Better Left Buried by Emma Haughton Page B

Her grandchildren, I guess.
    Mrs Perry pours the soup from the pan straight into the bowl she’s placed in front of me. Steam rises up into my face and despite all my worries, the warm, creamy scent makes me almost hungry. She cuts me a hunk of wholemeal bread from the loaf on the table and passes it to me on a plate. I tear a piece off and dunk it in, then wait for it to cool.
    Mrs Perry sits opposite and watches me eat.
    â€œSarah, I don’t know what to advise you about what you’ve just told me. It all sounds horrendous. I know you’ve been to the police but I really believe you should talk to your parents.”
    I gaze back at her. “I can’t,” I say. “Mum’s in too much of a state to cope with it. And Dad’s still away, more problems on the rig. If I tell him, he’ll want to come home and he’s already had so much time off…you know, when my brother… Besides, what can he do that the police can’t?”
    Mrs Perry pauses before answering. “But you’ll speak to him when he gets back?”
    I nod.
    â€œI am very concerned about you, Sarah. You’re so thin, and terribly pale.”
    I don’t reply. There doesn’t seem much point denying it.
    â€œIs there anything I can do to help?”
    I consider her question as I nibble the bread. What is there that anyone could do? I’ve not seen that man again, since the cinema. Maybe that will be the last of it.
    As for Lizzie, who can help me with that? Tears rim my eyes again as I think of her present sitting on my desk, the card propped up beside it. Today is Lizzie’s birthday and I’ve not heard a word – from her or her mum. No reply to the text I sent this morning. Nothing to the Happy Birthday message I posted on Facebook.
    Where is she? I wonder for the thousandth time. Somehow I can’t believe she’s gone off camping in Cornwall, like she told her mum. There’s no mention of it online, no photos, nothing. And I’ve rung round everyone I can think of to see if they’ve heard something, but no one seems to have a clue.
    At least she must be safe, I remind myself. Her mum would have called me if anything had happened. Anything serious.
    I wrench my mind away from my anxiety and down another spoonful of soup, buoyed by its warmth and delicate flavour. I’ll see Lizzie in a few days, I think, when the new term starts. I can give her my present then.
    And when she’s back I’ll talk to her, I resolve again. I’ll make her tell me what’s going on. We’ll sort this out once and for all.
    Simply coming to this decision makes me feel better. That, and the hot soup spreading a glow through my stomach that makes me feel less weepy. I glance down. I’ve eaten most of the bowl without even realizing.
    â€œSarah, I need to ask you this.” The seriousness on Mrs Perry’s face instantly dispels my more hopeful mood. “Do you think you’re really up to the audition this year? You could always put it off until you’ve finished your A-levels next summer.”
    Her question blindsides me and fills me with a momentary sense of panic.
    She sees my expression. “You’ve been through something terrible, and it’s all so raw. It’s going to take time to find your feet again, even leaving aside all this other stuff you’ve told me. It wouldn’t hurt to give yourself a bit more time.”
    I know what she’s saying makes sense, but the idea of waiting another year, of not knowing for so long if I’ve got a place, got a future, makes me feel sick. I don’t think I could bear it.
    I look Mrs Perry square in the face. “No,” I say firmly. “I want to go ahead. I want this more than anything.”
    Right now singing is all I have, even if it is a struggle. The only anchor in my life. The one thing stopping me being completely cast adrift.
    There’s no way I’m letting it