The Girl Who Wasn't There (14 page)

As Lindsey's gaze drifts off, remembering herself in what's now Clem's room (mine must've been Gary's?), I notice that Kat has frozen; has something Lindsey's said set free a flicker of some long-lost image for her?

Before Lindsey spots her sudden stillness, I reach over and grab the tin from my friend. Her eyes – framed in black – are wide and staring, as if focused in concentration as her mind jumps around, trying to catch hold of the fluttering butterfly of the memory.

“Give's a go,” I say brightly, while Lindsey happily rambles on.

“You know, I was the first in my class to get a Walkman – one of those portable machines that played tapes, I mean. You girls won't remember
those
.”

I politely shake my head, though I think Dad
has
mentioned them, when I've not really been listening too closely (sorry, Dad).

“Then when I was at uni, I got myself a CD Walkman too,” Lindsey carries on, “and bought my favourite music all over again! So yes, the tapes, the CDs, the Walkmans, the magazines … all gone.”

Clang!

The tin lid finally gives, goes clattering across the pretty rose-speckled tablecloth and hits the sugar bowl.

“Whoops!” laughs Lindsey, catching it. “Well, let's see what's in here, shall we?”

She begins to take out the contents of the tin, studying it bit by bit, laying it out over the roses.

“I
loved
these hair combs… I used to wear my hair up a lot. Oh, look at this – postcards from Jenny and Susan and Helen! I used to be so jealous that they went abroad for their holidays. My family always went to rainy caravan parks in Wales, or up to the Lake District if we were lucky…”

Lindsey chats away, full of wonder at every scrap, every badge, every cinema ticket stub, every piece of paraphernalia.

I look and smile and ask interested questions now and then, sneaking the odd peek at Kat, who still seems vague and unsettled, and nibbling her nails.

“And this! This I must have torn from a copy of
Smash Hits
,” says Lindsey, holding up the Top Ten Singles list I remember coming across in the summerhouse with Kat. “It's from 1987. I was crazy about almost every track on there. Especially ‘La Bamba'! It was from the soundtrack of a film we were all mad about.”

“La Bamba”?! The song Kat sang the evening we snuck around school… The track on the CD that Miss Carrera played yesterday…

She cut it off the junk sculpture, I remind myself.

Was that CD part of Lindsey's recently junked stash? The stuff old Mr Butterfield cleared out before she or her brother could stop him…?

Kat is biting her lip, shooting me a small, secret smile.

She knows what I'm thinking and she's letting me know I'm right: we've just stumbled on the third piece of the puzzle.

“You know, I was
so
totally in love with the lead actor, Lou Diamond Phillips,” Lindsey says with a wistful laugh, unaware of the looks me and Kat have just exchanged. “Well, we
all
were! And actually, I remember this one time a girl in my class came around to mine and we even made up our own dance to the song. How funny is that?”

Very
funny, think. I heard the traces of your forgotten laughter the other night.

“Katherine;
that
was her name…”

Katherine slides slightly down in her seat next to Lindsey, through shock at hearing her name or an attempt to hide herself away, I don't know.

She's blinking at me behind the curtains of her straightened hair.

But at the mention of Kat's name, Lindsey's smile fades, and she falls silent.

“Was Katherine your best friend?” I say.

It's not the question I really want to ask, but if I rush in with, “So what happened to Katherine?” then Lindsey will know we know more than we're letting on.

“No … I mean, I liked her, but Helen Smith was my best friend.
Katherine
was just part of the extended gang. We all played netball in the same team.”

Lindsey must have pictures flashing in her head right now, which means the truth about Kat is
in
there, though I don't suppose she's suddenly going to blurt it out to two impressionable thirteen-year-olds she's never met before.

What she knows is upsetting, you can tell from her face. But it's
exactly
the sort of information that we want to know.

How do I ease her into telling us?

Then I have an idea.

“My – I mean,
our
– art teacher told us that she heard that something very sad happened to your dad once,” I say, then leave the statement hanging in the air.

“Ah, yes…” Lindsey replies thoughtfully, at the same time lifting out the last item left in the tin box – the class photo.

I hold my breath.

I wonder if Kat's doing the same thing, and then remember that breathing isn't something she needs to do.

“There was some kind of accident after school one day,” Lindsey says, studying her old schoolmate's circled face in the picture. “Katherine died. My dad was the first one to find her. He tried to help her, to save her, but she was gone. It absolutely wrecked him. He was off work with depression for quite a while afterwards.”

So
that's
what happened to Mr Butterfield. It's good to clear up the mystery surrounding him – but the expression on Lindsey's face is so sad that I almost feel guilty for forcing these memories on her…

“What happened? What sort of accident was it?” I press on, feeling like we're so close to finding the fourth and fattest clue to the puzzle of Kat's life – and death – so far.

“I don't know; none of us did,” Lindsey glances up at me, gives me a rueful smile. “It was different back then; no one liked to talk about bad stuff. Nowadays, there'd be a memorial assembly, offers of counsellors for Dad and for her classmates.”

“I guess so,” I say in a small voice, disappointed that the story seems to be grinding to a halt here. “But didn't your dad tell you and your family
anything
?”

“No – the subject was closed to my brother and me, even though she was in my class. When I asked my mum about it, she just said Dad had been so affected by Katherine's death that he never wanted to talk about it.”

“Might he talk about it now? Now that he's not living at the school?”

“He's got some heart problems now; I wouldn't want to upset him in any way,” says Lindsey, looking a little sad and concerned, which stops me in my tracks, of course.

But I'm distracted by unexpected movement.

It's Kat, holding up her right hand – the one further away from Lindsey's line of vision – and giving me one of those little-kid waves she does.

Only this time I'm not laughing, 'cause Kat is doing it to flag up the fact that she's in trouble.

Her hand may be waving, but her whole body is beginning, ever so slightly, to
waver
. Faintness is coming in ripples, as her energy fades.

I
have
to get her out of here.

“Sorry – just realized the time!” I announce, looking down at my wrist and hoping Lindsey doesn't notice that I'm not wearing a watch. “My dad's expecting me; we have to go.”

“Oh … oh, sure. Well, thank you for bringing me this!” says Lindsey as we screech our chairs back and I let Kat go in front of me, so I can semi-hide what's happening to her.

(It's as if sheets of tracing paper are unrolling between us, making Kat's colours and outline grainier with every unfurl.)

“That's OK!” I say cheerily, over my shoulder.

The shop bell tring-a-lings; at least Kat has had the strength to a) keep herself visible to Lindsey for as long as possible, and b) open the door. I take it from her, still directing my nothing's-wrong-nothing's-weird smile at Lindsey.

“Come again, girls, won't you?” she calls out to us. “Coffee and cake on the house next time. Your reward for finding the tin!”

“We'll definitely do that!” I lie, knowing Kat won't risk this exhausting trip away from school again.

I don't know
how
I'm going to get her home without her being seen in the most frightening of ways to passers-by. If one second she's there, next she's not, someone will end up snapping her on their mobile phone and the photos will be on tonight's
news
.

With a shaking hand I pull the door closed and then turn to see what sort of shape Kat is in.

“Maisie?”

The man's voice is warm and friendly,
same
as he is.

“Dad?” I say, panicking.

What's he doing here,
now
? When me and Kat are in this mess?

“Just been to the deli – forgot to ask you to get that nice Serrano ham yesterday. But why are you here? Are you on your own?” Dad glances around hopefully for signs of new friends.

He'll be disappointed.

But I am relieved.

There is no one else on the pavement except me and Dad.

Kat's gone, as if she never, ever existed…

 

“How do I look?” I ask Mum.

The thirteen-year-old version of her grins at me encouragingly from the youth-club-disco photo propped up on my chest of drawers.

She seems to approve. Do I?

I take a step sideways and check myself out in the full-length mirror on the inside of my wardrobe door.

A long grey T-shirt with a sketchy, distressed print of New York on it, black leggings, black pumps. It looks casual but not scruffy. Like I care, but I'm not trying
too
hard. What will Donna be wearing, I wonder?

But hey, now I think about it, maybe I just need one extra touch…

I go back to the dressing table.

“What do you think?” I ask Mum again. “This –”

I hold up a cute daisy hair clip to the side of my head.

“– or this?”

It's a jewelled one this time, but neither of them feels quite right for meeting Donna. The cute daisy clip suddenly seems a bit little-girly, the glitzy jewelled one too fancy.

“
I
know,” I mumble, rifling in one of my drawers for a thin chiffon scarf I think is balled up in there. It's black with cream polka dots; Clem got it for my last birthday.

Now, if I just tie it around my head instead of wrapping it around my neck, it could look pretty good.

Back to the mirror…

Oh.

It's like I've channelled Kat's style. The floppy soft bow falls to the left side of my long, straight hair. But the look doesn't work without big, backcombed eighties waves to go with it, and I quickly yank the flimsy material off my head.

And then a prickle of panic flutters in my chest: where's Kat's navy scarf? We took it off when I straightened her hair yesterday after school. Is it still draped over Clem's dressing table? Can't be; I'd have heard my sister's Three Bears growl of “Who's been in my room?” by now.

Oh,
I
remember; just before we left, Kat scrunched it up and slipped it into her blazer pocket.

But really, the scarf isn't the important thing. Where is
she
?

I couldn't sleep last night for worrying about her. I mean, what if Kat wears her energy out completely so that one of these days she just vanishes altogether? Maybe yesterday was too much for her. Coming here, having the makeover, going into town to visit Lindsey Butterfield in the café.

By transforming her, encouraging her, have I made a huge mistake? I mean, I basically forced Kat to come
way
out of her comfort zone, didn't I?

And she wasn't at school today.

She might
never
be back at school again, and if that's the case then it'll be all my fault … and what would I do without her?

“Girls!” Dad calls up, shaking me out of my muddle of troubled thoughts. “Donna's here!”

“Coming!” I call back, hurrying out on to the upstairs landing at exactly the same time as Clem bursts out of her room.

Her hair is immaculately straightened, her skinny jeans tight, her baggy coral jumper slipping casually off one shoulder.

But her expression is far from casual.

In fact, it's an expression I've never seen on Clem's face for as long as I can remember.

“Are you
nervous
?” I whisper to her, which is a stupid thing to ask, 'cause it immediately gets Clem on the defensive.

“No! If anyone's going to be nervous around here, it's going to be
her
!”

Oops – Clem said that a little too loudly. Probably because she's nervous, and not about to admit it.

The problem is that my sister's bedroom door is at the top of the stairs – and standing at the bottom is our shell-shocked dad and a shyly smiling woman with red wavy hair swept into a messy, loose bun.

“Clem!” Dad starts, shocked and embarrassed.

“No – it's fine, Jack,” says the red-haired woman. “Your daughter's absolutely right. I have to admit I'm a little bit shaky, meeting everyone, being here…”

I'm frozen to the spot, not sure what to do. I've accidentally caused the most awkward introduction ever. Dad's wincing, Donna probably wishes she could turn and leave and Clem is no doubt seething, and would storm back in her room and slam the door in my face if we didn't have a VIP in the house right now.

“Sorry,” says Clem, suddenly sparking to life and sallying down the stairs, with me stumbling and bumbling down beside her like four-day-old foal. “I just meant that I don't envy you, knowing you've got to come here tonight and wondering how you're going to get on with us!”

Clem's tone is now confident and clever, and she's holding out her hand to shake Donna's in a very mature manner.

But it's only when I take a sideways peek at my sister that I realize she's forgotten to smile, which is making Donna's
own
fledgling smile falter.

A fleeting glance at Dad tells me he's struggling, not sure if Clem is being friendly or feisty, not sure how to make everything OK for the four of us.

And then, as I hover uselessly on the last step of the stairs, it comes to me. (
Smile – it could brighten your day, and someone else's too.
Thank you, Mum, for that one particular notebook tip – it drifted into my head at just the right time.)

So I smile.

Donna looks at me over Clem's shoulder and her face relaxes into a smile to match mine.

It's infectious.

Dad glances from one of us to the other and a grin breaks out.

“This is Maisie,” he says proudly, “and you've already met Clem.”

“Yes, I certainly have,” Donna laughs, and I like the dimples that appear in the middle of her cheeks.

The bubble of tension is most definitely burst.

“Right, then!” says Dad, sounding happy and relieved. “Come on through to the kitchen, and I'll make us all a cup of tea.”

“Are you kidding, Dad? I think Donna could do with a glass of that wine you've bought specially,” says Clem, stalking over to the fridge and taking over as the drinks waiter while Dad and Donna exchange looks and giggle.

“Well, I don't mind if I do,” says Donna, still a little uncertain as to where to stand and what to do with her purple leather handbag. She tugs her matching purple cardie over her grey, silky shift dress.

“Here,” I say, hastily pulling out a chair.

“Thank you,” she replies, taking up my offer and sitting at the table, which now has a bunch of bright flowers on it, bright enough to match the patterns on the Spanish vase I took down from the kitchen shelf earlier.

“Oi, Maisie – glasses!” Clem orders me as she wrestles the cork off the wine bottle, stepping away from Dad's helping hands.

I normally hate my sister bossing me about, but right now I'm happy to be given a task to do.

“Well, looks like I'm practically redundant in my own home!” I hear Dad joke as I go to open the nearest cupboard, then shut it quickly again before Donna can see the teetering piles of mess stashed in there, unpacked hurriedly from the last of the cardboard boxes that had been stacked on the kitchen floor till about fifteen minutes ago.

With a quick thwack of several more doors, I manage to locate two mismatched stemmed glasses, and figure I'll try to pass the one with the tiny chip in the rim to Dad as soon as Clem pours the wine.

As I set them down on the table, I see Dad is busying himself slooshing orange juice out for me and Clem.

Liquid glugs from bottle and carton, tinkling glasses are passed, and Dad is suddenly sheepish again.

“Cheers!” Clem calls out loudly into the vacuum, and we all echo her cry and gently clang our drinks together.

And then our voices and clanging are immediately drowned out by the siren shriek of the fire alarm.

“The sauce!” Dad calls out, rushing over to the smoking saucepan and dragging it off the hob.

Me and Clem spring into action, Clem yanking open the back door for air, me doing the same with the creaking, stiff window. Even Donna is helping, grabbing a tea towel and standing on tiptoes in her wedge shoes, all the better to flap smoke away from the squealing alarm in the kitchen ceiling.

A few frantic seconds later and everything is under control – apart from Dad, who is prawn pink and running the burning pan under the tap with one hand while rubbing his other hand across his head in consternation.

“How about we show Donna around while you make more sauce, Dad?” Clem suggests, taking both a deep breath and control of the situation at the same time. “Do you want to take her through to the living room first, Maisie?”

“Sure,” I pant, while ushering Dad's slightly breathless girlfriend to follow me.

As we go out into the hall, I glance back and see Clem whipping a jar of Tesco pasta sauce from a cupboard and shoving it into Dad's hand. She really has gone up in my estimation in the last three minutes…

“It's very cosy,” Donna says, gazing around the living room, running a hand over the top of the squashy sofa. Her dimples are showing again, and now I have the chance to study her properly, I realize that she's quite a bit younger than Dad.

I'm not great at estimating ages, but I reckon she's maybe about thirty, making Dad twelve years older.

Is that weird to think about? Or any more weird than thinking she might end up being our stepmum one day, if things work out?

“Do you want to see our rooms?” says Clem, appearing in the doorway.

“Well, only if you don't mind,” Donna answers, not wanting to impose, I guess.

“Only if you don't mind that they're not all that tidy,” Clem comes right back, leading the way up the stairs.

“Speak for yourself!” I say, feeling relaxed enough now to try a little banter with my sister.

“The way
I
see it, what's the point in tidying when it's so disgusting to begin with?” Clem quips, reaching the landing and pushing her bedroom door open. “I promise you, Donna, what's on the floor in here will give you a
migraine
…”

“Oh dear, I see what you mean!” Donna laughs, glancing down at the swirls and whirls of Clem's carpet. “It
is
a bit … prehistoric!”

Clem suddenly does something
else
I can't remember ever happening: she bursts out laughing. Her face has lit up at Donna's funny and sympathetic remark, and immediately I know this is going to be OK. Clem thinks she's going to like this woman. And since Dad already likes her (loves her?) I can't help but feel a thrill.

Any hiccups going on between Dad and Donna? They're over.

We're all going to be all right.

This might be easier than any of us could've hoped for.

“So where do you live, Donna? Dad tells us nothing!” Clem chats away, closing the door to her room as I open the door to mine.

“I'm
way
on the other side of town,” says Donna. “Near the country park. We moved there when I was little and I didn't stray too far after that, I guess.”

“So you don't know this area, then?” I add chattily, coming out with the most bland comment, I know, but it's just 'cause I'm trying to sound as friendly and easy-going as my sister.

But Donna seems to pause momentarily, like those fraction-of-a-seconds when DVDs freeze halfway through.

What?

What happened?

Did I say something to upset her?

“I–I haven't been round here for years,” she finally says, a catch in her voice.

I'm slightly thrown, and shoot a quick look at Clem. Her eyes meet mine, and I spot the faintest hint of a frown. No one else would've made it out; only a sister. So she noticed that weird pause too?

“Those are all my favourite books,” I chatter, hoping to smooth over the odd blip by pointing to the slightly squint shelf Dad put up over my desk earlier in the week.

“I
love
books,” murmurs Donna, tilting her head sideways to read the spines, seeming normal and pleasantly ordinary once again.

“Stolen any of those from
me
, Maisie?” Clem asks, but for a change
doesn't
add her usual dollop of sarkiness to the top of those words.

“Um, nope – I've got much better taste in stories than
you
ever did,” I say, risking a joke while I take a moment to grab Mum's photo from my chest of drawers and slip it inside her notepad. (Don't want Donna to see that right now; too strange.)

As for the notebook – I slip
that
under the decorated box I keep hair clips and bands in. (Don't know if Clem would feel weird seeing it, but I don't want to take
that
risk either.)

“And this, well, this is my view!” I carry on, walking over to the window, kicking the bottom of one of my overlong curtains out of the way. “Though it's not exactly exciting.”

Donna turns from the bookshelf and looks past me out of the window.