Tell Tale (40 page)

‘I . . . I have a friend with a teenage daughter. Let’s just say she’s had a tough time recently.’ I stare at the online request, not knowing what to do. ‘She asked if I could keep an eye on her and we both decided that Afterlife was the best way to find out what was going on in her world.’

‘You’re spying on her?’ Adam is incredulous. He slots the book back on to the shelf.

‘Not exactly spying.’ I feel my cheeks redden. I click ‘accept’ and Griff’s full profile spreads across my screen.

‘So she knows it’s you then?’ Adam isn’t letting up.

I shake my head. It was the wrong story to spin, even though it’s almost the truth. I skim Griff’s details. Same high school as Josie . . . a year older . . . plays hockey . . .

‘Spying, then.’

‘Yes,’ I admit. At least it’s a diversion.

‘And what have you found out?’

‘That she’s very unhappy. That she has no one to talk to. That she may be in danger.’ The relief at having spilled this much is immense. ‘I’m so worried about her, Adam.’

-Hi,
Griff says.
-U a friend of jojo’s?
I stare blankly at the conversation window.

‘Then you need to tell her mother.’

‘She already knows,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t know what to do either.’ I fiddle with the mouse pad, sending the pointer flying across the screen.
-Yes,
I reply to Griff. ‘She’s an absent parent,’ I continue, breathlessly close to saying too much.

-I’m worried about her,
he continues.

‘Is she a pupil here?’ Adam asks.

I shake my head. ‘No.’

The computer bleeps an alert, while the bright box on the screen suddenly asks if I want to accept the three-way chat with Josephine and Griff. We both stare at it. My fingers hover over the keys. When Josie clicks ‘Accept’, so do I.

-Hello, dramaqueen-jojo
types.

-How r u? I was worried. u seem so sad.
I don’t like it that Griff can read our conversation. Adam glances at his watch. He’s trying not to look, but I can see he’s reading every line too.

-I am fine, thank you.

-Whassup, jo-jo?
Griff butts in.

‘That’s odd,’ I say, actually grateful that Adam is here. ‘She doesn’t sound fine.’

He leans towards me. ‘Look. She just said she was.’

-Have u been 2 school?
I ask.

-Nothing is up at all, Griff.

This doesn’t sound like Josie.

-And yes, I have been to school,
she replies.

‘This isn’t the way she normally speaks . . . types,’ I say. ‘Her language is different. Too formal.’

‘You can tell from a few words?’

‘And I know that she
hasn’t
been going to school. She’s been too upset.’

-thought u couldn’t face school.

-Where are you?
Josephine asks me.
What’s your address?

‘This is weird, Adam. I think she might be planning to run away.’

‘Whoa,’ he says. ‘Back up there. I’ve had enough of teenage girls and their hormonal pursuits for one school year. I don’t think I want to hear about another.’

I’m careful to keep within the story I have constructed, for Adam’s sake. ‘She believes that I’m an old primary school friend called Amanda.’ I point to my onscreen name. ‘She’s having such a tough time at home, since her mum . . . left, she said she wanted to come and stay with me. Of course, I told her she couldn’t. And now she’s asking for my address.’

Adam pulls a face, his chin resting on the heel of his hand. He glances between the screen and me, puzzling over each. He is so close I can feel the brush of his breath on my cheek.

‘I’d deploy rule number one of safe internet use, if I were you.’ When I raise my eyebrows, he continues, ‘Say you don’t give out your personal details over the internet. Say your dad would kill you.’ He pats my head in a fatherly way.

-Why do u want 2 know?
I type. What if she’s in trouble? I think. What if she needs to escape?

-I would like to visit you.

‘Something’s wrong, Adam. This just isn’t how she chats online.’ My mind races, wondering if I can somehow get a cryptic message to Mick, perhaps through Laura, maybe Jane Shelley. I don’t know what to do.

Adam stands and stretches. It’s been an emotional time
for him. He doesn’t want to be drawn into my mess. ‘Class begins in a few minutes.’

-Is that man keeping away?
I ask. I have to know.

-Which man would that be?

‘Frankie, I don’t want to pressure you, but—’

‘Just another minute. Please.’

-The man from the gallery.
I can’t bring myself to type his name.

I turn to see if Adam’s reading over my shoulder, but thankfully he’s walked away and is talking to the librarian.

-He’s always at our house these days. He’s cute. I think he fancies me.

My eyes widen at her words. I can’t believe what I’m reading.

-What do u mean?
Dear God, no.

And then, as quickly as she appeared,
dramaqueen-jojo
fades to grey and shows as offline. ‘No!’ I call out. My voice rings through the quiet library. Frantically, I type a message to Griff, to see if he can contact her, go round, anything, but he has disappeared too.

‘Are you OK?’ Adam reaches for his computer, but I grip on to it.

‘Please, just another few minutes. I have to see if she comes back. It’s all gone so wrong.’ Adam sees my sobs before I realise I’m crying.

‘Frankie, I need it for a history presentation in class. Can this wait until later?’ My head hits the desk and I nod, releasing the laptop.

‘Can we meet later? Will you help me?’

The warmth of his hand on my back is all I need to know that he will.

Sylvia comes to take over my PSHE class. ‘I’m so grateful,’ I say as I hand her my stack of notes. I’d told her I had a migraine.

‘What is it this week?’ she asks in the corridor. ‘Affairs with married men or alcoholism?’ She laughs and takes the notes.

‘We’re still talking about bullying, actually, and when it’s right to tell someone.’

‘Oh,’ Matron says. ‘Snitching. They’ll love that.’ And she disappears into the common room.

Adam finds me hovering around the single computer terminal in the staffroom. A male member of staff scrolls down a page. ‘He’s been on eBay for hours,’ I whisper. Adam gives me a knowing look and taps his laptop.

‘Use mine, and then I have a treat in store for you.’ He winks. ‘To cheer you up.’

In spite of everything, I manage a smile. I don’t think there are too many of them left. ‘Thanks,’ I reply, taking the laptop. I sit in the corner, as far away as possible from the other staff that come and go, gulping mugs of lukewarm coffee, moaning about their workload, marking books stacked in piles on their knees. When the computer asks for the user password, I type ‘Betsy’ and it immediately lets me in. I glance at Adam and he’s staring right back. A small smile crosses the barrier between us, another one deducted from my account.

Dramaqueen-jojo
has not been back online since our chat several hours earlier. I linger around the familiar public areas where I’ve noticed she hangs out, and in the meantime I decide to compose a message to her – the one that I would like to send but in reality cannot. It will sit in the drafts folder, a beacon of the truth; a reminder of what once was.

I look up and stretch. My neck is sore and my fingers ache. The staffroom is empty. I typed six pages and still didn’t say everything I wanted. I sign off with a single kiss, one to last a lifetime, and save it in my Afterlife account. I pour the last dregs of coffee from the machine.

‘School’s out,’ someone says. I turn and Adam is there as if he has been watching over me all this time.

‘Your computer. I’m so sorry.’ I hand it back.

‘I didn’t need it. I’ve been busy.’ He puts it in his locker and clicks the padlock closed. ‘And now for your treat,’ he says. ‘Come with me.’

‘What . . . ?’ Suddenly I’m being led by the hand through the many corridors. We head up the staircases and along the passages that lead towards my room. ‘Where are we going?’ I don’t want a treat. He jangles a key and grins. My heart misses a beat. I pull Adam to a halt, gripping his arm. I have to tell him. Even if he’ll think I’m crazy. ‘Did you notice it too, Adam? Frazer Barnard’s hand when he was fiddling with the keys?’

He frowns, pulling me on. ‘Notice what?’

‘The thumb on his left hand was missing. Didn’t you see?’ He’s silent. ‘I didn’t see it the first time we met, but
while I was waiting for you to come out of the chapel, I saw he didn’t have a thumb.’

‘So?’ I see the twitch in Adam’s jaw, the mini frown above his eyes. Does he still think I dreamt the whole thing up?

‘Don’t you get it? He must have been the one staring in through Lexi’s window that night. I swear the handprint I saw didn’t have a thumb. What do you think he was doing?’ He doesn’t understand how serious this is. If I’ve been recognised, it’s over.

‘Being a dirty old man?’ he suggests.

‘Exactly,’ I say, wondering why Adam is being so casual about it. ‘Should we report him?’ My stomach turns. Police, statements, arrests . . . Then all I can think of are threats, fear, running away again.

‘Frankie.’ He stops, blocking the way. ‘I have never met anyone who worries as much as you do.’

‘But—’

‘You’re going to make yourself ill.’

‘I’m—’

‘Just for now, relax. Please? Let’s deal with it tomorrow.’ He sighs, reining in his annoyance.

I nod, thinking how easy it would be to fall into his arms until the pain eased.

‘Now come with me.’ He leads me past my bedroom door and a little further down the sloping corridor. Nothing is straight in this part of the building. ‘Mr Palmer gave me the key. Said he thought we might like a look. I told him about your interest in the library portraits.’ Adam wiggles
the key in the old lock and eventually it gives. ‘Geoff said no one’s been in here for years, but there’s going to be a clear-out. The room’s being decorated for more staff accommodation.’ Adam goes in and flicks on the light. ‘Ta-da!’ he sings, watching for my reaction.

It takes a moment to realise what he’s done. I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief.

‘Champagne, madam?’ He goes over to the table, dust motes spinning up off the dirty old floor, and peels back the foil on a bottle of Lanson. He gently releases the cork, pours carefully, and hands me a glass, watching as the bubbles rise to the brim before sinking down again. ‘Our own private viewing,’ he says, sweeping his hand around the room.

Spread out, leaning up against the skirting boards, stacked on the window sills, hanging from whatever hooks were in the wall are dozens and dozens of paintings. ‘Mr Palmer said they’ve been stashed here for decades. He’s been through them all and only a couple were of interest to him. He says there are more in the attic above, although he’s not seen those yet. No one’s ever bothered to fetch them down.’ Adam waits for my reaction, pointing up to a hatch in the ceiling. ‘They’re all going off to an auction soon. He told me to help myself to anything I liked.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ I sip the champagne.

‘Since you wouldn’t come to the exhibition with me, I thought this would be second best. Some of them are quite skilful. Others are plain awful. I didn’t want to upset you though, when you told me about the man you—’

‘You haven’t.’ I walk round the perimeter of the room, smiling at what he’s done. Then he whips back a white cloth on the table and a feast of cold food is revealed. ‘Oh, Adam,’ I say, quite speechless. His kindness hurts.

‘You needed cheering up. And I needed . . .’ He falters. ‘I wanted to spend time with you. Just us.’

I frown. ‘A date?’

‘Yes.’

‘Adam, there’s no way I can . . .’ I stop. He’s holding out a plate of crackers and pâté. ‘Thank you.’ I shake my head and take one.

‘What do you reckon?’ he says, lifting up a frameless canvas. ‘Impressionist wannabe?’

‘It’s awful,’ I say, laughing. ‘Perhaps a talentless pupil did it.’ I bite the cracker.

‘Nope. These were left here way before the school opened up. Mr Palmer doesn’t know where they came from originally. Hoarded over the years.’

‘That’s not bad,’ I say, pointing at another picture, humouring him, and his odd idea of a date. ‘I like the sky. It’s quite clever the way . . .’

‘The way that there are clouds in it?’ Adam finishes for me.

‘It’s terrible, too, isn’t it?’ I spray laughter.

‘It serves you right for not coming to a proper gallery with me.’

‘OK, OK, I will,’ I promise. He pours us more champagne.

‘And dinner afterwards?’

‘Perhaps,’ I say, meaning no. I could never betray Mick. ‘What about this one? Would you hang it on your wall?’

‘Nope.’

‘Or this?’

‘No way.’

It goes on, me lifting pictures from the dust, the pair of us laughing at them, as if we could do better ourselves, until we stumble upon a batch of canvases that are clearly more professional than the rest.

Adam cuts some cheese. ‘Do you like Brie?’

‘Thank you. These are actually very good.’ I eat a grape, staring at the abstract yet somehow very real pictures that Adam has set out beneath the window. ‘They seem contemporary, ahead of their time. Look, this one’s dated.’

‘Nineteen eighty-three,’ Adam reads.

‘Ancient,’ I joke, staring at it. The champagne has made me relaxed, but for some reason the tension returns to my neck and shoulders. My head begins to ache.

‘Take it,’ Adam says. ‘Put it on your bedroom wall. Mr Palmer said we can have what we like. The rest will be disposed of one way or another. Probably in a skip.’

I lean the painting up against the table. We look at more pictures, eat the food, and finish the champagne. Later, alone in my bedroom, after I sidestepped what I imagined was going to be an embrace, I straighten the new picture on my wall. I lie on my bed, staring at it, getting lost in the folds of green that make up the countryside scene, marvelling at how the flash of red, the glint of gold suggests the hunt, the baying hounds, the sound of the horn, the terrified fox.