Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

‘Oh, my baby. It’s me. It’s Mum. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.’

  A tear slides from the corner of Flora’s eye and seeps onto the pillow. She turns her head slowly towards Margot. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her voice is raspy, as though she’s been smoking twenty cigarettes a day.

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry, my darling,’ Margot says, a weight crushing her chest. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too … Please … Heather … Is she alive?’

  ‘She’s alive and well. Don’t worry about Heather.’ How did she know? She must have read about it in the newspapers. Is that why she’s come back? Because of Heather?

  Margot replaces the oxygen mask over Flora’s face. ‘We can talk later. You need to get well. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.’ Flora’s chest rattles as she breathes and the sound worries Margot. Her eyes slowly close again and Margot sits on the cold, plastic chair next to the bed, still clutching her daughter’s hand and watching as her chest rises and falls. She only lets go when the doctor comes in and checks the monitor by Flora’s bedside. There is a flurry of activity and noise as another doctor rushes in. Then an overweight nurse with a kind face ushers a startled Margot out of the cubicle.

  ‘What’s going on? Is there something wrong?’

  ‘They’re just taking her to the right department, pet,’ the nurse says. ‘She needs more specialized care, that’s all. Come with me, and when she’s settled, you can see her.’

  Margot wants to scream and kick the woman, this nurse, who’s keeping her apart from her child. She wants never to be parted from Flora again. But she resists the urge, instead allowing herself to be led away.

  Jess and the boyfriend are sitting at a table holding hands and murmuring to each other when Margot stumbles into the waiting area, blinking from the harsh overhead lighting. Everything has changed. Since Flora went missing Margot has been going through the motions, like an actress playing a part, but it hadn’t felt real. She’d been numb, even when something good happened, like being with Heather or Ethan, and any elation would swiftly be followed by a surge of guilt. And now. Now everything feels hyper-real, too bright, surreal almost. She still feels like she’s in a play, but one in which the ending has suddenly changed without anyone telling her.

  When Jess sees her she drops her boyfriend’s hand, pushes her chair back and darts over to her. ‘Is it her? Is it Flora?’

  Margot can only nod and Jess has to help her to the table.

  ‘No,’ says Margot, stopping in her tracks. ‘I need to go. I need to see Heather. She knew Flora was still alive. I need to tell her that her sister is here.’

  Jessica’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘Wait. What?’

  ‘Heather knew. I don’t …’ she gulps ‘… I don’t understand any of it. Not yet.’

  ‘I did wonder if Heather knew more than she was letting on,’ Jess says, a blush colouring her cheeks. ‘She was wearing Flora’s ring.’

  ‘What happened? How did you find Flora?’

  The boyfriend steps forward. ‘I found her, Mrs Powell.’ He holds out a hand. ‘I’m Rory.’ And then he proceeds to tell her everything.

  The waiting room is remarkably busy for a Wednesday evening, but Margot feels as if she’s been sitting there for ever, even though it can’t be longer than half an hour.

  She had sent Rory and Jess home. There was nothing more they could do. She doubts they would be allowed to see Flora, and Jess in particular had looked shattered, unable to stifle her yawns. As Margot hugged Jess goodbye and thanked Rory, she promised to call in the morning with any news.

  Flora. Her baby is home. She feels a surge of relief and elation, quickly followed by fear that she’ll lose her again. She can’t let that happen.

  She gets up and begins to pace. She’s desperate to see Heather, although visiting hours are long over and she knows she won’t be allowed.

  ‘Margot?’

  She turns to see DCI Ruthgow charging towards her, a determined look on his face, which relaxes as he approaches. He’s wearing a long wool coat with the collar turned up over the top of a suit.

  ‘Gary.’ Her mouth goes dry. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Jessica Fox rang me. Told me about finding Flora. That’s wonderful news.’ He smiles, although the deep furrows in his brow don’t disappear.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But nothing. The main thing is that she’s been found. There’ll have to be an investigation into where she’s been, of course, to determine if there’s been foul play.’

  Margot dips her head. ‘I know. Heather … she already knew Flora was alive. She’d found out before the incident with the Wilsons. I was shooed out by a nurse before I could get any more information from her but I need to know … She said she’d found her at Clive’s Bristol house.’ She bites back tears.

  The grooves in his brow deepen. ‘I thought Jessica found her?’

  ‘No. I don’t understand it all.’

  He’s silent for a few seconds as he assesses her with those heavy-lidded eyes of his. ‘Come with me,’ he says suddenly, and strides off down the corridor.

  ‘Where are we going?’ She has to trot to keep up with him.

  ‘To speak to Heather.’

  ‘But we won’t be allowed.’

  His mouth is set in a grim line as he says firmly, ‘Well, we’ll see about that.’

  49

  August 1994

  Flora stuffed her belongings back into her bag. Her Walkman was broken, and the tape spooled out of her All About Eve cassette, like two shiny brown ribbons. She didn’t understand what had happened to her sister. She was just so angry all the time.

  The rain was coming down heavier now, and her hair hung in wet strands around her shoulders. She shivered in her thin white blouse. It was covered with the blood from her lip. She’d never get those stains out and her mum would go mental. She had on a white bodystocking underneath, so she stood up, peeled off the wet blouse and threw it into the bushes, covering herself with her black crushed-velvet jacket.

  Despite her good intentions of dumping Dylan, her heart still ached when she thought of him. It had all been going so well until today. And now he’d just stalked off, not even caring how she got home.

  She hoisted the bag onto her back and set off down the road towards the lane that led home. It would be muddy now – the rain was already pooling in pot-holes and gushing down drains.

  She thought she heard something in the bushes. A rustling, a moan … but she couldn’t be sure and she hurried on, her head down.

  She didn’t hear the car approach until it was right next to her.

  ‘Flora?’ said a voice she vaguely knew.

  She looked up to see a large red face peering at her. He had the window down and rain was spotting his forehead, landing on his pale eyelashes, although he didn’t seem to notice. Or care. She recognized him as Speedy’s brother. Clive. That was his name. She’d only met him briefly a few days ago. She thought he seemed a bit leery. Beside him sat an older woman with a fluffy dog on her lap that looked like a bear. She’d seen Speedy with that dog and had raved about it to Heather.

  ‘This is my mum, Deirdre. Do you want a lift?’

  It was so tempting. It was still a good ten-minute walk home, and she was cold and shivery. She didn’t like the way Clive’s eyes travelled to her chest but his mum was in the car. He was hardly going to do anything inappropriate with her there, was he?

  ‘Okay. Thanks,’ she said, getting into the back. The car smelt strongly of wet dog and there were cream dog hairs all over the fabric, but she didn’t care. She was warm and off her feet. That was all that mattered.

  ‘You poor thing, you look exhausted,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘That’s a shame. I was going to invite you to a party at mine,’ added Clive. She could see his eyes in his rear-view mirror. The pupils were huge so it was hard to see any iris. A party? She glanced at her watch. It was gone nine. It would be getting dark soon. Sh
e’d be in trouble with her mum if she was late. And Heather … She bristled when she thought about her sister and their fight. She’d never forgive her for breaking her Walkman.

  ‘Dylan will be there,’ Clive added, turning to grin at her. Then he put the car in first gear and moved away from the pavement. She stared through the rain-splattered window. The high street was deserted.

  Dylan would be at the party. The thought was enticing. His cruel words of earlier filled her head. You’re a baby. Just like your sister. A fucking prissy small-town girl with no ambition.

  She’d show him. Heather and her mother too. She’d been good her whole life. Always toed the line and done everything that was ever asked. But where had that got her? Wasn’t she allowed a bit of fun? To have a wild night out?

  ‘Where is the party?’

  ‘In Bristol.’

  Bristol? Bristol was a bit far. How would she get home?

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. That’s a bit far. My mum would kill me.’

  Deirdre’s laugh was tinkly, like a fork against glass. ‘You’re a young girl. You should be going to parties and having fun.’ She shifted her weight so that she could see Flora in the back. ‘I grew up in the sixties and I expect your mum did too. I bet she had her fun back in the day.’

  Flora doubted that. Her mother was born sensible. Like Heather. And Deirdre looked twenty years older than Margot, who was probably closer to Clive’s age. She did a quick calculation. Deirdre must have been at least in her late twenties in 1964. Clive was born before that.

  ‘I live down there,’ said Flora, pointing to a road that led towards the caravan park.

  But Clive ignored her and kept driving. ‘Oops, sorry, missed the turning,’ he said, laughing. ‘Looks like you’re going to have to come to the party now.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Deirdre. ‘I’ll make sure you get home safely. I’ll call you a taxi later. And you can ring your mum from our house.’

  Our house? Clive still lived with his mum?

  ‘I don’t think I can afford a taxi home,’ Flora admitted, ‘but maybe Mum or Uncle Leo could come and collect me.’

  ‘That’s it. You call them when we get there,’ said Deirdre, flashing Flora a reassuring smile. The dog fidgeted on her lap, then jumped between the two front seats to join Flora in the back. ‘Oh, he likes you and he’s a good judge of character.’

  Flora smiled, trying to quash the unease that rippled through her. She sat in the back seat and cuddled the dog as the rain lashed down and Clive’s windscreen wipers whooshed back and forth. She shivered, her wet skirt clinging to her legs. She just wanted to go home but she also didn’t want to offend. And part of her couldn’t resist the thought of letting Dylan see her at the party. She’d show him she wasn’t some provincial mummy’s girl.

  ‘I’ve got some hot chocolate in a flask if you want some,’ offered Deirdre. She handed it to Flora. ‘Just pour it into the little cup. That’s it.’

  The hot chocolate was delicious and slid down her throat, warming her instantly, although her lip throbbed. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was, and before she knew it, she had finished the whole cup.

  ‘Have some more if you want it,’ said Deirdre. ‘It will warm you up.’

  Flora poured herself another cup gratefully and swigged it back. It wasn’t piping hot but it was more than lukewarm. When she’d had enough she returned the flask to Deirdre with thanks.

  Clive didn’t say much and Deirdre faced the front again, fiddling with the radio. ‘Let’s have some music to get you in the mood for a party,’ she said, settling on Ace of Base’s ‘The Sign’.

  Flora appraised Deirdre, although from where she was sitting she could see only her profile. But she was attractive, she suspected late fifties, with blonde Marilyn Monroe hair and a full figure. She was wearing a blue spotted 1950s-style dress, which suited her figure, and a white raincoat.

  ‘Will you be at the party too, Deirdre?’ she asked politely.

  Deirdre laughed again. ‘Oh, no, dear. I’m too old for that kind of thing now. No, I’ll leave you young people to have your fun.’ She touched Clive’s hand where it rested on the steering wheel. Flora wanted to laugh to herself. Clive had to be nearly forty. He was far from young. Why did he and his brother hang out with people half their age anyway?

  ‘I like to provide the entertainment,’ grinned Clive, his eyes flashing at her from the rear-view mirror. Of course. He provided the drugs. That was why he was having the party. It was a job for him. Still, it didn’t mean she’d have to touch them. She’d go for a few hours, then ring her mum and Uncle Leo would come and pick her up. And, okay, they were bound to be angry with her. But she was sixteen. She was entitled to a bit of fun. And it would piss off Heather. She smiled at the thought of her irate sister. Her eyelids were heavy now. It must be the lull of the car and the sound of the rain. It was sleep-inducing. Soporific. She liked that word. Yes, it was soporific.

  Ace of Base sounded very far away now, as did Clive’s voice. She thought she heard, ‘I like her. She’s a keeper.’ But she couldn’t be sure. Then she felt the car stop and she tried to prise her eyes open, but they kept falling closed. She felt strong arms lift her from the back seat and something being thrown over her, covering her face. Maybe a blanket. It smelt damp and fusty. Then the click of a door opening and closing, a dog barking.

  ‘Where’s the party?’ she muttered, although her tongue felt too thick for her mouth.

  She was sure she heard Deirdre reply, ‘There is no party, darling. It’s just us.’ And in that moment she knew she had made a huge mistake in trusting them. She wanted to scream, to put up a struggle. She longed to be at home with her mum and Uncle Leo and Heather, huddled on the sofa with Goldie on their laps. But her body felt too heavy, her mind fuzzy.

  And this time she was unable to prevent her eyelids from closing.

  50

  Margot

  Tears stain Heather’s face and Margot thinks her daughter looks young and vulnerable in the huge hospital bed, her legs drawn up so that she’s hugging her knees under the covers. ‘I never gave up hope that she was alive somewhere,’ she says.

  Gary Ruthgow is perched on a chair on the other side of the bed to Margot. She was surprised when the hospital staff allowed him to talk to Heather at this time of night. But Heather had readily agreed, hungry for any news of Flora. Margot has a pager in her hand, given to her by Flora’s doctor, who promised to let her know if there is any news on her elder daughter.

  Margot stays silent as she holds Heather’s hand for reassurance. After all these years she’s finally going to learn the truth.

  It was the ring that did it.

  ‘I’d been cleaning Deirdre’s caravan when I saw it,’ explains Heather. ‘It was nestled among Deirdre’s cheap costume jewellery. I picked it up and compared it to my own – it was exactly the same. And I knew, then, that it was Flora’s. So I took it. It wasn’t until she checked out the next day that I had the courage to ring her up at home – she’d left her number when she made the booking so I knew where to reach her. It was a Bristol number. I know now it was the Southville address.

  ‘She’d been affronted on the phone when I asked her about the ring, accusing me of stealing. Her defensiveness caused alarm bells to ring. She eventually admitted she’d bought it from a charity shop but I didn’t believe her. The ring – coupled with the dog – made me suspicious. I don’t even know exactly what I thought her involvement was then, just that she must have known something about Flora’s disappearance. And it was the way she acted around me too. There was something odd about her. While she was staying she’d been too interested in the caravan park. And in me. She stared at me a lot. I don’t know, in retrospect I wondered if, on some level, she wanted me to find out.’

  ‘Deirdre had cancer,’ says Ruthgow, matter-of-factly. ‘It was terminal. So maybe she was trying to find some kind of redemption.’

  Heather shrugs. ‘I couldn’t get it out of my head.
The dog. The ring. So I did a bit of my own detective work.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to the police?’

  ‘I didn’t have any evidence. I didn’t even know what I thought had happened at that point.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone about the ring?’

  Heather sighs and blinks. ‘I told Adam. But I’ll get back to that.

  ‘After I found the ring but before Deirdre checked out, I asked her if she had any children. She said she had two, Clive and Norman. Her eyes shone when she spoke about them. I asked her if one of them dated a woman in the early 1990s with a son called Dylan. I didn’t say anything about Flora going missing. She pretended to think about it before answering that, yes, one of her sons had dated a woman with a son called Dylan. And then I just knew. I knew that one of her sons knew more about what had happened to Flora.

  ‘So I found out where Deirdre was living – this was a few weeks before she moved to Tilby so she was living with Clive in Southville still. In one of the windows hung a West Ham flag and the house was a bit grotty. And I stalked them. I watched when they left, saw who they spoke to. Clive went out mostly in the evenings. I asked around but a lot of people were scared of him. He had some dodgy connections. One thing became evident, though. He was a drug-dealer with a perversion for under-age girls.’

  Margot stares at her daughter, horrified. ‘Do you mean that Clive and Flora were … together? That she knowingly ran off with him?’

  Heather looks appalled. ‘No. God, no. Mum, I’m sorry, I wish it had been that. But it’s a lot worse.’

  Margot’s head is pounding and bile rises up in her throat. All her worst hideous visions, the ones she tried not to think about but that came late at night when she was alone in bed, burrowing through to her brain, like a determined rat, flooded her thoughts. Visions of Flora being raped, murdered, tortured. Suffering. In pain. Screaming for her to rescue her. She puts her hands over her ears and shuts her eyes to get rid of the images. A moan escapes her lips.

  ‘Mum …’ Heather squeezes her hand. ‘I’m so sorry …’