What You Left Behind (42 page)

I’d wanted to prove something on that stolen bike that night. I thought it was to Dean, but I was wrong. It was to myself.

You’re a natural!

He never saw my grin. I wanted to go faster. Much faster. That’s why I twisted the accelerator toward me as far as it would go. My entire life—and his—gripped in one hand.

Then came that seemingly interminable tumble, every part of me jarring and twisting and tearing. A battering noise inside my skull.
A taste of blood inside my mouth. An engine rumbling, resonating through the ground.

Dean? Dean, where are you?

No reply.

I was about to scream but stopped. Was someone there?

The engine cut out and everything was quiet.

Hello?

When I found him, I barely recognized him.

Keep calm
.

And then something kicked in, I grabbed the broken helmet, paused again, listened. The crack of a twig, the thud of footsteps, the rasp of breath even more terrified than mine.

Without stopping, I managed to get myself home, limping across the fields the back way, ducking into hedges or shadows whenever cars came along the village lane. I crept toward the house and clicked open the back door. Everything was silent, and I slipped the broken helmet through the loft hatch where no one would look. The visor was missing but I daren’t go back for it.

Reluctantly, I removed the ring Dean had given me and stashed it in an old handbag at the back of my wardrobe. I didn’t have the heart to throw it away, although I should have done.

I got in the shower and scrubbed Dean off my body. The water swirled with mud and red and flecks of grass.

It was late—or early—but there was no way I could have slept. Soon, a band of orange-pink light filtered through, making it seem as if nothing bad had actually happened, as if the birds weren’t singing out what I’d done, the dogs weren’t whining to the tune of my crime in the kitchen below, the bin men weren’t trundling through the village collecting up the trash of my life.

“Morning,” I said cheerily at breakfast. I was so stiff I could hardly walk.

“Morning,” they all said back.

The day had begun and I drove to New Hope, early for my shift.

Dean, of course, wasn’t there.

“What’s got into you?” Frank asked cheerily, but I ignored him, claiming a headache. That much was true. Every time the door opened to the church hall, every time a phone rang, my heart skittered and stalled.

Then I remembered the stuff Dean said he’d got in a locker. There was a master key hidden in the kitchen. The boys were always losing their keys.

Dean’s life consisted of the contents of a holdall. His scent wafted out when I opened the locker—sweat mixed with the powdery smell of value-brand deodorant. A balled-up sock tumbled to the floor, so I picked it up, put it back in his bag along with the note I’d just written. Someone would eventually find it.

“You look awful,” Frank said. “Sit down and have a cuppa.”

It was true. I felt sick. Dead inside. I could have shown him the bruises blooming on my back, let him see my purple swollen ankle beneath my trousers, have a feel of what I’m certain was a cracked rib. But I didn’t. It all remained concealed. Besides, I wanted the pain. It was punishment.

Something about the way Dean had looked at me, the way he smelled, the way he walked, those long limbs never knowing quite where to put themselves—it reminded me so much of Simon. The youthful and carefree way Dean breezed through life. I’d half expected him to pick me up, spin me around. For a few months that summer it had been like having Simon back.

But then the horror of what I’d done wound back, and I’d feel more alone, more scared than ever before.

Steal a bike
, he’d said.
Steal some fun
, I’d agreed. Steal some precious hours together.

But now it was over and Dean was dead. Just like Simon.

Then the police came.

And they found Dean’s note.

They said they were sorry, told us that he’d killed himself, took his stuff away.

I was sorry too.

“Mum,” Lana said when she arrived at New Hope later, “you look terrible. Didn’t you sleep?”

“I’m fine,” I said, sitting down so she couldn’t see how I was shaking.

I told her what had happened, that Dean had killed himself. She was shocked. We sat in silence for a while, thinking about him. When she glanced at my arms, I pulled down my sleeves to cover the bruises. I told her about the nightmare that had kept me awake, how I’d dreamed about Simon. How he’d died all over again and there’d been nothing I could do to save him.

But how I was glad I’d had him back, just for one night.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As ever, I am indebted to the wonderful people I work with. I couldn’t possibly do it without you, so huge thanks and love to everyone involved—Selina Walker, my editor, for brilliant advice and friendship, as well as Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Philippa Cotton, Jen Doyle, Sarah Page, Andrew Sauerwine, Vincent Kelleher, Richard Ogle, Dan Somerfield, Dan Balado, and everyone else at Cornerstone involved with my books. Big love and thanks to Oli Munson, my agent and champion, and also to Jennifer Custer and Hélène Ferey for taking me around the world, and thanks too to all the wonderful staff at A. M. Heath. Gratitude and thanks to all my foreign publishers, and very special thanks indeed to Alexis Washam and her team in New York for making me feel so welcome. I am indebted to Smeg and Berry for their remarkable tales, inside knowledge, help, and advice—all so invaluable as I was writing this book. (I take full responsibility for any mistakes!)

Finally, as always, my love to Terry, Ben, Polly, and Lucy.