Finders Keepers

Instead he delivered it to Mrs Paddon next door, who sometimes took several days to push it through Jonas’s letterbox.

Not that he cared. He never read the Bugle any more, but cancelling it required thought processes and actions, so it was easier merely to pick it off the mat once a week and walk it through to the kitchen bin, along with all the junk mail.

On this day he stopped between the hall and the kitchen to look at the school photo of Jessica Took on the front page. Straight straw-coloured hair, slightly buck teeth, her school tie tied fashionably and ridiculously short. She looked familiar; he probably knew her by sight – one of the hundreds of children who would pass him every day in that same school uniform as he walked or drove through the seven villages that made up his patch.

What used to be his patch.

MISSING. That was what it said. But the report seemed vague and full of holes, and Jonas’s imagination filled those holes with dark and fearful things.

That night he found Lucy again. This time she had a child with her. Not Jess Took, but a child of her own. A child she’d always wanted and which Jonas had always denied her. When they finally embraced, the child was between them, awkward and annoying and demanding attention.

When Jonas got up the next morning he took the Bugle from the kitchen bin and carried it to the outside bin. When he threw it away, he made sure that Jessica Took was face-down.

* * *

Steven didn’t take the Bugle to Jonas Holly’s house any more, but he still had to pass Rose Cottage to see if he could get an order from the new people further up the hill.

He flipped his skateboard expertly up into his hand and tucked it under his arm. Skating past the house where Mrs Holly had died seemed like the wrong thing to do, and so Steven never did it. But there was another reason. The deck made a loud rumbling noise on the rough tarmac and he didn’t want anyone to know he was passing.

He didn’t want Mr Holly to know he was passing.

Because Mr Holly had murdered his wife. Steven was sure of it.

Almost sure.

He had no proof, of course, or he’d have told the police who were in the village two winters ago, hunting another killer altogether.

And what could he have told them anyway?

That he’d seen Mr Holly slap his wife’s face? That he’d looked into his eyes and seen nothing human there? That it had scared him so badly that his legs had turned to jelly under him and he’d almost lost control of his bladder? Even now he squirmed at the memory and pushed it away. Pushed it all away.

He had no evidence. And anyway, who was he? Just a boy.

And who was Mr Holly? A man – a policeman. A policeman who had nearly died trying to save his wife from a brutal killer.

Supposedly.

Once, Steven had made the mistake of confiding in Lewis about his suspicions.

‘You’re mazed,’ Lewis had said, tapping his own temple. ‘You’re just paranoid ’cos of nearly being murdered and all that. You need to get over it, mate. Lalo’s aunt says Mr Holly’s got wicked scars. I wish I had wicked scars. Awesome.’

Jonas Holly was a hero to everyone but Steven Lamb.

He sighed. He should try to let it go. Or at least shut up about it. It was the past, and if Steven had cared to live in his past, he would never have been able to enjoy his future, so he’d become a master of moving on. He often imagined he was swimming the breaststroke – sweeping great handfuls of blurry bad stuff behind him so he could reach the shores of a much better life. He’d had lots of practice and he was pretty good at it by now. His life was better, and he’d made it that way. When Steven thought about that, a little flame of happiness warmed his core and lit the way for him.

But it still didn’t mean he could bring himself to deliver the Bugle to the home of a killer.

Steven watched the cottages approach. Rose and Honeysuckle cottages – their names on their respective wooden gates – almost hidden behind the high hedgerows that bordered the lane. It was only their top windows and roofs that were really visible from the road, but as he passed their gates he could look in and see that the little front garden of Rose Cottage, which had once been so well tended, was struggling to survive the weeds. Mrs Holly used to do the garden, even though she was sick. The summer before she’d died, Steven had arrived with the paper just in time to help her barrow a pile of greenery through to the compost heap at the back of the house. She knew all the plant names, and he’d told her about the vegetable patch he’d grown with Uncle Jude. His carrots and beans – and how even Davey would eat salad, now that it was made up of their own lettuce and tomatoes and little new potatoes which tasted more like nutty cream than like plain old spuds.

Mr Holly never came out any more. If he did, Steven hadn’t seen him, and for that he was grateful. It meant he didn’t have to think about him too much. Delivering the Bugle to Mrs Paddon once a week was as close as Steven ever wanted to get to Mr Holly again.

His glimpse of the gardens was over and he walked on, head down, until he figured he was at a safe enough distance to drop his deck once more and push himself up the hill.

Old Barn Farm was just about a hundred yards past the entrance to Springer Farm – or what was left of it. Steven’s mother had forbidden him and Davey to go there since it burned down. She said walls would fall on them, rafters might plummet at any second, charred floorboards could give way under their feet. Steven had never been to Springer Farm anyway, but suspected that Davey often went to play there, now that his mother had made it seem like such an exciting place to be.

Old Barn Farm had new gates to go with the new residents. Big black iron ones that wouldn’t open when Steven pushed them. He stood for a moment, undecided. The gates were so new that the mortar used in their brick posts was still dusted across nearby brambles. He wondered how far down the driveway the farmhouse was – whether it was going to be worth his while getting this order if he had to mess with the gates and then walk a mile after that every week. Or every day, if he could get them to take the Western Morning News from him.

‘Hello.’

Steven looked around at the voice and noticed a shiny steel intercom built into the gatepost. An intercom! In Shipcott! There was a button marked ‘Talk’, so he pressed it, feeling like 007.

‘Hello. Umm. I want to know … I wanted to know if maybe you want a newspaper delivered.’ He released the button and then fumbled it back down and added ‘please’ – then pressed it again and said ‘thank you’.

Double-O Dickhead.

There was a short silence, and then a spurt of laughter.

‘I’m here, dopey!’

Emily Carver was on the grass verge behind him on a horse.

It took only a split second of mental panic for Steven to realize that nothing he could say right now would save him from looking like a complete idiot, so instead he just waved his arms in a gesture of vague resignation, and hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt.

She wasn’t wearing the green ribbon. Her brown hair was plaited over one shoulder and held in place by a plain black band.

‘I’m in your class,’ said Emily, as her horse – a smallish, golden-coloured animal – put its head down and started to crop the grass of the verge.

‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘Emily.’

‘I don’t like Emily. My friends call me Em.’

‘OK then.’ Steven nodded, but wasn’t sure whether she meant that he should call her Em.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Steven.’

She gave him a sly look. ‘And your friend with the red hair?’

Steven’s face fired up again, just as it had been cooling off. ‘Lewis,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’