Where the Missing Go

by Emma Rowley

  He colored at that. Bingo. So she was still around.

  “The thing about you, Mark,” I told him, “is that you are essentially. . . lightweight.”

  I turned my head away from his hurt expression. He’d never known how to fight dirty.

  After that, I just—withdrew. We were polite enough after that, moving around each other in our big house with care. It was just a matter of time. He eventually left after that dreadful first Christmas, with both of us wedged round Charlotte’s table trying to act normally for her boys. He told me we could sort out our stuff later, when things were more “settled.”

  The police investigation never ended, not officially. It’s not currently active, is how they’d put it. I only realized what the last meeting meant, on that gray February day, when I read about it in the local paper. But I should have known: they said I could have the postcards back and her runaway note, they had all the information they needed from them.

  When the third one arrived last summer—Austria this time, fresh mountains and gamboling lambs, the postmark London again—Kirstie took the details from me over the phone.

  I’m fine, I’m happy. I don’t want to come home, not yet. I hope you understand.

  Sophie xxx

  The same with the last one, roughly six months later, in January, this year.

  I’m OK, I’m looking after myself and I’m safe and well. Please give me space and time.

  Sophie xxx

  That was Venice, beaming gondoliers, with another London postmark. I’d thought a lot about her request for space and time. Did that mean she knew of my attempts to contact her, somehow?

  I imagined some quiet church somewhere, Sophie tanned—an inch taller, too, maybe—pausing, for a moment, and deciding to head in. Telling her companions—who? I pictured young men with scruffy beards, girls with long hair, in those global traveler clothes: baggy printed trousers, drooping cloth bags.

  She’d go in to light a candle—she used to like doing that—her steps slowing as she sees the poster, with her last school photo, that I’d stuffed into envelopes and sent out with notes asking churches to mention her in their services and to pin her picture to their walls. “Sophie,” it reads. “Come home.”

  Finally, my message has found its target. She walks closer, reaches out a hand to the paper....

  The cat mews, butting against my legs. He must be hungry again.

  Now, I stare at the messages in front of me, as familiar to me as nursery rhymes. She was always so sparky, but these are dutiful missives home—not to connect with those she’s left behind so much as to let us know that she’s safe, no need for any more panicked efforts to find her. Please leave me alone.

  I feel spacey, tired from the heat and what’s happened. I just sit, with the postcards and the note scattered in front of me, but not really seeing them. I must remember to take the washing in, when I can be bothered. The letters go out of focus, so they jump and swim before my eyes....

  It’s barely formed as a thought, but—I read downward, the first letter of each line, as they’re arranged on the first postcard, trying to let a pattern appear.

  I know you’ll be worrying.

  Please don’t. I’m safe

  and I’m well. I love you.

  Sophie xxx

  I, P, A . . .

  No. You’d have thought I would have learned by now. I’ve spent days in front of these cards, scrambling the letters, looking for anagrams and codes. There’s no hidden message here. I lean down to rub the cat’s ears. “Come on,” I say, feeling his skull hard under the silkiness. “Let’s get you fed.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Nighttime and I’m dreaming, again. I’m following Sophie through my house, as I always do, always a room behind, a step too slow.

  But this time it’s different. I can’t see her, I never do, but somehow I know, as you do in dreams, that it’s not the teenage Sophie, the coltish girl I’m chasing after. It’s toddler Sophie, all peachy chub, silken blonde curls, teetering into a run. And it’s not the house I know now, soft carpets and tastefully chic. It’s bare floorboards and half-painted rooms, like we’ve just moved in, or are about to leave.

  We’re playing a game. Shrieks of babyish laughter come from just outside the room, as joyful as sunshine. “One two three . . . ready or not, here I come!” And I rise from my hiding place behind the sofa and lumber toward her, my tread dramatically heavy on the bare floorboards. I still can’t see her, she’s still a step ahead, but I can hear her—the laughter comes again, high and uncontrolled.

  Only it’s too far away, I suddenly realize. She’s wandered further than she should, in such a big house. “Ready or not, here I come!” I call again, louder. “Sophie? Sophie!” My voice bounces around the empty rooms. But already the laughter’s silent, the house full of my echoes.

  When I wake, struggling out of sleep, it takes me a moment to remember where I am. That was so real, I can almost still hear the laughter.

  Another one, though—I thought these dreams had stopped, mostly. It must be the phone call, stirring things up again. I reach for the packet in my bedside drawer and swallow the pill down quickly, chased by a gulp of water from the glass by the bed. It will deliver me to the morning in one drugged whoosh. I can’t cope if I can’t sleep, and I can’t afford to get off track.

  I really will have to go tomorrow, after putting my appointment off again. I’m almost out of pills—I thought I could do without them. I turn over, and give my pillow a thump to plump it. Every time I go to the doctor half the waiting room seems to be checking me over, wondering if the strain’s cracked me up yet.

  Maybe it’s the light in here. I don’t keep my phone by my bed, I’ve read too many articles warning me about that wakeful electronic glare. But the moon is so bright tonight, you could almost read by it.

  A thought passes through my mind, just as I’m starting to relax a little.

  That there’s one small comfort to my dreams, at least. When I wake up, when I’m coming back to consciousness, there’s no moment of sinking horror as I remember my reality. I already know she’s gone.

  It’s too early for someone to be ringing, I think, as I stumble downstairs in my dressing gown. Whoever it is won’t just let it go to the house answerphone, keeps ringing off and trying again.

  “Hello?” My voice is scratchy with sleep.

  “Mrs. Harlow? Detective Inspector Nicholls. This call to the charity, from Sophie . . .”

  “Morning. And how are you?”

  “Fine. Now, did anyone hear you take the call?”

  “I told you all this already.” I prop myself up, glancing at the clock: it’s past nine. Not so early after all. That will be the pill. “Well, Alma was on the shift with me that night. She’d gone out. But I told her immediately after, when she got back into the office.”

  “And how long would you say the call took?”

  “I don’t know. It felt like a long time but—” I know how time can play tricks. “A minute, two?”

  He pauses. “How many people work on this helpline, would you say?”

  “I don’t know. Shouldn’t you ask them?”

  “Just a guess,” he says. “An estimate.”

  I twist my mouth. “Fifty?” Maybe more. Not everyone can hack it for long, they’re always looking for new volunteers. And of course we’re not full-time.

  “How many are normally on, would you say?”

  “I don’t know—three?” I like it on a Saturday night, when it’s just me and Alma: that’s quite enough sociability for me.

  “And how often do you shift there?”

  Now I see where he’s going. “I know, I’ve thought about this myself. It was so fortunate I picked up. Just think . . . If I’d missed that call. But—I guess it could have been anyone,” I finish.

  “Yes. Quite the coincidence, really,” he says. “And is it always that quiet—just you on your own?”

  “No,” I say, “not at all, but Saturday nights, t
hat’s when they can get away with just the two of us. It’s not a very big set-up, the helpline. There’s a call-waiting system.” We don’t normally need to use it.

  He nods. “That’s what the charity told me.” So he has been checking up. On me?

  “So have you found the call?” I say.

  “We’re still looking into it.”

  “Because I had a thought. . . .” I tell him about the pregnancy test that might have been Sophie’s; that her friend Holly’s mentioned it to me.

  “And you think a pregnancy scare would . . . what? Have made her run away?”

  “It sounds stupid, put like that,” I say. I can feel my face heating up. “No, I don’t. I just thought I should—let you know. In case it had been a factor.”

  “Ah, well, of course. It’s good to know,” he says, his voice neutral. “But I would suggest that you don’t try to take investigations into your own hands. That’s rarely . . . helpful.”

  “OK, well. It was just a chat, really, I—”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Harlow.” And he hangs up.

  I’m still annoyed when I head out—the phone call distracted me, and then I realized I had to rush. But the GP surgery’s not far, just the other side of Vale Dean, in Amberton. I’m not supposed to go too long without a check-up recently.

  Maybe that was the biggest shock of all: realizing that life doesn’t stop. That you have to keep on keeping on, and not just in that stiff-upper-lip way I’d vaguely imagined: managing a smile while people offer you sympathy. I mean in the way of just keeping up with all the tasks and chores that life offers: bills, insurance claims, keeping food in the cupboards, doctors and dentists and the rest of it.

  “Kate,” says Dr. Heath, as I sit down in the chair by his desk, “you look so tired.”

  “Oh thanks,” I say. “Never tell a woman she looks tired!” I sound like some coy auntie at a Christmas party. “It always means you look terrible.”

  “No,” he says. His pleasant face is serious. “I don’t mean that.”

  “No, of course not, I was just joking.”

  He’s nothing special, Dr. Heath—tall, glasses, that no-color hair that’s not fair or dark—it’s not that. I just don’t like having a male doctor. Not for the first time, I think I should ask to switch to a GP who’s not my age. Someone nearing retirement, or straight out of medical school. Preferably female.

  Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe he just knows too much about me.

  “So how are things?” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “All right,” I say slowly, avoiding his gaze, looking at the photo he has framed over his desk: a glittering nighttime cityscape. He lived in Sydney for a while, he told me once: I think he understands why I can find village life difficult. “I’m still using the pills.”

  “And how’s that working?”

  “They help, definitely. I had a couple of bad nights, recently.”

  “Bad nights?”

  I take a deep breath. “There’s been a lot going on. I’ve told you that I work at this helpline, sometimes?” He nods. And then I explain, quickly, about Sophie’s call to the helpline. I try not to sound too emotional about it. I’ve got to seem reasonable, in front of him.

  He listens, frowning in concentration. “Of course, well, I can see why you might be struggling. That’s understandable.” He looks at his computer screen. “And you’re not mixing the medication with alcohol in any way? You’re absolutely sure about that?”

  “Nope. All fine.” I shake my head for emphasis. There is nothing like denying you have a problem to make it sound like you have a problem.

  “OK. Well, for now, if you still think you need them, I’m happy to renew your prescription.” It’s anxiety and insomnia, officially. A fun combination. “But you shouldn’t really be waking up on your dosage.”

  “You see, I was trying to cut back.”

  “Perhaps for now, while you’re feeling under pressure, you need that crutch. Why don’t you stick to the prescription, and then we can see about tapering off, sensibly, in due course.”

  I can feel myself sag with relief. He’s always been supportive, even after—everything.

  “But the side effects?” I ask. “I read that you shouldn’t be on them for more than a few months and”—I can feel myself growing pink—“it’s been a bit longer than that.”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing that you need to worry about.” He glances at the screen. “But it says here in your notes that I referred you to a grief counselor. Remind me, are you still seeing her?”

  He knows I’m not, but is too polite to call me out. “We’re taking a bit of a break at the moment.”

  “Kate . . .” He looks at me over his glasses. “Medication is one thing, but it’s important to tackle the root of the problem. If that counselor didn’t work, there are others, you know, you might just not have had the right chemistry. There’s a waiting list, but it’s certainly worth referring you. Shall I?”

  “Well, why not,” I add, slightly sourly: “But the root of the problem is hard to get to, isn’t it? She’s not come back.”

  “I can’t imagine . . . but I’m always here to help.”

  Maybe it’s because he’s not someone I’m close to, something in me can unlock. “I just feel like I’ve failed, in every way. I failed her, as a mother. And I’m still failing her, even now. Because I haven’t found her.” I can feel the tears welling up, never that far from the surface.

  He leans forward, his blue eyes concerned behind the glass. “I know.” I’ve told him before. And nothing ever changes. “I just think if we can get you to some . . . acceptance of the situation—your new reality—you might feel a little better. I know it won’t make it right. But you might feel more at peace with what’s happened, if that’s the way to put it. That’s why I really feel returning to counseling might help.”

  I don’t want to accept it, I want to scream. I will never accept my daughter going away; you shouldn’t ask me to. I told you: she just phoned me.

  “OK,” I say. I’m already regretting my outburst. So I shift in my seat and do the British thing. I change the subject. “OK. Also, I wanted to ask . . .” I take a deep breath. “If Sophie had had a pregnancy scare before she ran away, would you have a record of that?”

  He sits up straighter. “And what makes you think she was pregnant?”

  “Oh, I don’t. Not really. Just something her friend said.”

  But it’s been preying on my mind all morning. What if, what if. What if it was more than a pregnancy test, if that result wasn’t what she told Holly. The trauma of going through that alone. A procedure. That could explain a lot, perhaps....

  “Well,” he says. “That’s not necessarily something her doctor would know about.” He pauses. “Patient confidentiality is important, of course. But I think you can understand that perhaps she’d be unlikely to raise it with me, as her family’s doctor.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. I get what he’s saying: she didn’t tell him anything. “And there are a lot of other options. Young people’s services. Clinics.”

  “Of course.” I knew it was a long shot. I start getting my stuff together, aware that my ten minutes must be up.

  “But you’ve mentioned this to the police?”

  “Yes, I mentioned it, to this detective. He didn’t seem to think it was important.”

  He frowns. “I would have thought all the details were important, even now.”

  “You think?” I feel vindicated—and a little worried. “Thanks. And I won’t leave it so long next time.”

  “Any time.”

  CHAPTER 12

  There’s no wind, only a few puffs of cloud hanging high and still in the sky, as I drive through Amberton. Surely there will be a storm soon, this weather’s got to break. It’s not far at all to where I’m going, but I notice the change, the houses getting smaller, less cared for, as the town merges into the outskirts of the city.

  I was already nearly home, when
I decided, and turned back in the direction I’d come.

  I’m going to try to see Danny, Sophie’s old boyfriend, and ask him about what Holly said. I’ve been wondering if I am just being ridiculous, after what DI Nicholls said on the phone. Then I realized I was wasting time, and got angry with myself. Just do it.

  There’s a body in the garage, half under a car on a rig, as I drive in. That’ll be Danny’s grandad, Len. I came here a couple of times before it all happened, I was always pranging my big car before I got used to it, and keeping it quiet from Mark. So I knew him to speak to, I would nod if I saw him around.

  Afterward I stopped coming. But that could mean anything, I might not have needed my car seeing to. I’ve a vague idea that I’ll book the car in for an MOT, its annual safety test, then see if Danny’s about. Something tells me he won’t be as amenable as Holly, so I decided, well, not to ask him if he’d meet me. I’ve got my running kit on, so I can run home after leaving my car.

  I park in the small paved forecourt. An old collie uncurls itself from beside the garage doors and barks twice, more out of habit than warning.

  As I step toward the open garage doors, Len’s already emerging from under the car, wiping his hands on his overalls. He can’t be much older than me, really, but he looks it. His hair’s gone gray since I saw him last.

  “Morning. What can I do for you today?” There’s not a flicker of recognition.

  “Hi, um, I don’t know if you remember me but I’m Kate Harlow, my—”

  “I know who you are.” His expression remains blank.

  “Oh right.” The collie runs up and starts nosing my crotch. I push it away gently. “Well, my car needs an MOT.”

  He nods toward the office. “Step in and we’ll fill out the paperwork. It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

  “The paperwork or the MOT?” He doesn’t laugh as I follow him in. “So is Danny around?”