can do, however he looks at me, whatever questions he asks, he can’t make me say things I don’t want to say. The secret is hugged inside, where no one can get to it, no one except me, where I can say his name over and over and no one can hear it.
His name is Adam, I say silently, looking at my father’s back. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Lies are like dough or malignant tumors. They get bigger. I meet Adam at lunchtimes. On Tuesday evenings, when I walk to the library with books that don’t need changing, or Thursday evenings, at running club, only neither of us puts on the trainers we’re carrying. We just walk.
It takes a few weeks, the shortest, sweetest time, to learn what it is to trust. To know he won’t hurt me for no reason. That he’ll be where he says he’ll be. That nothing will change out of the blue, without warning.
Until it does.
One day, when I get to school, Emma is cool with me, then sits with Leah Williams, their backs to me. Adam isn’t in school. Then on Thursday, he doesn’t meet me at running club.
Next time I see him, it’s between classes. He’s walking along a corridor toward me; then about ten feet away, he looks up and sees me. Freezes. My heart does that flutter, but then I see his eyes. Cold, hurt, staring at mine, full of hostility and broken promises. Then he turns and walks away, and my friendship with Emma follows, like his shadow.
I never find out why. I just remind myself that no one’s different. People are all the same. You can’t trust any of them. You can’t have faith in them, because eventually, they will always let you down.
Only now, as I watch myself, my head staring at the floor, filled with those black words, Adam’s back disappearing down the corridor, I see how wrong I was. There are such good people. People worth taking a risk for. If I’d run after Adam, questioned Emma, made them tell me the truth: Adam walking back from the library that night. The car slowing, drawing up alongside, the window winding down. Adam stopping. His lovely, warm face friendly. Opening his mouth with a greeting that isn’t uttered, instead forced to listen as foul threats and abusive words are hurled in his face. The car driving away.
My father’s car.
12
G race comes home, just briefly, a whirlwind of lightness and laughter. We go out riding, me on Zappa, her on Oz, in spite of the drizzle, which stubbornly refuses to let up. After a canter through the woods that leaves her cheeks pink and her eyes glowing, conversation inevitably turns to Rosie.
“Mum? Do you think they’ll ever find who did it?”
“I don’t know, Grace. I hope they do, because whoever it was deserves what’s coming to them.”
But it’s more than that. It’s too easy to forget as time passes, as the initial horror fades. Neal and Jo, all of us, our entire village in fact, still bearing the burden of Rosie’s death, we all deserve to know the truth.
We’re approaching the clearing where Rosie’s body was found, when at the top of the slope, I see the back of a man. I frown, trying to make out who it is. He’s too tall to be Neal. Then, as we get nearer, I see he’s younger and clearly distressed, his arms tightly folded, his shoulders heaving.
“What is it?” Grace follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”
“ Shh. Come on. Don’t stare.”
We walk past, but as I glance over my shoulder, he turns enough for me to see his face, red from crying, and I draw a breath, not because he’s a man who’s inconsolably, unbearably in pain, but because I know him.
“That was Jo’s gardener,” I tell Grace when we’re out of earshot. “Ex-gardener. His name’s Alex.”
“So what d’you think he’s doing there?”
I shrug. “Probably just paying his respects.”
Even though from what I saw, it was far more than that.
“Mum, it’s been ages. People do that stuff in the first days, not over two months later.”
“Not always.” I hesitate, wondering whether to tell her what I’m
His name is Adam, I say silently, looking at my father’s back. Adam. Adam. Adam.
Lies are like dough or malignant tumors. They get bigger. I meet Adam at lunchtimes. On Tuesday evenings, when I walk to the library with books that don’t need changing, or Thursday evenings, at running club, only neither of us puts on the trainers we’re carrying. We just walk.
It takes a few weeks, the shortest, sweetest time, to learn what it is to trust. To know he won’t hurt me for no reason. That he’ll be where he says he’ll be. That nothing will change out of the blue, without warning.
Until it does.
One day, when I get to school, Emma is cool with me, then sits with Leah Williams, their backs to me. Adam isn’t in school. Then on Thursday, he doesn’t meet me at running club.
Next time I see him, it’s between classes. He’s walking along a corridor toward me; then about ten feet away, he looks up and sees me. Freezes. My heart does that flutter, but then I see his eyes. Cold, hurt, staring at mine, full of hostility and broken promises. Then he turns and walks away, and my friendship with Emma follows, like his shadow.
I never find out why. I just remind myself that no one’s different. People are all the same. You can’t trust any of them. You can’t have faith in them, because eventually, they will always let you down.
Only now, as I watch myself, my head staring at the floor, filled with those black words, Adam’s back disappearing down the corridor, I see how wrong I was. There are such good people. People worth taking a risk for. If I’d run after Adam, questioned Emma, made them tell me the truth: Adam walking back from the library that night. The car slowing, drawing up alongside, the window winding down. Adam stopping. His lovely, warm face friendly. Opening his mouth with a greeting that isn’t uttered, instead forced to listen as foul threats and abusive words are hurled in his face. The car driving away.
My father’s car.
12
G race comes home, just briefly, a whirlwind of lightness and laughter. We go out riding, me on Zappa, her on Oz, in spite of the drizzle, which stubbornly refuses to let up. After a canter through the woods that leaves her cheeks pink and her eyes glowing, conversation inevitably turns to Rosie.
“Mum? Do you think they’ll ever find who did it?”
“I don’t know, Grace. I hope they do, because whoever it was deserves what’s coming to them.”
But it’s more than that. It’s too easy to forget as time passes, as the initial horror fades. Neal and Jo, all of us, our entire village in fact, still bearing the burden of Rosie’s death, we all deserve to know the truth.
We’re approaching the clearing where Rosie’s body was found, when at the top of the slope, I see the back of a man. I frown, trying to make out who it is. He’s too tall to be Neal. Then, as we get nearer, I see he’s younger and clearly distressed, his arms tightly folded, his shoulders heaving.
“What is it?” Grace follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”
“ Shh. Come on. Don’t stare.”
We walk past, but as I glance over my shoulder, he turns enough for me to see his face, red from crying, and I draw a breath, not because he’s a man who’s inconsolably, unbearably in pain, but because I know him.
“That was Jo’s gardener,” I tell Grace when we’re out of earshot. “Ex-gardener. His name’s Alex.”
“So what d’you think he’s doing there?”
I shrug. “Probably just paying his respects.”
Even though from what I saw, it was far more than that.
“Mum, it’s been ages. People do that stuff in the first days, not over two months later.”
“Not always.” I hesitate, wondering whether to tell her what I’m
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