But my point is, we knew her. And me, personally, the whole time I was waiting for news, all I could do was nothing. There was WhatsApp and Facebook and stuff, which helped at first because it felt like you were in touch with what was going on. Not what was actually going on, though, and after a while that became the problem. You realized that nobody had any better idea than you did.
And it started getting nasty. It didn’t take long. It was stuff about Mason, mainly. Which I suppose was to be expected, not that it made it any easier to see. And later—not even that much later—it was stuff about the rest of us as well. And some of it I know exactly who was responsible. You do too, you must do, but has anyone done anything about it? Of course not. Which is exactly why people think it’s OK. They know they can say whatever they like if it’s not out loud. Worst case, they’ll get put in Twitter jail or something, not actual jail, which if you ask me is where some of these people, people like Lara fucking Sweeney for example—
Sorry.
It’s just . . . I get so . . . It’s everything, you know?
Poor Sadie. And she’s still out there! Somewhere. I keep thinking about the last time I saw her. The very last time, I mean. We were sitting in my room and she was listening to me bitch about my dad. Just, like, about how much of an arsehole he can be. How mean. Because I needed a new blazer for school, for sixth form, and that turned into him asking me why I was bothering taking A levels in the first place. He said it was a waste of time. That I wasn’t smart enough to pass. That I’d be better off just getting a job at the supermarket, because that was probably where I was going to end up anyway. And it didn’t matter what I said back to him, he’d just shake his head at me, sneer at me, the way he always does, and there was nothing I could do to . . . to just . . .
It doesn’t matter. The point is, I’d texted Sadie, and ten minutes later she was at my house. Just because she could tell I needed some company. You know? Which was typical Sadie. And all evening I was just sitting there talking about myself, about my problems, while Sadie listened, and told me not to pay any attention, that I should follow my heart, that I was capable of accomplishing anything. Which obviously I didn’t believe, but the point is she was there for me, the way she’s always there, except . . . except . . .
Except now she’s not.
No, really, I—
Unless . . . I don’t suppose you have a cigarette, do you? I mean, I know that technically I’m too young and probably you’re the last person I should be asking, but I just thought—
No. No. I get it. It’s fine, really. But, um. Don’t tell my parents I asked, will you? They’d kill me. My dad would. And I don’t usually smoke, not all that often anyway, but at the moment, it just feels a bit like, screw it. You know? Talking about what happened . . . it’s not easy. Especially when I think about how it all began. Our search, I mean. Our adventure. That’s what Cora called it, if you can believe it. And the rest of them were hardly any better.
Because that’s the thing, you see. They made out like they were doing it for Sadie, but that wasn’t what was going on at all. They were lying. Every one of them. Cora, Fash, Mason, even Luke, probably—they were lying right from the start.
CORA
WHAT DID THEY say? The others. What did Abi say? I bet she made out she had nothing to do with it, didn’t she? I bet she’s trying to blame it all on one of us.
It’s fucking typical. Abi’s such a faker, it’s no wonder nobody likes her.
Was my friend. Not anymore.
I bet I know exactly what she told you. I knew what she’d tell you the very second after it happened. I could see it in her eyes. And I’m not trying to make out I’m any less to blame than she is, that I don’t deserve what’s coming to me, too. All I’m saying is, Abigail Marshall, she’s not as innocent as you think.
Nothing, nothing. I don’t mean anything, OK?
Look, just . . . just tell me what more I’m supposed to tell you. I don’t know how it happened. It was all such a blur. All I know is it had nothing to do with me.
Fine. Whatever. But I don’t see how going over and over the same old stuff is going to help. You know how it ended. What does it matter how it began?
OK, OK.
The start, then.
It was Fash who said why didn’t we. Fareed, I mean. Fash is what everyone calls him. Other than his mum, obviously.
But Fash came to my house. Three days ago. So day four, I suppose you’d call it. We did. Not in a big-deal kind of way, with a great big display or something somewhere, but we all knew exactly how much time had passed since Sadie had gone missing. Although, by counting up, it was also like we were counting down to something. It was like . . . like watching a sand timer. Do you know what I mean?
In fact, that’s mainly what I’d been doing: lying on my bed, staring at the hands going round on this old watch. Not just any watch. It used to be Sadie’s. It’s stupid really. Just this stupid pink thing. I’m surprised it still even works. But she gave it to me, like, years ago, in return for one of my old dolls. Back when I played with shit like that, this
