Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  And then I see it, an arc of torchlight. Is it him? I don’t know what to do. I’m paralysed by indecision. Rory’s put himself in danger for me and now I’m letting him down by being a flake. Perhaps he’s just searching the area and has found nothing.

  I can’t bear the not-knowing.

  Before I change my mind I race out of the flat and down the stairs to the entrance. The street is empty, the door of the building opposite slightly ajar where Rory broke in. I falter. I don’t think of myself as brave. I’m not one of those journalists who constantly puts themselves in danger on the frontline, or who goes undercover to investigate some criminal gang. No. I might be headstrong, reckless at times. I make wrong decisions, like the part I played in the phone-hacking scandal. But I’m not brave. Yet, as I stand here dithering, I can’t stop thinking about Rory, playing the hero for me. Without allowing myself to think any more about it, I dart across the road, slam my shoulder against the heavy door and step inside the building.

  It’s dark and dusty and I instantly sneeze. It was once a warehouse and it still has those large, square windows that are murky with dirt. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the dark. The room is immense: open plan with stairs in the far corner. A large dust sheet is draped over something near the stairs. I turn slowly. Where is Rory? And then I see him in the opposite corner, underneath the window, the moonlight bleaching his dark curls. He’s leaning over what looks like a body.

  ‘Rory?’ I hiss, stepping towards him.

  His head swivels towards me, his eyes wide. ‘I’ve just called an ambulance. There’s a woman here, unconscious.’ He gets to his feet, and that’s when I see her. The woman. She’s sprawled on top of a dirty old sleeping-bag and there are used needles littering the concrete floor, as well as empty crisp packets and a cereal box. A drug addict.

  Rory kneels beside her and takes her hand. He looks visibly upset and I’m suddenly struck by the horror of it. ‘She’s so thin,’ he says sadly. ‘What makes somebody end up like this?’

  I go to him and put my hand on his shoulder, wanting to comfort him. I know this will affect Rory greatly. He’s the first person to put his hand into his pocket, or donate by mobile when an advert for Unicef or the RSPCC comes on the TV. He can’t walk past a homeless person without stopping to give money, or a Big Issue seller even if he already has that particular copy. I kneel down beside him. The woman looks older than me, her skin sallow and sunken, her long dark hair matted and greasy. She’s wearing a colourful maxi-dress and only a cardigan for warmth. Her fingernails are bitten down and dirty. But there’s something familiar about the shape of her face and the dimple next to her full, chapped lips.

  Rory still has hold of her hand. ‘It’s okay,’ he says to her, in a soothing voice. ‘The ambulance is on its way. We’ll stay with you. My name is Rory and this is my girlfriend, Jess.’

  At the mention of my name her eyelids twitch and her mouth moves.

  ‘Rory,’ I whisper, ‘she’s not unconscious. She’s trying to say something.’

  Her eyes open slowly. Cat’s eyes. For a second I stop breathing. ‘Jess …’ Her voice is raspy, as though she’s not used to speaking out loud.

  Rory turns to me in shock. ‘Do you know this woman?’

  Her eyes close again and her hand goes limp in Rory’s.

  I sit back on my heels in horror, thinking I might be sick as the sirens sound in the distance. It can’t be. It can’t be her. But even in her current state the resemblance to Heather is striking. ‘I think … I think it’s Flora.’

  47

  Margot

  ‘I need to tell you the truth,’ Heather says, staring at Margot intently. ‘Flora’s still alive.’

  Margot stares at her daughter, speechless. The damage to her brain must have been greater than any of them had understood. She’s spouting rubbish. She’s confused, bless her.

  She takes her hand. ‘Sweetheart, we have to accept that Flora is dead.’

  Heather snatches her hand away and adjusts her position on the bed so that she’s facing her mother. ‘No. Listen. Please listen. It’s important, Mum. I know I sound deluded. Mad, even. But … I don’t know if it was seeing Jess again or just my brain healing but I’ve remembered. Ask Adam if you don’t believe me. Ask him what we’d been fighting about that last night.’

  Margot puts a hand to her head. ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.’

  ‘I found out about Flora when Deirdre came to stay at the caravan park. She had a dog with her. Big and fluffy. You know, one of those Chow Chows. And I remembered Flora telling me about them when she was going out with Dylan. She said the mother of the guy his mum was seeing bred them. And the guy’s brother, Clive, had come to the fair and brought it with him. And then there was the ring …’

  Margot gets up from the bed and begins pacing the room, her mind racing. Flora’s alive? ‘Where is she?’ she snaps, suddenly not caring about the logistics, only that she wants to see her daughter again, her baby. She burns with it, the desire to hold her elder daughter in her arms again. ‘Where is she, Heather?’

  Heather starts crying. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know. I found her, Mum. In Clive Wilson’s house in Southville. I found her and then I lost her again. Call the detective guy that you like. Get him to find her.’

  Margot wants to believe all this is true. She’s dreamed of it so many times over the years. But Heather’s been in a coma – she nearly died. ‘Are you sure you didn’t … dream this?’

  ‘I’m telling the truth. It’s a long story, Mum.’ Heather’s face is a picture of desperation. ‘I’ll tell you another time but, for now, please, just find her.’

  Ruthgow sounds just as sceptical as Margot feels.

  ‘And Heather is telling you this only now?’

  Margot is patrolling the length of the atrium, her mobile clamped against her ear. There are a few people at tables, nursing vending-machine drinks. The cafés are now closed. ‘I don’t think she could remember before. The … accident. Her head … her thoughts were all over the place.’ Her voice sounds echoey in the vast space.

  ‘Please try not to get your hopes up,’ he says softly. She wonders if he’s at home. Perhaps with a significant other. Are they clearing up after dinner or about to go out for the evening? She’s sure she can hear someone humming in the background. ‘I understand how badly you want it to be true. But this could be a figment of Heather’s imagination after spending a week in a coma.’

  ‘I – I know.’

  He clears his throat. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll do all I can, Margot, I promise.’

  After he’s hung up, Margot slumps into a chair, feeling as though all her energy has been sucked from her. She doesn’t even know where to start with her thought process. She needs to go back and talk to Heather.

  She hurries along the winding corridors to the area where Heather’s room is. Visiting time is nearly over. The nurses and doctors – they all know who she is now – are usually happy to be a bit lenient, but Margot doesn’t want to break any rules.

  The same policeman is still outside Margot’s door and he raises an eyebrow when he sees her. ‘Back again?’ He smiles. He’s young, this policeman, with twinkly hazel eyes and a round freckled face. He’s young enough to be Margot’s son. She likes him. Out of all the police officers who have stood guard in the two weeks since Heather was admitted, he’s the only one who bothers to talk to her or treat her as though she’s an actual human being, rather than the mother of a criminal.

  ‘Forgot to ask Heather something,’ she says, throwing him a benign smile. He steps aside to allow her to pass.

  Heather is lying on top of the bed in her dressing-gown, her head resting against the puffed-up pillows; a nurse is taking her blood pressure and temperature.

  Heather lifts her eyebrows in surprise but doesn’t say anything until the nurse has left.

  ‘Well?’ she whispers.

  ‘I’ve called Ruthgow. He’s going to look into it.
You need to tell me everything, Heather.’

  ‘Some of it is still patchy. I can’t remember what happened before …’ She touches the bandage around her head. ‘And I don’t remember shooting the Wilsons but,’ she flushes, ‘I do remember getting obsessed with her in the weeks leading up to … it.’

  Margot perches on the edge of Heather’s bed. ‘With who? Deirdre?’

  ‘I just couldn’t get it out of my head, the thing with the dogs and the ring.’ She holds her right hand up. ‘This ring, Mum. Flora’s.’

  Margot takes her hand and examines the little gold ring. It’s identical to Heather’s, passed down through the family. Margot’s grandfather had been a bit of a snob and decided that their family’s crest needed to be immortalized in the shape of rings, even though he had no ancestral lineage or blood. Margot had worn his since she had handed hers to Heather, and Leo had given his own to Flora when she was a baby, saying he knew he’d never have kids and it was all a load of pretentious crap anyway that he didn’t want to be a part of. Margot had had to have it made smaller so that it would fit on Flora’s little finger when she had allowed her to wear it as a teenager. Heather hands it to her now and she studies it, looking for the very faint join. She reaches down to the floor to retrieve her reading glasses from her bag, slips them on and peers at the rings. Heather takes hers off, and Margot holds them in her palm. They are identical.

  ‘It’s exactly the same as mine, see? Too much of a coincidence we’d have the same family crest, isn’t it? I know it’s not some ancient coat of arms and that my great-granddad just wanted to say he had a family ring. But still. That’s Flora’s ring, isn’t it?’

  Margot nods. Why hadn’t she noticed before that Heather was wearing Flora’s ring? If she had, she’d have questioned her about it. It might have prompted Heather to remember earlier. There are so many questions buzzing around her head that she can’t think straight for all the noise. Then she asks urgently, ‘What happened to my little girl? Tell me. I need to know.’

  Heather opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by one of the nurses bustling into the room. It’s the one Margot has never taken to. Brenda. Skinny and upright with thin lips that refuse to smile. ‘Right,’ she says, clapping her hands and shooing Margot off the bed. ‘Time’s up, I’m afraid. It’s really late. You should have left at eight.’

  In that moment Margot could quite cheerfully have throttled Brenda. ‘Can you just give us a minute, please?’ she says. ‘I need to talk to Heather.’

  ‘You can talk to her in the morning.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Come on. Out.’

  Margot catches her daughter’s eye. She’s waited eighteen years but she doesn’t think she has it in her to wait any longer.

  Brenda touches Margot lightly on the shoulder. ‘Off you go, then,’ she says, in the kind of voice you’d use on a wayward child.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ mouths Heather, her expression one of panic.

  Margot shakes her head. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be back first thing.’

  But she doesn’t have the chance to finish her sentence because the door is closed firmly behind her.

  The nice policeman chuckles. ‘Gosh, she’s not to be messed with, is she?’

  Margot doesn’t have the energy to summon a smile. She staggers along the corridor, feeling as though she’s drunk. There’s a funny vibrating sound coming from her handbag: her phone. She drops her bag in haste and rifles through it. It could be Ruthgow with news of Flora. Why hadn’t she kept it in her hand? Stupid. Stupid. She’s on her hands and knees now. By the time she finds the phone right at the bottom of her handbag the person has rung off. She grabs it and sees Jessica Fox’s number under missed calls. Before she has the chance to ring back her phone springs into life again with Jess’s name flashing up.

  ‘Margot?’ she says, before Margot even has the chance to say hello. ‘It’s Jess. This is going to come as a shock. But I’ve found a woman who I think is Flora. Margot? Margot? Are you there?’

  48

  Margot

  The pleasant-faced police officer, who says he’s called Dale, helps her to her feet and guides her to a chair in the day room.

  ‘Are you okay, Mrs Powell?’ He leans over her and pats her shoulder, like she’s an old-age pensioner. He holds a white plastic cup of water under her nose. She notices a hairline crack in the rim.

  The magnolia walls are closing in on her. She still has her mobile phone in her hand. With the other hand, she takes the cup and sips the water slowly from the side with no crack.

  ‘You had a funny turn. Shall I go and fetch Nurse Brenda?’

  ‘No!’ she says too quickly.

  He laughs. ‘I don’t blame you. Maybe just sit here for a bit, then. I’ll be just across the way outside your daughter’s room.’

  The day room is only small, maybe ten foot by eight, with just a few chairs and a bucket of plastic toys piled high in the corner. There’s a notice-board with leaflets pinned to it and a poster encouraging people to talk to their doctor if they find blood in their wee. Margot takes a few deep breaths, like she was taught in her yoga class, until her heart rate slows. Then she stands up gingerly and dumps the plastic cup on the table.

  She walks down the corridor carefully, feeling much steadier on her feet now. She can do this, she thinks, giving herself a little motivational pep-talk. She’s strong.

  At last she’s a cat’s whisker away from finding out the truth about Flora. Heather says she’s still alive. Jess says she’s found her. Jess. She needs to ring Jess.

  Her fingers tremble as she scrolls down to Jess’s number in her phone. ‘Hello.’ Jess sounds worried and slightly out of breath. ‘Margot. Are you okay?’

  ‘Where are you? Where’s Flora? I need to see her.’

  ‘I’m at Southmead Hospital. Flora was brought in less than ten minutes ago.’

  Southmead Hospital? Flora’s here. She’s actually here. ‘I’m at the hospital too. I’ll meet you in the atrium, near Costa,’ she says, her pace picking up so that she’s almost running down the corridor.

  Jess is already standing outside Costa with a striking man when Margot gets there. He must be the boyfriend. He has his arm slung protectively around Jess’s shoulders. She looks like she’s been rubbing her eyes: her mascara is smudged. Her face is pale and drawn, her hair a mass of blonde fluff, and she’s wrapped up in her llama coat. Margot notices a ladder in her patterned tights.

  Her face lights up when she spots Margot. ‘Come on. I’ll show you where she is,’ she says, linking her arm through Margot’s and almost pulling her along.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Margot says, allowing herself to be led, her mind still playing catch-up. Jess is acting like she’s just had an adrenalin shot and she doesn’t bother to introduce Margot to her boyfriend, not that Margot cares. All Margot wants is to see her daughter again. Jess is still gabbling as they hurry towards A and E, something about derelict buildings and a person sleeping rough who turned out to be Flora. She can’t quite comprehend it all. It’s as though her brain has stopped functioning properly so that thinking is like wading through glue.

  In A and E Jess explains to the receptionist who Margot is and a doctor appears straight away: a tired-looking man with a crumpled face who introduces himself, although Margot instantly forgets his name, and asks her to follow him. She turns back once to see Jess and her boyfriend standing at the desk, looking helpless.

  ‘Can you ring Gary?’ Margot calls to Jess. ‘Ruthgow, CID,’ she adds, when Jess stares at her blankly.

  Jess nods and is already reaching for her phone as the doctor leads Margot away.

  ‘I’m afraid your daughter is very poorly,’ he says, his face grave. ‘She overdosed on heroin and, if she hadn’t been found just then, she would certainly have died. We’ve given her naloxone, which will help to reverse the effects, but she’s finding it hard to breathe and I think one of her lungs has been affected. She’ll start to get withdrawal symp
toms. It looks like she’s been an addict for a long time. Suffice to say her health isn’t good.’

  An addict? Flora is a heroin addict? Margot can’t get her head around it. Please, God, let her survive this.

  He stops when they reach a line of cubicles: groaning and shouting are coming from behind a curtain. Thankfully he goes to a cubicle further down the line and Margot takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

  The first thing that strikes Margot about the woman – woman, not girl: she had pictured Flora as a sixteen-year-old – is how tall and thin she is. Margot glances at the doctor for reassurance but he gives her a look that says, ‘Go on.’

  This woman, this creature in the bed, looks nothing like her beautiful little girl and Margot has to suppress a sob. She has an oxygen mask over her face and, although she has blankets and sheets up to her waist, Margot can see she’s wearing an ugly hospital gown.

  Oh, Flora, what have you done to yourself? How could her clever, naïve daughter end up like this?

  ‘Flora?’ she whispers, moving closer to the bed. She looks so old, this girl – woman. Her once glossy dark hair is now dull and matted, hanging in strands over her shoulders, her skin no longer young and fresh but sunken and lined. Margot’s eyes fill with tears as she runs her fingertip over the chickenpox scar just in front of her daughter’s left ear. It’s her baby. She can hardly believe it, but it’s true. She gently brushes the hair away from Flora’s forehead. It’s been a lifetime, yet the curve of her forehead is so familiar that Margot’s heart feels like it might burst with love, fear and sadness for all the lost years. She takes her elder daughter’s pale hand in hers and holds it to her face. She wants never to let it go.

  The doctor touches her upper arm gently and says he’ll be back in five minutes. Margot hardly notices him leave.

  And then, much to her delight, Flora opens her eyes, those beautiful green eyes, so like Heather’s, and she squeezes Margot’s hand. ‘Mum?’ she croaks.