Free Only We Know by Simon Packham Page A

belong here. ‘Where’s Izzy, by the way?’
    â€˜Dunno. Last time I saw her she was with that Rod guy.’
    â€˜Right, I’ll go have a look.’
    I follow the music to a darkened room where a FirstWorld War scenario is playing out. The boys are lined up down one side with their Peronis and Kronenbourgs and the girls are camped opposite, texting and previewing the occasional dance move. Maybe by Christmas – or sooner if someone puts the right song on – some of them might get it together in no man’s land.
    They all look at least five years older without their school uniforms. I barely recognise anyone. But they seem to know me. Both sides of the conflict shout friendly greetings and wave their phones/beer bottles at me. I wave back, scanning the hormone-scented shadows for Izzy. But there’s no sign of her, so I decide to try somewhere else.
    Down in the kitchen, there’s a competition to see who can stuff their face with the most grapes. And the conservatory is playing host to a face-sucking tournament. Mouths wide open, eyes tight shut, the only clues to the players’ identities are the backs of their heads. The ombré-style curls almost certainly belong to Magda, but there’s not a single highlight to be seen.
    So I creep upstairs, still shivering even though I’m not cold any more, past the paintings of horses and ballet dancers and a photo of a cute little Izzy with an owl on her shoulder.
    Knocking softly on the first random door, I turn the handle and push it open.
    A ten-year-old assassin, who’s far too young for China Lake grenade launchers, is communing with his Xbox. ‘Oi, piss off!’ he screams, which is exactly what I do, asa barrage of Lego and Hula Hoops drives me back into the hallway and through the door opposite.
    They may call it the smallest room in the house, but this one is bigger than my bedroom. Down at the far end, some beautiful highlights are slowly disappearing down the toilet. I guess that’s my hostess.
    â€˜Hi – Izzy, are you okay?’
    Somewhere between puking and sobbing she manages to get most of a sentence out. ‘I’m fine. Just leave me alone — plurgghh …’
    â€˜Yeah, sure.’
    I exit the bathroom. But I can’t go downstairs again. Not yet anyway. I need a few minutes on my own to regroup. This time I’m more careful, listening at the next bedroom first, before venturing in. And it looks promising: soft lighting and a huge double bed with a pile of coats on it. But my heart plummets like a learner swimmer in the deep end when I see who’s stretched out alongside them.
    â€˜All right, Dizzy? What’s up?’
    â€˜I’m looking for someone.’
    The straw trilby is exactly what I’d expect from Conor Corcoran. But what’s he doing with a biro in his hand? ‘Well, it must be your lucky day then, because now you’ve found me.’
    â€˜No, no, I didn’t mean —’
    â€˜Is it hot in here, or is it just you?’
    â€˜Yeah, it is quite war— Oh … right.’
    Conor Corcoran brushes aside a trio of Parkas and pats the bed. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’
    â€˜No thanks, I … What are you doing anyway?’
    â€˜Oh yeah, I found this. It’s a right laugh.’
    He appears to be scribbling in some kind of scrapbook. I edge nearer to see what he’s up to. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
    â€˜Yeah, brilliant, isn’t it?’
    It looks like a picture of Izzy in a lacy white dress. On closer inspection I realise it’s her mum and dad’s wedding photos. Conor has given the bride a beard and glasses and is about to start work on the groom. ‘You can’t do that, Conor! Stop it.’
    â€˜Oh come on, it’s only a bit of fun.’
    I grab his biro. ‘You shouldn’t mess about with photos. Photos are important. They’re all that people have to