Knife's Edge

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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.