Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

purpose and reason to keep going. ‘Yes, Freddie, we’ll do whatever it takes to find Jo-Jo and the monsters haunting all our dreams.’

Chapter Twenty-One Now

Portland, Dorset

It feels strange walking the streets I did as a child. A simple internet search confirmed the address of the Nevilles, and we’re now rapidly approaching our destination on foot.

I smile as I spot a large oak tree at the edge of the modernised playground we’re nearing. ‘I used to climb that tree with my sister,’ I muse.

It looks smaller than I remember, but then I suppose I’ve grown since I last saw it. A much simpler time then.

Freddie looks up from the pavement for the first time. ‘Which one?’

‘The big oak one there with the shaded bark that resembles the face of a growling bear. I was always jealous of how high Anna would climb; she was always so fearless. I’d just about make it onto the first branch that still hangs out today, but then I’d feel queasy and need to clamber down. Not Anna though; she’d climb maybe ten feet up before wrapping her legs around the branch and hanging upside down like a bat. I always used to panic she’d slip and fall and that I’d be the one to get it in the ear from Mum and Dad, but she never fell.’

My tears begin to well and I can almost picture her hanging bat-like from that branch now, but it’s momentary, and then I see it is just an old tree standing guard at the playground’s edge. Given the bitter chill of the wind and the rapid ascendency of the moon, I’m not surprised there are no children inside the playground railings now. Back when Anna and I were kids, there was no fence, and where there is now a climbing frame in the shape of a pirate ship was a see-saw and set of swings. The children these days don’t know how lucky they are!

We turn left onto the Nevilles’s road once we’re past the playground, and it isn’t difficult to see which their house is as there are two police patrol cars parked across the drive, keeping the handful of journalists back. When Freddie had suggested we go to their house, I hadn’t even considered the prospect of reporters being camped outside trying to hook an exclusive interview for whichever journal they represent.

I cringe when I hear my name being shouted by an eagle-eyed reporter who is dressed in faded jeans and a jumper, though his overhanging gut has slipped through the gap between the two. ‘Emma, Emma, are you here to help find little Jo-Jo?’

I ignore the question, doing my best to pretend I haven’t heard, and approach one of the two uniformed officers standing guard at the perimeter. I introduce myself and ask whether DS Robyn Meyers is inside with the family. He sends his colleague to check my credentials at the house, meanwhile the remaining journalists and two photographers are pushing in behind Freddie and me. Given we’re here to offer our support, it feels more like I’m a student again and trapped in a mosh pit with no obvious means of escape.

The second officer returns and whispers something into his colleague’s ear, and the perimeter tape is raised for Freddie and me to duck beneath. We follow the second officer past the parked cars and up the patio drive to the front door where Robyn is waiting, arms folded, and looking less than impressed by my arrival.

‘I want to do whatever I can to help Mr and Mrs Neville to find Jo-Jo,’ I say with steely determination.

She has every right to refuse me entrance to the property and to slam the door in my face, something I’m sure the photographers are poised to capture, but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes a step back and opens the doorway wider, allowing me to enter, but pausing when her eyes fall on Freddie.

‘He’s a colleague,’ I lie quickly. ‘He’s here to help too.’

She considers Freddie for a moment, as if she recognises him, but can’t quite place why or from where. She finally relents and allows him to hustle in behind me before explaining that the family are gathered in the back room, away from flashing cameras and shouted questions. What she doesn’t explain is just how many people are gathered there; it’s standing room only, and it takes a moment for my eyes to locate them.

Tina is the first on her feet, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan as she takes my hands in hers. ‘Emma, I can’t believe you’ve come here in our hour of need,’ she says, as if formally introducing me as part of a ceremony.

She proceeds to drag me across the room, urging her relatives to shuffle up and allow me to squash onto the sofa beside her. Once we’re seated, she pulls me into a cringeworthy embrace – I’m not a hugger – and I find myself awkwardly patting her on the back, as if we’ve been best friends for years.

‘Did you see the press conference earlier?’ she asks eagerly – I sense she’s craving my approval – and I have to shrug guiltily.

‘I was out when it was on,’ I admit, ‘but Freddie here saw it, and was so moved that he insisted we come and lend any support we can.’

Tina looks at the stranger in her house, and in fairness he does stand out with his heavy metal T-shirt and sleeveless jacket, amid the cast of tracksuit bottoms and sports tops currently lining the room.

Freddie drops to his knees at her feet and takes one of her hands from mine. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve been in Jo-Jo’s situation and I feel it is my duty to try and help get her back by any means, Mrs Neville.’

This seems to ease her concern. ‘Please, you should both call me Tina. When I hear someone say Mrs Neville, it has me