Now You See Me (11 page)

We were trapped round the dining-room table at Dial House, all watching Martha trying to light the candles on Danny's cake. Fourteen of them. And twelve of Danny's friends, each thinking exactly the same thing.

Who the hell was going to blow them out?

I glanced at Joe, who was observing Martha's struggle with the matches with increasing alarm. She struck one and it flared and dropped to the floor. Joe stamped on it quickly, then reached for the box.

Martha shook her head, taking another and lighting it with a determined look that reminded me of Alice. I wished again that Paul hadn't refused to have anything to do with this. Somehow his not being here made the whole thing feel more precarious. Hazardous, even, like anything might happen.

I eyed the others, gauging their reaction. Ewan was staring out across the garden, faking an interest in the apple trees, and Ross was studying his feet. Lizzie Jenkins and Vicky Clough sat between Martha and Jamie, examining their nails and fiddling with their hair. Beside them were the twins from Danny's tutor group. The other three were from the swimming club.

Everyone Martha invited had come; I don't think anyone dared not to.

“Here's to Danny,” Martha said, as the flame on the last candle finally took hold.

I swallowed, feeling giddy with awkwardness. Was Martha going to make us all sing “Happy Birthday”? One glance at the panicked look on Lizzie and Vicky's faces told me something similar had crossed their minds too.

But Martha just sat with Alice on her lap, gazing at the candles for a minute or two in a lost sort of way.

“Me do it.” Alice pointed at the cake and Martha let her lean forward to blow them out. It took almost as long as lighting them, Alice pursing her lips and puffing noisily, with little effect on the flames. In the end, Martha had to do it herself.

“Who would like a slice?” she asked in an overly upbeat voice, knife poised over the cake. Chocolate with raspberry jam and buttercream filling. Danny's favourite, though I always found it way too rich.

Everyone said yes in unison. Everyone except Lizzie, who put up her hand like she was still in school, slowly lowering it once she realized what she'd done. She looked nearly as embarrassed as Jamie, who'd actually brought Danny a card. One of those jokey ones with a hamster with boggle eyes and a silly message. It was standing on the shelf above the sink, like some kind of crazy memorial.

There was nothing sane about any of this, I thought, as I bit into my cake. Paul had told her as much, but Martha wouldn't listen.

“He's my son. We're going to celebrate his birthday.” It was all she'd say.

Everyone ate in silence, and I remembered Danny's birthday the year before last. Him insisting we play traditional party games, even though we were getting way too old. It was a riot. Joe and Ross got so competitive over musical cushions, pushing and shoving, that Martha had to stop the game and declare them both winners.

Best of all was pass-the-parcel. Danny had let Alice rip open every layer, relishing the look on her face as she discovered the sweets hidden between the sheets of paper. The way she fingered each one in wonder, like a treasure hunter unearthing precious gems.

Oh, Danny. I couldn't help thinking he'd be the only person who'd actually enjoy any of this. If he could see us all now, sitting around eating birthday cake for a boy who wasn't even here, he'd crack up. Danny would think it was the funniest thing in the world.

Almost as soon as I swallowed the last bite of cake, I started to feel queasy. And hot, like someone had turned up the heating too high. I mumbled an “Excuse me” and made my way to the downstairs loo to splash some cold water on my face.

On the way I passed the little room that Martha used as an office. It had everything in there. Recipe and gardening books, piles of fabric, baskets of wool, jars of buttons and a box crammed with dozens of reels of bright-coloured cotton. In a large cabinet at the far end, Martha kept rolls of wrapping paper and ribbon, and a locked section for the presents she hid away for birthdays and Christmas.

We weren't supposed to go in there. Especially Alice, who would rip through the place like a small tornado, meddling with everything and putting nothing away. But today the door was ajar and, as I walked past, I caught sight of something. I paused. Pushed the door open and peered inside.

There, on the old pine table Martha used as a desk, was a box wrapped in blue and red stripy paper, topped with a gift tag and a big red bow. And from its size and shape I could guess exactly what it was. That games console, the one Danny had begged for and Martha dismissed as a complete waste of money.

Back in the kitchen, I could hear the tense murmurs of eleven kids desperately trying to act like all this was normal. I slipped into the room and turned over the label.

Danny, Happy 14th Birthday
, it said, in Martha's handwriting.
All our love, Mum and Dad xxx

That was all. I don't know what I expected really, but the very ordinariness of it was worse somehow. My stomach felt heavy, rebellious. My skin sticky with discomfort.

“Hannah, are you okay?”

Martha's voice made me start. It sounded closer than the kitchen and, as I swung round, I saw her hovering just across the hallway. She stopped when she saw where I was.

“Yes, sorry,” I mumbled, backing out the room and closing the door behind me. “I was…um…”

I couldn't think of anything to say. It was obvious what I'd been doing.

Martha just looked at me, her expression unreadable.

“I'm sorry,” I muttered again. “I'm not sure I feel very well.”

“You're very pale, Hannah. You look like you've seen a ghost.”

I almost laughed at the irony, but I felt too sick. “I think I ate a bit too much cake.”

“Do you want to lie down?”

“No…no, I'm fine…” But suddenly I wasn't, as a rush of nausea sent me running towards the loo.

I barely reached it before my stomach began to contract. I kneeled over and threw up, the terrible force of it making my ribs ache and my eyes water in pain.

I hate being sick, but this time I didn't fight it. I let the tears run down my face as I hunched over the toilet bowl and heaved, over and over, until every last bit of Danny's birthday cake had gone.

“You're sure about this?”

Paul is lingering by the back door of Dial House, fiddling with his car keys. “It's not too late for me to get someone else to mind Alice. I could always ask Sophie's mum.”

“It's fine,” I repeat. “You go and meet Martha.”

I want him gone. With every moment he remains, the temptation to make him tell me what's going on grows stronger. What's happening with Martha, why Paul has to go up to London to meet her, what any of this has to do with Danny – the need to know is becoming unbearable. Like an itch that grows stronger the longer you resist the urge to scratch.

But Paul is still wavering, eyeing my pile of books on the kitchen table. “How long before your exams start?”

“A couple of months.”

“You think you'll do all right?” He looks genuinely concerned, and I wonder why. Maybe I'm a reminder that Danny should be here, going through the same thing.

“I'll be fine.” I nod at the kitchen clock. “You'll miss your train.”

Paul glances up and sighs. “Okay, but ring if there are any problems. Anything at all. Promise?”

“I already have. About ten times.”

He manages a smile. “I'll try not to be late. No later than nine, I hope.”

“Don't worry about it. Dad's working tonight anyway.”

Paul raises an eyebrow.

“Some project that's gone over deadline,” I explain. “He's been stuck in the lab for days.”

Paul bites his lip, his hand gripping the door handle. “You're a great girl, Hannah. Your dad…you know…he's very lucky to have you.”

His eyes fix on my face and I feel suddenly self-conscious. Scrutinized.

“Go!” I say quickly. And this time he does.

“Ninety-seven…
ninety-eight…ninety-nine…a hundred. Ready or not, here I come,” I yell.

There's an excited squeal from somewhere upstairs, but I've no intention of going up straight away. Alice's hiding spots are never the most imaginative, so half the point of playing hide-and-seek with her is making sure you don't find her too quickly. I'm pretty good at looking in all the wrong places – under the blanket in Rudman's basket, in the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink, behind the thin silk curtains in the lounge.

I work my way through the downstairs rooms, making sure to bang plenty of doors and drawers as I go. I'm wondering how long I can spin this out and keep Alice off the topic of why both her parents have now gone away.

Because the answer is, I don't know. Or rather I have an awful feeling that I do, and it's not something that is going to make Alice – or me – feel any better.

Finally I climb the stairs, thumping my feet so that she hears me coming. It works. There's a barely suppressed giggle of apprehension.

“Fee…fi…fo…fum… I smell the blood of a juicy little girl!”

Another squeal, but I'm not sure where from. I'm pretty sure it's not the bathroom, so I go in there first. I open the top of the laundry basket, now way too small to contain Alice, then let it drop with a clatter. Peek under the lid of the toilet. Glance in the airing cupboard in the hallway, even though the boiler and shelving above take up most of the space.

“Where is she…?” I give a theatrical bellow before going into Martha and Paul's room and peering inside all the closets. I open the drawers on Martha's dresser, making sure to give them a good rattle. Finally I check under the bed – nine times out of ten it's where Alice will be hidden – but today there's nothing but dust on the bare floorboards.

I repeat the whole process in the spare room, though there aren't so many places to look. Then go into Alice's bedroom, knowing she's there. I start with her toy cupboard. Several games and puzzles fall out as I open the door – there's barely space for another doll or teddy bear, let alone Alice. I check the drawers of her chest, each bulging with clothes. I look in her wardrobe, sweeping aside all the coat hangers with a dramatic swish.

It's under the bed then. I lower myself chest first onto her duvet and slowly drop my head over the edge.

“Raaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!” I roar, peering right underneath.

Nothing.

I blink with surprise. I so expected to see her beaming up at me, thrilled and terrified in equal measure.

Where on earth is she?

Clambering back onto my feet, I look around. I'm fairly sure I've checked everywhere that might hide a seven-year-old girl.

Then I hear another giggle. And finally work out where it's coming from.

Danny's room.

With a sinking heart, I push on the door. The hinge makes the funny squeaking noise that somehow reminds me of Danny. He always refused to let Paul or Martha do anything about it; said it was his early warning system in case anyone crept up on him.

I open the door just enough to stick my head in, but it's too dark to see much. I fumble for the light switch. Suddenly it's me who feels scared. I hate coming in here.

“Alice. Come on out.”

Silence. No movement. Crap.

I take a step inside, trying not to look at all Danny's stuff. This place is wrong. Barely changed from the day he left, though Martha did at least clean up. Washed the bed linen and rearranged the pillows. Picked up the usual clutter that trailed Danny everywhere, certain he'd be back soon to mess it up again.

But it's all still here, three and a half years on. All those football magazines and DVDs, those silly horror novels with lurid covers. His swimming trophies and the Bristol Rovers posters on the wall. His laptop, finally returned by the police.

It's like Danny just left the room, not our lives. I half expect him to sneak up behind me and jab me in the ribs. “Poking around my stuff, eh, titch?”

I know it's normal in a way, that lots of people can't bear to get rid of someone's things after they die, but it still gives me the creeps.

More to the point, neither of us is supposed to be in here. Martha would kill us if she knew.

“Alice?” I whisper, though I've no idea why. There's no one else to hear us.

Still nothing. Oh god, I am going to have to look.

I check under the bed, which is oddly pristine, then in the wardrobe. Seeing the clumps of Danny's clothes stuffed on the shelves, his few smart shirts lined up on hangers, makes me shiver.

I can't help thinking about when we got back from Mum's funeral and Dad grabbed loads of carrier bags and cardboard boxes and marched from room to room, throwing in everything she'd ever owned. Clothes, books, CDs, ornaments, pictures, even the plants she grew on the kitchen window sill. Anything that reminded him of her.

He didn't stop, even when he saw me crying. He didn't stop even after I'd called Martha and begged her to come round. He didn't stop because he couldn't – not until he'd removed every last trace of her.

Right now I'm wishing Martha had done the same.

“Alice?”

I open another cupboard, but there's nothing except more crumpled magazines and boxes of games. I shut the doors fast before too many memories surface. Why can't Martha get rid of some of this stuff? What's the point of hanging on to it all?

It's not like we'd forget him without all these things to remind us. Or that we'd stop missing him if they were gone.

“Alice!” I hiss. “Where are you? Come on, you know Mummy doesn't want people in here.”

I can't keep the impatience from my voice. I want to get the hell out of here before I end up as crazy as Martha.