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‘There’s no one coming to look for me because no one even knows I’ve gone missing.’

Unrest (2017)

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

USEFUL CONTACTS

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No one sees me. I am a ghost. I am invisible. Life for me stopped still, one day – when I was not expecting it. Out there, I know that life goes on, that time moves forward, but it does so without me. I know I shouldn’t but I want to look once more – to take a peek out through the window at a world that is not mine. Do I dare?

1

It’s dark when I see her. I’m closing my curtains, ready for bed – and there’s a woman hurrying along our street towards the bus stop. There’s something intense about the way she’s moving. She darts like a bird. It’s as if she’s rushing to catch a bus – but there’s no bus there and no one waiting. The street is quiet. I’m not sure why I keep watching but I do. She’s skinny – with long, dark hair, maybe in her late teens, early twenties. She’s barely more than a silhouette in the darkness, but as she passes the street light, it casts her elongated shadow across the road. The glow highlights the long, thin cardigan she’s wearing. She pulls it tight around her, head bent against the chill November wind, but she goes past the bus stop without slowing down.

I see her glance round briefly as two cars pass. Now a silver car’s coming. It swerves and stops alongside her. Her head turns sharply. At the same moment, a man jumps out from the passenger side. He grabs the woman by the arm. She pulls away. They’re struggling – at least, that’s what it looks like. Within seconds, he’s opened the back door of the car and she’s in. He bangs the door shut and jumps back in the front. The car drives off, disappearing around the corner.

It happened so fast – but I’m certain she didn’t want to get into that car. The man was dragging her – forcing her in. I think he even had his hand over her mouth. I can barely believe it. I keep replaying it in my mind. My heart is thudding like a bass drum.

I’m staring out at the now empty street, still in shock, when a movement catches my eye. I look up at the house across the road, the window opposite mine. The curtain moved, I’m sure it did. Someone was looking out. Did they see what I just saw?

Should I call the police? There’s a couple in that house across the road – if one of them saw, maybe they’ve gone to call the police right now. But even so . . .

‘Mum!’ I yell, grabbing my phone. ‘Mum!’

She’s watching TV downstairs and I don’t think she heard me. Anyway, I don’t need her to tell me what to do, and I shouldn’t wait. I shouldn’t let them get too far away.

I sit on my bed and call 999. My hand is shaking. I’ve never done this before – never dealt with a real emergency. I ask for police.

There’s a calm voice at the end of the phone – a man’s voice. He listens and then starts asking me questions.

I give my name, Kasia Novak, and address, 47 New Weald Lane.

‘Did you get the car registration number?’ he asks.

I feel instantly devastated. Why didn’t I? ‘I’m sorry. No. It was all so fast,’ I tell him.

‘Don’t worry – you did the right thing to call. Any information you can give us will help. Can you describe the car?’

‘It was silver – a hatchback . . . I’m not sure what kind.’

I can describe the woman but I didn’t see the driver and only have a vague impression of the man who jumped out. I’m a useless witness.

‘Silver hatchback,’ he repeats, as if he’s writing it down. ‘We’ll get someone on to it straight away.’

‘Oh, and I think someone else might have seen it – across the road,’ I tell him. ‘I think there was someone at the window upstairs. They might even have called you too. It was number forty-eight.’

‘We’ll speak to them. Thank you for reporting the incident. Please call us if you remember any other details.’ He gives me another phone number and a case number, which I write on a scrap of paper.

I have a sinking feeling as I put the phone down. I wish I’d got the car reg. Maybe whoever was watching across the road did. I hope so.

‘Mum! Mum!’ I call again. She still doesn’t hear. I want to tell her. I need to tell her. I stand up, holding on to the window ledge for support, and then walk slowly out into the hallway, one hand pressed against the wall. My glands are throbbing in my neck and my legs are throbbing too – a constant dull, familiar ache.

‘Mum!’ No reply. I clutch the banister and put one foot gingerly on the top step. I’ve been thinking about trying to go downstairs for a few days, but I know now isn’t really the right moment. I’m too shaken up – on top of everything else.

‘Kasia! What are you doing?’ Mum appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with concern.

My legs give way and I sit down on the top step. ‘I was calling you. You didn’t hear. I thought I’d come down . . .’

Mum’s up beside me now, tutting and holding out her arm. ‘You look very pale, mój aniele. Come on, time for bed. How many times do I have to tell you to take it slowly, not do too much too quickly? Just getting out of bed is a big achievement. You’re clearly not up to trying the stairs. You should text me if I don’t hear you.’

I’m too tired to argue, but I want to prove her wrong. I’m so fed up with being in my bedroom all the time. Tomorrow, I think to myself. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow. But I still want to tell her what just happened.

Mum helps me into bed and sits on the edge as I tell her all about what I saw. She’s really shocked.

‘Kasia, how awful! Are you sure?’

‘I think so . . .’

Mum touches my hand gently. ‘You did the right thing to phone the police. Now settle down and get some sleep. You look exhausted.’

She goes back down and I lie in my bed, staring at the same four walls. It’s ten weeks since I’ve been downstairs.

2

I’m sitting by my bedroom window, waiting for Ellie to come round after school like she promised. She’s the only one of my friends that still does. The street is busy with cars on the school run and kids walking home. It looks so normal, it’s hard to believe what I saw last night actually happened. I’ve been playing it over in my mind all day. It feels like a bad dream, not something real. Where is that woman now – what happened to her? I wonder if someone has reported her missing.

I glance at the house across the road. Have the police spoken to them yet? Was someone looking out last night, or did I just imagine I saw the curtain move?

At the bus stop, groups in school uniform stand chatting. A toddler in a buggy has pulled off one shoe and is chewing it. I watch as she takes the shoe out of her mouth and flings it under the bench. Her mother is sitting staring at her phone and hasn’t noticed. The bus comes, blocking my view, and when it pulls out the people, including the woman and the buggy have gone, but I can still see the purple shoe sticking out sadly from under the bench.

A man in his twenties with dark hair and glasses arrives at the bus stop and kicks at the shoe curiously. I start making up a kind of Cinderella story, where the man takes the shoe and puts a photo of it on a Facebook group, and the woman comes forward gratefully to claim it. Turns out they’re both single and when they meet to hand over the shoe, it’s love at first sight.

I see a police car coming along the road and it pulls into a parking bay further down the road. Is this to do with last night? At first I think they want to ask me more questions but the police officer walks quickly up to the door of number forty-eight. I watch eagerly and see the front door open. The policeman talks to the woman and I can see her shaking her head.

Once the door closes, the policeman knocks on the doors of the houses on either side, but no one is home. Then he crosses the road. He’s coming here! The doorbell rings. I wish I could run down and answer it but I have to wait for Mum to do it. I hear her talking to the policeman and I wonder if she’ll bring him upstairs, but she says goodbye after only a minute and then comes up.

‘What did he say?’ I ask eagerly.

‘They haven’t found out anything about an abduction, Kasia,’ Mum tells me. ‘No one has been reported missing and no one else contacted them about it. He said the people at forty-eight saw nothing. They were both downstairs watching television.’

‘I thought someone was there, watching,’ I say, ‘upstairs – in the room opposite mine. I saw the curtain move, like someone was peeping out.’

Mum shrugs. ‘The police are looking into it. If there’s anything to discover, I’m sure they’ll find it.’

Mum goes back down and I’m still waiting for Ellie. Where is she? I’m suddenly worried she won’t turn up. I’m dying to tell her what I saw. Maybe I should have texted her, so she’d know I had something to talk about for once.

Just when I think she’s really not coming, I finally spot her, hurrying along the pavement, her ponytail bobbing up and down. I can see she’s trying to be quick but it feels like a hundred years before she turns into our gate and rings the doorbell. I hear Mum’s footsteps on the hall floor as she goes to let Ellie in, and then more, lighter steps as Ellie pads up the stairs.

She comes into my bedroom with a beaming smile and two plates of Mum’s apple cake. I take a deep sniff of the lovely cinnamon smell that has been drifting through the house, making my mouth water.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late – it’s all been happening today!’ she says, plonking herself on the edge of my bed and handing me a plate.

‘Tell me!’ I say. I like hearing what’s going on at school. It makes me feel more part of it, although it also sometimes makes me sad.

‘At lunchtime Serene got into a fight with Bethany,’ Ellie tells me. ‘A proper punch-up – Bethany pulled Serene’s hair and a whole clump came out! I saw it in her hand! It was over some boy. I don’t even know who.’

I feel a pang. I hope it wasn’t Josh. He’s a boy I like in the year above – a boy with ocean-blue eyes and a husky voice. I can’t imagine him with Bethany or Serene, though.

‘Then,’ Ellie continues, ‘Dimitri and Rafi were messing about in maths and Mr Treaker completely lost it and slammed a ruler on the desk so hard it flipped in the air and hit Serene in the face! She had to go to the medical room and now she’s got a massive black eye, too!’

‘Ohhh, poor Serene!’ I exclaim, though I can’t help laughing.

‘We shouldn’t laugh,’ says Ellie, giggling too, ‘but she’s always so obsessed with how she looks – and I’m sure she started that fight!’

‘Anyway, listen,’ she says, when we’ve both finally stopped laughing. ‘I have news you’re going to want to hear!’

I want to say, ‘So do I!’ but she’s made me curious. Her eyes are shining, her smile even broader. It must be something good, really good.

‘What?’ I ask. I take a bite of cake and lean forwards. ‘What is it?’

‘Guess,’ she says. ‘It’s about you . . .’

I hesitate. For one crazy moment I wonder if it’s something to do with Josh. Maybe he asked after me . . .

‘I can see your dreamy eyes!’ she teases. ‘No, it isn’t about Josh, Kasia!’

‘OK.’ I feel myself blushing. Ellie knows me too well. ‘I can’t guess – you’ll have to tell me.’

‘You’re going to love this!’ she insists, stuffing rather too much cake into her mouth. ‘Ooh, your mum makes the best cake!’

‘Tell,’ I demand, rolling my eyes because now she can’t speak. She swallows and grins at me.

‘Remember that story you wrote – that one that was like a mash-up of Hunger Games and Titanic ?’

‘Sort of. That was ages ago – before I was ill. What about it?’

‘It was sooooo good – Miss Giles said she might enter it for a competition. Do you remember?’

It’s weird thinking back. I was first ill in June so it must have been May when I wrote that story. I remember the bustle of our English class and the way the room went silent as I started to read my story aloud. I remember even Rafi and Dimitri had their eyes fixed on me as I read. They clapped too at the end, along with everyone else. Miss Giles was full of praise, saying I could be an author one day.

But that was six months ago, when we were all in Year 9. Now the class have moved up – they are Year 10s, with a different English teacher, working for their GCSEs. I don’t even know which classroom they are in or what time the lesson is.

‘Kasia?’

I realise I haven’t answered her. ‘Yes,’ I tell Ellie. ‘I remember.’

Well, listen to this . . . she did enter it – and you won! First prize!’

‘What? You’re joking!’

‘Look – here’s the proof.’

Ellie scrabbles in her rucksack and pulls out an envelope that has already been opened. It’s addressed to Miss Giles at school. She slips the letter out, unfolds it and hands it to me, pointing.

‘See – First Prize awarded to Kasia Novak.’

‘Wow!’ I say. I’ve never won anything before in my life – except a tiny rubber duck at a tombola when I was five. It used to glow in the dark.

‘Miss Giles is well chuffed,’ says Ellie. ‘She came running up to me in the corridor.’

‘What did I win?’ I ask, scanning the text. I’m hoping it’s money, though I know it’s unlikely to be much. With Mum not working, every little helps.

‘You get to go to an award ceremony in a theatre,’ she tells me. ‘Oh . . .’

Her voice falters and she looks at me, her hand covering her mouth.

‘When and where?’ I demand.

‘It’s not until February – and it’s in central London somewhere. Maybe by then . . .’

I’m conscious of my throbbing glands and my heart’s pulsing too. I feel weak but I also feel a surge of determination. I look Ellie in the eye and tell her, ‘I will be better. I can’t miss something like that! And I’m going to get back to school, Els.’

‘Have you been downstairs yet?’ Ellie asks.

‘No, but I’m going down for dinner today. Don’t tell Mum – she doesn’t know! I want to surprise her.’

‘Really? That’s great!’

Ellie’s being a supportive best friend but I can see she still looks doubtful. She knows how long it is since I’ve been downstairs.

We read the letter again, together. I still can’t take it all in. ‘Oh, look, you get fifty pounds worth of book tokens too, and a hundred pounds’ worth of books for the school,’ Ellie tells me.

‘Miss Giles will be pleased about that!’ I smile.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ says Ellie. ‘Tons of homework. I’ll try and come again on Thursday.’

It’s only after she’s gone that I realise I forgot to tell her about last night.

3

My words to Ellie may have sounded brave and determined but I know it’s not going to be that easy. I am not in Year 10 with all my friends but, back in September, I did try to be. Nobody knew I was going to be so ill for so long.

I remember Ellie waiting for me at the school gate, a beaming smile spreading across her face when she spotted me.

‘I’m so glad you made it!’ she told me. ‘I didn’t want to start the new school year without you!’

‘Same here,’ I said, waving Mum off in the car. I meant it too. I’d always been determined to be well by the end of the summer holidays. I knew that I wasn’t OK, though. I was achy, weak and in pain. I’m sure Mum knew it too but we both wanted to believe that once I got to school I’d feel better and everything would somehow, magically, go back to normal.

‘Come on, let’s get in,’ said Ellie. ‘Don’t want to be late on the first day!’

We walked to the main entrance. I felt so weird and wobbly, as if the ground underneath me was moving. I tried to ignore the dull ache in my legs and the swollen glands making my neck stiff and uncomfortable.

Inside, everything seemed different. The corridor looked so much longer. Erin and Tilly rushed up to say hi, and Tilly tried to hug me. It hurt, but I didn’t like to say so. They were clearly pleased to see me back, chattering and asking me questions.

‘I thought it was just tonsillitis,’ said Erin. ‘How come it took you so long to get better?’

‘The doctor said I had post-viral fatigue,’ I explained. ‘I still felt ill even though the infection had gone. No idea why. It just happens sometimes. Did you have a good summer?’

‘We went camping in France,’ she told me. ‘The first week was amazing but then it rained the rest of the time! I never want to go camping again.’

She kept talking, telling me about all the other things she’d been doing. I zoned out. People were talking all around me too. I couldn’t take the noise. Surely school never used to be this loud? As we reached the stairs to our form room I looked up and was overcome by panic. It was a flight of stairs – a flight I’d climbed every day for years but now it looked like a mountain. How would I ever get up there? And the crowds – I couldn’t bear all the people swarming around me. I suddenly felt so fragile, as if I was a delicate flower about to be trodden into the ground.

‘You are OK, aren’t you?’ Ellie asked.

‘Not really,’ I told her.

‘You can use the lift if you need to.’

I did, but I felt weird, embarrassed, standing waiting for it. The lift is for disabled students. I’m not disabled. When I got out on the first floor, I was sure everyone was staring at me.

I sat down with relief in my form room, listening to more holiday stories, with people coming up to say they were so happy I was better and how I looked fine. I didn’t feel fine, even sitting down. When I looked at my Year 10 timetable, I had a sinking feeling. I even asked Ellie, ‘Have they put more lessons in this year?’ and she looked at me like I was mad.

‘French first!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Look, we’ve got Madame Dupont! She’s the best.’

I like Madame Dupont and I like French, but I didn’t smile back because the room was on the other side of the school. The thought of having to stand up and walk down more corridors, packed with students, already felt too much.

I made it to French but within minutes I felt so ill I couldn’t sit any more – I had to lie down. Ellie took me to the medical room. The nurse called my Mum straight away.

I’d lasted thirty-seven minutes in Year 10.

Now, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down. I imagine I’m an Olympic skier at the peak of a challenging slope. The previous contender has been taken off in an ambulance. I don’t know the extent of her injuries but, after checks, the organisers have declared the course safe. I am not so sure.

I cling to the banister, aware that I am holding my breath as I put one foot tentatively forward. Then the other. I’m getting into a rhythm, but halfway down I feel light-headed and my legs feel like they’re going to give way. I haven’t been downstairs since that day – the first day of term, 2 September, when I tried to go back to school. But I am starting to improve.

When I didn’t get better after tonsillitis, Mum and Dad were constantly trying to get me to do more and I had to make them understand that I couldn’t. Dad actually thought I’d got lazy from being ill in bed. Mum thought it must be depression or anxiety, especially when she took me to the doctor who did blood tests that all came back clear. The doctor said it was possible I had post-viral fatigue, and mentioned chronic fatigue syndrome or CFS, though it’s more often known as ME. It stands for Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. That was probably the reason I was taking so long to recover. But I don’t think Mum and Dad realised exactly what that meant, or how long it might take. I didn’t either. I know now, though.

I. Know. Now.

People can be ill for years with this. Some people never get better. I’m not going to be one of them. I can’t.

I’ve been thinking about trying to come downstairs for a couple of weeks – but I’ve been so scared of getting stuck halfway, or not feeling well enough to go back up again, that I’ve been too frightened to even try. I know I have to get over this fear, but it’s based on real experience. I only have to do the smallest thing and it wipes me out completely. Already I need to sit down, but that’s OK. Now it is as far to go back up as it is to keep going, and down is definitely easier.

I start going again, before I panic. And then I’ve made it! I’m down! I’m a little giddy, but I’m here.

I wait for a few moments to get steady, then I take a deep breath and stroll casually into the kitchen. I’m almost surprised that it looks exactly the same. I feel like so much time has passed that Mum might have a new tablecloth or kettle or something. She’s busy at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The smell is like a life force to me. I feel stronger just being close to it.

‘Hi, Mum! That stew smells delish.’

She nearly drops the spoon in the pan.

‘Kasia!’ She rests the spoon on a plate and flings her arms around me. She knows to be gentle. She lets go of me and rubs her eyes.

‘Don’t cry, Mum!’ I tease.

‘It’s onions, just the onions,’ she says with a smile. ‘You should have told me you wanted to try coming down. I would have helped you, mój aniele! Do you feel OK? Are you sure it wasn’t too much? Come – sit. After all those stairs you must sit. Let me get you a drink.’

She brings me a cushion for the hard, plastic chair. My whole body is so sensitive these days. I’m already starting to feel weak, but I don’t say anything about it. I hope Dad gets home soon. I’m not sure how long I’m going to last.

I glance at the photos on the fridge. Me and Dad making silly faces, Mum posing on a bridge, a picture of my aunt and uncle in Poland. There’s one missing – the one of me and my brother Marek. I’m sad, but not surprised. Dad and Marek haven’t spoken since he dropped out of uni and went off around Europe.

Dad is home early to my relief – and the expression of delight on his face as his large frame and bald head fill the kitchen doorway makes it all worthwhile.

He’s still in his work clothes, dirty from his day at the building site, but he does his funny version of a traditional Polish celebration dance round the small kitchen. Mum hastily moves crockery and pans out of the way so nothing goes flying and I am laughing so much it actually hurts.

‘Moje kochanie,’ he says, gently stroking my hair. ‘It’s so lovely to have you down here and not exiled upstairs. I hope this is a sign of good things to come.’

‘I only wish Marek was here to see you too,’ Mum says, sighing.

‘So do I,’ I tell her, getting a pang as I imagine my brother here too, grinning and high-fiving me.

Dad tuts scornfully.

‘Dad!’ I protest.

‘Let’s not spoil the evening talking about him,’ Dad says firmly. ‘Give me two ticks to get changed and when I come down, we’ll talk about something else, something happier.’

Mum winks at me when he’s gone and picks up her phone from the worktop. ‘I’ll take a photo of you at the table and we’ll WhatsApp it to him,’ she says quietly. ‘Marek will be so pleased.’

Dad comes back down and Mum serves up.

‘Well, what’s new?’ Dad asks.

‘We had a visit from a policeman,’ Mum says. ‘Very handsome he was!’

‘I hope he didn’t stay long then,’ Dad teases. ‘This about what you saw the night before, Kasia?’

I nod and Mum tells Dad what he said.

‘I hope they find the woman,’ I say. ‘I just want to know she’s OK.’

‘Well, you did the right thing reporting it,’ Dad says to me. ‘The rest is up to them.’

I know Dad’s right. There’s nothing else I can do.

‘I thought we were going to talk about happy things,’ says Mum.

‘Hey, yes! How about this for a happy thing?’ I say, smiling.

I tell them about winning the writing competition and they are both thrilled. Dad gets up to do another celebration dance but Mum tells him to stop or he’ll get indigestion.

‘I want to get well enough to go the award ceremony,’ I tell them. ‘And I want you both to come with me.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ says Dad, ‘but you know how things are. It isn’t always easy for me to get time off. It’s a big project, this sheltered housing, and we’re a month behind already. Hopefully by then we will be back on track.’

Although I want Dad to be there, I’m mainly pleased that he’s not even questioning the idea that I’ll be able to go myself.

‘It’s exciting Kasia, but you need to be careful,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll have to see how you are nearer the time.’

Mum may be more realistic, but I prefer Dad’s optimism. Although as she speaks I realise that the room is starting to spin. I don’t want Mum to be right, but in the end I have to tell her. ‘I need to lie down.’

‘Let me help you back up to bed,’ she says. ‘You’ve done really well, but that’s enough for now. I can bring you up dessert if you’d like some.’

As I stand up, panic rises in my chest. ‘Mum – I don’t think I can do it – I don’t think I can get back upstairs. I need to lie down now!’

‘Lie on the sofa for a minute,’ Dad suggests. ‘Here – take my arm.’

He helps me into the front room where I collapse on to the sofa. I still feel like I’m on a boat in a storm and the panic is overtaking me. I want my bed – I want to be in my room.

After twenty minutes, I don’t feel any better. Dad sits down beside me.

‘I want to go to bed,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll help you, kotku.’ He holds out his arm.

I shake my head. ‘I can’t stand up, Dad.’

‘Lucky you have a strong father then,’ he says. He’s standing now, smiling and holding out both arms.

‘Dad!’ I exclaim. He hasn’t carried me anywhere since I was about five years old.

‘I’ve carried heavier weights around the site today,’ he assures me. ‘Look at these muscles.’

Before I can protest he has me in his arms and is lifting me. Much as I hate being treated like a child, I enjoy feeling safe and warm and held and I am more grateful than anything when he lowers me gently on to my bed.