I’m watching videos on YouTube when there’s a knock at the back door. I look out of my window. Emerson is standing on the patio. What on earth does he want?
I drag myself off my bed and head downstairs, opening the door a crack so Emerson can’t see inside.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I was just wondering if you’d heard from Tanvi?’
‘You came all the way here to ask me that? Why don’t you just ring her?’
‘I have. She didn’t answer.’
‘So try again and leave a message.’
I go to close the door but Emerson jams his toe in the gap. ‘I have,’ he says. ‘Three times. And before you ask, I’ve texted and sent her messages on Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat too. I haven’t heard a thing from her since Saturday.’
I frown. When I last saw Tanvi and Emerson, they were totally wrapped up in each other. I get Tanvi not messaging me, but why would she ghost Emerson?
‘When did you last see her?’ I ask.
‘At the party.’
‘And how did she seem?’
‘Worried about you mostly. When she found out about what happened at your house, all she wanted to do was get hold of you and make sure you were OK.’
‘But before that? Were you getting on OK then?’
Emerson blushes. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘You didn’t try anything weird, did you?’ I ask, my body seized with a fierce and unexpected protectiveness over Tanvi.
‘No!’ Emerson yelps. ‘Of course not! We were messaging back and forth loads on Saturday morning and then she went totally quiet.’
‘When on Saturday?’ I ask sharply.
‘Hang on, I can tell you.’ He takes out his phone. ‘I last heard from her at one forty-four.’
What time did Tanvi turn up at Arcadia Avenue? Two p.m.-ish?
My stomach turns over. What if Tanvi never got home? But if that were the case, her parents would have contacted me by now. Unless she didn’t tell them where she was going …
‘Do you think something’s wrong?’ Emerson asks.
His question makes my heart beat faster. ‘I don’t know,’ I admit.
‘I’m worried,’ Emerson says. ‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘Will you take me there?’ he asks.
I hesitate.
‘Please, Ro.’
‘Hang on a second. I’ll just get my coat.’
The lights are on at Tanvi’s house. Emerson and I arrange ourselves neatly on the front doorstep and ring the bell.
It’s Bonfire Night in two days’ time and, as we wait for what seems like for ever, fireworks glitter in the sky. The explosions remind me of standing in the Shahs’ back garden on Diwali, Tanvi’s arm linked with mine. And for a few seconds, I’m catapulted back there – a beautiful purple sari swishing around my legs, my tummy full of food, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much. Was that really only a week and a half ago? It feels like another life.
Footsteps. Then the sound of a key in the lock. In unison, Emerson and I stand up that little bit straighter. The door swings inwards to reveal Devin. He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, and his hair, perfectly styled when I last saw him, is flat on one side, sticking up on end on the other.
‘Ro,’ he says, rubbing his right eye with his fist. ‘Hi.’
‘Hey,’ I mumble. ‘Um, this is Emerson. He’s in mine and Tanvi’s form at school. This is Tanvi’s big brother, Devin. Can we see her?’
Devin’s face crumples like a crisp packet. ‘Shit, you don’t know. Of course you don’t.’
‘Know what?’ I ask, suddenly very afraid.
Devin hesitates. ‘You’d better come in.’
Emerson and I step into the hallway. The house is uncharacteristically quiet. No radio, no conversation, no cooking noises coming from the kitchen.
‘Tanvi’s in hospital,’ Devin says as the door falls shut behind us.
‘What? Why? Is she OK? Has the cancer come back?’ The words tumble out of my mouth in a clumsy stream, tripping over one another to be heard. They’re overlapped with a similar set of questions from Emerson.
‘She has pneumonia,’ Devin says.
‘But I didn’t think pneumonia was that serious,’ Emerson says. ‘My dad had it once and he just took some tablets for a bit and he was fine.’
‘Tanvi’s immunity is still pretty weak from the cancer,’ Devin explains gently. ‘The pneumonia came out of nowhere and kind of knocked her sideways.’
I remember Tanvi’s appearance at my back door on Saturday – her puffy eyes, her runny nose, the croaky voice. I assumed it was just a cold.
‘How long has she been in hospital?’ I ask.
‘Since Saturday afternoon. She kept saying she was OK, then she collapsed in the bathroom.’
It’s all my fault. How long had Tanvi been forced to sit outside in the cold while I sulked inside? Half an hour? An hour?
‘Will she be OK?’ I whisper.
‘They think so,’ Devin says. ‘She’s still pretty weak though. They need to make sure her lungs are strong enough before they can discharge her.’
‘Can we visit her?’ Emerson asks.
‘I’m afraid it’s family only at the moment,’ Devin says. ‘But as soon as she’s feeling a bit more with it, I bet she’d love to see you. Here, why don’t you write down your numbers so I can give you a ring when she’s up and about?’
Emerson and I write our numbers on the pad of paper next to the phone.
Devin checks his watch. ‘I’d better get going. I’m due at the hospital with a change of clothes for Mum.’
‘OK,’ we mumble, shuffling towards the door.
Emerson and I are at the bottom of the driveway when I stop abruptly.
‘Just one second,’ I say.
I sprint back and knock on the door.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ I ask breathlessly when Devin answers.
‘Sure,’ he says.
‘Can you tell Tanvi I’m sorry?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask what for?’
‘She’ll know,’ I say.
I say goodbye to Emerson and walk home alone. With every step, I can’t stop picturing Tanvi in the hospital, lying in a stark white room, her black hair fanned out on a crisp white pillow, her tiny body wired up to a load of machines that flash and beep, a nurse with a clipboard standing at the end of her bed frowning and taking notes.
Number 46 Arcadia Avenue is in darkness. Noah must be back at school by now. Despite several text messages, I still haven’t heard from him. It shouldn’t hurt so much. After all, it was just a few games of chess. It does though. I thought there was something between us – an understanding. I hate the fact I was wrong.
Bonnie’s home. All the lights are on and the usual racket of music versus television is blaring from the living room.
I’m making my way up the stairs, dragging one exhausted foot after another when she appears in the doorway, a cigarette between her fingers.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her face to face since our row on Friday night.
‘Your dad just called me,’ she says.
Bonnie and Dad rarely communicate. If they have anything to say to each other, they use me as the messenger.
‘What about?’ I ask.
‘He wouldn’t say, only that he’s been trying to get hold of you.’
‘Oh.’
I take out my phone. Eleven missed calls and three (no doubt furious) voicemails – all from Dad.
‘What’s going on, Ro?’
‘They’re on to us,’ I say.
‘Who are?’
‘I was hauled into the head’s office today. They were asking questions. It’s only a matter of time before they speak to Social Services. In fact, they probably already have.’
I fill her in.
‘And what did you say?’ she asks, panic finally registering on her face.
‘I denied it all.’
She has the nerve to look relieved. ‘Well, that’s OK then,’ she says.
Does she really think it’s that simple? That easy?
‘It’s not OK, Bonnie,’ I say. ‘Nothing is OK.’
She covers her ears like a little kid. ‘Oh, please, Ro, not another lecture.’
I’m speechless. Has nothing I’ve said to her over the past week gone in? What more of a wake-up call does she need?
‘What?’ she says, lowering her hands. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Have you ever heard of the Collyer Brothers?’ I ask.
She frowns and shakes her head.
‘They’re this pair of brothers who lived in this massive mansion in New York in the nineteen thirties and forties. Homer and Langley.’
And just like that, I’m back on the lumpy sofa bed at Dad’s old flat, the one he lived in for a few months after he left Arcadia Avenue, before he moved in with Melanie, flicking through the TV channels because I couldn’t sleep.
‘When I was little, I watched a documentary about them,’ I continue. ‘They lived in this big old house together and filled it with junk.’
Something small but unmistakeable flickers across Bonnie’s face.
‘Anyway, one day, the police got a tip-off from a neighbour that they hadn’t seen either of the brothers in a while. They broke in and found Homer’s body.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at here, Ro,’ Bonnie says. ‘I really don’t.’
I ignore her and keep going.
‘It took them another two whole weeks to find Langley. He’d been literally suffocated by his own stuff. And the thing is, Homer was blind and relied on Langley to bring him his food, so with Langley rotting under a load of old crap, poor Homer starved to death.’
‘Ro, stop this.’
‘I made the mistake of typing their names into Google images,’ I say. ‘Not a good idea.’
The grainy image of Langley’s decomposing, rat-nibbled body, haunted my dreams for weeks.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Bonnie asks, visibly flustered.
‘I couldn’t get the story out of my head,’ I say. ‘Even though their house was a load worse than ours, I knew something like that could happen to us if things got out of control. So I made a promise to myself – that I would look after you, no matter what.’
I remember getting Dad to drop me back at Arcadia Avenue the next day and my distress when I couldn’t find Bonnie straightaway, convinced she’d befallen the same fate as Homer and Langley. When I finally did find her, dozing on a narrow strip of mattress in her bedroom, piles of black plastic bags looming over her, I had frantic, hot panicky tears running down my cheeks. That was when I knew. It was going to be my job to prevent what happened to the Collyer brothers from happening to my mum.
‘How old were you?’ Bonnie whispers.
‘Eight,’ I reply.
Her mouth falls open. ‘Ro, I—’
‘What?’ I ask.
There’s a long pause.
‘I … I didn’t realize,’ she says eventually.
I sigh. ‘Do you think I don’t know that, Bonnie?’
I continue up the stairs, locking my door behind me.
I’m so shattered I don’t even brush my teeth or wash my face. I just pull on my pyjamas and crawl under the duvet.