‘Ticket to Bristol,’ I blurt out, stepping past one of the cases.
‘Single or return?’
‘I don’t care!’
The woman behind the desk looks at me steadily, clearly not going to do anything until I give her a sensible answer.
‘Return, please.’
I slide the cash across the counter, grab my ticket and run, looking at the destination signs above each bay. Newcastle. Liverpool. Manchester. Cardiff. Bristol! I swing round the metal barrier just as the pneumatic doors of the coach hiss shut.
I look up at the driver. He smiles, shrugs and puts the coach into reverse. It starts to roll slowly backwards. No! I dart forward and slap my hands against the door. The driver slams on the brakes and shakes his head at me.
Behind me, someone shouts. ‘Oi! You! Step behind the barriers!’
I look round. A guy in a high-vis jacket is heading my way.
I turn back to the driver, clasp my hands in prayer and mouth the word ‘Please’ at him. He shakes his head again – but then, to my amazement, there’s another hiss and the doors shudder open.
‘Oh my God, thank you. Thank you.’
I scramble aboard. Behind me, there’s another shout.
‘That’s me in trouble now,’ the driver says. ‘Against the rules to stop like that.’
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘My call. That prick gets right on my nerves.’ He looks towards the high-vis guy, who’s now standing open-mouthed. ‘Find a seat quickly. We’re off now.’
‘Okay, thanks. Like, really, thanks.’
I lurch along the aisle as the coach pulls out of the bus station. I can only find one spare seat. It’s by the window, and the woman in the next seat has spread her things all over it.
‘’Scuse me,’ I say. ‘Can I sit here, please?’
She looks at me, and there’s a pause before she sighs and starts moving her things: a handbag, a plastic lunch-box, a thermos, a couple of books and a magazine. She clutches it all to her stomach and huffs out of the seat, doubled over.
‘Thank you.’ I sit down and take out my phone, earphones and water, then squeeze my rucksack into the space by my legs while she settles back into her seat. The coach swings out on to the main road and I’m pressed against the window as my neighbour slides across the seat. She’s twice my size and age, wearing shorts and a vest top like me. The amount of flesh pressing against me makes me squirm inside, but there’s nothing I can do until we’ve stopped going round this corner.
I’m suddenly aware that, despite the unwelcome closeness of my neighbour, I’m actually on my own. I’ve never travelled alone – hardly been anywhere at all – and now I’m speeding away from the only people I’ve ever known, heading towards a place I haven’t been to since I was tiny. A place I don’t really know. A place which, if I let myself think about it, terrifies me.
My mind’s racing. My body’s on red alert. What on earth am I doing? I’m out of my depth.
I try to remember why I’m here, and my thoughts head back to Misty. I loved her, love her still, and Rob killed her. He’ll keep killing unless someone can stop him, and that someone has to be me. Worrying isn’t going to help. I need to focus on what I’m going to do when I get to Kingsleigh. I need a plan.
I could go straight to the lake. ‘Back’ to where Rob drowned. As hot as I am, I get goosebumps thinking about it. If he’s there, he’s not going to be happy that I haven’t brought Mum and Dad with me. He’s going to be really, really angry. Will he kill me instead? Would that be enough to bring all this to an end or would he still go after them?
Who would miss me if I died? The girls on the team wouldn’t care – if they even survive the legionella, that is. Harry couldn’t care less. There’s Milton, I suppose, but mostly it’s Mum and Dad. It would destroy them. But maybe they’d grow to be proud of me, if they realised I’d done this for them . . . and perhaps I’ll see Misty again. Misty . . . I’m welling up again now. I can’t spend the journey crying. Come on, Nic, concentrate.
If I’m going to die, then maybe I should try and find my grandmother first. I’d like to know the whole truth, understand how the story started. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. I have my plan now, so I try to zone out, calm the butterflies that are fighting in my stomach.
We’ve just hit the motorway when my companion opens her plastic sandwich box, releasing the unmistakeable smell of boiled egg. I put my hand across my mouth and turn my face to the window. It’s stifling in here and the smell makes me gag. I reach up, tug at the air blower and twiddle it round – nothing. It’s not working. God, this is going to be a long journey.
I undo the top of my water bottle and start sipping to help calm my stomach. I gaze out of the window, watching the blur of flat, yellow fields, blitzed to nearly nothing by the summer’s heat. The sun’s shining directly at me. I’m sweating, starting to feel a little dizzy.
I drink more water. Soon the first bottle’s empty and I wiggle my bag round until I can get the empty bottle in and fish out the second one. I hear my dad’s voice: ‘Just sip it. Take it easy.’ Even though he’s not with me, he’s still in my head. All his rules and regulations have been drummed into me. Even so, I unscrew the lid and drink. Then I tip a very little into my hand and rub it on to my face, forehead and neck, desperate to try anything that might cool me down.
And there it is.
Rob’s voice.
On your own. That’s not good. I warned you.
And the butterflies are back. Except it’s not butterflies, it’s something bigger, with claws – gripping, twisting, tearing at my insides . . .
I can’t bring them to you. I can’t do it. I’m right, though, aren’t I? You wanted me to come to Kingsleigh?
I wanted you to bring them, you little bitch.
I bring the hem of my vest top up and wipe my face. Wipe him away.
Oh God, what have I got myself into?
My neighbour’s finished her sandwiches, but the smell remains. She’s breaking into a bag of cheese and onion crisps now, stuffing handfuls in, chewing with her mouth open.
Maybe some music will help chase Rob’s voice out of my head. I wake my phone up and start scrolling through my tracks, but my attention’s caught by the text icon. Ten new messages. Ten? I open up my inbox. Messages from Dad, Mum and Milton.
Mum and Dad’s messages are anxious:
Where are you?
Nic, ring home.
I can’t tell them. I can’t risk them finding out where I am, where I’m heading. I know I’m in danger, but so are they, and maybe I can keep them safe.
I’m suddenly aware of the water sloshing about inside me. I’ve drunk more than a litre in less than half an hour. Oh God. I need the loo.
‘’Scuse me.’ I grab my bag and try to stand up, crouching under the overhang of the lockers above. My neighbour looks at me with undisguised irritation and doesn’t move.
‘’Scuse me. I just need to—’
Finally, with a lot of oniony puffing, she starts gathering her things together again and eases herself out of her seat. I squeeze past and head for the toilet. The ‘engaged’ sign is on, so I lurk in the aisle, trying not to fall into anyone’s lap. People are already looking worn down by the stuffy heat. Glazed eyes, hands flopping over the armrests.
The toilet door opens. The guy coming out won’t meet my eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, as he goes past. ‘It’s not . . . there’s a bit of a . . .’
The smell hits the back of my throat even before I push the door open. There’s paper sticking to the inside of the bowl, a nest of it at the bottom which doesn’t manage to hide the mess. I jerk back, letting the door slam shut.
I’ve got to get off this coach. I can’t do two more hours on here. I stagger to the front. The driver eyes me warily in his mirror.
‘You need to stop the bus,’ I say. ‘I need to get off.’
He shakes his head. ‘I did you a favour letting you on. Stay put, l
ove. We’ll be at the services soon.’
’You don’t understand, I need to get off. I need to use the toilet but it’s blocked.’
‘Only ten minutes ’til we reach the services.’
‘I feel sick.’
He turns his head quickly and checks me out. ‘Use a bag. There are bags in the nets on the back of the seats.’
‘I’m not using a bag. I need some fresh air. I want to get off!’
Everyone’s looking now, but I don’t care.
‘We’re on the motorway, love,’ a pensioner in a vest says, leaning out of his seat and tapping me on the arm. ‘Sit down, there’s a good girl, and stop making a fuss.’
‘We won’t stop ’til the services,’ someone else chimes in. ‘You might as well sit down.’
There’s a chorus of them now.
‘You’re making us all feel hotter.’
‘Yeah, sit down!’
I’m not going to win. I make my way down the bus again and wait while the egg-and-cheese-woman gathers all her things once more, stands up and lets me in. I squash myself into the corner, turning my face away from her and look out of the window. Perhaps by being very still I can stop the feeling of the water swilling around inside me.
I don’t see the blur of fields and farms. I don’t really see my reflection. I can only see the nightmarish parade of images in my head . . . Christie’s face as she started to choke. The pattern Harry’s blood made as it fanned out in the water. Misty’s lifeless eyes and the dark wet patch around her head. And a boy, lying on the bottom of a swimming pool – pale skin, marked and grazed.
I close my eyes and try to picture myself somewhere else, anywhere else but this metal sweat-box on wheels. And I’m back at the pool. The perfect turquoise rectangle. It was my place for a while. The place where I felt happiest. Now it’s been drained. A turquoise hole in the ground. Everything’s changed. Ruined. Spoilt.
Something’s digging into the top of my leg. I fish in my pocket and bring out the locket. What was it Milton said? ‘If you open it there might be clues in there . . .’
The metal is cool in my hand. My sweaty fingers keep slipping as I try to prise it open. My thumbnail tears and a little bead of blood appears at the corner. What else can I use? I try inserting the side of the zip pull on my bag into the groove at the edge of the locket. My companion gives me a sideways glance, then pointedly goes back to her sudoku.
I twist the zip pull and it slips, but the next time something gives, just a little. I try again and the catch opens, reluctantly. I let go of the zipper and force the sides open, like the covers of a miniature book. Inside is dry as a bone. There are two photos, each behind a little window in either half of the locket. Two faces looking out at me. I’ve seen one of the photos before. A boy in school uniform, sneering at the camera. Rob.
The other side is a girl, a close-up of her face. She’s pouting for the camera. I can just see part of a silver chain around her neck, the top of a naked shoulder. It’s Mum.
Mum and Rob.
Not Mum and Dad.
‘You wouldn’t think to look at us now that we ever loved that hard, that much.’
But who did she love? Which brother?
I stare at the two photos until they’re imprinted in my brain. Mum and Rob. Rob and Mum. So many secrets. So many lies . . .
‘We’re stopping. If you want some air, now’s your chance.’
Someone’s hand is on my shoulder, shaking me. I jerk my eyes open: I must have been asleep. I look out of the window; we’re inching through a car park, swinging into a diagonal parking space alongside other coaches. My mouth is open and I can feel the tickling of drool at the corner and down the side of my chin. I put my hand up to wipe it away, and the open locket falls into my lap. And there are their faces again – Mum and Rob. I snap the locket shut and stuff it back into my pocket.
There’s a horrible taste in my mouth – metallic and raw. I try to swallow but all the moisture has dribbled out of me. My throat is dry and scrapey. I reach down beside me for my water bottle, but it’s empty now, rolling on the floor between my feet.
‘Are you getting off?’ It’s Miss Egg-and-Cheese. ‘You made enough fuss earlier. We’re here now.’
She joins the queue of people shuffling slowly towards the front. I take a moment to come round a bit more, appreciating the welcome gap next to me, the absence of flesh pressing against my own. I let the others file past me and then join the end of the line.
I head over to the service station. Inside, the air conditioning is working and it’s like stepping into another world. Blissful, cool, clean. I dash to the ladies’, then head for the chilled cabinet in the store to stock up with water, pick up some mints to freshen my mouth.
Next to the till my eyes run over the headlines of the newspapers in the rack. They stop at one: LEGIONELLA SUSPECTED AS SWIM TEAM STRUCK DOWN. I pick up the paper.
Council officials confirmed that they are investigating a suspected outbreak of legionnaires’ disease at Narrowbridge Swimming Pool, after several members of a girls’ swimming team fell ill. The council has confirmed that the pool will be closed until investigations have been completed, and will also undergo a thorough industrial clean as an additional precaution. In an official statement released earlier today, the council stressed that ‘the health and safety of our customers is our first priority.’
A spokesman from South Birmingham General Hospital said that in total seven girls had been admitted, two of whom were in intensive care. A further statement is due to be issued later tonight.
The air conditioning is blowing straight down from the vent above me, and I’m shivering violently. Two in intensive care. How many of the girls will end up on Dad’s spreadsheet? And will I be the last entry?
‘You buying that?’ The girl on the till is looking at the paper in my hands.
‘Yes. No.’ I put the paper back. ‘Just the water, and these, thanks.’
I pay, put my things in my bag, then head back to the coach. The heat outside is intense – it’s shimmering off the tarmac. I clamber back on to the coach. The air’s no cooler, but it’s a little fresher after a quarter of an hour with the door open.
I check my phone again. More messages coming in all the time. I put it into silent mode.
The sun’s climbing higher in the sky as we draw into Bristol. At the coach station I ask for the bus to Kingsleigh and get straight on it.
THIRTY-ONE
It’s not easy to find Kerry Adams. I managed to get a postcode for the address from the court reports and I plug it into the direction finder on my phone, but when I get there, the tiny terraced house is boarded up. I knock on the door even so, and eventually there’s a shout from down the road. A young woman, with a fag trailing out of her mouth, is peering out of her front door.
‘Give it a rest. She’s not there. Went away a month ago.’
‘Do you know where she went?’
‘One of the flats on Hunter Street.’
‘Have you got the number?’
‘Nah. Sorry.’
The door closes again. I find Hunter Street on the map and set off again. When I get there, I ask for help in a rundown corner shop that seems to sell any type of booze a person could want. The man behind the till knows her. He sends me to number 11, a ground floor flat in an unappetising block.
I ring the doorbell.
‘Can’t you read? I don’t buy door-to-door. I’ve got a sign up.’
The woman who squints through the gap is only small, her eyes just above the level of the chain that’s pulled taut, keeping me out.
‘I’m not selling anything,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to see you. If you’re Kerry Adams, that is.’
The eyes narrow.
‘Who wants her?’
‘Me! I’m her granddaughter. My name’s Nic. Nicola Adams. My dad’s Carl – calls himself Clarke these days.’
The door shuts. For a moment I’m wondering whether I should start knocking again or give
up and go away, then I hear the rattle of the chain and the door swings open. The woman stands in full view, looking me up and down. I guess I’m doing the same to her. She’s tiny. Her hair is thin and ratty, just below shoulder length. She’s wearing a crumpled sundress with shoelace straps. There’s nothing on her feet.
Our eyes meet, and now there’s the recognition I was hoping for. Her eyes are Rob’s eyes, Dad’s eyes. There’s no mistaking the likeness.
‘Nicola,’ she says. ‘Little Nicola.’
‘Not so little,’ I say.
‘You were when I last saw you. You were this high.’ She holds her hand out in front of her, indicating the height of a tot, then peers past me. ‘Is Carl with you?’ I shake my head. ‘No? What are you doing here? You should have told me you were coming. I would’ve . . . well, I would’ve . . . oh, you’d better come in.’
She stands aside and I walk into the hallway. There are four doors leading off it.
‘Go through to the kitchen. Second door on the right, that’s it.’
The kitchen is a mess. The worktops are littered with empty packets and cans, cups used as ashtrays. The sink has a layer of cans floating in scummy grey water. There’s an empty food bowl on the floor, next to a full water bowl, both sitting on a rectangle of newspaper that’s scuffed up at the corners and dotted with old food. She sees me looking.
‘They’re Ella’s. Seem to have got myself a cat. She’s out somewhere. Do you want a drink?’
‘Um, no thanks.’ I’d rather die of thirst than drink anything from this kitchen.
‘Well, I could do with one. Settle me nerves a bit. Having you turn up out of the blue, it’s a shock. A good sort of one, don’t get me wrong. Still a shock, though. There’s some cans in the fridge.’
I take the hint and open the fridge door. There’s an open tin of cat food in one of the door pockets, and rows and rows of lager cans. That’s all. I pass her a can.