The Mute and the Liar Page 2

  I’m going to go and solve another case now. I’m just biding my time, really. Putting off tomorrow. Making it come as slowly as possible. I don’t want it to be tomorrow. It’s the most depressing day of the year.

  Why am I even still writing in this stupid thing?

  All I am doing is talking to myself. I’m just the same as Father, really.

  Just rattling on, when no one is listening.

  *****

  19th February 2011

  One, two, three, four, five six, seven.

  The number of times the brush rakes through my hair.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  The number of buttons I fasten on my shirt.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  The number of spoonfuls I take of cereal.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  The number of carnations I throw on the grave.

  Chapter Three

  22nd February 2011

  The gang that hang around the street outside my house have been acting weird all week. They’ve gradually started to filter in again. It started off with just a couple of them, and now they’re all back at once, clumping together like penguins.

  I’ve taken a liking to watching them hang out in the park through my bedroom window. For the past few days all I have done is sit on the floor in front of my radiator, which is below my window, with a newspaper and my laptop in my hands to look over crimes, scribble in this notebook, and occasionally look out of the window to see what they’re up to. My room is on the top floor, so they can’t see me looking down at them.

  Sometimes I can only see the tops of their shaved or brightly dyed heads. But other times, if they’re close enough and talking loudly enough, I can even hear them. They always seem to be discussing parties or alcohol or llamas. Don’t ask.

  It’s quite refreshing watching them. It’s almost like I’m experiencing that wild life teenagers are supposed to have. Close enough to touch it, but safe.

  I’ve started noticing a few things about them I hadn’t before.

  Firstly, the liquid inside their Lucozade bottles is beer. They are so proud of themselves for thinking up that diabolical plan. They think they are such geniuses. They think that ten drunken teenagers each carrying their own bottle of Lucozade isn’t even the tiniest bit odd.

  Secondly, it seems any plan, any opinion, no, any idea that flashes across their minds has to be approved of by the two leaders of the group: the Ringleader, and the gothic girl with the frizzy, dark blue hair that was talking to him the other day.

  She’s quite striking, actually. She has this ashen face that’s completely devoid of emotion, with smouldering expressionless eyes that could make her the world’s greatest poker player. It’s impossible to guess what she’s thinking, or whether she even thinks at all. Her presence is like death to the others. She floats by, unwelcome, but inevitable, shivers away their smiles, and yet they have no choice but to endure her.

  Then, the moment she sees The Ringleader, everything changes. In the space of a crack of lightning, her face sparks up and the coals she has for eyes explode with fireworks. Suddenly she’s laughing and dancing and shaking every part of her body in his face...

  It’s unearthly.

  In a way, I feel a little sorry for her. It seems he’s the only thing that can make her smile. And yet he barely looks at her.

  And the last thing I’ve noticed is something I wish I hadn’t.

  Every so often, they stop their conversation, and look up at my house.

  *****

  Can I come with you? Please please please please?

  There’s been a hit-and-run! Isn’t this exciting? I love a good hit-and-run.

  Sorry about the writing at the beginning of this page. I had to send some messages to father and I didn’t have any other paper handy. I’ve given up trying to talk to him in sign language; he just stares at me with a blank, bewildered expression like I’ve just gone up to him and started doing the aeroplane safety gestures.

  We got the news after lunch. The moment I found out I knew I had to go to the crime scene. I mean, it’s a hit-and-run for goodness’ sake! Dad takes me with him sometimes if it’s something like this, taking place in the middle of a town, because he can drop me off as near as they’ll let me go, and then I can just go and do some shopping or walk around, and we can meet up later.

  I tried sending him the first message with big, puppy dog eyes, but he was hesitant, so I had to write him another page of ‘pleases.’ He gave in.

  I got my bags and set off, following him. He’s so tall he only has to take a few strides and he’s already halfway down the road. It’s impossible to keep up.

  Well, this is the part I’d rather not talk about. It’s still throbbing in the back of my mind. I’m panicking about it, but I can’t tell father about what really happened, about the reason why that happened. Father would overreact and do something drastic and I think he’s already annoyed that group of teenagers enough.

  I left the house and walked along the pavement, whilst dad charged in front, but I wasn’t really looking where I was going. That’s all I remember and then the next thing I knew, someone walking in the opposite direction smashed into me as our paths collided, and I was thrown on the ground. Everything from my bag fluttered into the air. If that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I realised the other person was still standing over me, not affected by the collision at all. Why was it that I was the only one to fall? That just shows what bad luck I have. And then, if that wasn’t bad enough, another cold truth clambered across my mind: I’d walked straight into The Ringleader.

  “Alicia!” Father had turned around at the noise, and was now running over. He plummeted to the floor, grasped my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. “Are you alright?” he said breathlessly. “Did he hurt you?”

  “She was the one that crashed into me,” the Ringleader mumbled indignantly.

  I nodded at Father, showing I was fine, and we began collecting my belongings and returning them back to my bag. The Ringleader just stood there, very still, watching us. I couldn’t help but find this annoying. He didn’t apologise, or see if I was alright, or help me collect my things, or even just mind his own business and leave. He just stood watching, looking like something had interested him, or he was trying to figure out a riddle.

  This just infuriated Father. A look of disgust wrecked his face, and his eyebrows narrowed and his fists clenched. “Aren’t you in prison yet?” he spat.

  “They didn’t find anything on us, remember? They let us go. It’s just

  Steve. His trial’s next Friday.”

  Father looked even more irritated at this. Clearly he had been hoping his little stop-and-search escapade would lead to some peace and quiet.

  I had nearly put everything in my bag by now and was about to stand up, but froze when I realised that The Ringleader was staring right at me. He took a step closer.

  “You know, Sir... You’re very lucky,” he began softly, in an almost songlike voice, not taking his eyes off me. He spoke slowly, making every letter last as long as possible. “You have a beautiful daughter.”

  What?

  What did he just say?

  Suddenly I couldn’t move. Every bone in my body melted into stone. My lungs closed. I couldn’t breathe. The only thing I seemed to be able to do was shiver. I was shaking all over.

  “No makeup. No hair dye. Never any friends...” he continued, taking another step closer. Father tensed up. I didn’t know why he wasn’t saying anything. It seemed he was in shock too. “Only leaves the house to go to school. Always shuffling along with that notebook...”

  He bent down right in front of me and knelt on the ground. He slowly lifted his hand, his fingers outstretched, reaching to touch my cheek. “So clever and shy and...” His fingers were centimetres away from my face.

  Father suddenly slammed back into reality, finally getting over the shock and coming to his sen
ses, and threw his arms around my shoulders and dragged me forcefully so I fell into him before The Ringleader could touch me.

  Father stood, yanking me up as well, and kept his arm grasped around me. “Innocent,” The Ringleader finished. He was smiling, but it was such an unnerving, disturbing smile, his face may as well have been laced with knives. Father stepped forwards and pushed his face close to the boy’s, anger radiating from his skin.

  “You stay away from my daughter,” he hissed. It wasn’t my father’s voice that spoke. It was the hiss of a tortured reptile.

  “Don’t worry. Dating the daughter of the policeman that put Steve in prison? That would be stupid,” the Ringleader concluded confidently, and spun around on his heel and took a few steps away. Father nearly strangled me as he wrenched me around and marched me to the car.

  I turned around to see that the boy had stopped walking and was now standing statue-like once more. We were already quite distance away from him, but I could still hear him mutter quietly to himself: “Or maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

  And I definitely heard him when he called over his shoulder:

  “See you... Alicia.”

  I tried to put the whole encounter behind me. That’s all you can do in these situations. Well, I’m just guessing that. I’ve never been in that kind of situation before. That’s a perk of being silent. You don’t have to deal with things like that... usually.

  I just hung around the shops until Father was finished, which surprisingly only took about half an hour.

  I scribble a note in the notebook. What happened?

  “Nothing. Turns out they already found the vehicle.”

  By the time we got home, I’d forgotten about earlier. I’d forgotten how all my stuff was sprawled out on the floor around me. No, I’d forgotten how all my stuff was sprawled out around him.

  Everything hurtled back when I reached the front door, searched in my pocket, and couldn’t find my house keys.

  Chapter Four

  24th February 2011

  I have been worrying about the house keys all week. I never leave them or lose them. And I swear they were in my pocket when I left the house that day. I know what must have happened to them, but I’m trying not to think about that.

  What if he took them?

  What if he breaks into my house?

  I have been so worried I even convinced dad to stay home with me yesterday by pretending to be ill. I still haven’t told him. I know he’ll overreact and do something awful. It will be just like that time I stayed late at school without telling him. He’ll get the police involved, then some big search will erupt, and the next thing I know I’ll be dragged out of my detention by three police men, two teachers and a poodle.

  It's best just to stay silent.

  But I'm worrying. And bad things always seem to follow worrying.

  *****

  28th February 2011

  Of course I thought something might happen. But who could have predicted that it was going to be this? I cannot believe it.

  I am still in shock. Time has been suspended, is travelling syrup-slow, is nothing. I cannot even describe what happened. How did this even happen?

  Everything was so painfully normal up until now. I went to school. I went to all my classes. I listened to the teachers monotonously dragging on. I waited and waited. Then the bell finally went, and I slumped all the way home.

  By the time I reached my street, I knew something was wrong. The gang was all bunched together... Right outside my house. One of them noticed me and swore. This alerted the others, and they all swivelled their shaved or brightly dyed heads around. They all started cursing and scuttled away.

  Well, that wasn't exactly a good sign.

  But what terrified me was when I was about to unlock the door. I lifted the key, but as I was about to put it in the lock, the door creaked open a little. It was already unlocked.

  Normally, I might have thought it just meant dad had come home early. But he has never left the front door open, and he never will. Being so high up in the police force and dealing with all these crimes means he's always worrying, always preparing. So neurotic. He thinks about every possible dangerous situation that could spiral from the smallest event.

  He never forgets to shut the door. It's exactly the opposite – he always remembers to lock it, bolt it twice, and put it on a latch. So that meant that someone else was in my house.

  I ran in, bracing myself for the worst, expecting a huge parade of gangsters stampeding through my house, chucking cigarettes and beer bottles everywhere. For a moment, it seemed like everything was fine. Everything looked normal.

  But then I heard it. Rustling.

  Someone was downstairs.

  It felt like my heart had stopped. The air around me tightened and pulled right through me, suffocating me. I dropped my school bag on the floor and hugged this notebook against my chest, feeling that if I didn’t hold onto something I would faint.

  Still holding the notebook, I crept into my living room and grabbed the first lethal item I could see: a potted cactus.

  Shakily, I stumbled down the stairs, half tiptoeing, and half tripping. Something fluttered in my stomach, and I felt strangely weightless. My heart was racing ahead of the rest of my body, and my clammy hands were trembling. I was terrified, but at the same time I was shivering with excitement. Crimes never happen here. And nothing interesting ever happens to me.

  And now someone had broken into my house.

  With one powerful blow, I slammed open the door leading to the kitchen.

  Smack.

  The door swung straight into a figure on the other side, who cried out in pain, followed by a long series of swearwords, and then appeared to start kicking the door to make it pay for hurting him. Apparently, by the sounds of his shouting, that didn’t help; instead it just hurt him even more.

  Taking a deep breath, standing tall, hugging the notebook with one hand and brandishing the cactus above my head with the other, I slipped into the room.

  Keeled over in front of me was The Ringleader.

  What annoyed me the most was that hanging off the end of his hand was a bag of lettuce. Or should I say my bag of lettuce.

  He was going to steal my bag of lettuce!

  Good thing I got to the crime scene just in time.

  He jumped up when he saw me, but clutched his leg, and winced a little. A look of irritation sculpted itself onto his freckled face. I didn’t expect his reaction. I thought he might shout, scramble away, cower before the life- threatening cactus...

  He just looked a little annoyed.

  “Why have you got to be so damn punctual?”

  *****

  Wait, what?

  The words finally sunk in, and I suddenly felt angry. I wanted him to run away, beg for mercy, scream and pray for forgiveness at exactly the same time. I did not want him to complain about me coming home on time. He had no right to be complaining. If anyone was to be complaining, it should have been me - he was the one who had broken into my house!

  “Well, this is just absolutely brilliant,” he murmured to himself. “You’re already here, and all I’ve stolen so far is some bloody salad.”

  He let go of his leg and straightened up, before stepping closer to me. I suddenly noticed he was a few inches taller than me, and his white t-shirt clung tightly to his muscular body.

  He’s strong.

  That was the stupid thought that gripped me. It was the only thing I was thinking about. I was not thinking about how a stranger had broken into my house. Not about how a smirking, salad-stealing hooligan had broken into my house.

  Wow. Hooligan. What an awesome word.

  Dammit, now I’m thinking about the word ‘hooligan’ and not thinking about how a real one has just broken into my house.

  Maybe I hadn’t thought this through…

  My mind raced through all the possible solutions to this problem. My phone was in my school bag upstairs. Obviously, I didn’t c
all anyone, but it was just so I could contact father if I was in trouble. I was pretty sure I was in trouble right now.

  I could run upstairs and text father. That was one idea that popped into my mind. But then I remembered that father is at work and his workplace is quite a distance away. He can’t get home in less than an hour. Frantically, I searched around the room, and caught sight of a coat hanger lying on a chair nearby. I could poke the criminal’s eyes out…

  But before I had a chance to even think about this option, he took another step closer to me.

  Instinctively, I shielded myself with the cactus. He looked at it and grinned.

  “You were going to attack me with that?” he said incredulously, and when he saw my serious expression, he shattered into laughter.

  I stood there whilst he laughed at me for what felt like months.

  I could feel anger burning right through me.

  Ha. Ha. Ha.

  He calmed down, waited for a few seconds, then suddenly shot into laughter once more.

  That did it.

  I slapped the cactus over his head. That got him to stop laughing.

  “Ouch! What was that for? he grimaced, clutching his head and wincing.

  “Anyway, let’s get the awkward introduction stage out of the way. You’re Alicia. And I’m a thief. Pleased to meet you.”

  He held out his hand to shake mine, but I stared at it like it was a fat, hairy tarantula.

  “So... how are you?” he says pleasantly, as though we are old friends meeting up for a cup of tea. I try to give him a blank look, but I can feel the look of fear crawling uncontrollably all over my face. A long, painful silence followed. You could almost hear tumbleweed rolling across the corridor.