The Night They Vanished, page 26
I lean back and blink, trying to remember how Hanna’s tattoo was arranged. It’s a constellation, she said when she caught me looking at it—the only words she spoke directly to me on that visit. I grab the pen and tiny notebook that’s on the bedside table and draw what I remember of her tattoo. It’s not the same as the boy’s in this photo, but they’re clearly both constellations, there’s clearly a connection.
And Hanna’s tattoo was new. Not something she got way back then.
This must be the friend Owen told Ethan about, the one whose death he claims Hanna had something to do with. I chew on my lip, staring at the door. How long do I have before Mum or Dad come knocking? I have some school books at the bottom of my bag, because it’s me, so of course I do. We’re doing space and the planets as a topic in physics and one of the books has diagrams of some of the constellations… I look from the book to my scribbled drawing of Hanna’s remembered tattoo to the one on the boy’s hand in the photograph. I’m not even sure, in the end, I’ve found the right ones. There are no numbers on this dot-to-dot puzzle, so I can’t be sure I’ve joined them up right, but I think, I’m almost sure, that Hanna has a tattoo of the constellation Andromeda, and the boy in the photo, Perseus. A bit more searching, and I have a meaning.
Andromeda, the chained maiden, and Perseus, the boy who rescued her.
I look at the photograph again, this time more carefully at the boy. Looking for some resemblance to me.
Chapter 38
Tuesday 5 p.m.
That’s it. That. Is. It. I cannot do this anymore. Not on my own. Is Ethan here? Waiting outside the hotel? Is he in the hotel? Oh God, he could be in the next room. I’m finding it difficult to breathe and my hands are shaking as I walk down the corridor to Mum and Dad’s room. I knock and start talking as soon as Dad opens the door.
“I need your help. I’ve done something stupid and I really need your help.”
He will help, won’t he? However much trouble I end up in, however appalled he is at what I’ve done, even if I’m grounded until I turn eighteen, he’ll help… He’s my dad, he has to.
But he didn’t help Hanna when she got into trouble, a little voice in my head says, and I swallow as he closes the door and waits for me to speak.
I tell them everything. I don’t look directly at either of them as I talk, but from the corner of my eye, I see Mum sinking down to sit on the bed as I tell them about fake Facebook accounts, making friends with Ethan, him giving me the phone… I don’t dare look at Dad’s face. I tell them everything, right up to skipping school and my fear about Ethan being here, now, and then I wait. I cross all my fingers behind my back, and I wait for Dad to go nuts, but then take control and make everything all right again, because that’s what dads do. I wait for him to promise to sort all of this out for me, so I don’t have to worry anymore.
I wait. And I wait.
“I should have expected this” is what he eventually says, and there’s no reassurance in his voice, only disappointment. His words are heavy with it, saturated. I could write an English essay in metaphor and simile on the weight of disappointment in those five words.
“Dad, please…” I finally manage to look up, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is averted, like he can’t bear to look at me.
“Enough, Sasha. I don’t want to hear another word from you. Jen? Will you go downstairs and book a table for dinner? Just for two people, I think.”
Mum stands up and looks from me to him. “I don’t think—”
“Please,” he says. “I need to have a little talk with Sasha—I know you don’t like confrontation, but there are some hard truths she needs to hear. I think it will be easier for all of us if it’s just Sasha and me.”
I don’t think it will be easier. I don’t think it will be easier at all, but Mum’s already moving toward the door, because this is the way it always goes. If I’m due a telling-off or a grounding, Mum leaves the room.
“Mum—please…”
She wavers at the door; I can see the indecision in her face as she looks from me to Dad. Stand up for me, I think, willing her to hear my thoughts. Stand up to him. Fuck the Patriarchy. Dad must see her indecision, because he’s frowning at her now, rather than at me.
“Jen,” he says, “we’ve talked about this… This is what happens when you begin to give children more freedoms… Trust me on this, okay?”
Mum’s shoulders sag and she turns away from me. I think she used up all her newfound girl power on forcing him to move away. It seems to have gone back to business as usual. I really should stop expecting things to be different. I only ever end up disappointed. I don’t think I’ve ever greeted that quiet click of a door as she leaves with quite so much dread before, though.
He doesn’t shout. That’s rarely his way. He doesn’t actually say anything for ages. He walks past me to the window and stands there looking out at the sea.
I break first. I usually do. I wonder if Hanna did too, or if they’d stand in epic silence until one of them fell asleep? Maybe that’s what got to her in the end, what made her leave: the endless silence.
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
He finally turns to look at me. “Well, of course you are. You’re sorry now, because you’ve been caught out. Because you’ve got yourself in trouble.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Isn’t it? Would you have been sorry about creating that Facebook account if you’d never received those messages? Or would you have blithely carried on? Would you still be sneaking into my office to use my computer?”
Is he right? His words throw me because is he right? If I’d never got that first private message on Facebook, would I have carried on with my fake life online, stalking my sister’s friends, pretending to be someone else, someone with a life?
I’m sorry all this has happened, but really, is what Dad’s saying right? That I’m not sorry for doing something wrong—I’m not sorry for sneaking around and lying and breaking rules—I’m only sorry because I got caught. That’s not… I don’t like that idea. I don’t think that’s the person I want to be.
Dad smiles but it’s not a happy smile. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re showing any regret for your actions. Hanna never did. When she got caught she only ever showed defiance. And she certainly never came to me and confessed her wrongdoings. Not until it was too late.”
I grab on to that thread. “Will you help me sort this out? Because I’ve learned my lesson, I really have. This has taught me what happens when I break the rules. I’ll never do anything like this again; I’ll work hard at school and I won’t ever do anything wrong. I don’t…” I pause. “I don’t want to be like Hanna.”
There’s another silence as he returns his attention to the view out of the window.
“The thing is, Sasha… when Hanna went too far, when her actions had consequences, I made the decision to step in. To do what I thought was the right thing, for her and for the family. But my decisions, and my actions, led to things happening that I couldn’t have foreseen, that led to her leaving and a fracture within the family we’ve never been able to mend.”
I want to be sick. Is he talking about me? Am I the consequence of Hanna’s actions? He turns, then, to look at me. And this time, there is emotion on his face. I don’t know if it’s sadness or regret, but it’s there and gone in a second.
“I’m not going to do anything this time. I’ve often wondered—if I’d left Hanna to sort out her own mess, would things have turned out differently? After all, what she has managed to achieve since leaving, she’s done on her own. You say you don’t want to be like Hanna. Well, this is your chance to prove it. This is your chance to prove you’re mature enough to sort out your own mess.”
“What? But, Dad—I told you the things Ethan has said, the things he said he’s going to do… I have no idea what he’s done to Hanna. I thought you could ring her and—”
Dad shakes his head. “Enough. You’ve brought this on yourself, and so, in a way, has Hanna. I know Ethan and I know Owen King. I spoke to them many times and I don’t believe either of them is dangerous, not in a physically violent way, so I don’t believe anyone has any intention of harming either of you. It seems Owen is another person damaged by Hanna’s past—Lord knows, there were plenty of them.”
“But… but you said Ethan was a violent criminal. You said that.”
“I said that in the hope you would stay away from him. Clearly it didn’t work. It seems to me Owen is using you and Ethan for some petty revenge, and you were foolish enough to fall for it. But I won’t call the police and have Ethan rearrested for a series of messes you caused, that you asked him to get involved in. He’s taken the phone back, I’m sure he’ll leave you alone now. I should have let Hanna deal with the consequences of her own actions instead of stepping in. I won’t make the same mistake with you.”
I stare at him with tears in my eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. That’s it. String cut. Hopes shattered. I feel… I feel… What do I feel? What is this sharp stabbing?
Betrayal. I feel betrayed. I’m Julius Caesar and I’m Othello, I’m Harry Potter’s parents; Dad is Brutus, Iago, and Peter Pettigrew all rolled into one, standing there with a bloody knife.
“Well, maybe…” My words come out as a whisper and I hate that. I clear my throat and make myself speak louder. “Maybe if that’s the way you feel, I should go and live with Hanna. Maybe I should try to be more like her, not less.”
“Good luck with that. She doesn’t even call you or visit. Has there been a single second in your entire life where she’s shown any inclination to step up and be your mother?” Dad sighs and shakes his head. “If Jen hadn’t stepped in, if she hadn’t insisted we adopt you, do you really think Hanna would ever have kept you with her? No. Of course not. If it weren’t for us, if it were only down to Hanna, you would have ended up in care, taken away by social services.”
“And what about my father? My real father?” I hold out the photograph I brought with me to the room.
Dad goes pale as he looks down at the photo, white other than two growing red spots on his cheeks.
“Go to your room,” he says between clenched teeth.
“What about—”
“Now. Not another word. Go.”
Chapter 39
Tuesday 5:30 p.m.
Dad has gone downstairs to join Mum for an early dinner and I’m lying on the bed in my room. Although, why should I just stay here, a kid sent to bed with no supper? My stomach’s rumbling, Dad’s made it very clear I’m a disappointment and that I’m on my own. He basically said he’s washed his hands of me, so why should I stay here and starve in misery? I’ve still got the holiday money Mum gave me—I can go and get chips. Doesn’t matter if I get caught, doesn’t matter if they come back up and find me gone. I’ll just throw Dad’s words back at him—I was out sorting out my own mess, I’ll say. And for that, I need chips.
My hair is one big tangle, so I pick up my brush and attack it until it’s smooth, tying it back in my usual low ponytail. I pull a face at myself in the mirror. There’s none of Hanna in the face that looks back at me, none of Dad either that I can see. He and Hanna do look alike, same blue eyes and wavy dark hair. My hair is boring light brown and dead straight and my eyes are a sludgy hazel. It’s no wonder I never guessed about Hanna.
I pick up the framed photograph of Hanna and the mystery boy again. I know nothing about my real father, not his name or anything, but from looking at my face and knowing basic genetics from school, I’ve worked out he must have straight hair, blond or brown, and brown or green eyes. It’s difficult to tell from this photo. His hair is dyed, so I’ve no idea of the natural color, and I can’t really tell the eye color behind all that eyeliner. Am I imagining a similarity in face shape?
I look at my own reflection again and the plain, unmade-up face, the neat hair—it bothers me today. It doesn’t feel like me anymore. I have makeup at the bottom of my toiletries bag, makeup I’ve bought but never had the courage to wear. That annoys me today as well. I prop the photo of Hanna and mystery boy up against the mirror and attempt to re-create their eye makeup with black eyeliner. I go across the hall to the bathroom and grab one of the complementary toiletries packs, bringing it back to my room. There’s a sewing kit in there, with a tiny pair of scissors. Without allowing myself time to have second thoughts, I grab my ponytail and start cutting through it, right above where the bobble holds it at the nape of my neck.
I realize I’ve made a mistake the moment the first chunk falls, but it’s too late then. The scissors are pretty crap and by the time I’ve finished sawing through my hair, my hand has cramped up and the scissors are all bent and mangled. I drop the scissors and let my hair fall free to swing round my face. I lean forward to inspect my work in the mirror.
“Oh, God,” I mutter to my horrified reflection. When they do this in books or films, it’s always some big cathartic moment, and the newly shorn hair always looks cool. Mine looks… my lips twitch. It looks… absolutely terrible. I let the building laughter go, collapsing into absolute hysterics at the sight of my handiwork. It’s all completely uneven, the left side longer than the right, with a massive clump at the back a full two inches shorter than the rest.
Even if Mum and Dad took me to an emergency hairdresser appointment to fix it, they’d have to cut it horribly short to even it out. And they wouldn’t anyway, Dad at least. He’ll make me wear this hair until it grows out to learn my lesson. I picture myself getting on the school bus next week looking like this and I start laughing again. I look unhinged. It looks as if I’ve had a mental meltdown with my stupid smudgy panda eyes and this hair. Which, I suppose, I have. That’s what all of this is. But seriously… I ruffle my new short hair, hoping it’ll fall into some kind of—any kind of—shape… Oh, books and films, you lie.
I look at the severed pile of hair on the dressing table and wait to feel sad. Or regretful. But I don’t. I look hideous, but the laughter has made me feel better. I’m going to own this foul haircut. No. More than that. I’m going to rock this haircut. It hasn’t made me look anymore like Hanna or mystery boy, but it certainly feels like a Hanna thing to do.
And maybe, I think as I walk down the stairs, if any shops are open, I’ll buy bleach for my hair. Miss Pink-lipstick is behind the desk as I walk through the entrance hall. She’s bashing the keyboard of her computer and scowling at the screen.
I go to walk past, but hesitate as she swears out loud. “Are you okay?” I ask.
She sighs and shakes her head. “No, this damned computer has frozen—I can’t get to the bookings system, I can’t get anything up. It’s frozen on a website, and it’s not even a website I’ve gone on to.”
She looks on the verge of tears, so I change direction and go over to the desk. “Do you want me to see if I can do anything? I’m not great with computers but…”
“Please do—I can’t get hold of my manager, but I’m screwed if I can’t sort this out. I can’t prepare bills or check bookings or anything.” She looks up from the screen at that point and takes in my new look. Her eyes get really big.
I swallow down another surge of hysterical laughter. I’m really going to struggle to be invisible now.
I join her behind the desk and look at the screen. She’s probably been looking at some dodgy website and crashed her computer. I don’t know anything about computers, but I can offer the wise advice of if in doubt, switch it off and on again, but as I reach for the mouse I freeze.
Welcome to The Dark Tourist, the website says.
And right underneath is a picture of a house I don’t recognize. And a picture of a girl that I do recognize, because the girl is me, and according to the headline, I’m the victim of a terrible murder.
Chapter 40
Thedarktourist.com
Who was she and why was she brutally killed? >
I reach down and yank the computer’s plug out of the socket. Miss Pink-lipstick gasps as everything goes off.
“I think you’ve been hacked,” I say. “All sorts of malware could be being dumped on your system. Switching it off is the best way to stop it.” I have no idea what I’m talking about. Pulling the plug was a panicked instinct—I just wanted those pictures, that headline, gone. This isn’t a vaguely threatening anonymous Facebook message, this is… horrible. This isn’t Hanna messing around—was it ever Hanna? Oh God, I only have Ethan’s word that it was. This is Ethan. This is all Ethan.
I’ve been so stupid.
And now I’m thinking I was stupid to panic and unplug the computer. I should have looked further, clicked on the link.
Before I can even think about plugging it back in, though, the phone on the front desk rings and the receptionist answers, but not before taking a wary step away from me.
“Good evening, Seaview Hotel, how can I help…?” Her voice trails off and she stares at me. She holds out the receiver. “It’s for you.”
I hold the phone to my ear. I already know who it’s going to be.
“Did you get my present?”
I swallow, my heart thumping. He sounds so damned cheerful.
“What’s wrong, Sasha? Surprised to hear from me? You know, you really shouldn’t have given me access to your dad’s computer. I found out a lot of things while you were keeping lookout. Passwords, where you were moving, your new school—everything. It was easy, even remotely, for me to find out all your plans for this week. To be fair, it wasn’t all you—I may have had to sneak into the house to use the computer a few times when you were all out, before we were friends. Your dad’s security is pretty crap. It’s how I got the original idea for the Facebook messages—it was easy to figure out who had the Facebook account when I went through your internet history. You and your parents went skipping off shopping and there it was. To be honest, I did you a favor. If your dad had opened the computer rather than me and was tech savvy enough to check the history…”
