The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  Martha was blubbering, her voice choking. She wore a scarf in her hair and this time I wanted to rip it out because it was Gabriella’s and I didn’t want to lose anything else of my sister’s. I forced my hands to stay by my side and screamed at her instead. ‘I hate you, Martha Ellis. Everyone hates you. Don’t ever speak to me again.’ I turned my back and walked away.

  In the evening, I was watching the news when a photo of Gabriella came on the screen. It was the same picture they always used. And then they showed images of a whole lot of girls who’d gone missing in the last decade. A fourteen-year-old from Cornwall. A sixteen-year-old from Dundee. The girl from York. Another from Glasgow who’d disappeared from a children’s home. Yet these girls had been found. Murdered. The media was trying to connect them. Were they suggesting that this had happened to Gabriella too, and that it was only a matter of time before her body would be found?

  I dug my fingernails hard into my palms trying to make my imaginings go away. ‘Bullshit,’ said Dad, appearing at the door. ‘Fucking bullshit.’ He switched off the television and slammed out the room.

  That night the dreams came: swooping demons that grabbed Gabriella with their talons and took her down to hell. I woke screaming. Nobody heard me. Nobody came. I slept with the light on, but the images wouldn’t go away.

  The reconstruction produced nothing apart from a bunch of crank calls. There were no new witnesses coming forward and eventually no stories in the newspapers. There were only the facts. Gabriella was fifteen. She was going to meet her sister in her father’s shop. She hadn’t arrived. That was it. No one saw her being bundled into a van or dragged into a house. No one saw her at all. It was as though she was invisible.

  Silence stretched. The pendulum swung. And then it stopped. Nobody remembered to wind the clock. And with that, it seemed, everything else was forgotten. When the family came round Donald forgot to fill his pipe. Uncle Thomas forgot to make jokes or do magic tricks. Grandma Grace forgot to speak and even Granddad forgot to snore. Only Jasper made the best of things, winding his body around me, filling the room with his purr.

  Rita came most often, but she no longer brought crime novels or parcels of bloodied meat. She brought lemon puffs and boxes of Milk Tray and Turkish delight and pots of honey. She wanted to sweeten the sadness away, but my mother ate none of it. And I thought of Martha with her talk of biscuits and I remembered how angry I’d been.

  The two of them, Mum and Rita, sat in silence. Sometimes when I went into the kitchen, thinking no one was there, I found them, heads bowed, Rita’s hand covering Mum’s on the table. I felt left on the outside again. Only this time it wasn’t my parents and Gabriella I was watching.

  If only it was. I’d deliver a million church leaflets, go to a million church services, walk a million times around the village.

  It was Christmas. Uncle Thomas and Donald arrived but Granddad Bertrand was too ill to travel so he and Grandma Grace stayed at home. My parents tried. They forgot the decorations, but they bought me presents: books, a T-shirt, a video. Uncle Thomas gave me a magic set and Donald a piece of fool’s gold the size of my fist. I put the magic set in my cupboard and the fool’s gold in my box of special things.

  Uncle Thomas and Donald cooked the food, but the turkey was too big and the potatoes were too hard and they forgot the stuffing and the cranberry sauce. Nobody cared. Nobody ate. Nobody pulled the crackers. Donald cleared away the plates and threw the food in the bin.

  In the afternoon, Rita came for the Queen’s speech. She brought three blood-red poinsettias and a bowl of clementines. ‘From the ladies at the church,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t mind them. They only want to show they care.’

  And while we watched the Queen talking about seamen rescuing people from the Falklands eight thousand miles across the ocean, and as Donald took the plants and set them around the living room, and Uncle Thomas placed the clementines on the table, where the orange clashed with the purple-tasselled cloth, I wondered why, with all those guns and ships available, nobody had bothered to rescue Gabriella from wherever she had gone.

  On New Year’s Day the phone rang while I was still in bed. Dad ran to answer it and his voice rose through the house until it filled every space.

  I looked over the banister. Mum was standing beside him, gripping his arm, shaking her head each time he spoke.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Dad, and in five minutes he was gone, slamming the front door behind him.

  ‘They say they’ve found Gabriella’s bag,’ Mum said later when she came to find me. She sat on my bed and held my hand, hardly able to look at me. Her fingers were strange, loose and light like they belonged to a broken doll.

  ‘Where?’ I asked in a small voice.

  She moistened her lips. ‘At the railway station.’ I frowned, and she said, ‘Yes, I know. Why didn’t they find it before?’

  Dad told us afterwards that the bag had been hidden behind a bin in the waiting room. There was no purse so the explanation given was that she’d abandoned the bag and taken her money to buy a ticket.

  ‘But nobody remembers selling her a bloody ticket,’ said Dad, pacing the carpet as he spoke. ‘So why the fuck do they think that?’

  Eventually, PC Atkins brought the bag back to us, his sorrowful eyes closing as he passed it across with a sigh. From his pocket he produced an envelope. Was it the missing letter? PC Atkins handed it to Mum whose face paled as she looked at the front. Glancing at Dad she nodded, and in response he reached out his hand and rested it on her shoulder. It was only at the door when they were showing PC Atkins out that the three of them spoke again, their voices so hushed it was impossible to hear.

  Later, we unpacked the rest of her things and laid them out on the table: school books, cassettes, copy of NME, red lipstick, gold eyeshadow, purple scarf. Walkman.

  ‘That settles it,’ said Dad, holding it in triumph. ‘Gabriella didn’t run away. She would never have left without her music.’

  A chill slipped down my spine as I stole a look at my parents. Mum’s eyes were wet. Her lips parted. And now that Dad had spoken, triumph had drained from his face and been replaced by fear. Was he thinking the same as I was? Gabriella wouldn’t have run away without her music, but she wouldn’t have done anything else either. She wouldn’t have caught a train, a bus or gone for a walk without it. She wouldn’t have given it up for anything.

  25

  The larger pieces of furniture had gone now. All that remained were boxes and a pile of paintings leaning against a wall.

  I worked quickly, searching one more time. I wanted to be sure. No more pictures of Gabriella. No art equipment either. I flicked through the paintings. They were framed prints, a mix of traditional and modern, and nothing that resembled the portrait. I was now satisfied that Edward Lily wasn’t the artist. But who was? How would I find that out?

  I’d been in the House of Flores since dawn and by the time I’d finished searching and was locking up the shop, the village was awake. Men and women dressed for work waited at the bus stop, or hurried to the station. The cafe was full for the breakfast shift. I joined in, ordering coffee from the girl with the magpie hair.

  The night before, I’d left David in the pub, although he’d wanted me to stay. He’d made me promise to ring him if I needed to and I’d been glad to do that. When I’d got home, I’d drunk as much wine as there was in the house and collapsed on Gabriella’s bed.

  I used to do that when I was small – creep into Gabriella’s room crying after bad dreams. She used to ask me what they were about but I never said. How could I have done when they were about me protecting her, releasing her from funeral pyres, fighting usurpers with clashing swords? And yet, I would think, as I lay there and listened to her breathing and the murmur of the TV downstairs, wasn’t it the wrong way round? Gabriella was the oldest. Shouldn’t she have been protecting me?

  And if I’d told her about those dreams, would she have listened and been warned? Would she have avoided what
ever it was that had taken her, and been with me now, drinking coffee, telling tales about her job, the one she’d fantasised about: a writer for NME or Time Out? Maybe she’d have children – a set of mini-Gabriellas skipping along the thorny path she’d spectacularly beaten down.

  I finished my coffee. I had to move on. What next? Who else could I speak to? If Uncle Thomas had been alive, I’d have gone to him. And then there was Donald and his sudden disappearance to America. Had he died or was he still a geologist? I remembered Uncle Thomas finding an article he’d written about dinosaur finds in Montana. So they must have been in contact for a while. Maybe I’d find him online.

  I sighed. What a lonely, pathetic figure I cut sitting in the window of a cafe, attempting to dredge up names of people from the past. I could barely think of any school friends, not ones I’d feel comfortable contacting anyway. I’d not so much drifted away, but vanished on a tidal wave.

  As if to remind me, a group of teenage girls barrelled past the window. One of them stumbled and almost fell against the glass. Our eyes met as she righted herself and she smiled shyly. The girl was dark, her hair in plaits. Nothing like Gabriella. Even so, my heart beat a little faster as she hurried to catch up with her friends.

  A woman in a belted raincoat walked past. Martha. I drew back instinctively, full of the sense that she was following me again. But the woman hurried on and I realised it wasn’t her. Martha had said what she’d wanted to say. You should have kept your sister close. Well, she was right about that. If only I’d insisted on waiting for Gabriella that day after school. If only I hadn’t left her on her own.

  I finished my coffee and pressed my palms against my eyes. I had choices: go to the police, show them the portrait and ask them to reopen the investigation; give up on everything and go back to Athens; speak to the only person I could think of now who’d known my sister at school.

  Dragging on my jacket, I shoved back my chair and stood up. I’d try one more time to uncover the truth before I went to the police.

  I knocked on Martha’s door. Moments passed. Stepping back, I scanned the windows searching for a shape, then knocked again more loudly, and pressed the bell. Still no answer, or stir from anyone inside.

  Hitching my bag on my shoulder, I wandered around the side of the house. There was a gate that opened with a creak and a gravel path leading to the garden, edged with rose bushes and splashes of colour from trees with scarlet leaves. I rapped on the back door and tried the handle. The door pushed open and I closed it again quickly, backing away and almost falling over a ceramic pot. As I righted myself, a face peering across the fence made me jump. It was the old lady next door, her short white hair combed flat against her head. I smiled politely. ‘I’m looking for Martha, but she doesn’t appear to be home.’

  The woman stared at me blankly. ‘What do you want her for?’

  ‘Just a social visit. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll come back later.’ I walked away but was halted by her voice.

  ‘Are you a social worker?’

  I stopped. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Martha doesn’t get visitors. Only social workers.’

  I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about. ‘Well. Never mind. If you see Martha, perhaps you could tell her Anna Flores came to visit.’

  ‘Anna Flores.’ There was a new interest in her voice. ‘I know your mother. She’s always been good to me. She visits sometimes.’

  ‘My mother . . .’ I stopped and looked away, disconcerted. ‘I’m afraid to say she passed away.’

  The woman’s face clouded. ‘Oh dear. I am sorry to hear that. I am really very sorry to hear that. I would have come to the funeral if I’d known. I don’t hear things these days. I don’t speak to people. Housebound.’ She held up a stick as if to prove it.

  ‘Martha knew,’ I said gently. ‘Might she have told you?’

  Her expression soured. ‘Martha doesn’t speak to me or anyone. She’s strange, like her mother.’

  My interest was piqued. I walked a few steps closer to the fence. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘For always. I was born here.’

  ‘Really? That’s incredible.’

  She smiled at me. ‘Isn’t it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.’

  ‘It’s Eliza Davidson.’

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you Mrs Davidson.’

  ‘Miss. But please call me Eliza.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I paused. Who was this woman? The name was familiar. Miss Eliza Davidson.

  ‘I used to teach your sister.’

  My skin tingled. That’s how I knew her name. ‘Gabriella?’

  ‘Yes. I taught her geography.’

  ‘So you remember . . .’ I paused.

  She produced a handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘Yes, I do. Your poor mother. I don’t know how she survived.’ She looked at me. ‘Or you, my dear. Or you.’

  I blinked hard and looked away for a second. ‘Do you recall,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘that day?’

  She knew what I meant. She blew her nose again and dabbed her eyes. ‘Yes, I do. I remember it very clearly indeed. How could I forget such an awful thing?’

  ‘Mrs Ellis said she saw Gabriella. Did you see her too?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I didn’t. And I told the police that when they interviewed me.’

  ‘What about Martha? Did you see her?’

  She shook her head again. ‘Not then. Not after school. Only later.’

  ‘Later?’ I prompted.

  ‘She was on the front steps, crying. She’d been to the shops, I think. She’d bought something. I can’t remember what it was.’

  ‘Why was she crying?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Who knows? It was quite usual to see that little girl sitting on the steps. Her parents used to lock her out. They were awful people. Both of them. It’s no wonder Martha turned out the way she did. But that day she was there for longer. I remember it was quite dark by the time they let her in. I was putting the bins out. Late. And she was still there. Awful people.’ She looked around and over my shoulder as if she might see them still. ‘He killed her guinea pig.’

  I started. ‘What?’

  ‘He killed her guinea pig, battered it with a hammer. It was after he lost his job as an electrician. He was angry. Even more angry than he’d been before.’

  ‘Oh my God. How awful.’ I covered my mouth as I remembered. The damp earth, the smell of the dead, the taste of the bile I vomited onto the ground. I’d been convinced it was Martha who’d done that. I’d left no room for the idea it might have been someone else. How stupid I’d been. How jealous and stupid.

  ‘Did you see it happen?’ I said.

  ‘No, but I heard Martha screaming about it. That scream. It was worse than her mother’s. I called the police several times, you know. He used to beat his wife; everyone knew that. Do you know what the police did?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Nothing. They said it couldn’t be proved. Unless there was a complaint from Mrs Ellis, nothing could be done. She always defended him, you see. Lied about it. Said she’d fallen down the stairs. The usual.’ Eliza sighed. ‘I saw that with the girls at school. So many of them did the same. They were too afraid, you see. They thought if they told it would make things worse.’

  ‘Like Martha.’

  ‘Exactly like Martha. The only time there was any peace in that house was when he was away with his job.’

  ‘That must have been a relief for his wife. And for Martha.’

  She nodded. ‘Indeed. They should have taken the chance of those times to leave him. But they didn’t. The house was quiet for a few days, but as soon as he was back, it all began again.’ There was silence. ‘Well then,’ she said at last. ‘I’d better go inside. Mind out for Martha. She isn’t right. None of it’s her fault. But she isn’t right. And, my dear, I’m so sorry about your mother. So very sorry.’

  I waited until Eliza’s door banged shut. I was
wondering exactly how angry Mr Ellis had been. Angry enough to beat his wife and child, angry enough to kill an animal. What else had he been capable of? I glanced behind me and back up at the windows of Martha’s house. Might he have been angry enough to kill a girl? I took a step towards the door, my mind whirling.

  26

  1982

  ‘And what do you want?’

  My heart banged in my chest. ‘Please may I ask you some questions.’

  Mrs Ellis opened the door wider and peered at me. She wore the same grey cardigan, with a scarf wrapped round her throat. Her face was white and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. She contemplated me for a moment, gnawing her lip and looking me up and down, and I saw myself through her eyes: a small girl in an oversized parka and broken glasses. ‘What about?’ she said, her expression unchanging.

  ‘Gabriella.’

  There was a pause. ‘You’d better come in.’

  I stepped inside and edged around the boxes in the hall. The sweet scent of pinks was missing, and now the house smelled of stale tobacco and burnt food. She ushered me into the living room where Mr Ellis slouched in his armchair as he had before. Only this time, he was awake and reading the newspaper, his stomach spilling over his trousers, his bare feet stretched out and resting on the pouffe. He glanced at me with bleary eyes as I made my entrance and sat on the sofa while Mrs Ellis swivelled and left the room, her worn-down slippers flip-flopping as she walked.

  The last time I’d been here I’d been with Gabriella. I laid my hand on the fabric of the seat she’d touched and stole a look at Mr Ellis, but he was staring at his newspaper as if I wasn’t there. I shifted my gaze to the print of the insects. All those beetles, flies and ants. Why would you have such a horrible picture on your wall? Shuddering, I looked back at Mr Ellis, letting my eyes travel down his body. His bare feet were veined and white, the toes like fat maggots – huge, wriggling maggots. My gaze moved sharply to his face and now he was looking back at me, his mouth twisted in a grin.