Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  And it is too. Suzie remains asleep and Martyn and I spend the rest of it chatting and reminiscing. We even get some photograph albums out and sit together perusing them, laughing at the terrible fashions and dreadful hairstyles. I let out a wistful sigh as we find our old wedding photographs - me in an ivory shift dress, looking relaxed and slightly overweight after having only given birth to Tom six weeks prior, and Martyn, as handsome as ever in his navy, close fitting suit. And of course there are the photographs of Tom as a baby. Such a sweet, sweet boy with his rosy cheeks and chubby little fists. I used to love tracing my fingers over the row of dimples on the back of his hands; tiny indents where his knuckles should have been. Such happy times when we were all together. How life changes I think, as I gather the array of pictures up and slide them all back into the folder.

  There is no noise from upstairs but then I didn’t expect there to be. I’ve given her enough medication to fell a horse. But soon I’m going to have to see to her ablutions, make sure she is fed and properly hydrated. I’ve waited too long for her to lose her. I have to take care of her. She’s my responsibility now. All mine.

  I gather up some bits of food and take a bottle of water upstairs. She will need toileting first. Poor woman must be desperate for the loo.

  She is placid when I get in there, pliant and in need of a drink. Getting her on the toilet is easy enough, her system still full of drugs, dulling her resistance. I lay her back on the bed and gently stroke her hair.

  “We’re going to get along just fine Suzie. No point trying to fight me is there?”

  Her eyes flicker as she watches me. Not fear anymore. Trust and recognition. That’s what it is.

  “We’re a team, you and I aren’t we?” I nestle my body close to her on the bed and wrap my arm around her waist, “Nothing to be frightened of now sweetheart. I’m here to make it up to you. All those years apart will soon be a distant memory, just you wait and see.”

  I stay there until the light begins to fade and then very slowly, extricate myself and slump wearily into the chair where I stay until the morning.

  Twenty Five

  The throbbing pain in her head makes her want to vomit, every slight movement causing her to heave. She stays completely still. Being sick could be deadly. Nowhere for it to go. She could so easily choke and die. And there is no way she is about to let that happen. Not here, in this place. With her.

  Anna twists the lower half of her body, trying to alleviate the dreadful dull ache that is setting in at the base of her spine after being laid for too long in the same position. Light is filtering in through the blinds where she knocked them to one side to see out of the window. And she will do it again as soon as Phoebe leaves the room. As long as she doesn’t give her any more of that medication. She has no idea what it is but it terrifies her, the thought of being so heavily sedated she can’t think who she is let alone what day it actually is.

  Anna bites down on her lip as a shooting pain travels up her arm into her shoulder. Concentrating hard, she tries to focus her mind elsewhere until it subsides. She is tied so tight it feels as if her arms are becoming dislocated. She has never known such pain. All over her body but especially her head. Why her head? That’s the thing. She can’t remember how she ended up here. Blinking back tears she thinks back to the last thing she can recall. Walking. She was walking somewhere. It was muddy, it must have been. She can smell it on her clothes. And it was raining. There was darkness. So much darkness. But that’s it. Nothing else will come to her. Her mind is completely blank.

  A noise disturbs her. Slowly and meticulously so as to minimise the pain, she rolls over and focuses on the dark shape in the corner of the room. Her. She is asleep, propped up in a chair. A cold sweat covers every inch of Anna’s skin. She watches, her eyes wide with fear as the shape begins to move, wakes up and lets out a small, muffled groan. Anna snaps her eyes shut. Pretend to be asleep. It’s the only way otherwise the medicine gets poured down her throat. Problem is, her bladder is bursting and she is thirsty. So very, very thirsty. She freezes as the shape lets out a strangled yawn and the floor creaks beneath her moving feet. Anna senses her presence next to the bed. She stays still, fearing her hammering heart will be battering so violently it will show through her sweater. A tell-tale pulse of unadulterated terror.

  “Sleep well, little one,” the voice croons, a sickly sweet lilt to her tone, “I’ll be back up soon to give you some breakfast.” There is a pause before she speaks again, “Actually, I guess you need to go to the toilet don’t you?”

  There is a sigh and Anna feels herself being hoisted up off the bed. She keeps her body as floppy as possible to emulate sleep and a drugged state while her pants are yanked down. She is grateful for the familiar cool sensation of the toilet seat and has no option but to let it go. So undignified and unseemly but better than wetting herself. She is put back on the bed, the cord on her wrists and ankles cutting into her skin. Breath wafts close to her face, sour and hot.

  “I know you’re awake now so don’t try anything.”

  A cool finger traces its way down the side of her face and Anna wants to retch. Her blood stops pulsing while she waits for her to move away and leave the room. Only when Phoebe finally shuffles off and goes downstairs does Anna let go, the tears pouring down her cheeks unchecked, an unrelenting river of fear and dread.

  Twenty Six

  Martyn is sitting eating toast when I go down. I spend the next few minutes tidying up and loading the dishwasher, before preparing some breakfast. A yogurt and some juice. Should be enough for now and nice and easy for her to digest. I’m on my way to the hallway when the shrill pitch of the landline cuts into the silence of the morning. I scowl and reluctantly put the tray down to answer it. Bad timing. Probably somebody wanting to sell me something. They will get short shrift, disturbing my time with Suzie. She is hungry and thirsty and needs some sustenance. I pick it up and answer it with more than a touch of reticence in my voice, and am surprised to hear Tom speaking at the other end.

  “Hi Mum. How’s it going?”

  “Going?” He has caught me unawares and I find myself struggling to make sense of what he is saying.

  “Yeah. You know, how are you?” I can hear people talking in the background - voices. Lots of them.

  “I’m fine. Are you at work? Sounds very noisy,”

  He laughs softly, a gentle rhythmic sound. Poetic. “Well that’s the thing you see,” he says, my pulse races as he speaks, thrashing round my ears making me dizzy, “I had a last-minute conference come up at work and it was in London. I don’t get back to the UK that often so I thought ‘why not?’”

  I look down at the floor, trying to keep my balance, “I’m sorry Tom. I don’t quite follow you?”

  I do. I follow him completely. I just don’t want to hear it. Not now. Any other time, but not now.

  “I’m on the train Mum. I left Kings Cross fifteen minutes ago. I’ll be getting into the station in just over two hours. Don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll get a cab.”

  The floor moves beneath my feet, the wood grain swirling violently as I cling onto the table top to stay upright. Of all the times to visit, why now?

  “Mum? Are you still there?”

  I nod and clear my throat, “Yes, of course. That’s fabulous darling. I’ll get the kettle on ready.” My own words rattle around my head, empty, hollow, meaningless.

  There is a long pause before he speaks again, “Truth be told, I’m a bit concerned about you mum. You don’t seem yourself at all.” His tone is careful, deliberate. As if I am some kind of idiot who needs looking after.

  I try to laugh dismissively, be unconcerned, but it comes out as a low growl giving him more reason to doubt me, “I am absolutely fine Tom. You just caught me off guard that’s all. I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.”

  “That’s what I mean,” he says lightly, “It’s after nine and you haven’t eaten. You’re normally up with the larks.”

  It seems
that whatever I say he is going to have a comeback.

  “Just overslept, that’s all.” I am trying to stay calm but panic tears at me, creeping up my neck, buzzing around my brain. Time is passing as we speak. I need to get moving, get things sorted.

  “Okay. Well, I hope that’s the case. Anyway, I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  We hang up and the enormity of what is about to happen suddenly hits me. Terror cramps my gut. I race upstairs and lean over the toilet where I am violently sick. Again and again and again. I wait until my stomach stops heaving then stand up and look in the mirror. A haggard woman stares back at me. No make-up, uncombed hair. I am a complete mess. I’ve been so busy dodging questions from prying neighbours and caring for Martyn and Suzie that my own needs have been sorely neglected. I quickly rinse my face, then think better of it and step into a steaming hot shower. The water pummels my skin as I scrub away the grime of the past few days. I step out feeling clean, invigorated, ready to face the world and whatever it decides to throw at me.

  By the time I’ve combed my hair and applied a slick of lipstick, my plan is hatched. I will need to be quick though. Time is against me. I have two hours before Tom arrives. Suzie has to be fed and watered and hidden from view. And I have to do it now.

  Twenty Seven

  She flinches as I approach her with a small bottle of water. So typical of her. She always was a smart cookie.

  “We’re going on a short journey. Call it a holiday. For you anyway. Don’t worry, it’s not for long,” I say as I unscrew the lid and sit on the edge of the bed. She tries to flinch but I see it coming and am ready to pre-empt her every movement. I straddle over her, pinning her tiny frame beneath me, my knees pressing hard on her shoulders. This shouldn’t take long. I don’t rip the tape off completely but pull it to one side and force the neck of the bottle in her mouth. The small amount of water empties into her mouth and I quickly press the tape back in place. Her cheeks puff out in protest. I move off her and apply another strip of tape. Can’t afford to make any mistakes. Not when I’ve come this far.

  As soon as I can see she is completely unconscious, I pull my boots on and go outside to reverse the car into the garage. There is plenty of space to manoeuvre so I make sure I position it with the rear end close to the door that leads into the house. Once I am satisfied that everything is ready, I go back inside and take the stairs two at a time, excitement beginning to grip me. Everything is going to be fine. More than fine. It’s going to be perfect. Once Tom gets here I will have all of them with me. My family. All together. As if we’ve never been apart.

  Getting her back down the stairs feels a great deal more arduous than taking her up there. She is floppy and her head keeps lolling around. I hang onto the handrail and end up bumping her down, our legs becoming entangled as I take each stair one at a time. It’s a cumbersome process but in the end I manage it, out of breath and with a slightly sore head after we clash temples on the last step.

  I briefly consider putting her in the back seat, laying her out flat, covered by a blanket but decide the risk is too great so do something I would rather not do, and put her in the boot. It feels cruel putting her in there, indecorous and unbecoming; especially after I have cleaned her up and made sure she looks nice. It’s small and dark too but at least we don’t have that far to travel.

  We get there in just over fifty minutes and I’m pleased to notice that the road leading up to the house is empty. All at work I imagine. I fumble around the bottom of my handbag for the key. I feel a tug of panic at the passing of time. I have to get her in and sorted before the drugs wear off. And before my son turns up and wonders where I am. I feel the familiar shape of it at the bottom, lodged underneath a sea of tissues and old receipts. Relief washes over me. I really must keep it together. It would be stupid to get this far and then spoil it all because I lose my nerve and come undone. Very, very stupid indeed. What on earth would Martyn think of me? What would Suzie think of me, come to that?

  It’s far easier getting her out of the boot and into the house than it was dragging her down the stairs and getting her in there in the first place and I almost want to weep with the exhilaration of it once I position her in a comfortable place. A long driveway and tall conifers surrounding the property all added to the ease. No worries about who would see us. The question of how I will keep her fed and tend to her ablutions nags at me. I ignore it. One thing at a time.

  I cover her with a warm fleecy throw and lay her down, her back resting against an array of carefully plumped up cushions. I’ll explain everything to her when she comes around and once she sees what my plans are, I just know she will understand. I close the blinds, switch on a low power lamp and turn the heating up. I don’t want her to be cold when she wakes.

  I feel a need to say goodbye to her, to tell her why I’ve gone. She’ll be worried when she wakes up in a strange place on her own. I don’t want her to be frightened. Couldn’t bear the thought. I lean forward and place my head close to hers, so close I can feel the heat of her body as it pulses out of her skin in hot, rhythmic waves.

  “I’ll be back to see you soon my love. I have to leave you here because Tom is coming to see me. He thinks I’m not managing very well. Silly of him really because I’m managing perfectly well. Of course I am. Especially now I have you back Suzie. My Suzie.”

  On impulse I place my lips next to her warm cheek and kiss her. Her skin is as smooth as porcelain. So beautiful, so precious she is. And all mine.

  Twenty Eight

  Toby makes more sandwiches. The boys will eat them even if nobody else is interested. Or maybe they won’t. Those poor lads have worry etched over their faces. Deep grooves of anxiety that are plain to see. He fills the kettle and wanders into the living room while it boils. Callum and Mason are out the front, watching what is going on, keeping an eye on the police and the search party, and Mike is napping. Poor Mike. He was dead on his feet and Toby had to practically force him to go to bed for a few hours. Two nights she’s been gone now. Two fucking nights and they are no further on. All they have is their suspicions and a fucking training shoe. The police have taken it for forensics but have said not to hold out any hope with the amount of rain and mud that has shifted along the river in the past few days. And they’ve given up on talking to the neighbours. It proved to be a waste of time and that’s something they don’t have a great deal of. They were all either half dead or more interested in discussing the possible closure of the nearby post office. He’s glad the media haven’t gotten hold of the story just yet. They always seem to give people who go missing an air of finality. He can’t ever recall anyone who has ever made a miraculous reappearance after their faces were plastered all over Sky News or the front page of The Daily Mail. Media interest signifies almost certain death. They wouldn’t run with the story otherwise. All the public want are the grisly ins and outs that come with the aftermath of a tragedy. He cranes his head further towards the window and peers outside. Anyway, there’s hardly any passers-by through here who could have witnessed anything and the old dears locally may be harmless but they’re also about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. The only one round here with any common sense worth speaking to, who isn’t decrepit, is that lady over the road, the new one that’s only recently moved in and they’ve already spoken to her. She’s even been over to help and it’s quite apparent she knows nothing. He idly bites the side of his mouth. It’s still niggling him where he’s seen her before.

  He wanders back in the kitchen and stares at the kettle. Bloody thing is taking ages. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his messages. Too many to read and lots of work related emails. He wonders what to do about work. At some point he is going to have go back, let everybody know what’s happening. He will wait to find out the latest updates from the police later today and decide. It’s not going to be an easy decision to make given the circumstances and it will be even more difficult to break the news to Mike and the boys. Maybe he can go back for a few da
ys to catch up on things and then come back here, make sure they’re all fed and resting properly. Especially the boys. They’re only twelve and thirteen and still need lots of nurturing, despite them thinking they are adults. The police have searched just about every inch of the house and questioned all of them relentlessly, sitting them down in the living room, going over the night she disappeared in minute detail. It’s been exhausting and they are all dead on their feet. He wonders what else there is left to do. The thought of divers turning up soon fills him with dread. That’s the concluding part. A part he isn’t yet ready to think about or contemplate.

  Desperate to change his train of thought, he finds himself typing in the name Phoebe and Cogglestone into the search engine on his phone. Nothing. Of course not. She’s only lived here a short while. A couple of months at most. And he doesn’t know her surname. God, he wishes he could place her. Things like this drive him nuts. Even under the most stressful of circumstance, his brain won’t stop functioning, thoughts churning about, torturing him with hidden memories that refuse to reveal themselves.

  He pours the boiling water from the kettle into the teapot, which is already full of soggy used tea bags and puts the lid on. It’s while he’s searching for clean cups that it comes to him, a sudden moment of clarity that punctures his thoughts. Why does your memory do that? Hide things from your consciousness and then throw them out at you once you’ve turned your attention elsewhere? Dropping the cups onto the top with a clatter he punches something into his phone. It can’t be her can it? Surely not. The facts don’t add up. She has a husband doesn’t she? He waits while the website loads up, a small niggle of doubt present in his mind. He’s probably barking up the wrong tree. But that day was so memorable, so bloody outrageously embarrassing, it has stuck in his mind. Because of course she made such an impact. Oh boy did she make an impact! And then there was the dreadful accident shortly afterwards. Poor man. The article loads up and he squints to read it properly. It won’t make for pretty reading anyway. He remembers all too well the details of Martyn’s injuries. They were horrific. It’s her face he wants to look at, to see if it’s her. He drags the picture outwards using his thumb and forefinger. It enlarges and takes a couple of seconds to readjust. He narrows his eyes to stare at the blurred image in front of him. And then suddenly it clears and there she is, smiling out at him from the screen on his phone. A picture of her and Martyn taken shortly before the accident. Before she stormed into the surgery like a banshee, hollering all kinds of abuse and threats. A sickly sensation settles in the pit of his stomach. Stupid really, focusing on something as unimportant as this when his sister is still missing. He should be out there helping with the search. Something isn’t right though and he won’t settle until he gets it sorted in his own mind.