Now You See Me (23 page)

And anyway, what could I tell him? That Danny's changed? That Danny's been keeping secrets? That Danny doesn't seem to want to know us any more? But I know exactly what Dad would say. I don't even need to hear it.

Give it time, Hannah. Just give it time.

A noise from across the landing makes my stomach flip. And I realize. This dragging feeling isn't all about missing Dad…

I'm afraid.

But what of? The answer crystallizes in my mind.

I'm afraid of being left alone with Danny.

I grab the duvet and hug it around me. Oh god. When exactly did I become frightened of my best friend?

My ex-best friend, a voice in my head reminds me, and my queasiness grows. Because it's true. Danny isn't my friend, not in any sense of the word. Not any more. Danny is someone I no longer know, no longer understand.

Worse even. Danny is someone I no longer even like.

Seconds later, I hear his footsteps on the landing. Then silence. For a moment I have the unnerving feeling he's standing right outside my door. A pressure in my chest as my heart picks up speed, the sound of my blood booming in my ears.

Has Danny found out about my phone call? With a clench of panic I remember the call log – if he checks he'll see that someone dialled Mat last night. Or she might mention it to him, ask him what was going on.

Jesus. I could kick myself for being such an idiot. Why didn't I ring from my own mobile?

Calm down, I tell myself as the footsteps retreat downstairs. If he asks, I'll just act ignorant. Pretend I hit the call button by accident or something like that. He's no reason to suspect otherwise.

I force myself to breathe evenly again, then creep to the window as I hear the back door close. See Danny sauntering down the drive, hands thrust in his pockets, cap pulled low so his face is in shadow.

Without warning he spins on his heels and tips his head back, looking right up at my bedroom window. I duck, heart fluttering. Did he spot me?

I don't think so. I was too quick. But it's several minutes before I dare lift my head again and peer back over the window sill.

The drive is empty. Danny has disappeared.

Even so I leave it ten minutes to make sure. Then check all the rooms downstairs to reassure myself he's really gone. When I'm certain I'm alone, I head back up and turn the handle to Danny's bedroom door. It opens easily, with the usual creak of the hinge. I half expected it to be locked somehow, though there's no way to do it. None of the internal doors have locks.

I peer round, and just when I think nothing can surprise me any more, I find myself ambushed. It's immaculate. The bed is made, the duvet smoothed and pulled up neatly over the pillow. The surfaces are clean and almost completely clear, only a clock on the bedside table, his laptop and a neat stack of textbooks on his desk.

No revision notes, I notice, nor any other sign of Danny having actually done some work. Not that I'm surprised; it's obvious he couldn't care less about his exams.

I survey the room, trying to take it all in. The walls are freshly painted in the steely blue-grey, and there's a new pair of cream curtains hanging at the window. I knew Martha was giving it a revamp, but the tidiness is freaky. The whole place looks empty and hollow somehow – more like a waiting room than a bedroom.

I open the wardrobe door. Inside are orderly rows of shirts and pressed dark jeans, arranged on wooden hangers. A few jumpers, precisely folded. A couple of pairs of trainers and black school shoes lined up at the bottom, several looking like they've never been worn. In the chest of drawers, underwear in neat piles. Socks tucked together in pairs. Some sports gear that looks brand-new.

And underneath, the thing that makes me gasp – Danny's swimming trophies, stowed away in a clear plastic bag at the back of the bottom drawer.

I pick out the little cup he won in the County Under-12s, running my finger over the engraving on the front.

Daniel Geller – Gold Medal Winner, 200m Freestyle

I remember him waiting for the start signal, poised to dive, looking more nervous than I'd ever seen him. The blur of bodies slashing through the water, the cheers and shouts of encouragement from the crowd. A couple of minutes later, Danny pulling himself onto the poolside, his skin wet and gleaming, his chest heaving as the tannoy announces his win. I can still see that look on his face, the pride and relief as he turned and waved at Martha and Alice and me.

I miss him. That Danny. The Danny that actually cared. Something like grief sweeps over me, and with it a desperate need to know where he went. And whether there's any hope of ever getting him back.

Placing the trophy with the others, I shut the drawer and go over to the laptop. Lift the screen and press the start button, wait a tense minute or two for it to boot.

A password box appears. Damn.

I glance out the window, checking for any sign of Danny. The drive is empty, but I know I can't afford to hang about. I type in
Rudman
. Nope. Think for a moment, then replace it with Alice's name and birth year.

No luck.

I rack my brains. What would Danny use as a password? I realize I have no idea. I haven't got a clue how his mind works any more. And I haven't the time to carry on guessing, so I power down the computer and scan the room, making sure I've covered my tracks. I'm just about to let myself out when I see a glint of something shiny, behind the radiator.

I walk over and peer down. Wedged between the radiator and the wall, the edge exposed, is a thin metal tin. I bend down and prise it out with my fingers. It's an ordinary tin, decorated with fir trees and a snow scene – the kind you get at Christmas full of biscuits or chocolates. But I've never seen this one before.

I lift up the lid. Inside is a small bottle of clear liquid – contact lens solution, half used. At least that's what the label says. I pull off the cap and give it a sniff. It doesn't smell of alcohol at least. I stare at it, puzzled. Does Danny wear contacts? I don't remember Martha saying anything about his eyesight. It's always been good, though I suppose that's another thing that can change.

Next to it is a little black notebook. I pick it up and flick through. Page after page of tiny writing, almost impossible to read. It seems to be in some kind of code, with no space between the letters.
dditsam.estdisp.ilya6a…metpsemar. ilya25a
. Occasionally a string of figures that could be phone numbers.

I give up. I can't make sense of any of it. I check the rest of the box. Just an envelope and a couple of photographs. The first shows a young girl with brown-blonde hair.
Souviens-toi de moi toujours, Mathilde
, on the back in that loopy handwriting French people have.
Remember me always.

Mathilde, I take in with a start.
Mat.

In the other picture, a couple with a little boy stand in front of a house. You can tell it was taken a while ago – their clothes, the car parked on the street behind them, all look dated. The 1980s, I reckon. Maybe a bit later. The photo is creased, a white line running like a scar across the face of the little boy, though you can still see he's staring at the camera with a sullen expression.

I lift out the envelope. It's not sealed so I peek inside. My heart almost stops. It's full of twenty-pound notes. I flick through them quickly. Over five hundred pounds, I reckon. I feel my chest tighten. Where on earth did Danny get so much money?

A noise downstairs. A sound like something dropping. I pause, heart beating wildly. It was probably Rudman, but I'm not taking any chances. I stuff everything back, then hesitate. Remove the notebook and shove it into the pocket of my jeans before replacing the tin behind the radiator and tiptoeing out the door. I close it behind me, as quietly as I can.

I'll put it back soon, I tell myself. Before he notices it's missing.

My hands are sweating and my heart beating so hard now I feel dizzy, though I can't say why I'm so scared. What, after all, would Danny actually do if he caught me snooping in his room?

All I know, as I slip back into mine, is that I really don't want to find out.

“Don't you think you should be in bed, Hanny?” Martha asks as I flop onto a kitchen chair.

“I'm okay,” I say. “It's just a cold.”

She lifts a hand to my forehead, testing my temperature. “Maybe you should take the day off. Have you got much on today?”

I shake my head. “Just an English revision class. It's my last exam tomorrow.”

“I'll call the school in a minute. Tell them you're staying home.”

I smile, grateful. I could do with some time off. I feel exhausted, limp as a damp towel. I've spent the last few days mulling over what I discovered on Danny's phone, and what it means. Coming to the only conclusion I can think of – I have to talk to Martha about what is going on with Danny. I've been putting it off for too long.

I watch her lift the cutlery tray out the dishwasher and carry it to the drawer, sorting the knives and forks and spoons into the right compartments. There's something soothing about it. So ordinary. It makes me feel I must be imagining things, that there can't really be anything so terribly wrong.

But there is. And I have to tell her about it. Now, while everyone is out.

“Um…” I begin.

Martha looks at me, a stack of plates in her arms. “What is it, sweetheart?”

I clear my throat. Force myself to speak. “Actually…I wanted to talk about Danny.”

A shadow crosses Martha's face, extinguishing her smile. She stiffens slightly and sets down the plates.

“What about him?”

“I think maybe he's in some kind of trouble.”

“Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

“I don't know,” I shrug. “I just think he is, that's all.”

“Well, Hannah, you're going to have to be a bit more specific.”

I pause for a moment. How can I tell her that Danny has been lying to us all? I think of his notebook, which I managed to sneak back the day before yesterday. I couldn't make any sense of that code, but it's clear Danny's hiding something. I remember too the fight at school, the note he threw at Adam. And the money, still in the tin when I returned the notebook.

I take a deep breath. “I think maybe he got mixed up in something while he was missing. Maybe still is.”

Martha stares at me.

“And I think he
can
remember what happened to him.”

There's a long silence. Finally Martha pulls out a chair and sits down. “Okay, Hannah. And what makes you say all this?”

I can't tell her about snooping around on his phone. Or what I saw in that tin. I meant to, but in an instant I see how it'll look, that I did that, poking through his things. How furious Martha will be.

Oh god. I press my nails into the palms of my hands. I've dug myself into a hole.

“When I found his phone, it rang. I answered it.” Not quite the truth, but close. Close enough to make Martha fix me with a look that drills right through me.

“Who was it?”

“I don't know, but she was French. At least she spoke French.”

“It must have been a wrong number.”

“I don't think so. Her name came up on his phone.”

Martha doesn't say anything for a moment. “Couldn't it be someone from school?”

I shake my head. “I don't know anyone who's fluent in French.”

She shrugs. “Well, anyway, it's Danny's business. What does it matter if he's got friends?”

“It doesn't,” I say. “But the point is, she must be someone he met while he was missing. You know, while he was in France. And if they're still in touch, surely that means he can remember at least some of what happened?”

This time Martha has no answer at all.

“And if you think about it, if he
can
remember her, how come he hasn't told us who she is and how he knows her?”

More silence.

“Don't you see? It means he's lying about losing his memory.”

Martha stands up so abruptly the chair nearly tips backwards. “That's enough, Hannah. I've heard quite enough!”

I stare at her. She returns my look with a hard expression.

“But don't you see?” I exclaim, my voice fast now and urgent. “Danny must be in some kind of trouble. Why else would he hide it from us? He must have done something bad and he can't tell us…”

“Stop it, Hannah!”

I shut up. I've never heard Martha so angry. I feel tears prick my eyes, a lump form in my throat.

She leans across the table, bringing her face closer to mine. Her voice trembles as she speaks.

“You know I'm happy to have you here, Hannah. As far as I'm concerned this house is your home, for as long as you need it—”

“I know,” I stammer. “But—”

Martha holds up her hand. It's shaking slightly. “I've always made an effort to treat you…like our own daughter…” She pauses, inhales, like she's trying to calm herself down.

Made an effort?
What the hell does she mean by that?

“I've done my best for you despite—” Martha stops herself. Closes her eyes for a few seconds. “But I want you to remember that Danny is my son, and I really don't appreciate you calling him a liar…”

“I'm not…” I gasp. “I didn't mean… I was only trying to help.”

I should tell her, I think, tell her about the stuff in his room. Take her upstairs and show her what Danny is hiding. Make her see that he has some kind of secret he doesn't want anyone to discover.

“Help?” The ice in Martha's tone makes me shudder. “How is this helping, Hannah? Danny is having a difficult time adjusting, and maybe his coming back has put your nose out of joint—”

“That's crazy!” I jump to my feet. “How could you say that? You know I wanted Danny back more than anything. I did everything I possibly could—”