By Any Other Name (2 page)

. . . But that’s a code violation. An unauthorised memory access. Holly isn’t allowed to think about the time before Holly came to be. That’s how I choose to play it, how I
make this craziness work and keep away the fear always present at the edge of my mind.

The boy glances sideways as he passes, walking in the middle of the road as though he can’t be bothered to cross properly, and he catches me looking.

Dark, hostile eyes in a pale face glare at me. Eyes so hostile that I take a step back, even though I’m annoyed with myself for doing it. Then his head ducks down again and he’s gone
round the corner.

‘Freak,’ I mutter after him.

But he’s unnerved me enough to make me brave the house. To walk slowly up the drive, to take a deep breath, to step inside. I let it swallow me whole.

I
go into the kitchen and Dad brushes past me with a box. ‘Make the removal men a cup of tea, would you? The stuff
 
’s over there.’
He nods to the counter and carries the box through to the dining room.

‘How do they take it?’

‘I don’t know. Ask them.’

He’s unpacking plates from the box and putting them on the table so I follow the sound of footsteps on the bedroom floor above to find the removal men putting our wardrobes back together.
One’s younger than the other and pretty cute in a rough-edged kind of way, but Holly Latham doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t do anything to draw attention to herself, so once I know
that they both want milk and two sugars, I go back downstairs without smiling at him or checking to see if his eyes follow me.

Dad’s still unpacking at speed. ‘Give me a hand when you’ve made the tea. Your mum just texted. She’ll be here in an hour because Katie’s fretting so we need to get
a move on.’

I make the tea and Dad never says a word about all the time I wasted outside when I could have been helping him. I feel a surge of gratitude for that and for him not asking why I was lurking out
there so long. Maybe he knows. Maybe he feels the same. I take the tea up to the men and then grab the box nearest to Dad and begin to unpack too.

It’s nearly an hour before the removal men finish, even with both of us helping. The van has barely got down the hill before Mum’s car comes into view.

She looks tired as she pulls up. Katie’s grizzling in the back seat. ‘How’s she been?’ Dad asks as Mum gets out. The answer’s obvious but he asks anyway.

‘Difficult.’ Mum goes to open the back door to get Katie, but Dad stops her.

‘I’ll do it. You’ve had her all day. Take a break. Look around the house – see if you’re happy with where we’ve put the furniture.’ He leans into the
back to unclick Katie’s seat belt and he talks quietly to her.

It’s the first time Mum’s seen the house. She scans the outside and her lips purse. Her eyes move on to next door and I know the exact moment when she sees The Mushroom because she
winces the same way I did. When I snigger, her mouth quirks upwards and she gives me a push towards the door. ‘Get inside before they see you.’

She knows I won’t last long. We fight with each other to get through the front door before it’s too late. I don’t make it and she pulls me inside as I fall about laughing.

‘Where
have
we moved to?’ She leans against the wall, her eyes streaming. ‘That dreadful toadstool . . . oh, Lou –
Holly
. . .’

We stop laughing as if someone has slapped us. Mum broke the rules: never, ever call me Louisa. Even inside the house that matters. My skin goosebumps like that boy’s in the street.

Dad brings Katie in, doing her robot walk where she moves her left arm and leg together, then her right, and he has to stand behind and steer her shoulders. My sister’s tall for eight
years old and she’s got startling corn-coloured hair. You read that description in books, though you never see it on people you know, but Katie’s really is like ripe corn. I realise
again how hard it is for her to be inconspicuous. Katie makes us far too traceable and the goosebumps rise on my flesh again.

She’s making one of her noises. I think it’s her robot noise, though it sounds more like a strangled scream. Dad hurries her in and shuts the door.

Katie jerks free and runs past us, chasing from room to room and letting out a shrill squeal in each one as she explores. We stand in the hall and hold our breath as she stomps up the stairs.
Her feet thump on the floor above . . .

There’s a louder squeal, excited, and then it goes quiet. We wait . . . then we hear a happy giggle and Dad breathes out. ‘She’s found her room.’

We trail upstairs. Katie’s lying face down on her duvet cover with the pink ponies and she’s snuggling her big fluffy rabbit. The rabbit isn’t allowed out of her room. Ever.
Her other teddies are, even the cuddly monkey she’s had since she was born, but that rabbit has to stay put. That’s a Rule.

‘You did her stars!’ Mum points at the ceiling. Katie rolls on to her back and looks up at the luminous net of stars and planets. It’s an exact copy of the one she used to have
in our old house.

‘Great Bear, Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Canis Major,’ she recites, pointing at each in turn.

Dad smiles and pats her head. ‘Yes, angel, that’s right.’

‘However did you put them up so quickly? And get them all in the right position? It took you ages the first time.’ Mum shakes her head in amazement. We all know Dad has got them
right because if even one of the plastic shapes was a centimetre out, Katie would notice. She can’t tell the time, but she remembers exactly where every star should be.

‘I made a tracing of the original and transposed it on to the ceiling when we got here, while the removal men were dropping the covers down on the carpets. I thought it would help her
realise this place is permanent for us – our forever place, not like the last two – then she might settle quicker.’

‘An angel’s got to have stars to sleep among,’ Katie chirrups.

Dad only said that once to her, on the day he first put the stars up on her old bedroom ceiling, but she latched on to it and says it over and over.

He grins and kisses her. I slip out and go downstairs to carry on unpacking. The fewer boxes there are when Katie comes down, the less likely it is that she’ll freak out. It’s bad
enough that her routine’s been broken again, and Mum’s had the worst of that today, but it isn’t over yet. There’ll be crying fits eventually. A lot. Like there was the last
time and the time before that.

This is supposed to be the final time and I hope so. It’s only a few months till my GCSEs. It has to work here. We told the Witness Protection Liaison Officer that. We can’t go
through moving Katie again.

At least she has her stars back now.

‘Boo-Boo!’ she shouts as she runs down the stairs, and she hugs me. We can’t stop her calling me that, her version of Lou-Lou, no matter how hard we try to teach her to say
Holly instead. I hug her back and hold her tight – after what happened last year I’m grateful I still have the chance to hug her at all.

I
t was a horrible, wet November night and my mood matched it. Rain pounded down, soaking my hair, running in little rivers down my neck. I shifted
my violin case from one aching hand to the other.

Hate walking home. Hate walking home in wet weather especially.

The puddles were lit up orange under the street lamps. I tried to dodge the worst of them, but it was like playing hopscotch. I should’ve brought an umbrella, but that would have just been
something else to carry in addition to my PE kit, violin, schoolbag, Tasha’s birthday present.

‘Skin’s waterproof,’ Dad would say if he was here, as he did every time he dragged us out in the rain on family holidays. Mum laughed at me when I grumped at him about it once
I got old enough to care about looking sodden and bedraggled.

‘Skin might be waterproof,’ I muttered at the rain, ‘but that won’t keep me warm when you soak me through.’ A gust of wind blew water into my mouth so I ducked my
head down further, shifting my grip on my violin case as the handle slid through my wet fingers.

A crappy day. It started badly. I forgot my maths homework and got yelled at – Mrs McPherson spitting, literally, about GCSE failure staring irresponsible ‘gurrrllss’ like me
in the face. Then I got a ton of English coursework back to redraft. And I was dropped from the hockey team for Saturday because I still had a sprained ankle from the match two weeks ago. The only
thing that hadn’t been a disaster was that Tasha loved the birthday present I bought her: a pamper kit of bath bombs and body butters, and a silver and crystal charm for her bracelet.

But everything else had been crappy. Stupid day, miserable weather and miserable, stupid me.

I kicked a splash of water up from a puddle, then wished I hadn’t as a cold gush filled my shoe. I shifted the violin case back to my right hand and struggled to adjust my bag because the
corner of my maths textbook was digging into my back. My toes squelched in the wet shoe and the rain battered down harder on the pavement, laughing at me.

Tasha was eating out with her parents tonight. We weren’t allowed to party on a school night so we had to wait until the weekend to celebrate her sixteenth properly. Although my coursework
mountain had put a dampener on that. What a sucky year! Still, suckier things than exams and coursework had happened this year . . .

Every time I thought of the summer and Katya, I shivered. Was it when I remembered her that I heard the splish-splash of another pair of feet? Or did the sound trigger the memory? I wasn’t
sure, but I was suddenly aware of someone walking close behind me.

When I turned the corner into Green Street, I paused, listened . . .

Splish, splash . . . following me.

Before the summer, I wouldn’t even have glanced over my shoulder. But that was before. Before Katya. Now I did look back. There was a man in trainers, his hood up to hide his face.

I walked faster, my sprained ankle twingeing a little at the change of pace. Once I got to the end of Green Street, I’d be in Arnold Road. That would be busier . . . other people . . . and
that bit closer to home . . .

The footsteps splish-sploshed faster.

I sped up until I was nearly jogging.

I heard the hiss of a car’s tyres on the wet road behind me. I glanced back. He was closer, much closer, and there was a silver car cruising alongside, keeping pace with him . . .

I dropped my violin case and bag, and ran. Pain shot through my ankle and I half hopped, half staggered, fighting back a wave of nausea. But I had no choice than to carry on: I couldn’t
stop, no matter how much it hurt. He was too close.

I slushed through puddles and swallowed rain in with air as I tried to run-hop fast enough to stay ahead.

The slap of trainers behind . . . he was gaining on me . . . the hiss of tyres on the road . . .

Then a hand at my neck, one over my mouth, jerking me to a stop.

I tried to scream . . .

Argh! Argghhh! Argghhh!

I shoot upright, sweat running cold down my back. I can hear the screaming. It’s not me.
Not me.
My heart hammers against my ribs.

Is it them? . . . Are they here? . . . Who’s screaming?

My eyes adjust to the dark. I’m in bed.

In. Bed.

There’s a crash, like a door slamming back . . . feet pounding . . . a second crash . . .

My head falls back on to the pillow. In bed. In the new house, and it’s Katie who’s screaming. Just Katie. And now I can hear Dad’s voice soothing her once she starts to
quieten down.

More feet on the landing, and my door opens a crack.

‘Mum? Is she OK?’

‘Yes, she’s fine.’ Mum crosses over to my bed and sits down. ‘She woke up and couldn’t work out where she was, that’s all. It was bound to happen. Did she
wake you or haven’t you been able to sleep?’

‘She woke me.’ I swallow and my throat’s dry so I reach for the water by my bed. ‘I had another nightmare.’

Mum’s hand finds mine in the darkness. ‘It’s moving, sweetie. It’s set it all off again. When you settle in, the dreams will stop. This will be the last time, I’m
sure it will. Tim told us that when he arranged this, didn’t he? He said this’ll be a safe place. Darling, we’re a hundred and fifty miles from home with completely new
identities. They won’t find us here.’