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The Roommates

Год написания книги
2019
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“They have search dogs for a reason.” Imo’s voice is tight and preachy. “Some families rely on them …”

“Okay, I get it,” Tegan says, still moving backwards. “Lighten up.” Her sandal catches something on the tarmac that makes a metallic jingle.

“What’s that?” Imo asks, squatting by Tegan’s feet, her sudden anger apparently forgotten. “A bangle.” She holds up a silver bracelet. “Amber’s, for sure. I remember her wearing it.”

“Come on, Imogen. How can you tell?” Tegan says.

Imo shrugs and pockets the bangle. “I’ll keep it until we see her.” Her voice tails off and she looks nervously around the crowd. Her hands clench into fists.

Chapter 11 (#ulink_f5875183-7d31-5a42-894e-48e3fcdc5d2e)

Imogen

Why did Amber run off like that? Did something trigger a panic attack? Imo swallows. That was one of the what-if scenarios Inspector Hare suggested for Sophia: panic leading to amnesia.

Her phone rings. Freddie. She snatches it off her bedside locker, heart thumping. He never rings. Never. It must be news.

But that’s not why he’s called.

“Don’t forget the audition is on Thursday.”

“I’m not going,” she says as her pulse returns to normal.

“You promised.”

“I’m already behind and it’s only the first week.” She tries to keep her unhappiness out of her voice. “The computers don’t work so I can’t do my German. How can I keep up with everyone else if I’m in a show?”

“Do what you do best.”

A stone settles in her stomach. What is her best? The same as his. Trying to hold everything together. Their parents don’t need more distress.

“Are you still there?” There’s an intake of breath down the phone. Is he thinking the same thing? “I meant flirting and dancing. You’re good at them.” He chuckles. Imo can tell it’s forced; he’s trying to laugh away other thoughts.

“How’s flirting going to help me with German post-war politics?” She plays along with a forced chuckle of her own.

“You’ll find a way.”

After he rings off she scans the notes she made in the lecture. All she copied down was the first link and one article title before the crow girl told her to stop writing. She won’t make that mistake again, she’ll write the bloody lot down. But that won’t help her with tomorrow’s seminar.

Do what you do best. There is something she could try. It’s crazy, but maybe. She opens her Tinder app.

***

Finally climbing into bed at 3 a.m., she hopes she’s done enough to keep Dr Wyatt happy. The responses have been coming in dribs and drabs. She’s spent the evening and half the night learning them. They might be garbage – useless for Wyatt’s seminar – but what choice does she have?

It’s darker in the room tonight despite the broken curtain. But images of the day flood her mind. After the German lecture from hell in the morning, the fair was fun. Until Amber stormed off.

It was nice of Phoenix to call for her but she can’t help feeling she was just being polite. Phoenix and Tegan are both out of her league. There’s something old soul about Phoenix, and Tegan acts more like thirty than twenty. Is that down to having a gap year? Imo thought rich kids got wrapped in cotton wool and knew nothing of the real world. Where does Tegan get her streetwise cynicism?

Amber’s more on her wavelength. She forgot to ask if she’ll be auditioning on Thursday. Maybe if she can get Amber to go, she’ll go too.

It could be her usual fatigue, but for some reason she feels calm. A difficult day is over and she’s made a friend in Amber. Now she welcomes rest.

Sometime later, in her dream, she registers Amber sitting on her bed.

“You will come to get me, won’t you?” Amber whispers.

Imo stumbles through her slumbering mind. Get her for what? She says she will, then the dream fades.

Chapter 12 (#ulink_c14786ce-994c-5eee-bc10-7001f3275de4)

Wednesday 28 September

Imogen

When the alarm doesn’t go off, it’s a miracle Imo manages to wake at all. Half an hour late and touch and go whether she’ll make the German seminar. Her hoodie and jeans are by the bed. Yesterday’s knickers will do, save on the handwashing.

She goes to the bathroom. After she pees, she washes her hands, pushes a flannel under her armpits and makes a monumental effort to brush her teeth. She doesn’t plan on talking to anyone today; it’s almost pointless caring about fresh breath.

Suddenly, remembering her dream about Amber, a prickle of doubt crosses her shoulders and she shivers. But there’s no time to call on her flatmate, even though she hasn’t seen her since the Freshers’ Fair. She tells herself the dream meant nothing. Thinks again about her usual cellar nightmare. A what-if that even Inspector Hare doesn’t like to mention.

After swigging from the cup by her bed, she leaves the flat and heads to the modern languages block. It’s a sunny day – seaside bright and warm, maybe twenty degrees. More people are about than she’d hoped. In pairs and groups, confident, smiling, fitting in. Dr Wyatt’s not the only evil academic who calls lectures in Freshers’ Week. She sinks further into her hoodie and remembers she hasn’t combed her hair. Who cares?

She tries to run but has to stop, coughing harshly. Out of her eye corner, she sees a man standing across the road at the end of the pathway. The memory of the tall man smoking under the tree on arrivals day makes her sprint-walk past a group of boys. Her eyes fix on the ground – dark tarmac, bare earth at the side. A gardener must have dug up the beds overnight. They were full of marigolds yesterday. University policy? Root out those about to fade? How long until they come for her?

The seminar room on the first floor has seating for twenty and she takes a seat round the horseshoe of desks. The chairs soon fill up and the crow girl from yesterday’s lecture is forced to sit next to her. Is that a smile? No, she’s sniffing. She can beggar off if she thinks Imo smells. Should have got here earlier and selected another seat.

Dr Wyatt comes in and launches into her bullet-fast German. Imo surprises herself by getting the gist.

“Let’s have someone we didn’t hear from yesterday.” Dr Wyatt’s eyes settle on Imo.

Her acne glows inside her hoodie and she desperately scrolls on her phone screen, looking for her notes, such as they are.

“Stand up,” Wyatt says in German. “You don’t need your phone.”

From every angle of the room, eyes are on Imo. The lump in her throat is concrete. David gives her a thumbs-up. She takes a breath and launches into German.

***

“That was enlightening, wouldn’t you say?” Dr Wyatt paces inside the horseshoe of desks at the end of the seminar, the flat soles of her boots slapping the floor. “Some of you did the reading I set, most of you didn’t. But, I have to say, one or two of you went the extra mile.” She looks at Imo. “Keep it up.”

Imo is ten feet tall. As good as anyone. She’s got her brother Freddie to thank for his throwaway comment. Do what you do best. Maybe he’s right about the audition too.

“Fancy a coffee?” the crow girl asks as they leave. “There’s a Starbucks downstairs.”

Imo’s cough starts hacking again, but she’s too surprised to decline. She follows the girl’s black cape to the ground-floor café.

They buy refreshments and perch on bar stools in the window. It’s not Imo’s preferred location – people walking past outside can see her – but it’s doable; none of them know her family, know their story. As a kid she hated her common surname, now she’s grateful for being Smith. At least she can remain anonymous despite everything that’s been on TV.
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