Where Everything Seems Double

by Penny Freedman

  I walk briskly along to Eve’s studio, forcing myself not to break into a panicky run but feeling my heart racing anyway. Eve is with a customer and I have to wait, trying to look casual as I drift round the shop, blindly picking pieces up and putting them down again. When, with agonising slowness, the customer leaves, I can’t pretend casualness anymore.

  ‘I can’t find Freda,’ I say, and it comes out in a wobbly rush.

  Eve looks at me. ‘Since when?’ she asks.

  ‘Since over an hour ago. I went for a walk and she vanished.’

  I know this sounds over-dramatic and I expect Eve to say, reassuringly, Oh, she’ll be off with the boys, but she doesn’t. Instead I think I see my alarm reflected in her eyes.

  ‘I don’t think she’s with the others,’ she says. ‘They went off for a day’s fishing first thing this morning.’

  My legs feel odd and I must look unsteady because Eve catches my arm and takes me through to her studio, where she sits me down. She is practical in spite of the fear I saw in her eyes.

  ‘I have a landline here,’ she says. ‘Try phoning her on that.’

  I find her number on my phone and then call. This time I get the message that her phone is switched off.

  Eve is watching me. ‘I’ll ring Milo,’ she says.

  Although I am sitting down, things are swirling around rather and there is a rising knot of nausea under my breastbone. I put my head down to my knees as you are supposed to, and from there I listen to Eve’s end of the conversation.

  ‘Hello darling… so you’re having a good time, good… darling, I’m wondering if by any chance you have Freda with you? You haven’t, no… no, I understand… it’s just we don’t know where she is… no… no… yes, it’s just, her gran is worried, you know… yes… yes… well, if you think of anywhere she might… yes we’ll try that. I’ll see you later… yes.’

  I lift up my head. ‘Nothing?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head and then I start to wail, hunched forward, keening into my knees.

  Eve is brisk. ‘Stop it,’ she says. ‘This isn’t helpful. Think. You’re good at that.’ She looks at her watch. ‘The ferry will just be in. She could have taken a ride round the lake, couldn’t she?’

  She hustles me to my feet and out of the studio, locking the door behind her, and then marches me along to the jetty with a grip on my arm, as though she is arresting me.

  At the jetty, people are disembarking. Eve goes to talk to the ferryman and I watch with no surprise as he shakes his head. She comes back and takes hold of my arm again.

  ‘Right, so she hasn’t been there, so it’s got to be the hotel. What enquiries have you made there?’

  ‘I just asked if she had picked up our key.’

  ‘Well then, we need to ask more. Someone must have seen her. Where was she when you left her?’

  ‘In the garden.’

  ‘And what was she wearing?’

  I experience that past tense as a jolt of nausea but I shut my eyes and visualise her. ‘Jeans and a turquoise t-shirt,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ she says, and walks me in to the reception desk. There she shakes the young man on duty out of routine unhelpfulness. ‘Freda Gray,’ she says. ‘Thirteen years old, blonde hair. She has been staying here for some days. You must know her. If you don’t know where she is then I need you to ask everyone who is working here.’

  When he stands looking stupidly at her, she says, ‘This is about to become a police matter so I advise you to co-operate.’

  His eyes open wide; her usually beguiling Irish accent has acquired a threatening edge. ‘Wait here,’ he says, and dives off into the office behind his desk.

  ‘Jeans and a turquoise t-shirt she’s wearing,’ Eve calls after him. ‘Curly blonde hair.’

  Eve orders me to a chair – one of the monstrous, squashy leather armchairs that furnish the reception area – and I feel stranded and helpless in it. Eventually, a receptionist, whose name badge says he is Gustav, returns, bringing Gheorghe with him. Gustav presents him like a trophy. ‘He has seen her,’ he says.

  Gheorghe looks terrified. Why? Did Gustav mention the police? He looks at me. ‘I see her,’ he says, and the present tense gives me a momentary surge of hope before he adds, ‘I see her earlier, in the garden.’

  ‘What time was that?’ I snap, struggling out of my armchair. Eve and I are on either side of him now, and Gustav is retreating to his desk, having thrown Gheorghe to us.

  ‘Maybe two-thirty,’ he says.

  It is four-thirty now.

  ‘What was she doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Just talking.’ He looks so shifty I want to slap him.

  ‘Talking to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’ I yell, so loudly that he jumps.

  ‘Dumitru,’ he mutters.

  Dumitru. Were they talking about their meeting the other night – the bundle he was carrying?

  ‘Were they having an argument?’ I ask.

  ‘No. No. Just talking.’ He looks over to Gustav at reception as though he would like to send up a distress rocket. ‘Thing is,’ he says, ‘we can’t find Dumitru. He is gone missing.’

  I don’t know how I end up on the floor. I haven’t fainted. It’s just that my legs folded up. But now I’m down here I don’t want to get up. I would like just to lie here and be completely helpless. Eve is in action, though. I can hear her at the desk, imperious and threatening. ‘Ring the police immediately,’ she commands. ‘Not the local station. Nine nine nine.’

  I do get up, of course – mainly because I know I am going to be sick. I grab my key from Gustav, wave Eve away and drag my wobbly legs up the stairs to my room, where I make it to the bathroom just in time. After that I feel slightly better – clearer-headed at least – and I go into Freda’s room. I deliberately banish the absurd hope that I will find her in there, sitting by the window, sketching, and I find the room almost aggressively devoid of her. It looks exactly as the chambermaid must have left it this morning – clean, tidy, and without character. I look in the wardrobe. Her jacket is still there, and so is her rucksack. Looking round the room, I find her new books, still in the bookshop’s paper bag, beside her bed, and her little shoulder bag is lying on the bed with the new bandanas screwed up inside it. There is no sign of her phone. It must be in her pocket, but as far as I can see that is all she has with her.

  I am just turning to go when I see one thing I haven’t seen before. On top of her chest of drawers is a sheet of paper, a sketch. I pick it up, expecting it to be one of Freda’s own drawings, but I find it is a sketch of her. It is not a self-portrait – it is too professional to be her work. Eve. Eve has drawn her. It was done for me.

  I carry it back into my room. There is a pressure round my heart. Not pain, but a squeezing that makes me think of heartbreak. The drawing is faithful but the face is sad, without the light that dances in her eyes. And yet it is how she has been looking in the last couple of days, isn’t it? She has been sad and I chose not to notice.

  I am rescued by knocking at the door. I go to open it, expecting that it will be Eve and ready to send her away, but two people in uniform confront me. They flash their police IDs at me and I am seized with panic. These are not the people I want: two uniformed constables – one female in case I am hysterical – sent to reassure an over-anxious visitor who thinks she has lost a teenager, who will turn up shortly having lost track of the time. I want to scream at them to go away and send me proper detectives who are running the Ruby Buxton investigation and understand that Freda is in the hands of a possible killer. I don’t scream because harsh experience has taught me that you can sometimes win with officialdom if you go through the motions of compliance. So I invite them in and start answering their questions with as good a grace as I can muster. I give them my full name and address, followed by Freda’s full name, addre
ss and age, I confirm that she is my granddaughter and explain that her parents are in Italy, I tell them when and where I last saw her and state firmly that we had not had any kind of row or argument and she did not appear to be upset about anything. Then, when they start asking the same questions over again, I start screaming.

  ‘Ruby Buxton!’ I yell. ‘You don’t get it! Freda is thirteen, like her, she knows the same kids that Ruby knew, she was last seen talking to one of the waiters here who is a suspect in Ruby’s disappearance. He has a car. You need to get out roadblocks, put out his registration number – descriptions of him and Freda. It’s been three hours now. The first hours are crucial, we know that, and you’re sitting here asking me idiot questions.’

  The woman puts out a hand, presumably to calm me, but I shake it off so roughly that I shall probably be accused of assaulting a police officer later on. ‘Go!’ I yell. ‘My granddaughter is in the hands of a killer, so fucking well shift yourselves.’

  They don’t go. Instead they go through into Freda’s room and look round it. They aren’t there long and they come out empty-handed. They ask if I have a photo of Freda, which I haven’t, except for a dog-eared snap of her aged two, which hangs around in my wallet. I show them Eve’s sketch but refuse to let them take it away, so the woman takes a shot of it on her phone and they leave. I cling to the hope that they are seeing dimly what they are into here – I saw the look they gave each other when I mentioned Ruby – but how long it will take to get things moving I have no idea. I look at the phone beside the bed. I will have to ring Ellie. Should I have rung already? I am telling myself that there is still the chance that Freda could turn up at any moment. I know it is not true. I pick up the phone but it is David that I ring. Surely he can do something. This isn’t a local case any more, is it? She could be anywhere. His phone goes unanswered. I leave it for ten minutes and try again. This time I leave a message. ‘David, Freda has been missing for three hours. Dumitru is missing too. The local plods need a bomb under them. You have to help.’ And then, because the phone is in my hand and I may not muster the courage again, I ring Ellie.

  I think I won’t give you the details of our conversation. I hope never to experience anything like it again. Ellie screams abuse at me and I know every word is justified. She is in agony and I can do nothing to comfort her because it is entirely my fault. She is right. I was stupid to bring Freda into this situation. I am arrogant, self-satisfied, unthinking, self-centred, irresponsible, neglectful. When she hangs up I go into the bathroom and throw up again.

  After that, there seems to be nothing to do. I sit, looking out of the window, hoping for David to ring back, watching for the flash of a turquoise t-shirt that will make all of this all right.

  Eventually, David rings back. He has his professionally reassuring tone on, but I am beyond reassurance. He has spoken to the SIO on Ruby’s case and an all-areas alert has gone out for Freda and Dumitru, including a description of Dumitru’s car, which has been confirmed as missing from the car park.

  ‘So he’s got her, hasn’t he?’ I say.

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘But the other thing I asked you to find out about,’ I say. ‘Did you get anything?’

  ‘I did. And it looks as though you might be right.’

  ‘But that doesn’t fit with Dumitru does it?’

  ‘Not obviously.’

  ‘Certainly not with Dumitru and Freda.’

  ‘No.’

  There seems to be nothing else to say.

  ‘You’ve spoken to Ellie?’ he asks.

  ‘No, actually, I thought I wouldn’t bother,’ I snap.

  ‘She’s coming back?’

  ‘Yup.’

  There is quite a long silence before he says, ‘I can’t do anything more, Gina. I’m sorry, but I’ve got no authority. But ring me if you want to talk, OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  After that, I just sit and watch the light fade over the lake. I am overtaken by a lethargy that is utterly unfamiliar. I don’t do this. I rush about. I phone people and shout at them. I hammer on doors. Even sitting down, I fume, I plan, I plot and strategise. This passivity terrifies me. With an effort, I pour myself some water from a bottle in the minibar, and it makes me feel less nauseous. Later, at some point, I make a cup of tea and eat a digestive biscuit. I keep expecting the phone to ring. They know where I am, don’t they? Eve? David? The bloody police?

  Later, when it is quite dark, I think about going to bed, but that I won’t do. I have to keep a vigil of sorts, I have to be on watch. When she is found, then I will sleep. I suppose I do doze, actually, because I am roused from whirling half-dreams by a thunderous knocking at the door. I haul myself up, as stiff and unwilling as an old woman, and shuffle to the door. I expect the police and my heart is skittering with terror, but when I open the door I find Annie standing there.

  ‘Ellie rang me,’ she says. ‘What the fuck do you think you’ve been doing, Ma?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  SKULL AND CROSSBONES

  Monday

  It was hot lying here under the duvet, and lying down in the moving car was making her feel sick. And Granny would be so worried. She had no idea what time it was because he had taken her phone away from her, but she was pretty sure that Granny would have rung Mum by now. And the police of course. She had told him that but he wasn’t listening – just told her to stay under the duvet and pulled his hat down further over his face. And she hadn’t dared to put her face out and speak to him again because what she feared most was that he would put her in the boot.

  She had no sense of how far they had gone. They sped up sometimes quite terrifyingly and then they would be crawling, it seemed, and she could hear him muttering to himself as they stopped and started. What she was aware of too was the pressure in her bladder. She was going to have to ask him to stop if he didn’t want her weeing all over his car. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t cry but the thought of having to lie here in a pool of wee was bringing her close. Desperate, she pushed an arm out and tapped his shoulder. He jumped violently.

  ‘I have to stop for the toilet,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The toilet. I need the toilet.’

  The car made a sudden swerve and she could hear prolonged hooting from a nearby car.

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  Emerging cautiously from her covers, she saw that they were in a layby. No chance of a service station, then. Of course not. She climbed out and he did too.

  ‘Coming with you,’ he said.

  She felt a surge of panic. What was he going to do? ‘Please, please, no,’ she whispered to herself as he took her arm and led her into the scrubby grass by the side of the road. Then he let her go.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to some rather feeble-looking bushes. ‘Three minutes.’

  Feeling horribly exposed behind the thin branches, she struggled with her jeans and allowed herself to enjoy the release of a good wee before pulling them up again and finding them damp round the waistband. He was waiting for her by the car. She looked around. She supposed this was where she might try to do a runner but she had no idea where she was, and he would outrun her in a moment, wouldn’t he?

  Back in the car, he pulled a bottle of water out of the glove compartment and offered her a swig. It was warm and not refreshing but she gulped some down. Then he pulled out a bar of chocolate, broke off some of it and handed it to her. ‘Still far to go,’ he said. She took the chocolate but as she lay down again under her stifling cover the nausea returned and she decided that chocolate was not the best idea. She wriggled about and got a tissue out of her jeans pocket, wrapped the chocolate squares in it and pushed them away from her. Maybe later, she thought.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A GIRDLE ROUND THE EARTH

  Tuesday

  I don’t think
I really sleep at all because when I come to full consciousness in the early morning light bouncing off the lake I know exactly why I am sitting here in this chair and why Annie is lying on my bed in her clothes. I know too that hours have passed and there has been no news. And I know that a few hours more will bring Ellie here. I want oblivion but short of throwing myself into the lake, where a kindly passer-by would probably rescue me, I can see no route to it, so I haul myself stiffly out of my chair and go to the bathroom to fill the kettle.

  My movements have woken Annie – or perhaps she has not really been asleep either. I am not fair to Annie, I know. I see her emotions as shallow and I believe that much of what she does and says is directed against me. Last night she lambasted me in much the same terms as Ellie had – self-centredness, arrogance, thoughtlessness, irresponsibility, recklessness. Annie’s version had more expletives in it but otherwise it was the same, and I pleaded guilty as charged, but a bit of my mind was still telling me that Annie was finding this a welcome opportunity to trash me. Now, looking at her pallor and the dark smudges under her eyes, even that last defence crumbles. She loves Ellie and she loves Freda just as I do, and I am a despicable woman to have thought anything else.

  She looks at me and half raises a hand in a sort of greeting.

  ‘Tea?’ I ask. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘Is there coffee?’

  I make the drinks and she gets out of bed and sits with me looking out of the window. We sip and look at each other and eventually she asks, ‘What now?’

  ‘I’m going to ring the police station and David. And then we’ll go across to the car park where there’s a signal and see if there are any messages on our phones.’