Part Two, Chapter Twelve

I duck into the girl's bathroom and splash some water over my face. It makes me feel a little better. I lock myself in a cubicle and try hard to think.

Lynch is out in the middle of town right now. Hopefully she will have found somewhere to lie low, but she's still out there, and still unaware that the police are mounting a full-scale search for her. I could wait until the end of the school day, but by then it might be too late. She has to be warned. Which means I have to get out of school.

I wait in the toilets for an hour, until the bell rings for lunch. Then I head out to the front of the school. Students in the final year are allowed to leave the campus for lunch hour, and my plan is to blend in with them and hope that nobody notices.

As I approach the gate, my heart does a flip. The police cars are still there, and I recognise Miller standing by the gate along with a couple of other officers, talking casually. It takes all my willpower to keep walking and pretend that everything is normal. I pass through the gate along with a small stream of older students, and set off quickly down the road.

I make myself wait until I'm at the end of the road before I relax. Once I'm certain that I'm out of sight of the school gates I start to move at a rapid jog.

It takes me twenty minutes to get into town. I head for the spot where I left Lynch this morning, but unsurprisingly she isn't still waiting there. Breathless from the jog I turn around in circles, searching the scattering of midday shoppers. If I was left alone in a strange high street for a day, where would I go to get away from the crowds?

I try the food court of the mall. It's crowded with people, but none of them are Lynch. I try some of the quieter coffee shops along the high street, but they're similarly empty. As I leave the last one I catch sight of a couple of police officers in fluorescent jackets wandering down the middle of the thoroughfare. They're stopping people at random and talking to them, showing them what looks like a picture. My heart starts thudding again and I duck back inside the coffee shop and head for the toilets. I lock myself in a cubicle and set about removing my school blazer and tie and stuffing them in my bag. I allow myself five minutes to calm down, then head back out.

The two police officers I saw aren't the only ones. They're everywhere;  I see a couple of them attaching posters to lampposts, and I don't even have to go close enough to read to know the gist of what those posters say.

"Where are you, Lynch?" I whisper under my breath. I'm starting to panic now, slow burn. Desperate I start heading for the shopping mall again, wondering if I might have missed her. I'm halfway there when it hits me. Of course; if she was looking for somewhere quiet to spend the day then she could hardly do better than the city library. How could I not have thought of it before? I've spent long enough hiding out there myself that it should have been obvious.

I change course and start towards the library, praying that I won't be too late.

Part Two, Chapter Eleven

There's a policewoman waiting for us in homeroom. She's dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, but just from the way she stands at the front of the class it's obvious she's here on official business. As I make my way to my desk I feel sure that she's looking right at me. Already I can feel myself blushing under her imagined gaze. I sit down and try to remember what I look like at my most normal.

Once everyone is settled at their desks our homeroom tutor steps forward and holds up her hands for quiet. Almost at once, silence falls, people dropping their conversations mid-sentence. The tutor looks almost surprised, but I can sense the tension. Everyone's waiting to see what our visitor is here for, what she has to say. And I have a dreadful sense that I already know.

The policewoman steps forward and clears her throat. She surveys the classroom, her eyes sweeping over me like a searchlight.

"All right everyone," she says. "I'll cut right to the point. I'm officer Miller from the local constabulary, and I'm here to ask for your help." The tension in the room rises another notch, but Miller carries on regardless. "At the moment we're mounting a very serious investigation, in co-ordination with other constabularies up and down the coast. We're looking for a girl who's gone missing, and she'd be about the age most of you are now. I'm here to ask for your help." My throat has gone dry. I'm almost certain that I'm shaking. Desperately, I try to keep my body still and my face set. "Has someone moved in with a friend? Have you seen someone new in town? Even wandering the streets? If you have it's vitally important that you tell us. This girl is dangerous. She's been involved with some very nasty criminals, and has links to terrorist organisations. Your tutor is going to give out a card with her description and my number on it. If anyone of you see or hear anything suspicious, you can call me up anytime of the day or night to discuss it in the strictest of confidence." Miller gives one more sober, searching glance around the room, then steps back. "Thank you," she says, and shows herself out.

The moment she's gone I let out a breath that feels as if I've been holding since I walked into the room. As our tutor walks around handing out the cards I bury my face on my arms and try to cool the blush that's crept up my cheeks. I feel like I've just gone through an interrogation, but as far as I can tell I didn't give myself away. All the same there's this horrible paranoid feeling at the back of my brain. Part of me wants to go running back into town to find Lynch and warn her, and part of me is also wondering: Miller said that she had links to criminal organisations, even terrorists. Could it be true?

For a few minutes I'm torn. But then I think of her standing cold and bedraggled and lonely-looking on the beach and I know at once, of course, that she's no terrorist, no criminal. And at the same time it all suddenly seems really, deeply real for the first time. The Academy, Ingleman, Lynch; they're not part of some other world, some other person's problem. They're here, in my world, in my town, in my life. And for Lynch's sake, and Darren's, it's up to me to do something.

"Are you all right, Laura?" It's our tutor, looking down at me with a concerned frown. I do my best to sit up and smile like normal, but I know at once it's not going to work.

"Actually," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady, "I don't feel very well. Headache. I think . . . maybe I should go to the nurse's office."

The tutor buys it wholesale. Five minutes later I'm making my way down the corridor, hall pass in hand, wondering what on earth I'm supposed to do next.

Part Two, Chapter Ten

I don't sleep that night. Me and Lynch stay up talking until the dawn light is peeking in through the windows. At six AM I head home just long enough to change into uniform and grab some breakfast before I set off for school. Not that I want to go, but I know that if I skipped or called in sick the school would call home to check with my parents, and then there'd be questions and suspicion and trouble. Best to carry on as normal. I left Lynch in town with a handful of change and the promise that I'd come and find her right after the end of school.

As I walk across the park my head is spinning. Could it be true? In the rational light of day it sounds impossible, absurd. Who could believe a story like that? And yet there was no mistaking how earnest Lynch had been in the telling of it. By the end, when she told me how she escaped, and what happened to her friend Syra, she was crying freely. So was I. Back then in that empty house it all seemed so real.

And there were parts of it that rang true as well. That program she mentioned, run by some man called Ingleman. I remember when he came and gave a talk at my school about it. I even remember that Darren signed up to do the tests, although he dropped it later on when it clashed with his hockey games. Could it be possible? Or am I just believing her because I want so badly for there to be some hope that Darren's still alive.

I think of how she talked about her escape. The boy who helped her over the fence--the boy with the tattoos. She described him so well, right down to the scar on his forehead. The scar that I hadn't told her about, that she couldn't possibly have known of beforehand. Was that Darren? The thought fills me with fear and hope and sadness. Where is he now? Is he still alive? Was he punished for helping her escape?

Or is it all just a lie? A little story she concocted to win my sympathy, to keep me on her side? Maybe she's crazy. Maybe it's all happening in her head.

Even if it is all true, what can I do about it? I've never felt so powerless in my life. I have to act, have to do the right thing, rescue Lynch, rescue my brother, bring my family back together . . . but I have no idea how to start at something so big. Last night, Lynch almost laughed when I said we should go to the police.

"It's the police I'm running from, Laura," she told me. "Ingleman's powerful. He has influence. By now I'll be listed on half the wanted lists in the country as a deranged terrorist. They won't even listen to my story before they slap me in a cell and call Ingleman to come fetch."

I'm still turning this all over in my head as I approach the school gates, joining the stream of other pupils. What can I do? I've never felt so powerless. Like always, I end up thinking of Darren. Wondering about him. Hoping for him. It all comes back to my brother.

I'm so wrapped up that I'm at the gates before I notice the police cars parked up on the street outside.

Part Two, Chapter Nine

We're sitting against the wall in the main bedroom, using one of the spare dust sheets as a blanket. I'm telling her all about Darren. Not that I meant to tell her everything, but after a point the words just started spilling out. I end up telling her the whole thing right from the beginning: how Darren used to be around me. How he wanted to be a mechanic, how he was always messing around with that stupid bike of his--the one that now sits rusting in the back garden. How he and his friends were into everything in this town. How he was cool and popular and brilliant . . . and how much of a hole it left when one day, one ordinary Monday he never came back home from his hockey match.

And the police investigation that turned up nothing. The vigils and the Missing Person posters. The TV campaign. The website his friends set up. All the efforts that everyone made that in the end came to nothing, as if he simply disappeared off the face of the earth. How, nowadays, my dad is always drunk and my mum is always asleep. How it feels as if when Darren went whatever held my family together went with him.

And then, when those words run out, when I've told everything there is to tell I find myself just talking about Darren. Just these little things I remembered. The way he had of laughing when something amused him. How he always used to smoke out the window of his bedroom, thinking nobody noticed but him. The stupid tattoos he had; a rose on one shoulder and a skull on the other. How he used to call me Lilli.

I stop talking, take a deep breath. Talking about this is choking me up, and all at once I can't go on. I look Lynch directly in the eyes for the first time since I started my story. Whatever I was expecting her expression to be, this isn't it. She looks scared and sad and resigned all at once. For a moment I think she is crying, but then she turns away and wipes furiously at her eyes.

"Sorry," I say. "I didn't meant to dump all this on you. You've got your own . . ."

She shakes her head. "It's not that."

"Are you okay?" She doesn't look okay at all. She looks terrified. Perhaps looking more scared now than she has since we first met.

She licks her lips. "Listen," she says, with difficulty, as though the words are costing her deeply. "There's something I think I have to tell you."

Part Two, Chapter Eight

I scream and try to move back, but whoever it is has got their arms tight around me. They throw themselves forward and we topple over onto the floor with a painful thud. Hands seize my collar and I'm struggling, kicking and screaming and trying to throw them off. It's not good. They're stronger than I am, and I'm pinned to the floor.

"Laura?" It's a girl's voice, Lynch's voice. I open my eyes and now I can make her out in the dark, her face caught between expressions of fear and guilt, as if she's been caught doing something wrong. She releases me, stands up off me, offers out a hand to help. I ignore it and stand. "I'm . . . I'm so sorry," she says haltingly. "I thought . . . I heard someone moving around and I thought . . ."

My back hurts where I hit the floor. My heart is running a mile a minute from the fright of it. But it's only Lynch, and she didn't mean any harm.

"Are you angry?" says Lynch.

I glare at her for a moment, and then relax. "No. It's okay. Really. You just got scared."

"I'm sorry," she says again, and she really does sound it.

"Don't worry, I'm fine."

For a while there's silence. We're both standing apart from each other, gathering ourselves, adjusting our clothes. Eventually, Lynch asks, "What are you doing here so late?"

I shrug. "Felt like a walk. Felt like talking to someone."

"Okay," says Lynch. And then there's the silence again, but this time the ordinary, awkward kind of silence that crops up in any conversation with someone you don't know too well.

"Who did you think I was?" I ask, to end the quiet.

"Just . . . someone. A man. Someone I think might be looking for me."

"So you're on the run then?" I say, meaning it to be a joke. But then Lynch doesn't say anything in reply and I realise that I've hit closer to home than I thought. "You are, aren't you?"

"I'm not a criminal," says Lynch, sharply. "Nothing like that."

"It's okay," I say. "If you don't want to say you don't have to."

Silence again for a little bit. Then Lynch says, "Thank you. For the food and stuff."

"You found it then?"

"Yeah."

"I'll bring some more tomorrow night."

"Thanks." There's a pause, but a more comfortable one this time. We're adjusting to each other's presence. "So," says Lynch. "Who is it I remind you of?"

I take a deep breath, and wonder if I even want to tell her about Darren. But then, why else did I come here if not to talk? Looking straight at Lynch in the darkness of that empty house, I say, "You remind me of my brother."

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.