Don't Look Back (6 page)

‘Great idea,' he said, and I heard the muffled sound of a yawn. ‘I'll come over now.'

I smiled to myself, suspecting he would have agreed to whatever insane scheme I suggested. ‘I probably should go alone, Harry. People might respond better to a girl by herself.'

‘I'll still come by, Sinead. Anything you need?'

I looked down at Patrick's cast-off clothes. ‘Would you fetch me some more sweats and a clean T-shirt from home? I'll text Mum and tell her to pick something out for me, but don't breathe a word about what's happening here. She will question you, and it won't be pleasant, but just don't say anything useful.'

Harry laughed nervously. ‘How about some food? You know how grumpy you are when you don't eat.'

‘Some bagels and jam would be nice.'

‘Anything else?'

I could picture Harry's long-suffering smile. ‘My laptop. And Harry?'

‘Yes?'

‘Try not to be long. Time is of the essence.'

*

When Harry arrived I'd showered and was unsuccessfully trying to style my hair without a hairdryer. He placed all the things that I'd asked for on the bed.

‘She's suspicious,' he announced, looking a bit shell-shocked after his encounter with my mother. ‘She gave me the full interrogation but I didn't crack. I pretended not to know anything.'

‘Well done,' I said, and he grinned. ‘I'll have to face her sooner or later, but I couldn't stomach it yet.'

‘She's checked with all the hospitals and with Patrick's landlord, but he hasn't heard anything and he knows nothing about the flat being given a spring clean.'

‘That was a good idea,' I said with amazement. I'd have expected her to just pace about wringing her hands and doing nothing constructive. I went into the bedroom to change. It was amazing the difference some fresh clothes made to my mood. Despite having a bare face and floppy hair, I felt almost human again.

Harry peered at me with renewed interest. ‘You look different somehow.'

I touched my cheek self-consciously. ‘I don't have my make-up.'

‘It suits you … makes you look softer … I mean, prettier.'

He looked away, but it was obvious what he meant; I looked less forbidding without my scary eye make-up, which would be a bonus if I was attempting to butter up Patrick's neighbours. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself. I studied my features critically – wide mouth, deep-set greyish-blue eyes, high jutting cheekbones. Harry often told me that my smile transformed my whole face but I didn't smile often enough. I glanced at my watch. The time was now a respectable 11 a.m., and it was Saturday so there was a decent chance of catching people at home. I gave Harry a feeble wave and stepped outside. There were five flats in all and it seemed sensible to begin at the one closest to Patrick's.

I walked down a small corridor and through a fire door, threw back my shoulders and rapped decisively on the door. It flew open almost instantly, which caught me off my guard. A suspicious face stared back at me. ‘Yes?'

I tried to smile, but my mouth distorted as if I was in pain.

‘I'm … looking for Patrick, who lives in the next flat … I wondered … have you seen him lately?'

This guy was fairly young with gold-rimmed spectacles
and an annoying goatee beard. I could smell bacon wafting into the corridor.

‘Hmm,' he considered, stroking his facial hair. Something about his expression told me he wasn't going to be helpful. ‘I saw him a few weeks ago when he borrowed twenty pounds off me for a family emergency. I haven't seen him since. I think he's been avoiding me.'

‘Oh,' I mumbled.

‘Are you a relative?'

‘Just a … friend. I'll be sure to remind him about the money when he turns up.'

‘Do,' he snapped, and slammed the door in my face.

OK, bad call, I reflected, but they couldn't all be like that. I was ashamed that Patrick had borrowed money and failed to pay it back and disgusted with myself for not admitting we were related. The shame wasn't anything new; Patrick had mortified me by his behaviour so many times that I should have been immune, but I'd never denied him as a brother before and it wasn't a nice feeling.

I trudged downstairs starting to think that this exercise would produce nothing worthwhile. There was no reply from the second flat. By the time I reached the third, my knock was softer as if I was determined no one should hear. I was about to leave when a figure appeared in the doorway with the astonished look of someone who never has anyone knock on her door. I took a breath and choked on a wave of heavy, cloying perfume. This lady was middle-aged with orange skin and Barbie hair, dressed in a flowery gardenparty
style two-piece. She glided past me, surprisingly light on her feet for someone so plump. She peered into the hallway, saw that it was empty except for me, and seemed disappointed. I launched into the same patter as before, and again lied about my relationship with Patrick. Despite the guilt, it tripped easily off my tongue.

‘I work all day – I don't have time to socialize,' she said petulantly.

‘Well, it's not really socializing I had in mind … Patrick is kind of … missing, and his family are worried about him.'

‘That is most disconcerting,' she said, appearing anything but. ‘Have you asked his employer?'

‘He doesn't work,' I muttered, physically edging away from the questions and her perfume.

‘His college perhaps?'

‘He doesn't … I mean … yes, I'll do that. Thanks for the advice.'

Her gracious smile didn't fool me for a second. I tried to stop anger from engulfing me and felt sorry for Patrick, having to live next door to these people. They didn't have to tell me what they thought of him; I could see it in their eyes, and I'd already used up twelve minutes on this fruitless exercise.

I almost lost the nerve to knock on the last door. The TV was turned up loudly and there was scuffling and movement inside, but it was a couple of minutes before an elderly woman cautiously popped her head outside. She was
the first resident to appear friendly and I relaxed slightly. I'd only just mentioned Patrick's name and that I was a friend when she interrupted.

‘You have his mouth.'

I stopped because she'd rumbled me. ‘He's my brother,' I admitted.

She gave a little nod of recognition. ‘Would you like to come in?'

The door opened wide and I stepped over the threshold. Inside was as different from Patrick's minimalist flat as it was possible to be, crammed with heavy, old-fashioned furniture and opulent upholstery. I counted two sofas, three armchairs, a leather chair next to a writing desk and a chaise longue in a green striped fabric. There was barely a hint of wall space to be seen because of the abundance of paintings, all different sizes and themes. This flat was larger than Patrick's but felt more cramped and much darker. The lady motioned for me to sit on the uncomfortable-looking chaise longue. It had carved animal legs that looked so real I almost expected them to nip my ankles. She perched on the smaller sofa with both hands resting in her lap and turned to me with interest.

‘My brother hasn't been in contact for about two weeks,' I began, ‘and we're all quite worried.'

‘Such a polite boy,' she said. ‘I often see him passing my window of a morning and sometimes we meet in the hallway. He's always very kind and picks up my letters. And so very good-looking.'

‘But … do you remember seeing him recently?'

She studied the ceiling for inspiration. Ten seconds passed, then twenty and my right leg began to twitch uncontrollably.

‘I might have,' she answered finally. I held my breath and eventually she continued. ‘I often find … that if I need an answer to something … it helps to banish it from my mind before the answer comes to me.'

Every sinew in my body began to tighten with frustration and I found it impossible to sit still.
Patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue
, I chanted to myself and nearly jumped into the air as a grandfather clock boomed the quarter-hour.

‘I'd love to live on the top floor,' her voice chattered, ‘but my legs would never stand the strain. It's hard to believe but I was a dancer in my youth. Arthritis has crippled me now but … listen to me … I shouldn't depress you about getting older.'

‘It doesn't depress me,' I said, trying not to look at her blue-veined lumpy legs.

This was going nowhere. I stood up and managed to reach the door, but she wedged herself between the umbrella stand and the hall table, blocking my exit. Now that I was leaving her memory suddenly returned.

‘I did see Patrick … a week, maybe two weeks ago. I can't be certain but I do remember he was excited because he had a new job. He was in too much of a hurry for me to ask him any details.'

Patrick had a job. Patrick was rushing somewhere to work. This was completely unexpected, but it might explain his unusual behaviour. He'd been distant and even cagier than normal. Maybe he hadn't wanted to tell Mum and me because he was worried that he wouldn't be able to hack it. I thanked the old lady and made my way back to the flat. I'd been gone for twenty-three minutes, but at least I had some information.

Harry was looking flushed and pleased with himself, brandishing a screwdriver in the air as if it was a weapon. As a surprise he was fixing a security chain to the door so I'd feel safer inside. I was a bit worried about not consulting the landlord first, but I said how great it was, pretending not to notice the huge plaster on his thumb. He was also eager to tell me that he'd checked all of the Latin references in Patrick's message on my laptop and the only hits were millions of religious texts.

‘It was pretty dismal talking to the neighbours,' I said. ‘An old lady remembers seeing Patrick some time recently. Apparently he boasted about having a job, but she doesn't have a clue where he was working.'

Harry looked unimpressed. ‘That's not much to go on.'

‘Well … it isn't, but … we could narrow the search. Patrick isn't the model employee so the job would have to be casual – flexible hours, few references required …'

‘You always said he could talk his way out of anything … Maybe he's got work as a salesman? There're always vacancies for them.'

‘That's a possibility,' I said, and grabbed my bag. ‘Let's check out the job centre and local paper. Patrick won't have gone far – I'm sure of that.'

He groaned. ‘Do we have to go straight away?'

I fixed him with reproachful eyes. ‘
Tempus fugit
, Harry.
Tempus fugit
.'

We sat in a coffee shop and I flicked through the local newspaper to the jobs pages. The advantage of Patrick's flat was that it was in the city centre, with everything close by and buzzing. I'd never gone in for that whole people-watching thing before, but I couldn't help but stare when an Italian-looking guy wearing city shorts and carrying a briefcase strode past the window. Even the fashion victims with their spray-on tans and glow-white jeans fascinated me, and I noticed that every second girl was wearing a maxi dress with gladiator sandals and holiday hair. I put the paper down.

Maybe I could change. I could become one of those people who wander about aimlessly with a serene smile, soaking up the atmosphere and watching the grass grow. I could lie in the park and pick the petals off flowers, instead of frantically blowing any dandelion clocks that I happen to pass. Sara and I could do all the girly stuff I avoided.

Harry brought me back down to earth. ‘This seems
like such a long shot,' he said, and it was obvious he was wondering exactly what we were doing there. ‘Patrick's job advert will have been withdrawn.'

I screwed up my face. ‘I know but … something might jump out at me, a job that Patrick would be perfect for. I need to think like him to solve these clues.'

Harry went back to the counter to buy a toasted sandwich and I grumbled to myself.
If Patrick hadn't sold his computer I could access his files, see if he'd registered with any employment agencies.

A male voice broke into my thoughts. ‘Have you finished with that newspaper?'

I didn't even look up, intent on studying the vintage soft top parked outside with the engine still running, a tiny blonde girl in the passenger seat. She looked a bit full of herself in her diaphanous sea-green dress, smoothing her hair in the wing mirror.

‘It belongs to me,' I barked, placing my hand across the headlines.

There was a small snort of satisfaction. ‘So you
are
rude to everyone.'

I looked up quickly to find the beach boy holding a takeaway cup in each hand. Only this time he was groomed to within an inch of his life – crisp white shirt, midnight-blue skinny tie, pale grey trousers and expensive aftershave. His hair had been slicked back, which made him look even more handsome. He flashed me a smile, but this time it wasn't as cocky; there was warmth to it, lighting up the
entire place as if a giant sunbeam had burst through the window. Something flipped inside me, and it hurt.

‘I'm not,' I managed to reply. ‘It's only you who has this effect on me.'

He smiled. ‘You didn't know it was me.'

‘I recognized your accent,' I lied, annoyed that I hadn't. The Australian twang conjured up golden beaches, miles of electric-blue sea topped by frothy white foam and a beach boy running along the sand with a surfboard and bare chest.

‘I'm sure they run anger-management classes in this part of town,' he said, but there was a playful look in his eye.

There was something so irrepressibly good-humoured about his expression that I began to smile. He was right – I'd been unspeakably rude and here was a chance to make amends. Normally I didn't do apologies, but he was worth making an exception for. It was nothing, just two small words. He was waiting, and the challenge in his gorgeous hazel eyes set my heart fluttering. Guys didn't generally flirt with me, yet his body language was undeniable. But the mood was suddenly broken and his attention distracted. He began to mouth and gesture to someone outside, and when I looked the sea goddess was half standing in her seat pointing to her watch. They were a couple – of course they were – and the car must be his.