1 – THE MESSENGER

The door to Dad's study is ajar. Through the crack I see a man and woman, he tall and bony, she squat and dumpy, both upset, sitting on our sway-backed couch.

'But you must help us find our daughter,' the man pleads, his voice thin and reedy. 'You must keep looking.'

'Mr Winslow, I'd like nothing more than to find her, but the fact is without police involvement my options are limited. I've run out of leads,' my father says. I can't see him but know he will be standing in front of his corkboard wall, arms crossed, heavy brow furrowed, eyes lined with tiredness. I've watched him working on this case for the past fortnight, going over transcripts and timelines by the dim light of his desk lamp, trying to spot any possible clue to the missing girl's whereabouts.

'The police can't be involved,' the man says, his tone suddenly sharp. 'She's run away, we're sure of it.'

Personally, I find it a bit weird that the Winslows are so against calling the police. But they think because their daughter Holly is mixed up in drugs they'll get her into even more trouble than she's in already. It's been driving Dad crackers. See, he's a private investigator, but he's hardly Sherlock Holmes. His cases are usually insurance scams or suspected infidelity based, not missing persons so he's really been sweating over this one.

I'd like to stay and listen in some more but Max is waiting for me outside. I knock on the door and hear my father excuse himself for a moment. The door opens and Dad frowns at me, impatient.

'Yes?'

'I'm going out,' I say.

He looks at his watch. 'It'll be dark in an hour.'

'I've got a lamp on my bicycle and I'll have –' I stop myself. Dad doesn't appreciate Max's presence as much as I do. 'I'll have Spock with me.'

We both look at the dog stood beside me, tail going like a windscreen wiper, tan eyebrows arched, one ear sticking up. I called him Spock because of his ears, but most people mishear me. It really grates on me that people think I was so unimaginative as to call my dog Spot.

'Where are you going?' Dad asks.

I glance towards the couch. Mrs Winslow sniffs. Mr Winslow is looking on with interest, icy eyes an almost transparent window to the workings of his mind, appraising me, questioning me.

'To deliver a message.' I give Dad a meaningful look.

See, I'm not what you'd call your average teenager. And it's not because my dad's a PI (trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds) or because I can pick even the securest of locks within sixty seconds (don't ask). Really, on the surface of things I appear just like everyone else. Okay, maybe I don't keep up with the latest fashion trends (what's so wrong with black, anyways?), but you know, I've got more important things to think about. Like delivering messages.

'Must you go?'

I follow Dad's pained gaze back into his study and see he's looking at the pictures of Holly Winslow on his corkboard wall and it occurs to me that it mightn't be a coincidence that he's been particularly fussy about me this past fortnight. Holly isn't so different to me with her slim build and wild hair (red though, not black).

'Of course I must. It's my job.'

'It's not a job you asked for, and it's certainly no job for a child.'

I cross my arms and glare at him. 'I'm sixteen. I'm hardly a child.'

Dad glares back. Behind him, Mrs Winslow sniffs again and dabs at her swollen eyes with a tissue. A flash of annoyance crosses Dad's face. 'No later than ten, you hear?'

I bounce my bicycle down the steps from our front door onto the pavement where Max is lounging against a lamppost, ankles crossed, hands hooked into his pockets. My mood lightens at the sight of him. His curly dark hair is messy and damp; his dirty breeches and scuffed brown boots make him look like he's just been out riding horses, but I long ago came to accept this as his usual attire.

'You took your time,' he says, pushing himself upright. He has a straight narrow nose, sharp cheekbones and pointed chin, but when his blue eyes turn down at the sides as he smiles a fan of laughter lines soften his features.

'You got some place better to be?' I say.

A woman passing by with her hands full of bulging shopping bags gives me a strange look and wide berth. I'm used to it by now though.

Max looks thoughtful. 'Well, now that you mention it…'

Spock jumps into my arms, back claws scrabbling at my t-shirt and I transfer him into the basket of my bicycle where he makes himself comfortable, licking his lips and looking self-important. I mount my bike and turn to Max.

'You gonna be able to keep up?'

'Aren't you going to give me a lift?' His eyes twinkle with mischief. 'You won't even know I'm there.'

'Yeah, nice try.' I shake my head and pedal the first wobbly yards up our Cambridge city street. Only Max Templeton can get away with comments like that. He's my oldest, closest friend. Strictly out of bounds though. When I was fourteen, fifteen, I used to wonder if we might – well, you know what it's like. Nowadays I've made myself stop being all nervy and girly around him, it just confuses him. It could never work. He's one of my only friends too. See, as you'll come to realise soon, I have a knack for freaking people out. I'm not Wednesday Addams by any means, but we're probably on the same train.

'Genie Ackroyd?' I ask the woman who has opened the door of an old Victorian terraced house. There is a real estate's SOLD sign nailed to stone façade above a hanging basket of limp flowers. I hadn't actually been given a helluva lot of information to go on, just her name, her address, and the message.

'Yes?'

She's younger than I'd imagined her to be, late twenties, but looking haggard, short fair hair framing a square face and distinctive violet eyes that appear devoid of joy or hope.

I take a deep breath and glance at Max beside me. This bit's never easy. He nods.

'I have a message for you.' I try to keep my tone as gentle as possible. 'Can I come in?'

'A message from whom?'

I hesitate. At my feet, Spock gives a plaintive whine. He's trying his best to be obedient, sitting on the mat, his tail thumping.

'From your mother, Freda Ackroyd.'

There is a flash of pain in Genie Ackroyd's eyes then she shakes her head. 'I'm sorry. You must be mistaken. My mother passed away three months ago.' She starts to close the door and I instinctively step forward.

'I know,' I say, looking her straight in the eye.

'What?' Genie pulls anxiously at a thread on her faded blouse.

'Miss Ackroyd, Genie, may I call you Genie? I know this is difficult. Maybe we could sit down and I'll explain.'

The woman's eyes glisten with tears and her mouth twists in bitterness. 'Who do you think you are?' she spits. 'How dare you play on people's misfortunes to get into their homes? What do you want?'

'My name is Noa Drury. I am a messenger, and I have a message for you from your mother. She told me you're selling her house.' I hold my breath, waiting for her to slam the door or scream for someone to help rid of her cracktop visitors.

'A message?' she whispers.

I nod. She nods as well, as if mesmerised, and I know she's moments away from letting me in. She wants so bad to believe I'm for real. Then her eyes cloud with suspicion.

'Nonsense! What utter nonsense! I know your type.' She looks me up and down with a derisive sneer. 'Although you're younger than most. Just another con artist psychic who's read the obituaries, am I right?'

'No–'

She doesn't wait for a full reply. The door slams shut, making Spock skitter backwards.

I look at Max. 'Well, you were a great help.'

He just shrugs. 'What did you want me to do? She didn't give us much opportunity to prove anything.'

With a sigh, I crouch down, warding off Spock's kisses and open the letter box. 'She wanted you to find something,' I yell through the bristles. 'Before you sell the house. It was important to her, but she died before she got the chance to–'

'Go away!' screams Genie from somewhere beyond the door. 'Go away, you horrible girl! Don't you think this is hard enough as it is?'

I squeeze my eyes shut. Sometimes I really don't like my job. 'In her bedroom there is a cupboard,' I call through. 'There is a loose panel that is being propped closed by a shoe rack. Behind it is a box and inside the box are the keys and map to a place in the Fens she and your father used to visit. She wants you to have it.' I pause. There's no response from Genie, so presumably she's listening. Probably wondering which asylum I escaped from. 'She says it's not much, just a little getaway, but it was important to her. It has many memories for her. She doesn't want it to go to rot.'

The door is suddenly yanked open and I fall backwards. Genie glares down at me.

'If it was so important, how come I've never heard about it?'

'I don't know. Perhaps you'll find out if you go there.'

'You phony letch. Get off my doorstep!' she screams. The door slams shut again, making all of us jump.

I look around. In the fading light of dusk, passersby look our way and curtains from nearby houses, glowing from the electric light behind them, twitch. I get to my feet and dust myself off.

'Aren't we going to stick around, make sure she finds the keys and map?' Max asks.

I hoist Spock back into my bicycle basket. 'Nope. I'm not sticking around here any longer than I have to. For all I know she's gone to get a shotgun.'

'Now you're being melodramatic.'

'You're all right.' I gesture to Max standing to the side of the front step. 'I, on the other hand, am rather more vulnerable than you.'

Max looks back up at the row of Victorian terraces and sighs. 'Oh, I do miss it sometimes.'

'Well, it's getting dark. Dad's going to kill me. So you can have a wander down memory lane if you like. I'm going home.'

'Righto. You'll be okay cycling back by yourself?'

I roll my eyes. He's as bad as Dad, but he still makes me smile. It's nice to know someone cares for you. 'What are you going to do, shout "boo" at any muggers?'

Max looks affronted. 'I do the haunting thing very well, thank you very much.'

I shake my head, and almost laugh. With a last farewell I watch him walk down the street of old houses and fade away until at last there is nothing but an empty street and the faintest chill in the air. Max Templeton, who died in 1899 in a fox-hunting accident on his grandfather's Cambridgeshire estate, has returned to whatever spirit world he came from.

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016

I'm not new to writing, but this is my first attempt at writing for YA. I'd love to know what you think!