by Nick Jones
‘Oh, it’s a nick-name I guess, not that I would tell him,’ I say. ‘Vinny is a big guy now and it was a shock when I first traveled to 2002, he was a lot thinner back then and had hair, but it’s nothing compared to 1992.’ I shrug, ‘He’s as thin as a rake with hair down to his shoulders.’
‘You’re sure it was him?’
‘Oh yes,’ I nod eagerly, ‘it was definitely him.’ And with that I feel a faint sense of hope. Vinny was there that night. Vinny; somehow weaved into all of this. I don’t yet know what that means but it feels good. I wasn’t alone at the fair after all.
‘And he was taking pictures,’ Alexia comments without looking up from her note pad.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Photographing a group of lads, very moody, and one of them had a guitar so I’m guessing they’re a band.’
Alexia looks up, ‘It’s good you know it’s Vinny, but how does this help?’
I consider the question carefully. ‘Whenever I view that night, whether it’s one of my viewings or a regression with you, it’s always the same. I can only see what I witnessed with my own eyes.’ I pause, staring down at my hands. ‘It’s just a replay.’
‘But you saw more tonight, more than you have before, you saw Vinny.’
I nod, ‘That’s true but I never saw Amy go.’ I draw in a tight breath and sigh heavily. ‘And I never will. I’ve been over that moment a thousand times. It’s like a fog, a malevolent force drawing her away from me. I’ve scoured every inch of that memory.’
Alexia stops writing and looks up, ‘And you hope the photograph will give you a new perspective, a new angle.’
‘Exactly,’ I reply. ‘Vinny was facing in the opposite direction to me, he can see things I never can.’
Alexia drifts for a moment, deep in thought and then asks, ‘Do you mean you could view through Vinny?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘I have viewed through other people. If I spent some time with him in the present, if I got closer to him, his past might bleed into my mine and I might view some of his memories.’
‘Okay, well, is that an option?’
I sigh, ‘It is, but I can’t control my viewings, I can’t make them happen. They’ve always come to me, and often it’s things I don’t want to see. Yes, I might view some of Vinny’s past but it could be years before I eventually stumble upon his memories of that night.’
‘But the photograph,’ she whispers.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘It might have captured Amy and, more importantly, who took her.’ I sit up and stretch, rubbing my eyes vigorously with my palms.
‘Joe,’ Alexia says firmly. ‘Why don’t you lie back down, we can do some breathing and grounding exercises.’
‘What?’ I shoot back. ‘You aren’t serious?’
She adjusts her glasses and leans forward in her chair, ‘You promised you would do this my way.’
‘Yeah, I know, but we’ve just found a clue, we can’t –‘
‘Joe,’ she interjects, cheeks flushing a little. ‘It’s important that we’re careful here, we’re regressing you, going deep into your past. It’s not to be taken lightly and at the moment, you’re pinging back to the present like a yo-yo. It won’t be good for your energy, for your balance.’
Energy and balance? Jeez.
‘Er,’ I chew at my lips, searching for a polite way of getting us moving again, ‘could we do this later?’ I suggest, lamely.
She scowls. I’m not very experienced when it comes to women, or emotions, or reading situations for that matter, but a little birdy tells me she wouldn’t appreciate being told that she’s cute when she’s angry. Instead I say, ‘We need to go and see Vinny now and find out if he still has those pictures.’ I spread my palms. ‘And when we get back we can do some more of that breathing stuff.’ I grin. ‘I promise.’
She tuts, shaking her head. ‘Breathing stuff,’ she hisses, picking up her notepad. ‘I want us to keep a journal of this, everything you feel and see.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say easily, sliding off the chair. ‘Let’s do that.’
‘I mean it Joe.’ She glowers, folding her arms.
I nod enthusiastically until eventually her shoulders drop. ‘Okay,’ she sighs, flicking her eyes to the ceiling, ‘you win, this time. But Joe?’
‘Yeah?’ I say.
She strides purposefully across the room, grabs her coat and fixes me with a firm stare. ‘If you have a nick-name for me, like Thinny Vinny, you better keep it to yourself.’
2.
I’m not a big fan of cars so we walk, and I regret the decision immediately. Alexia power walks and I struggle ten feet behind her, panting and out of breath trying to keep up. By the time we arrive at ‘Vinny’s Vinyl’ I’m spent. It’s only taken us fourteen minutes, door to door, which is a bloody record for me. I have my hands on my knees, sucking air. Alexia is smiling, getting her own back I’m sure, enjoying my breathing exercises after all. With perfect timing, the midday sun breaks through a gap in the troubled sky, illuminating a paved area outside Vinny’s shop. There, gleaming like a golden chariot is a beautiful, brand new Harley Davidson motorbike.
Now, I don’t know much about bikes – they’ve never been my thing – but this one evokes an immediate response in me.
Power. Freedom. Getting your motor running and heading out on the highway.
Thoughts of traffic, road-works and the M25 are banished. This is all about the dream. The Harley’s black body is encased, almost licked by chrome piping and intricate detailing. Its single headlight shines like the eye of a cyclops.
‘Joe,’ Alexia smiles, ‘you can close your mouth now.’
I do and then shake my head, ‘She’s lovely though, isn’t she?’
Alexia snorts, ‘They’re always girls!’
The shop door opens and music floods out. Billy Joel, ‘Just the Way You Are’.
Vinny appears, climbing the steps. His enormous bulk is somehow squeezed into black leathers. The jacket has long tassels hanging from the back of the arms. His head is freshly shaven, around his neck is a Union Jack bandanna. He looks every bit the new biker, the middle-aged wannabe, and it takes a great deal of determination to not laugh. I don’t mean laugh at him in spite, I mean with sheer joy at seeing him so bikered up!
He walks towards us, beaming, accompanied by the musky smell of fresh leather. ‘I’m Vinny,’ he says, ‘pleased to meet you.’
‘Alexia Finch,’ she replies. ‘We were just admiring the bike.’
Vinny nods, running a hand over the wide handle-bars and checking the panniers at the rear. ‘I only picked her up yesterday, she’s a beaut, ain’t she?’
We agree as a woman emerges from the shop. She’s in her early forties I’m guessing, black hair, dark eyes, heavy make-up. She’s also clad in leather but, unlike Vinny, her outfit seems to be a part of her. She’s lean and tall, tough yet sexy somehow, like Chrissie Hynde. She eyes us, places a crash-helmet and gloves on the bike and walks over, laying her hand on Vinny’s shoulder. ‘He’s been promising me this little trip for years, haven’t you Vinny?’ She says playfully, smiling at us. ‘I’m Louise.’
Vinny introduces her to Alexia. Louise nods and then squints at me. ‘And you must be Joe,’ she says, cooly, eyes darting to Vinny. The two of them share a smirk, which instantly makes me feel guilty of something.
‘Going on a trip?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ Louise says, flicking a thumb at the bike, ‘Vinny promised me that one day we would tour the U.K. on one of these.’
‘And when I make a promise,’ Vinny says, ‘I keep it.’
‘Eventually,’ Louise adds, dryly, checking the panniers and polishing the bike.
I know Vinny was married once but I’m pretty sure her name wasn’t Louise and he’s never mentioned a girlfriend. A flicker of worry passes through me.
‘I know what you’re thinking Cash,’ Vinny whispers, ‘but she’s a good girl, known her forever.’ He leans in, ‘She ain’t here for the money.’
I frown, ‘I’m happy for you Vinny.’
And I am. I don’t get the vibe Louise is here for the money or destined to break Vinny’s heart. There seems to be something between them, something fun, something real.
‘So, where are you going?’ Alexia asks him.
‘Weston-Super-Mare today,’ Vinny announces proudly, ‘then we’re following the coast and meeting up with some of Louise’s friends.’ His eyes glimmer with excitement, ‘To be honest, I don’t really know, but that’s all part of it I think.’
Billy Joel reaches a crescendo, singing about loving someone just the way they are, and I recall my conversation with Vinny, about what he would do if he won the Lottery. Work in the shop, not change much, was his answer back then. This is better though, I think. This is living.
‘Vinny, I need to ask you something,’ I say, ‘something important.’
‘Okay,’ he nods. ‘Shoot.’
I narrow my eyes, ‘You used to take photographs.’
Vinny looks confused, ‘Blimey Cash, that was a long time ago.’ He looks at me awkwardly, ‘Does she… have you?’ He looks at Alexia and then back at me, ‘Have you told her?’
‘Yes,’ I assure him, ‘she knows everything.’
He echoes loudly, ‘Okay, so how do you know I took pictures?’
‘I saw you,’ I sigh, ‘the night Amy went missing, you were at the fair in ’92. Cox’s Meadow. Do you remember?’
Vinny winces, frowning in deep concentration, ‘I didn’t even live in Cheltenham back then, but we used to come ‘ere,’ he pauses and shrugs, a look of guilt washing over him. ‘We were all a bit…’ He mimes a cigarette in and out of his lips, ‘A bit, you know…’
‘Vinny?’ Louise calls, interrupting his admission of weed-fuelled summers, ‘I’m sorry Vin, but we need to jam if we’re going to meet up with the rest.’ She leans against the bike. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, that one for us and accompanied by a genuine smile. ‘But they won’t wait long.’
‘It’s okay,’ Alexia says, ‘we understand.’
I lean in to Vinny, ‘Do you think you might still have them?’ I press, ‘The photographs, I mean.’
He folds his arms, leather creaking. ‘I might,’ he says quietly. ‘But they would be up in the loft, God knows where…’
‘Would you mind looking?’ Alexia asks him, her voice wonderfully persuasive, like a feather knocking down a brick wall. ‘It’s very important.’
Vinny looks over his shoulder at Louise and then back at Alexia. ‘Of course. We wouldn’t even be going on the road-trip if it wasn’t for him.’ He nods at me. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I will look, okay?’
I smile. ‘Thanks Vinny,’ I say, ‘you’re a star.’ And a hoarder too, I hope as we head inside.
3.
Vinny lives in a flat above his shop; a kind of messy bohemia crossed with hints of a recent burglary. Alexia and I navigate our way through the wreckage and wait as he rummages noisily in his loft above us. He descends from a hatch in the ceiling – only just big enough for him – looking like an elephant at the circus, teetering on a thin metal ladder, which strains and creaks beneath his weight. He’s balancing a cardboard box against his right hip, OLD STUFF written in permanent red marker on its side.
‘If they’re anywhere, they’ll be in here,’ he pants, wiping sweat from his brow, placing the box down. ‘It’s bloody boiling up there.’
Alexia and I share a look. Vinny looks like a lobster and whilst I suspect the loft is warm, the biking leathers and his considerable bulk are also playing their part in his rapid broiling. There comes a throaty roar from outside; the Harley, throbbing and growling as Louise twists the throttle aggressively.
‘She’s always had a bit of temper that one,’ Vinny says with a shrug, ‘but I kind of like that.’ He scratches at his chin, looking at the box. ‘I used to take a lot of pics back then. I wanted to be a music journalist, then I wanted to be in a band, then I became a roadie and finally just ended up selling vinyl.’ He whistles, as though time has gone by quickly for him, ‘Spent my whole life lowering my expectations of myself.’
‘Don’t we all,’ I agree, tapping him on the arm. ‘But you’re going to make up for it now Vinny, on your road-trip, living the dream.’
‘Yeah,’ he smiles, staring off, wistfully, ‘I hope so.’ He nods. ‘Right, let’s get this open and ‘ave a look.’ He gives me a worried look. ‘I can’t guarantee anything though, I binned tons of stuff a few years back, lots of old photos too.’
We follow him into his kitchen where he clears plates, cups and paperwork from a table in the middle of the room and re-distributes them on any available surface, which ends up being a difficult task. Then he begins to empty the box of memories out onto the table. It’s filled with the kind of random memorabilia we all seem to horde; certificates, old cameras, trophies, signed school shirts, cassette tapes. Vinny chuckles and sighs occasionally as he spreads them out in front of us.
‘Well I never,’ he mumbles happily, pulling out three small photo albums, ‘I didn’t think I had any left.’
Vinny distributes the albums between us and we begin searching. Most of my pictures are black and white, live performances of sweaty, long-haired rockers; all spotlights and silhouettes. They’re not your usual dross though, they’re good, well framed and artistic. I fan through them quickly.
‘I don’t even remember being at the fair,’ Vinny says, flicking through his memories. ‘Are you sure it was me?’
I nod, ‘It was you Vinny, you looked different, but it was you.’
He looks down and pats his leather clad tummy, ‘Yep, put on a few pounds since then.’
I smile at the understatement.
‘Joe,’ Alexia murmurs, voice trembling, ‘I think I’ve found it.’
She passes me three photographs and the kitchen fades away, my focus pure and intense. The first photograph is a group shot of a band and I recognise them instantly as the lads from my viewing of the fair. They are wearing heavy coats, have long hair and a serious look in their youthful eyes. They’re leaning up against a tree, the lights of the fair just visible behind them. It’s a close-up shot, nothing else to see. I flick it behind the others and the second image tightens my focus even further. This one is framed back a little, the band on the left, the fair on the right and, in the distance, dark trees. I can see shapes, figures and what looks like a girl. My heart stops and I feel like I’m being stretched, my hands trembling as I pull out the final photo. This is the one, the one I’ve been hoping for. In it, the band are framed far left, the fairground is out of focus in the background and on the right is Amy, her figure clear and sharp against a dense forest behind her.
‘I remember now,’ Vinny whispers. ‘Of course. The band were called Dreamless Sleep I think, they were good, split up not long after of course – the good ones always do – but yeah, I remember.’ He leans over my shoulder and points, ‘So that’s Amy.’
‘Yes,’ I manage, my fingers gripping the picture tightly.
Alexia joins us. ‘She’s alone,’ she says quietly, the mystery building in her as it is in me. ‘Where is she going?’
Amy is walking away, her back to the photographer and Alexia is correct, she’s alone; there’s no one else near her. It’s a chilling image, seeing her walking alone in her blue dress towards a dark and ominous looking wood in the distance.
‘Where’s she going?’ Alexia asks again, almost a whisper this time.
‘I have no idea,’ I say, my voice coming from somewhere else, ‘but I always imagined she was led away from the fair by a kidnapper or maybe someone she knew.’ I swallow, head spinning and stare at Alexia, my eyes welling up. ‘This is a clue, new information, we know the direction she’s heading.’
‘I’m so sorry…’ Vinny murmurs, shaking his head.
I turn to him. ‘For what?’ I ask.
‘I remember hearing about this, the girl who went missing, but I never connected it to you. It was just one of those
stories you hear about.’ He stares at the photograph. ‘And to think I had this picture all this time… I never look at them, I didn’t think to check –’
‘It’s not your fault Vinny,’ I say firmly. ‘You didn’t know, it’s okay.’
His face is impossibly sorrowful, the pain obvious. ‘But will this help?’ He asks.
I take in a long breath, my eyes fixed on the image of my sister on her final walk. ‘Yes, it will.’ I exhale.
We hear the patented rumble and roar of the Harley and Vinny winces. ‘I should go,’ he says and I agree, telling him again that it’s okay, that he’s made all the difference.
As Vinny rides away, swerving a little tentatively, Louise – riding pillion – gives me the best smile I’ve seen in years and I realise Vinny might be in trouble - and I mean that in a good way.
Alexia and I watch them until they disappear from view. I turn to her, the photograph still in my hand. ‘I was convinced he wouldn’t have this, you know,’ I admit with a sigh.
‘Me too,’ she nods and then smiles. ‘But he did.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply thoughtfully, ‘but it doesn’t explain what happened to her or where she was going.’
We begin walking home, slower this time, thoughtful and searching. We dance around the same questions, asking them over and over but in slightly different ways, hoping to unlock something.
‘Why would she go into the woods?’ I ask, ‘On her own like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alexia replies. ‘But what if she wasn’t taken by anyone.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What if she was meeting someone?’
I stop and stare at her. ‘That might be it, you know,’ I say, ‘maybe she was told to meet someone there, someone she trusted.’
Alexia squints at me, pursing her lips. ‘Joe,’ she says carefully, ‘did the police, did they…’ She pauses, seemingly lost for words. ‘Did they properly search the woods?’
I realise why she’s nervous. She’s asking if Amy could be buried there. I nod quickly, ‘They checked every inch of that wood and the surrounding area, they found nothing.’