Follow Me Down (8 page)

‘Dominic?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s probably just a rumour.’

My heart clenched. ‘Tell me.’

‘It’s probably bullshit.’

‘But?’

He lifted his eyelashes to look at me. ‘If I tell you, you can’t repeat it, because that’s how these things start and I don’t know anything for sure.’

‘I promise.’

‘And you have to promise that you won’t put it in your story for the
Disraeli
.’

‘Why the hell would I do that?’

He looked me in the eye then. ‘Because it’s about Chloe Poole.’

‘
Chloe Poole
 . . . Chloe Poole? The hockey player I just interviewed?’

He nodded.

‘What about her?’

He looked away again and when he started chewing on the inside of his cheek, I thought he wasn’t going to tell me, but then he said, ‘I think she was raped.’

I stopped and stared at him. ‘Raped?’

‘Yeah.’ He stopped as well. ‘Here.’

‘
Here?
’ I pointed to the road. ‘In Savernake Forest?’

He nodded.

‘What?’ My stomach turned inside out so suddenly that I almost reached for his arm to steady myself. ‘When?’

‘At the Abbott party last weekend.’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Some asshole pulled her into his car when she was walking back to Crofton and now everyone is too scared to come back, which is why the Halloween party’s been called off.’

‘A man in a car?’ I couldn’t catch my breath.

‘That’s what I heard.’

‘What sort of car?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Do you think he was following her?’

‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘But you know what this place is like. Girls walk back to Crofton by themselves all the time. He would have had his pick.’

I felt another fierce wave of nausea at the thought. ‘Poor Chloe.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I had no idea.’ I sucked in a breath, but then I thought of something and shot a look at him. ‘Does Scarlett know?’

‘Everyone does.’ I must have looked horrified, because he added, ‘She probably didn’t tell you because she didn’t want to worry you.’

‘I run in this forest every morning.’

‘It’s probably bullshit.’ He frowned. ‘Chloe didn’t report it to the police.’

‘That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, though. She’s probably too scared to tell them.’ I stopped to take another breath. ‘And you’re sure it was Chloe Poole?’

‘I heard it was a hockey player. But it has to be Chloe. There’s only one hockey player anyone talks about at Crofton. Chloe plays for the England Under Eighteens.’

I pressed my hands to my face. My cheeks were hot. ‘Poor Chloe.’

I heard something then, and it took me a moment too long to realise that it was The Old Dear, so it pulled up next to us before I could step away from Dominic.

With some effort, Scarlett wound down the window and looked at us. ‘Well, well,’ she said with a
Mona Lisa
smile that didn’t tell me whether she was pleased to see us or not. ‘Need a lift or am I disturbing something?’

‘Of course not,’ I snapped, still flustered from the Chloe thing, although, with hindsight, she probably took it as an admission of guilt.

Dominic and I exchanged a glance, then went to climb into the back seat.

‘I’m not a chauffeur,’ she said tightly, but her smile was still perfect. ‘Unless you’d both rather be in the back seat, of course.’

I stumbled in my haste to get into the front seat, banging my shin as I climbed in next to her. It hurt so much that it brought tears to my eyes, but I still smiled as I sat next to her, thanking her for the ride as I tugged on my seat belt.

The road through Savernake Forest is pretty narrow, too narrow to turn around on, especially in a Land Rover, so we had to drive for a bit before she could use one of the lay-bys. I say a bit, but it felt like for ever. Mercifully, the growl of the engine and the rattle of our bones as the car dipped in and out of the potholes filled the awkward silence. Scarlett seemed to be enjoying it, though, humming to herself, then making a show of fighting with the steering wheel, huffing and puffing as she heaved the car around. When we were finally heading out of the forest, she lifted her chin to look at Dominic in the rear-view mirror.

‘Red’s your colour, Mr Sim,’ she said, with her
Mona Lisa
smile.

He looked bewildered, then realised that she meant my sweater, which was still slung over his shoulder. He handed it, and my trench coat, back to me while Scarlett watched us, eyeing my Crofton sweatshirt. She’d obviously made the connection that it was Dominic’s and was waiting for an explanation and I would have given her one, except that I thought of the photo on his camera and realised that she hadn’t given me one, so I said nothing. It was petty, I know, but there was a thrill to it. I’d tell her eventually, but until I did, it made me feel better to know that she’d know how I felt when I saw that photo, even if it was only for a few hours.

If she knew that I was mad at her, she didn’t show it, she just smiled as The Old Dear wheezed up the road. I wanted to ask her about it, ask her why she had lied about the party, but it wasn’t the time, not with Dominic in the backseat, so in the few minutes it took to drive out of the forest, the silence became increasingly awkward until I almost opened the door and jumped out to avoid it. When she finally turned out of the forest and the mouth of the car park came into view, I was faint with relief and told her that if I wanted to sneak back into Crofton I should probably walk from there. After all, The Old Dear was hardly stealth.

Scarlett agreed and pulled over. We hugged, as we always did, albeit not as tightly, and I was careful to just wave at Dominic before I climbed out. I didn’t look back as I heard The Old Dear chug off, just dipped my head and ran through the car park towards the hill as it started to rain again.

When I got back to Burnham, I took advantage of having the bathroom to myself, for once, and stood under the water until the pads of my fingers were as rough as almond skin. But when I reached for my towel and stepped out, Molly was waiting for me.

‘What were you and Dominic Sim doing in Savernake Forest?’ she asked and the shock of it made me gasp and reach for the shower curtain.

‘Jesus,’ I said when I’d recovered, readjusting my towel.

‘I knew you’d give in,’ she said smugly, her hips swinging as she followed me over to the row of sinks. ‘Everyone does.’

‘Isn’t there a Year Eight girl you should be bullying into bulimia, Molly?’ I asked, the mirror squeaking as I rubbed the steam away with the palm of my hand. But I was impressed, I admit. I’d only been back at Burnham for half an hour. That must be a record.

She laughed, too loud, too bright, like cheap canned laughter on a sitcom. ‘I know you and Scarlett are best friends, but sharing boys, too? Really, Adamma.’

Am I the only one who doesn’t know they are together?
I wondered, trying not to huff as I inspected my reflection in the mirror. Best friends, my ass.

When I didn’t acknowledge her, I expected her to poke me some more. Instead, she looked over her shoulder at the bathroom door, then stood next to me at the sink and lowered her voice. ‘Just be careful, OK? Scarlett doesn’t like to share.’

I turned to look at her, expecting to find her staring at me with a vile smile, but she was gone. The shock of the cold air from the corridor when the bathroom door opened, then closed again, made me shiver.

I told myself that she was being melodramatic, yet when I got back to my room, I called Scarlett, explaining about Dominic and the hockey match and Sam’s prank. I can’t be sure, but I’m fairly certain from the sounds I heard on the other end of the phone that she stopped listening about halfway through, which wasn’t like her. I’m not saying that she hangs on every word I say, but I know she listens. She even asks me to repeat myself sometimes – ‘What bar? The one off Old Street?’
she’ll ask, as though she’s taking notes in class. But this afternoon she just
hmm
-ed and
yeah
-ed then told me she had to go.

I felt sick when I hung up. I hate it when people are pissed at me, but it didn’t occur to me that I should have been pissed with her as well. After all, she’d been keeping things from me, too. I think that’s why I started to think about Chloe again, because I was trying not to think about Scarlett. So I threw myself into my story for the
Disraeli
and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to make it sound vaguely exciting. I didn’t succeed. Not that there was anything wrong with it, it was fine, it just didn’t sound like me. I could imagine it sitting neatly beneath a glossy photograph of Crofton Scholarship Student Chloe Poole in the brochure, her hockey stick aloft, and almost printed it out, just so I could rip it up again.

It was dark by the time I gave up and went to stand by the window. When I looked towards Savernake Forest, I felt the prickle of something and closed it. I’ve never felt that here – fear, I guess. I’ve always thought of Ostley as perfect with its green hills and Blyton-bright afternoons. Jumoke said it wasn’t – that it couldn’t be – and it’s not that I didn’t believe her, but I expected Ostley’s deviancy to stray as far as wife-swapping parties or cheating at the church Christmas cake bake-off, I didn’t expect
this
. This was the sort of thing that would make me think twice the next time I snuck out of Burnham. The sort of thing that made me close my window. And it’s kind of funny, that I felt that here. Not in Lagos, or New York – sitting in an empty carriage on the 6 Train at one in the morning – but in a tiny village in Wiltshire. A village where Scarlett and I ordered red wine at the pub one Sunday afternoon and Mrs Delaney knew about it by the time I got back to Burnham.

I glanced at my copy of
The Times
on the desk next to my laptop and wondered if Chloe would ever be brave enough to report what had happended. I wished she would because, until she did, he was out there. That’s why I find newspapers so comforting, I think. Comforting is the wrong word to use when reading stories about murderers and paedophiles, but I guess I like my monsters where I can see them, held to paper, with ink, in Times New Roman.

So I went back to my laptop and typed up what I knew. It wasn’t much, but dealing with the facts made it easier. It didn’t make me feel better, but the words on my screen didn’t seem as black, either. Then I called Chloe. When she answered, she sounded as though she was at Balogun Market and for the second time that day, I missed home.

‘Hey, Adamma! How’s it going?’ she shouted over the din.

‘Celebrating your win?’

There was a sudden roar through the phone and I jumped.

‘Sorry,’ Chloe howled. ‘Lauren just walked into a tree!’

‘Where are you?’

‘Savernake Forest.’

My nerves twitched. ‘You’re in Savernake Forest?’

‘Yeah? Why?’

‘I . . . I just—’

‘Oh God,’ she interrupted with a groan. ‘Is this about that rumour?’

My heart started to beat too hard. ‘Rumour?’

‘Please tell me that’s not why you called, Adamma?’

‘No. I guess. It’s just that I heard—’

She wouldn’t let me finish. ‘Who told you? Molly Avery?’

‘Of course not. Molly’s too busy trying to find out if I’m shagging Dominic Sim.’

I heard a rustle and when the sound of the music began to fade, I realised that she was walking away from the party. ‘Who told you, then? Was it Scarlett?’

‘Does it matter, Chloe?’

‘So everyone’s talking about it?’ When I didn’t respond, she let out a long sigh. ‘I’m going to start wearing a I WASN’T RAPED T-SHIRT.’

‘You weren’t?’

‘No,’ she said so sharply that it made my cheeks burn. I hope she didn’t think I sounded disappointed. ‘Nothing happened. I was walking out of Savernake Forest after the party when some pervert stopped and tried to get me into his car. I told him to get stuffed and that was it.’

‘That was it?’

‘Yes! I don’t know how that turned into me being raped.’

‘Did you see what the guy looked like?’

‘No. When he pulled up next to me, I didn’t look, I just ran.’

‘I probably would have, too,’ I admitted, stopping to chew on the lid of my pen. ‘Did you see his licence plate?’ She scoffed. ‘Not even part of it? A letter? A number?’

‘You know what the forest is like, it was so dark. I couldn’t see a thing.’

‘Did you see what his car looked like?’

‘Adamma,’ she sighed, clearly weary of the interrogation. ‘I didn’t see a thing. It was dark and I was
shitfaced
. Just before he stopped, I was sick in a bush.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, covering my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘I shouldn’t be grilling you. I just hate the thought of this guy driving around, looking for girls.’

‘You’re not going to put it in the
Disraeli
, are you?’

I was mortified. ‘Of course I won’t.’

The line was quiet for a moment or two, and I could hear the party in the distance. I almost recognised the song that was playing and strained to make out the words, like at night when I can’t sleep and I try to guess what song is playing on Orla’s radio.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said with a long sigh. ‘It’s just that I told one person and look what happened? I guess that explains why Sam Wolfe just commented on my short skirt. I thought he was taking the piss because it was from Primark,’ she said with a huff. ‘Oh well. Looks like I’ve been upgraded from the Girl With the Cheap Clothes to the Girl Who Was Raped.’

She made an excuse then and hung up. When she did, my mouth was so dry, I downed the glass of water on my desk in a few gulps. I was still struggling to catch my breath when I heard a knock on my door and had to wait a second before I could say, ‘Come in.’

Orla edged in, her face flushed, and when she closed the door behind her, I stood up, a little startled. She hadn’t been in my room since the day I started at Crofton.

‘Are you OK, Orla?’

She clearly wasn’t, her hands were shaking as she tucked her blond hair behind her ears. ‘Were you just talking to Chloe Poole?’