by Emma Rowley
“Maybe she doesn’t want to, I don’t know why,” I say, realizing now that I can’t tell them what I really think: that that call was meant for me, somehow. “Or maybe she’s worried she’ll be in trouble. . . .”
“Kate, I know this has been so hard for you,” he says. “But . . .
“This isn’t right.” Charlotte interrupts. “What you’ve just said, do you realize how paranoid you sound? The police inspector is against you, acting oddly? What next, it’s a cover-up?”
The realization’s sinking in now, my hopeful energy dissipating.
“You’re not here to help me.”
They eye each other warily. “We do want to help you, Kate, love, of course we do,” says Dad. “But we really feel that you’re not coping.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” I say.
Charlotte shakes her shiny bob, her arms crossed. She always gets angry when she’s upset. “I wish you could hear yourself. See yourself.” I look down at my hoodie and bare feet; I know my hair’s unbrushed. “I told you, Dad—”
He interrupts now: “You were right, it’s history repeating. I’m so sorry, Kate, we should have done more; before, after Mark left, and you had all that trouble. Now”—he shifts on his feet—“we did hear he’s got a new partner, so perhaps it’s not surprising that you’re finding things so hard right now. . . .”
“I don’t care about that! I mean I do but not compared to this.” I can feel the headache coming, the heaviness thudding behind my eyes. “That’s why you’ve come to see me,” I say dully. “But I don’t need looking after. I need help, yes. To find my daughter. Why won’t you listen to me?”
“Kate!” says Charlotte, frustrated. “This—this story you’ve just told us, and now? Someone’s broken in, with no sign of anything gone?” I can see her trying to keep calm, never her strongest point. “I’m scared, honestly I am. You’re delusional. You need help, serious help. He said—”
“Charlotte,” Dad cuts in, a warning note in his voice.
“No, Dad, it’s OK,” says Charlotte. “Kate, when you didn’t want us to take the overdose any further; I thought we were helping, but we weren’t. We’ve allowed all this to get out of hand.”
“How can you say that?” I am not letting her do this. “You know that was an accident, not a real—God—attempt to do anything. And I am OK: I don’t have a problem with pills, I’m careful.” Why is she being like this? “You know, I’ve only been using them to help me sleep, and not even that recently.” A thought strikes me now, chilling me: “Why do you think I woke up in the night and heard whoever it was in my house?” And what if I had taken a pill, as so often I have in the past? And the creak of the floorboard hadn’t woken me, instead the door knob had just kept turning silently, as I slept on.... I suppress a shudder. I can’t think about this now. “Everything I’ve found out, everything that’s happened: why won’t you believe me?”
Charlotte looks at Dad, then back to me. “You should have been getting proper, professional help, Kate. A psychiatrist, not this grief coach who you never see anyway.”
Finally my temper flares, the strain and fear of the night, the anger at the officers just now, spilling out. “I know why you’re doing this. You’ve always been jealous of me and what I had. Now you’ve got a chance to cut me down, you just couldn’t wait, could you?”
Charlotte takes a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears. “Maybe I was . . . jealous, once. But who would be now?” I flinch.
I can almost see her wresting back control of herself, as she becomes composed again. “I don’t think it’s healthy to do this; we need to sort this properly. Not here, not this way.” She steps toward the hallway, grabbing her bag off the side. “Dad, I’m leaving. Now. I think you should come with me.”
“Kate, I never meant . . .” He looks at me, appealing.
“We’ll talk later,” I manage to say. I can’t bear him looking this upset. “We’ll sort it out. Let’s just—have a little break.” I don’t move as I hear the engine start up, then Charlotte roaring off, no care for the gravel scratching her paintwork this time. I went too far, I think, even as another part of me says, no: why wouldn’t she believe me? What’s got into her? I lean back against the countertop, the headache pulsing behind my eyes.
So here I am again, alone.
No, worse than I was.
No police on my side. No family. It’s all on me now.
To find her.
CHAPTER 35
Sophie
You’d think it would have changed everything: his hands around my neck; the slap to my face. And it did for me. But the next time he came round, he just acted like nothing had happened, setting down the bag of food and starting to unpack. So I went along with it, following his lead. I didn’t want to. But it was easier.
Safer.
We pretended he didn’t notice how nervous I was now, how jumpy.
And the days passed, lengthened into weeks, then months, then longer. I cried, when he wasn’t here. Because he didn’t like it when I cried. Through the skylight, I charted the passing of the seasons by that patch of sky: winter white; a green leaf blowing past, heralding spring; scattered clouds, then the long blue of summer, giving way to gray. Eventually, the dull white of winter again.
I couldn’t forget what had happened, though. Now that I’d seen it, what lies underneath.
I knew he didn’t either. He stayed away longer, leaving days between his visits. When he does come here now, it’s never for long.
The really sick thing is, even now, we’re still pretending: that this isn’t what it is.
It was spring this year, when he’d turned up in the evening, looking pleased with himself. He had a plastic carrier bag in his hand, but it was too empty to be the usual food delivery.
He didn’t say anything as he handed it to me, where I was sitting on the mattress. I knew by his air of expectation how I had to react—that it’d be a bad idea to be less than enthusiastic.
It was just a little puddle of fabric inside, fuzzy and pink. “My blankie,” I said. “Isn’t it?” I pulled it out to smell it. Home. I looked down so he couldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.
“Thank you,” I managed. “But how did you—how did you get this?”
“Don’t you like it?” There was an edge in his voice, familiar by now.
“Yes, of course,” I said. I tried to make my face happy. “I missed this.”
That was the wrong thing to say. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, after all. I try to do these nice things for you.” He sighed heavily. “Your parents spoiled you, that’s the problem.” I hate it when he starts like this. I think he genuinely believes what he’s saying.
I was shocked the first time: “A spoiled little princess,” he’d called me. I forget why, I hadn’t kept the place tidy enough, or got up quickly enough when he came in.
“But you said . . .” I’d trailed off at the look on his face, even as I thought of all the times before, when he’d told me the opposite: how it wasn’t fair how my parents treated me, that I needed looking after properly.
“Thank you, really. It’s so clever of you to get it,” I said carefully. I wanted to cringe at how transparent I was, but his shoulders relaxed. “I’d never have dared it.” He liked that too. “I’d have thought it would be hard for you to get in. . . .” I wasn’t going to ask how.
“It wasn’t too difficult.” He picked up the remote and changed the channel.
So did someone let him into the house? I couldn’t think what excuse he’d use. But then what’s the alternative—that he waited until everyone had gone and . . . what? Let himself in?
A little chill ran down my spine then, as I remembered.
Once, he’d walked me back to the house, not just leaving me at the end of the road as usual. Mum and Dad must have been out, their cars weren’t in the drive. Still, he wouldn’t walk all the way up to the house, seeing the security lights clicking on for me. I’d giggled, knowing he w
as behind me in the shadows, as I’d rummaged for the key under the old brick round the side. At the front door, I’d waved out at the darkness, confident that he was watching.
All the years later, is he still watching my house—my family?
I knew one thing, anyway. This wasn’t a gift. It was a threat.
Yet a lot of the time he’s sweet, even now. He likes to act as if we’re just like any other normal couple. So long as I’m doing what he wants.
“You are happy, aren’t you, darling, just us?” he asked me the other night, sitting next to me on the sofa. He likes us to watch TV, his fingers running through my long hair.
I stopped asking him for scissors a long while ago. He’s not stupid.
Tell him what he wants to hear.
“Oh yes,” I’d said. I caught the flat note in my voice, and tried again. “So happy.” I almost left it there. “The thing is, I really feel that now, with time passing, maybe we can think about—what happens next. Where we can go, together. From here.” My voice sounded weak, defeated, even to me. But I can’t give up trying.
“Mm,” he said, and put his arm along the back of the sofa. I made myself not flinch. “You know,” he began, his voice soft in my ear. “You know . . . it really is just us now, isn’t it. No one knows you’re here, after all.
“If anything were to keep me away, anything at all . . .” He was stroking my shoulder, drawing little circles on my skin. “No one would know you were here. And what would you do then?”
He’s said it all before. Still, I was cold, staring at the flickering screen.
“Of course,” I echoed. “We must stick together.”
Because it’s the only option open to me. He has to trust me.
CHAPTER 36
Kate
Now they’ve gone, I am wired and exhausted, ready to crash. But there’s nothing to do now but sleep, for a little bit, dozing on the sofa.
When I wake up, the house is quiet, the sun telling me it’s already the afternoon. Too quiet, it feels now, just the wind in the trees, the odd distant hum of a car on the road.
I want to get out. Quickly I shower, the hot water waking me up a little; downstairs, I can hear the landline going. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt. I need to think about what to do next. But I can’t stay here. My head’s killing me: I can feel the pressure in the air, the sky not blue but that heavy, blank pallor—surely, finally, it’s going to rain soon.
Before I go I remember to pull out my mobile from the pocket of the hoodie I had on earlier. I’ve two missed calls from Charlotte already, and a voicemail. I play it as I grab my handbag, snatching my car keys.
“Kate, are you still screening my calls? Even after this morning?” My sister is seriously rattled; the drive home hasn’t quietened her down. “We need to make some changes, Katherine. We can help you with this, I promise. But you need to let us. Phone me, soon, or I’m coming right back over. Bye.”
I didn’t think she’d be on my back again quite so quickly.
And then another message: it takes me a second to place the male voice.
“Kate, it’s Dr. Heath. Nick. Now, I’ve had your family on the phone—they’re rather concerned about you. We think it would be a good idea if I came and checked on you, nothing to worry about. Are you in today? Why don’t you call me.” He reels off his mobile number. “I’m doing my rounds today, anyway, so I’ll see if you’re in.”
I swear under my breath. So this is why Charlotte’s calling me, so soon after she and Dad left. They’ve already got my doctor involved. Can they even do this? I know I gave them permission to speak to him, when they were so worried—but shouldn’t that expire at some point? I don’t know. They can’t do anything, can they? Make me go somewhere. And then I couldn’t do anything for Sophie.
That decides me—I’m not waiting around for them to turn up and talk at me—and I hurry out of the house, heading for my car. I barely see the road as I turn right out of the drive, my windows down, and then stop at the crossroads, turning it all over in my mind again.
The faceless man. Sophie. Nancy. What’s connecting them all? This boyfriend, Jay, so maybe he got Nancy pregnant. Then what? And now—thirty years later, history repeats itself? It can’t be him. It can’t be possible. But I’ve got to find him, somehow.... Nancy has to hold the key.
A honk behind me. I lift up my head—the lights have turned green. I press down on the accelerator, lurching forward. I need to get off the road, I’m so distracted that this is dangerous.
When I get to the village I turn in at the supermarket: I’m thirsty, I realize suddenly. I’ll buy a bottle of water.
Once inside the place, I think, as I always do, that it’s far too big for its village setting. And yet you can always be sure to bump into someone you don’t want to—
“Katie! Is that you?” I turn round. It takes a second to place the two sleek blondes in their leggings and bright trainers: Ellen Fraser, a basket on her arm, and with her Lisa Brookland, my husband’s girlfriend.
I don’t want this, not today.
“Kate, how are you?” says Ellen, glancing at Lisa next to her. But Lisa’s chin is up just a fraction, to tell me she’s nothing to be embarrassed about. “Are you OK? You look . . .”
Lisa interrupts: “Actually, Kate, I was going to call you. But as you never answer your phone . . .”—taller than me, she takes a step closer—“. . . we may as well do this now. Now, Mark’s very worried, everyone’s worried, you’re clearly falling apart. But it’s really time you moved on now and I—” She stops as I give her trolley a little nudge toward her, so she has to take a step back.
“No. Stop it, please,” I say politely but firmly.
Lisa flushes with anger: “But have you even given any thought to getting a lawyer yet, or moving out of that house—”
“I said, stop it.” Something in my voice seems to make her pause. “You go your way,” I say, “and I’m going mine.” And I give the trolley a push, so it bumps against her knees.
They get out of my way.
“Can you believe . . .” I hear Ellen say quietly, as I walk off. The thing is, I realize all of a sudden, I really don’t care anymore, not about them—but my worry renews itself. Everyone is concerned for me, about what I might do next. But what should I do next? I feel like everything is closing in on me. Fragments of conversation reach my ears as I pass through the aisles, oddly disembodied.
“. . . y’know why they’re diet crisps? Because you only get seven in a bag! It’s a joke, it really is. . . .”
“Apples, milk, kitchen roll. Apples, milk, kitchen roll. I’m sure there was something else. . . .”
“Mummy, look at these ones, can we try them, please can we, Mum-mee. . . .”
“No, I’m still here.” A pause. “Why would I go without telling you? No, I’m still here.” A girl’s voice, a teenager. “You’ll have to come back and get me. . . .”
I stop. “No, I’m still here.” Why does that tug at something in my brain?
I turn round and see the girl, her phone in her hand, loping off to the exits, all long hair and high dudgeon, clearly outraged at being forgotten.
“I’m still here. . . .” Sophie said that on the phone, in that call, that triggered all this. “I’m still here.”
She meant she was still on the phone, of course. Not like this girl.
This girl is still here. She hadn’t gone anywhere....
Suddenly, I feel off balance, like the floor’s twisting under my feet. I lean against the shelves behind me, dislodging tins.
“Careful!” One of the assistants is already hurrying up. He stops: “Are you all right, madam? You look a bit peaky. . . .” I nod, slowly righting myself. “Sorry. I’m fine, yes.” I start walking again.
Of course Sophie went away. That’s what everyone knows. There’s no doubt about it, it was clear from the start. There’s been so much: her note, the sighting at the bus station, the postcards home. The call to the Message in a Bottle
helpline, a helpline for runaways, for God’s sake.
Although she sounded scared; no “Love you, Mo” for me. Just “I’m still here. . . .”
And then the diary, pointing to why she’d really gone. Just in case, say, someone started asking questions. Because in the end, the diary wasn’t what it seemed, was it?
“I’m still here. . . .”
I stop. Behind me, the automatic doors open and shut, sensing I’ve not moved.
I know. I know what those postcards were telling me. It was there, all the time, under my nose: you just have to read them properly. It’s so simple I hear myself laugh out loud, then stop, shocked at myself.
No wonder I couldn’t see it. Sophie was never into crosswords, word games, all that stuff I liked. She was visual, she loved art, her drawing. And that’s how she’s been trying to communicate with me, even now.
Sophie wasn’t just doodling flowers on her messages home. Oh, she was, but that’s not all they are.
I know them. I know what they are now.
Stylized and symmetrical, they’re not much like real roses. But that’s because she’s not drawing roses, but carvings of roses, the kind you might see etched into antique stonework. Pretty, carved stone roses that might run round the sides of a big Victorian mansion house, say, with a little ruff inside of each one, the sort of detail we don’t bother to build into our homes nowadays.
Slowly I break into a jog, heading to my car, then pick up my pace. Because I recognize them now—I am absolutely certain where I saw them.
I was outside Parklands. Sophie’s been drawing the roses that cover Parklands, sending me the house’s motif. I bet you’d find roses inside that place, too—inside Parklands, the house where Nancy grew up.
Because Nancy was always the answer.
CHAPTER 37
Sophie