Now You See Me (12 page)

“Alice! For god's sake…”

“Yarrrrrrrrrrr!”

I actually scream. Spin round and see Danny's dressing gown billowing from the back of the door and shriek in panic before Alice emerges from behind it.

“I won!” She punches the air in the same way her brother always did, but her victorious look melts to concern when I sink to the floor and burst into tears. She crouches down beside me and strokes my hair as I sob and try to pull myself together.

“You sad about Danny?”

“What?” I wipe my tears on my sleeve and gaze up at her, holding my breath. Have Martha and Paul told her what's happening? I search her face for clues. But I can't bear to ask.

“I know,” she says, sitting on the floor beside me. “I know you sad about Danny.”

I stare at her in horror. She knows… Oh god, they've told her. So it's really true. This time there's no mistake.

Alice nods her head, then leans forward and peers right into my eyes. “I sad too cos Danny is still hiding. I look everywhere, but I can't find him, Hannah. I can't never, ever find him.”

At ten past nine I hear a car pull up in the drive of Dial House. A minute later the sound of the key in the door. But it's not Paul's face that appears.

It's Martha's.

“Hi.” I jump up from the sofa, flustered. “I didn't think you were coming back yet.”

Martha smiles. “Sorry, Hannah. I tried to ring to tell you, but the battery went flat on my mobile. Paul's staying up in London overnight. There are a few things to sort out.”

She stands there, jangling the car keys. “Alice in bed?”

“Yep. She fell asleep about an hour ago.”

“Thanks, hun.” She steps over and touches my cheek. “God knows what we'd do without you.”

I manage a quick smile. “It's no problem. I don't mind – I love Alice.”

I pick up my books and stuff them into my rucksack, catching the corner of my maths textbook in my hurry, making a large crease across the cover.

“Actually, Hannah, I was wondering if you could stay a moment longer. I need to talk to you.”

Oh god. I look at Martha blankly, searching for an excuse to leave. At the same time knowing it's hopeless.

You can't run away from the truth. Not for ever.

“There's something important I need to tell you. And Alice. But I want to tell you now because I know it will come as a bit of a shock and I want to give you enough time to take it in before…”

“Before what?” I stammer.

But I can guess what she's going to say. Before the funeral. Danny's funeral. Because it's obvious what all this is about. Finally admitting this to myself is terrible. Because now I'm not sure I feel anything at all. Just numb, dizzy. Vacant.

Martha watches me, reading the anguish on my face.

“Hannah, sit down, sweetheart. Just for a minute.”

I sink back onto the sofa and force myself to meet her gaze. I don't understand why Martha doesn't seem more upset. Her eyes are puffy and tired, but there's no sign of redness there, and her mouth is restless, as if she's trying not to smile.

“Hannah, I'm sorry, we should have told you before, but I…we didn't want to say anything until we were absolutely certain.”

Martha pauses for a second, obviously trying to think of the best way to break the news. I clench my hands, digging my nails hard into my palms.

“That's why I've been in France, you see. I had to go and see, and then Paul came up to London and he too…well, we're sure.” She bites her bottom lip, but the corners of her mouth still curl back upwards.

“Sure of what?”

“That it's him. Danny.”

I stare at her. She
is
smiling.

This is
mad
.

“Oh, Hannah, don't look so upset,” Martha laughs, leaning forward to tuck away the strand of hair that always flops in front of my face. “It's true, sweetheart. It's him. We've found Danny.”

“You've f-found him?” I stutter. “You mean you've found his body…?”

Martha reels back, eyes wide with astonishment. “No. Christ, no. Why would you think that? Oh god…” She cups both hands around my face, forcing me to look at her.

“No, Hannah. He's alive, sweetheart. He's coming home.”

With those words, the air whooshes right out of me. I sort of fold up like a deckchair, unable to keep myself upright.

“Hannah?”

I can't respond. There's a pain in my chest where my lungs should be. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.

And the blood sings in my head as Martha pulls me round and hugs me tight against her.

“It's true, sweetheart, it's really true. Danny's coming home.”

Dad gets up around seven. I wait until I hear the sound of the kettle boiling before pulling on my dressing gown and catching him in the kitchen.

“Dad?”

“Mmmm…” He looks at me, bleary-eyed. Not enough sleep – it was gone midnight when he got back from the lab.

“I've got something to tell you. Something important.”

That gets his attention. I see him clock my excited expression. “What's going on, Hannah? Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” I nod. “Better than okay, actually.”

I take a deep breath. Even after a night of tossing and turning, trying to take in Martha's news, I can hardly believe what I'm about to say.

“They've found Danny.”

“What?” Dad looks perplexed. Like I've uttered some kind of riddle.

“Danny's coming home. They've found him.”

I watch as a wave of comprehension finally breaks across Dad's face. His eyes widen and his eyebrows contract to a frown.

“
Danny?
”

“Yes.”

Dad stares at me. “They've found him? You mean alive?”

“Yes.” I grin. “Alive and well. Okay, a bit the worse for wear, Martha said. But he's all right. And he's coming home.”

“Good grief.” Dad sits down. He looks truly stunned. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday,” I say, sitting in the chair opposite. “Or rather a few days ago. Martha told me last night when she got back.”

Dad doesn't speak for a moment. Just gazes at me.

“Jesus.”

“I would have told you last night but you were back so late.” I feel my cheeks redden a little. That's not quite the truth. I was so dizzy and happy and shocked and elated, there was such a confusion of things going on in my head, that I needed time alone for it all to settle. To let myself finally believe it was real.

Like a secret, a gift of happiness I wanted to savour.

“I see.” Dad chews the inside of his lip. I give him another minute or two to let the news sink in. “Okay,” he says. “So start from the beginning. What exactly did Martha say?”

I summarize everything she told me. How Danny had emailed the missing persons website to say where he was, and how the French police had picked him up a couple of days later. That he'd been attacked and was now recovering in hospital in London.

“And he's all right?” Dad asks.

“Apparently. Martha says it's only a few cuts and bruises, but he did get a bang to the head. They want to check that out before they let him come home.”

Dad stares down at the kitchen table before raising his eyes back up to mine. “Is she really sure this time?”

I nod. “She flew over to France to see him.”

He still doesn't look convinced.

“Martha's
seen
him, Dad,” I say, my voice bubbling over. “Talked to him. And Paul has. He went up to London yesterday to meet them from the airport.”

I pause to feel the weight of my own words. It's almost like I'm trying to convince myself. Martha and Paul have met Danny.
They've actually spoken to him.

It still doesn't seem possible.

“So why now?” Dad asks.

“Why now what?”

“Danny. What made him get in touch now, after so long?”

“I don't know.” I shrug. “But I guess we'll find out.”

“So, what's he said then?” Dad persists. “Where's he been all this time? What was he doing in France?”

“I don't know.”

“Didn't Martha tell you?”

“Yes. I mean, no, not really. I did ask, but she said all that can wait till he's home.”

“Right.” Dad remembers his tea and takes a sip. He lets his gaze drift out the window as he considers everything I've said. I study the stain on his jumper, the hair that badly needs a cut, the sides sticking out and the fringe nearly covering his eyes, and wonder again what happened to the old Dad who used to look so smart and keep his hair tight and short.

Will he, too, just reappear one day?

Then Dad looks up and asks me a question that throws me into a tailspin. “So, how do you feel?”

“Feel?” I echo.

“I mean, this must be something of a shock, right? After all this time. So suddenly.”

I swallow, my smile fading a little. “I suppose.”

“So?”

“Um…well, I'm happy, Dad, of course. I'm delighted. Thrilled. Why wouldn't I be?”

He makes a small shrugging movement with his mouth. “I just thought it must be a lot to take in.” He holds my gaze until I look back down at the table, picking a crumb off the wood and flicking it onto the floor. “You seem a bit jittery, that's all.”

“I didn't sleep that well.”

Understatement. I barely slept at all. The moment I got back home, the numbness I'd felt with Martha gave way to a riot of feelings that kept me wide awake.

“So when's he coming home?” Dad asks.

“In a few days, I think. A social worker is bringing him down.”

“And when do you reckon you'll get to see him? You must be rather nervous.”

I have to look away. How does Dad do that? I mean, we spend weeks barely setting eyes on each other, yet he has this uncanny knack of knowing exactly what's going on in my head. As if he can prise it open and peer inside, decoding my thoughts like DNA.

“I don't know.” My heart races at the thought of seeing Danny again. It's a weird anxious feeling, uncomfortable almost.

I get up and grab a glass of water, gulp it down and bolt upstairs before Dad can interrogate me any further. I feel sticky and sweaty from lack of sleep. I need a bath, filled deep and hot. With lots and lots of bubble foam.

As I climb in, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair lank and tangled, my face pale with a guarded expression, like I've caught myself doing something wrong. I squeeze my eyes shut and lower my body into the water, letting the heat seep into me and loosen the knot of my feelings.

Danny.

I try to summon his face, but nothing comes. The last few years have almost erased the features of my best friend, and all that floats before me now is like an image from an old film, scratched and faded by time. The back of a boy with chlorine-bleached hair, his feet resting on the pedals of his bike as it carries him off around the hill and out of my view.

I sink deeper into the water, let the bubbles tickle my chin. I think about Dad's question. I am happy, yes. Happy in that delirious way when nothing quite seems real. Like you imagine people feel when they discover they've won the lottery, or they've been cured of some terrible illness.

But underneath, there's something else. Why does the prospect of seeing Danny make me feel so anxious? So apprehensive?

After all, isn't this what I'd hoped, wished, prayed would happen?

It's not until the bubbles have disappeared, leaving the water scummy with soap, that the knot finally unravels. The thing is, I'd thought Danny had gone for good. Not at first, of course. At first I'd expected him back at any moment. Imagined it over and over, could actually
see
him walking through the door, acting like he'd never been away.

But slowly, gradually, despite myself, I came to believe the one thing I was determined would never even cross my mind. That Danny was never, ever coming home.

Only I was wrong.

As the bath water cools around me, I remember that Bible story, the one where Lazarus dies and is brought back to life. In the version we read at primary school, everyone was so happy to see him. There were pictures of them giving thanks and laughing and crying with joy.

I always thought that was stupid. Because, let's face it, if that really happened, if someone really came back from the dead, all you'd be is scared.

Six days. Who knew it could feel like for ever?

Six days while the hospital makes sure Danny is okay and all the paperwork is sorted and social services are happy for him to come home. Given that I've waited three and a half years to see my best friend, what's six days more?

A lifetime.

I don't even have school to distract me. Just the long drag of the Easter holidays, and revision, and Dad either stuck in the lab at the university or holed up in his study. Lianna and Maisy text a few times asking me round, but I make an excuse. I know all they'll want to talk about is Danny, and that will only make it worse.

And the more I think about him, the harder it feels to have to wait till Sunday, and Martha's big welcome home meal.

When Sunday morning finally arrives, I'm so nervous I can't do anything. If I sit, I have to stand up again. If I stand, I have to walk. I try going over my French revision, but the words shape-shift on the page, refusing to make sense.

When I can't handle it any longer, I go and knock on Dad's study door. Hear something like a grunt.

“We should leave,” I say through the door. The sound of his chair scraping across the floor, then Dad appears, his face blank with thought.