Flesh and Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

there a Mrs Greenhill?” said Mum.
    “Oh, yes, Caroline,” smiled Mrs Gifford. “She’s our local GP. Wonderful doctor.”
    “She delivered you, didn’t she, sweets?” burbled Susan.
    “Caroline Greenhill?” said Dad. “I know that name from somewhere.”
    “She was on the television a few years ago,” smiled Mr Gifford. “One of those medical advisers, sitting on a sofa and answering viewers’ queries.”
    “Oh, yes!” declared Dad. “I remember. On that morning thing on ITV. Good-looking woman. Well, well, two celebs in the same street.”
    He meant himself. He actually meant himself.
    The van driver emerged from our house. “You’re plumbed in. All set.”
    “Thank you,” said Mum, as if she was about to add “my good man” at the end. Immediately, youcould tell she wanted to go and play with her new toy. “Well, I’m so glad we’ve met you all. We’d better let you get on.”
    Greye wriggled and griped. “Has Daddy not got your tea ready yet?” said Susan.
    It was only as she said it that I noticed something about her and Michael. Both of them had the same slightly runny nose as Mr and Mrs Gifford, a thin yellow reflection off their top lips. Michael wiped at his with a crumpled handkerchief as they went back indoors.
    Eurgh
, I thought.
Some bug going round.
    Inside our house, I almost tripped over the seven rolls of carpet that were laid along the hallway, all of them wound in plastic sheeting. New carpet smell was even better than new car smell.
    “Don’t tread on them!” cried Mum, hearing the crinkling of the plastic from the kitchen. “The fitter’s coming in the morning.”
    “Which one is for my room?” I called.
    “You said you wanted dark blue, kiddo,” said Dad, pottering about in the living room. “You got dark blue.”
    “Thanks!”
    As I dropped my school bag underneath the coat hooks in the hall, and hung up my blazer, the letter box clattered and a newspaper dropped on to the floor.
    I picked the paper up. Not the one Jo’s dad worked on. This was one of those thin advertising freesheets. The headline on the front said ‘Runaway Girl: No Contact’. Beside a slightly fuzzy picture of a teenager was a breathless report in tabloid-speak about a nineteen-year-old from Elton Gardens who’d gone on the run from her drug-dealing boyfriend. Her family hadn’t heard from her since she’d vanished overnight the previous week.
    I frowned at it.
Was that murder a gang killing after all?
I thought. Everyone at school was so sure about it. It
was
possible that I was mistaken, wasn’t it? Perhaps there were just some very strange and nasty gangs in this part of the world…? I chucked the paper on to the small table beside the coat hooks.
    Looking back, I was too ready to take that report at face value. I was too ready to dismiss my own doubts, too willing to set aside the revulsion I’d felt at the snobbish attitudes of everyone around here to Elton Gardens. Believing that report fitted tooneatly into the background information I’d need for my own article, the one for Jo’s dad, the opportunity I wanted to grab.
    If only I’d read between the lines. But we’re all wise in hindsight, I guess.
    Mum’s voice came from the kitchen. “I’ve unpacked the microwave! Pasta or curry?”
    Dad’s voice came from the living room. “Curry!”
    “Yes, curry!” I called.
    We had pasta. I sat in my room until dinner was ready, tapping out my article. As soon as it was done, I emailed it to Jo, then sifted through the homework I’d been given. I tried to ignore the fact that my bed frame was still sitting untouched in the corner.
    My mind kept wandering back over the events of the day. Once or twice I looked out of my window, across to the Priory, wondering if I might catch sight of Emma. It was hard to even imagine a girl like that living in such an austere place.
    We ate in silence, apart from Dad’s occasional humming, and a brief conversation about what we could do with