Invisible Girl. Kate Maryon
Dear Gabriella,
I know I should have told you, but I didn’t know how. Amy and me are making a fresh start together and it’s time for you to go and live with your mum. Amy thinks it’ll be good for you to see her and Beckett. Here’s some money for the train and for food while you’re travelling. You’re a big girl now. I know you’ll be OK.
Mum’s address is: 4, Macklow Street, Manchester. You’ll be a nice little surprise!
Dad
I swallow hard. I pick the little scab on my arm. I trace my finger over the words again and again and again. I sit there for a lifetime, my heart thudding in my chest, waiting for the sun to go down, watching the wind lift litter from the path.
“Can I have a ticket to Manchester?” I say, to the man at the railway station.
He peers at me through the glass. “Single or return?”
“Single.”
He taps away at the computer screen. He squints his eyes to read. “Sorry, Miss,” he says, “last train’s already gone. You’ll have to wait till morning.”
I stare at him. “There must be something?”
He shakes his head and peers through the glass again. “Bit young to be travelling alone this time of night, aren’t you?”
“Everyone says that. I’m just small for my age.” And I’m not sure why, but suddenly I’m lying again.
The man nods and turns back to his computer. I wander away and press the green button on my phone and listen to Dad’s voice seventeen times. I walk and walk and walk, until the town is hushed, until the sky grows dark, until there’s no one else around except me walking and walking under a bright, bright moon.
Without noticing where I’m going I find myself standing in the shadows near Grace’s house, like a thick elastic band has pulled me back here. I should knock on the door and tell her mum what’s going on. But I’m scared she’ll phone the police and get my dad in trouble for leaving me alone.
I slip down the alleyway between the houses, stumbling in the dark, counting the back gates until I find Grace’s, number 58. I lean my arm over and slide the bolt open as quietly as I can. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I think I might be sick.
I tiptoe through the garden towards the shed, feeling like a thief, avoiding the pond, careful not to clatter the swing. Grace’s garden is washed with silvery moonlight and a soft golden glow spills from the house like honey, spreading across the lawn. It’s quiet and still, except for the silhouetted leaves fluttering in the breeze and my heart hammering fast in my throat.
“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” Grace’s mum calls from the kitchen door, bashing a tin can with a spoon.
I freeze. I press myself against the shed door. Kitty leaps off the shed roof, on to the fence, and down to the ground with a pitter-patter thud.
“Come on, Kitty Kat,” her mum calls again.
Kitty winds her soft furry body around my ankles. She nuzzles up close and purrs.
“Kitty Kat, come on.”
I try pushing her gently away, towards the house, but she won’t go, she just keeps on twirling around me.
“Suit yourself,” says Grace’s mum at last. “Out on the town are you, Kitty? Chasing mice?”
She puts the cat bowl down and then she stands and tips her head right back to gaze up at the stars. I have to stop myself from flying into her arms and telling her everything, from clinging on to her forever. I wish she’d stand there all night, with the halo glow of the kitchen light around her. I wish she’d walk into the darkness and find me and take charge.
Grace’s mum shuts the door and turns the key. She snaps off the light, plunging the garden into dark silvery shadows of moonshine. I stoop down and pick Kitty up. I nuzzle my face in her fur.
“Go get your dinner, Kitty,” I whisper, putting her back on the ground. “Go on, you’ll be hungry.” But she won’t go and I just stand there, waiting.
When the clouds first roll in, soft glittery rain tumbles from the sky, but then the drops get bigger and wetter. I shelter under a tree and wait with my fringe dripping on to my cheeks, until all the upstairs lights go off. And when the house is totally quiet, I creak the shed door open and creep inside.
Kitty leaps on to the workbench sending tins of paint and bottles of stuff flying. I freeze. I hold my breath. I tremble. I wait for Grace’s mum to come shouting into the garden in a panic to see what all the noise is about. I wish she would. I cross my fingers and toes and hope she won’t.
The shed window is so grubby and full of cobwebs the moonlight can’t get in. I drag my bags into the dry and shut the door. I run my hands over cold things, a lawnmower, garden tools, a metal bucket. I bash my knee pulling a sun lounger from the pile and I struggle to put it up.
I think about Blue Bunny and wonder if he’s in my bag. I’ve never been to sleep without him before. I swallow hard, settle myself down and dig around in the backpack looking for his soft silky ears. I feel a hairbrush, a toothbrush, some scissors and scraps, a book and some clothes.
I dig deeper and deeper, then freeze when the low rumbling thunder rolls over me and bright white lightning cracks open the sky. I hold myself tightly as the storm rain lashes the window and drips through a crack.
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