Now You See Me (24 page)

“Really, Hannah?” Martha cuts in. “I'm not so sure. Frankly, you've been positively stand-offish towards Danny since he got back. You've barely said a word to him.”

“That's not true… It isn't like that…”

I close my mouth. I don't know what to say…how to explain. I just want to get to the bottom of things. To get all this stuff straight so we can move on. A tear wells over my eyelid and wets my cheek. I wipe it away on the sleeve of my dressing gown, choking back the sob that threatens to follow.

This is all going wrong. Horribly wrong.

“All I'm saying is that you could make more of an effort, Hannah. I know it's not easy. It's not easy for any of us. But you could at least make an effort.”

“I
have
,” I protest, something beginning to slip inside me. “I've tried. Lots of times. But Danny doesn't want to talk to me. He hates me!”

The moment I say it, I know it's true. The one thing I haven't wanted to admit to myself. Danny hates me. I see it in his eyes every time he looks at me. I feel it like a chill in the air whenever he walks into the room.

He hates me. He really does.

Martha glares at me, her expression a cross between disbelief and fury. And all at once the words spill out before I can stop them.

“It's not just me either. He hates all of us, even Alice. You can't pretend you haven't noticed.”

The slap leaves both of us reeling. In the moment of shock that follows, I wonder if I imagined it. But then the sting rises like heat in my cheek and I know it really happened.

Martha just hit me.

For a moment I see something close to panic in her eyes and realize she is as astonished as I am. I stumble from the kitchen and run straight out the front door, too stunned even to cry.

I wake at seven the next morning, feeling shaky and weak. For a moment I'm lost, confused.

Where am I?

I look down and see I'm still dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt I was wearing when I ran out of Dial House. Memory rushes in to fill the vacuum in my head.

I'm back home.

I peer outside the window. The new day is dark and heavy, more like winter than summer. Clouds fill the sky, dark and ominous, obscuring all trace of the sun.

In the bathroom mirror I see my nose is red from my cold, the skin already peeling at the edges, and my eyelids swollen and puffy from crying. I swallow, wincing – my throat still rough and raw. The thought of school, of anything, makes me want to crawl back into bed and pull up the duvet to block out the light and everything that goes with it.

But I've got my last exam this morning.

So I dig out the uniform I'd thrown into the back of the wardrobe before Dad went to Chicago; the only one I've not left back at Dial House. It needs washing, but it'll have to do. I find a couple of aspirin in the bathroom cabinet and head into the kitchen. The bread rolls I unearthed in the freezer last night have gone stale, but there's nothing else, so I toast them and drench them in butter and force myself to eat, ignoring the pain when I swallow.

The walk to school seems twice as long as usual. I'm dreading seeing Danny, wondering what Martha will have told him. Not that he'll be interested – just pleased I'm gone.

But there's no sign of him in the English exam. My relief eventually gives way to curiosity. I catch up with Sophie Fox as we file out the hall, ask if she's seen him.

She seems astonished. “Haven't you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Danny. He's been excluded.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. “Excluded? When?”

“Yesterday. Right before lunch. The head called his mother and she came to collect him.” She looks at me quizzically. “But you know all this, don't you? Aren't you staying there at the moment?”

I don't reply. Just muster up a poor excuse for a smile. “Does anyone know why?”

“Well, it's only a rumour, but Aaron Boyd says he's been caught bullying some of the Year Sevens. One of them told his parents. Said Danny had been taking money off them, that sort of thing.”

I swallow, thinking of the twenty-pound notes in the envelope. “Is he sure? Aaron, I mean.”

Sophie nods. “It's unbelievable, isn't it? I don't think Givens believed it either – not until he pulled in some of the others and they backed up the story.”

She leans in confidentially. “Apparently his mum went crazy. Accused the boys of making it up. Ryan Billinger said he could hear her shouting at old Givens right from the other end of the corridor.”

My stomach contracts. Martha. The head must have contacted her after I fled yesterday morning. That explains why I haven't been bombarded with frantic calls from Dad – Martha hasn't got round to telling him I've gone. She clearly has other things on her mind.

I almost laugh. I'd spent the whole day at home dreading the ring of the phone. It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to Dad; more that I knew he'd insist on me telling him what had happened. He'd get the first plane home and it would all come out, all the things that could no longer be left unsaid. About him and Paul and Martha. Whatever it was Dad didn't want to tell me till after my exams.

And right now that's more than I can deal with.

I stand in front of Dial House, hesitating. Should I ring the front doorbell or let myself in as usual? I opt for the latter. It'd be just too freaky turning up on the doorstep, like a visitor or the postman or something.

I walk round the back, stomach in my shoes, part of me hoping I'll find Martha out in spite of her car parked in the drive. But the other part, the better part, wants to make sure she's okay – to make sure
we're
okay. I want a chance to explain, to sort this out.

And I want to give her a chance to apologize.

But as I raise my hand to knock on the back door, I catch sight of someone lying in the hammock beneath the apple trees. Blond hair, bare legs.

Danny.

My hand drops back to my side. I watch him for a moment or two, wary of movement, but he doesn't seem to be aware I'm here. After a few minutes, I realize Danny's asleep.

Suddenly I have the creepiest feeling that something is wrong.

At first I can't put my finger on it. I glance through the kitchen window, looking for Martha, but there's no one there. I move a little closer to the hammock, treading carefully to avoid waking him. He doesn't stir, even when my foot crunches a twig.

It's turned into a warm afternoon, the whole garden shimmering in the early summer heat. Danny is wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. As I edge closer, I see the sleeve of his left arm has worked its way up, revealing the smooth skin of his shoulder, pale and unmarked, except for a light trace of freckles.

Shock stops the breath in my lungs. I freeze, staring, hardly able to believe what I'm looking at.

Then turn and run from the garden.

Back home, I dump my bag on the kitchen table and head straight upstairs. I pull the loft ladder out of the airing cupboard, grab the torch from under Dad's bed and climb up into the roof space, swinging the beam around until I spot it – the box with all the old photo albums.

It's heavier than I expect, and nearly falls on top of me as I reverse back down the ladder. I wipe the dust off the first album and lay it on my bedroom floor, turning and scanning each page.

Where is it? Where? I'm sure it's here somewhere, though I haven't seen any of these photos since Mum died.

I flip right through, checking each picture carefully. Nothing.

I pull out the next album, trying not to get distracted. But I'm not fast enough. Images of Mum scorch my retina like flares. Standing in a lilac dress, one hand shielding the sun from her eyes; posing on the seafront, linked arm in arm with Martha and Paul, her skirt billowing in the breeze; pushing a pram with a skinny toddler in shorts…me.

So many photos, most taken by Dad. As if he was forever sneaking up on her, trying to capture her with the snap of a lens. You can tell how much he loved her just looking at these pictures.

A wave of grief hits me so hard it's like being winded. Suddenly I miss her so much I want to lie down on the floor and cry. Scream and howl until I'm washed out and all this pain has flowed out of me.

More than anything in the whole world, I wish that Mum were here to help me now.

I wipe my cheeks. Gritting my teeth, I force myself on, reaching into the box and pulling out the last album. My desperation builds. Where the hell is it? I'm sure I haven't just imagined it.

It has to be here somewhere.

And then I find what I'm looking for. Right towards the back, near the last page. The four of us – Martha, Mum, Danny and I – sitting on the beach, eating ice cream. Martha and Mum are facing forwards, laughing at the person taking the photograph – Dad, probably, maybe Paul. In the lower right-hand corner, Danny and I sit at their feet. Me in a red swimming costume, looking cold; Danny in a pair of blue trunks. We're gazing out over the sea, distracted by something we've seen, and the camera has caught us sideways on.

I lift the album up to look closer, trying to keep my hands from trembling. There it is. No mistaking it. Exactly as I remember.

A birthmark.

Small and distinct. Dark, almost black, like a tiny tattoo on Danny's left shoulder. The birthmark Danny was born with – the type that never fades.

The birthmark that's no longer there.

I check my watch again. Half past six. I've been here just over half an hour, but it feels like for ever. My legs ache from crouching behind the bushes, and my throat still burns whenever I swallow. Even my brain hurts from an afternoon of thinking everything through.

Could there be some other explanation for Danny's missing birthmark? Would the photo in my pocket be enough to convince Martha?

My cheek feels hot as I remember the slap. No. This time I have to be sure.

I glance through the thick shrubs that border the driveway. I have a clear view of the front of Dial House, including the upstairs windows. We often used to hide here when we were kids, Danny and I, so I know I'm safe – no one can see me from inside.

But I can see him. Danny's blond head passing in front of his bedroom window. Just ten minutes ago.

Right on cue, Martha emerges from the house and gets into her car. I retreat deeper into the bushes as she drives past, Alice strapped in the back, clutching her giant blow-up duck. Martha always takes her swimming on Wednesday evenings, when the pool is quiet and they have the shallow area pretty much to themselves – with any luck, they'll be gone for a couple of hours. And with Paul at a conference in London, I know he won't be home till late.

Even so, I give it another ten minutes, just in case Martha comes back for something. I shift my weight from side to side, trying to relieve the cramp in my legs. The ground smells damp and peaty, and my skin feels clammy and moist. I look up at the sky. The weather is changing again, grey clouds massing overhead. I pray the rain will hold off till I can get inside.

I recheck the time. Now should be okay. Pulling out my phone, I punch in a text. Short and sweet.

We need to talk. Urgent. Meet you at the bandstand at 7? Hannah.

Nothing to do now but wait for Danny to get the message, and hope that curiosity will drive him out to meet me.

Somewhere down in the town I hear the screech of a siren, fading into the distance. Before I have a chance to wonder whose day just got worse than mine, a sudden movement near my feet makes me yelp in fear and surprise. I look down. A grass snake slithers away, its long dark body vanishing into the shrubs further up the drive. It takes a couple of minutes for my heart rate to subside enough to pull my focus back on the house, and it's then I see Danny appear, the hood of his jacket pulled over his head and baseball cap, his mobile phone clasped in his hand.

He walks towards me, purposeful but not hurrying. I hold my breath as he approaches, half expecting him to sense I'm here, to swing his head and fix his gaze on the bushes where I'm hiding.

A rush of relief as he passes without a glance in my direction.

My eyes follow him down the road until he drops out of sight. How much time have I got? Ten minutes for him to get to the bandstand, maybe ten more hanging around waiting before he realizes I'm a no-show. Ten minutes to get back. About half an hour in total.

Long enough. Just.

I run round to the back of the house, legs stiff and numb, trying not to think about how tired I am. Bend down and slip my hand under the bird bath. Nothing. I feel around again, then heave it onto one side and peer underneath, eyes alert for the silver glint of the spare key.

It isn't there.

I look around me, mind blank with alarm. What on earth do I do now? I feel a surge of frustration. Why didn't I think to take my own key when I bolted from the house yesterday? I try the back door handle, but it doesn't budge. My heart rate ups a notch. I have to get inside – and fast.

I check the bottom windows round the back of the house, but they're all shut. Skirt round to the front, but it's the same, everything closed tight. My heart thumps harder; I'm beginning to panic, sure I'm never going to get a second chance.

It's only when I circle the house another time, neck craning upwards, that I see it – Martha and Paul's bathroom window, slightly ajar.

I size up the wooden fence dissecting the back garden from the front – if I can climb onto it, I might be able to reach the window sill. I grab the empty plastic bucket Martha uses for weeding and turn it upside down. It seems sturdy enough, but buckles the moment I put my full weight on it; I just manage to lever my leg over the fence before it cracks and tips over.

Pulling myself into a sitting position, I slowly get to my feet, one hand on the wall to steady myself. Stupidly, I look down. I'm only about six feet up, but it's enough to make me dizzy and I nearly lose my balance. I grab the wall in panic. Narrowly avoid falling.