up the street a little ways and through the alleyway leading to the back of the Playhouse Theater and some dumpsters. Mac still ignores me, and apart from checking the spelling on all the
Rocky Horror
posters in the theater window, he just carries on walking the dog and huffing. I check the dumpsters. No sign of Jackson at all.
“So what are you going to do with him,
if
we find him?” says Mac as we round the corner and head down into the center of town. Alfie sniffs right around the base of a post box outside Fancy That, the costume shop.
“I don’t know,” I say, which I know is the wrong answer as soon as it leaves my cold steamy mouth. Mac rolls his eyes as if to say, “Should have known,” and lingers with Alfie by the doorway of the British Heart Foundation. “I should have stayed awake with him. I should have looked after him better. He needs looking after. He must have been scared to wake up in a strange place.”
“No, I mean you have to call someone, Jody. This is going to be all over the news in a couple of hours, if it isn’t already, you do know that?”
“Not the national news,” I say.
“Yeah, the national news. And not just those nice-suited and booted BBC-type news bulletins, either. Paparazzi sites. Those nasty, money-grabbing, Princess Di–chasing wankers in dirty raincoats with a blood lust for down-on-their-luck celebs. And he’s a major celebrity, Jody. ‘
Rock Star Kidnapped’
is going to make headlines,
world
headlines, no matter how many people know who he is.”
“Nobody knows he was kidnapped,” I say, watching as Alfie loops around the wire catalog basket outside the Argos store.
“They
will
know. That tramp woman from the rest stop saw him.”
“She wouldn’t have known it was him.”
“Those cars that beeped at us on the motorway coming home? George Milne walking his bloody sheepdog past the pub last night? They all saw him.”
I shake my head. “They didn’t. The cars beeped for the sake of it. They didn’t see him.”
“George Milne definitely saw us. He definitely saw Jackson.”
My voice is getting higher and higher with all my protesting. “He saw you, he saw me, and some drunk guy being helped out of a car. That’s not suspicious. And George is about eighty and half-blind. He’s not going to look at some breaking news flash on TV and immediately think, ‘
Ooh, I wonder if that was the bloke I saw outside the pub last night.
’”
“Think what you like but this is a small town, Jody, with even smaller-minded people living in it. Someone’s bound to make the connection between a dark-haired girl leaving Cardiff Arena last night with a figure shrouded in a black coat and a missing rock star from said venue.”
I sigh, my breath a great spreading cloud before me, and I pull the sleeves of my hoodie down over my freezing white fists. Alfie is still buzzing around every little nook and cranny in the town, his nose on the brink of discovery at every turn by the look of it, but every stop he makes is just another false hope. More faded dog piss. Another dropped potato chip.
Alfie lingers outside the post office. Then he stops altogether and sits down, panting and looking up at Mac. I look at Mac.
“What is it? What is it, Alf? What did you find?”
The dog dips his nose and then looks up again at Mac, panting, his tongue hanging out of his smiling mouth as if to say, “I told you I was onto something.”
But there’s nothing there. No sign of anyone or anything. Just some scraps of litter. Balled-up receipts. A couple of plastic bottle tops. A ring pull from a can.
No, not a ring pull. A key. A silver key attached to a long black string.
I bend down and pick it up. “This is his. It’s Jackson’s key pendant.”
“Are you sure?” says Mac, looking awake for the first time this morning.
“Yeah, definitely. I remember seeing it on him, Mac. Backstage. This is his, I know it is.”
Mac plucks a tennis ball out of his pocket and bounces
Rocky Horror
posters in the theater window, he just carries on walking the dog and huffing. I check the dumpsters. No sign of Jackson at all.
“So what are you going to do with him,
if
we find him?” says Mac as we round the corner and head down into the center of town. Alfie sniffs right around the base of a post box outside Fancy That, the costume shop.
“I don’t know,” I say, which I know is the wrong answer as soon as it leaves my cold steamy mouth. Mac rolls his eyes as if to say, “Should have known,” and lingers with Alfie by the doorway of the British Heart Foundation. “I should have stayed awake with him. I should have looked after him better. He needs looking after. He must have been scared to wake up in a strange place.”
“No, I mean you have to call someone, Jody. This is going to be all over the news in a couple of hours, if it isn’t already, you do know that?”
“Not the national news,” I say.
“Yeah, the national news. And not just those nice-suited and booted BBC-type news bulletins, either. Paparazzi sites. Those nasty, money-grabbing, Princess Di–chasing wankers in dirty raincoats with a blood lust for down-on-their-luck celebs. And he’s a major celebrity, Jody. ‘
Rock Star Kidnapped’
is going to make headlines,
world
headlines, no matter how many people know who he is.”
“Nobody knows he was kidnapped,” I say, watching as Alfie loops around the wire catalog basket outside the Argos store.
“They
will
know. That tramp woman from the rest stop saw him.”
“She wouldn’t have known it was him.”
“Those cars that beeped at us on the motorway coming home? George Milne walking his bloody sheepdog past the pub last night? They all saw him.”
I shake my head. “They didn’t. The cars beeped for the sake of it. They didn’t see him.”
“George Milne definitely saw us. He definitely saw Jackson.”
My voice is getting higher and higher with all my protesting. “He saw you, he saw me, and some drunk guy being helped out of a car. That’s not suspicious. And George is about eighty and half-blind. He’s not going to look at some breaking news flash on TV and immediately think, ‘
Ooh, I wonder if that was the bloke I saw outside the pub last night.
’”
“Think what you like but this is a small town, Jody, with even smaller-minded people living in it. Someone’s bound to make the connection between a dark-haired girl leaving Cardiff Arena last night with a figure shrouded in a black coat and a missing rock star from said venue.”
I sigh, my breath a great spreading cloud before me, and I pull the sleeves of my hoodie down over my freezing white fists. Alfie is still buzzing around every little nook and cranny in the town, his nose on the brink of discovery at every turn by the look of it, but every stop he makes is just another false hope. More faded dog piss. Another dropped potato chip.
Alfie lingers outside the post office. Then he stops altogether and sits down, panting and looking up at Mac. I look at Mac.
“What is it? What is it, Alf? What did you find?”
The dog dips his nose and then looks up again at Mac, panting, his tongue hanging out of his smiling mouth as if to say, “I told you I was onto something.”
But there’s nothing there. No sign of anyone or anything. Just some scraps of litter. Balled-up receipts. A couple of plastic bottle tops. A ring pull from a can.
No, not a ring pull. A key. A silver key attached to a long black string.
I bend down and pick it up. “This is his. It’s Jackson’s key pendant.”
“Are you sure?” says Mac, looking awake for the first time this morning.
“Yeah, definitely. I remember seeing it on him, Mac. Backstage. This is his, I know it is.”
Mac plucks a tennis ball out of his pocket and bounces
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