I’ve said too much. What was I thinking, telling this strange boy all of that? For all I know he might decide to snatch my phone and my money. I tense, ready to run. But Blue just studies me carefully. In spite of my reservations, there’s a seriousness about him that I like, something weighty and reassuring about his presence. He seems somehow older than I am, though he’s shorter than Taylor and doesn’t look much different from most of the boys in my year.
‘If you don’t want people to find you, you need to ditch the phone you were talking about,’ he says.
‘Oh, that’s OK,’ I explain breezily, delighted to be able to show him that I’m not as naïve as he thinks. ‘I know the police can trace phones, but hardly anyone knows I have it, so I reckon I’ve got a few more minutes. My mum definitely doesn’t know about it, so—’
‘Have you ever used your phone to go on social media?’ Blue asks.
I nod, thinking of all the NatterSnap messages between me and Taylor and the occasional, pointless attempts I’ve made recently to ‘like’ or ‘follow’ or ‘join’ other people’s profiles, images and conversations.
‘Then they’ll be able to trace it from that without getting the number off anyone. You need to dump it.’
‘Not just switch it off?’ I stare at him, aghast. The phone feels like my only link to home.
‘Write down anything you need, like useful numbers or NatterSnap handles or whatever, then get rid of it,’ Blue says. ‘Seriously.’ He hands me a little notebook and a pen. ‘I use this for doodles, I used to have a tablet but it got nicked. Take a sheet.’
The notebook is well worn, the edges curled and grubby. I open it up. Even in the dim light coming off the street I can see that it’s full of drawings. Mostly people’s faces. I flick through, sensing Blue is watching me.
These aren’t just ‘doodles’. The pencil sketches are beautiful – a world away from the graphic collages Amelia used to do for her art projects. There’s something raw and simple about them. Several faces appear again and again – an older woman with a gentle smile, then the girl I saw Blue with before, Seti I guess, instantly recognisable with her long thin plaits snaking out of her head and her imperious glare. I turn the next page and find a picture of a girl with wide-set eyes and a halo of curly hair. Her expression is one of anxious shock, like she’s just been startled.
‘Is this me?’ I ask, looking up. ‘At the bus stop?’
Blue nods, clearly embarrassed.
‘Your drawings are really good,’ I say, fishing out my phone and scrolling to the two numbers stored.
‘Thanks,’ he says gruffly.
I scribble down Poppy’s number. I hesitate before writing down Taylor’s. I can’t imagine why I’d call him, but if I’m going to dump the phone it seems silly not to take it just in case. I fold the paper with the sketch of me and the two numbers and shove it into my pocket. Then I hold up my phone.
‘So what do I do with this?’ I ask.
‘Keep it,’ Blue says. ‘It’s just the SIM you need to destroy.’
‘OK.’ I take the SIM out. I hesitate for a second, then snap it in two. I expect to feel an overwhelming sense of loss – or liberation – but neither feeling comes.
‘Now we need to get out of here,’ Blue says. ‘In case your parents have already reported you missing and the police are trying to trace you right now.’
‘OK.’ I don’t ask where we’re going or why Blue appears to have taken me under his wing. I just follow him out of the church porch and back onto the street. It’s stopped raining, thankfully, and I’m no longer as cold as I was before.
‘You should keep your head down when we get to the main road,’ Blue cautions. ‘You need to cover your face from the CCTV.’
A dim recollection of DS Carter explaining that Cornmouth only had CCTV on the main drags flitters into my mind. ‘Why don’t we just stay off the main road?’ I ask.
‘Because we need to cross it,’ Blue says, matter-of-factly.
A worm of anxiety coils up in my chest. ‘To get where?’ I ask.
‘The squat,’ he says, as if it’s obvious. ‘Unless you want to stay out on the streets all night?’
I say nothing, turning the prospect over in my head. Blue really doesn’t seem like he’d want to hurt me. Anyway, where else am I going to go?
‘Here, take this.’ Blue tugs off his black jumper and hands it to me. He is wearing another jumper underneath. Both have hoods. ‘Put it on and pull the hood up.’
I do as he says. We stroll along the main road, our hoods low over our faces. I glance at Blue’s mismatched trainers again. The question I’ve wanted to ask since I first saw him months ago finally pops out of my mouth.
‘How come you have shoes that don’t match?’
‘My second night on the streets someone nicked one of the sneakers I’d run away in,’ Blue explains. ‘When I woke up and realised, it felt like the last straw. I was cold and hungry and angry and I felt stupid too. I’d heard about this soup kitchen so I went there in my one shoe. Seti was there too. She came over and we got talking and I told her how my trainer had been taken and the next thing I knew she disappeared then came back about twenty minutes later with a replacement. “Sorry it’s yellow,” was all she said. I was so grateful I didn’t even ask her where she got it from. We’ve hung out together ever since.’
I wonder if he means like a couple. She seems a bit old for him, but you never know.
‘Truth is I would never have survived this long without Seti,’ Blue says.
‘Why did you run away from home?’ I ask, curious.
‘That’s a long story,’ Blue says.
I fall silent again. It’s fair enough he doesn’t want to tell me. I don’t really want to tell him how I’ve ended up here either.
My thoughts turn to Amelia. Anxieties whip through my head: is she OK? She’s been missing for hours now. What can have happened to her? The police said she left a note saying she was going to meet someone in Bow Wood. But who? And why did someone – the same person, perhaps – claim to have seen me with her? Presumably they must have known I was there, otherwise the accusation wouldn’t stick.
We turn off the main road. Blue and I remove our hoods. The rain has stopped and I run my fingers through my wet hair, which is hopelessly tangled.
‘I’m thinking maybe you should cut that,’ Blue suggests.
‘My hair?’
Blue smiles at the horrified look on my face. ‘Or else cover it up,’ he says. ‘It’s very distinctive.’
‘You mean odd?’ I grin.
‘I mean pretty,’ he counters straight back.
There’s an awkward silence.
‘The squat’s down here,’ Blue says, pointing along the street. ‘Like I said, the house’ll be full of people and some of them won’t want another person there, but don’t worry, I’ll talk to Seti and she’ll fix it.’
‘OK.’ My stomach churns with anxiety.
‘Also . . .’ Blue hesitates. ‘Quite a few of the people there are like these mad political activists, like they go on demos and believe in bringing down the government, like extreme stuff, so . . . so don’t let them bully you and don’t be scared. Most of them are all talk and no action.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, though inside I’m quaking.
‘I’m sure you will be.’ Blue laughs and his face lights up. ‘I wasn’t saying you couldn’t stand up for yourself. I just wanted to warn you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say and, buoyed unexpectedly by his confidence in me, I follow him along the road towards the squat.
24
It’s a huge house, even bigger than the one Taylor lives in, but it’s in a terrible state: the brickwork is crumbling off the outer walls and the wood around the windows is rotten and splintered. The front garden is a mess of overgrown plants and weeds and there’s a huge, dirty puddle by the blistered and swollen front door.
Blue gives the door a shove to open it.
‘No key?’ I murmur.
&n
bsp; ‘No key and no hot water,’ he says. ‘But we do have electricity.’ To prove the point he flicks a light switch by the door and the dilapidated hallway comes into view.
It’s as big a mess as the front garden – piles of old cloths and cardboard boxes and flaky paint on the walls. The bit of floor that’s visible is made up of stained, warped floorboards.
‘Whose house is this?’ I ask.
Blue shrugs. ‘No idea. But Tommo says it’s ethical squatting because we’re not taking a home that anyone else wants. This one’s been derelict for years.’
‘Who’s Tommo?’ I ask.
‘I am.’ A thin snarl of a voice echoes towards us and I look up to see a skinny, wiry guy of about nineteen or twenty sauntering down the stairs. He has a shaved head, a long brown beard and about twenty piercings across his ears, nose and lips.
‘Hi,’ I say nervously.
‘Who’s this, Blue?’ Tommo asks with a sneer. ‘Another charity case?’
Blue tenses slightly. I’m guessing he doesn’t like Tommo much.
‘This is Carey,’ he says. ‘She’s in a heavy situation at home, just needs to crash for a couple of nights.’
Tommo nods. ‘From each according to his means . . .’ he says.
‘Sorry?’ I glance at Blue.
‘He means he’d like you to help out,’ Blue explains. ‘Right, Tommo?’
‘We’re a community,’ Tommo says. ‘Everyone makes a contribution.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘What do you want me to do? I can cook – basic stuff anyway – or I can clean up a bit.’ I stop, worrying that I’m sounding like my mum, not to mention stereotypically girly.
‘Are you saying this place is dirty?’ Tommo grins. He has a mean little rat-like face. I’m not sure if he’s joking or not . . . surely it’s obvious that the house is filthy, but I don’t want to sound rude.
‘Give her a break,’ Blue snaps.
‘She can help with the placards in the morning. Second floor, it’s got great light. She can sleep in that room you and Seti and that tattoo-face one and her mate are using.’
Tommo stands back to let me pass. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk up the stairs, Blue right behind.
‘Is Tommo in charge?’ I whisper, as we reach the first floor.
Tommo himself is still watching us, along with two other boys with similar beards who have emerged from downstairs rooms.
‘Likes to think he is,’ Blue says with a sniff. ‘Under the guise of it all being a co-operative.’
I frown, not really understanding. The first-floor landing is empty – faded paint on the walls and a threadbare carpet – with doors leading off on all sides. I glimpse a dingy bathroom with stained tiles on the floor.
‘That’s the shower,’ Blue says with a wry smile. ‘Luckily I don’t mind it being permanently cold.’ We carry on, up to the second floor. Raucous male voices float out from a room to the left. I glance over, my anxiety building.
‘Is it all blokes here?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Blue says. ‘Come and meet Seti.’ He opens a door on the right. The room beyond is as tatty as the rest of the house, but far cosier than I expected. The floor is covered with rugs in reds and browns. Another rug hangs on the wall and sheets are gathered at the deep windows. Seti herself is sitting with a small group of people, propped up against a pile of moth-eaten cushions in the far corner. She’s picking at a plate of biscuits, nodding intently as one of the other girls speaks. They glance around as Blue and I come in, but the girl doesn’t break off from what she’s saying.
‘So, like, it’s a global thing, run by big corporations and stuff.’
‘It’s so unfair,’ one of the guys says.
‘They just really want to keep the masses in their place.’
‘Yeah, under their steel boots.’
Murmurs of agreement.
‘Hey, Blue.’ Seti acknowledges us at last. She smiles at me, flicking her long, thin plaits over her shoulders. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘I’m Carey,’ I say. All eyes fix on me. I give an awkward smile. ‘Blue said I could stay here for a couple of nights, if that’s OK?’
‘She can’t have my space,’ a girl with a tattoo of a spider’s web on her right cheek says to no one in particular.
Beside me, Blue stiffens.
‘If Carey’s a friend of Blue’s then she’s cool,’ Seti says. ‘Carey’s welcome.’
And this seems to settle it. The others nod and smile at me, making room for us as Blue leads me over. We sit down. I feel desperately self-conscious, but luckily I don’t have to speak. Blue is doing the talking, explaining how he met me in the church porch and how I’ve run away from home.
Thankfully nobody asks me to explain what I’m running from. I wonder how they have all ended up here. None of them look older than nineteen or twenty, though Blue and I are definitely the youngest.
The small group carries on chatting, mostly about political stuff I don’t understand. Music and loud voices echo occasionally from the room across the landing, but no one from there comes into our room.
‘How many people live here?’ I ask Blue quietly.
‘I don’t know exactly,’ he says softly back. ‘Seti and I only moved in a few weeks ago. It’s much nicer than our last place.’
‘I see.’
‘Tommo was already here with I reckon about twenty mates. I think he let us move in cos he fancied Seti.’ Blue grimaces, then a slow grin spreads across his face. ‘Not that she’s interested in him.’
‘So is Seti your girlfriend?’ My stomach gives a twist. For reasons I don’t quite understand, I’m hoping the answer to my question is ‘no’.
‘No way,’ Blue says with a chuckle. ‘I mean I like Seti all right, but not like that. She’s taught me plenty of tricks for getting by on the streets but she’s definitely not—’
‘Are you talking about me?’ Seti herself cuts in, her voice arch and imperious.
Blue meets her gaze. ‘Just saying how you begged me to date you but I turned you down.’
Seti laughs, flicking her long, thin plaits over her shoulder. ‘Yeah right, like I’d look twice at you, you’re half my age for a start.’
‘I’m fifteen,’ Blue says in mock outrage.
Seti looks over. Her almond-shaped eyes sparkle with life as she smiles. She’s really pretty in her blue jumper and skinny jeans. There’s something haughty and intimidating in her expression as she turns to me but there’s warmth too.
‘Don’t worry, Carey, he’s all yours.’
I can feel my face reddening, the burn deepening as everyone else, apart from Blue, laughs.
‘Shut up, Seti,’ Blue mutters, clearly embarrassed.
‘Whatever.’ Seti stretches out her long, slim legs and leans back against her cushions. ‘Go next door, Bobs, and see if they’ve got any booze, yeah?’
One of the guys immediately gets up and trots out of the room.
‘Seti the slave owner,’ murmurs Tattoo-face.
‘I can’t help it if I’m a natural leader,’ Seti says with a smug grin.
I glance at Blue again. Despite the fact that he’s several years younger than the others, I get the impression that he would never let anyone tell him what to do. There’s a steely quality about him. Perhaps that’s what makes him seem so much older. I have a sudden intuition that Seti likes him precisely because she can’t push him around.
Of course I don’t say this. Or anything. I carry on sitting there in silence while Bobs comes back from the room next door with a bottle in his hand and passes it round so everyone can take a swig.
I refuse the bottle when it comes to me. I want to keep a clear head among all these strangers. Blue doesn’t drink either, nor does he join in the heated political debate that ensues. He slips out of the room in fact, returning a few minutes later with a fresh plate of toast and some lumps of rubbery cheese to share with me. I devour as much of the plateful as I can get my hands on, while the older teens talk around
us.
As far as I can work out, Seti and most of the others think that their protests and those of other anti-capitalist demonstrators around the world will lead to new governments run as co-operatives, with everyone looked after by everyone else.
‘Like with bartering for food and no greedy bankers,’ Seti explains with conviction.
‘ ’Better to have a revolution, clean and quick and simple,’ Tattoo-face says with a contemptuous sniff. ‘Start with a proper clean slate.’
Blue rolls his eyes at me. It’s clear he thinks they’re talking rubbish.
I have no idea what time it is now, but I’m struggling to keep my eyes open so it comes as a relief when Tattoo-face and her friend wander off and Seti lies down on her cushions and closes her eyes. The others left in the room take this as a sign to either leave, or go to bed themselves.
Blue fetches me a blanket from a pile in the corner and I grab a frayed and faded velvet cushion for my head. It’s hard on the thin carpet of the floor, definitely the strangest place I’ve ever slept. Blue falls asleep on the other side of the room way before me. No one has changed into night things or cleaned their teeth. I feel suddenly lonely and miss home desperately. Mum will be furious and scared that I’m gone. Jamie will be worried and confused too. How will Mum and Poppy explain to him why I’m still not home?
My thoughts turn to Amelia again. Is she all right? I really hope that she’s turned up safely at home, but without my phone I have no way of checking online to see if there’s any news.
Whoever made the anonymous call claiming I was arguing with her yesterday afternoon was clearly trying to frame me. That has to be the same person who was behind the SweetFreak messages and the dead bird in Amelia’s locker. Which means whoever’s responsible for Amelia going missing can’t be a random stranger but someone known to us both.
It can’t be either of the people I’ve seriously suspected so far: George is Amelia’s brother, so Amelia wouldn’t need to leave home if she was going to meet him, and it’s seems very unlikely that Rose would have known I’d be in Bow Wood yesterday afternoon.
Which brings me back to Taylor.
I dismissed my earlier suspicions that he was SweetFreak as far-fetched but maybe I should think it through, step by step. It’s certainly possible from a practical point of view: Taylor has the IT skills to hack my computer and cover his tracks, his mum could have told him about the dead pigeon, which he could easily have arranged to be dumped in Amelia’s locker, and I’m certain Abi would be prepared to lie to protect him, so his alibi for yesterday doesn’t count for much.