stood across the street from my old house, a few numbers down, a brick mid-terrace just like all the others. Seeing it again felt like slipping into a favourite old jumper. Abby and I used to practically live in each other's houses, running back and forth across the street a dozen times a day.
Plus we had loads of special places, dotted around the area like pirate treasure. We even made a map of them once – like the cluster of birch trees in the park two streets over, which we decided was a portal to other worlds, and the fence outside a crumbling old house down the road. We'd peer in and make up stories about it …
‘Emma?’ called a man's voice.
I whirled around. Our old next-door neighbourwas standing outside his house, looking quizzically at me.
‘Hi, Mr Yates.’ I straightened my shoulders, trying to look casual. Right, like I just
happened
to be strolling past.
Mr Yates came over and leaned against the gate, his bald head gleaming in the sun. ‘Aye, I thought that was you. How's your mum doing? Enjoying America?’
So there was a bit of small talk – yes, she's fine, she loves it – and all the while I was dreading the conversation turning to Abby, inevitably, like an earthquake. Sure enough, finally he said, ‘Come to help the Ryzners with their posters, have you?’
I glanced over at their house again. It looked so weirdly silent, like a relic from a ghost town. I shrugged, swallowing hard. ‘Yeah … I thought I could help.’
‘Good for you! I've put some up myself, but it's a bit hard to fit in with work. Still, you want to do whatever you can, don't you?’ Mr Yates shook his head. ‘Such a terrible thing … well, Charles is in now, I think, if you want to pop across.’
He turned away, dead-heading pink and purple flowers from the hanging basket beside his door. I just stood there, gulping like a fish.
How
had I got into this?
He glanced back at me, eyebrows up. ‘Go on, pet; he's in.’
No, I can't, I have to leave now. I made a mistake; I didn't mean it!
I couldn't say any of it, not with Mr Yates staring at me.
‘Yes, OK. Thanks.’ And before I could think about it, I turned and crossed the street.
The closer I got to Abby's house, the spookier it seemed. It was just … silent. I could practically hear the forsythia bush rustling in the wind.
The Ryzner's house used to be anything but silent. You could hardly approach it without being deafened by the wall of sound that was Abby's music, or being flattened by Greg and Matthew as they came roaring out of the house.
The Terrible Twins. We used to have mini-wars with them, plotting these elaborate campaigns in Abby's playhouse.
Ten Things to do to the TTs.
Boiling oil, we decided, and cascaded dead leaves and twigs over them the next time they tried to invade.
Feeling Mr Yates' eyes still on me, I took a deep breath and rang the bell.
‘And this was taken last summer … I think you had moved away by then, hadn't you?’ Mr Ryzner rubbed his stubble-laden chin as he stared at a photo of Abby on a beach. His throat moved, and he passed it to me quickly, diving back into the stack of photos in front of him.
‘This is on the Costa again … she and Greg got very into building sand castles …’
‘Wow, that's really artistic,’ I said weakly.
I was sitting, trapped at the Ryzner's massive dining table as photo after photo of Abby piled up beside me. When I had asked whether they needed any help putting up posters, Mr Ryzner had started out talkingvery matter-of-factly about how many posters they had, and how they had decided which photo to use, and then somehow this had drifted into him bringing out their holiday snaps. And now he looked like he was about to cry.
‘This was a nice one … we almost used this one, actually, except she wasn't … wasn't wearing the sort of clothes she usually wears …’
I nodded, clutching a mug of almost-cold tea that I hadn't wanted and couldn't drink. In the kitchen, I could hear Abby's
Plus we had loads of special places, dotted around the area like pirate treasure. We even made a map of them once – like the cluster of birch trees in the park two streets over, which we decided was a portal to other worlds, and the fence outside a crumbling old house down the road. We'd peer in and make up stories about it …
‘Emma?’ called a man's voice.
I whirled around. Our old next-door neighbourwas standing outside his house, looking quizzically at me.
‘Hi, Mr Yates.’ I straightened my shoulders, trying to look casual. Right, like I just
happened
to be strolling past.
Mr Yates came over and leaned against the gate, his bald head gleaming in the sun. ‘Aye, I thought that was you. How's your mum doing? Enjoying America?’
So there was a bit of small talk – yes, she's fine, she loves it – and all the while I was dreading the conversation turning to Abby, inevitably, like an earthquake. Sure enough, finally he said, ‘Come to help the Ryzners with their posters, have you?’
I glanced over at their house again. It looked so weirdly silent, like a relic from a ghost town. I shrugged, swallowing hard. ‘Yeah … I thought I could help.’
‘Good for you! I've put some up myself, but it's a bit hard to fit in with work. Still, you want to do whatever you can, don't you?’ Mr Yates shook his head. ‘Such a terrible thing … well, Charles is in now, I think, if you want to pop across.’
He turned away, dead-heading pink and purple flowers from the hanging basket beside his door. I just stood there, gulping like a fish.
How
had I got into this?
He glanced back at me, eyebrows up. ‘Go on, pet; he's in.’
No, I can't, I have to leave now. I made a mistake; I didn't mean it!
I couldn't say any of it, not with Mr Yates staring at me.
‘Yes, OK. Thanks.’ And before I could think about it, I turned and crossed the street.
The closer I got to Abby's house, the spookier it seemed. It was just … silent. I could practically hear the forsythia bush rustling in the wind.
The Ryzner's house used to be anything but silent. You could hardly approach it without being deafened by the wall of sound that was Abby's music, or being flattened by Greg and Matthew as they came roaring out of the house.
The Terrible Twins. We used to have mini-wars with them, plotting these elaborate campaigns in Abby's playhouse.
Ten Things to do to the TTs.
Boiling oil, we decided, and cascaded dead leaves and twigs over them the next time they tried to invade.
Feeling Mr Yates' eyes still on me, I took a deep breath and rang the bell.
‘And this was taken last summer … I think you had moved away by then, hadn't you?’ Mr Ryzner rubbed his stubble-laden chin as he stared at a photo of Abby on a beach. His throat moved, and he passed it to me quickly, diving back into the stack of photos in front of him.
‘This is on the Costa again … she and Greg got very into building sand castles …’
‘Wow, that's really artistic,’ I said weakly.
I was sitting, trapped at the Ryzner's massive dining table as photo after photo of Abby piled up beside me. When I had asked whether they needed any help putting up posters, Mr Ryzner had started out talkingvery matter-of-factly about how many posters they had, and how they had decided which photo to use, and then somehow this had drifted into him bringing out their holiday snaps. And now he looked like he was about to cry.
‘This was a nice one … we almost used this one, actually, except she wasn't … wasn't wearing the sort of clothes she usually wears …’
I nodded, clutching a mug of almost-cold tea that I hadn't wanted and couldn't drink. In the kitchen, I could hear Abby's
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