After the Eclipse

by Fran Dorricott

  “Am I…”

  I felt the dread, but before I could say anything to stop her the words were out of her mouth and they hit me like a truck. It didn’t matter how many times anybody said her name, I never got over hearing it from foreign lips.

  “Olive,” the woman said. “Olive. She keeps saying that name in her sleep, and I thought…” She trailed off, a frown creasing her brow. “Oh, I’m sorry. I never meant to upset you.”

  “It’s – it’s all right,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not her.”

  The older lady looked embarrassed. I tried to shrug, but the action came across half-hearted and wonky. I shuffled quietly to sit at Gran’s bedside, but the beads of sweat along my spine were making me itch with discomfort, and I suddenly felt clammy and sicker than before.

  I sat for a couple of minutes, feeling my heartbeat rattle inside me like a dying bird’s – but then I couldn’t take it any more. Not today of all days. I couldn’t face waking her up, having to pretend I was fine. I shifted in my seat. Once. Twice. She didn’t wake up. So I swallowed hard, and got to my feet.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the lady, who glanced up from her book and pushed her glasses down her nose so she could look over them. “Can you tell her – that I stopped by? Please tell her Cassie – her granddaughter – stopped by.”

  I didn’t wait for a response. I just gathered my jacket from the chair, and before I knew it I was racing down the hallways, endless identical hallways, and panting so hard that I barely realised I’d made it out onto the street before a rush of cold air hit me. I sucked it in, trying not to hyperventilate. It was okay. I was going to be okay. Gran would be okay.

  I stopped abruptly when I got to my car and fumbled for my keys although I already had them in my hand. There was something about driving away that felt sort of like crossing a line. I felt like I was betraying Gran by leaving. But I also knew I’d be no good to her in the state I was in. I felt like a hot mess, I could still smell the booze, sickly and sweet and cloying inside my nostrils. Not for the first time I missed the old days, sleeping pills before bed and I could pretend whole days didn’t happen without the bloody hangover.

  After what seemed like for ever, I broke out of my indecisive fumbling and got into the car. It was cool inside, the air smelling faintly of old cigarettes. I breathed deeply, allowing myself another moment or two before I kicked into reverse and pulled back out onto the main road towards Bishop’s Green.

  I drove aimlessly for a while. The fields were lush and green, the air damp and cool through my window. I thought about turning the radio on, but in the end I couldn’t face listening to all the stuff about Grace again. It only made me angry that we still had nothing. Or I did, anyway. With a jolt I remembered last night – the text message. The meeting after school. I thought about what Marion had said about Grace’s father. Could she be with him? Would he hurt his daughter? Did the mystery texter know where she was? I knew I needed to find out as much as I could about John Butler, or risk accusing an innocent man of something terrible.

  I was turning into the person who I’d always despised in TV soaps – I was the crazy one, the one who went off on one at every bloody opportunity. God, how had I not realised how obsessed I was getting? And why couldn’t I stop?

  As I finally pulled onto my street, head stuck in thoughts of anger and frustration, and a steady bubbling of sickness still in my stomach, I saw Marion’s car parked out front. I knew it was hers, even from here, because of the old bumper sticker I’d bought her and posted from London when we were still young enough to think it was cool.

  I slowed my car down to a crawl as a feeling of rising dread trilled through me. Was it Grace, still stuck in that corner of my mind, that made me want to turn tail and run? Was it the acknowledgement that I was going crazy over this?

  No. It was simply that I was afraid of telling Marion about my inability to talk to my own grandmother. I was afraid she’d smell the booze on me, and I was afraid that she’d write me off as a bad job. How did other people keep their brains from boiling over without pills or alcohol or drugs?

  Marion had no real patience for my anxiety, or for the way I dealt with it. She was all business – had been since Olive was taken. After that, the girl who didn’t care what people thought was quickly replaced by a clone of her father: driven, serious, determined to succeed. The police suited her, but I couldn’t help but think that it was Olive that pushed her into it. And away from the fiery girl who couldn’t keep her temper in check. Away from me.

  Marion got out of her car as I pulled onto the drive. She was dressed in a knee-length dark coat. She had the collar turned up against the bite in the air, and I could tell just by looking at her face that she was dressed for work underneath it. Her hair was pulled back in a bun that had probably been tidy this morning, but as usual little wisps of hair had escaped. She looked exhausted, her face wan with dark smudges under her eyes. I wanted to kiss her.

  “Have you come to arrest me?” I joked as I clambered out of my car. No laughter. When Marion opened her mouth to speak I realised that she was holding back tears. “What’s up?”

  “Cassie…” Marion looked me right in the eyes, her nostrils flaring. “It happened again. I’ve been trying to call you, text you, from the station all day. Where have you been?”

  “I was with Gran.”

  “What about just now? I’ve been here for half an hour. I tried to ring the hospital but they said you left—”

  “I went for a drive.” And then there was a pause as my brain caught up. “Wait,” I said, “what do you mean it happened again?”

  “Cassie, another girl is missing.”

  19

  September 1999

  SEVEN DAYS LATER, THE same again. This time he didn’t hand her the clothes right away. He held them in front of his body, just below his stomach. He watched her remove her dress with a look that he didn’t even try to hide.

  Afterwards, as the light began to fade in the room, Olive lay on the bed and watched the shadows creep across the ceiling. She was trying not to think of Sandman – as she did a lot of the time. But today her usual ways weren’t working and she could think of nothing else. Was this all there was? Was this her life for ever now?

  If Cassie were here, they might be able to banish him together. Cassie was good at stuff like that. Cassie always scared monsters away. Olive wished she’d told her big sister about Sandman when he was first nice to her. She’d thought he was just friendly. The memory made her stomach feel empty and full at the same time, and she had to roll onto her side to stop it hurting.

  She wondered what they were doing. Mum and Dad, and Cassie. Whether they had any idea what had happened to her. Whether Mum would be angry, or sad. Olive thought she might be on TV. In newspapers, probably. She wondered what it might all look like.

  Although she wanted to feel hopeful, Olive thought that she hadn’t really felt hope since that first day. There wasn’t that sort of lightness in her chest to battle with the darkness. Her head told her that if they were going to find her – well, they’d already have done it. The police would have come and helped her home by now…

  The first few days she’d tried screaming. And then listening. But there wasn’t anything – there were no sounds outside of the room. The only thing she ever heard was her own voice and his footsteps on the stairs. She must be in a basement, but she could still see sky. Or maybe it was a reflection… Olive didn’t stare out of the window because it only made her feel sick.

  She pictured her mum at Gran’s, yelling at Cassie. Wondered if Dad would be doing his usual silent thing. Probably Cassie had been in trouble, which Olive tried not to think about. Her eyes prickled again and she wrapped her arms around herself. If only she’d done as Cassie had told her—

  A noise startled Olive. She snapped upright. It was coming from under the bed, right underneath her. Wasn’t it? She strained her ears, and – yes, there it was. A scuffling, snaffling sound. She sat p
erfectly still, a statue with a wet face, and listened.

  The sound continued. She leapt off the bed, her heart slamming about inside her. There was a gap between the bed and the floor. She’d crawled under there days ago to check the walls for any cracks. Now she peered into the semi-darkness, smelling dusty air and her own sweat.

  And then she saw it. A ribbon of something like excitement shot through her before her stomach flip-flopped and the fear kicked in.

  There, right at the back, next to a few breadcrumbs she’d dropped, was a mouse, all brown and white and black. But there was red everywhere, too. Gloopy, dark red that reminded Olive of the time she and Cassie had been vampires for Halloween.

  Only this wasn’t fake blood in a tube. This was the real thing. Olive threw herself under the bed, wrapping her hand around the small warm mass before it could shoot off. Its tiny heart was beating a million times faster than Olive’s, its fur sticky with blood. She hoped it wouldn’t bite her.

  As she moved the tiny thing into the light – or what was left of it coming through the window – she noticed that the tail was missing. The very end gone, just snipped right off. And then she saw the faint droplets of blood on the carpet towards the door and realised what had happened.

  The mouse tried to make a run for it but Olive kept hold of him tightly enough until she could pop him into the sink. The sides were high enough, and slippery enough that he couldn’t get out easily.

  She set about tearing off bits of tissue to wrap around the tail like a bandage. The more she looked, though, the less scary it was. There was no more blood except what came off her hands, and even that was drying fast.

  Olive sucked in some breaths, holding them inside her lungs until they burned and her heart started to slow down. The mouse seemed happy to settle into his new home, cautious but calm enough. A faint skritch-skritch among the shredded tissue in the stainless steel sink was the only reminder of his presence as she cleaned up the little drops and smears of blood.

  She wanted, immediately, to keep him. She’d never been allowed a pet at home. But then, she laughed as she realised, what else could she do? She couldn’t set him free. He must have come through the door when Sandman entered; Olive knew there was no other way in or out.

  What was she going to do?

  Sandman would hate him. She knew this like she knew her own name. He hated things that were unclean, or untidy. Today he told her that she needed to clean up better or he’d stop buying her fresh food because it was unhygienic.

  Olive’s body felt like it had been punched a thousand times over as she sank down onto the floor. She couldn’t let Sandman take him. What could she do? Could she hide him?

  Maybe this was the answer to her fear. To her loneliness. To her long empty hours with nothing to do but draw pictures with the few pencils and bits of paper he’d let her have.

  Olive couldn’t help thinking that this confirmed something, too. Cassie said God existed because somebody had to answer prayers. But if somebody was listening to her prayers, then they weren’t a good person. A good God. Because now, both she and the mouse were trapped in here together.

  Two lives in a box.

  The mouse – Mickey, she’d call him, like her watch – was proof. There was life in here, there was hope, but it wasn’t a guarantee. It was a luxury.

  20

  “MY DAUGHTER’S NAME IS Izabela Kaluza,” the Facebook post announced above a photo of a girl I knew. “Bella. She is eleven years old. A sweet girl. She was walking to school, and she didn’t get there. She does not do this and I am very worried. She left our house on Randall Street at eight thirty in the morning, and she didn’t make it to the school. Please, if somebody has her, just know that I want her back. I want my Bella back. Bella, if you see this, please come home to me. This post is public. Please share widely.”

  “Bella,” I said, so quietly I wasn’t sure Marion heard me. “That little girl who’s friends with Grace. I was meant to – she...”

  The one who had texted me. It had to be her.

  The post had already been shared hundreds of times. I didn’t want to see any more. I turned my face away.

  “Yes,” Marion said. She had heard me. And she knew that I knew who Bella was – knew that I’d probably met this girl. Spoken to her. “She was on her way to school this morning. She left home late. They delayed lessons for the eclipse and held registration outside at half ten, but a lot of kids were late and it was chaos.”

  Now I knew why Marion wasn’t going to say anything to me about knowing Bella, or why I hadn’t mentioned her before. She was here on official police business. I turned very slowly in my seat until I was looking at her, and I confirmed that she was being her official self. Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed.

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “Cassie,” Marion said slowly, still standing by the door, “I have to ask you where you were this morning. During the eclipse.”

  “What, Marion? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about this morning, Cassie. Where were you? Between eight thirty and ten thirty? I have to ask you. Bella left her phone at home because she was running late. We found the texts.”

  “What?”

  “Texts. That Bella sent you. She’d deleted them but we found them. About her meeting you this afternoon?”

  “What?”

  I couldn’t believe it. The world started to go fuzzy, a sound like droning bees humming inside my ears. I couldn’t think straight. I felt like I’d stepped right into a bear trap.

  “I – Marion… I talked to her in the street after school the other day. Her and a bunch of kids. One of them – Bella – texted me last night. Quite late. I was – drunk. I said I’d meet her after school.”

  “Cassie, you look like shit.” Marion paused, her jaw working. I couldn’t tell whether in anger, or whether it was because this was hard for her.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I think you need to come to the station. We need to get it straightened out officially. On the record.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no words would come out. Marion had known me since I was nine years old. How could she think I had anything to do with this?

  “Cassie, will you come? Just as a witness. We need to do it properly. They’re already wanting to take me off the case – because I’m too involved. But I said I’d bring you in.” Now I could see that it was hard for her. Hard for her colleagues to know that we had a history. Hard for her to admit this to them when we had spent years pointedly as “just friends”.

  The sickness in my stomach rose.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll come with you. But I know it’s that fucking partner of yours. Partner.” I laughed, and although I could hear the hysteria I couldn’t stop it, the stress of the morning was rising in me like a wave. “I know you’re sleeping with him – that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Is he good in bed, at least?”

  “Cassie,” Marion warned, but her voice was tired, as though she’d already given up. “Don’t.”

  I pushed down my rage, sucking in a breath so deep it hurt. And then I let Marion lead me out to her car, my whole body vibrating with anger like an unexploded bomb.

  * * *

  The police station in Bishop’s Green was small, barely even worth calling it that really. Located in an older, crumbling area just outside the centre of town where it was easy to remember that most of their cases involved shoplifting and tourists making stupid, drunken decisions. It was a base for the local area, small but efficient. I’d only been there a handful of times – none of them pleasant – and I felt myself tense as we drew near.

  “You’re not under arrest,” Marion said very calmly as we pulled into the car park. “I just need to ask you some stuff with my partner in the room. Okay?”

  I didn’t look at her. I saw her hand grip the steering wheel and her knuckles went white.

  “Is this payback?” I asked.

&nbs
p; “What?”

  “Payback. For me. For us. For our past. Does he know about us? About you? Is that why he—”

  “It’s not just about us, Cass,” Marion said firmly. Tiredly. But this lie fell almost as flat as her silence had before. “I told him we needed to speak to you. He said he thought he should do the interview – given our history. I agreed.”

  Inside, the place was buzzing with activity. There were more people than I’d ever seen here, officers in both plain clothes and uniforms marching around, giving orders, coffee cups parked on work surfaces leaving rings on pieces of paper. Marion took hold of my arm and led me down a long corridor, at the end of which she opened a door and ushered me inside.

  I screwed my eyes shut, trying to keep out the images that were assaulting my brain. Images of a similar room when I was seventeen. To view the dead girl who wasn’t Olive when Mum couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “Cass, are you all right?” Marion’s voice brought me back to the present.

  I tried to nod.

  Marion didn’t seem convinced, but she just gestured towards the large mirror that I knew was probably mirrored glass. Moments later the door opened again and in came a man, perhaps a few years older than Marion and me. He was dark-haired and dark-skinned with warm brown eyes and the kind of posture that screamed police even if you didn’t know. This was Marion’s partner. The same man I had seen leaving her house.

  She hadn’t denied sleeping with him.

  I felt sick and wasn’t sure whether that was the booze, or the thought of Marion and him together, or the tang of burnt coffee and too many people pushed together in a small place.

  “Cassie, this is Detective Sergeant Matthew Fox.” She gestured to him as he swung the door to with his right foot, leaving it cracked so I knew I wasn’t trapped. A ploy, no doubt.

  “So, Cassiopeia Warren,” Fox said, holding his hand out as if to shake mine. When I didn’t move, he turned this into a smooth motion to pull out one of the chairs so that he was sitting down opposite me. He appeared alert, but his tie was crumpled and it looked like he’d spilled something down his shirt earlier and managed to get most of it off with a wet cloth.