‘I will, Hannah. I promise.’
‘On your honour? Because I will come and get you if you don’t tell her you were to blame.’
Even as I said it I knew it wasn’t the truth. I wouldn’t come and get her.
‘On my honour.’ And she sobbed again, ‘I am so sorry, Hannah.’
She sagged with relief. Confession is good for the soul – hadn’t I heard that somewhere? Heather’s chin was trembling with the crying. I could feel my eyes filling up too. I should hate her. Instead, I felt sorry for her.
‘I’m going to Erin, right now.’ Heather began to hurry away from me. ‘I promise you I’m going to make everything all right.’ I watched her as she stumbled away and I wondered if tomorrow she’d behave any differently. Would things have changed?
Chapter Fifty-Four
The house was empty when I went inside. Mum was on a late shift. I had no one to talk to – didn’t want to talk to anyone anyway. Except perhaps Lauren. But she would still be at rehearsals. I couldn’t take it all in. Heather had caused all this. Heather. Too afraid to speak out and tell the truth. Too afraid to stick up for me.
And all of a sudden, I was in tears. I would never have cried in front of Heather. Now, I couldn’t stop myself. I cried thinking of the shame and hurt I had felt all that time. What Heather had done to me had changed my life. It had all been her fault. I remembered how she’d been right outside the toilets that night at the wedding, waiting to drag us on to the floor for the last dance. I remembered too her annoyance because I had been to Erin’s house on my own the very next night. Why hadn’t I suspected her before?
Because I’d trusted her.
I wouldn’t have thought she was capable of such a thing. Yet she couldn’t even stick up for me. She wouldn’t even have had to admit that she was the guilty one. All she would have had to do was tell Erin, tell everybody, she believed me.
But, instead, Heather had turned against me, just like Erin and Rose.
All those horrible days and weeks – if just one person had believed me it would have made all the difference.
And it had all led to this. The fire at Erin’s and … Wizzie.
‘I want to believe Wizzie had nothing to do with it.’ I said it aloud. Wanted to believe it so much. Because if she wasn’t guilty, then I wasn’t guilty either.
But she was hiding something. She must have had something to do with it.
Everyone thought Wizzie was trouble. Why should I believe her?
A voice inside answered me. If just one person had believed me, it would have made all the difference.
Wizzie had told us she had nothing to do with the fire. She had promised it. None of us had believed her.
Maybe this time, I was the one who could make the difference.
I was going to believe Wizzie, stand by her. That’s what friends did. Maybe that was all Wizzie needed. I didn’t want Wizzie to end up feeling the way I had. I was going to do something about it.
Mum had left a note telling me she wanted me to stay home. I didn’t want to defy her, not tonight, but I would have to. Because I had to see Wizzie.
I tried to get her on the mobile but it had been switched off again. But I had to talk to her tonight. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I kept thinking of the night when I was at my lowest. What if Wizzie felt like that tonight? I couldn’t take any risks.
Tomorrow might be too late.
Chapter Fifty-Five
I took the train to the estate where the Hell Cats lived. Wizzie’s area was beyond where the rest of the girls’ houses were. Beyond the neat gardens of Lauren’s street and out on to the back of beyond. It was scary walking here. If you’ve never walked through one of those estates, pray you never have to. How could she live here? No wonder Wizzie was hard. You would have to be tough to survive here. And thinking of how tough she was, I wondered if I was just being stupid. Wizzie could face up to anything. Why was I so afraid for her?
The houses on her street looked almost derelict, windows boarded up with steel, and graffiti daubed on walls. There was litter everywhere and gangs of youths were hanging around the street corners. Downtown Baghdad had nothing on this.
‘Looking for somebody, hen?’ A boy, his hand curled round a beer can, asked me as I passed him at a street corner.
‘Wizzie McLeod,’ I gulped.
He pointed the beer can to a block of flats. ‘Wee Wizzie? She lives over there. Are you her mate?’
I didn’t even know how to answer that. Was I her mate?
I was about to cross the street, when he added, ‘But she’s no’ there. Saw her heading for the chippie.’ He pointed the beer can down another street.