Missing Abby Read online

  Day Five

  We were sitting having breakfast when the phone rang. Jenny started to get it, but Dad stood up, tossing his paper onto the table. He leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Come on, Natalie, eat up. We're going to be late.’ Jenny reached over and started cutting up Nat's sausage for her.

  ‘I am eating … Mummy, stop it! I can do it myself.’

  ‘What?’ said Dad sharply.

  I looked up, and saw that his gaze was on me.

  ‘Well, I don't know. When would you be filming?’ There was a pause. ‘That's awfully short notice … well, yes, of course it's an urgent situation, but I have to think what's best for my daughter, as well …’

  My chair turned to ice, locking me in place. Jenny had gone totally still, watching Dad.

  ‘Let me take your number,’ said Dad finally. He scrawled something on the purple post-it pad that Jenny kept by the phone. ‘Right … I'll discuss it with her and ring you straight back.’

  Hanging up the phone, Dad let out a long breath. He clicked the kettle on. ‘Emma … the police want you to take part in a filmed re-enactment of Abby's disappearance.’

  I licked my lips. ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘Stand at a bus stop with the girl who's playing Abby, sit on a bus with her … they're trying to get more witnesses who might have seen Abby to come forward. The only thing is, they're filming this afternoon.’ Dad made a cup of instant coffee, frowning down at the bright green mug as he stirred it.

  ‘What show is this for?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Crimewatch. They want to air it tomorrow night.’

  ‘You mean – I'd be on TV?’ I could actually feel all the blood draining from my face.

  He nodded. ‘If you want to do it. It's up to you, I suppose. The police think it's a good idea, that it might help to find Abby.’

  ‘Then I … I have to do it, don't I?’

  Jenny squeezed my hand. ‘Don't worry, I'll come with you.’

  ‘Right …’ Dad scraped a hand through his hair. He didn't look overjoyed. ‘I'll ring them back, then.’

  So I didn't go to school that day. Instead I changed out of my uniform back into the embroidered jeans and sleeveless blue top I had been wearing on Saturday, and Jenny and I drove into Brookfield.

  The girl who was playing Abby was about the right height and weight, I guess, but her features were totally different – her face was thin, and she had a snub nose. She was wearing a long black wig, and the standard black Goth outfit. Except that her T-shirt had lots of little grey skulls on it, instead of a screaming green one.

  It felt very, very strange to be standing next to her.

  The director, Mr Persac, put a hand on my shoulder as he introduced us. ‘Emma, this is Sheila Langley; she's a friend of Abby's who's volunteered to help … and Sheila, this is Emma Townsend. She used to go to school with Abby, and was the last one to see her.’

  Sheila had seemed friendly enough before – we had sort of smiled and nodded at each other – but now she stiffened. ‘Oh. Right,’ she said coldly.

  I swallowed, wondering what her problem was. We stood at the bus stop without talking to each other while people with cameras scurried around, setting things up.

  I could see Jenny on the sidelines, talking to Abby's mum. At first glance, I thought she looked more like herself again – her hair was back in its usual soft waves

  – but then I saw her face, how puffy and vulnerable it looked. She saw me watching her, and gave me a sad smile.

  Go say something! Go tell her you're sorry about Abby, and hope she's all right! I couldn't move. Mrs Ryzner probably hated me now. I mean, she wasn't thick; she had to have noticed that I had kept away from their house for a year.

  Gripping my elbows tightly, I looked away.

  The sequence inside the bus took the longest to film. Sheila and I ended up sitting on the same hot, sticky seat together for ages, waiting for them to get the cameras and lights set up. Sheila had an ancient blue rucksack at her feet. When Mr Persac told us, we were supposed to re-enact the bit about the necklace and the book and everything.

  The silence between us felt like I was being smothered. Oh, don't be such a drama queen, I told myself. Not everyone is out to get you; haven't you at least figured that out, this last year? You probably just imagined her reaction before. Just be friendly. Be Ems.

  So I tried to smile at her. ‘Do you have a copy of the book? The Monster Manual, or whatever it is?’

  Sheila stopped drumming her (black-painted) fingernails on the windowsill, and gave me this look like I was several degrees thicker than a cretin.

  ‘Yes, I have a copy of the book.’ Every word dripped with sarcasm, like acid that would splutter and hiss when it hit the ground.

  I gripped the bus seat. OK, so I wasn't imagining it. She loathed me. ‘Um … is something wrong?’

  Within the black-ringed makeup, Sheila's eyes were very blue, and hard as marbles. ‘I'm a friend of Abby's, all right? You work it out.’

  Guilt curdled through me. I bit my lip, wondering what Abby had told her.

  ‘Right, girls, I think we're about ready to start,’ called Mr Persac.

  There wasn't a script. Mr Persac had sat us both down beforehand, going over the gist of what Abby and I had said. Sheila and I were supposed to just talk, like we were really Emma and Abby. Most of what we said wouldn't be included in the sequence; the audience would just see me talking to Abby while a voice-over described what had happened.

  But there was one bit that Mr Persac did want to be exactly the same as what had happened, and that was Abby's parting shot to me.

  ‘Do we really have to film that ?’ I was ready to dissolve with embarrassment, especially with Sheila's narrowed, smirking eyes watching my every move.

  Mr Persac nodded. ‘Yes, I'm afraid so. You see, it might be that someone on the bus will remember that she called out after you, and then make the connection that they saw where Abby got off.’

  Fine. So Sheila and I acted it out when he told us, with me making comments like, ‘How are Greg and Matthew?’ et cetera, et cetera. And Sheila clearly adored the bit where she called out, ‘You'd really love D&D … or at least, the old you would have.’

  Each time she said it, I felt like jumping off the bus. While it was still moving.

  ‘Right, excellent. Now, just sit tight for a tick, girls,’ said Mr Persac. ‘We'll go for a final take in a minute.’ He was up at the front of the bus, having a word with the driver. The bus had stopped for the moment, but we were actually driving around during the filming, taking the same route that the 56 took.

  I sank down beside Sheila again, staring straight ahead. But I could actually feel her glaring at me, like little holes were starting to sizzle and smoke in the side of my head. I cleared my throat, trying not to let my voice waver.

  ‘Look – um, I don't know what Abby told you, but—’

  Sheila snorted. ‘Oh, not much. Just about how you were absolute best friends for years, and then you dumped her for no reason once you went off to St Seb's. About how she kept trying to text you and get together or whatever, but you always fobbed her off with completely lame excuses, and—’

  Pressure built up inside me as she spoke, like roaring water held back by a dam. Then the dam shattered, and my words came crashing out. ‘Right, so she told you all that! Well, did she tell you about Karen Stipp? Did she mention anything at all about Karen Stipp?’

  Sheila's face screwed up like she had smelled something putrid. ‘Who's Karen Stipp ?’

  My nails dug half-moons into my palms. ‘Well, if you don't know, then maybe you should just – just—’

  ‘I know enough,’ said Sheila icily, and she turned to stare out the window.

  A small crowd was waiting when the bus finally pulled back into the station, like we had just returned from an epic voyage. I burst down the steps, scanning the crowd for Jenny's tumble of brown curls. Then she was there, giving m
e a hug. ‘I'm really proud of you, Emma … are you all right?’

  Yes, except for this psycho girl who hates me. I nodded against her shoulder. ‘I guess so.’

  She squeezed my arm as we pulled apart. ‘You'll be fine,’ she said firmly.

  We both looked up as Mr Persac came over. His face was like Dad's after a long day – tired and drained, but still trying to smile. ‘Emma, thanks for your help today. You did a splendid job, really first-rate.’

  ‘I just hope it helps find her,’ said Jenny softly.

  Mr Persac sighed. ‘Well, we'll see. The show does tend to get a good response; it's just whether any of it will turn out to be useful or not.’

  ‘How does it work?’ asked Jenny. ‘Will you show it more than once?’

  I heard Sheila's voice behind me, and turned. She was standing a couple of meters away, talking with Abby's mum. As I watched, Sheila gave Mrs Ryzner a hug, and they clung to each other like they were drowning. A slight blond woman – Sheila's mother, I guessed – stood to one side.

  A golf ball formed in my throat. Inanely, I noticed that Sheila had taken off the black wig. Her own hair was short and blond, teased up in spikes. She must have used an eyebrow pencil to darken her eyebrows.

  Jenny turned. ‘Are you ready to go, love?’

  I nodded quickly, tearing my gaze away. We had to walk right past them to get back to our car, though, and Jenny stopped, stepping into the little group and touching Mrs Ryzner's arm. ‘Ann, please, let us know if there's anything at all we can do …’

  ‘Yes, I will … and Emma, thank you so much for your help.’

  Her round face – so much like Abby's – was totally sincere; she was actually grateful to me. I wanted to hug her so badly, but I couldn't. I felt about two centimetres high. Thanks for dumping my daughter. Thanks for being horrible to her on the bus.

  Sheila was openly glaring at me, not even pretending to be civil. ‘That's OK,’ I managed finally.

  As we left, I heard Sheila say, ‘When should we come around for the posters?’

  ‘Tonight's fine. Sheila, you and the others have just been wonderful …’ Then Jenny and I rounded the corner of the bus station, and I couldn't hear any more.

  But I had heard the warmth in Mrs Ryzner's voice, and it felt like a cold, clammy towel had been thrown over me. She used to be like a second mum to me. She had called Abby and me her two girls.

  I stared down at my feet as we walked the short distance to the car park, and thought about how Abby must have felt when I didn't return her texts. When I always had to get off the phone about two seconds after she rang. I had totally hardened myself to it at the time, but she must have been gutted.

  We got to the car, and Jenny stood rummaging in her handbag for her keys, muttering, ‘Oh, come on … they were here just a second ago.’ I leaned against the warm metal, trying not to cry.

  OK, it was an awful thing to do, but I had had enough of being a freak, that was all! After everything that happened, I would have been mad to stay friends with Abby. I wasn't a terrible person!

  Really? asked a little voice in my head.

  Day Six

  I was at Debbie's house with Jo when the Crimewatch episode aired. We had decided to look through some magazines, to get ideas for the fashion contest before we went shopping the next day. Or at least that's what Debbie had said. But the moment all of us were sprawled across the carpet with copies of Vogue and Now, Jo said, ‘So, um – how are you doing, Ems?’

  From the way Debbie looked up quickly from her Vogue, I knew that they had planned this, the two of them. My chest clenched as I tried to laugh, flipping through a magazine.

  ‘I'm totally fine. Come on, you know that – you just saw me at school today.’

  Jo shifted, drawing her legs up under her. ‘Yeah, but – I mean, you seem—’

  ‘I'm fine. Oh, Debbie, look, here's the sort of dress you want.’ I slid the magazine across the carpet towards her. ‘You'd look just sizzlingly sexy. I mean, seriously, steam would be coming off you.’

  For a second Debbie looked like she was going to say something else, and then she smiled slightly. ‘Well … that goes without saying. I'm just a supermodel, me.’

  I could feel Jo's eyes on me. Finally she smiled, too. ‘Hang on, I thought I was modelling it.’

  ‘Nah, you're too tall,’ said Debbie. ‘And leggy and blond. No way are you model-material.’

  ‘Oh, sorry – didn't realize short was a requirement.’

  ‘She'll be the most gorgeous munchkin at the ball,’ I said. ‘Look at this one, Debbie – what do you think?’

  We kept the banter going, leafing through the magazines and laughing, but it almost felt like we were reading lines. Not to mention that Jo and Debbie kept darting these concerned looks at each other when they thought I couldn't see.

  Part of me ached to talk to them, to tell them all about Abby, and how scared I felt, but I couldn't. What if I slipped up, and mentioned Karen? What if they found out how pathetic I had been – Emma, the cringing joke of Balden? I clutched the slick page of Now, staring down at the model. No way. I was never going to be that person again.

  Then the programme came on.

  ‘Should I change the channel?’ Debbie's green eyes cut towards me doubtfully.

  ‘No, that's OK.’

  Jo straightened up. ‘Ems, are you sure?’

  Ems was completely sure. ‘Yeah, I'm fine. Just leave it on.’ I turned a glossy page, pretending to be engrossed in an article on plastic surgery.

  ‘Tonight our focus is on missing Hampshire teenager, Abby Ryzner. Abby went shopping in Brookfield last Saturday, took the bus home – and hasn't been seen for six days, despite increasingly desperate pleas from her family, and a police hunt that has involved over a hundred officers …’

  My eyes kept drifting towards the screen. Finally I gave up pretending, and shoved the magazine away.

  Sheila hadn't looked at all like Abby in real life, but now I could hardly tell the difference. We watched her say goodbye to Mrs Ryzner, walk around the shops in town – and it was even Abby's expression; that sort of dreamy, not-quite-there look.

  Then I came on, and it was just bizarre, like someone had been hiding behind the next seat over, filming Abby and me. I watched us talking on the bus, with the familiar streets and buildings trundling past the window, and goose pimples scattered across my arms. It was like watching a pair of ghosts. Turn it off! I wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come.

  When Sheila called out her infamous line, I winced despite myself. Jo touched my arm. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, not looking at her. On the screen, a number was flashing for people to ring if they had seen Abby.

  Finally, finally, the segment ended. Debbie sat up, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes. ‘Um … so what's D&D, anyway?’

  Jo sat up too, the same question on her face. Like I was some sort of expert, just because Abby had asked me to play. It wasn't as if I had gone with her that afternoon.

  If I had, would she be missing now? No, don't think about that.

  I lifted a shoulder. ‘Some sort of game she was into. I don't really know, to be honest … it sounded pretty weird when she described it.’

  Remember Esmerelda? Sort of like that, but better …

  Abby's back garden flashed into my mind, heavy with the scent of summer. We were sitting hunched in her playhouse – only it wasn't her playhouse; it was a dungeon in Esmerelda's castle, and the faint sunlight was light through a tiny barred window.

  We'll have to try the spell, my friend – we've no choice.

  No! It could destroy us both!

  And it could save us, too …

  A wave of longing smashed against me. Abby, please be all right …

  ‘Well, how did—’ started Debbie.

  ‘It was so stupid!’ I burst out. ‘She was always doing stuff like that – I mean, she just didn't get it, she just didn't get that you don't do that once you g
et to secondary school!’

  Jo and Debbie were staring at me, their eyes like the button-eyes on teddy bears.

  ‘If you want to know the truth, I really couldn't stand her any more.’ I grabbed one of the magazines and started flipping through it, slapping the pages back. ‘She's why I changed schools, even – she had got so weird that I couldn't stick being around her!’

  Jo licked her lips, glancing at Debbie. ‘Um … well, how was she weird?’

  ‘Well, she dressed pretty strangely,’ murmured Debbie. Jo flashed her a look.

  ‘Oh, she just was, that's all.’ I shoved Now aside and grabbed at a Vogue. ‘She acted however she wanted, even if it was completely childish and stupid; she didn't care what people thought – she left herself right open for everything—’

  ‘For what?’ Jo's blond eyebrows pulled together in bewilderment.

  I swallowed hard. Emma, shut up !

  ‘Nothing,’ I stared down at a photo of a pencil-thin model wearing a white tube dress. ‘Debbie, couldn't you do something like this?’ I forced a laugh. ‘Looks like it'd be a breeze to design – just wrap a bedsheet around yourself, et voilà !’

  They looked at each other. Suddenly I was terrified that they wouldn't let me drop it this time, that they'd push and question until it all came out.

  But they took the hint. They didn't mention Abby again.

  Day Seven

  Even though I work up early that morning, I lay in bed for ages, staring at my ceiling. Thinking of the ceiling of my old room. Abby and I had painted a moonscape on it, with craters and stars, and a view of Earth in the distance. I remembered the two of us standing on ladders with old sheets draped over everything, collapsing in giggles as she painted a bug-eyed purple moon-man, peering out of a crater …

  ‘Emma?’ came a voice outside my door. Nat, lurking.

  ‘What?’ I flopped over in bed, clutching the duvet around me.

  Nat poked her head in. Her brown hair looked wild and bedraggled, like she had been playing hard for hours already. ‘You're not up yet.’