Good Girl, Bad Girl(32)

She’s covering her tracks.

“Can you bring Sacha back?” asks his wife. She’s holding his hand beneath the table.

What do I say? I don’t understand why she’s gone.

Mr. Hopewell turns to me and struggles to speak.

“You want to know the worst thing . . . I’m angry with Sacha. I wish she had never grown up. I wish we could have locked her in a room and stopped her leaving home.

“We sit here, waiting for the phone to ring or hoping for a postcard. That’s our future. That’s what we look forward to when we wake up every morning. Each day begins and ends with her.”

*

On the drive back to Nottingham, the rain arrives, sweeping in from the west in sheets that blur the landscape of fields and forests. My wipers struggle, slapping against the side of the windscreen like a soggy metronome.

I go over my visit to the Hopewells. A part of me wants to dismiss their suspicions as paranoia, but neither of them was looking for confirmation or justification. Paranoid people believe the world is conspiring against them and that mistakes are never their fault. Paranoid people focus on what they want to see.

At the same time, I don’t buy into conspiracies. I’m not saying they don’t exist, but too many people are drawn to complicated answers, rather than obvious ones. They want to believe that arch-villains or shady organizations or the “deep state” are manipulating society, pulling the strings.

In reality, there isn’t some shooter in the grassy knoll or child sex ring in the pizza shop or secret group controlling the world. To misquote Mark Twain: It isn’t what we don’t know that gets us into trouble. It’s what we know for sure that just isn’t so.





16




* * *





ANGEL FACE




* * *



The minibus is supposed to leave at noon. I stand back while the others jostle to get on board, calling “shotgun” on certain seats or demanding to sit next to the window.

“Will you get on the sodding bus,” says Miss McCredie, pinching Nat on the forearm.

“Ow! What did I do?”

“You’re being a twat,” she says under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear.

Miss McCredie’s partner, Judy, is driving the bus. She looks like a nightclub bouncer or a rugby manager, with her square head, boxy clothes, and tightly cropped hair.

“I know who wears the pants in that relationship,” whispers Chloe.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“She’s the butch one. She goes on top.”

Do lesbians worry about tops and bottoms? I wonder.

Chloe considers herself an expert on sex, having boasted about giving blow jobs to her older brother’s friends and her biology teacher, who got sacked when he texted her a picture of his dick. He thought it was anonymous, but he forgot to crop the image, which included a coffee cup that said: “Old teachers never die, they just lose their class.” Irony 101.

I take a seat near the front where I’m less likely to be hassled. I plug in my music but can still hear Chloe commandeering the back seat and choosing who gets to sit next to her.

Miss McCredie does a head count and tells everybody of the penalties that await anyone who misbehaves. She’s almost finished when Reno steps on the bus. A cheer goes up because Reno is one of the most popular members of staff. He’s young and into music and he likes discussing last night’s episode of Love Island. He also plays keyboard in a pub band called Roadkill. They once came to Langford Hall and did a gig, which was the most fun anyone could remember—unless you ask the neighbors.

Reno sits next to me and holds out his fist for a bump. I do it reluctantly, glancing at him quickly before looking away again, seeing the stubble on his cheeks and the stud in his earlobe. Some of the boys wolf whistle and chorus, “Oooooh.” I don’t react, but I’ll get them later.

Reno is just back from his honeymoon in Sri Lanka. He showed me where that was on a map, but I couldn’t tell if it was a long way away because I have no sense of distance.

The bus pulls out of the driveway and heads through the streets until the houses give way to pound stores and pawnshops. We pass an Islamic bookshop, a Kosher butcher, an Arab grocer, and an Asian supermarket. People call it the great melting pot, but nothing is melting or blending. I like it that way—with everybody being different.

What I don’t like are the old people, who hobble along footpaths and wait at bus stops and count out their change at supermarket checkouts. Grey and puffy as dumplings, they hum with disapproval every time a young person speaks too loudly or moves too quickly or simply breathes. Don’t ride your skateboard. Don’t play your music. Don’t wear those clothes.

The minibus stops at a red light. Reno is reading a story on his phone. It’s about a schoolgirl who was raped and murdered in Nottingham.

“Who did it?” I ask.

“Some sicko.”

“How can you tell?”

“What?”

“How do you know when someone is sick in the head, or when they’re just plain bad?”

Reno shrugs.

“Is that why we’re in Langford Hall?” I ask.

“Nobody thinks you’re sick or bad.”

I turn away, resting my forehead against the glass, watching the window grow foggy with each breath.