The Night They Vanished, page 5
But the wire looks like a snake, the plug like its head and teeth, and I’m sure it’ll bite me if I go to touch it. Sitting there dithering, I become aware that the curtains aren’t properly closed. There’s a six-inch gap where the black night stares in, watching me.
Who did this? Who sent that message? Are they watching me now? No, that’s stupid. It has to be someone from school, but how on earth would they have figured out it was me? Yes, I’ve sneakily logged in a couple of times from school, but only ever when I’m alone in the computer room, pretending I’m doing work in lunch hours. None of the teachers ever say no to me. It’s almost disheartening that they trust me so completely not to abuse the privilege. No one else gets to go on the computers at lunchtime, but I can, because I’ve never once been in trouble, never once sassed any teachers or been late or failed to hand in homework. I’m such a damned goody-goody they even make exceptions for me when they do whole class punishments. You can all stay in at break-time—but you can be excused, Sasha. I know you weren’t part of this.
Stupid teachers. Thinking they were rewarding me for my good behavior—do they never think how bad it will be for me later as I walk out of the classroom and everyone else has to stay behind?
I shake my head. This is not the teachers’ fault, is it? I’m the one stupid enough to have either left evidence after using the computers or been blind enough not to notice the most likely answer—someone must have been spying on me on those sneaky lunchtime sessions.
Chapter 5
thedarktourist.com
HANNA—Saturday 9 a.m.
“So how was it? I was hoping you’d call me last night…”
I sit up in bed and glance at the clock. Dee lasted until nine fifteen before calling—I’m impressed by her restraint. “Well… he took me to a creepy abandoned house on an even creepier street.”
“He took you to an abandoned house? I thought you were meeting him in the pub?”
I smile and put her on speaker so I can haul my laptop toward me and type in a URL. And there it is—Adam’s dark tourism website.
“It’s what he’s into—taking girls to old murder sites or abandoned houses full of ghosts.”
“Right…”
“Yeah—apparently Seb advised him not to mention it on a first date but he couldn’t control his abandoned murder site urges.”
“Okay—you’re freaking me out a bit now. I know Adam and he’s really—”
“Nice? Yeah, you said that.”
There’s a pause. “Are you okay? He didn’t…?”
I laugh and let her off the hook. “I’m fine. He was funny, and he was nice. I thought at first a bit too nice? Boring? But he got more… interesting.”
“You mean you fancied him?”
“God, have you seen his arms? And his smile?”
“Yes. I knew it. So… did you? Do the deed in some dirty abandoned murder house?”
“Ew—no.” I hesitate and lower my voice. “But we did kiss. In the garden of a dirty abandoned not murder house.” I pause, and shiver again at the memory. It was a very good kiss.
“Double yes. Did you take him home? Have nice, decent sex and exorcise Liam forever?”
“Actually, he kissed me, and I freaked out and ran away.”
“Oh, Hanna…”
I sigh. “I know. But I’m hoping he’ll think I was creeped out by the abandoned house thing rather than that I’m a total idiot.”
“You mean you want to see him again?”
“Maybe…”
“YES! Woohoo—that’s it, I’m buying a hat!”
“Oh, shut up. I’m looking at his website now, actually. That’s the main thing that’s a bit off. I want to do some digging—see if his weird hobby is a deal-breaker or not.” I click on new listings, looking for the house he told me about last night. I scroll down and gasp.
“Hanna? What’s wrong?”
“What did you tell him about me?” I whisper.
“What?”
“What did you tell him about me?”
“Where you worked—that we grew up together, that you’re amazing. Hanna, what—”
“Did you tell him about my family? The holiday park?” My mind frantically replays our entire conversation from last night. I told him where I grew up, but nothing else… I think of that sympathy card that arrived the other day, the unfamiliar handwriting. “Did you tell him about Jacob?”
“Of course not. Jesus, why would you think I would—”
“Shit. Fuck. I’ve… Dee, I’ve got to go. Text me Adam’s address, will you? I need to make a surprise visit.” I end the call and drop the phone back on the bed, zooming in on the newest listing on Adam’s website. I click on the button to find more details, but it takes me to a login page. I must be mistaken, I must have…
Oh God—the total shit. He was supposed to be nice, he was supposed to be decent.
I jump out of bed and pull on my jeans, grabbing a jacket to put on over the T-shirt I wore to bed.
I don’t stop to wash or brush my hair. As soon as Dee texts the address through, I’m marching out of the flat and half-running down the street. Adam doesn’t live far from me and there’s no way I’m doing this over the phone.
It’s still only nine thirty on a Saturday morning, but I don’t care if I wake him up. God, I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let him kiss me outside some creepy abandoned house, thinking he was nice, thinking he was funny and sexy, thinking he was the opposite of Liam.
I catch the front door of his building as someone comes out. Good, now I don’t have to give him warning I’m on my way up. I’m too impatient to wait for the lift, so I jog up three flights of stairs, pausing at the top to get my breath back before knocking on his door. Actually, I don’t knock, I bloody pound on his door. I don’t care if half the floor comes out to see what the racket is. I hear movement inside his flat and bang on the door again.
The door flies open. He looks like he just woke up, hair all over the place, stubble on his chin. He’s dressed—a faded T-shirt and jeans—but his feet are bare.
The scowl on his face gives way to a half smile, half look of confusion when he sees me. “Hanna? Hey, what’s up? I thought… Um… did we arrange something for this morning?”
“Is it some kind of sick joke?”
His smile disappears. “What? What are you talking about? And what are you doing here?”
“I’m talking about your website—my house on your fucking website.” I’m shouting and I don’t care.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but will you come in before my neighbors call the police?” He opens the door wider and I shove past him, going over to where his computer is.
“Get your website up.”
“Hanna, for Christ’s sake, will you just tell me what the hell is wrong?”
“This,” I say, clicking on the new listings page of his Dark Tourist site. “This is what’s wrong. Why did you do it? I don’t get it…”
He leans in to look at the screen, frowning, zooming in like I did to read the details.
“I didn’t do this,” he says, stepping back. “I didn’t put this up. I haven’t updated the site in the last month.” He’s still frowning. “You say this is your house?”
My heart is still racing, but I’m wrong-footed. He sounds genuinely confused. “It’s my family’s house. It’s where my dad and stepmother and my sister live. It wouldn’t let me go any further without logging in.” I feel sick as I look again at the words under the grainy photo of my family home.
Welcome to The Dark Tourist
New Listing:
Site of a terrible tragedy in small coastal village.
This, coming so soon after that horrible sympathy card… That’s what sent me racing here. Someone knows about Jacob. Someone wants to bring it all up again. I wanted… I wanted to come here and make Adam delete it all before anyone else gets the chance to rake through my past.
But when Adam goes through the login process and another page loads—it’s not about Jacob at all. There are more pictures of the house, details about my family. The main photo is of my dad, Jen, and Sasha. And when I read the text I feel faint. It’s… That’s not what I expected.
New Listing:
EXCLUSIVE IMAGES from the site of a gruesome triple murder—Two adults, one child, brutally killed in small coastal village.
Sign up NOW for more information—exclusive crime-scene photos, background information on the murder victims, maps and more!
“The site must have been hacked,” Adam says, sitting at the desk, tapping his way into the back end of the site. “Shit. I’m locked out.” He shakes his head. “Don’t worry—I’ll get this sorted. I’ll get this taken down.”
I stare at the back of his head. I don’t know him, my mind keeps repeating. This man—this man who kissed me in the grounds of an abandoned house, who runs a website about murder sites for fun—is a stranger. Hacked? How can his website have been hacked and my family home put on there—we went on a date last night; it’s hardly coincidence, is it? My brain is scrabbling to catch up.
“Why would a hacker put my family up there? We never met before last night—and the details… That’s my house, their names and ages—a photo, for fuck’s sake.”
“Hanna, I swear I didn’t do this. How could I? I don’t know your family.”
“But you know where I used to live, where me and Dee grew up. I told you last night. And you knew anyway, didn’t you? When you stayed with Seb when you were at university—you said you’d heard of the village. Did you go there? What else did he tell you?”
“But why would I? Even if I knew all about you before our date—why the hell would I do that?”
I shiver. Yes, why would he? I step back, glancing toward the flat door, stepping away from Adam, and wishing I’d asked Dee to come with me. I’ll leave now, call her back, and—
“Don’t look at me like that,” Adam says and there’s a plea in his voice. “Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of monster. I didn’t do this.”
“Then who did?”
He shakes his head. He does look genuinely distraught and it eases some of my fear. He can’t be that good an actor, can he? And he’s Seb’s friend—they’ve been friends for years…
I bite my lip. What if he’s telling the truth—that his site got hacked? But even so—who makes a website like this anyway? One that revels in murder? I hover, my hand on the door. But if not him, then who and…?
“The date,” I mutter, stopping and turning back to Adam, still hunched over his computer. “On the site—the date of the ‘gruesome triple murder’—it’s today’s date.”
He looks back at me. “But you’ve spoken to them, right? Your family? I mean, I’ve no idea what’s going on, I swear, but it’s not real, it’s just the site’s been hacked.”
I freeze. Shit. I didn’t… I haven’t… I didn’t even think of calling them, because I thought it would be about Jacob when he logged in. I thought it was going to be about me. I fumble my phone out of my pocket and call my dad’s mobile, then Jen’s. They both go straight to voicemail.
“No answer from either my dad or stepmother,” I say and there’s a wobble in my voice.
“Your sister?” he says. “She’s a teenager, right? All teenagers are glued to their phones, aren’t they?”
I chew on my lip. “Sasha’s not allowed to have a phone. My dad’s really strict.” I pause. “But she has a secret pay-as-you-go one…”
“You got your sister a burner phone?”
“I didn’t get it for her.” Actually, I’ve never stopped to wonder who did get it for her. I wince as I bite my lip too hard and taste blood. “I don’t want to get her in trouble by calling.”
Adam stares at me. “I think this might warrant a call.”
I pray she has the phone on silent as I call, but like Dad and Jen, my call goes straight to voicemail. I look at Adam and shake my head.
“Landline? Work numbers? Could your dad or stepmother be in work on a Saturday?”
I nod, already scrolling through my contacts for Dad’s office number. I frown and lower the phone. “Disconnected number. How can it be disconnected? It’s the number for the holiday camp. It’s their main landline.”
Did Dad mention a change of telephone numbers last time I visited? I don’t think so, but that visit was cut short, I remember, when I rolled up my sleeves and he saw my tattoo. I ended up walking out after another fight about how I was ruining my life, like getting a tattoo was the ultimate sin.
I don’t know the names of any of Sasha’s friends. God, how crap is that? There are no close neighbors to the holiday park to call and I have no idea who my stepmother is friends with. My dad never really invited friendships. I look at Adam. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.
“When’s the last time you spoke to them?”
“I don’t know… before Christmas?”
“Before Christmas? Hanna—it’s nearly the end of February. You haven’t spoken to your family in almost three months?”
I don’t tell him I didn’t actually speak to them at Christmas either. I timed my call for when I knew they’d be out and left a message. My family isn’t like most families—regular Sunday lunches, shopping days with my mum. My family is… well, I don’t really think of them as my family anymore. My mother is dead; I’ve never got on with my stepmother. And my dad is… it doesn’t matter. Dee is my family. Dee and Seb and Mari, Evan, and Jo. They’re the ones who are here for me. They’re the ones who stuck by me and helped me make my shit life a lot less shit. Not my parents or Sasha. And that’s fine. I like that, I’m happy with that. But Adam’s disbelief at the fact I haven’t spoken to my family in months makes my cheeks burn with shame.
“We’re not exactly on speaking terms,” I say. “I left home when I was sixteen and they were quite happy about that.”
Well, my dad certainly was.
I look at the computer screen again, that fucking listing. Gruesome triple murder.
“Do you think I should call the police?”
Hope
thedarktourist.com
the FAILED academic,
the LONELY wife,
the teenager with DARK SECRETS…
Saturday 11 a.m.
We’re waiting at the local police station. Adam insisted on coming with me, his laptop in a bag with him. He took a screenshot of the listing in case the hacker takes it down before we get to show anyone, and we appear more ridiculous than we already do. I haven’t had chance to call Dee for reassurance that Adam really is the nice, decent man she promised… I want to believe he had nothing to do with this, but my mind keeps poking at the nagging worry. And none of it is helped by being here, in a police station: somewhere I swore when I got my life back on track that I’d never visit again. I try taking deep breaths, but it doesn’t help the incipient panic. It’s Dee I want next to me, holding my hand, not Adam.
The woman behind the desk looked bemused as I attempted to stumble through an explanation of why we were there. But I don’t care—I just want someone to take me seriously enough to check on my family and confirm they’re actually alive. I keep trying their numbers while we wait; Adam keeps tapping on his keyboard, a frown on his face.
A door to the right of us opens and a uniformed officer pops his head through. “Do you want to follow me?” he says.
No, I don’t. I haven’t been in this particular police station before, but with its tiled floors and disinfectant smell, it reminds me unpleasantly of the one I spent too much time in as a teenager. I found myself sweating when I gave my information to the woman at the desk—like there’d be some alert coming up when she tapped in my name, like I’d been some master criminal rather than a wayward teenager pulled in for minor offenses back then. They wouldn’t have instant access to a juvenile record, would they?
My fear levels ratchet up a little higher at the thought of the police officer hauling out my records and listing all my possession and drunk-and-disorderly cautions in front of Adam.
“Come in; have a seat,” he says. “I’m PC Barker.”
We sit opposite him in a small room with claustrophobic dark green walls. I wonder if this is where they bring suspects, but he doesn’t show any signs of taping our conversation, or even making notes. He looks bored, or tired, or both, a man in his late twenties at either the beginning or the end of a long shift.
“Do you want to tell me what this is about?” he says, leaning forward.
Adam and I look at each other and I wait as Adam opens his laptop and turns the screen to face the police constable.
“I’m a web developer,” Adam says. “My site got hacked—I don’t know when. I haven’t checked it in a couple of weeks, and I didn’t see any alerts.”
“It’s my family’s home—the latest listing on his site. It’s my family’s home and it says they’ve been murdered. Today.” I talk over Adam, so our words merge together in a jumble.
“Okay—one at a time, please…” PC Barker says, and I pause to take a deep breath, trying to explain in a calmer tone. Adam completes the story, taking the officer through the website and what it does.
“And what’s your relationship to one another?” PC Barker asks, looking from me to Adam.
I glance at Adam, but he doesn’t say anything, so I answer. “We met yesterday,” I say. “Last night—we had a date, a blind date arranged by mutual friends.”
He asks for Dee and Seb’s details and it makes me twitchy as I watch him scribble down names and numbers. “They don’t have anything to do with this—it’s wasting time.”
