Shattered (7 page)

‘Lucy? Riley, I mean. What is it?’

I shake my head. Does she know how he died? Does she know it is my fault? I can’t say it out loud. Not tonight.

I look past her, at the bedroom we’re in. ‘Was this my room?’ I ask.

She shakes her head no, and I’m relieved. It seemed
so
not my room. I had that right at least. ‘I put you in here as it is away from the other girls. Easier for me to visit.’ She hesitates. ‘It used to be my room. A long time ago.’

‘Tell me everything I can’t remember,’ I say. ‘Please. I want to know it all.’

She seems to hesitate, then holds out her hand again. A small thing, yet somehow it is so hard for me to reach out and take hers, to hold a stranger’s hand, when her eyes are so full of desperate
want
. I do, and she grips mine tight once again. She smiles. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything, from the beginning. Tell me about when I was born. Where was I born? Was…’ And I hesitate. I’ve been so reluctant to mention him that it is just penetrating now that Stella hasn’t, either. ‘Was my father there?’

She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. ‘He wasn’t there. He rarely was for the hard bits.’

My eyes widen, a retort working its way up, but I bite it back.

‘But you, Lucy, were the most beautiful baby that ever drew breath.’ She smiles. ‘I’ll show you.’ She gets up and takes out keys from her robe pocket. She goes to one of the locked wardrobes. ‘I put albums in here for you: photos, all sorts of things you can look through from before. There are eleven albums, one for each year. We’ll start making another one now, won’t we?’

She extracts an album and brings it over, places it in my hands, and I eagerly turn the pages. Well, okay: I
was
a pretty cute baby. There is shot after shot of my general chubby, baby cuteness: in a cot holding out hands and laughing; giggling in the bath; covered in mushy food. Always smiling. Didn’t I ever howl? A few have Stella in, also: hair dark then, smiling in a way that goes into her eyes. And there are empty spaces now and then: someone is missing. Removed? ‘Why aren’t there any photos of my dad?’

She snaps the album shut. ‘That’s enough for tonight. You need to get some sleep. You have an early start tomorrow, don’t you?’ She slips the album back in the wardrobe, locks it again.

‘Can I have a key?’

She hesitates, then shakes her head. ‘No. You need your rest. We’ll look at them together, all right? Goodnight, Lucy.’

She goes out the door.

Well.

Waterfall Weirdo
: I hear Madison’s words echo in my head, then feel bad. That’s not fair. She’s had a terrible hand dealt to her, hasn’t she? Having her only child vanish when she was ten, then back seven years later, Slated, with no memory of her. She obviously had issues with Dad, also. I need to work out what that is about, what I should or shouldn’t tell her about him. I sigh. Inside I’m gripped by a need to know all I can of him, all I’ve forgotten, and more. I wonder if there are photos of him anywhere?

I slip Pounce off my knees, walk across the room to the wardrobe with the albums in, and assess the lock. A few twists with a hairpin, and the lock clicks: open sesame! A skill learned from Nico.

Inside, the wardrobe has clothes hanging on one side – summer dresses, put away for the winter? And the other side is shelves. The first few have albums numbered one to eleven as she said. But if she took Dad out of album number one, chances are the same is true of them all. The shelves below contain things wrapped in tissue paper. Curious, I draw out one bundle, take it to the bed, and open the paper carefully. Inside are neatly folded children’s clothes. A girl’s. Mine?

I hesitate. I am trespassing on Stella’s memories, wrapped up and locked away, for how long? It feels wrong.

But her memories should be my memories. I hold up a small dress, sized for perhaps a nine or ten-year-old. It is pink and ruffled, really cute; way too cute, in fact—

I hated dresses. Especially pink ones
.

I almost stagger, put the dress down on the bed.

She made me wear it
.

My head is spinning; I feel ill. I don’t want to see any more. I fold them back up in the tissue paper, as careful as I can with shaking hands. This isn’t what I was looking for.

Dad. I want photos of Dad.

I put the bundle back where it was. The lower shelves just contain more tissue-wrapped bundles of what feels like clothing. More memories preserved and locked away. I stand back.

There is a top shelf, too high for me to easily reach, and I drag the desk chair across the floor and stand on it. There is a plastic box, pushed back so I didn’t see it from below. I pull it off the shelf, put it on the desk, and take off the lid:
bingo
. Framed photos, ones she has put away, out of sight. There has to be one in here.

But instead there are photos of a woman, one I don’t recognise. The ones on top look old, going by the clothes worn, the hairstyles. Further down is one of the same woman with a little girl, one hand on her shoulder; another with the girl a few years older. I gasp as I realise: the girl is a dark-haired young version of Stella. The woman must be her mother: my grandmother. The one who is a Lorder JCO?

I peer closer at her face, but don’t see it in her, the Lorder stare. There are more recent ones; she is older, hair swept up and silvery grey, but she looks good for whatever age she must be. Sixty-something at least? She is thin, dressed well in clothes that look expensive but not showy. A kind smile on her face. I hold up a portrait of her, and stare at her eyes: for no reason I can identify, I shiver, and hurriedly put it back down.

I continue through the box. At the bottom is one last frame, and I draw it out.

A group shot from a wedding: happy couple in the middle, a couple next to the groom that are probably his parents, and next to the bride, my grandmother.

It is hard to recognise the bride as Stella. Not so much from the unwinding of years or the white dress, but the youthful joy of her smile. And next to her in some version of a suit is Dad. Younger than my dreams, my memories, but there is no mistaking him. I reach out a shaking hand to the frame, to touch him. But he isn’t looking at the camera: he is gazing at Stella, with so much love on his face that it is hard to even look at him.

What happened to them?

I pack the photos back away as they were, put the box back on the shelf. Lock the wardrobe and switch off the light. There are more boxes up there, and another locked wardrobe next to the first, but that is enough for one night.

In bed, suddenly aware how cold I have become, I pull the covers up and cuddle Pounce. She stays, warm and purring, and reminds me of Sebastian. I feel a pang of homesickness, for Mum and Amy.

Stella I can’t think of as
Mum
, or even as
Mother
. At least, not yet.

The only photo of Dad I’ve found so far in wardrobe number one is the wedding photo. Did Stella destroy them all, but couldn’t bring herself to get rid of that one?

And Stella hides all sign of her mother away in a plastic box in a locked wardrobe. Why?

I suppose her being a Lorder is a good enough reason.

We sneak to the back door.

Daddy grins, holds up one finger to his lips. ‘Quiet now, Lucy; we’re spies.’

‘On a secret mission?’ I whisper, pulling my coat on when he holds it out.

He nods and winks, and we slip under the windows along the back of the house.

He looks back at me following. ‘Hmmm…wait here a second,’ he says. He retraces our steps and moments later comes back, holding my wellies in one hand.

I roll my eyes.

‘Put them on, Lucy. One less thing to get yelled at over.’ He winks again. I struggle out of my hated pink shoes, already a bit dirty from the great garden escape, and am about to toss them behind the bushes when Daddy grabs them and carefully places them on a window sill.

‘They’ll be able to follow our trail,’ I warn.

He shrugs. ‘I’m pretty sure she’ll know where we’ve gone, anyhow.’

‘So why be sneaky?’

‘We’re spies, remember?’

‘But I’m not dressed like a spy.’ I frown and hold out the ridiculous pink skirt that sticks out under my coat, and do a spin in my camo wellies.

He laughs, and bows down low. ‘You are, indeed, the perfect picture of a demented princess spy, your majesty. Come on; your official birthday spying chariot awaits.’ We start to walk towards the lake and the kayaks.

But then a door bangs above. A voice calls out: ‘Get back in here at once; your grandmother is here.’

‘Busted,’ I say.

‘Better go back, Lucy.’

‘Why?’

‘She just wants to say happy birthday. Go on.’

I sigh, and start trudging back to the house, feet like lead. When I reach the window with my waiting shoes, I turn around: Daddy is gone. A distant splash says my spy chariot has launched without me.

In the back door I take off my wellies and slip on the pink satin shoes. They’re better for spying in, anyhow. Still in the game, I creep without a whisper of sound: not down the main hall, no. Spies go careful, quiet, down secret ways. I slip through Mummy’s study and out the door hidden behind the curtains. Down the tiny hall that goes around the sitting room where I know they’ll be.

One more step, then another…

Their voices change from a murmur into words I can hear, then wish I hadn’t.

CHAPTER NINE

Meow? Meoooow.

Hmmph? I open one eye. It’s still dark, and Pounce is scratching at my bedroom door. I get up and open it for her. She disappears down the stairs.

I squint at my watch: 5:20. Thanks for the early wake-up call, cat. I yawn and stretch, shivering as I shrug my robe on and pull it close. There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep now.

That dream was so
weird,
yet somehow I know in my guts it was real. It happened. Was it that horrible pink dress that brought it back?

It was happy at first, off on an adventure with Dad; then…what? I overheard
something
between Stella and her mother. Something upsetting. What was it?

I head down the stairs and along the hall for a drink. As I go, motion detector lights momentarily blind my eyes, illuminating patches of darkness, then go out just as the next takes over. I start down the wrong hall, uncertain of the way, and double back to find the reception area from yesterday with its tea things.

While the kettle boils, I turn the lights off again and wander to the windows that overlook the lake, but it is lost in inky darkness. A spy kayak: are they still there? I smile to myself, then frown. Dad went off without me, left me to go back and face them alone.
Never there for the hard bits
, isn’t that what Stella said? No. That isn’t fair. Trying to rescue me from Nico was a
very
hard bit. Failing was the hardest of them all.

The room is suddenly cast in bright illumination. A girl yawns in the doorway, then jumps when she sees me: Madison.

‘You don’t strike me as the early-morning type,’ I say.

‘Who, me? No, to be honest. But it is a seven o’clock start at the cafe to take care of all the early breakfast-eaters of Keswick. How about you?’ she says, both of us heading for the kettle.

‘The CAS thing starts at eight.’

‘Lucky. Couldn’t sleep?’ I shake my head. ‘Nervous?’

I look at her quickly, then realise she means what I am officially here for: CAS. I’ve been so caught up in Stella and my missing past that I haven’t thought about it at all. Another new place, new people, more not knowing what to do or say while trying to remember to answer to
Riley Kain
, and not to say anything she wouldn’t. Suddenly it is all way too worrying. I sigh.

‘Tell you what. Come with me on the 6:30 bus, and I’ll show you where you’ve got to go, then I’ll make you an amazing breakfast at the cafe. My treat.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ She holds up her cup of tea. ‘Here’s to firsts: jobs, I mean,’ she says and winks in a way that suggests she was thinking of something else entirely. She clinks her cup against mine, then winces. ‘That was loud. Meet me back here in an hour.’

An hour and a shower and change later, we’re heading for the door. Madison pauses at a table, flips open a folder with pages of columns, writes her name and the time in the out column, writes ‘work’ in description. Hands me the pen.

‘What’s this?’

‘Haven’t you read your rules yet? That probably breaks one of them.’ She grins. ‘This is rule twelve: always sign out when you leave, and in when you get back.’

I bend to print
Riley – CAS
, and realise that it is the first time I’ve written my new name.

We step outside into the dark morning.

‘I hate this time of year. It’s like midnight,’ Madison says.

‘I like the darkness,’ I admit. I like how it covers and hides, and the chill as well. The ground is frozen, crunches under our feet as we take a path up behind the house through silent trees to the road above.

‘No bus stop?’ I say.

‘No. You just hail them. Comes every thirty minutes or so.’

Soon a bus appears in the distance. Madison waves and it pulls in and stops.

We scan our ID as we get on, start down the aisle; Madison aims for a seat near the back.

‘Oh my Lord. Is it possible?’ a voice says to the side. Male.

Madison pauses, turns. ‘Is what possible?’ she asks.

‘Don’t sit down yet, I need to be sure,’ he says, and Madison holds onto his seat as the bus starts up the windy road. He smiles, and something passes between them in the cold air. Is he her boyfriend? Even sitting down he is taller than she is; a rugged, outdoorsy type. Tanned even in January.

He looks between Madison and me, then glances at a few friends sitting in front. ‘Wow. It really IS true,’ one of them says.