Lock the Doors Read online

  Contents

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Part Two Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Part Three Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Part Four Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Acknowledgements

  A Note From the Publisher

  About the Author

  Vincent Ralph owes his love of books to his mother, who encouraged his imagination from an early age and always made sure there were new stories to read. He lives in Kent with his wife, son and two cats.

  Follow Vincent on Twitter

  @VincentRalph1

  #LockTheDoors

  Other books by Vincent Ralph

  ARE YOU WATCHING?

  For Rachel

  Part One

  * * *

  1

  Home is where the hate is.

  I was eight when I figured that out, watching from my bedroom window as my mother and her boyfriend argued in the garden. His name was Gary and he drank a lot and not because he was thirsty.

  Mum’s words were screeches and Gary’s were slurs and, for a little while, they were only fighting with their voices. Then he threw the bin lid at her and she crumpled, her knees cracking on the path. Picturing her now, I see her arms held tight against her belly and tears dripping on the flower bed.

  Mum says most memories are Post-its on the fridge door of your life. But a few, she says, are tattoos on your soul. This is one of those memories. What I learned is that anything can be a weapon if you know how to use it.

  The bin lid was metal and dented. Gary held it over her, casting a shadow across her pleading face. He yelled things I didn’t understand. And then Mum caught my eye and Gary turned and smiled and waved.

  The worst part? I waved back. I still hate myself for not doing anything; for not knowing what to do.

  When bad things happen miles away, it’s easy to say you’d be a hero. But when it happens to you, especially when you’re eight, it’s not so easy.

  Gary’s arms stiffened, then he brought the bin lid down hard and fast, my mother screaming as it stopped inches from her face. He laughed, tossed it aside and went to the pub.

  All night Mum made crying noises, tiny ones she whispered over, like she was shushing them to sleep. I lay awake, too scared to touch her, because sometimes the easiest things in the world, like a hug or a smile or an ‘Are you OK?’ feel impossible.

  In the morning, I watched her in secret, in between cereal bites and toothbrush brushes, and, when she caught me, she smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  My mum had a lot of boyfriends, but some were worse than others.

  2

  Four tiny holes in my new bedroom door. That’s the first thing I notice.

  And then a bigger one on the frame, flaking at the edges, and a curve where the dark wood turns light; a crescent just deep enough for a bolt to slide back and forth.

  My stepsister’s door has eight holes, each set of four not quite level, as if whoever drilled them was fixing a mistake.

  I hunt for holes and find them everywhere, except for Mum and Jay’s room. Their door is perfect, the frame untouched, and that’s when I realize what happened here.

  Our dream home, the house Mum fell in love with the moment she saw it, was someone else’s nightmare because these holes aren’t where you’d expect them to be. The locks weren’t on the inside to keep people out.

  They were on the outside, keeping someone in.

  3

  ‘They’ve taken it off Rightmove,’ Mum says, looking up from her phone.

  ‘I should hope so,’ says Jay. ‘We own it.’

  ‘Still, it’s nice that it’s official.’

  Jay stares at the piles of boxes, then jangles the house keys. ‘It’s been official for a while.’ But Mum’s not listening. She’s spent so long looking at the place online that she can’t stop.

  Although we finally got our ‘dream home’, no one seems that happy. Mum prefers the tidy house in the pictures, Jay looks knackered from shifting all our stuff and my stepsister, Nia, is already moaning about reception and how long it’ll take to get, like
, anywhere.

  New house, same life. Except that’s not totally true because this life is a lot better than our old one, before Mum met Jay.

  ‘We should leave the unpacking until tomorrow,’ he says and, even though Mum looks disappointed, she agrees.

  Then we all sit in the gaps between the boxes and eat takeaway pizza, pretending this isn’t a massive anticlimax.

  Mum looks at her photos, the ones she took when we visited to measure up, and Jay doesn’t try to stop her because that’s how arguments start. Instead, he looks at me and says, ‘So … what do you think?’

  ‘There are holes in the doors,’ I say. ‘I think they used to lock people in.’

  Jay doesn’t respond like I want him to. He just says, ‘We’ll sort that when we decorate.’

  He does that a lot – asks questions and ignores answers.

  If he could pick a stepson, he wouldn’t be anything like me. Sometimes I catch him giving me the look and I know what he’s thinking. Why can’t he be normal? Why does he have to worry so much and say weird things? It could be worse because some men get angry if you’re different. Jay just changes the subject.

  ‘When are we getting Wi-Fi?’ Nia asks and, because this is far more important, Mum puts her phone down and the three of them discuss it while I go upstairs.

  The doors are brown with swirls and dark knots, but I don’t see the patterns any more.

  I only see the holes.

  4

  I listen to music until Mum comes in and says, ‘We’re going to bed now if you want to … you know.’

  I nod, but don’t reply because it’s better when she doesn’t say it out loud.

  She doesn’t ask if I’m OK. We just stare at each other while I watch her settle on a suitable smile. When it comes out, it’s awkward and sags at the edges, but at least she tried.

  Jay comes up behind her and says, ‘Goodnight, mate. You cool?’

  I’m most certainly not. But I sigh and say, ‘Yep.’

  ‘OK then. See you tomorrow.’

  They stand there a second too long … and then a few more … until finally Mum breathes out and says, ‘Sleep well, sweetheart.’

  Their bedroom door closes and I hear mumbling behind the wall. I could try to listen closer, but I don’t want to know what they’re saying about me. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Instead, I go downstairs, feeling my way through the darkness.

  It always takes a while to get used to a new house. But eventually, if we stay long enough, I’ll be able to move from room to room with my eyes closed. I prefer doing this in the dark.

  I feel for the front door and push the handle down once, twice, three times. Each time it holds firm, but only after three goes can I clap. That’s how I know it’s locked.

  Moonlight hovers over the kitchen worktops, empty except for a kettle and a microwave. I check the back door four times, then clap. Then I touch the windows one by one. On my way back upstairs, I check the front door again because sometimes the clap doesn’t work. It’s supposed to stop my doubts, to remind me I’ve already done this. But it doesn’t always work.

  ‘Clap,’ I say out loud.

  Then I take a deep breath, go back to my room and imagine who slept here before me.

  5

  Mr Trafford comes into the common room and asks for a tour guide.

  ‘We have a potential new student,’ he says. ‘She’s here with her mother. Who wants to show them around?’

  I keep my head down, hoping someone else volunteers. But they all have the same idea and, when Sir looms over me, I know I won’t be able to escape.

  ‘Tom,’ he says, ‘would you mind?’

  Teachers at Priority Road like asking rhetorical questions. The website says it’s a ‘stimulating and enjoyable learning environment where students constantly exceed their targets’. Ofsted says it’s all right.

  ‘Mrs Pearce,’ Trafford says, ‘this is Tom. He’ll be showing you around this morning.’

  The girl has her head down. Her mum smiles and says, ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ I mumble, but I can’t shake the feeling that I know her.

  She looks too neat and tidy, like she’s missing all the messy parts that Mum used to hide until Jay said he loved them.

  When the woman frowns, I know I’ve been staring too long.

  ‘You look familiar,’ she says, but Sir talks over her.

  ‘Ready to go?’

  I look at the girl and she glances at me, her eyes filled with a sadness I haven’t seen for a long time, then back at the floor.

  ‘Amy’s a little unwell today,’ her mum says.

  I suddenly feel an extra layer of nerves on top of the usual ones, but I can’t get out of it now.

  ‘What year are you in?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s repeating Year Twelve,’ says Amy’s mum. ‘We’re looking for a fresh start, aren’t we, love?’

  When she doesn’t reply, her mum says, ‘Amy goes to the Grammar. They’ve suggested that a change of scene could bring out the best in her.’

  Amy shivers, then stiffens as her mother touches her arm.

  When she catches me staring, she says, ‘Don’t worry. Amy can speak for herself.’ But she doesn’t. She stays silent for the whole tour.

  Sometimes I look at her, then away. ‘Stolen glances’ they call them, which is a nice way of saying you’re a wuss.

  Afterwards, the woman shakes my hand and says, ‘You’ve given us a lot to think about.’

  Then I stand outside reception, waiting for Amy to turn round, to smile maybe, or just look at me. All that happens is that her mum, one step behind, lifts her arm and goes to put it round her daughter’s shoulders. But it just hangs there, waiting, then falls back to her side.

  At the gate after lunch, Mr Trafford stops me. ‘Did you sell the place?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah. I made it sound like Disneyland.’

  Some teachers think everything’s sarcastic; others think nothing is.

  ‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Good job.’

  But, wherever Amy Pearce ends up, it won’t be here. It looked like she couldn’t leave fast enough.

  And that’s when it hits me. I have met her mother before.

  We all have.

  6

  Amy lived here before us.

  That’s why I recognized her mother – because she showed us round. She hit it off with Mum straight away, telling her what a wonderful house it was. There was a man, too, but he didn’t say much. He hung back while his wife did the talking. Amy wasn’t there.

  I wish I’d paid more attention, but we’d looked at so many houses. I thought this was just another one Mum would say no to because there was always something wrong.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ she told Jay afterwards. And six months later it was ours.

  I touch my door and wonder. Why didn’t I see the holes that day? Why didn’t I look closer? I could have asked about them, but would Amy’s mum have told the truth?

  I knock on Nia’s door, then again, and when she finally answers she stares at me until I say, ‘Can you remember whose room this was?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When we looked around. Was this a girl’s room?’

  Billie Eilish is singing about bellyaches and my stepsister reluctantly turns the music down and says, ‘What are you talking about?’

  I point at the holes. ‘This isn’t normal.’

  ‘You’re not normal,’ she replies. She doesn’t smile because it’s not a joke.

  I look past her, at the walls already covered in posters and photos and her guitars resting in the corners. There’s no telling which of us got Amy’s room. They were both identical when we moved in.

  Mum says Nia likes me really, but I don’t think so. She’s a year older than me and she’s never even pretended to be nice. She comes with Jay, just like I come with Mum – two people who chose to be together and two who didn’t.

  ‘Is that it?’ Nia asks and, when I don’
t answer, she closes the door. Luckily for her, she can open it whenever she wants.

  But if I’m right, and there did use to be locks on the outside of Nia’s door and mine, it wasn’t that easy for Amy Pearce.

  7

  Miss Kiko asks me to stay behind after registration, then hands me a piece of paper and says, ‘You have a buddy request.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘We have a new starter. And you’ve been chosen.’

  Our school has a buddy system, but I can’t remember the last time they used it. We don’t get many new kids here, even in sixth form, and my form tutor must see my concern because she tilts her head and says, ‘Are you OK, Tom?’

  I glance at the paper and there it is: Amy Pearce’s name and the time we should meet.

  So she picked Priority Road after all, but why has she picked me? Or is this Mr Trafford’s idea?

  ‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  Miss Kiko could have given me this in front of everyone, but she knows I don’t like attention. If she was picking the buddies, she would have paired Amy with someone else. But I’m not that lucky.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and, when I turn, Amy smiles and says, ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Except the girl I remember was a lot sadder and now …

  ‘I need another tour,’ Amy says. ‘I wasn’t paying much attention last time.’

  ‘I noticed,’ I say, and she smiles – a massive grin that reaches her eyes.

  Her clothes are really smart, but then ‘business dress’ means something different at the Grammar. That’s where Nia goes and she isn’t allowed into lessons unless she’s ‘interview-ready’. Here we haven’t been that smartly dressed since the Year Twelve induction days.

  I stare at Amy, my confusion shouting over my unease. I want to know if she asked to be paired with me, but I’m scared of the answer.

  When you’re a kid, they tell you not to talk to strangers and that doesn’t change in sixth form. The doors to most friendship groups closed years ago.