My Little Girl

by Shalini Boland

  ‘I know it’s rough, Jill, but you can’t take it to heart.’

  ‘It’s hard not to!’

  ‘At least it gets the word out about Beatrice. Maybe someone will recognise her.’

  ‘From that tiny photo? I doubt it!’

  ‘You should put it out of your head. In fact, if you look at it another way, it’s actually a little bit funny.’ Laurel tilts her head, trying to get me to smile.

  I inhale and try to swallow down a surge of anger. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t find it funny if it were your reputation smeared across the local paper. If someone had deliberately made you out to be something you’re not.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that it was funny as in laugh-out-loud hilarious; I just mean it’s not so important in the scheme of things. We need to rise above it. All that matters is finding Beatrice.’

  I’m still too shocked by the piece to respond properly. I know for a fact that if it were Laurel being talked about that way in the paper, she would either be livid, or a blubbering mess. She wouldn’t be brushing it off as unimportant and being all zen about it.

  ‘I wonder what Claire’s going to say when she sees it,’ Laurel muses. ‘Maybe you’d better lie low for a bit.’

  I glare at Laurel across the table, but she’s unaware of my displeasure with her. Instead she’s focused on the article once more, with a strange expression on her face that’s making me concerned she might actually be enjoying the situation. That she might not have my best interests at heart.

  Nineteen

  CLAIRE

  I’m sitting at the bottom of the stairs thinking about calling Oliver. He needs to know about the Child Rescue Alert system that Gayle explained earlier, and about his mother’s disastrous newspaper interview – which I still haven’t read. But it’s all too much to relay over the phone. I’ll wait until he gets back from work.

  Is this the way it’s going to be now? Am I about to spend the rest of my life waiting for my daughter to come home? With every hour that passes, I feel her slipping away from me, the thread that binds us stretching thinner. I can’t sit here and allow myself to lose hope like this. To give up. A burst of anger at myself sparks a rush of adrenaline that propels me to my feet. I have to keep searching. I owe it to my daughter to go out there and find her. She’s got to be somewhere. If anything bad had happened, surely I would feel it in my bones, in my heart. As long as there’s a chance, I have to do everything I can to bring her home.

  Just as I’ve decided to go out again, I hear the thud of footsteps coming up the drive. I don’t remember hearing Ollie’s car pull up so I’m pretty sure it’s not him. The doorbell rings. Without giving myself a chance to speculate further, I open the door.

  A tall man in his mid-forties, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and belted shorts, stands on the doorstep carrying a large brown envelope and the hugest bouquet of white lilies. He has messy ash-blonde hair and very red skin. It takes me a second to place him, and then it comes to me. It’s Stephen Lang, one of my clients. I recognise his green Volvo parked at the bottom of the drive. I’ve been working on a new life insurance deal for him. He’s a relatively newish client who discovered my IFA services via a Google search last year when he was looking for a mortgage. I managed to find him one which he was very happy with.

  ‘Hi, Claire.’

  ‘Oh, Stephen, hi. I’m so sorry but I’m not working this week. Didn’t you get my email?’

  ‘I did. But then I, uh, read the paper this morning and realised it was your daughter they were talking about. So I wanted to bring you these.’ He passes me the flowers, their sweet scent overpowering. ‘To let you know I’ve, uh, been thinking of you.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Has there, uh, been any news?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sure they’ll find her soon.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I take a step back. ‘Well, it was really good of you to think of us. I’d better get these in some water.’

  ‘Oh, I also brought you this.’ He passes me the brown envelope. ‘It’s those forms you asked me to fill in. I know you said you aren’t working at the moment, but I’m not in any hurry. So if you could just hang on to them, we can resume once you, uh, get your daughter back.’

  ‘Okay, great, thanks.’

  I’m waiting for him to leave, but he’s still on the doorstep, tapping his fingertips together. ‘Would you mind if I just nipped in to use your loo?’

  I’d really rather he didn’t, but I can’t exactly say no. ‘Um, okay, yeah, that’s fine. Come through.’

  ‘You’re very kind, sorry about that.’

  ‘No problem.’ I direct him to the downstairs cloakroom and take the lilies into the kitchen where I dump them into a patterned jug without cutting the stems.

  Finally, I hear the flush of the toilet followed by the splash of the tap running. Stephen comes out of the loo and stands awkwardly in the hallway.

  ‘How’s your husband holding up?’

  ‘Same as me really. Worried.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Do you have friends and family helping out? Looking out for you, I mean? I read about the search party your mother-in-law organised.’

  ‘I do, thanks.’ I’m not about to tell him that my family’s up in Scotland and my mother-in-law is the person who’s responsible for this mess.

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ I can see him casting around for something else to say. He’s a sweet guy, but I don’t have time for chit-chat right now – I need to be out searching for my daughter.

  ‘Well, thanks again for the flowers. It was very thoughtful of you.’ I glance pointedly at the front door feeling like a bit of a bitch.

  ‘Oh, right, yes, I’ll be off then. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, won’t you?’

  ‘That’s very kind. I will.’

  ‘And, like I said, there’s no rush with the insurance policy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Finally, he lumbers back down the hallway and leaves. Once his car has pulled away, I waste no more time, grab my bag, phone and keys and leave the house. In the car, I text Ollie to ask what time he’ll be home. There’s no immediate reply, so I send another text to let him know I’m going out.

  The roads are busy with slow-driving holiday traffic. For some reason, the air con in my Toyota refuses to work and all I’m getting from the blasters is lukewarm air. I don’t know where else to look, other than the area around the fairground which feels like a gigantic waste of time since Jill’s search party turned up nothing. But where else can I go? I have no idea in which direction Bea went… or was taken.

  Regardless of my frustration, I continue cruising the streets, looking for anything that might provide a clue to lead me to my daughter. Glimpses of long dark hair and flashes of red have me catching my breath and setting my heart jumping, but it’s never Beatrice. I’ll never find her out here. I feel as though I’m trying to run but my legs are stuck in mud. Like I’m expending all my energy on the wrong thing.

  I find myself wondering if she might still be at the fair, in one of their caravans. The police assured me they searched all the vehicles and buildings on the site, but what if someone took Beatrice away during the police search and then brought her back afterwards? The fair was already back up and running yesterday, and it’s there for a couple more days before it moves on to its next location.

  I don’t feel emotionally prepared enough to go in there right now, but I think I’m going to need to come back to the fair and have a snoop around. See if anyone knows anything. Maybe a member of staff will take pity on me. They’d be more likely to talk to a distraught mother than to a police officer, surely?

  Back home, I text Oliver again, annoyed that he still hasn’t answered my previous messages. I should probably call him, but there’s no point interrupting him if he’s working. The sooner he can get it done, the sooner he can come back home. I drag myself up the stairs and into the shower, le
tting the warm jets rinse off today’s grime and sweat. Trying to wash away my fear and sadness. Trying to keep positive. Telling myself that we will find her. The police have a plan, and they wouldn’t be implementing the CRA if they didn’t think there was a chance of success. Plus, there’s my new idea of revisiting the fair and seeing if that yields anything.

  Once I’m dry and dressed in a clean vest top and shorts, I pad barefoot across the landing towards the stairs, pausing outside Beatrice’s bedroom. My heart knocks in my chest. I shouldn’t go in there again. It’s too upsetting. I haven’t been into her room since the police did their search on Saturday. I’m worried that if I’m surrounded by all her things, I’ll dissolve into a puddle of tears. Despite this, I push open the door and walk inside.

  I almost gasp at the normality of her room. So familiar, so ordinary, so expected. As our house is a chalet bungalow, the upstairs rooms are all in the roof, so from head height the walls slope inwards, making it feel cosy. Her furniture is all white – the bed, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers and the bookshelves. At her request, we painted each lower section of wall a different colour – blue, red, green and yellow. Beatrice adores her room, and is fairly tidy for a seven-year-old. There are a few clothes and toys on the floor, but if ever I nag her about tidying up, she’s quick to insist that it’s not as messy as some of her friends’ rooms.

  I sink onto her bed, pick up a discarded T-shirt and press it to my nose, inhaling its clean, soapy scent. Picturing my daughter wearing it, her smiling face, her infectious giggles. For a moment, I let myself believe that nothing’s wrong. That she’ll be along any minute, bursting through the door with something exciting or interesting to tell me. I’ll listen, and then we’ll sit and draw together, or I’ll read her a story. I wish I’d done more fun stuff with her… I’ll never take her for granted again.

  Wallowing like this isn’t helpful. It isn’t good for me. But I need to feel her. To sense my little girl. To believe she’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to come and get her. Where are you, Bea?

  I jump as the front door slams. I’ve never been so on edge. I need to calm down. It’ll be Ollie. I take a few steadying breaths and leave Bea’s room, not wanting him to find me up here in such a state. We need to be strong for one another. I check the time on my phone and realise he’s been gone for over four hours! It would have been nice if he’d let me know he was going to be so late. I tell myself to let it go. There’s no point getting into an argument about it, even though I feel perfectly justified in being annoyed.

  ‘Hey, Ollie, that you?’ I hurry down the stairs and hear the sound of the tap running. As I enter the kitchen, my husband glances up briefly from the tap, before looking back down at the stream of water. ‘How did it go? Did you get the tax forms finished?’

  ‘Nope.’ He makes an exaggerated popping sound on the ‘p’.

  ‘Oh.’ I swear there’s something strange about him. I take a couple of steps closer. ‘So was it more work than you thought?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a lot of work.’

  I tense up as I realise he’s slurring his words. I catch the faint odour of stale alcohol and realise he’s drunk. A dark, angry heat flushes through my body and I grind my teeth. While I’ve been fending off abusive messages, talking to the police, and searching for our daughter, my husband has been out somewhere getting pissed.

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ I mutter.

  Oliver gulps down his glass of water and pours another. ‘Thirsty,’ he says, trying to smile, his eyes glazed.

  In my head, I’m yelling at him, crying, screaming. Telling him not to be so bloody selfish. Spewing out every deserved expletive I can think of. Throwing insult after insult. In reality, all I say is, ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Stopped off at the Red Lion on my way home.’ He takes his water and sits at the table.

  ‘I hope you didn’t drive.’

  ‘Got a cab. Left my car there.’

  ‘That’s something at least.’

  ‘Don’t start having a go, Claire.’

  I let out a bitter laugh. ‘This isn’t “having a go”, believe me.’

  ‘I knew you’d be like this. It’s why I didn’t want to come home in the first place.’

  I lean back against the countertop, arms crossed, gripping my shoulders. His words are a blow to the chest. He’s acting like I’m the bad guy.

  ‘So you’re saying that I’ve driven you to drink?’

  ‘No. I’m saying that I knew you’d be mad at me having a couple of drinks, so I didn’t come home, I had more drinks instead.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I’ve been doing while you’ve been in the pub?’

  He waves an arm around. ‘Oh, here we go…’

  ‘I’ve been talking to the police about their upcoming media campaign, I’ve been out searching for our missing daughter, I’ve had to fend off a weirdo client of mine who gives me the creeps. Oh, and someone sent me a nasty message about Beatrice, saying that “I deserve it”. So, sorry if I’m not exactly dancing around the kitchen when you come home half-cut after hiding away in the pub all afternoon.’

  ‘Someone sent you a nasty message?’ Ollie’s eyes narrow. ‘Who? Who did that? I’ll sort them out.’

  ‘Sort yourself out first.’ I slam out of the kitchen, my whole body shaking in fury and disappointment. I can’t do this alone. I need my husband to pull himself together. To give me some support. Please.

  Day Four

  What an absolute joke. That online article in the local paper actually made me laugh out loud. If that piece is the best they can come up with, then there’s nothing for me to worry about at all.

  I should have guessed they’d set up a Facebook page. That everyone would be falling over themselves to offer their commiserations and good wishes. It’s pathetic. No one actually cares. They’re just being nosy. Or morbid. Or wanting to make themselves seem like Good Samaritans. They’re all such hypocrites.

  I know I shouldn’t have risked sending that message… but I’m glad I did. Using a mirror as my profile pic was a stroke of genius. It’s not blatant, but just enough to make them wonder whether it’s from a crank or from the person they’re after. Just enough to drive them crazy.

  Twenty

  CLAIRE

  Today feels different. Like something’s changed inside me. I’m still terrified and anxious, but the shock has lessened and I’m somehow able to think more clearly instead of being pinned by that awful paralysis. I think that Oliver getting drunk must have knocked me out of my stupor. Made me realise that I can’t rely on him to be there for me all the time. That he has his own demons to fight and I will have to take charge of things while I’m able to.

  Yesterday, after our fight, Oliver admitted that he hadn’t even gone to work, but instead had driven straight to the pub. Apparently, he hadn’t intended to go there, it just happened. He said his mind went numb and he’d just wanted to blot everything out for a few hours. He apologised, and I forgave him. I agreed that the idea of getting blind drunk sounded tempting, but that we owed it to Beatrice to keep it together. At least for now. I didn’t vocalise the thought that we might very well have to spend the rest of our lives falling apart.

  So, I’ve come back to the fair and Oliver’s gone back to work to do his tax forms. At least that’s where he said he was going. I just have to pray he doesn’t end up back in the Red Lion, like yesterday. It’s not like him. He’s not a daytime drinker. He’s not one of those husbands who goes off to get drunk while I’m left at home worrying. He’s more thoughtful than that. We’re equal partners looking out for one another. His behaviour yesterday scared me. I’ve lost my daughter, I don’t want to lose my husband too.

  It’s 10 a.m. and I’ve just read the opening hours on the board and discovered that the fair doesn’t open until one. So I can either come back later or try to speak to a member of staff now. I’d pictured myself walking around the site while the fair was crowded and in full swing, p
eering in through windows and watching the buildings surreptitiously. With the fairground closed, I won’t be able to blend in. So I guess I should probably leave it. Come back later. The thing is, I’ve geared myself up to do this. I’ve dredged up some courage which is likely to evaporate at any moment. I’m here now, so I should do something.

  Before I can change my mind, I walk up to the deserted entrance gate and knock on the wall of the booth. ‘Hello! Anyone there?’ I wait for a few moments, but there’s no response. ‘Hello!’ I call louder this time and knock again. Still nothing.

  I skirt around the fair entrance and into the adjacent playing field, entering the fairground that way. The stalls and rides are all closed, each surrounded by a metal barrier to prevent entry, but the rest of the site is open to the public. I wander through the deserted fair until I finally spot someone by a closed-up food stand – a skinny teenage boy with an intricate sleeve tattoo. He’s smoking a cigarette and watching a video on his phone.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I call out.

  He looks up, expressionless for a moment before raising an eyebrow and sauntering over.

  I clear my throat. ‘Can I speak to the manager, please?’

  He takes a drag on his cigarette. ‘You want to speak to Monty?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Can I take your name?’

  ‘Claire Nolan.’

  His brows knit together. ‘You’re the mum… of that little kid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s rough. They found her yet?’

  ‘No. That’s why I’m here. I want to speak to the staff, see if anyone saw anything. Were you working here on Saturday evening when it happened?’

  ‘Yeah, I was on the waltzers. We were all pretty cut up about it. Kind of felt like we were responsible, you know. Like we should’ve seen something.’

  I blink, taken aback by his kindness, having assumed I’d encounter resistance or rudeness. ‘Thank you. So you didn’t see anything then? Or notice anyone acting suspiciously?’