Part Two, Chapter Seven

 In the end I help dad stagger his way to the sofa, where he collapses and rolls onto his side. I unlace his shoes and pull them off, then fetch a bottle of water from the kitchen and set it in arm's reach. I turn off the light on my way out, and he's already snoring. I go up and check briefly on my mother. She's unconscious still, a damp cloth now draped over her eyes. I stand at the door and watch her slow, regular breathing. For a moment I want very much to cry, but I don't. Instead I shut the door and go downstairs to make myself some food.

It's been like this ever since Darren went missing. It's as if when he went he took a little part of mum and dad with him, and now all they ever want to do is sleep. For that matter, I feel sometimes like he took a little part of me too. I try not to let it hurt me, but it's there, that missing piece, that emptiness. Sometimes I can feel it so keenly that I'm afraid if I look down at my stomach I'll see a hole.

I microwave myself a meal from the freezer and sit in the kitchen, eating without really being hungry. Something about tonight is setting me on edge. Darren and Lynch and everything all swirling around in my head. Normally when I feel like this I go for a run, but right at this moment I just don't have the energy. I feel dizzy, confused.

For a while I stare at my reflection in the kitchen window. And then I have an idea; I'll go to the house, go check on Lynch. Maybe take her some more food. Yes. I nod at my reflection. A walk is just what I need.

Twenty minutes later I'm standing outside the unlit house, and feeling unaccountably nervous. It looks so dark and dead it makes me think of a haunted castle. For a brief moment I reconsider, then shake myself, walk quickly up the path and open the door.

The hall is empty, as if the kitchen. I walk quietly through the rooms, feeling my way along the walls with one hand. Nobody here. "Lynch?" I call, but for some reason my voice comes out as barely more than a whisper.

In the lounge there's a stack of paint tins and a few pieces of cheap wooden furniture covered over by a dustsheet. In the front room there's a ladder leaned against the wall. Bare wiring protrudes from the walls like tufts of metallic hair.

I head cautiously upstairs. The boards creak beneath my feet.

"Lynch?" I call again. Then I push open the door to the main bedroom and from the darkness beyond someone lunges towards me.

Part Two, Chapter Six

I leave the library an hour later and head off through the midday streets. It's a cool, crisp kind of day, but there's still some sun in the air. At the waterfront there are a few dozen sunbathers and some guys kite surfing out in the bay. I watch for a while, reluctant to head home, but feeling separate from it all, closed off. Eventually, feeling heavy, I turn and head up the steps towards my home.

The first thing I do when I get in is check in on Mum. She's asleep, still. There's a fair chance that she hasn't even gotten up this morning. I take a moment to tidy up her bedside table, bring her a fresh glass of water and slip the crumpled foil of sleeping tablets back in the box. I pull the blanket up to her chin and close a gap in the curtains before I leave.

Dad must still be out at work, and so I might as well be alone in the house. I make myself a meal from the freezer, eat in front of the TV and then, suddenly and inexplicably exhausted, head upstairs and collapse onto my bed. Ten minutes of staring at the ceiling thinking of Lynch, and then I'm asleep.

I don't wake up until later, when there's a noise from downstairs. It's evening, now, and so I get up and turn on the light, blinking in the sudden brightness. Downstairs, dad is leaning against the wall. He looks up at me as I approach, eyes unfocussed.

"Whu . . ." he starts to speak, then closes his mouth and swallows audibly. He's drunk, again. Third time this week he's come home after work barely sober enough to stand on his own. With Mum still asleep in bed it looks like I'm the only one who's really here. Again.

"Hey, dad," I say quietly. And all I can think of is Darren, and the girl, Lynch, and those empty spaces people leave when they go.

I have to do something.

I just have to.

Part Two, Chapter Five

When I turn up at the house early next morning she isn't there. I check through all the rooms, but there's no sign of anyone, just tins of paint and battered old bookcases covered in tarp. Maybe I made a mistake in giving her the keys? But I couldn't have just left her out there on the street . . .

I leave the food anyway: half a loaf of bread, some chocolate and two tins of soup bundled up in a plastic bag. I put it on the kitchen counter where she'll find it for sure if she comes back. On my way back home I head to the waterfront and wander past the stretch of beach where I first met her. Just checking, I tell myself. But she isn't there either. Now, in the rational light of day, she's starting to feel like a ghost or a dream; something not quite real that's faded away with the daylight.

Because I don't want to go home just yet I head to the library, pick up a couple of books from the shelves and sit reading at one of the study desks. I'm struggling to concentrate though; what I really want is to talk to Mari, to tell her about the girl and ask her advice. Mari always knows the right thing to do. Today, however, she's busy showing a group of students how to use the microfilm. She gives me a smile and a wave when she sees me, but that's all.

After staring at the same page for half an hour, lost in thought, I'm struck by a sudden idea. I get up and head for one of the computers. I barely ever use these things, and I have to get out my library card and check my account number before I can log in. The machine whirrs and chimes, and the desktop flashes up. I double-click the internet browser.

By now I know the web address for the Missing Person's register off by heart. I've been on it enough times to check Darren's entry. I wait until the page has loaded and then click the search bar. Now what was it the girl told me her name was when I left her last night? Lynch. That was it. I type it in and search, but the result's page comes up empty.

I sit back, disappointed, feeling like I've hit a dead end. Of course, Lynch probably isn't her real name. I imagine she'd have come up with it when she ran away from home.

For a few minutes I try to think of some other plan, but nothing comes. And then, absent-mindedly, I find myself checking Darren's entry on the Missing Person's register. There's his school photo, taken a few months before he disappeared. He's grinning, the same as ever. And listed there are the few bleak facts that are known about his disappearance. Went missing in July last year. Seventeen years old. Last seen leaving the school grounds after a hockey match . . .

Since he went, I feel like I've spent days staring at that picture, at those few words. I reach out and touch the screen, and for a moment feel terribly, immensely sad.

Part Two, Chapter Four

When she's done with the bread, she cracks open a tin of mushroom soup and starts drinking it cold. She glances sidelong at me. "Thanks," she says grudgingly.

"Don't worry about it," I say. I give her a minute to finish the soup and then as she's opening another tin I say, "So are you sleeping on the streets at the moment?"

All at once she stiffens up, on her guard again. "Maybe."

"I'm not going to report you, you know."

"I know."

"So where are you sleeping?"

"I've got a place," she murmurs, clearly reluctant. I wonder again why I'm bothering. Why does it matter to me what happens to some street girl? But then I think of Darren, and I don't even have to ask myself why.

"It's just . . ." I pause and pull the set of keys I picked up along with the food out of my pocket. "Well, if you need somewhere to stay . . . my father's a landlord. He has properties all over the city, and there are a couple of empty houses that he's doing up. This is the key to one. It's not wired up or anything. No furniture; you'd have to sleep on the floor . . . and you'd have to make yourself scarce during the day, in case Dad decides to go do some work there. Just a place to spend the night--if you want to, that is?"

The girl's looking at me with mistrustful eyes. I hold the key out to her. "It's not a huge deal," I say. "There's nothing there to steal . . . and besides you don't look the type to go thieving. Surely it's better than staying out on the street?"

For a moment I think I've pushed things too far, that I might have scared her off. But then the girl nods slowly, and reaches out to take the key. All the while she's looking at me warily, as if frightened that I might lunge forward and bite her. Her fingers close around mine. She's so cold she might as well be dead.

"Good," I say. "I'll take you there now, once you've finished eating. Okay? You can spend the night there and I'll bring some more food around in the morning."

"Thank you," she says again in that same cautious voice. Then, "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?" She sounds genuinely puzzled as well as scared.

I take a moment to think about it. I want to be honest with her. "Because," I say, "you remind me of someone very important to me."

"Who?"

"I'll tell you when I see you tomorrow. Come on."

Part Two, Chapter Three

I jog back down the waterfront until I reach the narrow set of concrete stairs that lead uphill to my street. I'm out of breath by the time I reach the top, and I pause to glance back towards the beach and see if I can still catch sight of the girl, but it's too far off. I carry on down to my house, fish my keys from my pocket and let myself in as quietly as possible.

I know the layout of the rooms well enough to move by feel alone. First, I hang my school bag on the post at the bottom of the stairs, then I edge open the door to the living room and peer inside. The pale light of the TV washes over the room, over the sleeping form of my father on the sofa. There's a faint but distinct smell of alcohol in the room.

I shut the door. If my father's sleeping downstairs that must mean my mother's up in the bedroom. They hardly ever share a bed anymore. Not that they argue much, exactly. It's just that, ever since Darren went, Mum's headaches have been getting worse. She spends half her life sleeping now, and Dad just doesn't want to disturb her. That's how he ends up in front of the TV every night, sinking can after can of corner-shop beer until he finally manages to sleep.

I do my best not to think about it. I have other things to worry about at the moment.

In the kitchen I open the fridge for light and grab a plastic bag off the counter. I fill it with whatever I can find: half a loaf of bread, some packets of crisps and a couple from the small selection of tins we still have in the cupboard. On the way out, as an afterthought, I pull open the little cabinet drawer where Dad keeps all his work keys and fish out a set, and grab one of my old coats from under the stairs.

It's with a sense of relief that I leave the house again and set off back down the stairs towards the beach. I keep pace down the steps and out onto the waterfront. At the first opportunity I head down onto the beach and start walking up towards where I last saw the girl.

For a minute or two I can't see anyone; in the dark of the night the beach looks deserted, and I'm certain that the girl must have taken off while I was gone. Disappointment floods me, slow and heavy. But then, when I'm almost on top of her, I catch sight of her huddled up against the concrete sea wall.

"Here you go," I say, holding out the coat and the plastic bag. She comes forward and takes them from me warily, like a wild animal accepting food, then retreats again, opens up the plastic bag and starts tearing hungrily into the bread.

"How long has it been since you last ate?" I ask.

She pauses, swallows, avoids my gaze. "A while," she says, then goes back to her food. I watch her eat. Closer to I can see that she's clearly been beaten up. The grey overalls she wears are torn and stained with mud and blood, and her hands are cut and grazed in a dozen places, her wrists bloody and bruised.

Part Two, Chapter Two

She's sitting out there on the sand, right in the middle of the beach, all huddled up. For a moment, in the dark she could be a stone, but then she moves, turns her head and stares directly at me. I realise then that she's almost bald, her hair cropped close to her skull. The grey overalls she wears are so baggy she could as well be a boy.

We meet each other's gaze for a moment. The girl is shaking slightly, but her gaze is intent. I feel as if she's staring right through my chest. And then the moment breaks and she pushes herself to her feet and stumbles off up the beach.

"Wait . . ." I call, but she doesn't even pause. I glance up towards my house; from where I stand on the waterfront it's only a short walk away up the trailing staircases that climb the hill. The windows are all unlit. Once again, I don't suppose anyone has missed me. I hitch my school bag up onto my shoulder and set off after the girl.

I catch up with her pretty quickly. I'm walking along the concrete boulevard on top of the sea wall. The beach is a sharp drop on my right. Down there, the girl trudges along, head down, slipping occasionally on the wet sand. Up close I see that she's soaking wet, as if she just crawled out of the sea. Her jumpsuit has a dark, dried patch about the shoulder that looks just like a bloodstain.

"Hey," I call, and she stops finally and looks up, blue eyes fixing on mine. Her face is wracked, as though she's been crying recently. Red rimmed eyes and whitened lips. There's something in those eyes, along with the fear: a kind of independence, or a sadness. Something . . .

"Are . . . are you all right?" I ask, as gently as possible.

The girl stares up at me for a long time. "Fine," she says, her voice hoarse, and then she takes off again up the beach, clearly determined to leave me behind. As she goes, I notice that she's walking barefoot.

I keep pace along the top of the sea wall, one hand on the balustrade. In my estimation she looks a long way from fine. "Are you sure you're all right?" I call.

"Leave me alone," spits the girl.

I keep pace anyway. For a minute or two we walk in silence. I'm not sure what to say. Part of me wants to leave her, to just go home. But part of me is thinking of Darren . . . not just because she looks a little bit like him, but because she's lost too, and alone, and all the things I'm afraid Darren might be.

"My name's Laura," I try. But she ignores me and strides furiously on. Desperate, I try: "Are . . . are you hungry?"

Finally, she stops. Glaring up at me, still defiant, she says, "What?"

"You looked starved," I say. "Listen, I live near here. If you want, I can get you some food."

She snorts and kicks at the sand. Her hands are folded protectively across her chest. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she says. "I'm not stupid."

"You don't have to go anywhere. Just wait here; I'll fetch you something to eat. I'll only be a minute. Okay?"

She doesn't say anything, just stares at me warily, but in a way that seems to give consent. I smile at her and hold up a hand to tell her to wait. Then I take off at a jog towards my house.

What, I ask myself calmly, exactly am I doing here? Feeding the homeless? My good deed for the day? It's not like I don't have plenty of things already to worry about in my life. It's just the way she stood there on the beach; that haunted, defiant look in her face. And of course how she reminded me so much of Darren. When I thought of him, I knew right away that I couldn't just ignore her.

Part Two, Chapter One

One minute I'm dreaming and the next Mari's shaking me gently awake. Groggy, I sit up and wipe my eyes, then take stock of my surroundings: I'm lying on a beanbag surrounded by shelves of colourful books. It's the library. I've fallen asleep in the library again.

"You're making a habit of this," says Mari, smiling. I smile back apologetically.

"I know Mari. I'm sorry. I was just so tired. I don't know . . ." But she shushes me, waves away my apology. Mari's the librarian. She must be about sixty, though she looks good for her age, her hair tied back in a neat little ponytail. She's also one of the coolest and kindest people I know.

"We're shut for the day," she says casually. "Come have a coffee with me."

I stand, gather up my coat and book bag and follow her to the front desk. She busies herself pulling out mugs and clicking on the little electric kettle she keeps there. I sit back in one of the swivel chairs and shake my head to try and clear the lingering grogginess.

"You looked like you needed a rest," says Mari. "Is school getting tough on you, finally?"

I laugh. I can't help it. Mari has this affect on me. "No," I say. "Not school. Just family stuff. My mum and dad."

Mari sits down opposite me and presents me with a steaming mug of coffee. I wrap my hands around it and let the wafts of steam wash over my face. It feels good. There's silence for a long minute, but a comfortable silence. Then Mari says, "Come on, let's talk about happy things. Tell me what's been happening since last we met."

And I do. We sit there for almost an hour, finishing our coffees and just talking. Not about Darren or my parents or anything, but about ordinary, stupid stuff. It feels so good, so simple. Like opening a valve on the back of my head and letting all the gloom and the sadness of the last few days drain out. I tell Mari all about my drawings and my classes and then we talk about travelling, about the places she's been and the places she wants to go. About the places I might go one day.

By the time I finish my coffee it's dark outside. I wait while Mari puts down the shutters on the library building, and then we walk down the high street together. At the end, just before we part ways, we stop.

"You all right getting home from here?" she asks. I nod; the streets are peaceful enough at this hour. Mari's looking at me in this strange, searching way. "You know," she says, "everyone goes through this sometime."

"Through what?"

"This," she says. "Feeling bad. It's just your turn right at the moment. You know that, right?"

I'm smiling again. "I know."

"That's what I like to see. You be careful now. And come back and see me soon, yeah?"

We part and I head off towards home. The night is chilly, but I don't feel cold. As a matter of fact I feel better than I have in days. Part of me wishes I could spend all night in the library, reading and talking to Mari.

I head away from the high street and out along the waterfront. There I pause for a moment and look out at the sea. In the dark it seems huge, a void, a glistening expanse of space. I take a few huge gulps of sea-scented air. I stand for a long time, just turning everything over in my head, looking at it from different angles, feeling--for the moment--at peace.

I'm just about to turn and head towards my house, when I glance down at the beach and catch sight of the girl.