Blood Ties (4 page)

I shook my head. ‘He’s supposed to be looking out for me.’

The library was busy, but there were still a few free computers in the Young Adult section.

‘I need to check something on the internet,’ I said to Roy. ‘Jake’s going upstairs to look for the books we need.’

Roy grunted and positioned himself a couple of metres away from me at the foot of the staircase that led up to the library’s first floor.

Five minutes later I was logged on and clicking on my Google search terms:
clinic
and
firebomb
.

I glanced over my shoulder. Roy was gazing around the library.

I looked back at the computer and frowned. Hundreds of hits. I scanned quickly through them. Most of the results appeared to refer to abortion clinics in the United States. I added the words
genetic
and
research
and my dad’s name,
Lawson
, to the search. Pressed ‘go’.

Yes
. There it was. That had to be it.

My heart thudded. I clicked on the hit.

A sharp prod in my ribs made me jump. I whipped round. Jake was grinning at me.

‘What?’ I snapped.

‘How’s it going, dude?’ Jake sprawled into the chair next to me, his arms full of books. ‘Hey there’s a couple of babes upstairs looking at the CD section. Crap taste in music but . . .’ He caught my eye. ‘What?’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You found something?’

I nodded and pointed at the screen.

We stared at it together.

It was a newspaper article, from
The Times
archive, dated from early September fifteen years ago, two weeks after I was born at the end of August.

‘Hey, a firebomb, dude. That’s hardcore.’ Jake sat back in his chair. I could feel him staring at me. ‘How did your dad get out, then?’

I shrugged, trying not to show how much finding out what had happened mattered to me. I scanned the rest of the article quickly, looking for my dad’s name.

At the very end of the article was information about RAGE and a list of the other victims of the fire.
There
. The list included my dad – J. Lawson. Except that it wasn’t true, of course. He had survived the firebomb. He was out there somewhere.

I let out a long, slow breath.

‘Now what?’ Jake said.

I glanced over at Roy. He was looking at me, tapping his watch and mouthing the words ‘two more minutes’.

‘I have to find this Richard Smith guy,’ I said. I wasn’t yet sure what I was going to say to him – how much of the truth I dared tell – but he knew my dad. That was what mattered. He’d known him fifteen years ago. Maybe he still did.
Jesus.
Maybe they were still in touch. My heart was hammering, just at the thought of it.

‘Whoa.’ Jake shook his head. ‘First off – what makes you think he’s going to tell you any more about your dad than your mum has? And second off – how are you going to track him down? Richard Smith’s not exactly an unusual name.’

I thought for a minute. ‘Look.’ I pointed to the article. ‘This gives us the exact date when his daughter was born.’

‘So?’ Jake frowned.

‘So that means . . .’ I paused, working it out in my head. ‘That means she’d be fifteen, like us, but born in September, so probably only Year Ten. If we can find out where she goes to school, get hold of her . . .’ I sat up, excited. ‘Yes. In fact it’ll work better that way. I can talk to her, use her to help me get to—’

‘What are you talking about?’ Jake frowned. ‘How are you going to find out where she goes to school?’

‘Annual Schools’ Census.’ I said. ‘Max told me about it. Records schools have to submit to the government. Including the surname and date of birth of every pupil. If she’s still in the country Max’ll be able to find her.’

‘Cool.’ Jake’s eyes widened. ‘Wait. Are you saying that you think Max could actually hack into school records?’

‘No.’ I grinned. ‘I’m saying that I know for a fact Max already has.’

Two days passed. I forgot about the text. I mean, I forgot about what it said. I didn’t forget that Dad had some kind of secret. I tried not to think about that. But it preyed on my mind. In fact, I was thinking about it when I arrived at school, when I would normally have been watching out for Jemima.

I was heading for the toilets, busting for a pee. I didn’t see Jemima until I was almost at the door. She was with a couple of friends, giggling away across the corridor near the art room.

I hesitated for a second. Maybe she hadn’t seen me. Anyway, it was too late to find another loo. I really needed to go. I pushed the toilet door open and hitched up my skirt as I scurried across to the cubicle. I was in and out really quickly, just splashing a bit of water over my hands afterwards. I reached the door. Pulled it open. And there she was. Jemima. Her pointy little face all sneering and cold. Amy and Phoebe stood on either side of her. They’re like copies of Jemima, except Phoebe’s not nearly as pretty and Amy’s got big braces on her teeth. But all of them are slim, with the same highlighted blonde hair.

Jemima nodded at Phoebe. ‘Go on.’

Phoebe shoved me in the chest.

I stumbled back into the toilets.

‘What were you doing in here?’ Jemima sneered. ‘Trying to make yourself look pretty or something?’

Amy giggled.

I shook my head. I wanted to say something. To shout at them. But it was like there was a barrier between me and the rest of the world, stopping me from speaking.

‘Didn’t work, did it, Phoebs?’ Jemima went on. ‘She looks as ugly as ever, doesn’t she?’

Phoebe nodded.

I’m not ugly. I’m not
. But the words didn’t sound true, even inside my own head. I was ugly. Just as surely as Rebecca had been beautiful and Dad had a secret phone.

‘So are you a virgin?’

What?
I stared at Jemima. Why was she asking me that? She must know I was. Tears pricked at my eyes.

‘Well?’ Jemima prodded my shoulder.

‘Maybe she doesn’t know what the word means?’ Amy giggled.

‘I do.’ The words ripped out of me – far too forcefully.

I caught the gleam in Jemima’s eye. She knew she was getting to me. She knew I was nearly crying. She was loving every second of it.

‘So,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you or aren’t you? Just say, then you can go.’

I clung to this. If I gave her an answer I could get away. But what was the
right
answer? If I said yes, I
was
a virgin, she would taunt me about being inexperienced. If I said no, I
wasn’t
, she’d call me a slut and tell everyone I’d do it with any boy who wanted.

‘I don’t know,’ I stammered.

No, Rachel. Stupid, stupid
.

Jemima grinned.

‘I mean . . .’

Too late. All three of them were laughing.

‘She doesn’t know.’ That was Phoebe.

‘Maybe she was drunk,’Amy giggled.

Jemima’s eyes glinted. ‘Maybe she couldn’t tell it was happening.’

The others laughed even harder at this.

And now the tears really were coming. I bit down hard on my lip to hold them back, but it was no use. I pushed past Jemima and reached for the door knob, all blurry in front of me.

‘Hey, freak show.’ Jemima’s voice was so commanding I stopped, my fingers outstretched and shaking. ‘Maybe you’ll work it out at the school disco . . .’

More snorts and sniggers from the other girls.

I grabbed the door knob.

‘Don’t forget you’re my bitch,’ Jemima sneered.

What’s wrong with the ones you’ve got?
I so wanted to say it. But I didn’t have the courage. And I didn’t trust my voice to speak. So I just turned the door handle and fled down the corridor.

Max said it would take thirty-six hours to find out the information on Richard Smith’s daughter and that any communication between us should make no reference to either Richard Smith himself or my dad. Max is like that sometimes. Paranoid. Still, maybe hackers have to be.

The thirty-six hours crept by.

Even though it made me late for school, I was instant messaging at thirty-six hours and one minute.

From Big T, posted at 09:01 a.m.:

From Maxitup, posted at 09:26 a.m.:

From Big T, posted at 09:28 a.m.:

From Maxitup, posted at 09:31 a.m.:

From Big T, posted at 09:32 a.m.:

From Maxitup, posted at 09:34 a.m.:

I spent the rest of the day drawing – a weird picture of tiny hearts, all red and bleeding, on a piece of paper which I kept transferring from one text book to another. I drew instead of starting an English comprehension essay, taking down history notes and making observations on some stupid science experiment. The only class where I couldn’t totally zone out was gym – but I pretended I had my period and got the teacher to let me take it easy. I hate gym. I’m too clumsy and awkward to do any of it right.

That afternoon I left school promptly, as soon as the bell rang, so that there were plenty of people around as I walked out.

My school’s on a hill, near the top. I came out of the gates and turned left to walk down the road as usual.

I’d only gone a couple of steps, looking round for Jemima the whole time, when Clara, this bushy-haired girl from my class, bounded up to me. Her eyes were all round and excited.

‘Rachel, Rachel,’ she gasped. ‘There’s a boy looking for you.’

I stared at her. I didn’t know any boys. That is, I’d known some at primary school, but since I got to Browning Wood the only boys I’d met were other girls’ brothers and a few guys from Princedale’s at a couple of school discos.

‘He’s down by the bus-stop,’ Clara continued. ‘He wants to speak to you.’

I felt slightly sick. Who could it be? Surely not someone’s brother? I hadn’t been round to anyone’s house for almost a year. Maybe the disco at the end of last term – I’d slow-danced with this horrible boy who’d given me a massive love bite on my neck. I’d had to wear high-neck tops for two weeks so Mum and Dad wouldn’t see. His name was Fred or Frank or . . .

And then it hit me.

There was no boy. This was some trick of Jemima’s. Some wind-up. I stopped walking.

Clara grabbed my arm. ‘Come on. No one knows who he is. He won’t say his name.’

I stared at her. Clara wasn’t a mean person. She kind of got on with everyone. And she certainly wasn’t part of Jemima’s bitchy gang. Maybe she
was
telling the truth. I turned back. The downwards slope of the hill between where I stood and the bus-stop was filled with tartan skirts and tan jackets. The boy – if there really was a boy – must be either very short or inside the bus shelter.

I wandered ultra-casually down the hill. Clara was still gabbling away beside me. ‘He’s not wearing a school uniform. I saw him before anyone else. He’s really fit.’

My heart started pounding. If it wasn’t a wind-up it was a mistake. He was asking for the wrong Rachel. God, that would be so embarrassing. This little voice in my head was saying:
run away, run away now
.

But my feet kept on walking me forwards. The bus-stop really wasn’t that far – maybe nine or ten metres, but it felt like a mile. As I got closer I caught sight of Phoebe, chattering and smiling at someone inside the bus shelter.

No. No, no, no
. There was Jemima. That settled it. Definitely a wind-up. I stopped walking again, just as Phoebe turned and looked up the road. She saw me.
No.
I couldn’t move. Phoebe pointed at me. Jemima scowled. Then they stood aside, like they were making way for someone.

And this boy stepped out of the bus shelter.

He was tall, kind of rangy-looking. Wearing really nice jeans. Loose, but not too baggy or anything. He had dark hair – quite long round his face. He was turning, following Phoebe’s pointing finger, looking up the road. At me.