He's After Me

Chapter TWENTY-NINE



I’m fast asleep when Jem returns. I’d worked on my French for hours till my eyes drooped and my brain refused to cram in any more. I can’t actually remember falling asleep, but the next morning I wake up with a thumping head.

Jem is sprawled out beside me, snoring gently. I kick him grumpily and he opens his eyes.

‘What time did you come in last night?’

‘Dunno. Not that late. You were flat out so I didn’t disturb you.’ He reaches out for me but I shake my head.

‘I’ve got a splitting headache.’

He laughs and says, ‘You’re supposed to use that excuse when we’re old and married.’

‘It’s true!’

He leans across and picks up the empty bottle of champagne on my side of the bed. ‘I’m not surprised. You finished this off last night when I was out.’

‘Did I?’ I remember now. I was sipping it all the time I was revising. Champagne is weird; you don’t feel as if you’re drinking. Until the hangover kicks in.

‘I’ve got my test this morning,’ I say glumly.

‘You’ll be fine,’ says Jem and he turns over and snuggles back down under the covers. ‘Make us a cup of tea, babe, if you’re getting up.’

By the time I bring it to him, he’s gone back to sleep.

I struggle my way through the French test, hopefully doing enough to keep the teacher happy. In English I get a funny look from Mrs Hopkins when I first walk in, but I sit down and take off my sweater to reveal a top belonging to Jude and she visibly relaxes. She is so on my case, that woman!

I don’t like wearing Jude’s clothes, but beggars can’t be choosers. I can’t keep wearing the same clothes three days in a row; if Mrs Hopkins notices, you can bet everyone else does too.

Jem was snoring his head off when I left so I didn’t get a chance to ask him how he’d got on at my house last night. Today I remembered he was working at lunchtime so I’d left him a note to say I’d see him back at the flat after college.

‘How’s the honeymoon going?’ Zoe asks at lunchtime.

‘Great.’

‘You look knackered.’

I shrug and she looks away as if she’s a bit embarrassed. I’m about to say, ‘It’s only a hangover!’ but I think better of it. Instead I say, ‘Thanks for covering for me with my mum. Was she OK about it?’

She nods. ‘I told her you were staying with me for a few days. She believed me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I don’t like lying to your mum.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I won’t ask you again.’

‘Good. When are you going home?’

‘Tomorrow.’

She finishes her sandwich and gets up from the table. I look up in surprise. ‘Where you off to?’

‘Library. Got some work to do.’

‘OK. Thanks again, Zo.’

She hesitates, like she wants to say something else. I smile up at her, waiting.

‘When’s your dad back, by the way?’ she says, finally.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Thought so,’ she says. ‘Nice top.’ Then she walks away.

I watch her go, the smile wiped clean from my face.

She knows.

I’m all over the place that afternoon. I need to speak to Zoe. I don’t know what I’m going to say but I need to speak to her.

I want her to think it’s OK to use Dad and Jude’s flat while they’re away, that they’ve given us permission to do so.

But I know she won’t believe me.

I want to convince her, like Jem’s convinced me, that it’s no big deal.

But it is.

I want her to know I’m not a bad person.

We’re in different lessons so at the end of the day I make sure I slip out of Art early and am waiting outside Psychology for her when the bell goes. But a crowd of them spill out together, laughing and talking, and she doesn’t notice me standing there to the left, as she turns right and walks away down the corridor, chatting. I follow her as she leaves the building and makes her way across the car park, smiling, waving goodbye to people, all the time talking nineteen to the dozen to some girl from Psychology. I don’t know her name. The two of them stroll off together down the road and not once does she turn around to see where her BFF is. Not once.

I make my way in the opposite direction, to Dad’s apartment. It’s two bus journeys from college and by the time I get there I feel drained. I can’t wait to see Jem.

But when I let myself into the flat it’s dark and empty. The blinds are still drawn from the night before and there’s no sign of Jem. No note. Nothing.

He must be still at work. I open the blinds. The flat looks worse in the half-light. Dirty plates, mugs, glasses and dishes from breakfast and last night litter the place. How can two people make that much mess? I heave a big sigh and pick up a bowl of half-eaten olives from the floor. Last night they were seductive. Today they are repellent.

I chuck them in the bin and walk into the bedroom. The bed is unmade and in the en-suite bathroom there are damp towels on the floor and tiny dark hairs in the sink. Jem has used my dad’s razor, the expensive one Mum bought him for Christmas the year before last – he’s left it on the side of the bath. Anger rises in my throat. He could’ve cleared up after himself, the lazy git, he could’ve cleared up the whole flat instead of leaving it for me to do. Where is he, anyway? I ring his number but his phone is turned off.

In the kitchen I switch the kettle on and start to pile things into the dishwasher. But when the kettle boils I give up and make a cup of tea, slumping down on to the sofa with it. I’ve got A levels coming up, I remind myself crossly. I’ve got work to do. Jem can do this lot when he comes home.

But Jem doesn’t come home. I try to write up my History of Art homework but I find it hard to concentrate. I try his phone again but he’s not answering. At eight o’clock I raid the fridge and make myself a bacon sandwich, but it sticks in my throat and I can’t swallow. Where could he be?

I fight down the panic that is threatening to engulf me. I need to contact someone to find him, that’s what I need to do. But when I pick up my phone I don’t know who to ring. Not for the first time I realize how little I actually know about him. Something must have happened, but I have no way of finding out what.

Mum. She’ll know what to do. But she thinks I’m with Zoe. And I can’t ring Zoe and tell her I’ve lost Jem. Stop panicking, I tell myself, he’s probably still at the hotel; maybe he was told to work on. Ring the hotel! That’s the thing!

By the time I’ve phoned directory enquiries, got the number and managed to get through, it’s gone ten o’clock. The bored receptionist finally informs me after keeping me on hold for ages that Jem Smith left work shortly after three p.m.

I sink back on to the sofa. I knew it! He must have had an accident. Should I ring the hospital? Should I report him missing? My hand reaches for my phone again.

Hold on. Call 999 and you’ll have the police around here. Take a deep breath and calm down. Now, think! What’s he likely to be doing at this time of night? .

Tagging.

He could be with a girl, says a small voice.

Maybe he’s left you.

Maybe he doesn’t love you any more.

I try his number once more but it goes to answer phone.

So I ring the next number on my contacts.

I ring Livi.