The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  Tom was only twenty-something, but to us he seemed older because he walked with a stoop. He had huge eyes but his gaze never stayed where it was supposed to, so you never knew whether he was looking at you, or even listening, which spoiled it for the teenagers in the village who liked to throw insults at him as well as stones. Now Gabriella smiled and said hello as she always did; and he ignored her as he always did.

  We trundled up Chestnut Hill planning to cut down the lane to the woods. The air smelled of mown grass and tiny flies buzzed in our faces. In the garden of the thatched cottage, a basket of wet clothes lay beneath the idle washing line. From inside the house came the thin cry of a small child. A lawnmower had been abandoned. One half of the grass was shaved, the other still long and untamed. Like a lopsided haircut.

  ‘Human League,’ I whispered to make Gabriella laugh. She clutched at her heart and grinned. Phil Oakey was the spit of the boy with the drowsy eyes in Our Price.

  A dark red van was parked outside Lemon Tree Cottage. ‘Dad,’ we said at the same time and looked at each other. A delivery? It made sense. Everybody in the village bought furniture from the House of Flores.

  ‘Shall we knock?’ suggested Gabriella.

  ‘What for?’ I walked quickly past the gate and Gabriella followed. I didn’t want to meet Edward Lily again. I was sure he’d recognised me in the baker’s and would think I was spying. We’d gone a few steps further when a door slammed. We looked back. Dad was striding along the path. He opened the door of the van, jumped in and drove off down the lane, shaking up dust behind him.

  We shrugged and wandered onwards through the woods, eating our picnic as we went. There was a route we always followed, a circular walk, using a lightning-split tree and a beech carved with graffiti as landmarks. Voices ahead caused us to veer off in a direction we didn’t usually take. The path here was a thin strip of hard ground that slashed through the trees like a pale, dry stream. The trees either side hooked up, making a gloomy passage that became denser as we walked until we reached a part where it was so overgrown, it was impossible to continue.

  ‘Shall we go back?’ I said, peering into the shadows, but Gabriella was already swerving off to one side. I watched her crashing through the undergrowth, her body disappearing bit by bit until she was submerged.

  After a moment, I looked at my watch. It was silent in the shady woods, apart from the cry of a bird in the distance and a rustling in the bracken. I paced, kicking at roots and stones. I checked my watch again. Seven minutes had passed. And if you counted the minute that I hadn’t looked that was eight. ‘Gabriella?’ I called. No answer and now the temperature had dropped. The sweat on my palms cooled. ‘Gabriella?’ I called again. Still nothing, but the whisper of a creature in the grass.

  Feeling cold, I followed the way she’d gone. A mouse scurried across my path, making me step aside and stumble. Grabbing a bramble to right myself, I grimaced as the thorns pierced my skin and beads of blood bubbled to the surface. In a panic, I veered into the undergrowth. Fending off branches that sprang back into my face, I groped forward in the semi-light until a flash of colour halted me, and there, snagged on a bush, was a slither of material. Like a necklace of rubies. That’s what Gabriella had said when she’d wound the scarf around her throat that morning, although to me it had looked like a trickle of blood lacing her pale skin. I pulled the scrap loose and clutched it in my hands, my mind leaping with possibilities. She’d been kidnapped. A crazy person had taken her away.

  A hand seized my shoulder. I gasped and turned, mouth open, ready to scream, but it was Gabriella. And now I wanted to yell and ask her why she’d left me on my own, but her finger was on her lips, and she was beckoning me. I took a deep breath and followed, my heart returning to its normal pace as we pushed through the bushes and reached the gap where she’d disappeared.

  The forest floor stopped abruptly, dipping down to a clearing. All around the top of the dip, the trees formed a circle leaning across so their branches overlapped and shut out the light. There was an undergrowth of plants, a tangle of brambles covered in thorns, and bushes that gave way to a steep bank of dirt and stones that led to the dip itself.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Gabriella, indicating.

  I blinked until my eyes were accustomed to the dark. A figure was kneeling by a fallen trunk on the far side of the clearing. It was Martha. She’d dug a hole in the ground and was lowering a shoebox inside. Now she was using her fingers to rake back the earth.

  I gripped Gabriella’s sleeve. Neither of us spoke. A crow called. Another answered. There was a stench of damp soil mixed with rotting vegetation. I expected a cloud of mist to rise, eclipsing us. I waited. Nothing happened. I shifted and a stone slid down the dip. We froze as Martha started and stared in our direction, searching blindly through the gloom, and we stayed silent, hidden, watching as she pulled brambles over the place, and then scrambled upwards on the other side of the dip.

  Now that Martha had gone the feeling of mystery went with her. I thought about my own shoebox, the one I kept hidden under the bed. It held nothing more than fossils and shells I’d collected from holiday, a few postcards and pressed flowers. I doubted Martha’s box was any more interesting than that.

  ‘We could dig it up,’ I said half-heartedly, and instantly regretted it when Gabriella laughed.

  ‘What do you think you’re going to find?’ she said. ‘This is Martha we’re talking about. What do you think she’s hidden?’

  I looked away. I didn’t want to say what was on my mind. A few months ago, Gabriella would have been the first to head down and take a look. I changed my expression, pretending not to care. ‘I was joking,’ I said, shrugging.

  ‘No you weren’t.’

  ‘Yes I was.’ I jumped up. ‘Race you.’ But she didn’t run, she lagged behind while I pounded the path. And I realised that in future, I needed to be more careful with the things I said to Gabriella. She was changing and I had to adjust.

  Mum was still in her room, sleeping, oblivious to the fact that we’d been gone. And when Dad got home, he dashed upstairs and the two of them remained closeted for an hour. Later, he heated curry and rice in the microwave and said us girls could eat in front of the telly for once watching Top of the Pops.

  The novelty of the evening distracted me until I went to bed. Then, a vision of Martha crouching in the woods popped into my mind. What would someone like her hide? My mind dwelled on the possibilities: a diary, money, letters. It wasn’t right to pry. And yet when I thought how Martha had tried to get Gabriella to go to the exhibition, I decided it would serve her right if I dug up her box. And besides, it was a secret and I didn’t like secrets.

  In the end I visualised myself sneaking back to the woods and executing my plan so strongly that by the time I closed my eyes it seemed as if it was done.

  Early the next morning, I poked my head around Gabriella’s door. She was sleeping on her side, one stripy pyjama-clad leg dangling out of the covers.

  I left her there, and tiptoed downstairs, grabbed a trowel from the cupboard beneath the sink and left the house. Not bothering with breakfast, I crammed my pockets with ginger nuts which I ate as I made for the woods. I knew I might get into trouble when Mum found out I’d gone off on my own, but I didn’t care. Besides, she seemed far more worried about Gabriella going out than me, even though I was the youngest. What did she think Gabriella was planning to do?

  Lemon Tree Cottage sulked in silence as I hurried past. Nothing moved in the garden. No breeze stirred the trees or plants. I stole a look at the upstairs windows, but there was no sign of the mad girl staring through the glass.

  Inside the woods, I moved quickly, flitting amongst the trees, leaping over dead branches, roots and stones, sidestepping barbed-wire brambles, and clusters of fungi. After a few false turns, I found the pale path. The Pale Path. I liked that name. The ring of trees would be the Common Circle. The dip would be Devil’s Dip. I teetered at the edge, crouched low and clambered down. At
the bottom it seemed even darker than before, as if the canopy had thickened overnight. I waited for my eyes to get used to the gloom, and then headed for the place beside the fallen trunk. There was a pile of stones marking the spot, like a mini-tombstone.

  Martha hadn’t buried the box deep. I soon dug far enough to find it. Prising it out, I laid it on the ground. It was an ordinary shoebox like mine and for one moment I felt the weight of my conscience, telling me to put it back. I brushed off the dirt, my fingers scraping the lid. Around me the dark shapes of the undergrowth seemed to take a step closer as if urging me to go ahead. Quickly, before I changed my mind, I flicked the lid upwards.

  The smell hit me first: a sweet, rotten stench. I covered my mouth to stop myself from retching. Inside the box was a brown twisted body covered in dried blood. I stared at the mangled creature and swallowed hard. I’d always suspected Martha was weird and now I knew for sure. Here was the proof. She’d killed her own guinea pig. She’d taken a hammer and smashed its skull. There it was with bits of bone poking through the fur. Nausea came back.

  Controlling myself, I picked up the lid with finger and thumb, dropped it in place and shoved the box into the hole. The grave I’d disturbed gaped back at me. I should fill it in: Martha might come back. But my head was swimming and I leaned to one side and was sick.

  Standing shakily, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and backed away. I couldn’t touch it again. Besides, Martha should know she’d been found out. Why should she think her secret was safe? I clambered to the top of the dip wondering what Gabriella would say if she knew. Would she despise Martha as much as I did?

  11

  When I unhooked the trapdoor, the ladder came easily enough. The loft was lit by a single bulb that swung precariously from a length of thin wire. Clambering inside, I stepped gingerly across the boards to a pile of crates that I recognised as mine.

  Opening one of them, I found books: Poe, Wilde, Brontë, Collins – tales of ghosts and madness. King Lear. Macbeth. My friends from university – closer than the students I’d liked but always kept at a distance.

  It had been a relief the moment I arrived in London. Walking down the Mile End Road and into the gates of the college, I felt the freedom. People hadn’t remembered the Flores case, or if they had, they hadn’t connected it with me. I’d shed my role as the missing girl’s sister, shuffled off the claustrophobic mantle of the village. I’d taken my place amongst the others on my course and become what I strived to be: unremarkable. And since nobody had truly known me, it had been easy to say goodbye when I left, easy to pick up new friends and lovers who knew even less.

  Now, as I rifled through my books, and unearthed Hamlet, I imagined the loft brimming with voices of insanity and passion. I could add mine and nobody would hear.

  The second crate contained the remnants of childhood: scruffy teddy bears and broken dolls; a menagerie of china animals and a scribbled diary that had fizzled out and become a book of poems, copied in my best handwriting.

  My memories unwound. And like my father’s old cine film, the images jerked and skidded and froze in a moment of action. Two girls hand in hand, running into the sea. Rolling down a hill. Feeding ducks. On swings. A serious face with loose light hair. A darker child with bandaged glasses.

  I found an exercise book. Here were my notes, my list of suspects, a young girl’s clumsy search for truth. I scanned the names: Edward Lily, Charlie Ellis, Stuart Henderson, Rupert Sullivan. How far was that a litany to the dead? And what about Tom? Poor Tom. Sacrificed and kicked out. Accused of taking my sister and even when he’d been exonerated, the label had stuck. He’d been branded a pervert, driven from the village. Who knew where he was now? And the women and the girls. Each of them were catalogued in my notebook, their movements cited, their connection with Gabriella there in black and white. Every person in the village had been a suspect. Every one of them, dead or alive, still was.

  There was a metal trunk on the other side of the loft. I stepped across the floorboards still gripping the notebook. Inside were clothes, old dresses and shawls, a pair of frayed satin shoes. I pictured Mum wearing them, taking surreptitious looks at her feet. Beneath the clothes was an envelope of documents and a wooden box. I tried to open the box, but it was locked and there was no key. Intrigued, I took it, together with the envelope, and made my way back down the ladder.

  Settling on the sofa, I studied the documents first, unfolding each one carefully. The life of my mother’s parents, Grace and Bertrand Button, laid out on thin and yellowed paper marked with spots of mould. Their story seemed complete. Birth and marriage and death. All their certificates were pinned together. In comparison, there was hardly anything on Dad’s side, which wasn’t surprising since neither of his parents had been born in England. Much of his history had been lost.

  Mum and Dad didn’t appear to have been vigilant either. The only document I found of theirs was Mum’s birth certificate. I rummaged around for a while looking for more before I gave up. I’d come across them eventually and it would be interesting to piece everything together, to create a family tree. I considered researching online, ordering the certificates, completing the set, until I remembered there was no Wi-Fi. Mum hadn’t owned a computer.

  I tugged at the lock on the wooden box again. It didn’t budge. When Dad found a cupboard or a door he couldn’t open during a house clearance, he’d picked the lock using a paper clip and a pair of pliers. Now, with an edge of guilt, I fetched the tools, tried his trick and the lock gave a satisfying click.

  Inside, there was a christening bracelet wrapped up in blue velvet. The bracelet was beautifully made, with two tiny hearts each set with a minute green stone and Gabriella engraved on the front. I held it to my lips and let my breath mist the metal. Had Gabriella known it was hers? Had I been given one too? I didn’t think so.

  I sat there, trying to remember, chasing away my resentment. Had my parents thought more of Gabriella than of me? No. I dismissed the thought. I was being petty, selfish and mean. What did it matter if they’d bought a bracelet for her only? They’d loved us both the same. And I was the second child. Everyone knew that the second child got less attention.

  Later, I went to the cafe. The cars drove past with their headlights on and even though it was only two o’clock it felt like an early dusk.

  It was raining and a woman pushing an old-fashioned pram stopped to fix the hood. She looked behind her, eyes searching anxiously, until a girl in a buttoned-up coat appeared and then she smiled with relief.

  The bracelet was in my pocket. I took it out and cradled the tiny circle. It was wrong to be jealous, I told myself again. My parents had bought this gift for their first child; a daughter taken from them after fifteen years. Now they were gone and I was the only one left to care.

  The rain grew heavier. A man in a suit barged through the door and collapsed his umbrella, opening and closing it to get rid of the spray; behind the counter came a hiss of steam, a clatter of crockery, loud laughter from the waitress as the two of them talked.

  David appeared with a folded newspaper under his arm and gave his order at the counter. ‘Sit in or take away?’ the waitress asked. When he answered take away, I felt a drop of disappointment and drained my coffee.

  On his way out, he spotted me and came across. ‘I’d have offered if I’d seen you,’ he said, glancing at my empty cup. ‘Espresso?’

  I smiled. Why not?

  He put his plastic cup and paper bag on the table and came back with coffee and a Danish pastry. I raised my eyebrows when he put them in front of me. ‘I thought you looked hungry,’ he said, sitting down and smiling awkwardly. He turned to the waitress and lifted his cup in a questioning gesture. When she waved and nodded permission, he prised off the lid, blew on the liquid and drank.

  ‘How’s the clearance?’ he said.

  I considered for a moment before saying, ‘Intense.’

  He laughed warmly. ‘That’s exactly the right word.’ He glanced
at the half-done crossword in his newspaper. ‘I could do with a few more of those. Three across: The capital of Italy, supposedly. And the answer isn’t Rome.’

  I made a face. ‘Don’t ask me then. I’m useless at crosswords, especially if they’re cryptic.’

  ‘This is the quick crossword – supposedly.’

  ‘Well, it could be anything. Ancient, touristy, holy.’

  He smiled, opened the paper bag and inspected its contents. Pulling out a pie, he held it up to the waitress. She shook her head, amused, and wafted her hand to show she didn’t care.

  ‘Seven letters. Fifth letter N.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m useless at crosswords too. Don’t know why I do them.’

  ‘Brain food.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  There was a lull while David ate. He wore a checked shirt and had missed a button. I stopped myself from pointing it out and focused on his face instead. Stubble suited him. He was definitely more attractive than I’d given him credit for. Funny too. Was he married? Picking an almond from the cake and nibbling the end, I took a quick glance at his left hand. Single then. Although you could never really tell.

  The woman with the pram was coming back. The little girl had opened a huge umbrella and was being blown along by the wind. I watched as they made their way along the road, and when I turned, David had paused mid-bite and was studying me with an enquiring expression. I realised I was smiling. ‘She reminds me of someone,’ I said and felt my stomach grip as I thought about what I’d said. Which one: the woman or the girl? Gabriella the child that was, or Gabriella the mother that would never be?

  Tears threatened and I hoped David hadn’t noticed. I didn’t get away with it so easily. He put down the remains of his pie and spoke quietly beneath the sounds in the cafe. ‘I’m sorry about your mother. It can’t be easy doing things alone.’

  The unexpectedness of his comment caused the tears to come again. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, blinking hard.