Was any of it true? All those new entries that I hadn’t seen before, making it look like her leaving was all about a teenage pregnancy, getting the situation ‘fixed’, and a hot-headed boyfriend reacting badly. Sophie running away had finally started to make sense.
But a little voice whispers: and it gave you a scapegoat. Danny.
It’s all so much, I want to push the idea away.
How would I not know if Sophie was tangled up with someone else? She was sixteen, it’s not possible.
But then there’s the timing. After two years, for the diary to come now, and only now, when I’d found out about the pregnancy test, when I’d started asking questions … And what did Nicholls say? He said something about my raising concerns, that I’d done the right thing. ‘Because it meant that Sophie was on our radar again, when the diary got handed in.’ How lucky, I thought then. They might have missed it.
Now I think: it’s too neat, the timing, for it to be anything but odd.
Jesus. If I’ve got Danny all wrong … what did he say, when I went to see him? I wish I’d taken notes; I’ve gone about this all the wrong way, so slapdash. He said that nothing ever happened between him and Sophie, he was adamant. And there was something else, surely. I’m missing something … no, it’s gone.
But if there’s a scapegoat, then there’s someone else who’s being protected: the emailer. The person who knows where Sophie is?
The person who really got her pregnant?
I get up, needing to move. Because why do all this, Sophie? Why lead me to the email messages? Why even bother with the diary if you’re letting me know it’s not telling the full truth? Why cover up for someone, and undercut it all at the same time? And why phone the helpline to say you’re OK, then fill me with fear?
It doesn’t make sense.
Until, with a sick lurch of my stomach, it does.
There’s one logical answer, really, when you come down it.
Because it was all she could do. It was all he let her do.
25
SOPHIE
At first, it was like playing house. Our own little world, just me and him – like I’d wanted. And it was exhilarating, after all the secrecy, to spend so much time together.
It was odd, though, at the same time. Sometimes we just didn’t have that much to say to each other. I never had that much to tell him about how I’d spent my day, for obvious reasons. It was different to how I’d imagined it, if I’d thought about it all.
This is what it’s like, I’d tell myself. Being grown up. So grow up.
A lot of the time, when he was there, we’d sit and watch TV, then later I’d clear up and take the dishes to the sink. It was a struggle really, to cook, but there was a microwave, toaster and, soon, a hot ring.
‘And of course,’ he’d say, ‘you’ve got all day. You’ll be a good cook yet.’
‘You must be joking,’ I remember saying.
My meals were more like camping: beans on toast, scrambled eggs. Once he brought fish, which I tried to cook in the pan. The whole place stank within minutes – no ventilation.
So he didn’t do that again. Pretty soon, he stopped eating the food I tried to make, he said he’d eat at home. It meant he didn’t have to bring so much each time he came, too. Instead he brought cold stuff: bread, cereal, lots of fruit. ‘To keep healthy.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ It was for my own good, I was putting on too much weight in here, he said.
But mostly, I was OK.
Then I started to notice some little things. Like his leaving trick.
The first few times I really did think he just missed me. That’s what he said, after all, that he couldn’t bear to leave me: I was flattered. He’d be gone only two hours, half an hour, even just fifteen minutes, once, before he’d burst through the door again, so eager to see me. It was different every time.
But I began to wonder. You see, normally when he visited, I’d hear his footsteps on the stairs. Yet whenever he came back sooner than I expected, the door would swing open and I’d jump. I wouldn’t have heard him coming at all.
And though his words would be nice, just what I wanted to hear – ‘I’ve missed you, I couldn’t wait to see you’ – he’d always do the same thing as he came in: he’d take this quick, searching glance around the room. It was just with his eyes, he wouldn’t move his head – like I wasn’t supposed to notice.
Of course, he was checking what I’d been doing – trying to see if I’d already started to test the windows, or the floorboards, looking for ways out. And eventually I did.
Back then, I wasn’t sure what it meant, not until that day he left the door unlocked. Whenever I’m in here on my own now, after he’s gone I’ll wait a bit and then I try the door – just to see. It’s always locked now.
Only once, in the early days, it wasn’t.
When the handle turned in my hand, I was so thrilled, I went straight down the stairs, two steps at a time, and pulled open the second door at the bottom of the stairs. That was unlocked too.
And he was there waiting. My heart leapt into my throat, even as I drank in the details: the hall in the light behind him, the same old wood panelling. Then he pushed me back in, silent, and shut the door behind him.
‘You surprised me!’ I said. ‘I forgot to tell you’ – as he herded me up the stairs – ‘I wanted to ask … can you get me some more fruit? I think I need the vitamins.’
I didn’t really think I fooled him, not at all, but it’s always been easier this way. To keep pretending.
So I chattered away, as he pushed me back in, his hand in the small of my back. He didn’t say a word about it, not even when he returned the next day with the fruit I’d asked for. He knew.
I’ve failed him, I thought. I shouldn’t have done it. That’s why he’s angry.
I know now, obviously. He didn’t leave it open by mistake. He was testing me.
Still, it was weeks before I realised what the window meant. I’d spent ages trying to get the skylight open, standing on the chair under the blue patch of sky. Pushing upwards weakly, just reaching it, I had no leverage.
‘It must be painted shut,’ I told him, when he next turned up. ‘I can’t see how it opens.’ I was already feeling claustrophobic. If I’d known what was ahead of me … ‘It’s just too hot in here,’ I repeated grumpily.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘It must be jammed. I’ll sort it.’
The next time he came he brought me a fan, a proper standing one.
‘But I want fresh air,’ I said. I remember feeling ungrateful.
‘I want never gets,’ he said and laughed.
I hated it when he did that – when he acted like I was a child. Now, I don’t. I welcome it. I just have a feeling that might be useful, if he thinks I don’t quite get what’s going on.
Because eventually I worked it out. I was examining the window closely, one bright summer morning, the fan whirring away in the corner. I’d piled a stack of magazines on top of the chair, got as close as I could to it. I felt like I was going to slip off, testing my weight before I went flying. But then I balanced, breathing carefully.
I ran my fingertips round the edges of the window, twice, above my head. It wasn’t old, like so much of the rest of the place. He must have updated it for me. It definitely looked modern, the frame, painted white, made from something that wasn’t wood. It was cooler, harder. Near to it, the glass looked thicker, my faint reflection slightly blurred. Double glazing?
A thought occurred to me.
I checked once more – I wasn’t imagining it. It wasn’t painted shut. It wasn’t jammed. There wasn’t a hidden way to swing it open. It didn’t open at all.
After that, I started paying attention. I started looking at the place seriously: working out ways to get out. In case of an emergency, I told myself.
The low walls were solid, cool against my hands, as were the eaves, sloping up. They built these old houses sturdy. The skylight, set in the middle of the room, where the ceiling was at its highest – well, I’d tried that.