Flesh and Blood (6 page)

She had to be covering up about the dog, just like her mother. She just had to be. I suppose I was being pathetically naïve, but I simply couldn’t reconcile this funny, beautiful girl with today’s theories and discussions about the previous night.

It actually went through my mind that perhaps I should keep that appointment at her mother’s surgery after all. For a few moments, I genuinely wondered if I was in need of help and advice. That’s how quickly and easily the Emma Greenhill effect had entered my bloodstream.

Emma hurried forward and flung her arms around the man. “What are you doing here, Pops? Are you spying on me?”

“I was out for a walk, my love, when I saw all
these youngsters coming out of school. I thought I might as well stop and wait for you.”

He was wiry and upright, ex-military if his regimented body language was anything to go by. He was wrapped in a camel hair coat, with a striped scarf tucked neatly round his neck. His shoes were polished to a shine, and the walking stick seemed to be an affectation, since he clearly didn’t need to lean on it. His face was wrinkled and rough, but his eyes were bright and glittering. The sprightliest pensioner I’d ever seen. His white hair was slicked back, in a 1950s style. He certainly bore no resemblance to the macabre, cadaverous thing at the window.

“Pops, this is my new friend Sam Hunter. Sam, this is my grandfather.”

‘My new friend’ she called me! My heart raced.

Something in the man’s tone told me that he knew perfectly well who I was. “So you’re one of the new people at number three, are you?” His voice was snappy and commanding, the no-nonsense voice of someone used to hearing the word ‘yes’ a lot. “Pleasure to meet you, lad.”

“Thank you. I’ve now met most of my new neighbours.”

“Indeed,” he said.

“We can all walk home together,” said Emma.

“I think Sam has an appointment, don’t you, Sam?” said her grandad.

My mind did a kind of double take.

Emma looked at me. They were both looking at me, kindly but expectant. Insistent.

“I didn’t realize, Sam,” said Emma. “Sorry, you go ahead.”

She knew what appointment he meant. She didn’t have to ask. A twist of nerves tightened in my gut.

“I, er…” I stumbled. “I’ll have to give it a miss, I’m afraid. I’ve got lots of homework.”

The old man’s glittering eyes took me apart piece by piece, but his expression was carefully benevolent, a hard mask of sympathy and understanding that pulled the twist inside me even tighter.

“Oh. Now, that’s disappointing.” His words were heavy with disapproval, a passive-aggressive gentility that made me want to leap to attention, to apologize unreservedly, to rush to where I was supposed to be.

“Another time,” I said hurriedly.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better for a chat,” he said.
“No?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Oh dear,” he said amiably, “my daughter-in-law will have gone to some trouble to clear her schedule, but not to worry, of course. Your choice.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam,” said Emma brightly, shining her smile on me.

“Yes,” I said.

I rushed away. It might be more accurate to say I fled.

The events of the previous night had given me cause to believe that the Greenhills weren’t quite as squeaky clean as their reputation suggested, that they were harbouring some sort of secret.

On top of that, I now had to add a second suspicion: that there was some kind of ulterior motive for my appointment with Emma’s mother. It wasn’t neighbourliness on the part of Dr Greenhill, it wasn’t the kindly attentions of a hard-working GP.

There was something more to it. Why else would both Emma and her grandfather even be aware of it? What this ulterior motive could possibly be, I hadn’t the faintest idea. All I knew was that by avoiding the appointment, I was clearly causing annoyance.

If I hadn’t left my room the previous night, then I might not even have noticed the Greenhills’ strangely unified front on the subject of the surgery. However, with seeds of suspicion already sown in my mind, this new development made those seeds sprout and flourish. I couldn’t for one minute imagine what connection there might be between my experience the previous night and Caroline Greenhill’s appointment book, but I was in no doubt whatsoever that a connection was there. I just had to find it.

I have to confess, in seeking answers I was at least partly motivated by selfishness, by a desire to write something that Jo’s dad would accept. I wanted to bring in a story, plain and simple. A good one. I wanted to get ahead, as my parents had never managed to do. I wanted to prove, to myself and to the
Hadlington Courier
, that I
could
be a serious journalist, and that I wasn’t playing around. I suppose, looking back, I had what my mum would have called a chip on my shoulder.

About three hours later, when Mum, Dad and I were having our tea around the table in the dining room,
I discovered that both Mum and Dad had kept their appointments with Dr Greenhill, earlier in the day. I looked back and forth between them, resting my knife and fork on my plate.

“And what happened?” I said.

“At the surgery?” said Dad, cutting up a roast potato. “Nothing. What d’you mean?”

“What did Dr Greenhill do?”

“Do?” he said. “Nothing. We chatted.”

“About what?”

“It’s private,” said Mum. “Patient confidentiality.”

“About what?” I insisted.

Dad shrugged. “General health stuff. My medical history. A chat.”

“Did she examine you?” I said. “Prescribe you anything?”

“Don’t be nosy,” said Dad.

“Did she?”

“Don’t be nosy, Sam,” said Mum.

Dad chuckled. “She really is a striking woman, that Caroline Greenhill.”

Mum tutted gently and shook her head. “Haven’t the fitters done a good job on the carpets.” She rubbed her socks against the freshly laid floor.

I was so wrapped up in my own concerns that it didn’t register with me at the time, not properly, but both of them seemed in a slightly odd mood. Slightly fuzzy, as if they’d had a few drinks, yet fully alert. It’s hard to describe. It seemed as if their thoughts were always on something else, somewhere else, as if they were wrapped up in an inner problem that needed immense thought.

If only I’d taken more notice of it, there and then.

“I tell you what,” said Dad, “It’s nice to find a GP who takes the time to do regular check-ups for her patients.”

“It is.” Mum nodded.

“What do you need regular check-ups for?” I exclaimed.

“It’s recommended,” said Mum, as if I was asking a stupid question.

“Who by?” I said.

“We’re not getting any younger, you know,” said Dad. “It’s time we looked after ourselves.”

“You’re only just over fifty,” I said. “You’re not exactly senile.”

“I saw Mrs Gifford earlier,” said Mum. “They have check-ups with Doctor Greenhill, too, and so do the
Daltons. How are you getting on with Emma?”

“Emma?” I blinked. “Fine.”

That shut me up.

“That’s nice,” said Mum. “I hear she’s a lovely girl.”

Days went by in a blur. I really was very busy with homework. There was more to catch up on than Liam had estimated. Most of it was relatively straightforward, but some of the science and maths were brain-numbing.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened for a while. Because there were no further developments, and nothing more I could add to the news report I was compiling in my head, my nervousness abated slightly, as nerves usually do.

My uneasiness about the Greenhills began to slip to the back of my mind, just a little. I think what encouraged my gradual change of heart was that Emma was just so … well, normal.

I stayed friendly with her. Perhaps I should say she stayed friendly with me. We talked about this and that, as if nothing had happened and nothing unusual was ever likely to happen, but I didn’t go
out of my way to be part of her circle, or anything like that. I have to admit, if I’m being honest, I was pleased – no, not pleased: delighted, and flattered – that her popularity reflected back on me, so that many more people started to say ‘hi’ to the new kid.

Recording it all now, I feel ashamed for falling in line like that, but being accepted and liked by my peers had a powerful pull. I was drawn to Emma, there’s no denying it.

I did try to act casual with her, even uninterested, because I still didn’t know what to make of her. On the one hand, she never wavered from being the most-admired girl in our year group, if not the whole school. She was her regular, lively, very-easy-to-like self. On the other hand, my doubts and strange misgivings about her family continued to circle in the background, like a shark waiting to strike.

I spent a lot of time with Emma in the couple of weeks before half term. It was purely by chance that the two of us were assigned to the same coursework project in English: assembling a website containing full details on a local issue or event.

Thinking about it now, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Emma, or her family, pulled the
odd string and had us put together deliberately. In order for her to keep an eye on me, I mean, to make sure that I wasn’t doing anything they might not like. I’ve no evidence for it, just the vaguest impression. When we found out what the coursework would entail, before we were split into workgroups, I happened to mention to Emma that I was keen on a career in investigative journalism. I only said it off the top of my head, in passing, but I said it because – again, I’m ashamed to admit – I wanted her to like me. Maybe even admire me.

“Yeah?” she said, smiling. I took the cheery expression on her face to be approval but, thinking back, it might have been something else. It might have been masking her real reaction.

I prefer to believe that our team-up for the assignment was simply one of those things. But you never know.

“You jammy sod,” said Liam with a grin, when the coursework lists were posted up in our classroom. “She’s not even in our tutor group!”

“Dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it,” I smiled. “At least you’re with Jo, and not lumbered with some useless hanger-on. She’s not in our tutor group either.”

“Ah, bless our school’s inclusive cross-curricular policies,” grinned Liam. I don’t think he meant to show how pleased he was. I never did get to the bottom of his reluctance to tell Jo how he felt about her.

Emma suggested, sensibly, that our project cover the reopening of the Hadlington public library, partly because it was a ready-made story that perfectly fitted the bill, but mostly because her family’s involvement in the whole thing gave us quick access to useful stuff. Detailed plans of the library building, past and present, for example, and an interview with the guy in charge of the refurbishments.

The Greenhills had personally donated a large sum to the town authorities, in order to prevent the library from closing. Its interior was being completely redesigned and refitted by firms whose bosses were personal friends of the family. Five years earlier, they’d funded a nearby centre for drug-addiction treatment, under similar circumstances.

Our project went well. Emma and I assembled our material with efficiency, and we collaborated on constructing the website, me on overall construction (with some input from Liam), she on design and
navigation.

I need to record the details of one particular conversation we had. It didn’t really strike me as anything odd or unexpected at the time, but it has a direct bearing on what I discovered later. It’s not that she let anything slip exactly, it’s that she revealed things that became relevant to my later understanding of the Greenhills, and their true nature. It marked a small change in how I felt about her.

We were close to finishing the project. It was a Thursday, and the completed thing had to be in on Monday morning. We were in what the school pretentiously calls the learning resources room, sitting on armless foam lounging chairs, with school laptops on our knees. Kids padded around the bookshelves that stood in long rows before us, and a teacher marked homework behind the curved information desk nearby.

“Have you got the photo from last week’s
Courier
?” I asked.