‘Can you hear something?’ he whispers.
I freeze. My phone is ringing. It never rings. And I’d silenced it. I’d silenced everything. The only way anyone could get through would be if they were listed on my emergency contacts.
He nods towards the door.
‘Go on. You’d better get it.’
I scramble to my feet and dart out of the room, heading back into the open-plan kitchen, where I grab my mobile.
It’s Leo’s number. I answer.
‘Mrs Smedley?’ says a young, shaky voice. ‘This is Josh, Leo’s friend. I’m sorry but . . . he’s in trouble. And I’m not sure what to do.’
Chapter 50
‘How long did the taxi say it’d be?’ I say, frantically buttoning up my blouse.
‘Three minutes, max. He’s round the corner. We were lucky.’
I nod. ‘I’m sorry to have to leave like this.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he says, tugging on his trainers and grabbing his keys. ‘I’m coming with you.’
As the car hurtles towards the address in south Manchester that Josh gave me, I am delirious with panic, irradiated with fear. I try phoning Brendan, but it keeps going to voicemail. When he doesn’t answer on my third attempt, I leave a message.
‘Brendan, I need to talk to you about Leo. This is really important. Give me a call when you pick this up.’
A text arrives shortly afterwards.
We’ve got guests, Lisa! Now is NOT a good time – I’ll call tomorrow.
A wave of fury sweeps up inside me that’s unmatched by anything I felt when he first announced he was leaving me. I call him again and, when it goes straight to voicemail, I am unable – no, unwilling – to do anything other than let rip.
‘Listen to me, Brendan,’ I begin, in the kind of low growl that could get me a job in the Mob. ‘I don’t give a shit about your guests. I don’t care if I’m tearing you and your cycling club chums away from an intense game of Balderdash, a Glastonbury all-nighter or an orgy, for that matter. All that matters is that our son is at a party, having drunk God knows what. He is introuble and he needs his parents. That’s right, Brendan.Parents– plural. So phone me back. Now.’
I end the call and glance at Zach, who reaches over and squeezes my hand. I look out of the window, at the bright lights of the city whizzing past, and start to tremble.
‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘Whatever you find . . . I’m right here with you, okay? You’re not alone.’
I clench my jaw and nod, suppressing the tingle behind my eyes.
We finally arrive in one those streets where a process of gentrification has started but never quite finished. It consists of a row of huge Victorian semis, a curious combination of smart homes renovated at great expense and tatty flats with overgrown gardens.
The address I’ve been given falls into the former category, though I won’t be stopping to admire its reproduction pathway tiles. Zach thrusts a ton of notes into the driver’s hand and asks him to wait for us while we go inside, adding that there’s more if he does. The front garden is strewn with cans of lager, the music pumping out can be heard halfway down the street and the perspiration streaking down the inside of the windows suggests there are more people inside than the house was ever designed for.
Zach and I try ringing the bell, before knocking at the window . . . to absolutely no avail. The music’s too loud and the house is too packed.
‘Maybe I could get round the back,’ he says, more to himself than me, marching to the side.
‘You’d have to climb over the gate.’
He hands me his keys and phone and is about to give it a go when the front door opens. Two giggling, unfeasibly young-looking girls stumble out and head into the street. Before anyonehas a chance to close it, Zach darts over and pushes it open with his foot.
When we step into the dank, crowded hallway, I am instantly transported back to some of the wilder parties of my sixth-form years. Two kids are making out on the stairs. Raucous laughter is coming from the kitchen. The Music so loud it makes your sternum vibrate and there is an overpowering smell of bodies and spilled booze.
Zach pushes open the first door and I scan what seems to be a living room, but it’s too dark to make much out, let alone find anyone I recognise. I grab the first random kid who has the misfortune to stand next to me and shout, ‘DO YOU KNOW WHERE LEO IS?’
He pulls a bewildered expression, so I frantically turn to someone else. ‘LEO SMEDLEY? HAS ANYONE SEEN LEO?’
