Chapter 4
Sadie pounds down the stairs and across the vast hall. She reaches the front door, yanks it open and steps outside. She needs some fresh air, but the air here is so hot and sluggish she might as well stick her head in an oven. Still, at least she’s out of the house.
She walks across the porch to the front steps and sits down.
Her heart is pounding; she feels dizzy and a little sick.
She wonders if she’s having another anxiety attack.
It’s all too much. The size of the house, the extravagance.
She can’t imagine Grandma ever buying a house like this.
The thought is as preposterous as the queen coming for tea.
And she can’t imagine her and Dad living in it either.
The marble floors are too hard and cold; the furniture is too pale – she feels like she’d be making a mess just by sitting on it – and the pictures on the walls make her want to vomit.
Then there’s the bedroom – her bedroom. I mean, it’s beautiful and huge, obviously.
Crazy huge compared to her rabbit hutch back home.
But it is so not her, and Grandma knew her better than that.
I mean, lilac and a four-poster bed. For fuck’s sake. Who is she – Regina fucking George?
Sadie pushes her hair back behind her ears and tries to steady her breathing.
At least the porch provides a little shade from the incessant bloody sun.
She squints out at the street. There’s a house almost exactly opposite.
Similar design to theirs, but smaller. Bet that pisses them off, she thinks.
She wonders if they’re curious about her and Dad, the newcomers, or maybe a tad envious, already bitching about the folk from the UK ‘coming here and buying our houses’.
She tries to picture the residents. The house is pristine, but then so are all the houses on the street. She can just make out curtains in the windows, not blinds, and what looks like a house name on the gate. She stands and walks down the porch steps to the bottom of the path.
The sign is wooden and engraved in florid white writing which reads: Home and Spry.
Ah, a house name with a pun. So, obviously an older couple. White hair and leathery tans. Always dressed in matching polo shirts, shorts and baseball caps. And they have a dog. A terrier or chihuahua. Dale and Nancy, she decides, and their dog, Ruffles.
Sprinklers twirl lazily on Dale and Nancy’s front lawn; a bird flaps between the trees and in the downstairs window, a curtain twitches. Sadie can’t see the person inside, not from this distance, but she gets the impression of a face staring back at her.
Well, there you are, Dale or Nancy, she thinks. She raises a hand and waves. I see you, watching me, watching you. The curtain falls back. Sadie smiles. Okay, neighbour. I’ve got your number.
She looks up and down the road. It’s quiet, almost unnaturally so.
No cars, no other people. The only sign of life are a few tiny lizards scuttling across the pavement.
She should probably go back inside. Dad must be worried.
She’s surprised he hasn’t come looking for her, but maybe he wanted to give her some time.
He’s probably just as freaked out about all of this as she is, and she promised herself she would try to make this work for him. She starts to turn … and then pauses.
There’s a woman walking towards her. Blonde, wearing a vest, leggings and large dark sunglasses.
She’s looking around, like she’s searching for something, or someone.
As the woman draws closer, Sadie realizes she’s older than she first thought.
Not quite Grandma’s age, but old. Late sixties or seventies.
Her arms are thin but loose with crinkled skin, and her face is lined and speckled with sun damage.
Although when she smiles her teeth are still very white and even. Veneers, Sadie thinks.
‘Hi there.’ The woman beams.
‘Hi.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen a little boy around here?’
‘Err, no. Afraid not.’
‘Oh.’ The woman squints through her glasses. ‘Do I know you? You look familiar.’
Sadie shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Are you at school with Serena?’
‘No. We just moved here.’
The woman looks up at the house. ‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘This house is empty. It’s been empty for years.’
‘Well, not any more. We inherited it, from my grandma.’
The woman continues to study her. Then the veneers flash again. ‘Well, that’s nice. Have you visited Winsom Wonderland yet?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘You should go. My little Davey – he just loves all that magical stuff. At least, he used to—’ She trails off, an odd look on her face. ‘Have you seen him?’
Sadie feels thrown by the sudden switches in conversation. She really wants to go back inside. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, you better take one of these.’ The woman thrusts a piece of paper at Sadie.
Reluctantly, she takes it. There’s a picture on the front: a young boy.
Maybe four or five. A shock of blond hair, bright, happy smile.
He’s wearing a cowboy hat and a yellow T-shirt with a grinning cartoon cowboy on it (one of Harold Winsom’s famous characters – Buddy). Printed beneath the picture:
Davey Junior. Missing. If you see me, please help.
Sadie frowns. Normally missing posters featured teens or adults. Not little kids. How did a little kid just go missing?
‘Remember—’ The woman taps the leaflet with one bony finger. ‘If you see Davey, you let me know.’
‘O-kay.’ Although how she’ll do that with no contact details on the leaflet, Sadie has no idea.
The woman nods and walks off. Sadie looks at the leaflet again.
She’ll show it to Dad, see what he makes of it.
He’ll probably tell her not to talk to weird people, but Sadie can’t help it if weird people talk to her.
She folds the leaflet and shoves it into her shorts pocket.
Then she turns and places a hand on the gate.
And that’s when she hears the scream.