Saving Sophia (14 page)

Death by toast

The police station is over-warm and smells of disinfectant and wee.

They still haven’t worked out who we are. Apparently the car’s registered to a man in Dubai and they’re trying to ring him. They’ve been trying to ring him ever since I showed them the car upside down in the ditch.

Buster and I sat at the top of the bank in the rain, waiting. It didn’t take long for the firemen to arrive. The police were slower.

“Cuffed to the door?” said one of the firemen trying to get Sophia out of the car.

He snipped off the cable ties and pulled her out of the window. She sat breathless on the wet grass for about a second before she ran up the bank towards me.

Wesson was trickier; it took three firemen and they had to cut the bottom off and tip the whole car over. They’d sprayed everything with a white powder first, to stop the petrol exploding, so it was also very messy and undignified. I didn’t really feel sorry for her, though.

Buster and I watched and the firemen gave us both some chocolate.

When the bottom of the car was back on its tyres, I asked a fireman to get Ned’s bag, the egg and Pinky and Perky.

“Got your homework in there?” he asked, handing them over.

I smiled. “Sort of.”

I didn’t want Ned’s bag, I just didn’t want it to lie there rotting in the rain and the broken glass.

Apart from sore arms, there was nothing wrong with us, so we ended up in the back of the policeman’s car, with a coronation chicken sandwich and a bag of Maltesers to share. We pulled away from the accident site, leaving firemen
and policemen measuring and filming and talking.

Now we’re back at the station everyone seems to be full of ideas about how it happened, but they haven’t asked us a single thing.

“She was abducting them—”

“Selling them overseas—”

“Excuse me,” I say.

“She’s obviously mad, and she must have been driving too fast—”

“Excuse me!” I shout.

A policewoman stops spreading butter on a piece of toast and puts her hand up. “Shh, everyone – listen.”

I hold Buster’s paw in my hand, to give me moral support. “I don’t know if you’re going to believe me…”

“Try us,” says a policeman, using his handcuffs to get a tea bag out of a cup.

“She’s called Maria Wesson, and she works for a man called Trevor Pinehead.”

“Pinehead? Don’t I know that name?”

“Kids – the kids who went missing down in Devon – that’s you – she kidnapped you?”

Sophia nods, I shake my head. “Yes,” she says.

“No,” I say. “No – we…” I look around at them
all. Five policemen and one woman, all listening to me. “We did run away, from Bream Lodge.”

“Sounds about right,” says one of the policemen, rustling through a pile of old newspapers. “Here you are.” He holds up a picture. It doesn’t look very much like me. Sophia looks gorgeous.

“That’s us – and we made it all the way to Bristol.”

“Charlotte Green,” says the policeman with the papers. “Right – Batson, go and look up the case, ring Exeter and get the number for the parents.”

A young policeman races out of the room, clutching the paper.

“What were you doing in Bristol?” asks the policewoman.

The words hang in the air for a really long time, and I wonder whether to try and tell them the truth. They’re listening, and there’s never going to be a better opportunity. But Sophia kicks me, and whispers: “They’re not going to believe you.”

“It’s her guardian – he’s dangerous – he’s a murderer,” I say, my voice disappearing on the word
murderer.
“He’s killed people – been to prison.”

“Really?” says the policeman with the newspapers. “This same bloke here? He’s rather sophis – I’m sure I’d have remembered that from the telly.”

“He might not actually have been to prison,” says Sophia. “But I’m sure he’s killed people.”

“Let me get this straight – you say your guardian is a murderer?”

“Yes – I mean – no – I mean – I don’t know,” says Sophia.

“Let’s check,” says the policewoman. She turns to a computer and taps in Pinhead’s name. We all wait. The policemen cluster around the screen.

“Nothing. Nothing except for parking fines.”

“But that can’t be true,” I say, turning to Sophia. “You said—”

“Well, I thought he was…” says Sophia. “I’m sure he’s killed people, he might never have been caught, that’s all.”

“Hmmm,” says the first policeman, looking up at me.

Sophia stares at the floor.

A dark cloud of doubt drifts into my mind. Then I remember the cable ties. “He cuffed us to the car,” I say. “That’s not normal, is it?”

The policewoman nods. “We’ll be prosecuting the woman, but there’s nothing to link her to Mr Pinehead at this stage.”

“But he was there – he was the one that put the
cable ties on us. He caught us when we came out of the hotel,” I say.

Sophia looks up. “It’s true and he had a mobile phone with lots of telephone numbers, and a warehouse, and all sorts of things. And he’s got loads of money from somewhere.”

The policewoman tilts her head. “I understand what you’re saying, but there’s no proof. At the moment, Mr Pinehead is a very respectable figure.”

“But he’s not – you should have heard what he said on the phone,” I say.

“Did you record it?”

“No.” I pick up Buster and hold him on my lap. If they won’t believe us, then I want them all to go away. And I want to talk to Sophia on her own – I want to find out the truth. And then I remember the flash drive.

“In the back of the car, in the gap between the seats, there’s a computer storage drive thing – we copied everything from his office. I bet there’s something on there – could you send someone to look?”

The policewoman brushes crumbs from her chin.

“I don’t think it’s going to help, do you?” she says.

“Please, there must be something. Otherwise why would he chain us to the car?”

“Because you keep running away?” says the policeman with the newspapers.

“We’ll see,” says the policewoman, in the same way Mum does when I ask for something that she’s got no intention of letting me have.

Sophia picks dog hairs from her trousers.

I feel so many conflicting emotions that I can’t decide what I’m thinking. I just know that I really badly want to go home, that I really miss my family, the food, the house, the crack in the ceiling.

Ned.

“What happened to Ned?” I ask, remembering him for the first time in ages.

“Ned?” says the policeman with the newspapers. “Who’s Ned?”

“My brother?” I say, my lip wobbling. If they don’t know, perhaps he didn’t get home after all.

The policeman flicks through the papers. “Sorry – don’t know anything about Ned.”

I wipe a tear away with Buster’s ear. He looks up at me and licks my face.

We sit there for hours. I take Buster out to wee on a police car and bring him back inside. We sit for even longer. The policemen concentrate on their toast and coffee, swapping Marmite for jam and back again. They seem to have forgotten us.

The phone rings and the policewoman answers. “Yes, sir – we’ll get them to make a statement, yes, we’re just waiting for family liaison or a relative. Oh, that’s good to know, yes, I’ll pass it on.” The policewoman puts down the phone. “It seems Maria Wesson is conscious and willing to talk.”

They all nod sagely as if a significant breakthrough has been reached.

“So that’s good,” the policewoman repeats brightly, handing me yet another piece of toast.

I’m just wondering what Maria Wesson will say, when there’s a lot of noise from the corridor and Mum bursts in, her face tearstained and swollen. Behind her, Ned, also tearstained.

“Lottie,” she says, wrapping me in her arms, my face enveloped by her old padded jacket that smells of guinea pigs. “Lottie. I thought we’d lost you.”

The long road back

“He’s not our dog,” says Mum after she comes out of the interview room. All the tears have gone now and she just looks utterly furious.

“But his owner’s in hospital – can’t we look after him?”

Mum turns and stares at me. “Lottie. After all you’ve put us through you expect me to house a stray dog?”

Sophia looks at the floor.

Ned bends down and rubs Buster’s ears. “He’s a nice dog.”

“He saved my life,” I say, and my voice goes
wobbly. “And Sophia’s.”

Mum goes tight-lipped and sweeps out of the police station. I pick up Buster and we follow.

We drive along what seem to be identical roads until we’re on the motorway. Although I’d love to talk to Ned, I keep quiet – I know Mum too well. She grips the steering wheel and mutters to herself, periodically wiping her nose on her sleeve.

Ned’s in the front seat. He turns to me. “I’ve got something I ought to tell you – I found out—”

“Ned,” says Mum. “Not now.”

“But, it’s—”

“I don’t care,” says Mum.

Ned reaches for the radio button.

“Don’t!” snaps Mum. “I’d rather drive in silence.”

Ned sighs.

I sigh, too. I want to know how Ned got home.
When
he got home. Did Miss Sackbutt tell him off or feed him KitKats, or both? And when did Mum and Dad find out we were missing? I’d also like to tell Ned about the flash drive, and the car crash and climbing over the glass, and I’d like to tell Mum about Irene, how Irene kept me going, and the books, Irene’s books – our books. But I don’t
do any of those things; instead I lean against the window, my hand on Buster’s head, watching the wet countryside. I glance across to Sophia. She’s sitting still, her eyes closed, tears racing down her cheeks.

We screech into the drive and tumble from the car into the house. It’s tipping with rain, the garden rustles and gurgles as Dad’s clever water retrieval system rescues every drop that falls, sending it into a giant underground tank which then pumps it out to the loos as faintly green water for flushing. I’ve always thought it was stupid, but now I’m not so sure.

It’s better than trying to catch drinking water in a scrap of tinfoil from a survival blanket.

Dad’s there, waiting just inside the door; he’s made toast and scones, and searched out a jar of his really quite edible hedgerow jelly. He grabs me and drags me towards him. Then he spots Sophia and hugs her, too.

“Sweets, darlings… I—” But he can’t speak, any more than I can. His beard tickles against the top of my head and for the first time in days, I feel safe, completely safe.

Mum, on the other hand, has thrown the car keys on to the table and stands with her arms crossed. She’s wearing the biggest scowl I’ve ever seen. She is not happy.

“And…?” she says, looking from me to Sophia and then back to me.

“Mum,” starts Ned. “This is all—”

“We didn’t mean for it––” I try, but Sophia’s faster and louder. I sink into a chair and butter a scone while she speaks.

“It wasn’t Lottie’s fault, or Ned’s. I kidnapped Lottie, she was in the same kayak as me, and then I forced her to come with me and then she had to come, and then Ned found us and I forced both of them to come with me…” Sophia’s voice fades.

Dad stares at her. Mum stares at her. “Yes?” says Mum.

Sophia takes a deep breath. “I kidnapped them, I steered the boat so Lottie couldn’t stop us, and then I ran when Wesson came, and they came too, and I made it so that they felt they couldn’t leave me, but—”

“Wait a second,” says Dad, pouring Mum a coffee. “I don’t think we need to know how. I think
it’s more a question of why.”

We’re silenced.

Dad sits at the table across from Sophia and looks at her with his most serious face, the one he keeps for plants. “Why, Sophia, did you feel you had to run away?”

Sophia bites her lip and looks across at me.

“Because of Pinhead,” she says. “Because he’s stolen my mother, my everything. He knows where she is, but he keeps it from me, he’s up to something, he’s not…”

Sophia trails off. Mum’s shaking her head.

“It’s not true, is it?” she says. “It’s not true that you never see your mum – that Trevor Pinehead took her away – is it?” She doesn’t say it aggressively, but the words seem to take the stiffening out of Sophia’s back, and she wilts. Mum goes on, so quietly that I can hardly hear. “I mean, yes, your mum is mostly abroad, but, Sophia, where does the truth begin and the story end?”

There’s a knock at the door. Dad goes and we sit silently around the table, listening. It’s a woman’s voice, one I don’t recognise.

A long slow tear escapes from the corner of Sophia’s eye and creeps to the corner of her mouth.

“What’s going on?” I say, standing, scone in hand.

Dad ushers a tall dark-haired woman into the room. She’s Sophia in twenty-five years’ time. She has Sophia’s dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin.

She smiles, a broad, white-toothed smile. “Sophia,” she says, her accent southern European, the word springing from her tongue. “Mrs Green emailed me, I came as soon as I could—”

Sophia leans over and buries her head in her hands.

“Who…?” I ask, gazing at this woman. “Are you Sophia’s mum?”

Dad takes off his glasses and rubs them with the corner of his T-shirt. He sighs and shakes his head.

The woman slides into a chair next to Sophia. She appears weightless, fragile, deeply sad. She puts her hand on Sophia’s shoulder. “It’s me, Sophia my love. Tell me, what has been happening?”

I look towards Ned. He’s pink, like he might explode. I can almost hear his brain. “Yes – this is Sophia’s mum. We found her.”

“You?” I gasp at Ned. “How?”

He turns to me. “I looked her up on the internet. Mum and I did – in the library – we found her
name, found her email and sent her a message. It seemed sensible.”

I sit with my mouth open.

Sophia has a mum. A very beautiful mum, a very elegant mum, but a mum all the same. One who doesn’t seem all that dead or distant, one that seems to be able to turn up and find her daughter.

One with email.

Ned tries again. “Sophia told us a story, didn’t you? It was a good story, but…”

Sophia bends her head and uses her hands to cradle her face. When she looks up, she’s tear-sodden, her long black eyelashes heavy with crying, her eyes bloodshot. “I – Oh, Lottie!”

“What? What’s going on?” My head fills with yellow and black and red and chaos, and I’m confused.

Dad hands Sophia a grubby hanky and she blows her nose but goes on crying.

“It got out of hand – I said stuff and then we were doing it, and I didn’t know how to tell you the truth and I almost began to believe it myself.”

“Sorry?” I say, trying to listen to her through the noise in my head.

“I told you stuff, at the beginning, and I think
you wanted to believe it, so I told you more…”

I can’t speak – someone’s just pulled my world apart.

Sophia goes on. “That first night at the swimming pool, I suppose I thought you’d just ignore me, or say I was silly, but you didn’t. So I kept going – I was sort of enjoying myself – and you were such a willing audience, it was easy, and yes, Ned’s right, it was all wrong.”

“You told me you didn’t like him,” I say, finding my voice. It sounds surprisingly calm. “That he isn’t your dad. That he kept you apart. That you haven’t heard from your mum for two months, haven’t seen your mum in five years…”

Sophia’s mum gives a cry. “Goodness – no! Five years? Five weeks, perhaps.”

I pause, trying to make all the stories fit together. “You made out that he was an international criminal. You told me he was a murderer.”

“Sophia?” says her mum, stroking Sophia’s heavy black plait. “What have you told your friends?”

“I told them you were a singer.”

“A singer? Well, I am.”

“A princess.”

“True also.”

“And an actress…”

Sophia’s mum smiles. “I am a singer – an opera singer.”

“You didn’t live in the flat with the cockroaches?” I ask.

“I once lived in a flat with cockroaches,” says Dad, rearranging the sugar bowl. “Wonderful survivors.”

Mum glares at him.

“No cockroaches,” says Sophia, sounding defeated. “No flat in Maida Vale, no school with a checked dress, no rats.”

“We have mostly lived in flats, that much is true,” says Sophia’s mum. “And it’s true that since I married Trevor, I have seen less of Sophia. He felt it was better that she went away to school and as I travelled a great deal it made sense.”

“Why didn’t you come when we ran away?” says Sophia through her tears.

“Oh I did – I tried to – the police contacted me. I’ve been ringing Trevor twice a day, until he disappeared – goodness knows where he’s gone – and I’ve been trying to get here. I emailed you, of course – I’ve been doing it every day. I can’t tell you how difficult it is to get a flight to London from Christmas Island at this time of year.”

“He’s probably in Acapulco with all the other international criminals,” says Ned.

“Shh, Ned,” says Mum. “That’s up to the police now. I’m sure they’ll tell us when they find him.”

Sophia’s mum takes Sophia’s hand and a little frown crosses her perfect brow. “I know Skyping and emailing twice a week isn’t the same as being around much. I am sorry I have not been here to see you grow up – I am very sorry for that, my love.”

“Skype?” I squeak. “I thought you weren’t allowed near the internet?”

Sophia rubs her head against her mother’s hand. “Sorry, Lottie.”

They make the perfect mother and daughter picture.

Something boils up, something huge and purple and very, very angry. “Sorry? Sorry! Sorry for nearly killing us all, sorry for leading me across the country for nothing?” I slam my hands on the table-top, and a milk bottle jumps into the air and tips, flooding the table. I ignore it, I’m too furious. “I did it because I thought you were desperate, that there was no other way for you to see your mother! And then, and then it turns out that your mother’s
here all the time – that she isn’t dead or chained up or IGNORING YOU, she’s here and she cares about you! And not only that – she emails you – you email her – you Skype – MORE THAN ONCE A WEEK. YOU ARE IN CONTACT WITH HER!” I step back from the dripping table. “I can’t believe we went through with it – that you let me go through with it – you must be mad!”

“I wasn’t mad – I was desperate – I haven’t seen Mum for ages – months…”

“You’re seeing her now!”

“But look what it took to see her. We’ve had to run away, wander around the countryside for days, eat out of bins…” Tears stream down Sophia’s face.

“Oh darling…” says Sophia’s mother. “Not eating out of bins? Surely not…”

I interrupt. “Not to mention the car crash and nearly being killed. Look what you did to me!”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“You told me you hadn’t seen your mother for five years – of course I had to come.”

“OK – that was wrong – but I couldn’t think of any other way – and you seemed to want to come.”

“I didn’t want to be kidnapped – I didn’t want
to be chained to a car leaking petrol into a ditch.”

“Lottie! I didn’t know that was going to happen and I certainly didn’t plan it that way. I thought we’d find Mum, have lunch with her, stay in a hotel. I didn’t think they’d kidnap us or that Wesson would nearly kill us, but please, see it from my point of view! You’ve got to understand, suppose you never got to see your mum – think about it.” Her voice drops.

Mum and Sophia’s mum are holding hands. They both look shocked. I’m shocked. Dad’s rubbing his glasses, and Ned’s drawing a smiley face in a pool of spilled sugar.

“Imagine running away time after time, hoping it would bring your mum, but it doesn’t, it just brings a man in a suit with a bad temper. Put yourself in my place.”

There’s a choking noise from Sophia’s mum and she reaches for Dad’s filthy hankie.

“But you didn’t tell me the truth! You could have told me the truth – there would have been other ways.”

“I’ve tried everything else.” Sophia’s face is red and swollen; she no longer looks at all beautiful. “I couldn’t get through to her any other way.”

I can’t even think how to answer her. A final surge of fury brings uncontrollable tears and I can’t even see the table, Ned, Dad, Mum or Sophia.

I think I want to burst.

I think I want to explode.

Instead I go outside and stand in the rain.