Secret of the Song

by Cathie Hartigan

  ‘Shit,’ I said, and for want of a better word said it several more times. There was no door or window open. Time for the long haul home. I’d have to ring him tomorrow.

  The trouble with a security light is the dark next to it. The side of the house was even blacker than before. I put my hand against the wall and felt my way. At about halfway along I heard the sound of the side gate handle. It squeaked even more loudely than my shoe, cue for all of the unfrozen bits of me to give up the fight.

  ‘J-J-Jon?’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s m-m-me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ … Lisa?’

  ‘Wait there,’ he said, once we got inside. I stood in the hall, shivering – not just a bit of a quiver, great big trembly unstoppable wobbles. I felt wobbly inside too. Jon hadn’t exactly looked delighted to see me. He’d taken the car to the garage ready for the repair work to be done and walked home from there.

  A minute later he came back with a duvet, wrapped it round me then went away again without saying anything. I sat down on an old pew he’d rescued from the local church. There was a row of his shoes underneath with a space halfway along. I eased mine off and kicked them into the space, then rubbed my feet together in the hope of reminding the blood to pump that far.

  I heard the sound of the kettle boiling but he appeared carrying a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

  ‘Come in here,’ he said, beckoning me to follow. ‘I’ll make tea, but I think you need a drop of this as well. I definitely do.’

  I shuffled through to his sitting room. He took a gulp of his before handing me mine and sat himself in the armchair. Part of me felt like hiding, putting the duvet right over my head and hibernating until next spring. Fat chance. Besides, the better part of me had something it needed to say.

  A quick swig and I opened my mouth ready to launch my apology.

  ‘Sor—’

  ‘I do hope you’re not going to apologise,’ he said.

  Never has a word so rapidly evaporated. ‘Oh. Err … no. Well, not really. Perhaps …’

  ‘Only the thing is, Lisa,’ he took another gulp of his whisky. ‘The thing is, I used to think that we had, I dunno, a sort of thing. You know, we seemed to get on well. We laughed a lot. Mollie was great. I thought we …’ he trailed off and shook his head. ‘But these last couple of months …’ I thought I knew every square centimetre of his handsome face but I’d never seen him look that bleak.

  ‘I—’

  He waved my response away. ‘You’ve been so weird. So secretive. It was like you were turning into someone else. Someone I didn’t know.’

  ‘But—’ He wouldn’t let me speak.

  ‘And then you came up with this curse business about the Gesualdo and I thought, okay, you’ve had a bump on the head. I even thought …’ he put his glass down on the table, stood up and began pacing around. ‘I even thought there might be something in it. When you asked me round the other day and I had a look at the frontispiece again, I could almost see what you meant.’

  He did that thing with his hair so that it stood up.

  ‘But then, Lisa , then a mysterious postcard with kisses from Italy, a total stranger turns up with a bunch of roses and suddenly everything falls, plink, plinketty, plink … into place. And then I get it.’

  My heart was beating like a tom-tom but I’d half thawed by that time and put away most of my glass of whisky.

  ‘No, stop,’ I said, desperate to say something. ‘No, you don’t get it at all.’

  He’d stopped pacing and instead kicked the rug as he stood with hands gripping either end of the mantelpiece.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘don’t take me for an idiot.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You still look frozen. I’ll make that tea.’

  In a gesture that turned out to be more theatrical than I meant, I cast off the duvet and stood up, barring his way out of the door.

  ‘If all that’s true, then what on earth do you think I’m doing here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Embarrassment? Guilt? God knows, Lisa. I certainly don’t. One minute you’re pulling a fantastic stunt with the choir and practically in my arms and the next … Christ almighty.’

  I reached towards him but he side-stepped me and was out of the room before I could turn round. I grabbed the glass on the coffee table and downed the rest. I had things to say that needed fuel.

  Right then, I told myself. Don’t mess this up. It’s your last chance. Look him in the eye and tell him straight.

  And then the phone rang. A landline, cordless and on the arm of the sofa. Brrring, brrring. It vibrated as it rang, a high-pitched old-fashioned ambulance ring, but then it fell off the arm and buried itself in a cushion and all I heard was the brrr … brrr.

  I thought for a moment he was going to ignore it but then it stopped ringing, and out in the kitchen I heard him laugh. Then nothing. Nothing apart from a few grunts and more laughs for quite a long time, until he said the one word that told me who he was talking to.

  ‘Arrivederci.’

  If there had been a wind to billow my sails, it dropped then, leaving them and me limp. So he was still in touch with Daniela. Part of me reasoned that she had probably phoned to find out how the concert went. But hadn’t she done all the talking?

  I put my glass down on the table. Time to go. It wasn’t what was said that I found so painful but the fact that there’d been so much pleasure in his laughter. We didn’t laugh like that anymore. He was right. We’d grown apart. The mammoth had got fed up and wandered off.

  Waiting for the taxi felt like the worst ten minutes of my life. Jon insisted on lending me a jumper and spent a long time looking for one. In the warm taxi it exuded the musky, coffee smell of Jon and I had to wipe away tears on its sleeve.

  At home, the bouquet of roses sat stiffly on the windowsill. Mum and Mollie were cuddled up on the sofa watching Finding Nemo, although I think they were both asleep before my opening the door woke them.

  ‘Hello, love,’ said Mum. ‘I didn’t expect to see …’ She trailed off when she saw my face. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  That’s what I felt too. Not miserable or upset. If I felt anything, it was anger. I wanted to kick something. Have a tantrum. But I had shut the lid on that too. And put a large imaginary rock on it with a notice that said: Danger. Do Not Open.

  ‘What?’ said Mollie, bleary-eyed. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s time you were in bed,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t be up this late.’

  Everything’s always in the tone, isn’t it? A singer can have the best technique in the world but if their tone is unattractive, who wants to listen to them? It was the way Jon had laughed that got me and it was the way I spoke to Mollie that got her. Her chin trembled.

  ‘What about Jon?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing about Jon. Go to bed.’

  She frowned and I saw the telltale red spots on her cheeks that signalled an explosion. Her mouth opened but she obviously thought better of it and she shut it sharply. I caught a glimpse of grown-up Mollie then, although the way she ignored me, kissed Mum and stomped out of the room, sent the message anyway.

  Mum was more circumspect. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Cocoa? A large brandy?’

  I shook my head again. ‘You get to bed, Mum. I’ll be fine.’

  She brushed the hair from my eyes, like she used to when I was a child, then gave me a hug. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. But give me a shout if you want, won’t you? Oh, by the way, I’ve arranged for us to meet your Duncan and his wife at the museum in the morning. I think he was a bit nonplussed when you rushed off like that, but I did my best to explain.’

  Duncan. God, yes. I still didn’t know what he wanted to show me. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem all that important.

  After Mum shut the door, I looked out of the window although if the
world had disappeared I might not have noticed. Jon’s laughter rattled about in my mind. In the silence of the night it felt like torture. I wandered about picking things up and putting them down in the same place but when I saw Mollie’s pink headphones lying on the kitchen table, I plugged them into my phone. Mozart was supposed to be soothing, but after a minute I changed it to Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing Strauss’s Four Last Songs.

  I awoke with a stiff neck and where my head had been resting, a dead arm. It was quite some time after the last Last Song. The oven clock said half past midnight. Jon, Mollie, Daniela, memories of the evening all swirled about in my mind as painful as the pins and needles frothing through my arm.

  It wouldn’t be easy making my peace with Mollie. Jon was her friend. No, more than that, she wanted him to be another Dad. Oh, Mollie. Oh, dear. Big sigh. I pulled the headphones out of my ears and wound them round my fingers. It was surprising she hadn’t taken them to bed with her. I knew she was cross but I’d never known her go to sleep without listening to something. Fancy.

  I unravelled them.

  Why hadn’t she? Why not?

  I was up in an instant.

  ‘Mollie? Mollie?’ I rushed into her room. The duvet was in a heap but Mollie wasn’t underneath it. She wasn’t in the bathroom either.

  ‘Mum. Mum!’ Maybe Mollie had gone into Mum for comfort. I shoved open the door, slamming my hand against the light switch.

  No. No! She didn’t. She wasn’t there. Where was she?

  ‘What?’ Mum sat straight up. ‘What is it, love?’

  ‘Mollie’s gone. She’s not in bed. She was but not now.’

  Mum blinked at me ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure.’ I ran back into Mollie’s room to make sure even though I was. ‘She’s not here.’ I could hear my voice rising. The terror in it.

  Then I saw it. There, on the bedside cabinet.

  ‘Her phone’s here. Oh my God! She’s not got her phone!’ It was if my body belonged to someone else and I could see myself careering round her room, through the door bashing myself against the frame, into the hall. ‘Her coat’s gone. Her puffa jacket. And her boots!’

  Mum was there. Opening the front door and looking out into the hall and down the stairs. She looked at me with an expression full of all the dread I felt, and shook her head.

  ‘Where would she go?’

  There was only one place. I ran back into the kitchen and grabbed my phone.

  It rang and rang. Please, answer. Please. Would he? Four rings, five, six … I knew it went to message on the eighth.

  On the seventh he picked up.

  ‘Oh God! Jon, Jon, it’s me.’ I was almost screaming.

  ‘Lisa?’

  ‘She’s not here. She’s not here!’

  ‘Lisa, what is it? Calm down. You need to calm down. Take a deep breath.’

  I tried to but felt as if a vice had clamped my lungs together. ‘Her bed’s empty. Mollie … Mollie.’

  ‘Mollie?’ Now his voice was shot through with anxiety. ‘What’s happened?’

  I managed to tell him. ‘She’s out there on her own, Jon. It’s the middle of the night. Anyone could …who knows … they might … and there’s the river …’

  ‘Listen, Lisa,’ he interrupted. ‘Stop it. Don’t think anything like that.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No. You must listen to me. This is what you’re going to do.’

  A few minutes later, I left Mum phoning the police. I couldn’t wait for them and neither could Jon. There was only one route Mollie would take to Jon’s. She wouldn’t go over the road bridge. Not in full sight. No. She would go along the river by the swings and cross at the pedestrian bridge by the quay. Jon and I would walk towards each other. Mollie would be somewhere in between.

  She’d been sensible enough to leave her bright pink jacket on its hook and gone for the navy puffa but why hadn’t she taken her phone? It was her best thing. Her very best thing.

  Mostly I ran. Every now and then slowing to a quick walk. There was some traffic on the main road and I crossed over when I saw a man pushing a shopping trolley coming towards me. Why would anyone push a Sainsbury’s trolley around at gone midnight? I looked across as he passed to check it was empty.

  I gripped my phone so tight that I doubt it could have vibrated even if it wanted to. Please ring. I kept willing it to ring. To ring and be Jon saying she was found. I cut through to the river by the pub and when I couldn’t see her, I ran back and round to the other side. From there I had a clear view along the river. The path by the water was lit but I could see perfectly well that it was empty.

  Maybe she was at the end, near the bridge where I couldn’t see. I ran faster. The water beside me was oily black and fast flowing. The boy with the needle surged into my mind, and although I knew it was impossible and probably a reflection of a distant light, I kept seeing his pale arm. Just before he drowned. He drowned. Drowned! Oh. Mollie. Mollie.

  Then I saw Jon. He was running along the quay on the far side. It was dark over there but I would know Jon anywhere. I peered into the gloom for another figure. There? There? No. He reached the wooden footbridge over the leat. Then he was crossing the river. We met on my side. He looked like a ghost.

  ‘No?’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘No. No … oh God, no … Mollie … Mollieeee.’ I called out desperately, my voice echoing back a high-pitched whine. Only a dog barked in reply. Why had I been so short with her? Why?

  ‘Phone home,’ Jon said. ‘The police should be there by now.’

  As he said it, we heard the clack-clack-clack of the police helicopter.

  Mum had no news. A policewoman was making tea in my kitchen. We shouldn’t keep on the phone in case someone rang.

  Someone? Please, someone, please ring. Please God.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said to Jon. I knew I was shaking because I could hardly keep the phone next to my ear but then I began to tremble. Really badly. I couldn’t tell whether I was cold or not but I could hardly stand.

  ‘Jon,’ I whispered. His face was set, jaw clenched shut but he looked out across the river, along the quay and back to the path where we stood. Over and again. We both gazed into the darkest shadows, willing a small shape to reveal itself. But there was nothing.

  ‘Oh, Jon. What have I done? Oh, Mollie, Mollie … if only …’

  ‘Shh, Lisa,’ he said. ‘Don’t say anything. Here,’ he took off his jacket and wrapped it round me. ‘She’s a clever girl, your daughter. Let’s not forget that.’ He couldn’t disguise the worry in his voice though. ‘What about Michael? Wouldn’t she go there?’

  ‘He’s away. Vienna or somewhere.’

  ‘Does Mollie know?’

  ‘Yes, of course she bloody knows. She was only there yesterday.’

  He ignored my irritation. ‘But has she got a key? Or does she know if there’s one hidden somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.’ Hope blazed suddenly. Then I looked at the water; felt rain on my face. ‘But we can’t both go. What if she comes here and there’s nobody?’

  The helicopter was overhead and at the same time a blue light came flashing across the bridge, nearer and nearer as it came up Haven Road towards us. Then another blue light on the opposite side of the river, until the entire quay was illuminated.

  We ran towards the police car. ‘St David’s Hill,’ I said, having pulled open the back door and jumped in as if it was a taxi. ‘She might be at her dad’s. He’s away, but she might know how to get in.’

  So much that was familiar turned post-apocalyptic by the speed and blue light strobe of a police car. Both Jon and I sat forward on the back seat, as if in some hope that it would help us go faster. We peered through the windows for something, anything …

  Michael’s house was tucked away in an upmarket terrace behind the main drag.

  ‘Here, here,’ I said, as we reached the nearest place accessible by car. We jumped out and ran up the
path but when we turned the corner into the square, I could see the house was in complete darkness.

  ‘No, no, no!’ I rang the bell and yelled through the letterbox but everything said she wasn’t there. The gate was closed. The cat mewed round my ankles. A light went on next door and a window opened. No, they hadn’t seen or heard anyone.

  I’d been so sure. So sure. But then I’d been sure she was at Jon’s and she wasn’t. I don’t remember walking back to the car. I do remember Jon’s grim face, the policeman talking into his phone, in English, although I didn’t understand what he said. It was late and apart from the even throb of the engine idling, there wasn’t any noise.

  Until the strange interjection of Mozart’s 40th Symphony. My phone.

  I was in such a state I could hardly get it out of my pocket. No caller ID. Oh my God, she’d been kidnapped. Jon put his arm round me.

  ‘Hello, hello?’

  ‘Mrs Barr?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is the Royal Clarence Hotel.’

  We arrived at the same time as Mum. Two police cars bumping over the cobbles in Cathedral Yard. At the Clarence, the receptionist was hopping from foot to foot outside the front door.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ she said, all smiles. ‘How lovely. Go through. She’s with my colleague, Donna. Do go through,’ she shooed us towards the champagne bar. ‘I wonder if you could keep the noise …’ She hesitated and looked at us. Mum, Jon, two policemen and me. ‘Do you think you could be … not too loud?’

  But there was Mollie, and all my worries and fears, in one great surge, converted into relief.

  ‘Mollie!’ I yelled, laughing like an idiot and running towards her. ‘Mollie, Mollie, Mollie!’

  And she was down from the stool and in my arms.

  ‘Oh Mum, Mummy … I didn’t mean … I meant—’

  ‘Shh, it’s all right now.’

  And for a few seconds it was perfectly all right. Nothing else mattered. I breathed in the scent of her and ran my hands through her hair, feeling its softness.