Slated (31 page)

‘But we’re doing homework together,’ Amy protests, looks at Jazz.

‘So what? Do it. I’ll be home before Mum,’ I say. And they soon agree: though it is against ‘the rules’ for them to be in the house alone. Though Jazz asks where I am going, and says to stay off the back ways on my own. And I almost tell him the truth when I say I will stick to main roads, as I will: until I get to the lane that leads to Phoebe’s house.

Earlier today, our English teacher gave back our marked books. They were taken in when Phoebe was still here, and I spotted hers in the pile and slipped it inside mine. Written on the inside front cover was all I needed to know: Phoebe Best, Old Mill Farm. A library map has it just a few miles from our house.

Thump, thump
. My feet on the road lull me along, though not at my usual breakneck speed: I need time to think what to say. ‘Hello, your daughter has been Slated’ seems harsh.
Be careful.
Last thing I want is for them to storm the hospital and demand her back; bet it wouldn’t take long for the Lorders to pin the problem on me. And then there is her creepy uncle, Wayne: I haven’t run into him since that day on the footpath. I shudder. If his van is parked out front, the whole thing is off.

I almost run past the turn, without seeing the faded sign. ‘Old Mill Farm’ points to a narrow lane, more an overgrown rutted track than a road. Walking now, I set out along it. Trees soon lean and reach above making it closed in, a green tunnel.
Nowhere to hide.
Unease rises inside my gut. I slip off the track and push into the dense woods alongside.

According to the map it is half a mile to their house, but picking my way with no path through undergrowth and trees, it soon seems longer. Branches pull at my hair, brambles catch my clothes, and I look longingly at the lane.

Just as I stand, one foot forward and one back in indecision, engine sounds come from the direction of the house. A vehicle, coming fast: I duck in shadows next to a tree. Wheels spin on the lane as a white van goes past. I catch a glimpse of the driver as it rattles along: Wayne Best.

My heart sounds
thump-thump
in my ears. That was close. What would he have done if I’d been on the lane, and he’d spotted me scrambling out of the way? I must be mad.
Just be careful.

Another bend, and buildings are in sight. Though they look more like a collection of sprawling barns and outbuildings than a house, some of them half falling down. A fence and gate surrounds the lot. Out front is a metal graveyard, littered with shells and bits of rusted out cars, tractors and other machinery I cannot identify. None of the cars look operational: maybe no one is home? I consider turning around.
You’re here now.

One building to the right of the cluster looks to be falling down less than the others. There are a few straggly bushes in front of it, and an actual door rather than a hinged bit of wood.

I hesitate, then cross to the lane and open the gate. The lane becomes a track that leads off to the left behind the buildings; fields slope up beyond. Uneven chunks of concrete are spaced through mud at even intervals to lead a path through bits of machinery to the door.
Listen, first.
There are rustlings in the trees, behind; no voices, no radio.

I step out on to the first concrete step, and hop along to the next. They are soon so far apart I almost have to jump between them. The house is just a few steps away when there is a small noise, a movement, to my left. I turn.

Two eyes. Teeth, sharp teeth. A low rumbling growl. A big dog, maybe a mix of Alsatian and something else, and he doesn’t look happy.

I start to shake. Do I back up slowly, do I run, what? I eye the distance between me and the gate. Somehow I think if I run, he will chase. I’m fast, but not that fast: the gate is too far. I’m closer to the house.
Hold your ground.

He takes a few steps closer, growling still, then starts to bark.

I tremble with the effort not to run, and my stomach starts heaving. Sure, barf on the dog. That will improve his mood. I swallow and back up slowly, one step at a time, towards the house. Maybe, someone is home. Maybe the door is open, either way.

He growls deep in his throat, stalks towards me.

Run.

I bolt for the house. Jump at the step and scrabble at the handle. But it won’t turn: it is locked.

Maybe this is it.

He launches at me, so big a paw hits each shoulder and knocks me off the step and on my back in the dirt. My head thunks hard against the ground, my eyes fill with tears. Pinned down. Struggle – don’t struggle – no decision: frozen in fear I stare up at bared, sharp teeth; waves of hot, rank breath on my face; his eyes on mine. He growls.

‘Hold!’ A man’s voice.

The teeth go back inside the dog’s mouth but he doesn’t move, still heavy on my chest, growling rumbling through his paws into my shoulders.

Footsteps.

‘Well now Brute, what have you caught there? UP! So I can take a look.’

The dog –
Brute, huh
– jumps back. I sit up, start to stand.

‘Stay put,’ he says, scowling.

I sit back in the muck, and stare up at his face: close set eyes and greasy hair, so like Wayne he must be his brother. Phoebe’s dad?

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I’m Kyla. A f-f-f-friend of Phoebe’s,’ I manage to get out. Brute’s ears perk up when I say her name.

‘That worthless brat didn’t have any friends without four legs.’

‘We were in school together.’

‘So? You must know she ain’t here, then. What do you want?’

‘To see her mum.’

‘She ain’t here, either. Get lost.’

I stare back at him, and at Brute.

‘Go! Get up, and get out of here before I change my mind.’

I scramble up, and Brute growls louder. Hoping he’ll hold him, I dash for the gate. I’m nearly there when I hear thumping sounds, running, behind. Without turning I run the last few steps, rip the gate open and slam it shut. The latch clicks to just as Brute slams against it; it shudders, but holds. Phoebe’s dad is laughing by the house. ‘Don’t come back!’ he yells.

No chance.
See what happens when you try to do the right thing?
That is enough of that. Phoebe is a closed book to me from now on.

My Levo says 4.8: how? Just like when I was at the hospital, scared and running. Both times you’d expect my levels to plummet. I walk up the lane, too shaky to go through the woods this time, or to run. All at once it is too much; I stop and lunch heaves up out of my stomach.

Lovely. As if mud or worse all over me and a powerful headache aren’t enough.

Headache? I touch my hand to the back of my head, and wince. My fingers come away red: must have hit the ground harder than I realised. Since I was distracted by a snarling monster with bad breath and big teeth at the time.

I want to collapse on the ground, right here. Not caring where I am, or who might come along.
Get going
.

Nothing for it but a few miles walk home. I just start back up the lane when I hear something coming up behind, and spin round, terrified. Perhaps I’m not going away fast enough: has he sent Brute to hurry me along?

But it is a woman, half running towards me. She raises a hand. ‘Wait,’ she calls out, and reaches me, breathless, moments later. ‘Did you want to see me? I’m Phoebe’s mum.’

I stare back at her: thin, straggly hair tied up, lines etched around eyes full of care and worry. My resolve to have nothing more to do with Phoebe and her family wavers.

‘Do you know something about what happened to her? Please tell me, please.’

She grips on my arm, tight.

I nod, and wince with the movement.

‘Are you hurt? Let me see.’ And she gets out a hanky and dabs at the back of my head. ‘It’s just a small cut, maybe could use a stitch. I’m sorry about Brute. He’s been a monster since Phoebe went. He loved her.’

‘That dog was her pet?’

‘Oh yes. He used to follow her around, tail wagging, like an overgrown puppy. Made Bob so angry; he is a guard dog, after all.’ And when she says
Bob
a trace of fear crosses her face. Imagine being married to that man; imagine him being your
father
. She looks nervously back the way she came as if he might appear, and I start walking fast in the other direction.

She follows, her hand on my arm. A silent plea. And I hear Aiden in my head: imagine not knowing what happened, the worry. Imagine.

‘I saw Phoebe last weekend,’ I finally say. ‘Just by chance.’

‘Where is she?’

‘In hospital in London.’

‘Oh God. Is she hurt?’

‘No, no! She’s fine.’

‘I don’t understand. Why is she in hospital?’

‘She’s been Slated.’

She stops in shock, and I forget about pursuit and stand with her.

‘Oh Phoebe,’ she whispers to herself. ‘You are lost to me.’ Her eyes start to fill with tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and turn to go.

‘Is she happy, is she well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you for coming, and for telling me.’

I start walking away; she turns the other way to the house. Words drift back, faint on the air: ‘Maybe she is better off.’

Maybe, she is.

‘What on earth happened to you?’ Amy says.

‘I fell over.’

‘Get those things off here so you don’t trail mud through the house. You don’t smell too good, either.’

‘Thanks.’

Amy bundles Jazz into the kitchen and strips me off in the hall, dumps my stuff in the washing machine while I have a shower. The cut on the back of my head isn’t bleeding any more, and is hidden by my hair.

By the time Mum gets home the three of us are sitting at the kitchen table with cups of tea, doing homework.

‘You lot look industrious,’ she says. An eyebrow raised as if somehow she knows there is
more
than meets her eyes.

That night Sebastian purrs and I try to sleep. My head still aches, but more of a dull throb now than a sharp pain.

Despite the encounter with Brute, I’m glad I told Phoebe’s mum: at least she knows. And I can see they won’t storm the hospital or raise a fuss: her dad could care less she is gone, and her mum wouldn’t dare.

Maybe Phoebe
is
better off: her own mother said it. Any family Phoebe gets assigned to in months to come has got to be better than where she came from. No wonder she was so miserable to everyone; everyone, that is, except animals like that horrible dog. At the hospital her face was full of joy. What they did to her was a kindness, wasn’t it?

Maybe my family was just as bad.

The voice won’t go away though I shut my eyes tight. It says things I don’t believe, don’t want to hear. Now that it is night and all is quiet, it is even louder inside my head.

‘Mummy and Daddy aren’t coming for you, Lucy. They don’t want you. They gave you away, and you will never see them again.’

Cold, I pull the covers tight around myself. The sheets feel wrong, all scratchy. Nothing is at it should be, even the air is wrong: it smells funny. Salty from the sea that I never saw before today.