Better Left Buried by Emma Haughton Read Free Book Online Page A

actually mention Max’s name, but Dad’s way of coping seems to be to pretend he never existed. So I keep quiet, but my silence clearly gives something away because Dad stops picking through the leftovers and looks right at me.
    â€œSarah, I’m sorry. I know it’s bad timing, but I can’t get out of it. Really.”
    I stare at him, wondering why I feel so churned up. I mean, it’s hardly the first time he’s been off on business. And it’s only a week. Why does the idea fill me with panic?
    Then I remember the last time Dad went away. When he flew out to Sweden to identify my brother’s body.
    My chest tightens as I recall the taxi arriving. Only me and Aunt Helen to see him off. Mum upstairs, slurry with the drugs the doctor prescribed to calm her down. Dad fixated on leaving; on doing whatever had to be done.
    Possibly the worst day of my life.
    I close my eyes briefly. Shut off the memory before it makes me cry. “When are you going?”
    â€œDay after tomorrow. Got a mid-morning flight.”
    So soon. My heart swoops with panic. The thought of me and Mum, alone again, making me dizzy. Can she cope without him?
    Can I?
    â€œYou’ll manage, won’t you, the pair of you?” asks Dad, reading my mind. Though my anxiety is probably written all over my face. “You’ll be okay looking after Mum?”
    Almost unimaginable that Dad would have to ask me that a few months ago. I’d have laughed. Mum was the one who managed everything – her job, the house, us – and still found time to go shopping with Aunt Helen or have lunch with her friends. Who went swimming three times a week, and even volunteered at the local cinema club every Wednesday evening.
    Back then Mum could handle anything – just not the death of her only son.
    â€œSarah?”
    I force myself to nod. “Sure, we’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
    Dad looks relieved, and I realize he’s more anxious about leaving than I thought. “Your turn,” he says, leaning against the work counter and folding his arms.
    â€œMy turn for what?”
    â€œYou said you had something to tell me.”
    â€œIt’s nothing.” I say it quickly, turning away so he can’t read my expression. All at once I no longer feel like confiding in him. What’s the point if he’s not even going to be here? And even if he believed me – doubtful, given even Lizzie thinks I’m bonkers – I don’t want him fretting all the time he’s gone.
    â€œWhen are your exam results out?” he asks, making a guess at what’s on my mind.
    â€œNext week.”
    â€œFeeling confident?”
    I shrug. I don’t think I’ve done brilliantly – considering what happened in the middle of my exams – but with any luck I’ll be okay.
    Dad glances in the veg basket then abandons the hunt for something edible. “Pie and chips? I could go to the chippy over on Baker Street.”
    My stomach curdles at the thought, but I say yes anyway. Dad, however, isn’t convinced. He studies me again, letting his gaze linger. “You look like you could do with a good feed, Sarah. If you don’t mind me mentioning it.”
    I do mind, but don’t say so. Just nod.
    â€œRight then.” Dad goes to put on his jacket.
    â€œI’ll go,” I say quickly, grabbing mine.
    It takes for ever to get served in the chip shop. They’re out of cheese and mushroom pies, so I have to wait while they dig out a vegetable pasty and heat it through. By the time I emerge, the sky is wreathed in cloud, the daylight already dwindling.
    I take the quick route home round the back of the park, cradling the bag of hot food. It may be August, but the evening wind has a nip in the air that feels autumnal. I should have worn something warmer than my thin summer jacket.
    I walk quickly, anxious to get back before the chips congeal into a large soggy lump.