Chapter 7
When Julian reached Kyle’s house, he briefly considered knocking and apologising to him. He was too dog- tired to be bothered, though. He got into his car and drove home. His parents were waiting for him. From the look his dad gave him, he might’ve been waiting up all night.
“Where the hell have you been?” Robert demanded to know.
“Can we do this later?” Julian asked, stifling a yawn.
“No we can’t. You’re supposed to be studying, not staying out night after night, partying or getting drunk or whatever. If this is how you’re going to behave, you might as well go back to London.”
“Fuck that,” Julian muttered under his breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Sorry, I’m too tired for this right now.” Julian headed for his bedroom. He collapsed onto his bed and put in his I-pod earphones, turning the music up loud enough that it’d wake him if he happened to drift off. He thought about what Weasel had said. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. There was that feeling again. In his stomach. Spreading to his other internal organs, insidious as cancer. It made him queasy and angry. He took off his earphones, dug his mobile-phone and a business-card out of his pockets. He punched in the number on the card and Tom Benson answered in a crisp, professional tone.
“There’s this guy you might want to talk to,” Julian told him. “His nickname’s Weasel.”
“I think I know who you mean. Crucifix tattoo on his left hand.”
“That’s him.” Then, cringing, Julian repeated what Weasel had said.
“Well, well, I’ll have to have a chat with Weasel. Thanks for that. But how do you know him?”
Julian told the policeman about Mia Bradshaw. Not everything. Just the bits he needed to hear. When he was finished, the policeman said, “Now I’ve got something to tell you. I just got off the phone with the coroner. Joanne Butcher died from a heroin overdose.”
The words, all those fuckers can tut and nod and shake their little heads, rang in Julian’s brain. “So she wasn’t murdered?”
“Doesn’t look like it. So there’s no need for you to hang around.” A cautionary note entered the policeman’s voice. “Oh, and if I were you I’d have nothing else to do with Mia Bradshaw. You’re likely to get into trouble hanging around with that kind.”
Irritation prickled through Julian. What do you mean by that kind? So she comes from a bad background. That doesn’t mean she’s bad, just unlucky. He felt like saying this, but didn’t. He simply said, “Thanks,” and hung- up.
Julian hurried from his bedroom. He had to see Mia, tell her about Joanne Butcher, tell her he was sorry, make her realise he was different from all the tut-tut-tutters and head-shakers — and he knew there was only one way to do that. He had to show her who he really was. Show her his sickness was greater than anything she carried. Then, maybe, she’d show him who she really was. He’d already caught a glimpse of her real self, her vulnerability. It made him fear for her, fear that she might destroy herself if her hatred of life grew any deeper. He didn’t know why he should care what happened to her, but he did.
“Where are you going now?” asked Robert. When he got no reply, voice rising, he continued, “I asked you a question. Don’t you walk away-”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Robert, leave him be,” interrupted Christine.
“No I won’t leave him be. While he’s under my roof-” Julian heard his dad say. Then he was out the front door and running for his car.
Mia wasn’t in the fast-food restaurant. After cruising around for a while, vainly scanning the streets for her, Julian remembered that he knew which school she went to. It was the same school his dad had attended. Not the best school in town, but as his dad had once said, a decent school, with decent people. At lunchtime, kids streamed out the gate — kids with middle-class written all over them. Mia was amongst them, but somehow aloof from them. As Julian approached her, he noticed other kids giving her looks, some hating, some mocking, some perhaps envying or even admiring. She didn’t appear to notice or care.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. Mia walked past him without looking at him. “Please,” he continued, “this is really important.”
She stopped and turned to run her eyes over his drawn, unshaven face. “Come on,” she said, almost expressionless, and continued walking.
Julian followed. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere we can talk.”
They walked along quiet suburban streets to a house — a well-kept semi with a garden and a privet hedge. “Is this your parents’ place?” Julian asked, surprised. He’d pictured her living in a flat on some run-down estate.
“Foster-parents’.”
At the front door, they met a girl about Mia’s age coming the other way. “Who’s he?” she asked, looking at Julian.
“None of your business.”
“You’re not supposed to have boys in the house when my parents are out,” the girl called after them as they made their way upstairs, putting special emphasis on the word ‘my’.
Ignoring her, Mia led Julian into a bedroom. It contained all the essentials — bed, desk, drawers, wardrobe — but there were no posters, books, cds, or any of the other things you might expect to see in a teenage girl’s room. There was a suitcase on the floor, open but unpacked, screwed up clothes leaking out of it, makeup, bits of cheap jewellery and photos jumbled in amongst them. Stretching out onto the bed, Mia looked at Julian expectantly.
Julian took a breath and told her how her best-friend died. He saw, perhaps, the faintest quiver in her eyes. But other than that, nothing. “Is that it?” she said. “Is that all you have to tell me?”
Before the previous night, Julian might’ve been tempted to call Mia a total fucking cold-hearted bitch. But now he knew — or at least, thought he knew — that her impassivity was a mask she’d learned to wear to protect herself. He shook his head, gesturing to the bed. “Can I sit?”
Mia shrugged. “Sure.”
He flopped down next to her, rubbing his eyes and murmuring, “Man, I’m so tired. I haven’t slept properly in a week.”
“Why?”
“I have these dreams.” Julian swallowed as he spoke, forming the words with a reluctant mumble.
“What kind of dreams?”
“Bad ones. It’s like there’s something in the bedroom with me, attacking me, trying to get inside me.”
Mia sat up, crossing her legs, curiosity replacing her impassivity. “You mean like a ghost or something?”
“No, not a ghost.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what happens?”
Julian told Mia what happened in the dream — the original dream, not the new version. She listened intently, fascinated. “That’s seriously creepy shit,” she said. “So how long have you been dreaming that stuff?”
“Since I was ten.”
“Fuck.” Mia looked at Julian with something close to sympathy. “I’d go totally out of my skull if I was you.”
“I almost did. You wouldn’t believe how many therapists I’ve been through.”
“Did they help?”
“Some of them did. The last guy I saw told me I needed to learn to accept the dream, not fight it. He said I had to let it come, in order to let it go. So I did, and it did go for a while.”
“But now it’s back.”
Julian nodded. “Ever since I heard about Joanne Butcher.”
Mia frowned, her eyes searching Julian’s. “Why would that make it come back?”
“Maybe because her disappearance reminded me of Susan Carter.”
“Who’s Susan Carter?”
