way she left it, and there’s a couple of photos of you and Lauren still stuck to her dresser. She really liked you. Ryan said so.’ That’s a gamble too. But I know I’m on the right track when he glances at me briefly before looking back down at his coffee with a strained expression, then shifts it precisely two centimetres left, one centimetre right. He quickly removes something imaginary from the corner of one eye and I look away for a second, pretending I don’t see the glimmer there.
‘She was really, really nice,’ he murmurs, fiddling with his watchband again. ‘Patient, you know? And kind, even though she was one of those people that doesn’t need to be. I really liked her. We spent a lot of time together doing the last big inter-school concert before she, uh, disappeared. Me being one of the only, uh, semi- functioning tenors from Port Marie, you see.’ He swallows convulsively, fresh pain still evident in his voice. ‘St Joseph’s didn’t send anyone that year, so you probably wouldn’t remember it. But it was a big, big deal around here. You know I was one of the last people to see her alive?’ I watch with interest as he swallows again, wipes a non-existent speck off one lens of his glasses, and shoves them back on so hard that the nose pads push into the corners of his eyes, making them water some more.
‘I can tell she was nice,’ I say carefully. ‘She had a lot of friends, you can see from all the photos. There are dozens. I didn’t know you could have so many friends.
I certainly don’t.’ Ain’t that the truth, says that little voice wryly.
Spencer’s voice, when he finds it, is windy, bereft.
‘We just got each other, you know? She listened all the times I needed to vent — and they were plenty. I mean, he treats me like shit in front of everyone — it’s practically a school tradition these days, you know, the public baiting of Spencer Grady, because if the teachers do it, it must be all right — and I listened when she needed to get something off her chest.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say casually, casting Carmen’s eyes downward so that he won’t see the sudden hot gleam in them. ‘About what? Was she upset about something before she, uh, vanished?’
‘More like someone,’ Spencer replies with a faraway look on his face.
I want to leap into the gap he’s created so badly I have to bite my tongue to stop any words forming. But somehow I bide my time, taking another small sip of my unpalatable drink, dumping more sugar into it, stirring vigorously. As suddenly full of nervous tics as Spencer is himself.
Come on, come on.
I’m almost afraid he’s not going to say any more when he blurts out suddenly, ‘Mr Masson was trying to convince her to turn professional. Forcing her, more like. It wasn’t something she really wanted to do. She wasn’t sure if that was the direction she wanted to go in. He was putting real pressure on her to leave Paradise High and go for an opera scholarship with a prestigious performing arts school; next stop, the Met Opera House or something like that. The extra coaching sessions he’d arranged for her before the inter-school concert were really wearing her down — before school, after school, lunchtimes, during spares. And it confused things with her, uh, boyfriend, Richard, she said. She felt like she was being pulled in too many directions at once, and she wasn’t even sure if she loved singing enough to make the kind of commitment Mr Masson wanted from her. He kept saying he’d make her a star.’ Though Carmen’s outward expression is unreadable, I’m electrified by what I’m hearing. Mr Masson? That tired-looking, short-sighted little man with the wild hair and stubby fingers who cares way too much about adhering strictly to the tempo? Is Ryan aware of any of this?
‘The concert that year was Mr Masson’s pet project,’ Spencer adds helpfully as he drains the last of his coffee, licking his lips as they meet the sugar hit at the bottom of the cup. ‘It really mattered to him — he personally chose every piece. Lauren was like his — what’s that word? — protege.’ The boy paints imaginary quote marks in the air.
‘He had her doing everything from operatic arias to Andrew Lloyd Webber and kept telling everyone that she had what it took to go all the way to the opera houses of North America, Milan, Austria. The music A-league. It was like he was obsessed.’ I push my coffee cup to the side discreetly, and Spencer, being sensitive to giving insult to anyone, immediately does the same.
‘We should do this again,’ he says hopefully. ‘It’s been really nice.’ I realise that really nice is his default position; it’s how he wishes the world, and everything in it, to be.
And something close to tenderness wells up again in my borrowed heart. As much as I do tender, anyway.
‘Yeah, it has,’ I agree neutrally as I steel myself and touch his bare wrist where it rests across from me on the table.
Just a brief hold, a moment of light pressure, but it’s enough to bring out a cold sweat on Carmen’s forehead as I flame into contact with him, feel that building pressure behind the eyes, search quickly for impressions of Lauren in his mind. The burning sensation in my left hand snakes rapidly up my forearm like a living thing.
Mercifully, it burns out as soon as I let go. Everything confirmed. Brenda was right: Spencer had been sweet on Lauren, and crushed like a leaf twice over when she’d turned him down, then promptly disappeared.
Unlike Richard Coates, Spencer has barely registered my brief touch.
‘I was going to walk home …’ I trail off, hoping he won’t insist on keeping me company, even though it’s getting dark out. Or, worse still, insist on that lift I lied about. ‘Are you okay getting back to Port Marie?’
‘I’ll get Dad to pick me up,’ he says, a dull note creeping back into his voice. ‘Don’t sweat it. Maybe I’ll see you around?’ I stamp down hard on my evil inner voice even as I force Carmen to reply cheerfully, ‘First thing tomorrow morning, yeah? Maybe they’ll even let us sit together again. What are the chances? It’s been way fun.’ An answering grin lights Spencer’s usually solemn features.
I leave the cafe waving inanely, still no good at doing normal. As I watch him wave enthusiastically back from behind the window, I know I’ve changed in some way I can’t quite yet define. Because in the past, I would have eaten guys like Spencer alive with no regard for hurt feelings, and laughed as I spat out their bones.
Night has begun to mantle the streets of Paradise. I hurry away from the Decades Cafe, keeping as much as possible to the bright arcs mapped out by the streetlights, although there is barely anyone about. The wind is blowing so hard now that no one’s likely to make eye contact with me anyway, without getting a face full of desiccated leaf debris.
When I reach the outskirts of the Daleys’ property, I pull out Carmen’s tacky pink mobile phone and speed dial Ryan’s number. Maybe I only imagine that her fingers are shaking a little.
‘Help,’ I say softly when he picks up. ‘I’m outside the house and hoping you’re in there or I’m in big trouble.’
‘Stay right where you are,’ he says in his deep, familiar voice that always sets off that strange longing in me for some kind of normalcy, safe harbour, however fleeting. ‘I’ll come get you.’ The wind shifts, carrying the scent of me to Stewart Daley’s dogs. Their sudden, unbridled rage seems almost welcoming, as Ryan ushers me quickly into the warmth of his parents’ house, every downstairs lamp lit as if to welcome me back from a long journey. The Prodigal Whatever-I-Am.
‘Mum’s upstairs, and Dad’s been held up at work,’ Ryan explains as he shuts the front door against the howling world outside.
He looks so good to me that I have to struggle to keep my tone light. ‘Enough time to catch you up on what I learnt today?’ I head down the hall, shrugging out of Carmen’s utilitarian grey marle hoodie as I go, knowing he’ll follow. I hug the knowledge to myself, before logic kicks in. I mean, the guy’ll follow anyone to the ends of the earth if it means he might learn something new about his sister’s whereabouts. And Carmen’s no beauty, and I can be a little … difficult. I admit it. So who am I kidding?
‘For you, sweetheart?’ Ryan grins at me crookedly — I know because I dart him a quick look from under Carmen’s surprisingly long lashes — ‘There’s always time.’ Maybe I’m just imagining Carmen’s heart skipping a beat.
You hearing this? I tell her, wanting some kind of affirmation that I’m not overreacting to something that isn’t there. Of course, there’s no reply. There never is.
As we come up on the landing, I glance down the hallway and see Mrs Daley’s wraith-like shadow moving against the brilliant white lamplight in her bedroom.
Wordlessly, Ryan and I enter Lauren’s room together.
He turns on every light he can find, as if to ward off evil spirits, before shutting the door. I place Carmen’s hoodie down on the bed, walk over to Lauren’s desk and dump Carmen’s satchel on top of it.
