Lucas pulls the car into a space close to the entrance of Barscore Bowling Alley at precisely 3.07pm. The derelict, beige exterior appears drab against the crisp, late May sunshine, and litter decorates the car park like a colourful school of lionfish, dangerous and invasive against a grey ocean of tarmac.

Desperate and impatient as I wait for Lucas to kill the engine, I scan my eyes around to see if I can spot Oscar's familiar, freckled face. Other than us, the place is pretty much deserted, with only a handful of cars and a large, ginger tomcat snoozing lazily on the bonnet of a beat-up blue Renault Clio.

There's no sign of Oscar.

"Come on," Lucas says as he retrieves his keys and pushes his door open. "Let's ask inside."

I take a deep lungful of air before following after him, bracing myself for whatever happens next.

The interior of the bowling alley is exactly the same as it was when I came here for my date with Dylan: tacky, shabby, and crapply lit.

The bowling lanes sit to the right of us as we enter, the paint-chipped pins at the end standing like meth-mottled teeth against the dark abyss behind them. The bar and counter sit on the left side of the room, lined with bottles of drinks of all strengths and colours.

A small diner with crappy plastic seats lives at the opposite end to the entrance, decorated in a gaudy yellow-meets-red combination that could cause seizures if you stare at it for too long. I've eaten there all of one time and I don't recommend it; I wouldn't put that food anywhere near my mouth again, not even if they paid me.

I quickly survey the place. There's a maximum of eight people inside the bowling alley, and my heart stutters when I realise I don't recognise a single one of them.

Some guy stands behind the bar – possibly only a year or two older than me – and he looks extremely bored as he stares gormlessly at the phone in his hand. A group of teenagers are midway through a game on lane one, and I would put money on it that they're skipping school because they can't be much older than Bailey. One of them, a girl in a leather jacket and patched jeans, bowls a strike. She gloats whilst her friends all flip her off, complaining that she's hustling them. Lastly, a couple sits in the diner area, picking away at their burgers as they discover for themselves just how abysmal the food here tastes.

Once upon a time, it had been Dylan and I sat at that very same table, wearing the exact same looks of disgust.

Lucas and I make our way over to the guy behind the bar, the picture of Oscar still displayed on my phone. As I get closer, I notice the faded bruise he wears around his right eye, the healing cut over his eyebrow that's partially hidden by his mop of greasy blonde hair, and the light spattering of acne on his chin. His name tag reads, 'Kyle'.

"Excuse me," I start, but that's as far as I get before Kyle interrupts.

"Ten pounds per player for an hour on a lane," he drawls in a bored voice, chewing on some gum and blowing a bubble with an obnoxious pop. He doesn't even bother to look up from his phone. "Shoes are an extra three quid to rent."

"We're not here to play," I tell him, trying with every ounce of my being to maintain a polite tone. "I was just wondering whether you've seen this boy?"

I show him my phone; he doesn't look away from his.

"Nope." He blows another bubble.

Unbelievable.

I stare at Kyle in disbelief, now failing to hold back my temper. I frown, about ready to slap the gormless moron. "Listen here, jackass–"

Lucas picks up a half-empty pint of beer from where it sits, abandoned on the bar, and drops the glass to the floor. Golden liquid, peppered with shards of glass, pools around the ground by his feet. He doesn't seem bothered by the beer now soaking into his trainers, though; his attention is solely on Kyle.

The loud smash makes Kyle jump – and my words cut out mid-sentence – and he flinches, surprised. He notices Lucas for the first time, looking up to meet his hard glare and, let me tell you... Kyle definitely doesn't look bored anymore.

"Luke," Kyle says meekly, standing straighter so he's no longer slouched against the counter as he stares, wide-eyed, at my pissed-off companion. He lets out a nervous laugh that sounds closer to a choke. "Hey, man! What are you... I mean – I didn't think you were due back here for a few more days yet. I've – I've got the money... sort of. Just not all–"

"Look again," Lucas interrupts Kyle's nervous rambling, his face a stony mask. He jerks his chin towards the phone in my hand.

"Right, right," Kyle says quickly, another nervous laugh bubbling from his chest. He rakes a hand through his hair. "Sure thing, man, sure."

I wait impatiently whilst Kyle takes a look at my phone, studying the picture of Oscar with complete focus. Then, he looks at me, then back at Lucas, his eyes darting nervously between the two of us. I don't miss the beads of sweat starting to clam up on his forehead, nor do I care.

"Sure, I've seen him..." Kyle answers carefully. "Fairly short kid, right?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, feeling the first, small surge of relief.

"Yeah," Kyle perks up at my enthusiasm, relieved that he's given us an answer we wanted to hear. "He was in here earlier with some older dude about..." he holds a shaky hand just above his head, "Yay high? The geezer was sporting this ratchet ass beard." He chuckles nervously again as his eyes return to Lucas.

"When did they leave?" I ask.

"I don't know..." Kyle trails off, looking uncomfortable now. "Not too long ago, I don't think. Maybe an hour? Maybe a bit more? Or, it could've been more like half an hour, now that I think about it. I don't know, man."

If Lucas hadn't already thrown it on the floor, I would be throwing that glass at Kyle's head right about now.

"Well, which is it?" I demand, frustrated. "Half an hour, an hour, or more than an hour?"

"Look," Kyle says, holding his hands up in defence, smiling a sheepish smile that neither I nor Lucas returns. "All I know is they were here long enough for the homeless-looking bloke to neck more than a few pints, and then they left."

My stomach drops out of my ass. Okay, not literally (because what a mess that would be for poor Kyle to clean up) but that's how it feels.

Oscar is alone with his dad – and his dad has been drinking.

"Did they say where they were going?" I ask next.

"I don't know," Kyle replies, starting to get a little agitated. "To be honest, I wasn't really paying attention, or keeping track of the time. I'm not the kid's babysitter–"

Kyle's sarcasm evaporates when Lucas's hand darts forward, grabbing hold of the front of his pit-stained polo. Lucas pulls him forward, pinning his front against the counter that separates us, and holds him in place.

"Okay, okay. Sorry, sorry," Kyle sputters, his face reddening. Lucas continues to hold onto his shirt in a silent warning to not say anything else stupid. "From what I can remember, the kid really didn't say much, at all. He was the quiet sort. The guy, though..." he trails off as he tries to think. "The bloke was rambling on about some shit about the kid's mom. Said she'd be happy to see him, or that she was looking forward to seeing him again – or something like that. I figured the pair of them were on holiday, that it was their last day here." He finishes with the lamest of shrugs and Lucas finally lets him go.

I stare at Kyle's dumb face, horrified, as I comprehend his stupidly thrown-together words. This time, my stomach falls through my ass, through the floor, and into the very depths of Hell.

"Who the fuck comes to Greencliff for a holiday?" I shriek. Then, I turn around and storm back towards the door, unable to stand around Kyle any longer for fear that his stupidity is catching.

"Hey, Luke?" I hear Kyle call out nervously. "Does this mean we're square now?"

"One week, Kyle," Lucas calls back, his voice close behind me. There's a silent, 'or else' at the end of that – a veiled threat that I'm sure has Kyle soiling his probably already three-day-old set of underwear.

The group of teenagers have paused their game, the couple no longer fussing over their food. All eyes watch as Lucas and I leave the building.

I slam the exit door open and walk back out into the sunlight, the brightness attacking my retinas after the ill-lit interior of the bowling alley. I walk past the car, along the front of the building, and stop next to a small, side alleyway that sneaks behind the diner's outer wall. The stench of rotten diner food – which smells only marginally worse than it did when first served – hits my nose but I don't care. In fact, I barely smell it as I stand here, trying to decide my next step.

Oscar isn't here. Oscar is with his dad and his dad's been drinking – my worst fears have just been confirmed. And what the hell did his dad mean, going on about his mum? She'd be happy to see him? The only conclusion I can draw from that statement is so awful I refuse to even entertain the idea.

This is bad. It's really, really bad.

Too many emotions churn inside my chest: fear, guilt, anger, frustration. They all mix together to create a feeling I can't even begin to try and name.

I cover my face with my hands and try not to cry. Crying is useless and a complete waste of time; it won't help.

But I don't know where to look now; I don't know where Oscar's dad might've taken him. I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to call Stella – and Owen, as I'd promised – to let them know that I haven't found him yet. I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to go home and look both Stella and George in the eye, knowing that this is completely my fault.

"Jade?"

I turn back as Lucas's voice speaks behind me, dropping my hands from my face. He's not looking at me though; he's looking past me, at something further down the alleyway.

"Is that him?"

I spin so fast I almost swoop an accidental three-sixty, my neck protesting a crick as my head forgets to move in time with the rest of my body. I curse in pain, placing a hand over the side of my neck, as I spot who Lucas is talking about.

At the far end of the alleyway, partially hidden behind a row of foul-smelling bins, sits a blonde-haired boy dressed in a Greencliff Academy uniform. His knees are pulled up to his chest as his head dips down to rest against them, and his arms are wrapped around his knees with such force that, even from this distance, I can see the stark white of his knuckles. Although he's curled in on himself, hidden from view, I let out a gasp of relief so harsh it almost knocks me to the floor.

It's the shoes, you see. I would recognise those scuffed, black Kickers anywhere.

Hope blossoms through my body as I call out his name.

Oscar looks up, his freckled face streaming with a mixture of tears and snot. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks blotchy, and my heart breaks worse than it ever did for Dylan when I see the extent of the damage.

Amongst the tears, I see bruises; amongst the snot, I see blood.

Oscar is bleeding from more than just his heart, this time. As far as I'm aware, this is the first time his dad has ever gotten physical.

"Jade!" he calls out, his voice stuffy from a bunged-up nose.

A bin tries to stand between us as I rush towards him – it doesn't stand a chance. I knock it over to get past and then I'm on the floor, kneeling on the grimy concrete to inspect Oscar's injuries.

The questions tumble out of me so fast they seem to blur together. "Are you okay? What happened? Where's your dad? What did he do to you? What are you doing down here? Can you stand? Are you hurt anywhere else? Oscar?"

Oscar stares at me, the light in his eyes much dimmer than I'm used to. He frowns and looks away from me, staring at the green fence next to us. He sniffs to clear out some of the blood before speaking.

"You were right, Jade. He ain't worth shit."

"What happened?" I ask, my voice softening. "Where is he?"

"Gone," Oscar replies, his voice hoarse with an inner pain much stronger than any of the bruises I can see on the surface. "I knew meeting him was a mistake as soon as I got here. He was chatting so much shit; he wasn't making any sense..."

"Oh, Oscar," I whisper, my heart pinching with pain as I notice him trying to mask his own. I can't tell if the mask is supposed to be more for my benefit or his.

"He hit me when I wouldn't get in the car with him. Then he just... left," Oscar lets out a bitter, twisted laugh. He shakes his head. "I don't know where he went."

I hug him then, clinging to him like I can somehow transfer all his pain into me instead. If I could, I would. I'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Never do that to me again," I whisper in his ear, still not letting go.

He nods against my shoulder and sniffles, his tears soaking through the thin material of my T-shirt.

"I'm sorry, Jade," he whispers back.

***

The drive home is quiet – and a little bit uncomfortable.

Oscar sits silently in the back of the car, lost to the monsters in his mind. He barely acknowledged Lucas when he offered to drive us both home, and he didn't say anything else as I opened the back door of the car and told him to hop in.

Please don't close yourself off, kid, I silently beg as I sit in the passenger seat, watching him in the wing mirror as he stares out the window, his head resting against the glass. Don't let that asshole break you.

I've already called Stella to tell her Oscar's safe. Owen was with her, now that the school day has officially ended, which meant he was there to hear the news. To say they were both relieved is an understatement.

Owen was crying – though I'm sure he'd deny it – and he wanted to speak to Oscar himself. Oscar didn't want the phone, though. He refused to take it and so I had to spend quite some time assuring Owen they'd be able to talk in person, soon enough, before finally ending the call.

My phone now pings in my hand as a new message from Owen lights up the screen.

'If you're still in the car with Greencliff's no.1 gangster, you'd better get him to park away from the house.'

I sigh and roll my eyes.

I never told him whose car we were in; I just told Stella we were on our way home. Owen must've ignored my orders earlier and turned back after we'd parted ways, just in time to see me get into the car with Lucas.

Idiot boy.

It's some solid advice, though. I'm sure Stella, George and Karen will be waiting outside for us as we arrive. Whether he helped me find Oscar or not, the sight of Lucas (or any of the Coleman's, for that matter) will only make things more stressful for everyone – Lucas included.

"Could you pull up by that post box?" I ask, motioning to the one at the end of the road we're on, just one turn away from our house.

Lucas does as I ask and, as we cruise past the opening to our street, I glance down it to see if my suspicions are correct.

"Oh, shit," Oscar says, finally brought out of his thoughts as he, too, glimpses the reason (the real reason) for why Owen warned us away from the house. The two words sum up the situation pretty damn accurately.

Outside our house, there sit several different cars – some I recognise, some I don't. George's silver Honda; Karen's red Fiat; a battered, vomit-coloured rust bucket; and, just in front of that one, a police car.

I was right about Stella, George and Karen. They do stand outside, talking to a pair of police officers dressed in high-vis jackets, who seem to be grilling them each with questions. Stella and George both look worried, whilst Karen looks tired and strangely plum-purple in the face, probably aware that she gets paid far too little to deal with this kind of crap-show.

I spot Bailey and Owen outside, too. They stand on the grass in their school uniforms, scowling at some man in a brown suit trying to talk to them, and they appear to be united – for the first time in their lives – over their hatred for the guy.

It's not hard to see why; the guy holds all the trademarks of someone from social: the ugly suit, the crappy car, and a smile that holds so much false cheer he could singlehandedly support a basketball team through to the finals.

Apparently, they don't think Karen's enough to handle this one – they've called in reinforcements.

Not good.

Lucas parks by the post box, no longer in view of the house. From the look on his face, he's relieved I didn't ask him to drive all the way, and I can't say I blame him.

Who would want to deal with this?

Not me, that's for sure.

Unfortunately, I don't have a choice.

"Oscar, tuck your shirt in," I tell him, pulling down the visor to check my forehead in the mirror. The bruising has pretty much faded now, only a faint tinge of yellow that I easily covered this morning with a thin layer of foundation.

Right now, presentability is the best chance we've got.

Oscar is way ahead of me, his school shirt already tucked in as his hands now comb through his hair. He swipes at the dried blood under his nose, his eyes revealing his panic as I twist in my seat to look at him.

"I'm in so much trouble, aren't I?" he asks in a small voice.

"I think we all are," I sigh.

I nod my head at the door next to him and he takes the hint, pushing it open and climbing out to wait for me on the pavement. "Um... thanks," he says awkwardly, the word directed at Lucas, before he shuts the door.

I turn back to the mirror in the visor, prepping myself for bright smiles and enthusiastic reviews on how great Stella's cooking is. Karen and this new guy (whoever he is) need to see that we're one big happy, entirely functional family.

"Thank you," I say to Lucas as I flip the visor back up. I glance over at him to find he's still staring out the windshield ahead, barely acknowledging me. He looks bored – detached – but I get the sense he's impatient to leave all this drama behind. "For everything."

I get a small nod and a muttered, "good luck," in response.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, curious. "Why did you help me?"

This time, I get a bigger response – one that includes eye contact.

"Because you helped my brother." He pauses, and then rephrases. "Two of my brothers, actually. So I thought I'd return the favour."

His answer makes a scary amount of sense to me.

Lucas, like me, isn't the sort of person who likes to owe anybody anything.

"Jade?" Lucas then says, right as I'm about to climb out of the car. He waits for me to look at him before he speaks again, his voice gravely serious and his gaze steady. His green eyes seem to pierce my very soul as I stare back in silent surprise. "You should never feel guilty about looking out for yourself – nobody else is going to. So, if you're serious about blowing out of this shitty town..."

He turns to look back out the front window, finally breaking eye contact as a muscle twitches in his jaw. 

"Then do it. Leave."

*********