Shattered (12 page)

Silence. Even from the other side of the wall, it feels strained. Is Stella caught in her mother’s eyes? I shiver.

‘I told you I had news for you today about Lucy; you haven’t asked me yet,’ Astrid says, at last. ‘Don’t you want to know?’

‘Of course I do. Please tell me.’

‘Stella, prepare yourself for a shock.’

‘What?’

‘You know how I told you weeks ago that Lucy was killed by a terrorist bomb? I’ve found some…irregularities in the Lorder records on this matter.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It appears her death was faked.’

I’m stunned. Stella had been told I died in that bomb? She didn’t say; didn’t ask about it. And now she isn’t saying anything I can hear in response to news that I’m alive: news it seems she shouldn’t know. And I’m hoping – praying – she is a good actress.

‘I don’t understand. Where is she then?’ Stella asks, finally.

There is a pause. ‘I have no idea. She is still listed as officially dead, but unofficially, she is missing. There seems to be some
interest
in finding her, from a number of…
interesting
places. I do wonder what that girl has been up to.’

‘Nothing to worry you, I’m sure!’ Stella snaps, too quick, and I’m worried. This is a dangerous game. Somehow, I know – either from traces of memory, or observation today, or both – Astrid is adept at reading what people say and don’t say. Shouldn’t Stella be in hysterical tears at the news that I’m alive?

‘Really? We shall see,’ Astrid says. ‘But no matter: you know I’ve kept my half of our bargain, and found out everything I can about what happened to her. I’ll protect her and bring her home safe to you if I can. Darling girl, despite our differences, you
know
I only want what is best for you. As soon as I find out anything of Lucy’s whereabouts, so will you. But don’t ask anything more of me. You
will
be disappointed.’

Soon their conversation turns to other things; roof maintenance needed, damp in the cellar. I’m stiff and cold from crouching down in this unheated hall. Time to make an escape while they’re both still in there and accounted for.

I can’t go back the way I came; there are sure to be eyes outside Stella’s office door. I stand carefully, ease my muscles and creep slowly forward, one hand on the wall. Their voices fade as I reach another door.

Carefully I pull the door towards me: nothing! I start to panic: is it locked? It didn’t have a lock before, I’m sure of it. I feel along the door; no padlock, but there is a simple latch. I release it. Step through the door into the utility room that is behind the kitchen, then back along a hall.

Somehow my feet are remembering, more and more, how to get around this house. I look down before I reach a main hall, brush at my clothes to get rid of the dust.

Later, back in my room for the night, my mind is spinning with Astrid: the things she said, the way she said them. The twist of the knife in her words.

And that Stella was told I had died. Was this before I reported myself found, before she knew I was on my way back to her? She never told me, so I can’t ask without admitting I was listening in. But
why
didn’t she tell me? I don’t understand her, at all.

Astrid said she’s looking for me, that she’ll bring me home if she finds me. Yet here I am, and she obviously doesn’t know about it; Stella hasn’t told her. She doesn’t trust her.

But Astrid has noticed something is up with Stella, I’m sure of it. She won’t let it go. If Astrid works out what it is, I’m in trouble. Despite her assurances to Stella, I don’t trust her, either. If Lorders find out I’m here, they’ll come for me.

Danger
.

Careful, quiet, each step on tiptoes through Mummy’s office, but it is hard to be a spy in this stupid pink dress: it whispers and rustles as I move. I gather the skirt together and bunch it up in my hands to hold it still as I slip behind the curtains.

I push the door, step through and hold it partly open with my foot as I lean down to get the torch. Switch it on, then let the door swing shut.

I creep along the wall, around the corner, then crouch down to listen like a spy.

‘…be here soon.’ Mummy.

‘He indulges that child, as do you.’

‘It’s her birthday!’

‘Really, Stella. Isn’t it about time you tell him the truth? That his precious daughter isn’t his; that you don’t even know whose she is. Perhaps I should tell him?’

‘No! Don’t you dare, I’ll—’

‘Don’t threaten me, Stella. You’ll regret it.’

Their voices continue but I stop listening. Shaking, I stuff my hands in my ears, but I can still hear Grandma’s words over and over inside my head:
his precious daughter isn’t his.

How could that be? He’s Daddy.

My daddy!

I start to cry.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Is everything okay?’ Madison asks.

‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that? Where’d you disappear to yesterday? Bets are on that Stella will ground you, between that and what you said at lunch.’

She smiles, and it is a
very
happy smile. ‘I wrote it in the book:
out until late
. I thought I made it quite clear.’

The bus pulls up and we clamber on. Madison sits with Finley, he holds her hand, and some of the boys whistle. I settle into a seat on my own, glad to put some space between us before Madison shakes off her loved-up state enough to ask me again: is everything okay?

That dream, the things Astrid said: could it be true? Was he really not my father? All my snippets of memory of him – the way he was with me – say otherwise. But what if he never knew?

Then he died for a daughter who wasn’t even his.

Later I’m standing in the CAS meeting room, and when my name is called, collect an envelope. It doesn’t seem so important now. But unless Astrid works out what is up with Stella, and who I am, and everything stops, it is for
five years
of my life.

I rip it open.

Dear Miss Kain, blah blah blah. I scan down to the important part: my trials:

Week 1: Education

Week 2: National Parks

Week 3: Hospitality

Week 4: Transportation

Hurrah! I got my top two choices. But I’m puzzled at getting Hospitality. It didn’t really appeal to me so I’d had it far down my order of preference, and it seemed a popular choice. I turn the pages, and find the details for each placement.

The words next to Hospitality jump into stark focus:

Report to Waterfall House for Girls, Stella Connor.

What? How can this be? And I think back to how adamant Stella had been about me not signing up for CAS, especially not for Parks. But then when I went to tell her I’d signed, she was all chilled about it, and I’d thought she’d realised I had to make my own decisions. But I was wrong. She was in town that day; she knows somebody; she must have pulled some strings. What do you want to bet these trials mean nothing, that I’ll end up with her for
five years
as some sort of apprentice housemaid?

Eventually it penetrates that the others are leaving, heading off to the first of their trials. Week 1 for me is Education, and I find the details. Keswick Primary School: I’m supposed to go there now, and report to reception. But what difference will it make?

When I arrive I get rushed to an office. Two other potential apprentices are waiting along with the same smiling woman I spoke to last week about apprenticing in Education.

‘I’m really sorry I kept you waiting. I got lost,’ I lie. I knew the way, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate.

‘No problem dear, take a seat. I’m Mrs Medway, Head of School. I also train apprentice teachers and assistants. I’m going to run you through what you’ll be doing for the week.’

I try to pay attention, for her sake, but it is a losing battle. Some details get through: we’ll be shadowing classes two days, spend a day in reception and admin, two more days in classes but this time helping with lessons. ‘Any preference for year groups or subjects?’ The others tell her theirs, and eventually she turns to me, smiles. ‘You’re quiet today. Any favourite year groups? Activities?’

‘I don’t mind,’ I start to say, then pause. ‘Unless they do art? I love art. And running – sport.’

‘Perfect: Reception are doing messy art next lesson. I’ll put you in there. And there is a sports day on Friday afternoon this week: they can always use extra help. We’ll work something out for the other days.’

She has us follow her around the school for a tour, telling school history on the way. It was damaged and rebuilt after the riots. Keswick Primary used to be called St Herbert’s Church of England School, but the name changed after church schools were banned thirty years ago. We see children through windowed classroom doors, playing a noisy game of basketball in a gym, heads bent in a library. Then finally we reach an art studio, and I peer through the door. Reception, she said? They’re tiny. Four years old. All sat cross-legged on the floor listening to their teacher.

Mrs Medway knocks at the door, has a word with the teacher. Comes back and squeezes my arm. ‘Go on in. You’ll be fine; don’t look so worried.’ I walk in and a sea of small faces look up and smile.

Not much later they’re all wearing smocks over their school uniforms, and the teacher passes me one to go over my clothes. ‘It’s up to you: you’re down for shadowing, so you can sit in a corner and watch. Or jump in if you want to.’

I decide to sit and watch for a while. They are finger painting on great sheets of white paper, and the air is full of the smell of paint and excited voices. Despite the resolution to stay put, before long swirls of colour on white paper pull me close. I itch to paint.

A small hand tugs at mine. ‘Miss, look at my painting!’ a boy says, and I’m pulled to a table, and soon admiring blobs and blotches.

One girl sits quiet amongst the chatter, not joining in. ‘Hi,’ I say. She doesn’t answer.

The boy looks up. ‘That’s Becky. She’s sad.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m sad sometimes, too,’ I admit. ‘But I like painting when I’m sad.’ Never a truer sentence have I spoken: I kneel on the floor between them, and dip my eager fingers into black paint.

‘Why are you sad?’ Becky asks.

‘Mostly because I miss things. Like Sebastian.’

‘Who’s he?’ the boy asks.

‘Watch,’ I say. I can’t remember finger painting before; I’d rather a brush in my hand, but a reasonable estimate of a black cat soon appears on the paper.

Becky stares at it very hard. ‘You miss your cat?’ She nods to herself. ‘Okay. I’ll paint something, too.’ She gathers different paints and soon is concentrating on getting as much mess on herself and the paper as possible. I glance up and the art teacher gives me a thumbs up. Other kids bring me their pictures to look at, and then ask me to show them how to paint a cat. And after a while I’m thinking, this is fun. Could I be an art teacher?

Not if Stella has anything to do with it.

I stay and help clean up at lunch. The teacher hangs pictures on the walls, puts my cat up with them next to Becky’s: hers could be anything from an alien to a lamppost, but I’m reasonably sure it is supposed to be a man: her dad?

‘It’s her father,’ she confirms. ‘He went missing last month.’

I turn my shocked face to hers. ‘What happened?’

A pause. ‘It was good work getting Becky to take part. Thank you,’ she says, not answering my question. If it can’t be said out loud, we all know what that means.

Lorders.

When the final bell goes, I’m surprised the day has sped past. Each year group has art a half day each week, and the afternoon was spent charcoal drawing with Year Five. I gaze at the white-topped peaks as I walk back to the centre of Keswick. If I can’t get into Parks, maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad choice. Then I shake it off. What a joke for me to even think of being a teacher: despite my faked records, I didn’t even finish high school. And what about Stella’s manipulations?

I should get the bus back to the house now, but there is a kernel of anger inside that says
no
.

Madison: she’ll understand. I head for her cafe. I’ll wait there until she’s finished; we can get the bus back together.

When I reach the cafe and pull at the door, it doesn’t budge: it’s locked? Puzzled, I realise the lights are off inside. A ‘closed’ sign hangs on the door, yet I’m sure Madison said she was working until five.

A sense of unease settles inside. I walk around to the cafe’s back door, and knock.

No one answers, but was there a noise inside? I knock again: nothing. I’m about to turn around and leave, but then try the door. The handle turns. It’s not locked.

I pull the door part open, and peer in. ‘Hello? It’s Riley. Is Madison here?’

Cora is sitting at the work surface, her back to me. Not turning or answering. Unsure what to do, after a moment I push the door open the rest of the way, walk in and let it shut behind me. The light is dim, and I blink.

‘Hello?’ I say again, and walk towards her. Her shoulders are shaking. She’s crying? Fear grabs me inside. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

She looks up at me, shakes her head. ‘What could she have done?’ she whispers.

Madison? Panic swirls inside.
No, not again
. ‘What happened? Tell me!’ I demand.

‘She was helping make cakes for tomorrow, standing there with flour on her nose and telling me about that boy she likes. And they just marched in, grabbed her. Dragged her out past the regulars: all of them just sat there, staring at the lunches she’d brought them earlier. She’s gone.’ Her face drops to her hands.

‘Lorders?’ I whisper.

She nods.

No.
NO
. This can’t be happening, it can’t. Not here, too. And it feels like quicksand is clawing at my feet, pulling me down into another nightmare.