Free The Red House by Emily Winslow Page B

able to call for help herself, or has some witness called for her? Are they near?
The siren sounds like it’s coming from over there, the end of the road,where the last houses stand. There must be a road beyond, on which emergency vehicles are travelling, on their way. But the noise isn’t getting louder.
    I’m still dithering when I hear two gunshots and a shrill whistle-like sound that might have been a scream.
    I duck beside the car, assessing. The shots weren’t close. They weren’t aimed at me.
    Was the high-pitched sound Imogen? Was it a voice at all?
    That fucking siren is still going round and round, up-down-up-down, high-low, high-low … I can’t think. I’m sweating.
    There, again
. No more shots, but for sure a voice. Not a scream, but words shouted, by a woman. The only word I make out is
No
.
    I run for the buildings.

DORA KEENE
    I hate sweating. The concert hall is designed for acoustics, not air flow. Walls are what make sound bounce around; windows would just let it escape. So the band room is four wide walls, windows only at the very top. You need a stick with a hook to open them. No one had bothered to do it.
    It was a relief to put my flute away and get out. The corridor was choking on instrument cases and discarded sweatshirts. I picked my way through on my toes. Alexandra caught up; I shook her hand off my shoulder. Then we both stared.
    The open space in the lobby of the concert hall stretched wide. In it, kids and teenagers between rehearsals crowded against the walls and pillars, hunched over books and DS games. They were the normal ones. The ones we stared at were the girls lying on their backs. There were at least six on the floor.
No, seven
. Three adults catered to them, propping backpacks as pillows and offering to phone parents. None of them were Fiona.
    ‘That’s nothing,’ Alexandra said. ‘Two years ago, a dozen girls fainted.’
    No, seventeen. That summer session, seventeen girls had fainted. I had been one of them.
    It had been hard to explain to Mum and Dad when it happened that it wasn’t the kind of faint you call a doctor for. I didn’t lose consciousness. It was just a light-headed floaty feeling, from the unusual heat, from standing too long, from breathing too deeply, from seeing other girls around me go down and … Here in the present, I shook myself. That was two summers ago.
    We walked a loopy path around the bodies. The girls on the floor blinked, lolled, swore they’d try harder and that their parents didn’t need to be called.
    ‘I’m looking for Fiona,’ I told Alexandra. We needed her for the tight harmonies in our next group.
    ‘She probably has one of her
headaches
,’ Alexandra said, emphasising the word sarcastically. ‘Let’s get some water and go to the choir room.’
    ‘Why do you say it like that? How do you know how her head feels?’ Fiona got bad headaches with her period and was always begging paracetamol. I brought her a whole pack the day before. Fiona’s mother acted like Fiona made up her headaches. She didn’t believe in free time, either, so if it weren’t for music week I wouldn’t have seen Fiona until school starts. I checked the toilets; Alexandra followed. Girls at the mirrors, girls slamming stalls closed behind them. No Fiona in there.
    ‘What if she’s really ill?’ I worried.
    Mr Gant motioned me and Alexandra into the practice room. Some of the other girls called him Maxwell, but Ididn’t feel right about that. He was a teacher, after all. He was our singing tutor for the week.
    He lifted his head and smiled. He’s young. He looks more like someone’s older brother, an age it wouldn’t be weird to have a crush on, would it? I couldn’t remember what I was going to say. He was patient, holding up a hand to make Alexandra stop and wait. He wanted to hear me.
    I remembered. ‘Mr Gant, Fiona isn’t here.’
    ‘I’m sure you can manage the harmonies without her,’ he assured me.
    I wasn’t sure of that at