Where were any of them? All those hopeful, energetic people who’d jumped on a train into Euston or Paddington or London Bridge, the bright-eyed ones who’d grown up different, who didn’t fit into the small towns in Dorset or Gloucestershire, who felt hemmed in by Nottingham or Leeds. Because this was where they all came, wasn’t it? Even the privileged ones like David and Jules. They were all modern-day Dick Whittingtons come to see if the streets really were paved with gold.
Even Josie.
She crossed the wide thoroughfare of Liverpool Road, always strangely empty compared to its glitzy neighbour, thinking about Karen trapped in her home town, struggling to keep her head above water, no support network, alone. Well, she had Josie, at least. Someone to tuck in at night, someone to tell stories to. Stories about evil Aunt Amy, the black-hearted fairy-tale queen in the golden palace. It sounded crazy, because it was,
and yet it made perfect sense too.
But had Josie really been behind her fall? Sure, Karen had given her daughter the motivation, but that wasn’t a smoking gun, was it?
Amy turned the corner, stopping outside a small, scruffy block of flats. For a moment, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Blue lights bouncing off the white walls, an ambulance and a police car blocking the road, a small crowd gathered, their faces grim. Increasing her pace, she walked up to a woman in a cardigan at the back.
‘What’s happened? Has there been an accident?’
‘Some young girl in one of those flats,’ said the woman. ‘Taken an overdose, looks like.’
‘Overdose?’ Amy felt a shiver of panic but tried to convince herself that plenty of young women lived in that block of flats. ‘Is she . . .’
‘Dead? Nah,’ said the woman. ‘Flatmate came home and found her, apparently. Called 999. They brought her out on a stretcher and loaded her in the ambulance a few minutes ago. Such a shame; pretty thing too.’
Amy crossed to the opposite pavement, but her way was blocked by a young policeman, who gave a weary sigh and gestured back the other way. ‘Nothing to see, madam, please keep moving.’
‘But I need to get past. I’m going to number twelve.’
The policeman looked at her properly for the first time. ‘Number twelve? Who were you coming to see?’
‘Josie Price,’ said Amy, her heart starting to speed up. ‘Why? Is there something wrong?’
The policeman shook his head and waved a gloved hand. ‘I think you’d better talk to my colleague.’
An older WPC walked over, her face set. ‘You know the lady at number twelve? May I ask your relationship?’
Amy paused for a beat and looked across at the ambulance.
‘I’m her old friend Amy.’
In the bright fluorescent light of the hospital room, Josie looked so young. Seventeen, eighteen at most. Lying there so peacefully, eyes closed, no make-up, she was a dead ringer for the girl Amy had so often shared a bed with, sleeping off the night before, wrapped up in their shared adventures. Where had it all gone so wrong? She and Karen had been as close as two girls could be, sharing everything. Yet had it all been so perfect? Nostalgia always took the edges off things, didn’t it? You remembered the belly laughs, but never the screaming rows. The funny thing was, Amy had always thought of Karen as the leader of their little clique; she’d been the bossy one, the one with all the ideas. And many of the dreams Amy had had as a girl had been Karen’s too. Karen hadn’t loved Westmead either; she had yearned to leave, to ‘climb the barbed wire’, as she’d put it, to go to Europe or Thailand or Australia – anywhere but where they were. And yet Amy was the one who had gone. Was that what had made her friend so bitter, so angry that she’d poisoned her daughter’s mind from the crib?
She reached out to touch Josie’s hand, lying motionless on the white sheet, the ugly lump of the drip taped to the back. Whatever she’d done, she was still just a screwed-up little girl, as lost as her mother ever was. But what had made her so miserable that she’d taken an overdose? At least half a bottle of Valium, according to the doctor who’d pumped her stomach. Was it guilt? No, that didn’t fit the profile. Someone driven to revenge didn’t suddenly turn around and have an attack of conscience at the eleventh hour. Fear of exposure? Amy shook her head. Who would care even if they did know? Spreading rumours wasn’t exactly a capital offence, was it?
She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that Josie had opened her eyes and was looking at her.
‘Josie! God, you startled me,’ she said, pulling her hand back as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. ‘I didn’t know you were awake.’
Josie gave a wan smile. ‘Not sure I am really,’ she croaked. ‘What did they give me?’
‘I think it’s the stuff still left in your system, though the doctor said you’d probably have slept most of it off by now.’
‘Bit of a headache,’ she said, shuffling backwards to sit up. ‘Can I have something to drink?’
Amy handed her a cup of water and Josie took it gratefully.
‘This is where you say, “You’ve got some explaining to do, young lady”,’ she said bleakly.
Amy shook her head. ‘No one’s angry at you, Josie, we’re all just glad you pulled through.’
‘Do you really mean that?’
She had a point. There were times during the past two weeks when Amy had almost wished her dead, had blamed her for everything that had gone wrong in her life, but right now, she would give anything to make sure she was all right.