Fifteen Days Without a Head Read online

  I realize my mistake.

  ‘No! It’s not that!’ I start to back out of the shop. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Here, watch out!’

  The bottles split like bowling pins as I crash into the display. I manage to grab two, but a third squirms out of reach and hits the ground with a thunk! For a second I think it’s not going to break, then the glass shatters, spraying wine across the floor in a foaming red river.

  I run—dropping the two bottles into a basket on the way out.

  ‘Oi!’ shouts the man. ‘You’ll have to pay for that!’

  ‘I haven’t got any ID!’ I scoop up Jay from the doorway, and sprint across the Parade.

  I don’t stop running until we get to the park.

  ‘Why did you run?’ says Jay, when I put him down.

  ‘I broke a bottle, by accident.’

  ‘Won’t you get into trouble?’

  I shrug. ‘Nah!’ Though I don’t suppose I’ll be welcome back there in a hurry. It would have been useful to talk to Ann, but I’m starting to see that asking questions leads to other questions, with answers I don’t want to give.

  The park is unusually busy. There’s a line of trucks at the far end, next to a strange construction of metal tubes and girders. Further along the field, groups of workmen are unloading sections of grey fencing from the back of a lorry. They must be getting ready for the festival here tomorrow. I was going to ask Mum if she wanted to go and see the Queen tribute band, but that was before she disappeared.

  Jay runs off to go on the slide, then announces the metal is too hot. I remember the man in the chippy and feel the skin on the back of my neck smarting. I should have made Jay wear his cap, or put some sun cream on him …

  A picture of Mum suddenly flashes into my head. She’s wearing a big straw hat, her face close to mine, laughing as she covers me in sun cream. I can smell it and feel the grittiness of the sand as she rubs it in. That was our last holiday before Jay was born … just me, Mum, and Nanna.

  We stayed in this tiny bed and breakfast just across the road from the sea, and spent every day on the beach. In the evening we’d walk to the funfair at the end of the promenade and load up the penny falls. That was when Nanna took me on the dodgems. Mum was too scared, but I loved it—the noise, the smell, the blue sparks dancing over our heads, and Nanna crashing into people, laughing like a lunatic. Afterwards we had fish and chips and walked back along the beach, while the sun dropped sizzling into the sea.

  It seems so long ago, I’m not even sure it really happened. That world doesn’t exist any more. A world before Jay, with Nanna in it and Mum, when she was still happy. Nanna’s dead now and so is the mother I had then. And that kid, the one on the dodgems, where is he?

  Jay wants me to push him on the swing. I tell him five minutes, then we have to go. I want to get back inside, it feels like everyone is watching us out here.

  ‘Are we going to the phone box tonight?’ asks Jay, as we pass the newsagent.

  ‘Not tonight.’ I almost tell him that Baz only does his show during the week, then remember that Jay still thinks I’m phoning a friend from school. I wish I could tell him the truth. A secret is like a bag you have to lug around all the time—each day you add another lie, and it just gets heavier and harder to carry on your own.

  ‘When will Mum be home?’ says Jay, as we climb the steps up to the Heights.

  ‘I don’t know. Soon.’

  ‘I wish she was here now.’ His hand snakes into mine, all greasy and hot.

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  It strikes me that real life isn’t like Scooby-Doo. There are no conveniently placed clues, no trails of glow-in-the-dark footprints to follow. I think even Velma would struggle to solve this one.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ Jay looks at me like it’s my fault she’s not here.

  ‘I told you, she’s at work.’

  Jay shakes his head. ‘It’s Sunday. You don’t go to work on Sunday. Angie told me.’

  Why would Angie tell him that? What’s Jay been saying to her?

  ‘Some people work on a Sunday. What about all the people who work in shops?’

  ‘Mum doesn’t work in a shop.’

  ‘She’s got another job, a different one.’

  ‘In a shop? Can we go and see her?’

  ‘It’s not a shop … and it’s not round here. She has to go to another town. She might have to stay there … so it’ll just be me and you, on our own for a while.’ My heart bangs out a warning, but I’ve got to tell him something.

  ‘She’s not going to come home?’ Jay’s voice quivers.

  ‘Yeah, course she will, just not for a few days.’ I force a grin. ‘And when she does she’ll have loads of money, so we might be able to go on holiday!’ What am I saying? Still, if I’m digging a hole, it might as well be a big one.

  Jay’s face brightens. ‘At the seaside?’

  ‘Yeah! But we can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘About going on holiday?’

  ‘No, about Mum not being here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they might think we can’t look after ourselves and then they’ll make us go and stay with somebody, or get Nosy Nelly to come and look after us. You wouldn’t like that would you?’

  Jay pulls a face and shakes his head.

  ‘So you won’t tell anyone? Not even Angie.’

  Another shake. ‘Unless she asks,’ says Jay.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I won’t say anything unless she asks me.’

  ‘No! Don’t say anything even if she does ask you.’

  ‘But that’s telling lies!’

  ‘No it’s not! Well … I mean, it’s not like a bad lie, it’s just not exactly telling the truth.’

  Jay looks doubtful.

  ‘Look, you don’t want Nosy Nelly looking after us do you?’

  Jay shakes his head.

  ‘Well, if you tell anyone that Mum’s not here, that’s what’s going to happen. There won’t be anything I can do about it.’

  Jay frowns and chews his lip. Eventually he sighs. ‘OK, I won’t tell anyone.’

  We’re running out of food. I check what’s left in the fridge and the cupboards and put anything edible on the table. It doesn’t take up much room.

  I wonder how long we could survive on a diet of toast, jam and Monster Munch.

  The remainder of the cash from Humpty is still on the kitchen table. I sort the coins into stacks and count it—twice—but the total doesn’t improve. Five pounds and thirty-eight pence. Barely enough to buy food for a couple of days.

  This time, going into Mum’s room doesn’t feel so much like trespassing.

  There has to be something here—some clue as to where she’s gone.

  My Great Plan is falling apart. If I can’t find Mum, what use will it be winning the holiday? We can’t keep this up for ever, someone is going to find out she’s not here, and then what?

  If you think like that, what hope have you got? says Nanna’s voice in my head.

  She’s right, of course. I have to believe I can find her, even if I don’t know how.

  I open the curtains to let some light in and start emptying drawers onto the bed. Soon the duvet is strewn with stuff: old cigarette lighters, make-up, bits of jewellery—nothing of any use. There are bags and boxes in the bottom of the wardrobe, mostly clothes and shoes. Mum’s knee-length boots are standing in the corner. She loved … loves these boots. I move them to one side and notice the left one feels heavy. There’s something hidden in there—something valuable, it has to be.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting—a jewel encrusted figurine perhaps? The answer to all our problems? Definitely not half a bottle of SavaShoppa Scotch whisky, part of Mum’s secret stash. I sit back on my heels, deflated. I suppose I could sell it, but who to? The only person I can think of is Mum—and that’s not even funny.

  I slide the bottle back inside the boot and keep searching.

/>   I go through all the pockets of the jeans and skirts and coats hanging in the wardrobe and find another forty-six pence in the lining of Mum’s coat. Our new grand total is five pounds and eighty-four pence! I’m ridiculously delighted.

  I scan the room; there has to be more money here somewhere.

  Mum’s old green suitcase is on top of the wardrobe. I dump it on the bed and spring the latch. There’s nothing inside, except an old T-shirt wrapped around something hard and square. It’s a cardboard box full of photographs. I barely recognize the people in the pictures, but I know who they are—mostly Mum and Nanna and a few of my dad. I don’t remember him at all. Nanna told me that he and Mum got married when they were really young, when they found out Mum was pregnant with me. Then Dad had an affair with someone else and Mum left him. Two weeks later he was killed in an accident. Nanna said that was when Mum started drinking.

  There’s a picture of them together: Mum smiling, her arms draped around his shoulders, and Dad looking straight into the camera. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck quiver—it could be me, except for the clothes. I mean, I knew we looked similar, but this is like looking into a mirror. It must be hard for Mum, if I look so much like him.

  I drop the photo back onto the pile and notice something underneath, at the bottom of the box. It’s a slim red building society book—the account Nanna opened for me when I was born. I’d forgotten all about it. But when I open the book, it’s Jay’s name printed at the top of the page, not mine. Of course—Nanna opened an account for Jay too. My eyes race down the rows of dates and figures, listing regular monthly payments, usually ten pounds, but a few larger amounts—fifty on Jay’s birthday, twenty at Christmas. The balance total is in a box on the right hand side of the page. I have to read it twice to be sure, because the hand holding the book is shaking.

  Four hundred and fifty-three pounds, and seventy-six pence!

  We’re rich!

  ‘Thank you, Nanna!’ I kiss the pages of the book, and that’s when I notice the next line. The amount is for fifty pounds, only this time the figure is in the withdrawal column. The entry is dated March of last year—but Nanna was dead by then. Jay must have taken it out … but he can’t have.

  The truth of what has happened slowly settles.

  Like ice.

  My fingers are trembling as I turn the page and see more rows of figures, all in the withdrawal column—one hundred—fifty—seventy-five! The account balance drops from five figures to three. My eyes dart to the last entry, the total at the end of the line: one pound and ninety-seven pence.

  She cleaned it out.

  Over four hundred pounds and Mum took the lot!

  I stand up and the box falls to the floor, spraying photos across the carpet.

  I can’t believe she took Jay’s money!

  I fling the useless book across the room, then turn and drag the quilt off the bed, spilling her things onto the floor. I’m stamping and kicking, grinding her stuff into the carpet, and I can hear a sound—a low growl, filled with anger and frustration. It’s only when I stop to listen that I realize the noise is coming from me.

  I drop to my knees in the middle of the mess, head in hands—my throat burning, aching with tears that won’t come. It would have been better if I hadn’t found the book. I’d forgotten they even existed.

  I sit up.

  I’d forgotten they existed!

  There were two books! One for Jay, one for me!

  I scrabble through the chaos on the floor until I find the box, ripped and half-hidden under the dressing table. It still contains a few photos, but nothing else. So where’s the other book? Maybe Mum put it somewhere. Maybe she’s got it with her.

  What am I thinking? If she took Jay’s money, chances are mine’s gone too.

  Nanna gave us those books when she knew she was dying. I remember visiting her in hospital. Mum went to the toilet, and that’s when Nanna gave me the envelope with my book inside. She told me not to tell Mum—which is why I hid it in my Secret Things Tin, in my bedroom. But that was in our old house—what happened to it when we moved?

  I run across the hall to the room I share with Jay, and start tearing through the chest of drawers, but I know it’s not in here.

  Think, Laurence, where did you put it?

  We left in such a rush, in the middle of the night. I remember Mum shouting at me to pack a bag. Anything I couldn’t fit in, I’d have to leave behind. What if I left it there? The thought makes me feel sick.

  I search every cupboard and drawer and shelf in the room, though I don’t hold out much hope. It’s just easier to keep looking than accept the fact it isn’t here.

  But it isn’t.

  If it was, I would have found it.

  Unless …

  I lie on my belly and crawl under the bed, through the sea of lost socks and Jay’s discarded toys. I can see something at the back, by the wall … but it turns out to be my copy of Treasure Island, bent and twisted out of shape. It’s not here, I’m wasting my time. I start to shuffle back and my foot knocks against something solid in the far corner. It takes an age to turn round and I can’t stop the hope rising in my chest. It’s the right shape and when I reach out my fingers feel the hard edges of a metal box. I drag it through the dust and out into the light.

  My Secret Things Tin.

  I hold it in my hands for a moment, not daring to look inside. There’s a pebble in here, from the beach at Barmouth where we went on holiday with Nanna, and a note from Chloe Raven asking me to marry her—we were both eight at the time. I could list the contents of this box by heart, but suddenly none of it means anything … except the book.

  If it’s still in here.

  Please let it still be in here.

  The hinges creak as I pop the lid, emitting the smell I remember so well: metallic, with a faint tang of the sea—and I’m back in my old room, I can hear Nanna downstairs talking to Mum …

  The book is still here.

  Still inside the envelope with my name on the front.

  But that doesn’t mean Mum hasn’t already got to it.

  I lift it out and slide the book into my lap.

  This time the name inside the cover is mine. Again, the rows of regular payments, page after page of them.

  My hands are shaking.

  I can barely breathe.

  I look across to the next column, the one marked Withdrawals … but this account is untouched since the day Nanna made her last deposit.

  I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes and read the total in the last line.

  One thousand, four hundred and thirty-five pounds.

  We’re saved!

  Pop in the Park has started; we can hear the throb of music from inside the flat. Jay wants to go to the fair—and I did kind of promise to meet Han. Those girls he knows are coming over.

  I should be looking for Mum, but it’s too late to start now. One night won’t make any difference. We deserve to have some fun.

  Han is waiting by the gate smoking a cigarette. He nods towards Jay.

  ‘What d’you bring him for?’

  ‘Mum’s at work. I had to.’

  Han frowns, then his face lights up. ‘Hey! Girls love little kids, don’t they! Nice one, Roach, good thinking, man.’ He puts his arm round my shoulders. ‘I tell you, we’re on here, all sorted!’

  ‘Where are we meeting them?’

  ‘Outside the Ghost Train,’ says Han. ‘We get them on there see, it’s dark inside—scary—they’ll be all over us!’ His eyebrows do their wave thing again.

  Which is fine, except Jay’s too small to go on the Ghost Train, and I can’t leave him outside. Why can’t I ever do anything on my own? Han doesn’t have to bring his little brother out with him. But then Han’s got a mum and dad, and a big sister back at home. It’s not Jay’s fault.

  The park is unrecognizable. The skeletal gantry we saw them building yesterday is now a fully fledged stage—a black shrouded half-dome, flanked on either
side by massive speaker stacks and a lighting rig. There’s a band on, but nobody seems particularly interested, except the handful of friends leaning against the barrier in front.

  We head for the fair, threading our way between the bodies scattered on the grass—people in deckchairs, sitting around picnic rugs, or just lying sprawled out in the sun. Jay runs on ahead, towards the cluster of brightly painted wagons and tents at the far end of the field.

  There’s a line of vans selling burgers and hot-dogs, and I’m tempted to get something now, but the food is expensive and we’re bound to want to eat later. I’m starting to realize that five pounds and eighty-four pence won’t last long in a place like this.

  Jay goes straight to the roundabout. It’s a pound for a go—which seems like a lot just to sit in a wooden aeroplane and go round in a circle a few times—but I give him the money. He chooses a red plane with black crosses on the wings. I can see him making machine-gun noises, pretending to shoot people as he goes round.

  Next to me, Han is texting frantically.

  ‘They’ll be here in fifteen,’ he says, lighting another cigarette and grinning at me. ‘I’m telling you, they’re hot, man!’ Han licks his finger and makes a sizzling sound.

  ‘Why’s he doing that?’ says Jay, appearing beside us.

  ‘You finished already?’

  He nods and points. ‘I want to go on the roller-coaster.’

  This one is two pounds. Luckily Jay is too small to be allowed on. I make him stand by the measure on the board to prove it, but he’s still not happy, moaning at me like it’s my fault.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he says, pouting.

  We leave Han pacing by the Ghost Train, staring at his mobile. He looks like a train himself, tearing up and down with puffs of smoke rising above his head.

  The queue for the chip van is long and submerged in a thick cloud of frying onions. My stomach groans. I read the menu board leaning up against the side of the van and work out the cheapest option. I suggest chips, but Jay wants a hot-dog. It’ll cost me half of all the money we have, but I want to keep him happy. Once he gets in a bad mood, I might as well give up and go home.