?'

I just nod.

She looks at me again, her eyes sad. ‘Like she's dead?' Her voice is so little, I almost don't want to answer.

‘I guess.'

‘You think she's dead?'

‘Maybe.'

She nods, rapidly, like she's not going to stop. Maybe she's processing what I said, or maybe she's preparing to throw me out.

‘So do I.' She moves quickly along the couch until our knees are almost touching. ‘She wouldn't just disappear. I know that. We used to fight – a lot. But this whole thing about going off to find her father, I don't know where Danny got that from. It never made sense.'

The mention of his name makes me feel vaguely sick. ‘Danny said that?'

She nods. ‘You know Danny?'

‘Yes.' Why would Danny make up a story like that? Maybe Tilly told him that's where she was going and he kept it a secret from everyone except her mum. But it doesn't make sense. What's he playing at? ‘So what did Danny say exactly?'

‘He said that's what she told him: that she was going to find her father. She was pretty wild and she did do crazy things sometimes, but I don't think she'd run away for this long. Do you?'

She looks me straight in the eye. I've walked in on someone's grief and now I've given her answers that she's been too terrified to consider. I've got no right to be here, telling this woman things I don't know are true. I'm just guessing. Just playing at being a detective.

I try to stand up, but she clutches my hand, pulls me back down onto the couch and now she's crying.

‘Oh, Mrs Sarenson, I could be wrong.'

But she doesn't hear me. She's sobbing, she grips my hand and all I can think about is the stale smell of cigarette smoke on her clothes. ‘Look, really, I could be wrong. She's probably with her dad,' I say, sounding pathetic.

Everything I'm saying just makes it worse. Why did I come here? I break free of her hold and stand up. I'm allowed to go, I don't owe her anything, I don't have to be here to make her feel better. ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come.'

I hurry to the front door and rush out onto the street, breathing madly, terrified she's going to follow me. I grab my bike and ride.

I can't look at my parents. Or Max. They're chatting happily through dinner and I keep cutting the same piece of steak smaller and smaller, seeing Mrs Sarenson's face as she allowed herself to consider Tilly's death. I deserve to feel like this for meddling in someone else's business, some poor mother's grief. What does it matter whether Tilly's dead or missing? Either way she's not here.

Dad's staring at me.

‘Yeah?' I say.

‘How was your day?'

‘Oh, sorry. Fine.'

‘Like happy fine or sad fine?' he says, chewing.

‘I didn't know “fine” had a double meaning. I just thought it meant everything was bearable and okay.'

‘Well, my day was great,' says Mum, waiting for one of us to ask why.

‘Tell us more,' Dad says politely.

‘I met a couple of town mothers and they've invited me to be on the committee for the local show. I'm going to be helping with the craft shed.'

‘Craft?' I laugh.

‘Yes. Craft. I showed Julia Taylor some of my scarves and she was very impressed.'

‘Julia Taylor? As in Danny's mother?'

‘Yes. She told me she'd met you.'

‘She's a painter. Did she tell you that?' I know that I should stop, but I can't help myself.

‘Yes. She's won some awards. Apparently she often wins the prize at the show for best local talent.'

‘Does she? Is her husband the judge?'

‘Lil!' Mum snaps. Maybe she hasn't seen the prize-winning artworks.

At this point she and Dad start talking about how friendly everyone in Gideon has been and I have nothing to add. The idea that Mum's going to be in some knitting circle with Danny's mum is depressing.

‘What about you, Max? What was the best thing that happened today?' asks Dad.

We've been doing this whole best-thing-in-the-day since I was little. It used to be me saying something about Ruby and I speaking at assembly or learning a tricky new origami design, and Max talking about another new friend he'd made, and Mum and Dad eating their dinner and enjoying the idea that we had these robust family discussions. I don't get asked much anymore, though, because now I just say the day was fine. I mean what else is there to say? They don't really want to know all about my day, any more than I want to bore them all by going over it.

‘I'm the new captain of the basketball team,' Max says, grinning. Dad claps him on the back, as proud as punch.

‘Oh, Maxy, that's great. I'm so proud of you,' says Mum.

Maxy?
I haven't heard that since he was four. What is going on with my family? After Mum drills Max on every aspect of his sudden success on the court, she turns her attention to me. It's like waiting for a teacher to notice you're writing a note to your best friend, instead of copying down the algebra solutions. She checks my plate, looks at me, and back at the plate again.

‘Lil, you haven't eaten a thing.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

‘Is this teenage not hungry, or genuine not hungry?'

I hate it when Mum raises the fact that I'm a teenager, like it's some big surprise.

‘I'll eat it.' Max reaches across the table to grab my plate.