by Emma Rowley
I’d actually blushed.
She’d moved it after that. I hadn’t checked where—I’d felt so guilty—but I’d never seen it again. After she left, we looked, of course we did—the police too, after we mentioned it—but there was so much that was missing. She could be ruthless in throwing things away.
“I haven’t seen it for a long time,” I say now. “Where on earth did you find this?”
“Amberton Grammar called in. There’s a common behind the school, behind its own grounds?”
“Yes, I know it. The kids play sport on it sometimes, and there’s cross-country.” I’d gone to watch Sophie run a couple of times. It’s a huge grassy field, far too uneven to mark a pitch, fringed by scrubby trees.
He nods. “The school secretary rang us. Apparently a dog walker saw it and handed it in—he thought it must belong to one of their pupils. Of course the woman in the office knew who Sophie was, and so it came to our attention.”
“Can I have a look at it?”
“Let me.” I notice now that he’s wearing those plastic gloves. He opens it at the front page. “Do you recognize this as Sophie’s handwriting?”
“Oh,” I say. “She’s filled in all her details.”
It’s one of those old-fashioned diaries asking you for your name, address and the rest. I don’t remember her having filled it in when I’d seen it before. I follow the script with my eyes, relishing the familiarity of those shapes, her letters all fat round bubbles and short spiky stems.
Name: Sophie Harlow
Age: 15
Address: Oakhurst, Park Road, Vale Dean, Cheshire.
Contact details: [email protected]
He holds the paper down. She’s used blue ballpoint pen, pressing down hard. She always wrote like she’d punch through the paper, her teachers gave up trying to get her to use a fountain pen—too many bent nibs.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s definitely her writing.” I frown: there’s something about it . . . but he’s already turning the pages, then he stops.
12 November, 2015
Hockey today. Freezing cold rain. Mrs. Wilson—that was her PE teacher—was on at me again. Can you try harder, what’s wrong with your attitude. I wasn’t in the mood. It was too cold. Holly had skipped it. She said I should too. Took the dog for a walk. So much homework.
I nod. You’d never guess it from reading these entries what was to come.
He keeps flicking through the pages, slowly. But the words stop meaning anything. How can this have happened to us, I think, yet again. How can this be my life? Disassociation, my counselor called it—I’ve refused to accept my reality. She told me so, in the months straight after.
“Mrs. Harlow?” I’ve almost forgotten he’s here.
He raises his eyebrows, letting the pages flutter back round.
“It’s hers. Can I look myself, now?” I reach out again, wanting just to touch something of Sophie’s.
“Just a moment, please.” His gloved hand hovers over the diary. “You see, there’s some detail in it that surprised us.” He pauses. “Did Sophie tell you she was pregnant?”
“No, she didn’t,” I reply automatically. “I mean—No, she wasn’t pregnant.”
“She thought she was, according to this,” he says. “So you didn’t know then?”
“That—that’s never been a line of inquiry.” The phrase, out of officialdom, sounds somehow false in my mouth. “I mean, her friend—Holly Dixon from school—I told you I spoke to her the other day. She said that Sophie took a pregnancy test, yes. But that it was negative.”
“I see.” Carefully, he starts to leaf through the pages again and I crane to see Sophie’s handwriting. But soon they go blank—charting the months after she caught me, I realize. The new year’s empty.
But only for a while, I realize. Nicholls stops, then turns the diary around so it’s facing me, and pushes it closer. In thick blue ballpoint pen, the words are almost etched into the pages.
10 April, 2016
I haven’t written in this for a bit. She found it. I didn’t feel the same afterward. But now I just need to tell someone, even if it’s just this stupid diary.
Mum found the test, too. She’s such a nosy bitch.
Holly took the blame. But I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I don’t really want to tell Danny. He won’t react well, but he’s got a right to know, I suppose. I wish I could just get away—I just need to have some time to think. I’ve had enough of all this.
He turns the page. She’s left a few days blank, then just one line:
I was right. I saw another side to him this time. He scared me, a bit, that’s all. It’s silly, really.
“Is this Sophie’s handwriting, Mrs. Harlow?” His tone is neutral.
My thoughts are a tangle. “Yes. Yes it is.”
“There’s not many references to it. Just a few entries after she found out. You said her friend said it was her test?”
“That evening. Yes.” I feel hot and cold, my head buzzing. He won’t stop talking: “There’s something else.” Does he look uncomfortable, just for a second? “This pregnancy test she did, she writes about having to ‘fix it.’ This is the bit.” He finds the section and holds the pages open for me. The first couple of lines come into focus.
22 April
So now it’s all sorted. It was horrible. But I do feel relieved. I went to school after, it was like it had never happened really. I said I’d not felt well, I’d had to go to the doctor, which was kind of true. No one checked.
No one knows anything.
I know though. I just wish I could get away. Start afresh.
And on the following page, another entry:
Danny’s being difficult again. I thought if I did what he wanted, fixed things, he’d back off, but I don’t know.
So I’ve decided, I’m going to go. I want to live a different life. I’ve got a plan. I can work, cash in hand somewhere. Then later, maybe I can go abroad. I don’t know how, not yet. But there will be a way. A new start, just until I’m feeling better about everything.
I just can’t keep on like nothing’s happened.
I’m not sure what I’ll tell him. If I should tell him.
P.S. I’m going to stop writing in this, too risky. I need to hide it. Somewhere she won’t find it.
“There’s nothing after that,” he says.
“Can I take it home?” Tears are thickening my voice. It’s a piece of Sophie, my daughter.
“We’ve got to keep hold of this, for now.”
“So you’ll be investigating again?”
“The case was never closed, of course.” I give him a look—he must know that nothing was happening anymore. “But we’ll be making a few inquiries.”
“In what way? Danny said they didn’t sleep together. He told me to my face. Do you think—Do you think he did something bad?” My breath quickens, but he’s shaking his head.
“We’ve no reason to think that. But it might be a little clearer now why Sophie’s gone, and why she’s stayed away so along.”
Danny, I think. Or us? How we’d react?
“She sounds so angry,” I say.
“I know this must have been hard to read. But you’ve done the right thing: letting us know about the call, and about your concerns. Because it meant that Sophie was on our radar again, when the diary got handed in. These things shouldn’t get missed, of course, but sometimes the significance isn’t always quite obvious.. . .”
I can picture it. The diary handed in, dutifully put in a file, left somewhere safe with a note for Kirstie to look at it, maybe return it to the family, once she was back from maternity leave. If she ever did come back. The thought chills me; how lucky they realized what it meant.
“So you think that’s why she ran away? Because she was scared? Or that he scared her off?” I can’t square it with Danny, that quiet figure. But, unbidden, I see his grandfather Len’s red, spitting face.
“I’ll let you know when I’ve information I can
share,” says Nicholls, standing up.
I do the same. There’s so much to take in. “So what happens now?”
“We’d better take down a statement, confirming what you’ve told me about the diary, and the pregnancy test and the rest of it. My colleague will do that now, if you can just wait in here.”
“OK.” Outside there’re voices, one getting louder. “But I mean, longer term, what happens?”
“I’ll keep you informed,” he says.
The words outside are suddenly clear: “. . . Well, why? Why can’t you tell me—”
Mark. “Sophie’s dad—he’s here too?”
“I didn’t think, necessarily, that you’d want to speak to me together,” he says, his tone dry. “If you’d prefer not to see him now—”
I hear a woman’s voice now, quieter, then his rises over it: “Well, I’m a busy man, you know. If you ask me to come in . . .”
“It’s fine,” I tell Nicholls. I pull open the door and Mark’s right there in the corridor, an officer behind him, only her sharply arched eyebrow betraying her annoyance.
“Kate,” he says, startled. “And you”—rudely, as Nicholls steps past me—“I believe I need a word with you. Well? What’s happening?”
“Mrs. Harlow?” The officer is holding the door open for me. “I’m Detective Sergeant Hopper. Shall we go in?”
I follow her back into the room. I forgot how Mark gets when he’s flustered, reverting to his most pompous. At least it saves me having to talk to him myself.
Afterward I stand outside the station, leaning on the wall, and breathe in big gulps of the evening air, cool in my lungs. The statement didn’t take that long really. I’ve done it before.
She was good, the officer who took it, very thorough. She got everything down that I remembered about the night I found the test, what Holly said the other day, then Danny, and ran through again why I know it’s Sophie’s diary, how certain I am it’s my daughter’s. But I feel like I’ve run a 10k, my legs shaky.
Now I’ve time to think, my body’s reacting to what I’ve heard. Sophie. My little girl, scared. Alone. I can’t bear it. And Danny—what did he do? Threaten her, scare her—what?
But at least now we know. We are getting closer to what happened, what drove her away. This is it, this is what I wanted. Things are moving again. It was never going to be easy.
I breathe in, out again, then I straighten up. So maybe this is what it feels like. Progress.
CHAPTER 16
Over the weekend, it gets hotter still. The sky’s a glorious, cloudless blue by the time Monday lunchtime arrives, the weather hitting a new high for the month: 30°C. The light in the kitchen is shaded green-gold from the sunlight in the garden, as I linger over the salad I’ve made for lunch.
On the radio, people are talking about how to survive the heat—this is no day to be stuck in an office, they’re joking, employers can expect a record number of sickies. It doesn’t make much difference to me, with no job to go to. But for the first time in a while I think, perhaps it’s time to look into my options up here, seriously. And the thought doesn’t fill me with horror.
I didn’t go into the helpline on Saturday night. I’d finally heard from them: I had a voicemail saying I wouldn’t be needed—not from Alma, but from someone higher up. She wasn’t a volunteer, I could tell by her tone. It’s best if I don’t come in given the strain of recent events.
I know they’re not happy that I went straight to the police about Sophie’s call or tried to get them to trace it. But then it’s an unusual situation, taking a call from your own relative. I imagine that they’re already arranging meetings about it, drawing up good practice guidelines for this eventuality, too.
Anyway, I’ve been busy these past few days, for me.
I’ve had to go back to the station again. Detective Sergeant Hopper, the woman officer who took my statement, rang, asking me to bring in handwriting samples, in case they’re needed to verify the diary. I diligently dug out old exercise books, birthday cards I can’t look at anymore. Happy Birthday Mum. To the best mum in the world. And the older ones, crayoned on folded card in careful childish letters: Mummy. I love you. Sophie xxx.
And, of course, the postcards home, carefully protected in a brown envelope.
“That’s more than enough, Mrs. Harlow,” she’d said, but with a smile. “Thanks for all this.”
She’s nicer than Nicholls. She said they don’t even need to keep it all, that I could go and pick the stuff up later.
I ran this morning and yesterday, despite the heat, enjoying the feeling of my legs moving and my lungs pumping, before coming home sweaty and tired. I checked in on Lily. She was slow and sleepy, said I’d woken her up from another nap. She’s not a complainer but even she doesn’t like this heat.
And this afternoon I put music on loud, and started to tackle the pile of bills I’ve let pile up in the hall. I don’t spend much, obviously, and Mark hasn’t tried to get me out, yet—perhaps he feels too guilty—but I suppose this can’t go on forever. I even replied to some emails, friends in London who are dutifully trying to keep in touch, despite my silence. Baby steps, back into the world.
Most of all, I have been trying not to dwell. To trust in the process. It sort of works, if I just keep moving. It was just bad luck that when I drove round this morning, to pick up the envelope from the front desk at the police station, Holly was there too. She was smoking a cigarette outside as I walked out of the building.
I didn’t know whether to pretend I hadn’t seen her, but she decided for me. She came straight up to me, too close, her breath warm in my face—nicotine and sweet mints. “You’ve got to stop this,” she said. “You’ve got to make them understand. That they’ve got this all wrong.”
“How’ve they got this wrong, Holly?”
“You need to tell them that I got mixed up. That it was my test, that I didn’t mean it.” She’d been crying, the skin red round her eyes. “Tell them it was mine. Please.”
“I’ve got to tell the truth,” I said gently.
I hesitated for a second, then walked on. I could hear her behind me, little hopeless sniffs. She didn’t follow me.
So she’s saying it was her pregnancy test, now. I suppose that’s to be expected, to protect her boyfriend. I don’t blame her, not really. He must be such a good liar. She probably believes him.
I don’t think they’ve arrested Danny, anyway, I think it’s just questioning—for now. I’m not sure how much they have to tell me, or they want to tell me, at this stage.
Even I could have sworn he was telling the truth, in the garage. But I called Dad again, this morning. He said I shouldn’t worry about it, to try to keep my mind off it, for now. I’ve updated him on everything that’s happened with the diary, the renewed police interest. I didn’t tell him how I had started looking into things myself, he’d only warn me off, tell me to leave all that unpleasantness to the professionals. Besides, that’s over now.
He wants to come and stay, or for me to promise to come and visit soon. They can both come, him and Charlotte, without the kids, he suggested.
“I worry about you, Kate, on your own there.”
“I’m fine, Dad. You don’t need to worry. I really am fine.”
“But I do. Charlotte too, you know.”
“I know, Dad.”
But it’s an old conversation, the two of us settling into its well-worn grooves. Almost reassuring. Things feel back to normal, almost. My normal.
I’ve nearly finished sorting through all my post and am sitting at the kitchen table, pleased with myself, when I notice the brown envelope in my bag on the side. The stuff back from the station. I should go through it now, rather than let it turn into something that I won’t want to deal with for months on end.
Quickly, I go over and tear it open, pouring the contents back onto the table. Sophie’s exercise books I’ll put back where I keep them on her bookshelf, the birthday cards into my special keepsake box in th
e living room, and the postcards—the postcards I’ll put back on the mantelpiece as usual. Done. This is the way to get things done, I tell myself, without turning everything into a Herculean task.
But instead I spread the postcards onto the table in front of me. All her familiar messages. I wish I had the diary, too. Maybe they’ll let me have it soon. I try to remember the messages, the exact wording, he showed me—but it was all so quick, I barely had time to take it all in.
All I can picture is that frontispiece, her name and personal details. I’m remembering now: something about it, what was it, just seemed a little off. . . .
Name: Sophie Harlow
Age: 15
Address: Oakhurst, Park Road, Vale Dean, Cheshire.
Contact details: [email protected]
Something cold slithers down my spine. That wasn’t her email address.
Not the one I know anyway, the one I’ve logged into so many times, the contents I know as well as my own. Now I get up and head to the study upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time. I switch on the computer and log into my email. The folder’s called “Sophie,” where I keep all the emails she sent me. There aren’t that many of course, she didn’t have much reason to email me. Just stuff she thought I’d enjoy: silly local news stories, funny animal videos.
Yes, I was right. [email protected]. They’re all from this email address, the one we gave the police and the one they went through. She hadn’t even bothered to close the window on her laptop, when they came to take it away.
Maybe she got it wrong, I think, she just filled in the wrong thing. Yaymail not gogomail. That’s easy to do: there’s so many of these email services about; this one comes with our broadband, I seem to remember. But even as I think that I’m shaking my head: she was sixteen years old when she left; if she knew anything, she knew what her email address was.