First published in Great Britain in 2020

by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

2 Minster Court, London EC3R 7BB

Text copyright © 2020 Penny Joelson

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 4052 9491 1

eBook ISBN 978 1 4052 9514 7

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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To my nephews and niece,

Asher, Sammy and Layla

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

39

40

41

Acknowledgements

Back series promotional page

1

The voice startles me because it sounds like Charlie. I’m good at recognising voices, but it can’t be him, can it? Charlie used to be in my form group at school, but no one’s seen him for about six months. I’m down a quiet path – not far from my house. He’s calling my name.

I move my camera from my eye and stand upright. The poppy on the grassy verge, the one I was about to photograph with my macro lens, shape-shifts from perfect crimson petals around deep dark stamens to a slight fleck of red. I can only see clearly one or two centimetres in front of my eyes. My guide dog Samson shuffles beside me and stands as if expecting us to move on.

‘Wait, Samson,’ I say, pulling gently on his harness as I turn in the direction of the voice. Someone’s there, but he’s just a vague, dark blob.

‘Libby!’

He says it again – my name. His voice distinctive, gravelly, but sounding older than I remember. He’s coming nearer and the blur of him is familiar: the height, taller than me, light hair, the way he moves. It’s him – now I’m as sure as I can be. But I’m not sure if I want to talk to him – or if I ought to.

‘Charlie? Is it really you?’

I feel a pull as Samson turns too, his warm back nudging at my legs. ‘Sit, Samson,’ I tell him. ‘Sit.’ Samson sits obediently and I stroke his head.

‘Yeah . . .’ Charlie’s close now. He sounds nervous, awkward – and I’m not surprised.

‘Where’ve you been all this time?’ I demand. ‘You just dropped out of school. No one knew why.’

When he speaks his voice is low, bitter, emphatic. ‘Stuff . . . life . . . y’know?’ he says. ‘Things happen.’

‘I guess,’ I say.

‘And you,’ he says. ‘You got a dog now!’

‘Yeah – this is Samson,’ I tell him.

‘He’s lovely. You’re lovely, boy!’ he says to Samson. ‘I like dogs.’ He sounds sad now, wistful.

‘What happened, Charlie? Can’t you tell me?’

‘Na. But . . . I want to ask you something – a favour.’

My heart speeds up, wondering what he could possibly want. Perhaps I should have ignored him. I’ve always felt nervous around Charlie. He got excluded from school for fighting – more than once. He was sent to a referral unit for a while, for kids who can’t cope in school. Then he came back – only for about a month – and then he disappeared. No one knew where he’d gone. The truth is, no one cared all that much. School was calmer; there was far less tension without him.

‘What?’ I ask nervously.

‘D’you think you can take a message for me – give it to someone?’

‘Can’t you just DM them? Or text or something?’ I ask.

‘Nah. This is too sensitive. Top secret – and I can’t trust most people, but I trust you. I can, can’t I? Right?’

‘I guess . . . What’s this all about, Charlie?’

‘And you mustn’t tell anyone you’ve seen me,’ he goes on. ‘You get that?’

‘Are you serious? Why?’ I wish I could see his face, but I’d need to get too close to really see his eyes.

‘You gotta swear – this is dead serious,’ he says.

I can hear the desperation in the raspy tone of his voice. My mind slips back to one time at school when he was kind and helped me out. It was last year, before I got Samson. I was walking down the stairs with my cane and some impatient boy kicked it out of the way. I nearly fell – but Charlie was there and he caught me and gave the boy a right earful. I was a bit shaky and he was really sweet. I’d never seen that side of him before.

‘Please,’ he begs.

‘OK. I swear I won’t tell anyone.’ I say it – though I’m not sure I should, or if I mean it. ‘What’s the message?’

‘Here.’ He touches my arm, presses something into my hand. A small envelope. I hold it – at arm’s length initially, as if it might explode.

‘Put it away – in your pocket,’ he tells me.

I feel for my skirt pocket and slip the envelope in.

‘That’s right,’ he tells me. ‘Now give it to Kyle at school tomorrow, OK?’

‘Kyle?’ I repeat.

‘Yeah, don’t tell him you saw me or that I gave it you. Just give it to him quiet, like. You got it?’

Kyle’s the tallest boy in our year. Even I can generally pick him out.

‘OK,’ I tell him.

‘I knew I could trust you,’ he says. ‘I knew you’d help.’

‘Charlie . . .’ I start, but the blur of him is moving away and in an instant he’s gone from my vision.

I finger the straight edges of the envelope in my pocket. I’m anxious. I wish I’d said no – but part of me also feels chuffed that he’s chosen me for this task. He’s not seeing me as ‘the blind girl’ like most people do – but as someone who can help him, someone he can trust. It’s nice, in a weird sort of way.

I want to go home. ‘Forward,’ I tell Samson and he walks on eagerly, but my legs don’t seem to want to move and I stop. Samson stops too and nudges me in confusion as if to say, ‘Come on!’

I can hardly believe what just happened. My friend Madz is going to lose it when I tell her. But I shouldn’t tell her, should I? I promised Charlie. I wish I hadn’t promised that.

The flowers in the long grass are swaying, the dots of colour catching my eye as if beckoning me. I’m still holding my camera, so I lean over and take a few more close-ups, breathing deeply, calming myself until I feel ready to move.

‘OK, Samson,’ I tell him. ‘Forward. Yes – we’re going home.’

Samson’s up instantly and guiding me towards home. It’s a bright, warm day in early June, but something makes me shiver. I’m still thinking about Charlie. Why did he turn up here today? And what is in the note for Kyle?

2

When we get home, I ring the doorbell because I know Gran will be there and it’s easier than fiddling around with my key. My brother Joe should be home too.

‘Hi Libby!’ says Gran, opening the door. ‘You’re late. I was getting worried.’

‘Only a couple of minutes!’ I come in and take off Samson’s harness. ‘Good dog. Well done,’ I tell him, rubbing his head. Samson wags his tail against me and then pads off to the kitchen for a drink.

‘How was your day?’ says Gran, her voice softening. ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

‘Ok, Gran – just a quick one,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got tons of homework.’

I don’t mind a short natter with Gran, but sometimes it’s hard to get away. I’ve tried to tell Mum and Dad that I don’t need her here every day after school – and neither does Joe. I’m fifteen and he’s thirteen. We’re fine on our own. Mum works long hours, but Dad teaches at a primary school so he’s not back that late.

Mum gets it. She’s always wanted me to be as independent as possible. She said it was fine for Gran to stop coming – but then Dad got involved and he said he feels happier knowing Gran’s here. I was cross because I don’t want to be treated differently just because I’m visually impaired – but Dad explained that Gran is lonely and likes to feel useful. He said she’d be gutted if he told her we didn’t need her any more.

I can hear water gushing from the tap as Gran fills the kettle in the kitchen. I take the note from my skirt pocket and zip it into the front pocket of my school rucksack, before putting that on the bench by the front door where it lives. Everything has its place. I can’t be tripping over things all the time, or hunting them down because I can’t remember where I put them.

‘Here you go, love,’ says Gran, as I come into the kitchen. I reach for my usual chair and sit down at the kitchen table. I can hear Samson lapping water noisily from his bowl in the corner. Gran pushes a mug towards me and guides my hand to it.

‘Be careful, that’s hot,’ she says, as if I might not know. ‘Want a biscuit too? They’re shortbread.’

She holds out a plate and I take one. The best thing about Gran being here is her homemade shortbread.

‘Is Joe home?’ I ask, taking a bite and letting it melt gently in my mouth.

‘Yes – upstairs, like always,’ Gran sighs. ‘Hardly get a word out of him these days. But as long as he doesn’t bring any of those creatures down here . . .’

Joe, who goes to a different school and gets home before me, somehow manages to whisk himself off to his room without getting caught up with Gran. I don’t think Gran minds because it’s not easy having a conversation with Joe. He’s not exactly sociable. He used to be obsessed with computer games, but Mum and Dad got worried about it and decided to get him a pet as a distraction. Joe chose an iguana. Now Joe is reptile mad and has a room full of tanks and assorted creatures. He still hardly ever comes out.

‘Tell me all about your day,’ says Gran.

This is the bit I hate. Not much interesting happens, and even if it did, I’d not want to be telling Gran every detail. She always manages to say something that annoys me. Anyway, if I told her about Charlie and the note, she’d demand that I show her and she’d have no qualms about opening and reading it. She’d take over completely. It crosses my mind that maybe I should open it and read it myself with my magnifier. I’m tempted. I’d love to know what it says – but I promised. I can hear Charlie saying how he trusts me; I remember the desperation in his voice. Somehow, I don’t want to let him down.

‘English was good,’ I tell Gran. ‘We’re reading Pride and Prejudice. And I’ve got art tomorrow. I’m looking forward to getting on with my painting.’

Gran tuts. ‘Why you want to do art when you can barely see, I’ll never understand,’ she says. ‘Wouldn’t you rather do music? There are some amazing blind pianists, you know.’

This is Gran at her most irritating.

‘Gran!’ I protest. ‘I love art – and photography – and I’ve never wanted to play the piano! Mum says . . .’

‘Oh, please don’t start telling me what your mother says,’ Gran interrupts, sighing. ‘She and I will never agree. I hear she’s off to one of her conferences again next week? Where is it? Amsterdam, did your dad say?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long is it for this time?’ Gran’s disapproving tone is so obvious it makes me cross.

‘Five days, I think,’ I tell her. ‘But we’ll be fine. It’s important work that she’s doing. I’m proud of her, Gran. She’s trying to make a difference – to help to save this planet!’

Mum’s an engineer, developing environmentally friendly alternatives to plastic, and she gets asked to speak all over the world.

‘Yes, but you and Joe are important too,’ Gran insists. ‘She should get her priorities straight. He needs help, that brother of yours – spending all his time stuck in that room with those reptiles. It can’t be healthy. And you’re doing well, Libby, but you’re only just getting used to having a guide dog. Your mum should be helping you.’

I love Gran, but I’ve had enough of biting my tongue for one day. I stand up and push my chair back. ‘I’d better get on with my homework.’

‘Yes, I guess you had,’ says Gran, sighing. ‘But before you go – guess who I bumped into today?’

‘Who?’

‘Dominic!’ Gran exclaims. ‘Would you believe it – after all this time!’

Gran goes to a Book Group at U3A (University of the Third Age – classes for old people) on Thursdays and had started getting friendly with a guy called Dominic. We teased her because she seemed to bring his name into every conversation for a while, though she insisted they were ‘just good friends’. But then he stopped coming, and they turned out not to be such ‘good friends’ because they hadn’t even exchanged contact details so she had no way of keeping in touch. I wondered secretly whether he’d stopped because he got fed up with Gran, though I know that was a mean thought. He wasn’t young, and it also seemed possible that he might have died.

‘So where’s he been?’ I asked.

‘In hospital, poor soul. He had a heart attack, but he’s doing fine now. He’ll be back at the group next week, he says. And he asked if I’d like to meet him for coffee tomorrow!’

‘Ooh, Gran! Did you say yes?’

‘’Course I did!’ Gran chuckles. Then she adds, ‘I’d like to see you finding yourself a nice fella – someone who’ll look after you.’

‘Gran!’ I exclaim. ‘I don’t want or need some boy to look after me! And I don’t want a boyfriend right now, anyway.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart – have I put my foot in it again?’ Gran says. ‘Of course, there’s no rush, you’re right. I was sixteen when I met your granddad though,’ she adds. ‘And it might be harder for you – to find someone who’ll be prepared to . . .’

‘Gran!’ I exclaim again before she can finish that sentence.

I can hear Dad’s voice in my head saying, ‘I know she doesn’t always say the right things, but she means well, Libs. Her heart’s in the right place.’ But Gran really does go too far sometimes – and this is one of those times. I open my mouth to tell her how I feel, but then I close it again. Gran hurt my feelings, but hurting hers back won’t make it better.

‘I’m off upstairs,’ I tell her, and I go. Samson pads up the stairs behind me. I think he’s had enough of Gran too.

I sit at my desk and open my BrailleNote – it’s a laptop which converts my work from Braille to print and vice versa. So I can type Braille and print out a text version for the teacher to mark. I can also convert online handouts into Braille. I used to prefer to enlarge everything or use a magnifier, but now I have to do so much reading and writing, I’ve got faster at Braille and it’s much quicker and less strain on my eyes.

Samson curls up by my feet while I try to get on with my history homework – but my mind keeps slipping back to Charlie and the note. I wonder what it says, and I’m tempted once again to open it. But I’d have to go back downstairs to get it – and anyway, I promised. I wonder how I’m going to give it to Kyle without anyone else knowing. I wonder what kind of trouble Charlie’s in. I feel a nervous kind of excitement in the pit of my tummy. This isn’t the sort of thing that happens in my very ordinary life. Everything’s routine – at home and at school, going from lesson to lesson. But now I have a challenge – a task that takes me out of my normal zone.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped when Charlie called my name. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the note. I could have said ‘no’. But I didn’t.

3

I’m walking to school, telling Samson, ‘Straight on,’ so he guides me along the road. Today I don’t feel like going down the path that cuts through to the station, where I was when Charlie gave me the note yesterday. The sun’s bright and I enjoy the warmth on my face. Cars zoom past one after the other, a constant hum. This, along with the smooth, hard pavement underfoot, feels reassuring right now, even though I usually prefer the birdsong of my usual route, with the occasional rattle of a train passing nearby, and the gravel, grass-edged path. There’s nothing to stop and photograph here.

I’ve put the note back in my skirt pocket, but it feels like it’s burning a hole. I’m still wondering what’s going on with Charlie, and also why and how Kyle is involved. He’s not exactly a friend of Charlie’s. I’ve never been aware of them hanging out. Kyle’s a bit off my radar. He doesn’t say much, so I don’t really notice him. The only thing I’ve noticed is his height. I’ve been paired with him a couple of times for projects and he has a nice voice, but he’s a bit of a loner and he seems to be absent from school more than most. He’s never been in trouble though – not even a detention for late homework as far I know.

My challenge is to somehow approach Kyle and give him the note without attracting attention. It isn’t going to be easy. I might think that he’s on his own, but there could be a bunch of people nearby who I don’t even know are there and who can see everything.

I always meet my best friend Madz at the school gate. I want to tell her. I wasn’t going to, but as I get closer to school I think maybe I will. I can trust Madz – and it would be a lot easier to do this with her help.

‘Hey Libs! Hey Samson!’ Madz is in her usual spot on the wall. She jumps down to greet me.

‘Hi Madz. You all right?’

‘Yeah. But last night was a disaster!’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘I think I’ve made a mess of things with Ollie.’

‘Oh – what happened?’ I ask.

‘You know I was meeting him to see that film?’

I do know this. I was actually a bit peeved because I wanted to go to the film with Madz. And yes – I do enjoy the cinema. Once, when I had just started secondary school, a group of girls that I was hanging out with arranged to go to the cinema and didn’t even tell me, as they thought I’d be upset to be left out. When I told them I could have used headphones and audio-description (a voice describes the action through the headphones) and that I love going to the cinema, they were completely shocked. At least they didn’t leave me out again after that.

Madz and I go to the cinema quite often – or we did, until Ollie came on the scene three weeks ago. Now he’s all that Madz can talk about. I don’t want to be jealous of her having a boyfriend, but sometimes it’s difficult.

‘So what happened?’ I ask.

‘I only went to the wrong cinema, Libs! I went to the Vue and Ollie had booked for the Odeon!’

‘Oh no! What did you do?’

‘I felt such an idiot. I waited for ages – and then I called him, and I couldn’t believe it! I said I’d get the next bus, but he said it was crazy to miss the beginning and he’d get his mate to come instead. I’m gutted, Libby. I’ve got to find him now and make sure things are OK between us. I’m scared he thinks I’m stupid or that I wasn’t bothered enough to turn up. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, sure,’ I say. ‘He’ll be OK about it, won’t he?’

‘I hope so – I’ll see you at registration.’

‘Yes,’ I say, as we reach the doors.

‘Great.’ She touches my shoulder gently. And then she’s gone.

Someone shoves past me and I call out, ‘Hey, watch it!’

I hate the crowded corridors first thing in the morning. I direct Samson towards our form room and he leads me there, carefully weaving in and out of the crowds. I’m relieved when we reach the room and I’m in my chair, with Samson snuggled under the desk by my legs. I didn’t get to tell Madz about Charlie, and now I’m thinking about it, I’m glad I didn’t. I don’t need her help with this. I want to do it myself.

Five minutes later, Madz sneaks in beside me just as Miss Terri starts the register.

‘Well?’ I whisper.

‘He’s cool. I’m so relieved!’ she whispers back. ‘He’s asked me to watch him play cricket at lunch. Would you mind? Can you manage without me?’

‘You’re not my carer,’ I remind her. ‘I’ll be fine.’

I’m irritated that she thinks I can’t cope without her, but also that she didn’t ask me to join her. Not that I want to sit around at a cricket match.

Samson shuffles against my feet, as the implications of what she said start to filter through. I start to worry. Lunch in the dining hall is much easier with Madz. I don’t have to think too much because she always finds us a table, and makes sure I don’t put my lunch down too close to the edge, and that there’s an empty chair so I’m not sitting on someone’s bag where they’ve saved a seat.

I have other friends, but not close like Madz, and everyone has their lunch groups and routines. I’d feel awkward saying, ‘Can I sit with you at lunch?’ to Kaeya or Lilly. And then I’d have to ask them for that little bit of help too, but without them fussing over me. Madz does everything with no fuss. I forget she’s even doing it.

‘Are you OK? I feel really bad,’ Madz says.

‘It’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘You’ve got to have a life. I’m happy for you. I have to get used to doing stuff without you.’

I’m used to spending a lot of time with Madz – before school, lunchtimes, at least one night after school each week and one day at the weekend. I’ve never wanted her to feel that I’m relying on her. Our friendship hasn’t felt like that. Being with her is effortless and I don’t have to explain anything. Yet now she’s got a boyfriend and isn’t going to be around so much, I feel vulnerable and needy, and I don’t like it.

As well as the cinema, we go shopping together, take Samson to the park – all sorts of things. Apart from that, if I am out it’s with Mum or Dad and sometimes Joe too. All I actually do on my own, with Samson, is simple, familiar, routine journeys – the walk to and from school, sometimes the walk to the station to meet someone, the walk to Madz’s house and the walk to the shop at the end of our road.

We’d been talking about extending my reach – learning new routes to new places. It’s something I’d mentioned to Dad before, but he got all nervous and said we’d have to get Gina, my guide dog mobility instructor, to teach me and Samson the routes. Madz was going to help me, but now she won’t have time. I feel like my world is suddenly a little smaller.

‘I’ll still be around,’ says Madz, putting her hand on mine and squeezing. ‘We can still do things.’

I squeeze her hand back. ‘I’ll be fine. You’ll have to tell me every detail of how it’s going!’

‘Maybe not every detail!’ she giggles, as the bell rings for first lesson.

*

Today feels weird. I’m used to the regular routine of my life. In the last few weeks I’ve had to adjust to Madz spending time with Ollie, and now I have a note to give to a boy I barely know.

Kyle isn’t in my form, but I have three lessons with him today – maths, geography and art. I still haven’t worked out a way to approach him in class without anyone noticing. I’ll have to wait until after; maybe on the way out of a lesson. The corner of the envelope keeps digging into my thigh, reminding me it’s there.

4

I don’t manage to catch Kyle after Maths or Geography. I must do it today. I got the sense from Charlie that it was urgent, important, and I can’t bear the thought of still having the note at home tonight, worrying about it.

I decide I’ll go to the resource room to eat my lunch. That’s where the students who need extra support go – and I used to go there before I got friendly with Madz. There’s people from all year groups. Sometimes I feel like I’m part of two worlds. In the resource room, you never have to explain or justify. People can just be whoever they are. It’s a more caring, protected world.

I used to love the break from the challenges of all my lessons, so many students and different rooms to get used to. The dining hall terrified me back in Year 7. Even when I made friends with Madz, it took a lot of coaxing to get me in there. The real world is far more hostile and challenging, but also more interesting, with way more opportunities. I’m used to it now – and having Samson has made it easier too. But today I don’t feel up to the challenge.

‘Libby! It’s Libby!’

I am greeted like a long-lost friend, although unsurprisingly someone is sitting in the seat that I used to consider mine. Also unsurprisingly, the main fuss is over Samson, rather than me. I hear him sniffing as the smells of tuna and cheese and onion crisps waft through the air.

‘Can I stroke your dog?’

‘Can I?’

‘Just keep your lunches out of his reach,’ I tell them. ‘Or he might think you’re offering him a treat.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Samson.’

‘Hi Libby, it’s Jenny,’ says the learning support teacher. ‘How are you getting on? We haven’t seen you in here for ages. And how’s Samson?’

‘He’s made a huge difference,’ I tell her. ‘I feel much more confident now I have him. I just thought I’d pop in and visit you guys.’

I don’t want to admit that I’m here because I feel nervous without Madz. And I’m not exactly sure how I’m getting on, now I have a mission to deliver a note for a boy no one’s seen for six months.

‘It’s nice to have you here,’ says Jenny. ‘I’m making arrangements for support for your English class theatre trip. I’ll let you know when I’ve got more information.’

‘Thanks,’ I tell her.

‘We’ve missed you!’ says a voice. I have to think for a bit to work out who it is.

‘Is that Dylan?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Had you forgotten me?’

Dylan has Muscular Dystrophy. ‘No – but you sound a bit different.’

‘His voice has broken,’ says Rafique.

‘Yeah – I’m a man now, eh?’ says Dylan.

‘You don’t exactly talk like a man,’ Rafique teases. ‘It’s not just the deep voice. It’s what you actually say. No offence, mate.’

‘None taken,’ says Dylan, laughing.

‘Libby, come and sit over here and meet Josie,’ says Jenny. ‘She’s in Year 7 and she’s losing her sight. I know that’s very different, but it might inspire her to see how well you manage.’

‘OK,’ I say, though I feel awkward. ‘Hi Josie.’

‘Hi. Your dog is lovely!’ Josie’s voice sounds young, but without much emotion. ‘Are you completely blind?’ she continues. ‘Do you mind me asking?’

I explain the little that I can see.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she comments. ‘I’ve only had sight in one eye for the last two years and now that’s going too. I can’t imagine life without being able to see at all.’

‘It isn’t easy,’ I tell her, ‘and you’ll have to adjust. It’s different for me because I’ve never known anything else. But you can still have friends, go out, study, get a job. My mum always tells me the only thing that will limit me is my self-belief. If I really want to do something, then I’ll find a way.’

‘You’re so upbeat,’ says Josie. ‘I’m glad you came in here. I’ve been feeling really down.’

‘Well, if you ever want to talk, just ask me,’ I tell her. ‘And maybe think about getting a guide dog. I highly recommend it. Samson’s brilliant company as well as my guide. Some people prefer a cane. It’s less work, but you can’t cuddle a cane when you feel low.’

‘Thanks Libby,’ says Josie.

After I’ve eaten my lunch and all eight people in the room have stroked Samson, I get up to leave.

‘Thank you,’ Jenny says quietly, as I reach the door. ‘I think you were just what Josie needed today.’

I feel happy to have been of help to someone else for a change, and I’m glad I came in. Now it’s time to help Charlie. And to do that, I have to find Kyle.

‘You’re really OK about me and Ollie?’ Madz asks as we walk to art. ‘You’ve been a bit quiet all day.’

‘Just thinking about my project.’ I’m keeping Charlie’s note a secret for now, like I promised. I do trust Madz, but she might accidentally let something slip to Ollie, and I hate the idea of that.

Madz is doing pottery for her art project so she’s in the room next door. I arrange my half-completed painting on the table near the window with the best natural light, along with the flower photo I am painting from and my magnifier. Miss Afia helps me with the paints. I love the smell of the art room – oil paints and turps. Kyle, who is also doing a painting project, usually sits at the back. I look around, trying to place him, but can only see blurred shapes moving around the room.

‘There’s a space here,’ Miss Afia calls to someone. ‘Next to Libby. Do try to be on time!’

‘D’you need any colours, Libby? I’m just getting some for myself,’ comes a voice. It sounds like Kyle. I turn to see the tall blur of him standing by the next table. I nearly fall off my stool. The tables at the back must already be taken because he’s late.

This is my moment. I should give him the note. The art room is big – everyone is spread out. No one will notice. But I feel weird: panicky, frozen to the spot.

5

‘I like what you’ve done there,’ Kyle says.

He’s come nearer without me realising. He’s looking over my shoulder at my painting.

‘Kyle, wait,’ I say, sensing him taking a step away.

‘What?’ he asks. ‘What can I get you?’

I pull the envelope out and hold it, my hand closed around it. ‘This is for you,’ I tell him quietly. ‘Just take it and put it in your pocket. Look at it later. OK?’ As I hand it over, I am still full of curiosity about what’s in it. I wonder whether Kyle will tell me, or whether I’ll never know now that I’ve handed it over.

I feel him take it. ‘Put it away,’ I repeat.

‘OK – but . . .’

‘Don’t ask, please! I could do with some brown paint if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure. Mid brown?’

‘Yes, exactly.’

He’s gone. I pick up my brush and dip it in the yellow. As I hold it over the paper, I realise my hand is actually shaking. This is ridiculous. It was just a note. It probably said, Can you lend me twenty quid? or something like that. But Charlie was so secretive about it, and he made it seem so important . . . Anyway, I’ve done it now. My role is over. I feel a little deflated.

‘Here’s the brown. Shall I squeeze some out?’ Kyle’s back.

‘Thanks – just here.’

He squeezes it on to my palette. I keep all the colours in the same order so I can find the one I want. ‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ he tells me.

He’s being very attentive. Is he being kind, or is it because he’s curious about the note? Maybe he thinks I wrote it. I hope he doesn’t think it’s a love note or something.

I hold the photograph I’m painting from close to my eyes. It’s a yellow rose, but it’s amazing how many colours there are in it: shades of yellow, but also greens, whites, creams, browns. I look through the magnifier at what I’ve painted so far.

I love painting. It takes my full focus and there’s something so relaxing about it. I love photography even more – macro photography, because I can look through the lens and see so clearly, every tiny detail. It’s so different from just looking around me at vague blurred shapes. I’m sure people give me funny looks when they see me out with my camera and a guide dog. Sometimes I hear comments, but I don’t let it bother me. So many people think ‘blind’ just means you can’t see. They don’t realise how many variations of visual impairment there are.

I need clean water, and pass Kyle’s table as I go to get it. I realise I have no idea what his project is. I’m suddenly curious about what he’s painting.

‘Can I look?’ I ask him. ‘With my magnifier?’

‘Yes, if you want.’ He sounds surprised – but pleased too. ‘It’s not a patch on yours though.’

‘I’ll just get my water first,’ I tell him.

‘Shall I do it?’ he asks.

‘No – it’s OK.’ I’m touched he is being so sweet, but I like to do things for myself. I keep on a straight path towards the side of the classroom where the sinks are, feel for the edge of the sink and then find the tap. I turn it, listen to water splashing and check with a finger that the pot is not getting too full. I need to be able to carry it back without spilling it.

Kyle’s height is a useful landmark as I work my way back to my table. I’m determined not to make a fool of myself by spilling water everywhere now. I feel for the table edge and put the water down carefully, then find and lift my magnifier, taking it back towards Kyle.

‘Let me help,’ he says, taking it from me and positioning it over his picture.

I look down. Kyle is painting what looks like a fantasy battle scene from a film – monsters with weapons raised, mouths bared with teeth showing.

‘Wow! That’s intense!’ I say, hoping he doesn’t take it as an insult. ‘I mean – the detail is incredible.’

‘I love creating monsters,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve not got the perspective right though.’

‘I can’t tell,’ I say honestly. ‘Thanks for showing me. I’d better get back to mine.’

After art I have French. Madz is doing German, so at the end of the day I walk with Samson towards the cloakrooms where we usually meet.

‘Hey, Libby!’ Someone touches the top of my arm gently. ‘Libby, it’s Kyle.’

‘Samson, stand,’ I tell him. He stops.

‘Listen – that note . . .’ says Kyle. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’

I’m instantly curious, but I don’t want to be late.

‘Madz will be waiting for me,’ I tell him.

‘Please, just for a sec,’ he says.

‘OK.’ I tell Samson to turn left and we follow Kyle to a quiet spot round by the old disused lockers.

‘Have you read it?’ I ask him.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Did Charlie give it to you himself? I need to know.’

‘Yes,’ I say awkwardly. ‘What . . . what did it say? Or can’t you tell me?’

‘It says he needs help.’

‘What kind of help?’

‘It’s bad, Libby.’ Kyle’s voice is low and serious. ‘He thinks someone’s going to kill him.’

I’m so shocked, I open my mouth, but can’t speak. I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

Finally, I manage one word. ‘What?’

‘I know,’ says Kyle. ‘My feelings exactly.’

‘So what does he want you to do?’

‘He wants me to meet him tomorrow. He’s told me where. I don’t know what to do. I mean, what if I don’t go, and then it happens – he gets killed? I’ll have to go, won’t I? I mean – what do you think?’

‘Maybe you should go to the police?’ I suggest.

‘The note says clearly, “no police”,’ says Kyle. ‘I guess it could put him in even more danger if whoever’s after him gets wind that he put the police on to them. If he’s asking me to help, he must think there’s something I can do.’

‘I guess,’ I say.

‘The note says I’m not to tell anyone,’ says Kyle. ‘But he must trust you, as he gave you the note. He must’ve known you’d want to know what was in it.’

I’m not sure that’s true, but I don’t say anything.

‘I think I’ll go,’ Kyle continues, ‘but listen. I want you to memorise the address before I tear it up, so that someone knows where I am. Just in case something happens.’

‘What do you think’s going on?’ I ask him.

‘I’ve no idea. I’m not sure I even want to know,’ says Kyle.

I wonder if this is true. Why has Charlie asked Kyle? Why does he think Kyle can help?

‘Maybe I should come with you?’ I suggest.

‘That’s nice of you, but he asked me,’ says Kyle. ‘And don’t get me wrong, but you and Samson . . . you’re a bit conspicuous. No – I’ll go alone.’

‘I’ll give you my number,’ I suggest. ‘Then you can call me and let me know what happens.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘Thanks for letting me talk to you about it. See you tomorrow.’

‘Were you talking to Kyle?’ Madz asks, as I approach the cloakroom.

One problem with not being able to see much is that I never know who’s watching me.

‘Were you spying on me?’ I tease.

‘Just came to see where you’d got to,’ she says. ‘Why? Is something going on with you two?’

‘Of course not! We were talking about our art projects.’

‘And you had to go off by yourselves to do that?’ she asks, clearly not believing me.

‘So we could hear each other and so I didn’t get knocked about by everyone getting their stuff,’ I say gruffly.

‘I think he likes you,’ she tells me. ‘I saw the way he was looking at you.’

‘How?’ I ask.

‘All intense, like,’ says Madz.

‘Really? Well he’s going to be disappointed then.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘It’s not that,’ I tell her.

Madz is so lovestruck that she has a one-track mind, while I know any intense look was because Kyle’s worried about Charlie’s note. But I can’t explain that to Madz.

‘He’s good-looking,’ she comments, ‘but he’s a bit brooding. You never quite know what’s going on in his head.’

‘You never know what’s going on in anyone’s head,’ I point out. ‘Someone can act like they’re really happy when they’re a mess inside.’

‘True,’ says Madz.

‘Kyle’s got a nice voice,’ I comment.

‘So you do like him!’ she exclaims.

‘Can we talk about something else?’ I beg, laughing.

6

At the time Kyle should be meeting Charlie, I’m trying to concentrate on my maths homework, but failing. It’s frustrating – maths is one of my best subjects. I keep stopping and checking my phone for messages, though I know it will beep if one comes. I barely know Kyle and I’ve not thought about Charlie in the last six months, yet I feel anxious. I pause and lean down to stroke Samson, who’s lying by my feet next to the desk.

Finally, I get so fed up with waiting that I text Kyle using Voiceover, which translates my voice into text and reads texts out to me. ‘Did you meet?’

There’s no reply.

It’s not until I’m getting ready for bed that a message comes through.

‘He wasn’t there.’

My phone speaks the words of Kyle’s message aloud. I had been imagining all sorts of things: Charlie running for his life, someone after him, wanting Kyle to hide him somewhere or wanting money to pay someone off. Somehow I never thought that he might not show at all.

‘No way!’ I reply.

‘I waited for two hours – just in case.’

‘Two hours!’

‘Can we meet? I’m not sure what to do.’

I feel immediately pleased, and then knock myself for feeling it. Surely it would be better if Kyle had met Charlie, sorted out whatever it was, and it was over? I don’t want to get involved – or do I? I can’t help feeling worried about Charlie, and I feel sorry for Kyle. He didn’t ask to be involved either. But maybe we can help Charlie together.

‘OK,’ I text back. Am I actually arranging to meet a boy? This feels weird.

‘Tomorrow morning? Where’s good for you?’

I’m glad he’s asking, as it needs to be somewhere I know. ‘How about the park? By the Roman Street gate?’ I suggest. Samson loves it there so at least he’ll get a walk too.

‘Great. Around 11am?’

‘Fine.’

*

Saturday breakfast is one of the few times we’re all together as a family. We all like a lie-in on a Saturday so it is more of a brunch really, at about ten.

Today we’re having pancakes. I’ve made the batter with Dad’s guidance – he’s the pancake expert – and Joe is responsible for tossing them.

‘Is something up, Libby?’ Mum asks.

Considering she’s not around as much as Dad, Mum can be very perceptive. Sometimes I wish she wasn’t.

‘Just a crazy week,’ I tell her. ‘Madz has been busy so I’m doing more without her. I’m getting around the school more on my own.’

‘You’re doing so well,’ says Mum.

‘She certainly is,’ Dad agrees.

‘Keep challenging yourself,’ says Mum. ‘You and Samson will be charging all over town on your own before you know it.’

‘Steady on,’ says Dad. ‘There’s no need to rush things. In your own time, Libby.’

Mum doesn’t answer, but I can tell she’s irritated.

‘I’m going to take Samson to the park this morning,’ I tell them. ‘I’ll do some more homework this afternoon.’

Samson huffs with delight at the word park and wags his tail against my legs. The smell of pancake batter cooking wafts around the room and my stomach rumbles.

‘And what are you up to today, Joe?’ Mum asks.

‘What?’ says Joe. ‘Oh, Mum! Now I’ve dropped one. That’s you, distracting me! Oh . . . Samson! Libby!’

‘What?’ I say.

‘He’s wolfed it down already.’

‘He ate the pancake you dropped?’ I ask.

‘Yes – he was so fast.’ Joe laughs. Mum and Dad are laughing too.

‘Oh Samson!’ I exclaim. ‘I think he thought you dropped it there specially for him,’ I tell Joe. ‘At least it saves you cleaning up.’

‘Right. This next one’s for you, Libby,’ says Joe.

‘Don’t talk to Joe, Mum,’ I warn. ‘I don’t want you distracting him again.’

It’s a lovely day, but I feel suddenly nervous as Samson guides me eagerly towards the park. This is one of the routes we practised with Gina, my guide dog mobility instructor, when I first got Samson, so we’re very familiar with it. I’m deliberately a couple of minutes late in the hope that Kyle will be waiting for me, but he isn’t there yet. I stand by the gate and tell Samson to sit. Doubts start to rattle through my head. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

‘Excuse me,’ someone says, making me jump. ‘Do you need any help?’

‘I’m fine. Thanks for asking,’ I reply.

When someone sees me standing still, alone with Samson, they seem to think I must need help. At least this person asked politely. Sometimes people grab my arm and try to take me across a road that I don’t even want to cross.

‘Hi Libby!’

I’m so relieved that Kyle is here.

‘Hi you!’ I say.

‘And hi Samson,’ says Kyle. ‘Shall we walk? Do you . . . do you need me to help you or do anything? You’ll have to tell me. I just don’t want to do the wrong thing . . .’

‘I’m fine. I know the park well and Samson can guide me,’ I say.

The path around the park is as familiar as an old friend, so I don’t need to concentrate much. I’m relieved at last to be able to talk about everything that’s been going round in my head.

‘What do you think’s going on with Charlie?’ I ask. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t show.’

‘Me neither,’ Kyle says as we walk towards the lake. ‘I’m really worried. He says someone wants to kill him and he doesn’t show. What am I meant to think?’

‘You’re not . . . you’re not saying it’s already happened?’ I say, swallowing. I don’t want to use the word ‘dead’. I don’t even want to think it. ‘I mean, it would have been on the news or something, wouldn’t it?’

‘Only if . . . if he was found.’ He pauses. I find I’m holding my breath. ‘But it isn’t likely,’ Kyle continues. My breath flows once again with relief. ‘Maybe it just wasn’t safe for him, so he stayed away.’

‘Should we go to the police?’ I wonder aloud.

‘He said no police, remember,’ says Kyle.

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to put him in more danger. But what else can we do?’

‘I’m glad you’re saying we, Libby. I feel kind of scared, and it’s good I can talk to you about all this.’

‘I feel the same,’ I tell him – and I get this slight fluttering feeling in my tummy. ‘Can we sit down on a bench?’ I suggest. ‘Then I can take Samson’s harness off and he can have a run around.’

‘There’s a bench,’ says Kyle. ‘Do I need to watch him? How do you know where he is?’

‘He’s trained not to go far – and he has a bell so I can hear him too,’ I explain. ‘It’d still be good if you can keep an eye out. I prefer to know someone can see him.’

‘Sure thing,’ says Kyle.

‘Off you go, Samson!’ I tell him, once we’re sat down. He nuzzles me gratefully and then he’s gone. I breathe in the smell of newly mown grass and listen, aware of the distant laughter of children in the playground where Joe and I used to go when we were younger, and the cheerful birdsong in the trees close by.

‘He’s having a sniff in the bushes,’ Kyle tells me. ‘His tail’s wagging – he looks very happy.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘What do you know about Charlie, Kyle? Do you have any idea what he’s been up to since he stopped coming to school?’

‘I haven’t a clue,’ he says. ‘I heard Kajun and Raf talking about him a while back, and they said it was like he’d disappeared off the face of the planet. He used to hang out with them sometimes, so if they didn’t know anything . . .’

‘Didn’t you hang out with him at all?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘Why do you think he asked you, then?’ I comment. ‘If you weren’t even friends?’

I hear Kyle sigh. ‘We’re not friends, but we went to the same primary school. We hung out sometimes there. He was cheeky in class. We had a laugh. He changed so much. He wasn’t so angry then.’

‘But you want to help him now? Why?’ I ask.

Kyle speaks quietly. His voice has a dreamy tone. ‘He did something for me once. I feel I kind of owe him.’

I’m curious now. ‘What did he do?’

There’s such a long pause I wonder if Kyle heard me. I’m about to ask again when Kyle says, ‘He saved my life.’

7

‘Saved your life?’ This is so big, so unexpected. I feel a strange kind of dizziness. The bright sun isn’t helping. I hold my hand in front of my face. ‘What happened?’

‘It was years ago, when we were ten,’ says Kyle. ‘We got abducted by a man in a car.’

I feel that stone again, the one I felt like I swallowed yesterday, and it’s lying heavy in in my tummy. I’m scared of what he’s going to say next. I move my hand from shielding my eyes, putting it over my stomach instead. ‘What happened?’

‘Sometimes we walked home from school together. It was raining the day it happened and we were drenched. We weren’t even wearing coats. This car stopped and a man wound down the window.’

Kyle’s voice has lost all expression. I sense this is hard for him to talk about.

‘Go on,’ I tell him.

‘The man – he smiled at us and said something like, “I thought it was you! You look like drowned rats! Here, get in, I’ll give you a lift.” I reckoned it must be someone Charlie knew,’ Kyle explains. ‘Charlie thought the same. He said after, he thought I knew the guy. Anyway, we both just got in. He started driving. He didn’t ask where we lived, so again, we both thought he knew already. It was raining so hard, we could hardly see out the windows. But he turned the wrong way at the traffic lights. That’s when I panicked.’

‘So Charlie didn’t know him either?’ I say, in horror.

‘Exactly,’ says Kyle.

I’m trying to imagine this. I can only relate it to the feeling I’ve had when I’m out alone and a stranger grabs my arm, without saying anything first. They might be trying to help, but in that moment I don’t know that – they might be intending to steal my bag or phone or pull me into the bushes. That’s scary enough. But this sounds scarier.

‘I told the man I thought he’d taken the wrong turn,’ Kyle continues. ‘My voice was all wobbly. I was just hoping desperately that it was true, he’d made a mistake. He said there were roadworks, but I was sure there weren’t any near us.

‘I asked him, “Are we going to Charlie’s or mine?” But he didn’t answer – he said maybe we’d both like an ice cream first. My heart was beating so fast. This wasn’t right. It just wasn’t. Charlie told the man that was nice of him, but his mum would want him home and I said, me too. Of course, we didn’t have mobile phones.

‘But the guy questioned why we didn’t like ice cream. I was terrified. I couldn’t speak any more. Charlie just said, “Maybe another time?”

‘Then he said he’d got chocolate biscuits and that no boy could say no to that. I was trying not to piss myself. We’d been warned about getting into cars with strangers. We’d seen the news stories. This man had got us on purpose. He was going to do bad things to us – and then he was going to kill us.’

‘So what happened?’ I ask, wondering if I even really wanted to know.

‘Then the car came to a stop,’ says Kyle. ‘The man was taking off his seatbelt. I was still paralysed, but Charlie moved so fast. He got the back door open – grabbed me and dragged me out and pulled me and we were running and I’d never run so fast in my life. We didn’t look back, not for ages. We were sure he was coming after us. But when we stopped, there was no sign of him. I’d never have got out on my own. Charlie saved me. He got me out.’

‘So did you go to the police?’ I ask. ‘Did they get him?’

‘No. Looking back, maybe we should’ve done. But we didn’t even tell our parents. I mean, we’d been stupid, hadn’t we? We’d have got a right telling off, both of us. We were OK. We’d learned our lesson. The man was long gone. There was no point in telling anyone. I’ve never told a soul until today.’

‘Oh Kyle, I’m so sorry.’ It sounds lame as I speak the words, but I don’t know what else to say. ‘Charlie helped me once too. But nothing like that.’

‘I know he can be trouble, but he’s not all bad,’ Kyle says quietly. ‘We . . .’

‘We’ve got to help him, haven’t we?’ I finish Kyle’s sentence for him. ‘We’ve got to do something.’

‘I want to. But what?’ asks Kyle.

My mind is whirring. ‘Do you know where he lives?’ I ask.

‘No. He’s moved since primary school. I only knew his old address.’

‘There must be someone who knows more,’ I say. ‘Someone we can talk to.’

‘Hang on,’ says Kyle. ‘He’s got a sister. Maybe she can help.’

‘A sister? How old is she?’

‘Three years younger,’ says Kyle. ‘I can picture him picking her up in the playground at primary school and swinging her round and she was laughing. She must be in Year 7.’

‘Great!’ I say. I feel relieved that there is something we can do. ‘Surely she’ll know something. Let’s find her at school on Monday and ask her.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ says Kyle.

I’m about to ask Kyle if he can see Samson, when I hear the jingle of Samson’s bell and then panting as he bounds up and rubs his body against my legs. I stroke him gently. ‘Good boy, Samson. Let’s get the harness back on you. It’s time to go.’

‘Can I ask you something about Samson?’ Kyle says as we start walking back to the gate. ‘It may be a stupid question, but I can’t help wondering . . .’

‘What?’ I ask. ‘Ask me anything, I won’t mind.’

‘When Samson poops, how do you know where he’s done it? How do you scoop it up if you can’t see? Or don’t guide dog owners have to do that?’

I laugh. ‘We don’t have to, but Samson usually goes in the same place, in our garden, so I know where to scoop. Or if we’re out for a long time and we’re in a good place for him to go, I can tell him and he’ll do it if he needs to – and stay put so that I can find the spot.’

‘Clever dog you’ve got there,’ says Kyle. ‘You two are so good together. Like proper friends.’

‘Yeah. Though I don’t go round picking up all my friends’ poop, you know,’ I joke.

8

On Monday, it doesn’t take us long to find Tia, Charlie’s sister. The Year 7 girls tend to hang out in the quad, so Kyle and I head there at lunchtime.

‘You’re Tia Smithson, aren’t you? Charlie’s sister?’ I hear Kyle say.

‘Who are you?’

‘Kyle. You probably don’t remember me. I used to walk to school with Charlie sometimes when we were at primary.’

‘No, you’re right. I don’t remember you,’ she says abruptly. ‘What d’you want?’

‘We’re looking for Charlie,’ I tell her.

‘Why?’ There’s a suspicious tone to her voice.

‘Do you know where he is?’ Kyle asks, ignoring her question.

‘I might. I asked you why you’re looking for him.’ Her voice is defiant, but young. I’d take her for nine or ten, though she must be eleven or twelve.

‘Is he OK?’ I ask. ‘We were just worried. He was in our form group, and it’s ages since he’s been at school.’

‘Yeah, six months. And now you worry?’

‘Is he at home?’ Kyle asks.

‘No,’ she replies. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. But I do know where he is. So why should I tell you anything?’

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ I tell her softly. ‘We’ve heard he’s in trouble – in danger. We don’t want anything to happen to him. Maybe you could just check on him and let us know?’

‘Me?’ Tia sounds stunned. ‘You want me to go checking up on him?’

‘Don’t you care about him?’ I ask. ‘He’s your brother. If my brother was in danger, I’d want to check on him.’

‘Look,’ she says. ‘Oh – sorry – I shouldn’t say that, should I? You can’t.’ She sniggers. She’s mocking me and I don’t like it. But I put up with it as I want information.

Kyle has other ideas. ‘Whoa, Tia . . .’ he says, jumping in to defend me, which is rather sweet.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say.

Tia pauses, then says, ‘Sorry. I don’t want to be mean to you because I know you can’t see. But you don’t see. You don’t get it, you don’t know what he’s like. I’m glad he’s gone. Life’s better without him. And you’re right, I don’t care. He’d changed. He never spoke to me any more, you know? Not a word – not an answer to a question. When he bothered to come home, he shut himself away in his room. And I reckon he was stealing ’cos he was buying stuff, and Dad’s asking him, “Where d’you get the money for that?” and he just swore at him – and Mum too. That’s not the way you treat people you care about, is it? So why should I care about him?’

‘If you don’t care about Charlie,’ says Kyle, ‘then why do you care about telling us where he is? Why does it matter?’

She’s quiet now. Then she sighs. ‘You really want to find him that much?’ she says. ‘I’ll tell you then, just to get rid of you. If you’re trouble for him, so what? He’s staying at our nan’s. I’ll give you the address. You got a pen? I’ll write it down. Just don’t tell him I told you, OK?’

‘Thank you so much,’ I tell her.

‘You don’t have to thank me. Just leave me alone.’

‘Come on Libby,’ says Kyle, once Tia’s written the address and given it to him. ‘Let’s get some lunch.’

Kyle actually wants to eat lunch with me? I’m relieved, as I know Madz is eating with Ollie. I follow him towards the dining hall and he even offers to carry my tray.

Once we’re sitting down and eating, I say, ‘She was unbelievable! She couldn’t care less about her own brother.’

‘It’s sad,’ says Kyle.

I feel a pang, remembering what Kyle said about Charlie swinging his sister round in the playground. It makes me think about my relationship with Joe. We never played or laughed much together when we were younger and I’ve never felt close to him, though I don’t know why exactly. I always felt he was jealous that I got more attention because I couldn’t see. But it wasn’t my fault.

‘Where does Charlie’s nan live?’ I ask.

‘In Golton,’ says Kyle. ‘About twenty minutes on the bus. We could go there after school.’

That ‘we’ gives me a warm feeling inside. Kyle and I are going to go together to find Charlie.

‘Oh, but only if you want to,’ he adds. ‘I thought . . . I mean, you don’t have to . . .’

‘I do want to come,’ I say. But now I have a tingly feeling in my legs. The thought of getting on a bus and going off somewhere strange – and with a boy I barely know – feels scary. I usually like to know exactly what I’m doing, have everything planned out so that I feel safe. But I’m also excited. For me, this feels like a real adventure.

‘I’ll just have to let my gran know I’ll be late home,’ I tell him.

‘Great,’ he says.

I walk beside Kyle with Samson slightly ahead on his harness. My heart’s beating faster than usual, but I’m trying to act like this is a normal, everyday thing to do. I texted Gran to say I’m staying late to get some help with homework. I’ve never lied to Gran before, and I don’t want to think about it or I’ll feel guilty. Samson dutifully stops when we reach the corner and I ask Kyle which way to turn.

‘I thought Samson guides you,’ he comments.

‘I have to tell him where to go,’ I explain. ‘He’ll stop at the kerb and move round cars parked on the pavement. He’s even trained to watch for low hanging branches, but he doesn’t know which way to go unless I tell him.’

‘I never realised that,’ says Kyle. ‘Do you – do you want to take my hand? If it would help, I mean.’ He sounds really awkward, but so sweet with it.

‘Thanks. But I’m OK with Samson guiding. If I do need your help, it’s better if I hold on to your arm, just above the elbow.’

‘Maybe we can try that some time,’ says Kyle. ‘It’s left here.’

‘Samson, left,’ I tell Samson, and he dutifully turns. We walk on without talking, but that suits me as I need to concentrate when it’s not a familiar route.

‘We can cross here,’ says Kyle, when we reach the road. His shape steps out beside me, but Samson stops abruptly and won’t cross.

‘Kyle! Wait!’ I say.

‘What’s wrong? There’s nothing coming.’ Kyle steps back on to the kerb. ‘I did look both ways, you know.’

‘Is there a crossing?’ I ask.

‘Yes, down there. But it’s safe to cross here, I promise.’

‘If Samson can see a crossing, he won’t let me cross here where it’s less safe,’ I explain. ‘He’s been trained to cross at crossings, if there is one.’

‘What’s Samson doing now?’ Kyle asks when we reach the crossing.

‘Showing me where the button is to press – pointing with his nose,’ I explain. ‘Under here, there’s a cone that spins when the green man appears, so someone who can’t see well knows it’s safe to cross.’

Samson stops again.

‘He’s sniffing the air,’ Kyle tells me. I sniff too. ‘Is it McDonalds?’ I ask.

‘You’re right!’ Kyle laughs. ‘He likes McDonalds, does he?’

‘Yes! He likes the smells in there.’ I bend down to Samson. ‘No, Samson, not today!’ I tell him. ‘Forward!’

The bus pulls up as we reach the bus stop so we don’t have to wait. I don’t often go on buses and I’m worried it will start moving before I’ve sat down.

‘There’s two seats near the back,’ says Kyle, but Samson is already guiding me down the bus and puts his head on a seat so I can find it. Kyle sits down next to me and Samson snuggles in close by my feet as the bus pulls away. I slide towards Kyle as the bus jolts and pull back awkwardly, feeling for the pole, so I can hold on.

‘What if no one’s home when we get to Charlie’s nan’s?’ I ask.

‘It’ll have been a wasted journey,’ says Kyle. ‘But we’ve got to try.’

Kyle’s quiet on the bus. I listen in on someone else’s conversation about the weather and how long this hot spell will last. It’s much hotter than usual for June. I check my watch, and we’ve been on the bus for twenty-five minutes.

‘Are we nearly there?’ I ask.

‘I think it’s the next stop.’

I tell Samson and he’s up and ready to guide me off the bus when it stops. I’m more self-conscious than usual, not wanting to make a fool of myself in front of Kyle by tripping down the step.

‘It’s just down this road, according to Google Maps,’ Kyle tells me.

‘Forward,’ I tell Samson. The road is narrow with cars parked half on the pavement, so Kyle walks in front and Samson carefully guides me round.

‘This is the house. I’m ringing the bell,’ Kyle tells me.

‘Sit, Samson,’ I tell him and he obeys. We wait. I wonder who will answer the door. What if it’s Charlie? What will he say when he sees me? But nothing happens. I’m starting to think no one is there at all when I hear the door click open.

‘You collecting for Guide Dogs for the Blind?’ a woman’s voice asks. She’s shorter than me and her voice is soft, kind. ‘I’m sure I have a few spare coins somewhere. Hold on . . .’

‘We’re not collecting for charity,’ I say. ‘We’re looking for Charlie.’

‘Charlie?’ Her surprise is clear as her voice goes high. ‘Well you won’t find him here.’

‘We heard he was staying with you,’ Kyle says.

‘He was.’

‘But not any more?’ I ask.

‘No.’ She sighs. ‘You friends of his? He’s never mentioned a blind friend . . . Don’t get me wrong – I love that boy to bits – but there was only so much his poor old nan could put up with.’

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘You must know what he’s like. I never knew whether he was coming or going. He was out all hours of the night. He worried me silly. Rude too, he was. No respect. I told him he had to change his ways. But he didn’t. In the end I told him to go home, sort things out with his parents. It was only ever meant to be a short-term thing, staying with me. And would you believe he raided my purse before he left!’

‘But he hasn’t gone home,’ I tell her. ‘Tia told us he was here.’

‘Not at home? Well, he hasn’t been here for a month or more,’ she says. ‘My son Vince – Charlie’s dad – he and I aren’t really on speaking terms. I never heard from him. I just assumed . . .’

‘Can you think of anywhere else Charlie could’ve gone?’ I ask.

‘Who knows?’ she says. ‘I despair of that boy. I tried my best, I really did. Let me think . . . There’s no one else in the family who’d have taken him. I don’t know who he was mixing with, apart from the one mate I sometimes overheard him talking to on the phone. Hassan – that was his name. I think he met him at that unit he was at for a time. I can’t think where he’d have gone.’

Charlie’s nan has been nattering on and yet we’re no closer to finding him. At least Hassan is a lead. ‘Do you know where Hassan lives?’ I ask.

‘Not a clue,’ she says.

‘Thanks for talking to us,’ I tell her.

‘No problem – and I’m sorry I thought you were collecting. I do always give to Guide Dogs for the Blind, you know. He’s a lovely one you’ve got there.’

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