Better Left Buried (14 page)

“Jack what?”

“Jesus, will you
please
lower your voice?” he mutters, furrowing his forehead. “Jack Reynolds. My full name is Jack Reynolds.”

Rings no bells.

“Look, Sarah, you're going to have to take my word for—”

I shake my head again. “Not till you tell me what's going on. I'm not going to do anything you want until you explain what this is all about.”

Jack sighs again. Lowers his head and shuts his eyes for a second. “Max.”

The sound of my brother's name knocks into me so hard I collapse back into my seat. For a moment I can't inhale. “
Max?
How the hell do you know Max?”

“Sarah,” he takes a deep breath. “I—”

“You met him?”

Jack hesitates. Nods.

I'm wide-eyed, disbelieving. Why would my brother know someone like Jack?

Then I remember. I finally remember why there was something familiar about him all this time.

Jack was at the funeral
.

He was standing right at the back of the crematorium, hovering near the door. I only saw him because I had to go to the loo to get some more tissues for Mum. But I can recall it clearly now, distinctly, as if I'm watching it in a film.

“How did you know him? When?”

“I met him over a year ago.”

“Met him where?”

I see the hesitation in his face. His mouth opens as if to speak.

“Tell me,” I hiss.

“I…sold him some stuff.”

“Sold him some stuff? Like what?” I can't imagine a single thing someone like Jack might have that Max would want. After all, he doesn't exactly look the reading type.

Jack looks at me like I'm five-years-old. “Weed, Sarah. Not much, only now and then. For him and his mate Rob.”

Max smoked pot? What the hell?
Though why am I shocked? I know it's common enough at university – it's common enough at college, after all – but somehow I imagined my brother was different.

I think back to the Max who went jogging every day. The Max who wouldn't touch fried food or anything containing sugar. My decent, clean-living brother buying pot off a bloke like… I look back up at Jack, my head spinning. “Wait a sec. You're saying you're a
drug dealer
?”

Jack swallows. “Yes. I mean no, not any more. And it was nothing major. Just recreational stuff.”

“You expect me to trust you, and you're a
drug dealer
?” I pick up my bag and get up to go. Jack grabs hold of my arm, almost tight enough to make me wince. I wrench it away. Out the corner of my eye I see the cafe owner watching us carefully.

“Sit down, please. Just hear me out.”

I do as he says. In truth I can't leave. Not with so many questions left unanswered.

“I need to ask you, Sarah. Did your brother ever give you something? Ask you to look after it for him?”

I frown. “Like what?”

Jack studies my face for a few seconds, then shrugs. “Never mind.”

“What's this about?” I'm growing tired of his constant evasion. “Just tell me.”

He presses his lips together. Behind me I hear someone come through the door. Jack looks up and checks them out.

“How do you know Lizzie?” I ask suddenly, hoping to catch him off guard.

It works. His head spins back, his expression telling me he knows exactly who I mean.

“You were watching us in the cafe on the high street a couple of weeks ago. You had her house on your little map.”

He doesn't respond. Doesn't deny it.

“She's disappeared,” I say.

“Disappeared?” Shock on his face now. Dismay. “When?”

“A few weeks ago. She just upped and left. Chucked in college and everything.”

Something like relief washes over him. “So she's okay?”

I shrug. “According to her mum.” I feel a spasm of anguish, like a stitch from running too hard. I don't tell him Lizzie's not speaking to me.

“Good,” he says. “It's better that she's gone.”

“
Why?
Why is it better?”

“Because Lizzie clearly knows what's
good
for her, Sarah. And that's what I'm saying to you. I think you should do the same.”

“What do you mean?” I blurt, my voice louder again. “What has Lizzie got to do with this? How do you know her?”

Did she meet him at Max's funeral? I wonder. But Jack was only there briefly. I remember looking back, at the end of the service, noticing he'd already left. I'm pretty sure Lizzie never saw him.

“Right.” Jack's doing that thing with his hands in his hair again, the agitation coming off him in waves. “Enough with the questions.
Listen
to me. I want you to think about it, okay? Somewhere you might go for a while. Somewhere safe, somewhere it wouldn't occur to anyone to look for you.”

“What for?” I ask again, bewildered. “Anyway, I can't just go off like that. I've got college, and an audition in eleven days.”

My question is met with more silence.

“Jack,
tell me
,” I repeat. “Everything. Or I'm walking right out of here and going straight to the police. Get them to sort all this out.”

I'm bluffing but it works. His expression settles into resignation. He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I—”

At that second there's a trill from his phone. He fishes it from his pocket, glances at the number. It's a really old model, I notice, a simple keypad with a small, basic screen.

“I've got to go.”

My mouth drops open with dismay. “No. You've got to tell me. What has Lizzie got to do with any of this?”

He's on his feet now, fidgeting again. “Look, can I have your number?”

I hesitate, then tell him. I can't see it will make any difference. After all, he knows where I live.

“I'll be in touch,” he says. “Think it over, okay? Somewhere you might go.”

“Why?” I ask quickly. “Please. Just tell me
why
.”

He shakes his head, right before he leaves. “Believe me, Sarah. You're better off not knowing.”

As I slip through the front door, I can hear Mum moving around in the kitchen. I try to dart upstairs before she notices I'm back.

Too late.

“You home, darling?”

“Be right down,” I shout from the landing. “Just got a few things I have to sort out.” I bolt into my bedroom, praying she'll leave it at that; no way I want Mum seeing me in this state.

Lying on my bed, I do the breathing exercises Mrs Perry taught me to prepare for the audition. I'm trembling, the adrenalin rush that hit as I left the cafe still coursing through me. My pulse is racing and I feel faint. I should have had that cake, though I was way too wired to eat.

What should I do?
The thought loops round and round my head like a bad song.
What the hell do I do now?

I run through everything that happened. Everything Jack told me. God, he's a drug dealer. I let this sink in and it makes me so panicky I'm nearly sick. He's a drug dealer, and probably the last person on earth that I should trust.

But what options have I got? I can't get hold of Lizzie and I've no idea where to start looking for her. And it's obvious now she's somehow mixed up in this, in whatever's going on. Jack knows her. He seems to think there's a good reason for her disappearance – though clearly he doesn't want to tell me what that is.

Christ. Not so long ago I believed I knew everything about my best friend. Lizzie and I never had secrets from each other. The minute anything happened to either of us, we'd be on the phone or round the other's house, spilling every detail.

Now I'm wondering how she managed to hide so much.

Downstairs I hear Mum move into the lounge. The sound of the TV turned on to some chat show, little bursts of laughter providing an accompaniment to the low murmur of voices. I wait a few minutes until I'm sure she's engrossed, then go into Max's bedroom, closing the door quietly behind me.

The place looks more abandoned than ever. All Max's things, at least what was left after Mum's charity purge, have been put back, only more neatly. It gives the room a starkness it never had before, as if it has finally let go of him entirely.

Oh Max… His face flashes up in my mind. The way he'd snigger when I said something he thought was stupid. Whenever we argued, he'd get this sneery expression that made me want to punch him. Like I was a complete idiot.

But now? If Max were here now and I told him all this, everything that's been going on, everything I suspected, would he pull that face? Would he laugh and tell me not to be so ridiculous?

I feel a dull stab of pain as something twists inside. Because I wouldn't mind. I wouldn't mind at all. Max could smirk at me for ever if only he were here – and all this was some big, crazy mistake.

I sit on his bed. Wait for the ache to fade, then force myself to go over Jack's reaction to the burglary. His question about what they stole. I mentally rehash the list we made for the police and the insurance company. Just the cash, a couple of laptops. And my notebook.

No jewellery. Nor my new iPod. Surely anyone burgling a place would want those? They're small and valuable, easy to carry, and yet they left them.

Why?
I ask myself again.

This time I have an answer.
Because they weren't after our valuables at all.
They weren't robbing us for money, though they helped themselves to the cash that was lying around. No, they were searching for something else, something specific. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

More than that, they were clearly searching for something to do with my brother. I asked Jack what all this was about, and he said Max.

Leave me alone, Sarah.

A sudden surge of anger. No, Max, you got that wrong, I think. You left
me
alone, alone with this mess. You left me to deal with whatever you did to bring this trouble to our doorstep.

I take a deep breath, blinking back the urge to cry, then begin at one end of his desk, picking everything up and checking underneath. I rifle through drawers. Hold books up by their covers and shake out the pages. I work my way through the room methodically, but unlike whoever broke into our house, I cover my tracks, replacing each item exactly as I find it.

I look under his bed and inside the ring binders on the shelves, then start on the stuff in his cupboard. Most of it is rubbish. Old games and piles of exercise books from school – things Mum obviously still hasn't the heart to throw out.

The trouble is that I have absolutely no idea what I'm searching for. What whoever broke in here was after.

Did they find it? Have they taken it already? I'm guessing not. Why else would someone mug me for my rucksack? Because they hadn't got what they wanted when they ransacked our house.

Or maybe Mum threw it out, when she was going through his stuff. Sent it off in one of those charity bags.

I give up. Sit back on the office chair by the desk and spin it slowly, looking around.

What was Max hiding? What could my brother have had that anyone would want so badly?

I think about Jack and I think about Max taking his drugs. Nothing unusual in that, I know. I'm not that naïve. But I don't believe it's drugs I'm looking for. After all, it's not as if they're so difficult to get hold of.

No, whatever Max had must be much more precious. This bloke Jack knows what it is, but it's clearly something he doesn't want to divulge. I've never met anyone so evasive. The way his eyes dart around, rarely settling on mine. That twitch in his eyelid when he's nervous. Or lying.

Jack won't tell me, I'm pretty sure of that. But I know someone who might.

I punch a text into my phone. Just one line. This time I've a feeling it won't be ignored.

I know about Jack.

I press Send. And wait.

I'm finally drifting into sleep when I hear a short burst of melody from my mobile. I get out of bed and look at the screen. Someone has sent me a message.

Lizzie!

Go on to Facebook.

I log in on my laptop and see a green light by her name. I click on the chat icon. Seconds later a message appears.

Sarah? Are you there?

Yes
, I type, my heart beginning to race. I glance at the clock in the bottom corner. Midnight. Jesus.

Sarah…
A pause while she replies.
…are you okay? I've been worried sick.

Funny way of showing it, I think, watching the words unrolling onto the screen.

…I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm so sorry for all of this. Please believe me.

Where are you?
I write.

In an internet cafe.

At this time? Surely Cornwall doesn't have places that stay open so late.
Where, exactly, Lizzie?

There's a pause. Then one word.

Madrid.

SPAIN!!!
I type.
I thought you were in Cornwall??

Another long pause.

Sorry. That's just what I told Mum. So she wouldn't freak out.

So that's why her mobile is always off, I realize, remembering the different dial tone you get when you ring abroad. Lizzie doesn't want anyone to know she's left the country.

Christ, Lizzie, what are you doing in Spain? And why did you go off without telling me? Your mum's in a terrible state. Everything's just awful.

I'm sorry
, Lizzie replies.
I'm really, really sorry.

I wait, then more words spill onto the screen.
Sarah, listen…Jack…what do you mean you know about him?