All That Is Lost Between Us (6 page)

As soon as he wheels his bike out of the garage and sets off along the lane, Zac feels calmer. He loves riding along the narrow, winding paths out of Fellmere towards Ambleside. He revels in the energy-sapping climbs, and the thrill of freewheeling the descents. His friend Cooper is always keen for them to travel together, since they are the only two boys who live in Fellmere, but when they do it's an endless competition of speed and style, and Zac arrives at school feeling frazzled. When he's alone it's just the ride itself, the shifting of speeds and gears, and he can let his mind drift without being goaded.

He has so much time to spare this morning that he sets himself a meandering route cross country, one he is sure his mother wouldn't approve of, but he needs to think.

The characters he manipulated in Black Ops were always picking up grenades and using them without hesitation. He was beginning to get an idea of just how different it was when you had a real one lying in your hand, the pin unplugged, and you alone responsible for the direction it travelled, and with whom it collided on the way.

He can't stand being alone with this secret, and yet there is no one he can tell. What would his parents do if they saw that photograph? Is there any way he could have misinterpreted what he had seen? He hadn't thought so, but now, as he cycles on the empty path, with the day fresh and stirring around him, he begins to doubt. Maybe his mind has played a trick on him. Maybe he has got it all wrong.

His thoughts are still whirling when he realises he is on the spirit road. Whenever he sees the corpse stone he feels uneasy, but it's probably nothing more than the recurring twinge of humiliation from when, as a boy of seven, his older sister and cousins had run away from him here, leaving him so terrified that he had cried until they stepped out from behind a tree, laughing. He can never help but wonder just how many dead bodies have been set down to rest temporarily upon that spot. Despite its association with the dead, this section of the track always feels more alive than the rest – the grass moving energetically in the smallest breeze, the rustles and whispers of the drying leaves a little louder than elsewhere, crunching emphatically under the bike's wheels.

Zac had thought he was above childish superstitions nowadays, but when he reaches the tarmacked section of the trail, the spindly branches of birch trees leaning towards him in welcome, it is as if his burden lightens. He feels not only relief but a renewed sense of purpose. He needs to see that photograph again. Only then can he make a decision about what to do next.

There is still plenty of time before school begins, so Zac heads straight down the path and approaches by road. The hardest section of the ride is inside the school gates, where there's a steep uphill climb to reach the bicycle racks. Zac loves catching sight of the main building, a gothic country house that was converted more than a century ago after two dedicated teachers pooled all their resources to buy it. Although this building represents the school in all its marketing material, it doesn't house any classrooms, which are instead tucked away among the foliage and found along a labyrinth of outdoor walkways. In Zac's opinion, the only other school with as much character is Hogwarts.

The school opens at eight and closes at seven, unless there are special evening events going on. Zac reaches the front entrance at a few minutes to eight, unsure if he'll be allowed in. He holds his pass out, and the gate buzzes and swings slowly open. He rides through and heads for the bike stands – unsurprisingly, he is the first there. He unbuckles his helmet and locks up his bike, then grabs his rucksack and heads through the main doors of the school building. It's so early that all he can hear is the sound of his footsteps on the polished board, and a couple of secretaries chatting in the admin rooms at the other end of the corridor. His stomach begins to complain, and he berates himself for not grabbing something to eat before he left the house.

He heads hopefully to the dining room. It is his favourite place in the school – not just for the food, but because the low-lying building has windows instead of walls running along one side, with a view right across the valley towards the northernmost tip of Lake Windermere. In one corner of the room stands a polished wooden boat that had once belonged to Arthur Ransome – as a young boy Zac had often dreamed of sailing it to his own secret island. But when he gets there the doors are locked, and the canteen won't be open for another thirty minutes. He doesn't want to wait that long.

Instead, he decides to visit the rec room on the opposite side of campus, and try the vending machine. Perhaps there will be someone there prepared to give him a game of table football, although it's a long shot. Most of his friends will only just be hauling themselves out of bed right now, just like Zac on any other day.

As he crosses the main school courtyard, he gets a good view down the hill, and spots a few cars snaking their way along the school driveway. Soon these paths will be full of his peers, gossiping and speculating about what happened last night to his sister and his cousin. He hurries on, nausea replacing his hunger.

When he gets to the rec room he looks around and his heart sinks – not one boy in here yet, just a few groups of girls. He scans quickly for Maddie, but isn't surprised to find that she's not there. Two of her best friends are, though – Jacinta and Zoe, leaders of the beautiful crowd. He's never known them to be here so early, and he curses his bad luck. They are deep in conversation and he turns again, hoping to find a quiet corner in which to hunker down before he is noticed. Alas, one of them shouts, ‘Zac!' Reluctantly, he turns and walks over.

‘OMG, we heard about Sophia,' Zoe says, as they both scrutinise him, eager eyes shining with curiosity rather than concern, searching for more tidbits. They remind him of the crows along the valley who gather at the first sign of a picnic.

‘Have you spoken to Maddie?' he asks, already hurt at the thought she may have made contact with them first.

‘Not yet. So, what happened?'

Zac shrugs. ‘Hit-and-run. Georgia was there too, but she got out of the way in time.'

The girls stare at one another in showy horror. Zac feels uneasy. He turns to go.

‘Zac,' Jacinta says behind him.

There is a high, callous edge to her voice that makes Zac think of a cat toying with its prey. He turns, ready for the strike.

‘You need to get over Maddie,' Jacinta says, as primly as any schoolteacher. ‘She's your cousin. It's a little bit sick.'

Behind her, Zoe puts a hand over her mouth and titters.

Zac pauses while he takes in what he just heard. ‘She's my uncle's stepdaughter,' he responds eventually, but he knows his face is betraying him. He can feel his cheeks burning.

‘O-kay . . .' Jacinta laughs, her jaw jutting out in a horrible guffaw, a glint in her eye that brings to mind one word –
bitch
– that Zac stops himself from saying aloud – but only just.

‘Piss off, Jacinta,' he snaps instead, and walks away before they can say more, hearing both girls burst into laughter behind him. He heads for the toilet where he sits in a cubicle while his face returns to its normal colour. In those few minutes he despairs of ever understanding girls. Does Maddie laugh at him behind his back too? He had thought they were friends, but does she just see him as a lovesick pup?

Women
, he thinks,
nothing but trouble,
recalling a refrain he's heard countless times from his friends, his dad and his uncle.
Time to toughen up, Zac
, he tells himself. Or, as Cooper would say,
Don't be a pussy all your life.

Just then his mobile rings. There are so many people he doesn't want to talk to right now that he nearly doesn't bother looking at it. But curiosity gets the better of him and he takes it out of his pocket.

Maddie.

Embarrassment still rules him, and before he can think, he has rejected the call. As soon as he cuts her off, he regrets it. He should have found out if Sophia is okay. Yet, however much he wants to know, he can still feel his face burning at her friends' words, and he can't quite bring himself to call back.

G
eorgia's alarm goes off punctually at 7.30 – it's time to get ready for school. She emerges from a haze, unsure how much she has actually slept, because in the small hours when she finally managed to doze she became lost in an assault of terrifying images that felt much closer to her consciousness than a nightmare. The aching weariness of her body suggests that she has had little rest, but that could just be a reaction to the events of last night.

Sophia
, she thinks with a jolt. Automatically, she checks her phone. Sophia sometimes messages before school – usually something funny about her family and their fights for the bathroom, or just to say hello. But there is no cheery greeting this morning, and the sense of unreality that has begun to cushion Georgia's distress pops like a balloon. Last night was no dream. Sophia is in hospital somewhere. Sophia has been hurt.

Georgia's arm and elbow begin to throb, and she reaches for the painkillers on her bedside table. She removes the dressing and looks at the wound – while it's sore it is obviously superficial, which is a relief. The fell-running championship is tomorrow, and this is not just another race. Georgia has a point to prove.

While she has been sleeping, at least a dozen new messages from friends have arrived via text or Facebook, asking if she's okay. She hadn't realised what strange hours everyone keeps until now. Plus, right at the bottom as she scrolls, her phone tells her she has missed a call. She clicks on the little box and is taken to her call register, where a number she doesn't recognise is highlighted in red, the word ‘unknown' written underneath. It is the call from last night, the one she hadn't had time to take before that car had stolen up behind them and turned life on its head. She dials her message bank, but whoever it was hasn't left a voicemail. She considers phoning the number, but she doesn't like not knowing who she's ringing, and besides, it's still so early. If they really want her, they will call her back, won't they?

Of course, it could be
him
, but unless he's changed his number she already has it in her phone. She realises that for the first time since term started, she had nearly got out of bed without completing her morning ritual. She reaches down the side of her bed for her diary, pulls out the photograph and stares at it, frowning. Why does she still do this? Perhaps because there is little else to remind her that it had been real. She quickly pushes the photo back between the pages and hides the diary again. Then she falls back on her bed, remembering.

•  •  •

It had rained all summer. It drove Georgia mad, not just the rain itself but the fact that it was all anyone seemed to talk about. Apparently it was stopping people from having a life, though it made little difference to Georgia. Each morning she ran her usual route, which took her through the woods, past the top edge of the school grounds and around in a large loop back towards home. By the time she'd finished the five kilometres, her shoes, socks and legs were invariably splattered with mud. She could count on her mother to make mention of how dirty she was as soon as she walked in, which always riled Georgia. What was the problem? Everything washed. Okay, her trainers would never be the same, but nothing stayed new forever.

For the first half of the holidays, Georgia's afternoon ritual was just as consistent as her morning runs: hanging out with Sophia at the shops or in one another's bedrooms. Then in August, Sophia's family went off to France for three weeks to visit Helene's relatives, and time seemed to slacken while Georgia waited for them to come back. The long, empty afternoons became loose and aimless, and the rain finally began to bother her too.

It was during this time that she first saw him. He had raced past her on the final uphill section in the woods before she turned onto the gravel path near her house. He was so close, almost sprinting, it seemed to her, and she could time her footsteps to his heavy breaths. He didn't look back and she watched him disappear between the trees, neon trainers flashing. By the end of the day she had forgotten about him.

On the second occasion they passed one another while she was on the outward leg of her run, and he caught her eye and smiled. He looked a bit older than Georgia – early twenties, maybe – and because his black T-shirt clung to him in the persistent drizzle she couldn't fail to notice the sculpted curves of his torso. He was absent the next day, but there he was again the following morning, and as she carried on past him she heard him shout, ‘Hey!' When she stopped and looked around he was walking back to her, the rain dripping down his face. His skin was tanned, his short hair a deep, rich brown, and his eyes had a friendly slant to them. When he fixed his gaze on her, Georgia was glad she was already red from running.

‘You do this every day?' he asked.

She nodded.

‘I didn't think there was anyone else out there as nuts as me,' he laughed, holding his hands out to catch the downpour. ‘Running in the rain.'

‘I did the Derwent Water swim back in May,' she told him. ‘And I thought I might have a go at the Keswick triathlon next year.'

He nodded. ‘I haven't heard of them, but I'm new to the area. I've done a couple of Ironmans in my time, though.' He held his hand out. ‘I'm Leo.'

‘Georgia,' she replied, taking his hand, finding it hot and slippery.

‘Well, good luck, Georgia,' he said, beginning to jog backwards as he spoke. Then he turned around. ‘See you tomorrow!' he shouted with his arm raised in a wave.

She had thought that was the end of it. Even though she began to watch out for him on her runs. Even though she made sure she always set off at the same time, to increase her chances of bumping into him. And even though she became acutely aware of how she looked when she ran, making an effort to keep her back straight and her head high, cursing herself when she stumbled. She would anticipate each sharp turn, wondering if she might see him on the track, and a frustrating week followed when all she saw was the empty route ahead of her.