Invisible Girl (5 page)

“C
an I have a train ticket to Manchester, please?” I say to the lady at the ticket office.

“Which one?” she says. “There’s more than one station in Manchester, my love.”

“Errrr, I, eerrmm.”

“Just the main one?” she says, squinting at the computer screen. “Manchester Piccadilly?”

I nod. “Errr, yes, that’s right. That’s the one.”

“You’re in luck, and you’ve only got a twenty-minute wait,” she says, glancing at her watch. “You’ll see you need to change at Bristol Temple Meads, OK? You’ve only got one change, so it shouldn’t be too tricky. Someone meeting you at the other end, are they?”

I nod again and force a big smile on my face. “Yes,’ I say, “my mum’ll be waiting for me.”

“OK, then,” she smiles. “Good girl, you take care.”

I find my way to the platform on legs made of jelly. I wish the ticket lady hadn’t been so kind; it makes things worse. It was the same with the lady in the park café and Grace’s mum. They make me feel weak and small, like I might just buckle over all at once and cry. They make me work extra hard at looking normal and keeping a smile drawn across my face.

I lug my bags on to the platform, find my way to the ladies’ toilets and lock myself in a cubicle. It’s smelly with stale wee and disinfectant and lady’s perfume is still clinging to the walls like paint. But I like it in here because I’m invisible. No one’s staring or asking questions.

A nutty ball of anger about Grace is bothering me. I don’t want to be angry with her, but it’s travelling around me looking for a place to settle. I don’t know why I’m even going to Manchester. I’m not going to live with my mum, so why am I even getting on the train?

I sit on the toilet seat and pick the scab on my arm while I think. I need to stop picking it really because every time it gets better I start picking and picking again, making it bleed. Amy’s words ring loud in my brain. “
Stop picking, Miss Flappy Ears, you’ll pick yourself to death at this rate!”

Maybe I should go back to the park and talk to the cupcake lady. I could tell her how worried I am that my dad’ll get into trouble. Then maybe she won’t call the police; maybe she’ll just take care of me until I’m old enough to get a job. We wouldn’t have to tell anyone; we could pretend she was my auntie or something. We could say my dad had to go away to work. Even Grace wouldn’t have to know, or school, and I could go back in tomorrow like normal.

I could help her out in the café at weekends. I could make cupcakes. I’m sure I’d be really good at cupcakes. Maybe I should’ve told Mrs Evans, she would definitely know what to do. I could sleep in the art cupboard on cushions and clean the art room up for her every evening and she could bring me food. It might be OK.

My hands tremble as I open my backpack and peer inside. I pull out some jeans, my favourite blue top with the shiny ribbon bit around the neck and my fake leopard-print jacket. I take off my uniform, yesterday’s knickers and socks and slip the clean stuff on, wobbling on one foot, trying to miss a little puddle of water on the floor. I wish I could have a hot shower, or a flannel wash, or even baby wipes. I balance on the toilet seat, pull on my Converse and lace them up. My mouth feels dry; there’s this big knotty lump in my throat. At least I won’t stand out so much wearing jeans. I might look old enough that no one will wonder if I’m skiving off school.

I dig my hand deep into my backpack, squirrelling and searching again. Dad knows how much I need Blue Bunny; he knows I can’t sleep without him. But what if Amy packed my bag? She said I was a baby for still having a bunny at my age. But what does she know about anything?

My hand slices through my stuff, my fingers scrabbling through the rough wool of a jumper, the softness of my hoody, the hard knobbly socks rolled up together. I run my fingers round some books, pushing my hand deeper. Hope filling me like stars on a cold black night. My fingertips travel the rough sequined fabric of my diary with the bendy up corner, the shiny plastic of my strawberry pencil case, the soft cotton brush of my knickers. And down at the bottom with all the gritty bits and tissues and sweet wrappers I find a silky label and a love-soft ear. I pull Blue Bunny out and I can’t stop grinning. I kiss him on the little heart Beckett drew on his chest when he was ten and stroke the silky label against my lip. Then my hand starts searching again; my mind starts flapping.

What about my photo? What about my photo of Beckett?

I open the cubicle door, and avoiding the puddle of water, hold my backpack upside down and clatter the mish-mash, click-clack of colourful stuff on to the floor. My fingers sift through it like baby bloodhounds, hunting. What did they do with my photo?
Beckett, where are you?

Beckett’s not here. They forgot him. Probably threw him out with all the other stuff or left him for Mrs McKlusky to sweep away. The little glass frame is probably cracked and cutting Beckett’s face, making scars. Fat tears roll down my cheeks without me even knowing they were coming. My lips pull tight and tremble.

I stare at my face in the cloakroom mirror, watching it turn into an ugly gargoyle. I press my hands on my cheeks and open my mouth, pulling my jaw down, letting out a silent scream that I hope someone, somewhere, will hear. Then I splash cold water on my face, scrub my hands with soap and brush my hair. I fumble to find my toothbrush. I load it up with toothpaste and feel the cool minty flavour zing through me, setting my gums on fire. I stuff everything in my backpack and fill my water bottle from the tap. I stare at my face in the mirror again, shooing the gargoyle away, willing my lips to smile so that no one will see the volcano erupting inside me.

It’s weird being on the train alone. I feel like everyone’s watching, like they all know what’s happening to me. Like what Dad has done and how bad I am is written over my face in loud, loopy handwriting. They keep staring like cats, slyly out of the corners of their eyes. I stuff my backpack under my seat and put my school bag on the one next to me. I cross my fingers and toes, hoping that no one will come and sit down. I don’t want their questions. I don’t want anyone finding out and telling on Dad.

I wonder where he is now? I wonder what he’s doing? I wonder when his wedding actually
is
? If Amy had been nicer I could’ve been a bridesmaid. I would’ve done it for Dad if she’d asked.

What did I do to make everyone leave?

“Excuse me, my lovely,” says a man with snowy dandruff falling from his head. “Don’t mind if I do?”

He nods at my school bag, starts nudging his knees into the space and his bum on to the seat. My tummy swirls. The skin on my face pulls tight. I do mind if he does, actually. I wish everyone would just leave me alone.

“Errr,” I say, lying, pulling my school bag on my lap. “OK.”

He slides on to the seat and puffs huge gusts of rotten egg breath in my face.

“Lovely weather,” he smiles, jiggling his knee up and down. “Off somewhere nice?”

I stare at him without answering and hug my school bag close. I’m not going to talk to him. I’m not going to say one word. I’m not stupid enough to talk to strangers who make my tummy flip and something ice cold twist in my skin. I turn and look out the window, heat spreading on my cheeks like the sun, and make myself invisible. Fading back so he can’t see me; disappearing so he won’t ask questions.

“No school then?” he says, butting his big beak over my shoulder. “You don’t look old enough to be out alone this time of day.”

I keep my ears closed and watch the yellow stone houses flash past the window and the fresh green fields and the trees. I watch the white clouds wisp by, pressing my face on the cool glass, feeling the clack and the screech of the train wheels turning and spinning inside me.

“You’re a quiet one, then,” he says, leaning into me, puffing egg breath near my nose. “Shy, are yer?”

I look at people’s washing lines and try to peer inside their homes. I count the sheds, the bikes, the trampolines and the barbecues.

“I’m Colin,” he says, jiggling his knee again. “You don’t need to be shy of me. I don’t bite.”

His knee jiggle turns into an egg-breath shake of laughter. He pushes in a little bit closer. I press harder on the window glass until my face is flattened.

“Woof, woof!” he chuckles, nudging me with his fat elbow. “Get it! Get it! Woof! Woof! I don’t bite!” He buckles over with laughter, slapping his hand on his thigh.

When we get to Bristol Temple Meads I grab my backpack and run, fighting my way through the crowds. So many platforms. So many trains. So much noise. I stare at my ticket, my eyes blurring, my mind spinning.

“Need a hand, my love?” says dandruff man, blustering up to me. “Show me your ticket then, show Colin where you’re going, and I’ll help you.”

I keep my eyes on the ground, on a discarded leaflet for
The Lion King
at the Hippodrome, a wall of rotten egg smell hanging between us. I stuff my ticket deep into my pocket, far away from his eyes and pick up my bags. I weave through the thick crowd, quick as a needle, sideways and in circles to escape him.

“Can you tell me which platform I need, please?” I ask the lady at the information point, handing her my ticket.

She stares at it, then at her computer screen, slowly running her chipped nail-varnish finger down the line of lit-up words. I scan the station for Colin with Mrs McKlusky’s sharp eagle eyes, my ears burning, my heart thumping its fat hard fist on my ribs. “Platform five,” she says, pointing. “That way.”

I move quickly through the swarm of people pushing to get to their trains, my eyes constantly checking. I can’t let Colin see which train is mine; he mustn’t know I’m going to Manchester.

O
nce I’m on the train I stuff my bags in the overhead thing and hide in the toilet for years, Colin prowling in and out of my thoughts like a panther. I didn’t see him get on the train, but I can’t take any chances. Anyone knows he’s the kind of man to be avoided.

I need to think about my bags. I can’t carry both of them forever. I wash my hands in the grubby grey sink with the pink liquid soap that smells of the little sick room at school. And a new idea thumps through me, the thrill of it swelling up inside.
No one’s looking for me.
Dad and Amy won’t know if I get to Mum’s or not. No one minds. No one cares. I’m free to do what I want.

Grace and I have dreamt about this kind of freedom under the covers at night, curled up all legs and arms and hot breath, whispering secrets, making plans. We’d skip everywhere in the world together clapping our hands, with skinny arms linked behind our backs, doing anything we liked. We’d be totally invincible, having adventures with
Swallows and Amazons
and
The Famous Five
and
Mallory Towers
and
Harry Potter
in Grace’s soft room with the smell of her mum’s rose perfume still lingering on the stairs.

I am free now. I can do what I want. And I’m not going to my mum’s. Not ever!

I pull my phone out and text Grace. I feel bad about not telling her the truth.

Sorry I had to go. I miss u already. xxx

After a few seconds she texts back.

The teachers r looking for u. ur dad didn’t tell them u were leaving. everyone’s freaking out. where r u gabs?

My cheeks thrum with the heat of lying to my best friend, but I can’t tell her what’s happening.

I told u, I’m ok. I am going to my mum’s. love u xxx

I switch off my phone. I don’t want those kinds of worries crashing about in my brain. I can’t think about what’s going on at school or worry about Grace’s feelings. I pull the leftover money from my pocket and count it out, unfolding the crumpled note neatly and making a shining tower of coins. A shiver snakes through me. I can’t have many adventures on this money. It won’t last forever, and then what? In my mind Mum’s shark teeth gnash at me, her hand comes flying towards my face. Colin’s sweaty snow-face-egg-breath sneers. I can’t go to Mum’s. I can’t. I won’t!

“Are you all right in there?” a lady calls, banging on the door with her fist. “You’ve been in there for ages!”

I wipe my hands on the rough blue paper towel and throw it in the bin with the flappy lid. “Er, sorry,” I shout, battling with the tricky door lock. “I, er, erm.”

“The toilets are for everyone’s use,” she snaps. “You can’t just hog them like that. I’ve a mind to report you if you do it again.”

Back in my seat I check my watch. I still have nearly three hours until I get to Manchester Piccadilly. I pull my school bag down from the overhead thingy and rummage through it again to see what I can get rid of. I take out my exercise books and I flick through them. It was a waste of time doing all that work now no one’s even going to read it or mark it. I find a red pen and go through the pages one by one giving myself A* for everything. I write things like
Excellent work, Gabriella,
and
I’m astonished by your brilliance, Gabriella,
in the margin.

I stack the books in a pile and hold up my PE kit, stretching the big blue knickers as wide as they can go, letting the nylon silky top slither over my hand. I don’t need any of it. I don’t do PE any more. I don’t go to school. I’m as free, free, free as a bird.

I pick everything up and bump past a lady lost in her laptop. She sighs like it’s the end of the world, like I might be arrested for disturbing her work. I walk up the train with my heart thumping, my hands shaking, and lock myself in a different toilet. I tear off the front covers of my exercise books that have my name written on and flush them down the loo, page by page. I draw black pen scribbles on the labels on my uniform until my name disappears then I stuff them in the bin with my books. I’m nameless, invisible.

Back in my seat, with the laptop lady huffing and puffing and tutting beside me, I get out some drawing things. I doodle some poodle dogs balancing on a tightrope, some pretty flowers climbing up a wall, a long, long line of tiny trains going nowhere. I doodle Dad’s face and then cross it out, then feel guilty, so I draw it again. I doodle shark teeth, gnashing and blood dripping. I doodle Chang’s fish swimming round and round in circles and Grace’s mum’s front door with its rosy fringe. The laptop lady smells like Grace’s mum. Her hands are nutmeg brown with sparkling rings and bright red shiny nails. I don’t want her asking questions, but I’d quite like her to nod at me or say hello
or smile instead of being so stressy and just tapping on her keyboard. When the train stops at Birmingham New Street station, she snaps her laptop shut, stuffs it in her black leathery bag and makes a dash for the door.

The world and everything rushing past makes me feel a little bit dizzy and sick. I rest my head back in my seat and close my eyes. I wish I had a blanket. I wish I were brave enough to pull Blue Bunny out and snuggle him in front of everyone. My mum swims round my brain, her big teeth glinting. Colin lurches in front of my eyes, flaking dandruff all over me, puffing great huge gusts of eggy breath in my face. I grip the arm of the seat, open my eyes in a flash and start checking, searching the carriage for Colin’s face or Mum’s.

When we get to Wolverhampton a teenage boy with floppy blond hair, wearing a T-shirt saying
No Fear
, drops into the seat that the laptop lady left behind. He tucks his skateboard between his knees, plugs himself into his iPod and starts munching on a hot cheesy pasty. I’m so hungry my tummy is growling. I haven’t eaten since the cupcake in the park. I feel the money in my pocket, run the coins through my fingers and rustle the paper note. I’ll just spend the coins and save the note for later, for emergencies.

I find a fresh page on my pad and draw the kind of Mum I’d really like. She has soft, smooth hair and a gentle smile and lovely straight teeth. I put her in a green and pink flowery dress with one of those little cardigan things that Grace’s mum wears, in matching green. I give her sparkly earrings that twinkle, and tuck a big pink rose behind her ear. If I could turn my picture into one of those scratch and sniff ones she’d smell of roses and apple crumble.

When the refreshment trolley comes past I buy myself a Snickers bar. I hold it for a while, just looking at it, then I tear open the paper and take tiny little bites, letting the creamy chocolate melt slowly. I look at the boy out of the corner of my eye and think about Beckett. I wonder if he has an iPod and a skateboard? I wonder if he’s got a T-shirt that says
No Fear
? I wonder if he likes cheesy pasties best or meaty ones?

A lump grows in my throat; a tiny tear leaks out of my eye. I swallow hard. I pull my phone out of my bag and press the green button five times.
“Hi, Dave here, I’m off on me hols, so don’t leave a message as I won’t be getting back to you anytime soon.”
“Dad!” I whisper. “Dad, where are you?”

When we get to Stockport the skateboard boy gets up and leaves. I check my watch. My tummy squeezes and bitter-tasting sick rises up to my throat. Ten minutes left until we get to Manchester Piccadilly. I pull Dad’s letter out of my pocket and trace my fingers over his words.

Mum’s address is: 4, Macklow Street, Manchester. You’ll be a nice little surprise!

I try calling him again, but this time I don’t even get to hear his voice because my phone battery dies.

As the train slows down, the metal wheels screech on the tracks and my heart gallops fast in my ears. Everyone looks up from their laptops, books, phones and iPods, all blinky-eyed and surprised. They fill up the aisle with coffee breath, grabbing for bags, pressing to reach the exit; checking the time, foot tapping, shuffling, pulling on jackets, chattering. They all have somewhere to go.

If I could melt into the seat I’d stay here forever. I fold up Dad’s letter and stuff it safely in my pocket. I pull my backpack off the overhead thing, put my pencil case and paper inside and tuck my empty school bag under the seat. Swirling octopus tentacles of fear are moving inside me, a million difficult questions are raining on my mind.
What am I going to do? Where am I going to go? Who is going to take care of me?

I pin myself to my seat while the train hisses to a halt, the doors clunk open and everyone hurries away.

“You all right there, pet?” asks a lady pushing a trolley full of cleaning stuff.

“Errm, er, yes,” I say, getting up. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. I’m just going.”

Manchester Piccadilly station is huge, and thousands of people are swarming like bees. I stand in the middle under a long shaft of bright light shining through the glass ceiling, my head swimming with echoing sound. I lean against a wall, it’s cold and hard on my back, and I watch a million feet trample past me.

I whisper to no one
, “Hello, I’m Gabriella. Can someone tell me what to do next, please?”

I pick the scab on my arm until it bleeds then lick the metallic-tasting blood away.

I’ve never thought about God or any of that stuff before. Dad said it was all a load of rubbish: “Codswalloping tosh and brainwashing nonsense for people who can’t think for themselves.”
Amy sings Christmas carols in the shower and that hymn that goes
Abide with me
because it reminds her of her nan’s funeral. The idea of someone like God watching over me feels nice. It lulls my scared feelings to sleep, so I look up to heaven and try out a prayer.

“Dear God, please tell me what to do. Amen.”

I stand there for ages, waiting for something to happen and wonder if God has angels with huge pure white wings, writing prayers down as they drift up through the clouds. I wonder if he’ll answer, if he’ll send a deep, dark rumble of thunder, or a bright white crack of lightning, to let me know he’s heard? Maybe I’ll hear his big deep voice booming out over the top of the loudspeaker lady who’s saying which trains are coming and going.

“Hello, Gabriella Midwinter,”
he’ll say.
“You need to turn left at the Costa coffee stall where your dream Mum and Dad will be waiting there for you, ready to take you off to your cosy new home. And Beckett will be there too and he’ll know what to do and you’ll all live happily ever after.”

I peer at the faces passing by, searching for a special sign from God. But maybe Dad’s right; maybe it is all just a load of old codswallop.

Amy’s nan’s song plays round and round in my mind.

Abide with me;

fast falls the eventide;

the darkness deepens;

Lord with me abide.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless,

O abide with me.

Amy had a lovely voice. That was the only nice thing about her. I sing the song under my breath, hoping someone will hear.