The Night They Vanished, page 20
But now… Did she only leave because of me? Give birth and then just walk away? What if Mum’s sugarcoating it and actually, she didn’t have to beg to keep me, because Hanna didn’t care? Perhaps everything that was said about her was true and the sister I’ve alternated between resenting and hero-worshipping is just a total bitch who doesn’t care one bit about me. Mr. Garner said she was a lovely girl, but he used to be a vicar, trained to see the good in people when sometimes there isn’t any.
Now I just feel stupid for texting her. Now I just feel stupid for thinking one day, when I’m older, I’d be able to go and stay with her, maybe go and live with her and get to know her properly.
“I asked Owen. When I found out who was doing this to you. He told me he did used to know her, and he totally believed she would do something like that,” Ethan says. “He said she was trouble, that she ruined more than one life when she was a teenager.”
The ball of hurt that has formed a lump in my throat hardens to anger and I swallow it down, let it sit and fester in my gut. God, I really am stupid.
“I hate her.” I say the words quietly but fiercely. “She’s a bitch. She’s worse than all the girls in school because she’s meant to be family.”
Ethan sighs again. “Go back now. Sleep on it. She probably won’t do anything more now that she’s had her fun. I’ll talk to you again on Monday, okay? We’ll sort something out before you leave.”
Anger powers my walk back to the house, not even all anger at Hanna, but fury at my own stupidity forever thinking she might actually care. I’m so full of rage that I don’t even notice there’s a light on in the house until it’s too late—I’ve already opened the front door and walked in.
Dad is waiting for me in the hall.
Oh God. Anger and fear do not mix well. I could probably write a whole chemistry essay on that really bad, explosive mix, right before I vomit all over my dad.
He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look anything. Doesn’t stop me physically shaking in front of him. I have nothing, no possible excuse as to why I was out of the house at two in the morning. At least I’m not pulling a Hanna; at least I’m not coming back from a party drunk and stinking of smoke. Although that would probably be better than the truth: that I was sitting in a potentially stolen car with an ex-criminal twelve years older than me. I can’t tell the truth. Ethan would be in way more trouble than me if Dad finds out. He’ll make sure he’s sent back to prison.
But oh, Christ—I have my forbidden phone in my pocket. If Ethan texts me now, if Dad somehow has X-ray vision and can see it in my pocket… I am so dead.
“Where were you?”
He says is so softly and that makes me shake more than if he’d screamed it in my face.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Where were you?” he asks again.
“Nowhere, I swear. I couldn’t sleep so I went out for a walk, that’s all. I haven’t been anywhere.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.” The fear retreats a little and the anger surges like a snappy dog. “Where do you think I would have been? I don’t have a group of friends to sneak off with. I don’t have any friends—does that make you happy? I’m not Hanna, I’m nothing like Hanna—when will you stop expecting me to turn out like her?”
He shakes his head and the disgust on his face is like a punch to the gut. “You stand there at two in the morning when I’ve just caught you coming home, and you ask me that question?”
He turns to walk away, and I know my punishment is going to be this. Disappointment and heavy silence. He doesn’t need to ground me as I don’t go anywhere. He can’t take anything away from me because I don’t have anything. But that silence will grow. It’ll fill the house over Christmas. It will become overwhelming and suffocating and by Boxing Day I’ll be crying and begging for forgiveness. I know; I’ve been here before for far smaller crimes.
This is Hanna’s fault.
I’m breaking every single rule by standing at the front fence talking to Ethan while he fixes new boards to cover the hole. Mum and Dad have gone to do the Christmas food shopping. Not being allowed to go with them is part of my punishment—the Christmas food shopping has always been one of my favorite traditions. God knows what Dad would do if he caught me out of the house again, but at least here, if I hear a car coming up the road, I can race back inside.
“I’m sorry you got caught, Sash—fucking nightmare getting punished this close to Christmas.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault—it’s Hanna’s. She’s the reason I was out talking to you.” I want to tell him. About all of it. But the words won’t come out. I’m afraid I might cry if I start talking about it. It’s all just so awful at the moment—even Mum is barely speaking to Dad and she looks so miserable. That’s probably my fault. I heard them—not arguing exactly—but there was a definite edge to their words. I don’t know for sure what it was about, but it must have been about this, about me sneaking out and getting caught.
“Your dad won’t have to worry about that anymore once I’ve finished this,” he says, hauling another board into place.
“No. And today’s your last day and in two weeks we’ll be gone.” I tuck my hands under my armpits, wishing I’d worn gloves.
“You can always call or text me.”
“It won’t be the same when I’m the other end of the country.”
“Maybe I’ll take a trip to West Wales in the New Year. Once you’re settled.”
The thought of the bleakness of the January ahead—in a new town, a new school, no friends, Dad still not speaking to me—is overwhelming.
“It’s not fair.” The words burst out of me. “If Hanna hadn’t done all this, we could still have had a couple more weeks of meeting up. Over Christmas, at least.”
Ethan puts his hammer down and looks at me. “Well, you’ll just have to get revenge, won’t you?”
He says it lightly, but I don’t know if he’s joking or not. I turn my head—was that a car engine? No, just the wind through the trees. It’s a gray, cold day, the wind icy and bitter. I should be in the supermarket, filling the trolley with chocolate and nuts and choosing a turkey, not freezing my head off, with numb fingers and toes.
“And how do you suggest I do that when I’m not allowed to even leave the house?”
Ethan glances at me and grins. “Give me her address—tell me where she works, where she hangs out. I’ll arrange for a few anonymous messages of my own. See if we can scare her like she scared you.”
The wind seems to get colder. “I’m not sure I want to…”
“Don’t worry—I’m not planning anything nasty,” Ethan says. “Just a little warning.” He pauses. “Not even a warning, really. More just letting her know that you know what she’s up to.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I still don’t see how it can be her.”
“But can you say for sure there aren’t people living around here who are still in touch with her?”
“What—spying on me?” It sounds ridiculous.
He shrugs. “I dunno. I’m just thinking aloud. Someone sent those messages, didn’t they?”
“I could just send her a message, tell her I know what she did. Or you could send the message for me.”
“I’d rather not use my phone for that. An anonymous letter would be less traceable.”
It doesn’t sit right with me, but when I really do hear a car engine and have to run full pelt back to the house, the anger comes back. Because of Hanna, I can’t even leave my own house. I take off my boots and coat and run upstairs. As I sit at my desk, getting my breath back, I send a text to Ethan with Hanna’s address and where she works. Sod her. She deserves to feel a bit of what I’m feeling.
Chapter 29
Western Vale News
A Dark House for a Dark Tourist article by Adam Webster
There’s always a sadness about an abandoned house, knowing it was once a home, even without knowing who lived there and why it was abandoned.
But when you do know the history, when you know the tragic Romeo and Juliet story that led to a home being abandoned, when you feel you know the people involved…
HANNA—Monday 6 p.m.
I ask Dee to drop me at Adam’s. I’ve left messages for DC Norton about everything we learned from those girls. It could well be gossip, exaggeration, or bitchy lies, but if it’s true… I sigh. I still can’t believe Sasha would ever do something so out of character and I worry I’m sending the police off chasing village gossip like it’s a lead, and by doing that, something else will get missed. But Dee’s right. The timing—the rumors, my family’s sudden move, their disappearance—it’s too much to be a coincidence.
But Adam… he might be able to fill in the missing puzzle pieces. If, through his website, or elsewhere, it turns out he knows someone who used to be in prison… I press the buzzer for his flat and wait for an answer. I didn’t phone in advance. Maybe I should have asked Dee to wait until I found out if he was in…
But then the door buzzes and I’m in, and when I get to his floor, Adam is waiting at his door, and I see him visibly tense as I walk toward him.
“Hanna. This is a…”
“Surprise? Yeah. Well, I have a question for you.”
He moves aside, beckons me into his flat. “Of course. Anything. You know I’ll do anything I can to help. Come in.”
He offers me tea and I follow him into his kitchen. It’s actually easier to ask my questions when he has his back to me.
“Do you know anyone who used to be in prison?”
He freezes, milk carton in hand. “What?”
“Dee and I went back to Littledean. It seems Sasha was seen hanging around with an ex-offender. Someone who was working at the holiday park.”
Adam turns to look at me, shaking his head. “No, I swear. I don’t know anyone who’s ever been in trouble with the police.”
I think of our ride in the police car, all the time we’ve spent in police stations in the last few days, and I want to laugh. Look at me, so suspicious of Adam, when it’s me with the troubled past, me who’s somehow dragged him into all this mess because of my family.
And, I suppose, if anything good has come out of that visit to Littledean—I know it’s not Adam who forced my family out of town. I let myself look at him, really look at him, and I can’t believe he’s that good an actor, that he’s hiding something dodgy. It’s a relief to let the suspicion go, to choose to believe Dee and Seb; to believe, once and for all, that Adam is one of the good guys. That whatever is going on, he’s an innocent victim or unwitting pawn.
He hands me a mug of tea and we take it through to his living room, settling onto the sofa together. It’s not exactly cozy and comfortable, but it’s not horribly tense and awkward anymore, either. From the outside, it probably looks completely normal.
Although I wouldn’t be doing any of this if things were normal. I’ve only known Adam a few days; we should be a long way off from cozy nights in on the sofa. And to be honest, if things were normal, I wouldn’t be here at all, I’d be with another Jacob imitation, letting him treat me like shit, still caught in that never-ending self-destructive spiral.
I decide, after a few minutes of not quite comfortable silence, to go straight for the jugular and destroy the pretend normal. “I’m guessing you’d like to know how I ended up as that tragic Juliet?”
Adam shrugs. “Only if you want to tell me. It’s none of my business, really, is it?”
“But you are curious.”
“Of course. Not because of that stupid article I wrote a million years ago, but because I want to get to know you.”
“So how much do you already know?” I ask, without looking at him. “From your story, your little visit to my home town.”
There’s a long pause, but I resist the urge to look over.
“I know you had an older boyfriend. I know he died, and that his parents also died.”
“Jacob. His name was Jacob.” I pause. “And when you visited Littledean—did everyone you spoke to tell you it was my fault? That I lied to the police and got him arrested, that I caused his death?”
He doesn’t answer and I nod. “Of course they did.” I answer my own question.
“Well, I don’t believe that for a second,” he says. “You were a kid, I know that much—how the hell was it supposed to be your fault?” He shakes his head. “That’s what I wrote, in my article. It was about how a town ganged up on a… a child. Because that’s what you were.”
“You might have written it differently if you’d known me back then.”
“I don’t think so. Your mum had died and then—”
“Then what?” I interrupt. “You think I went off the rails because my mum died, because Dad was ridiculously strict then brought a new wife into my life?”
“That’s not what happened?” he asks.
“No. Because my mum buggered off and left us years before she died. My parents were the quintessential odd couple. He was studying for his Ph.D., and he took a part-time bar job at the holiday park to fund it. Mum was one of the entertainers who worked there regularly. She was a singer, not an especially good one, but good enough for local gigs. It was the usual clichéd opposites-attract romance that should have fizzled out over a summer, but of course she got pregnant with me. They married, were miserable. Mum couldn’t travel to sing anymore; Dad got his qualification but wasn’t ever good enough to get a decent paid academic post, so he ended up working full time at the holiday park, worked his way up—or sideways, whatever—ending up as a manager/caretaker for a crappy, second-rate holiday park. So far, so predictable, right?”
Adam leans forward to put his empty mug down on the table.
“So, they trundled along, she got bored and just upped and left one day. Didn’t take me with her because she wanted to keep working the entertainment circuit and I barely saw her. She died in a car accident a couple of years later. And honestly? I was sad, of course I was, but she wasn’t really in our lives. I did my grieving when she left, so I’d run out of tears by the time she died.”
“So, you didn’t go all Hulk-smash out of grief?”
“I think… she left when I was ten and died just as I was starting secondary school, which was a bad time. I acted out a bit. I was grieving and sore as well as feeling rejected and unloved. I kind of acted out enough to get a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker. I wasn’t bad then, more loud and disruptive in class, pretending I was bored, not bothering with homework. It got me attention and I liked that.”
It still hurts looking back. Yes, the other kids at school loved it and egged me on when I disrupted lessons, but the teachers would give me the same I’m-so-disappointed-you’ve-let-me-down vibe as Dad, so I built this horrible don’t-give-a-shit shell that was only ever the most fragile of shells and felt rejected over and over again when no one bothered to try to break it.
Except Reverend Garner. I’d long since stopped going to Sunday school and church kids’ clubs, but Jen encouraged Dad to send me to his troubled teens group when she moved in. At first I saw it as another punishment. Then, for a while, it really helped because Reverend Garner actually listened. But I was a teenager and partying became my priority—he was fighting a losing battle then.
“Dad was just… I think he looked at me and saw her. He always expected me to be as flaky as her, so he was over-the-top strict, always disapproving, always expecting the worst of me. He’d say nothing if I did well at school, but go nuts if I did badly. So I just gave up on trying to impress him and started doing exactly what he’d expected of me all along.” I stop and sigh. “Maybe that’s all it ever would have been—a mini rebellion, I don’t know. Problem was, a couple of years after she died, I found out my mum didn’t leave because she was bored. Turns out, she left because my dad had an affair. My holier-than-thou, sanctimonious father. And he let me blame her.”
I look over at him and shake my head at the sympathy on his face. “Don’t feel sorry for me—I became a total little shit. I really was. The worst teenager you could ever hope to meet. I found myself an older gang who had access to drink and drugs. I’d go off with boys four or five years older than me. I’d steal money off Dad and Jen. I wanted to punish them. I thought they deserved it. I thought I was some punk, rebellious badass.” I pause, leaning forward to put my own mug down.
“I thought Jacob was more of the same when I met him. But he wasn’t. He was different. He was good. I don’t mean in some saint-like way—he partied as hard as anyone, but he was… I’d shut everyone else out by that point, even Dee. I think it was only Jacob who stopped me from going completely evil.”
“I think evil is pushing it a bit…”
I stare up at the ceiling, remembering those bad old days. “Jen—my stepmother—tried to stop me from storming off to some crappy party once, and I hit her. Pushed her over. I walked out and left her lying on the floor. What if she’d hit her head? I didn’t even check. I didn’t even stop to check if she was alive or dead. And what had she ever done to me? I was just… I remember just being so angry all the time.”
I look at Adam and he smiles at me. “Okay, so you were pretty evil. But not now. That’s not who you are now.”
“But does that make it okay? All the shitty things I said, all the terrible things I did… Does it make it okay that I’m not like that now? You have Nazi war criminals who lived model lives after the Second World War—does that make what they did okay?”
Adam leans forward and kisses me, whispering as he pulls away, “You are not a Nazi war criminal.”
I waver, a part of me wanting to run away, but the rest of me… I sigh and let my forehead lean against his. “My dad still thinks I am.”
“I think your dad should stop punishing you for your past behavior for a moment and see who you are now and what you’ve achieved. And see the part he played in it all.”
