Follow Me Back (16 page)

L
IZZIE.
I
SEE
her in the crowd, I see her everywhere. Hats pulled down low over blonde hair, faces in shadow. But each time I get closer, she disappears like smoke, the faces instantly not hers. I make my way out of the station and nobody stops me, nobody is waiting for me, stationary in the stream of passengers.

When I’m outside, I fish out my phone and I send ‘Autumn’ – and already it’s hard
not think
Lizzie
– a message. I take a photo looking back at the station, and I type:

I look up after I’ve sent it, because it’s too tense watching and waiting for a reply. From where I am, I can see the pretty red brick buildings of St Pancras and I remember a late-night conversation with Lizzie about it, and about Harry Potter.

I wish I’d sent a picture of it instead of the actual King’s Cross. Little
in-joke for her.

Stop. You don’t know that it’s Lizzie.

I watch the people waiting for buses along the edge of the square, and the people walking through the square, around it, heads down. It’s only now, coming back, that I fully realise how easy it is to lose yourself in London, how easy it is to disappear into a crowd and never come out again. And the thought doesn’t scare me or intimidate
me.

It makes me jealous.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look back down at it.

I get up and head for the entrance to the Tube. It’s almost three, so not yet as crazily busy as rush hour, but there’s still plenty of people, a lot of them dragging suitcases and bags.
I hurry down the steps, already planning ahead, remembering Covent Garden station and wondering where ‘Autumn’ –
Lizzie –
will want to meet.

I’ve still got my old Oyster card, in the battered old case Millie, one of my friends here, gave me when we were eleven. It used to have logos all over it – sports stuff, Adidas, Nike – but it’s got so faded from being put in and out of pockets that it’s
just white smudges against the red plastic now. I go to a top-up point and press it against the sensor. Still £4.17 on there, from god knows how long ago, so I turn back round and head for the gates that lead to the Piccadilly line.

On the escalator, I can’t help the feeling that I’m on my way somewhere I can’t turn back from, like I’m walking to my doom, a prisoner shuffling down Death Row.
But I’m not afraid. I feel solid, settled. For the first time in a week, I don’t feel like my heart’s about to burst out of my chest. Because at least I’m
doing
something, at least there’s a chance I’m about to find some answers.

The platform is starting to fill up; three minutes to go until the next westbound train. I head for an emptyish space near the middle and take my place behind the yellow
line next to an old man hunched over a paper and a mum with a baby in one of those carriers on her chest.
Baby
. I think of the tiny clothes in the photo. What if Lizzie lied? What if she
didn’t
make a mistake? My stomach churns at the thought.

Two minutes on the screen now, and the baby starts to cry. It’s a tiny sound, almost lost in the hum of the Underground, more of a mew than a cry, but
it cuts through me in a way it never has before. I watch the mum jiggle it back and forth, fanning herself with a magazine.

One minute on the screen now, and Lizzie’s quotes start filling my head again.

fifty per cent illusion

all the men and women merely players

The platform is almost full now, people filling the gaps between us, drawing in behind me. Sweat beads on my back. I can’t
stop a crawling feeling that travels through me, the baby’s crying getting louder. But at least the train’s coming now; two circles of bright, blueish light appearing around a bend in the blackness of the tunnel, the tracks vibrating.

I am not what I am

My hair lifts away from my face in the manmade breeze, the train roaring down the tunnel, its brakes screeching.

That’s when two hands
find the centre of my back.

And push.

I
T’S AMAZING HOW
easy it is; how quickly it happens. One minute I’m behind him, the next my hands are on his back and then he’s falling, tumbling over the edge of the platform, and my hands are touching nothing but air. The train’s thundering up to us, its lights the only thing I see. All I can think – a conscious, clear thought as time around us goes soupy slow – is that this
is exactly, this is
all
, I wanted: to see Aiden fall.

And then time snaps back and my hand closes around the thinnest sliver of his jacket and I pull him back, just as the train smacks past us.

T
HE TRACKS LURCH
up at me. Maybe this is the point when I’m supposed to see my life flash in front of my eyes but in reality, when it happens, all I see are the dirty tracks, the dusty concrete and the huge red front of the train, its glaring lights, as it roars towards me. And then someone is pulling me back, the world tipping upright again, and I stumble, my head bobbing back and the
ceiling swimming above me. The train pulls in to a stop and the doors open, people pushing past to get off, people pushing past to get on, my heart stamping against my ribs, my lungs heaving.

I can’t believe that just happened
, I think, and at the same time, I realise that
that just happened
. I wheel around, ready to lay into whoever pushed me.

I wheel around and I see. I finally see who’s
been tormenting me all along; who ‘Autumn Thomas’ really is. And the weird thing is that the first thing I think of is Ladlow. I hear his voice in my head, just a couple of days ago, and it all makes sense.

Excellent work, dear Thomas.

Scobie.

Scobie is standing in front of me, panting like he’s run a marathon, his glasses slipping down his face.

We stare at each other, neither of us
caring about the people passing; only a few of them slowing, wondering if they’re about to see a fight.

‘You?’ I say, and though I mean it like an insult, it comes out as a question.

‘Me,’ he spits.

I stagger back a little. ‘But… why? Why would you do that to me?’

‘
Why
?! Don’t you think you deserve it, Aiden? After what you did to her?’

The train slides away. The platform is almost
empty now; just the last few people straggling towards the exit, the first few new passengers making their way along it.

‘You have no idea, do you?’ Scobie says, and I notice that his hands are shaking. ‘She was so sweet, so kind… And then
you
came along. And you broke her heart.’

Suddenly I realise I’m close to tears. ‘Scobie, I –’

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it, Aiden, don’t you
dare
. I saw her that night, at the prom. I found her outside the Rec, in bits, because of what you said to her. What you
did
. She told me everything.’

‘Everything alright, lads?’ One of the station staff has come along the platform to us, a hand on her walkie-talkie.

‘Yeah.’ My mouth feels dry, my legs like they might give way. ‘Yeah, we’re fine.’

She looks at us doubtfully. ‘You getting on the
next train?’

‘No,’ Scobie says firmly. ‘We’re going. Come on, Aiden.’

He heads for the stairwell and I follow, dazed, my mind trying to catch up with my legs. ‘You saw her that night?’

He gives me a disgusted look. ‘You’d abandoned her. You pushed her down the stairs!’

I grab his wrist. ‘No. I
didn’t
. It was an accident, Scobie. You must know that.
She
must’ve known that.’

He pulls his
hand away. ‘You hurt her so much, Aiden. And you’ve spent this whole time denying any responsibility.’

The woman with the walkie-talkie follows us to the bottom of the steps and so we keep moving, heading for the escalator. But my senses are returning, and with them, anger.

‘
Me
? What about you? Did you do it to her as well? Did you set up another profile, make friends with Lizzie too? Found
a photo you thought she’d like?’

‘What?’ He takes a step back, looking genuinely disturbed. ‘No. No way. I would never do that to Lizzie.’

‘Why should I believe you?’

He looks away in disgust. ‘Why would I help you figure out Hal Paterson was a fake if
I
was the one behind it all?’

I look at Scobie. My friend. My best friend, looking back at me as if I’m scum. My best friend who’s been
lying to me all this time. Who just pushed me in front of a train. Who I’ve been lying to, too.

‘Why did you bring me here?’ I ask.

We’re clogging up the flow now, standing at the foot of the escalators, people tutting and shooting glares at us as they have to skirt round. Scobie leans closer.

‘We’re going to find out what happened to her.’

‘Me and you?’

‘Me and you. You owe her that.’

And because I know he’s right, I follow him onto the escalator.

T
HE DAY THE
phone rang, I was home alone, watching a re-run of
Spoilt in the Suburbs
while I fried a Nutella sandwich in a pan. I was hungover and feeling lonely, I guess, but in that weird way when you know that if someone actually
did
show up, you wouldn’t feel like talking to them. I flicked through Facebook while I ate my sandwich. Messages from Lauren, who’d been sick on her new suede
boots the night before and – less surprisingly – cheated on Deacon. And from Oli, a guy from the Upper Sixth who I’d been hanging out with at the party. I’d let him kiss me, and I’d gone upstairs with him, but then I got bored. His messages were boring, too – but not as boring as having nobody to message.

So I replied, lying on my front on my bed, laptop and half-eaten sandwich in front of me,
the TV on for company.
Spoilt in the Suburbs
was over so I watched some cooking dating show thing and thought about how the girl on it was too pretty for the guy she was making dinner for. I told Oli I was watching a horror film and I was scared, and he said I could hide behind him anytime I wanted.

Predictable.

I rolled onto my back and found my phone under the pillow. I had a text from my
mum – they’d be home late, they’d ended up meeting some friends in town for lunch. I saw one from Marnie that I must have opened half-asleep that morning.

Are you okay?
it read.
Just got your voicemail. Call me
.
Followed by about a million kisses. Which probably meant I’d called her drunk and cried about Aiden. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to talk to him all the time and I couldn’t, because
he’d ruined it.

And then my phone rang. A number I didn’t recognise, so I normally wouldn’t have picked up. But I suddenly remembered the guy with the pretty eyes I’d met on my way home the night before, so I answered, one hand wandering for the other half of my sandwich.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi.’ His voice so calm, so gentle. ‘Lizzie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s Hal.’

Hal. I sat up, my heart thumping.
He called. He actually called
. I’d been waiting for this moment since the beginning of summer.

‘Hi.’
Be cool
.

The truth is, there was something special about Hal. He knew how to make me laugh, knew instinctively the things that would annoy me and the way to cheer me up about them. When I had a bad day or a good day, it was Hal I wanted to speak to, Hal I immediately typed a message to. He’d
started out as second best to Aiden but he was so much better.

Except for the fact that he wouldn’t meet me. He wouldn’t call either, and he always had a good reason – his phone was broken or the reception was bad or all of the above – and I couldn’t argue with it. But he was there, even late at night or early in the morning, when I wanted,
needed
, to talk. And that was worth way more than
the boys with pretty eyes or the ones I kissed in back gardens or bathrooms.

But now he
had
called. Now I was hearing his voice. Without even thinking, I put a hand up and smoothed down my hair.

‘How you doing?’ he asked.

‘I’m good.’ Did I sound breathless? I felt breathless.

‘Good.’ The hint of a smile in his voice. I clicked on his profile picture on Facebook, imagined the corners of
his mouth twitching.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m okay. Listen, I’ve got the whole day free. Do you want to meet up?’

I got up and started rifling through my wardrobe. ‘Umm. Today? I don’t know if… In London?’

‘Yeah babe.’
Babe
. It went through me, a bolt of the best feeling ever. ‘Just a little train ride, right?’

He was quoting my words back to me. I’d said it to him so many times, trying
to persuade him to come and see me. I could hardly argue.

‘Okay. Yeah, I think I could make it.’ I’d already plugged my straighteners in, had half a face of foundation on. ‘Where do you want to meet?’

‘There’s a bar,’ he said. ‘Up in Angel. It’s not too far from King’s Cross. The Winchester?’

‘Can you send me directions?’ I asked, already Googling it.

‘Sure, babe,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you
soon.’

When we hung up, I looked at myself in the mirror.
This is it
, I thought.
This guy is perfect
.