Invisible Girl (6 page)

A
n older teenage girl with hair that curls around her face like bubbles, and smudged make-up round her eyes comes and stands right near me. She pulls a guitar out of its case, drops a felt hat on the ground and starts singing in a voice smoother than chocolate. Her guitar strings dance on the air, the notes echoing through the great glass hall, making the tiny hairs on the back of my neck tingle. I slide a little closer. I’d like to hide in her bubbly hair, slide into her hat, or sit inside her guitar with all that music swirling around me.

Passersby stop for a minute to listen. They throw money into her hat, their faces breaking into smiles. Like she’s this amazing cool waterfall tumbling down on their hot and busy day. The girl sings on and on and I stand there, listening, searching through the crowd of faces for Beckett, waiting for something to happen.

When the girl finishes singing and leaves the station I make my way along the road. The streets are thundering with honking cars. Diesel fumes hover in a mist above the tarmac and scorch the back of my nose. Everyone’s jostling. Everyone’s pushing. The trams are squealing. I just keep walking, pretending I know where I’m going. Up and down the maze of streets, weaving through the crowds and past the shops and all the time searching for Beckett’s face.

I stop near a crowd gathered round a man with tattoos, wearing short jeans and no top and big black boots. He’s standing on a box juggling lemons; three, four, five of them spinning yellowy, high through the air. Then he does this dance and he sings something funny and everyone claps and laughs. And when he spins around I see them. These long, black angel wings tattooed on his back that somehow thrum inside me making my hands travel to the place on my back where wings might grow. I pull out my pad and stand there with a pencil in the middle of it all, drawing the spinning lemons, shading in the silky wings.

Further along there’s two people covered in silver paint with silver ivy looped round their heads. Everyone’s watching in silence, holding their breath because you can’t really tell if they’re real people or statues. And it makes me want to go over and tickle them or pinch them to see if they’ll move. Music soaring to the sky is coming from a man playing a huge instrument that looks a bit like a xylophone. He’s holding four sticks and he’s swinging and hammering them so fast they look like a blur.

I walk on through the maze of colour and sound, past stalls with smells rising from them that make me think of Chang’s takeaway place with the little fish swimming around. And suddenly this huge grey tower looms over me with a sign saying
Manchester Cathedral.
I walk faster, like the elastic band is pulling me again.

Inside the Cathedral I feel smaller than a mouse as I creep forward and slide into a seat. I close my eyes and a thick cloak of silence drapes around me. I slip my Converse off and wriggle my toes to give them air. I move my shoulders round and round in wheels like we do in PE to relax them. I could stay in the Cathedral forever, with its black stone pillars and all the people walking about, looking at the big cross on the altar, whispering private prayers to God.

A man stops and stifles a sneeze. He pulls a white handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his fat purple nose. The huge stained-glass windows bend the sunlight, bathing us all in vivid rays of colour that turn my hand blue. I slip my Converse back on and walk around with my neck craned back, looking at the high-up, huge domed ceilings, thinking that the famous painter Michelangelo would’ve liked to visit here too. Grace’s mum would love to see the nave, shining gold like the inside wrapper of a chocolate bar.

There’s this little stand full of candles flickering in the soft breeze. There’s a pile of them, still fresh and white and new, still waiting to be lit. I watch the people put coins in the box then light a candle and pray. I watch the little flames burn brightly. I want to light one so badly I can hardly keep my hands in my lap. I watch what everyone does, waiting until they’ve drifted away and when it’s my turn, with a trembling hand, I light a candle and pray.

“Dear God,

Please, help me!

Amen.”

I drop a coin in the box and sit near the candle, watching the blue and yellow flame quiver. I listen hard for God, waiting for something to happen.

“Hello,” a lady says, shuffling in the seat next to mine. “It’s not the most beautiful of cathedrals, is it? But still, I think it’s lovely.”

I look at her, the muscles in my face twitching. “Err, I just,” I say, pointing to the candle, “is it OK?”

She laughs in a whisper. “Of course it’s OK,” she smiles. “I just came over to let you know we’re closing up now for the night. Time to go home. But please feel free to come back, anytime you like.”

Outside, my body is as heavy as lead. I wander round the Cathedral and lean against the hard stone wall, crumbling the cement under my fingertips, watching it fall to the ground like powdery snow. I sit on a bench and swing my legs backwards and forwards. I pull out my sketchbook and design a whole new range of Converse sneakers with miniature turtles on them. I draw twenty little candles in a row and a cross with Jesus nailed to it, wearing that thorny ring thing on his head. I listen to my tummy rumble with hunger.

I pull out Dad’s letter and read it again.

Maybe I
should
go to Mum’s and spy on her house until I see Beckett. I chew the end of my finger for a while, thinking, catching the little strips of skin between my teeth.

I head back to the train station and look at the big map of Manchester. I trace my finger along the streets until I find where Macklow Street is and write the directions to her house on my hand in lime-green felt pen. I go into a shop, pick up a packet of prawn cocktail crisps and dangle it between my finger and thumb. I stare for years at the juicy sandwiches on display.

“You buying, or what?” says the man behind the counter. “Because if you’re not you can put my crisps down!”

“I do want them,” I tell him. “I was just thinking.”

I pull myself away from the sandwiches and hand over the money for the crisps. “I was just thinking,” I say. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

When I get near Mum’s my insides twist up in a knot and the crisps turn to sand in my mouth. I can’t believe I’m actually looking at her house, at where she lives. I can’t stop thinking about Beckett and the fact that he might actually be inside. I stay close to the fence on the other side of the road, my heart pounding, the tips of my ears burning. And when I’m almost opposite her front door I tuck myself in between a wheely bin and a broken fence to watch.

I stand there for ages with an annoying fly buzzing around my head and TV sounds blaring out at me. A few big boys scuff past, sipping from cans, kicking stones along the road, shouting. A whiff of sizzling sausages wafts from an open kitchen window, teasing my nose. I stay behind the fence, watching my mum’s front door, waiting for Beckett to appear.

And I’m just about to give up when a man on a big black motorbike roars up and screeches to a halt outside Mum’s door. He swings his leg over and hops off the bike. I freeze.
Beckett!
My heart crashes around like a wasp in a jar. The man tugs at his helmet and slips it over his head. His hair is a big messy hedge that trails down his face to make a dark bushy beard. His boots are huge. I can’t see his face properly; I can’t see how old he is. I squint hard to work out if the boy Beckett in my photograph could’ve grown into this big hairy man, or if this man is just too old. He walks up to the door, pulls out a key and puts it in the lock. I hold my breath.

“What you looking at?”

I jump and look down to see a small boy with a yellow bunny hanging out of his fist, standing right by me.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Liar,” he says, sucking the bunny ear while he speaks. “You’re watching our place.”

“I’m not,” I say, picking up my backpack to leave. “I was just resting for a minute.” I hold up my bag. “See, it’s heavy.”

“You robbing?” he says, picking a scab on his nose.

“No!” I say. “I told you already, I was resting!”

The boy shrugs, hops on his scooter and starts moving round and round in tight circles, keeping his eyes glued to me.

“Do you know that man who got off the bike?” I whisper.

The boy narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Just wondered.”

“S’me dad,” he says, frowning. “No one special.”

My heart sinks. Maybe Mum doesn’t even live here any more. Maybe Dad got it wrong.

“D’you know someone called Beckett?” I hiss.

The boy’s eyes grow as huge as saucers. “No, I don’t, I don’t know anyone like that!” He shakes his head hard, stuffs the bunny ear in his mouth and wheels round and round, pumping his knee like mad. And I’m just about to leave when Mum’s front door swings open and a sour sick taste rises up in my throat.

“Connor!” Mum screeches. “Get in now, will you? Tea’s ready!”

She’s holding a toddler girl who is struggling to get out of her arms.

“You wanna smack, Jayda?” Mum yells, clamping the little girl’s chubby leg with her arm. The girl stops moving and shakes her head. “Then keep still, will you?”

Mum’s screech cuts through me like a shark’s black fin cuts through the sea. The boy looks up and blinks. He picks at a scab on his knee.

“Gotta go,” he says, scooting off. “That’s me mam.”

E
ven though it’s closed and I know I won’t be allowed back inside I run back to the Cathedral, pumping my legs hard, my body a trembling jelly of fear. Old memories and dark shadowy images of Mum’s slapping hand chase me like an evil old shark rising from the depths of dangerous waters. She hasn’t changed.
I knew it!
I knew she wouldn’t!

I dig in my backpack for my sketchbook, find a pencil and draw the Cathedral and seven birds flying overhead. I draw my mum’s big screechy face and a motorbike and a huge hairy beard and a scooter and a small boy with a yellow bunny. I draw a tiny girl with bubbly curls, struggling in Mum’s big, hard hands. Tears choke up in my throat and press on the back of my nose. How couldn’t I have known that I have a new brother
and
a sister? Why didn’t anyone
tell
me?

I sit for ages, longing for Grace’s shed and her mum with the halo glow of honey-coloured light spilling from her house. I think about my bed and wish I were curled up inside my rosebud duvet, far away from here, with Dad’s TV programmes blaring away in the other room.

I’ve never really thought about my bed before. In the past 24 hours I’ve lost my bed, my home, my dad, my school and my best friend. Grace is a million miles from here, on another planet. My heart clenches up like a fist. All I have now is Mum and her hairy boyfriend and my new brother and sister. And all I want is
Beckett
.

I sip some water, careful not to drink too much because I don’t know when I’ll be able to fill my bottle up again. I look at my watch. Today is lasting forever. I find my scissors and some glue and sweet wrappers and start making beautiful things. I snip at little coloured cellophane bits. I fold some paper up loads of times and snip, snip, cutting little holes. When I open it up it’s like a snowflake pattern and I stick the coloured bits over the holes to make a stained-glass window.

The evening sun rests a warm hand on my cheek and makes long dark shadows on the grass. A huge black dog bounds over, wagging its tail like a mad thing. I put my arms around its neck and look into its eyes. Its owner whistles and it bounds off with its long fluffy tail brushing the grass like a broom.

I turn the stained-glass window into a card and hold it up to the light so bright rainbows shine in my eyes. I write
Happy Birthday
inside, make a lovely envelope and wonder how much money I could get for it. I think about the picture I made with Beckett waving up at me and how I’d like to put stained-glass windows on that house to make it more beautiful.

When the sun goes down I count nine stained-glass cards and get the same warm feeling inside when Mrs Evans told me about my artwork being on display. I walk round the outside of the Cathedral eight and a half times wondering where I could sell them. I huddle near the entrance. Even though there’s no one inside and I know the huge door is locked, I’m sure I can hear organ music playing inside and a child’s crystal clear voice soaring up to the stars.

I walk up and down the road avoiding the cracks. I walk round and round and round. I sit on the steps near an old black and white pub and stare at the plates of left-over food on the tables outside. I yawn and touch the place on my back where angel wings would grow. I take off my Converse and wriggle my hot, throbbing toes.

“Quick,” says a teenage girl with pink stripy hair. She grabs my wrist and pulls me away. “You can’t hang around here.”

“Why?” I say, struggling to get my bag on my back and stand up at the same time. “What’s the problem?”

She flicks her eyes upwards as I stuff my Converse back on my feet. “That’s the problem,” she hisses. “CCTV cameras. You have to avoid them otherwise they’ll find you!”

“Who’ll find me?” I ask as she strides away pulling me with her.

“I don’t know,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Whoever’s looking for you. If the police get you they’ll take you in, send you back home or off to care. It’ll all be over.”

We duck into a quiet alley and stop to catch our breath.

“What would the police want with me?” I say, swirling with panic. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“They’re always on the look-out for runaways,” she says. “They want to get rid of us. They want to clean the streets up so we don’t spoil everything. But follow me, I’ll show you where’s safe.”

I kick the kerb.

“You don’t have to,” I say, folding my arms. “I’m OK, I’m just looking for my brother.”

The girl’s deep blue eyes search my face. “What’s his name?” she smiles. “What’s your name? I’m Henny.”

“Beckett,” I sniff, “and I’m Gabriella, Gabriella Midwinter. Do you know him?”

Henny folds her arms across her chest and leans back against the wall, thinking.

“No,” she says at last, shaking her stripy head. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s lived here for seven years,” I say. “He has brown curly hair and he’s nineteen. You must’ve seen him.”

She laughs, twirling her finger around a strand of pink hair. “Manchester’s a big place,” she says. “You hungry, kitten?”

“A bit,” I whisper, “but you don’t have to bother.”

“S’no bother,” she says, dragging me by my sleeve. “I’ll show you.”

The smell of fish and chips and kebab drifts up the road and teases my nose. My tummy flips and turns. My money! I can’t spend it! Not on food. Not on food for Henny as well.

“I’m all right,” I say, pulling away and adjusting my bag. “I’m not hungry, not really.”

Henny looks me up and down. “Liar,” she says. “You’re starving, it’s written all over your face. You got money?”

I stare at the pavement. I shake my head, my lie wriggling through me like a worm.

“You’re a really bad liar,” she says. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you your nose turns red when you lie?”

My hand flies up to my nose. My face burns ketchup red.

“I don’t want your money,” she says, looking offended. “I’m just trying to help. I don’t know why I bother sometimes, but I guess they don’t call me Henny for nothing.”

I look up, confused.

“Listen,” she says, “I saw you go up and down the street like a tramp, round and round, sitting out there in the open. It’s not safe, the cameras and police and pervs and stuff.”

She leans in close and whispers instructions in my ear.

“See, it’s easy,” she says, taking my bag and stepping back. “You just have to look all big eyed and innocent, kitten.”

Henny winks and slips round the corner. My heart flips and bangs in my chest.

“Err… erm, my mum didn’t come back home after work,” I say to the red-faced man behind the fish and chip counter, “and me and my little brothers are starving. Any chance you could spare us some chips?”

The man pierces me with his jet-black eyes. “Clear off,” he snaps. “You kids are all the same. Go on! Clear off! Something for nothing, all of you.”

I stand firm, my voice getting stronger, my lie getting bigger.

“I’m not lying,” I say, “honest. My brothers are crying they’re so hungry. I’ll drop the money off tomorrow. I’ll get it from my mum when she gets home.”

“I said, clear off!” he shouts, so loud his words almost blow me over.

A tall man in a smart grey suit and blue stripy shirt steps forward. “Look,” he says, jangling change in his pocket. “I haven’t got time for all this. Give her what she wants and I’ll pay.”

I look up at him with big fluttering eyes, just like Henny said.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

He keeps his eyes away from mine and he stares at the fish counter, jangling his change in his pocket again, silently nodding.

I skip outside, my arms full of steaming chips, feeling full to the brim with pride. I search for Henny. I walk up and down looking for her.

“Henny!” I call. “Look, I got them! I got loads for us to share!”

I pace up and down, craning my neck, straining my eyes.

“Henny? Where are you?”

And above the slamming, thrumming, clattering sounds of the night-time streets my heart drops to my tummy like a stone.

I gave her my bag.

I gave her my bag!

She has
everything.