The Night They Vanished, page 4
“Hello, darling. How was your day?” She moves her Nigella cookbook and sits with me at the table, asking all the questions Dad forgot to ask about school. I play the game, the Nigella-Radio-4-Georgian-Coach-House game, and pretend West Dean High has intellectual discussion sessions, that Emma and I spent our lunch hour talking about the unseen poetry module in English. I’m never entirely sure if Mum gets that it is a game. She doesn’t have anything to do with the holiday park and she’s always much happier when the park is closed so it’s easier to pretend. She cooks Nigella and River Cottage, listens to Radio 4, does the flowers for church, goes to a book club, and likes to wear dresses. I think sometimes she’s fallen so far into the pretense, no one, including Mum herself, can remember what she was like before we began this game. She glances at the clock on the wall. “You’re a little late, aren’t you?”
Dad’s in his office, but I bet he’ll be able to sense it if I told Mum he was the one who was late. “One of the teachers kept a few of us back,” I say instead. “To talk about how well we’re doing, not like a detention or anything.”
She smiles. “I didn’t for a second think it was a detention; I was just wondering where you’d both got to.” She gets up and reaches into the fridge to pull out a carton of mushrooms. “But as it was just a school meeting, I needn’t have worried.”
“Mum?” I wait to ask until she’s gone back to her casserole, finely chopping onions and mushrooms. “Did you ask Dad about me maybe getting a phone for Christmas?”
She pauses and sighs. “Sasha, we’ve discussed this. What do you need a mobile phone for? Your father says—and I do agree—they’re a distraction. We don’t want you getting into social media or stupid games. When you’re eighteen, you can buy one yourself, but until then…”
I wilt, even though I didn’t expect anything different. “Okay. I’m going upstairs to do my homework.”
I don’t tell her I’ve already completed all my homework for the week—if I did that, she’d find chores for me to do, or call Dad out of his office to set me extra study tasks.
I get all my books out of my bag, opening one at random so I won’t be caught if either of them comes to check on me. Making sure the door is closed, I crouch down and reach under the bed for a wooden box.
I found the photos in the box two years ago when I moved into this room. Hanna had hidden them under a loose floorboard, which is a total cliché when it comes to hiding places, but I guess it worked because no one had found them. We don’t have any photos of Hanna in the house, but I’d never really thought about it until then. She is Hanna non grata after all: never mentioned, no reminders left around.
But when she used to visit, she must have found it weird—all those silver-framed photos on the mantelpiece of Mum and Dad and me and not one of her. God, those horrible, awkward visits—Dad and Hanna silent and scowly, Mum fluttering around bringing tea, sandwiches, biscuits, jumping up every five minutes to bring something else no one wanted. I used to try, but my big, grown-up sister made me so much shyer, she was so cool and brave, a different hair color every time, sometimes with a stud in her nose, once with her nails painted black, and the last time, with an actual tattoo. I wonder if she did all that just to wind Dad up, or if she dressed like that in her other life?
I used to try to talk to her, but she’d barely look at me, caught up in her silent scowling battle with Dad. The visits always ended up in an argument—either Dad would say something horrible or she would. They’d shout and she’d leave. And we’d all sigh and relax and she’d be Hanna non grata again for another six months, sometimes longer.
But the photos I found… they’d never be silver-frame worthy. She must have been my age in them and the first time I saw them, I got goosebumps all over. I flick through them now, sitting on the bed. Who was this girl with bleached-blond hair and too much black eyeliner? She’s laughing in all of them, hanging on to a different boy or girl from a crowd of strangers. They look older than her, the boys dressed in black with hair hanging over their faces, some of them with as much eyeliner as Hanna. There’s a girl with red hair, one with black. They’re all in ripped jeans and T-shirts—they look like a rock band. I kept trying to pick out Dee when I first found them—Hanna once told me they’ve been best friends since they were five, but she’s not there.
I hear a creak on the stairs and throw the photos back in the box, shoving it under the bed and diving to my desk. Just in time because it’s Dad who comes in.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you about your day earlier.”
I close my book, so he doesn’t notice I haven’t written anything in it. “It’s okay—it was a pretty boring day.”
He sighs. “That’s not the right attitude, Sasha. No day in school should be boring when there’s so much to learn.”
“I’m sorry.”
There’s a pause and I’m wondering if I’ve forgotten something I’m meant to have done. If he’s going to ask me to lie a bit more for him.
“I received a letter today,” he says eventually.
My heart gives a little flutter. “A letter?” I repeat.
“It’s an offer of another job.”
Oh. But I thought…“You found an academic job? In a university or…”
He shakes his head. “No, no. It’s another holiday park. In West Wales. Somewhere nicer than this. There’s a very good school close to it. Excellent results with an outstanding sixth form.”
I drop the pen I’ve been holding. “We’re moving?”
“Yes. Things have been… difficult here recently so it’s a relief. I need to give three months’ notice, so we’ll be moving early next year. It will give us time to settle into our new home before the summer season begins. It’s a larger park, but with a bigger and better staff, not so reliant on me doing everything. My job there will be more hands-off managerial.”
I don’t know how to react, how to feel. I’m not sad to be leaving my current school—how can I be? But a whole new town, a whole new school halfway through Year Ten? And why was he being all weird about being late if it wasn’t a secret job interview?
“I’ll leave you to process the information,” Dad says, moving toward the door. “I don’t want to see a dip in your marks, so I expect you to talk to your mother or myself if you have any questions.”
“Wait,” I say as he steps on to the landing. “What about Hanna? West Wales is so far away…”
“I believe Hanna has made it quite clear she has no interest in this family. I expect she’ll be happy to be relieved of the expectation to visit.”
“But… have you even told her?”
“I don’t wish to talk about Hanna.” He pauses. “And please do not try to contact her.”
I rip a piece of paper out of my notebook after he leaves and write Dear Hanna across the top. I feel a sick-making mix of fear and defiance as I do it. Dad told me not to contact her, but it doesn’t feel right, like not telling her we’re leaving is a punishment too far for her lack of visits. I hesitate, my pen held over the paper. It would be much easier if I had a phone and could just send a text. What am I meant to say in a letter? Hi, haven’t spoken to you in months but by the way we’re moving to the other end of the country and Dad didn’t want you to know? And I don’t actually know her address by heart. I don’t think addressing it to Hanna Carter, Cardiff is going to work. I drop the pen and stare at the blank letter. Should I even bother? She doesn’t, does she? I’d have to ask Mum or Dad for her address when Dad’s just told me not to contact her and I’d have to look up her phone number because I’ve never actually called her. Dad’s right, she’s made it perfectly clear she’s not bothered. I screw up the piece of paper and drop it in my bin.
The girl in those photos, the woman who visits so rarely and briefly, is a stranger. I bite my lip. My question now—in the next couple of months before we leave—is do I do as Dad wants and just let her go from my life completely or do I try one last time to make her less of a stranger?
Chapter 4
I can’t settle to anything after Dad leaves, so I put my shoes back on and go downstairs. I hesitate in the hallway—Dad’s office door is closed, and I can still hear Radio 4 from the kitchen. It’s already getting dark outside but it’s only four thirty. I’m probably safe until at least six. Even though I’m not banned from going outside, I make sure I’m quiet as a mouse opening and closing the front door. I’m not banned, but Dad doesn’t like me going out.
I don’t know why he worries, though. What does he think I’m going to get up to in a closed holiday park in November, when we’re miles from the nearest house? At least in summer I can ease the boredom by watching the tourists, envying the really happy ones, getting a shocked kind of thrill from listening in on the really sweary, shouty ones. Out of season, all I can do is watch Owen or Ethan, listen in on their banter as they prune shrubs or trim borders. It’s not exactly a scintillating hobby, but God—these winter nights last an eternity, and sometimes I think I’ll go completely insane if I don’t leave the house.
I head up toward the caravans and am rewarded by the sight of Ethan trimming the weeds around one of the vans. I prefer Ethan to Owen. I don’t like the way Owen stares at us—Mum and Dad as well, not just me—when he thinks we’re not looking. He’s all smiles when Dad’s giving him work but the smile vanishes the moment Dad looks away. I see it, even if Mum and Dad think he’s perfectly polite and charming.
Ethan is younger and quieter and doesn’t smile much at all, but he seems less fake. It’s funny because it should be Ethan who gives me the creeps because he’s the one who just got out of prison. Dad doesn’t know I know this, but I listened in when Owen came to talk to Dad about the new part-time worker he wanted to bring in, telling Dad how reliable Ethan was, how he made a mistake and wasn’t at all dangerous, and how Owen wanted to give him a chance…
I’m dying to ask what he did, but of course I’m not supposed to speak to either of them. I can’t even imagine Dad’s reaction if he caught me talking to one of them. I’m guessing it might be a spectacular enough misdemeanor to rival one of Hanna’s from her mysteriously shady past. So, of course, I’m extra careful to only ever go near them when I know Dad is either out or safely tucked away in his office. I’m hovering now, out of sight behind another caravan, watching Ethan. I wonder what they’ll do when we move? I know Owen has other work—he runs his own business and has other properties and gardens he maintains—but Ethan seems to be here almost full time. Will Owen have enough work for him if the new managers don’t keep him on? I don’t like the thought of him reoffending because we moved and he lost his job. Like it would be in some tiny way my fault.
I step out from behind the caravan and instantly regret it because Owen walks into view as I step out and it’s too late to duck back out of sight—Ethan has seen me, and he switches off the Weedwacker.
“Oh, look—you made it home. Did your dad sort out his car trouble?” Owen asks, and he’s grinning as he says it, laughter in his voice. Ethan frowns but doesn’t say anything. “Did he go and see my mate like I suggested? Tricky spot to break down, that was.”
I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, but I don’t like the way he seems to be laughing—at me or Dad, I don’t know which—so I ignore him and speak to Ethan.
“We’re moving soon. We’re leaving.” I don’t know why I blurt it out, why I think he might possibly care.
It’s Ethan I speak to, but it’s Owen who answers, as he sits on the caravan step and picks up a bottle of Coke. “Yeah, they’re shutting the place down.”
“What?”
“I’ve just been out front, putting up the For Sale board.”
“I… I didn’t know they were selling it.” I thought the decision was Dad’s, not something forced on him because they’re selling the place.
Owen takes a swig of Coke and holds it toward me, still with that grin on his face. I take it and almost choke as I take a huge swig.
“What is that?” I ask, eyes streaming.
He laughs. “Just a touch of vodka to keep me warm.”
“You bring vodka to work?” God, I sound like a disapproving vicar.
“Our little secret, yeah? You don’t tell on me and I won’t tell your dad you’re out here drinking vodka with us. I don’t think he’d be too impressed, would he?” He stands up and takes a step toward me.
“Leave her alone, Owen.”
Ethan says it so quietly it takes me a second to register his words and register the fact that he said them to Owen—his boss, someone older and much bigger. With my cheeks totally on fire, I walk away from both of them as Owen turns to face Ethan, full-on hostile with his arms folded.
All flustered, I forget to check the coast is clear and burst through the front door just as Dad comes out of his office. I press my lips tight shut. Oh God, oh God, will he be able to smell alcohol on my breath?
“Where have you been?”
“Just out for a bit of fresh air. I had a headache.”
He frowns. “Have you finished all your homework?”
I nod, keeping my mouth shut.
“Okay. Well, dinner’s almost ready. Go and wash your hands and change out of your uniform before we eat.”
I run upstairs to look out of my window. I can see the caravans on the hill from here. Ethan and Owen are still there, and it looks as if they’re arguing.
I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth twice, even scrubbing my tongue with my toothbrush until it stings. I stare at myself in the mirror, my guilt over that stupid single swig making me paranoid that it will be obvious. But I look exactly the same.
I lie in bed waiting for Mum and Dad to come up, listening for the telltale creak of the floorboards, the soft murmur of voices, the click of the landing light going off. I hear their door close and wait, counting down the minutes. Twenty minutes minimum. I worked this out after a heart-failing near miss when I tiptoed out after ten minutes only to meet Dad heading for the bathroom. Too much longer than twenty and I run the risk of falling asleep and missing my shot. I glance over at my alarm clock. Twenty-two minutes. That’ll do.
Up, dressing gown on, socks on my feet—slippers are too noisy. Tiptoe out, breath held as I pass Mum and Dad’s door, with a pause to check no sound comes from inside. I grin as I hear a gentle snore. Like clockwork. The snore means I don’t have to be as careful going downstairs as I usually am, but I still step over the creaky boards I know are there.
It’s when I get downstairs that I start taking the real risks—even more than that illicit swig of vodka. Up until then, if caught, I could say I was getting some water or a book I’d forgotten, but the moment I open Dad’s office door, I’m stepping into forbidden territory. But it’s become a temptation I can’t resist and it’s now almost a nightly thing, me sneaking down here—because Dad has a computer. A computer with broadband. The only computer access I get is in school and even the argument that it might be detrimental to my studies won’t make Dad relent and let me use the one at home.
Not that I would in front of him, anyway. Because I’m not sneaking down at midnight to type up a quick essay, am I? The computer comes on and I log into Facebook. Everyone at school is on Snapchat or Instagram, or sharing TikToks. I avoid those for that very reason. The last thing I want is to share more time with the idiots from school. Facebook, though—it was so easy to set up a fake account. Quick Gmail setup, fake photo furtively scanned in at school one lunchtime, fake name, and I was away. I could be whoever I wanted—and it’s amazing how many people will just accept a random friend request from a total stranger.
I went on first looking for Hanna, wanting to find out more about her life, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. I asked her, all casual, on her last visit and she said she doesn’t do social media. Who doesn’t do social media? Even I do social media and I don’t have a phone or a computer. Well, Julia Collins does—a random name I picked out of a newspaper. I thought it could have been a good way to keep in touch with my sister, but no. Still, it has been a good way of stalking my sister, because I know who Hanna spends time with and some of the stupid people who randomly accepted my friend request included both Dee and her boyfriend. They haven’t even noticed that my fake photo is a scan of one of the old snapshots of Hanna I found, with her front and center, grinning away with her bleached hair and nose ring. That fake me didn’t really look like a Julia, so I changed it to Jules, made fake me eighteen and at college. I accept all friend requests that come my way, including the lonely American soldiers, the shirtless men looking for love, everyone. I post fake statuses about the fantasy life I’ve created for fun-loving Jules, off living her best life at college.
And when I get bored of that, I scour through Dee’s timeline, looking for Hanna. She’s easy to find; she seems to be at every social thing Dee does. I’ve even learned to pick out Hanna from Dee’s statuses—when she mentions a friend and doesn’t name or tag them, it’s fairly obvious she’s talking about Hanna. So, I knew when my sister bought her flat because Dee talked about her friend’s housewarming. I knew when she lost her job, when she found a new one, when she got a boyfriend… It doesn’t really make Hanna less of a stranger, because we don’t interact, but at least I know a bit more.
There’s nothing new on Dee’s timeline tonight, though, so I amuse myself posting jokey responses from fake Jules on to the timelines of her “friends.” I’m about to close down when a private message pops up in the corner of the screen—it’s one of my shirtless wonders, with a photo that’s obviously as fake as mine. I’m smiling as I pull up the message, but the smile disappears as I read it.
Sasha Carter. Fourteen, Yr 10 at West Dean High.
Tut tut—what would your daddy say?
Heart galloping, I lean over and yank the plug out of the wall, like that immediate shutdown will make the message disappear. But it doesn’t matter that the computer screen is now blank, that fudging message is burnt on my retinas. And oh God—I’m going to have to turn the computer back on, aren’t I? Otherwise Dad will know I’ve been using it. That stupid Facebook page might still be cozily sitting there when he switches it on next.
