(2012) Say You're Sorry

by Michael Robotham

  “I’m trying to get to the truth.”

  The teacher eyes me accusingly. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Yes. You see, Miss McCrudden—”

  “Call me Kirsty.”

  “Kirsty. By most accounts Natasha McBain was a bit of a tearaway. Always getting into trouble.”

  “She was high-spirited.”

  “There you go again—making excuses for her. Apologizing. Trying to soften the edges; airbrushing the truth.”

  She gives me a hard stare and starts again. “Natasha could be difficult. Hard to control.”

  “In what way?”

  “She didn’t respect authority. I don’t think St. Catherine’s was the place for her.”

  I wait for something more. She sighs. “I shouldn’t really talk—I was a complete nightmare at school. Not as bad as Natasha, mind you, but my parents were always being summoned to explain or apologize.

  “Some girls are suffocated by a place like this—the discipline and routine. We talk a lot about pastoral care and not leaving a girl behind, but let’s face it, we want students who make us look good, who aren’t management problems, who do well in their exams…”

  “Natasha didn’t fit.”

  “She was a brilliant student. A complete natural, the sort who wins awards and gets scholarships without even trying.” The teacher lowers her voice. “But she was also restless, preoccupied, often crude. When she wasn’t terrorizing teachers, she was flirting with them—male and female.”

  “Did she flirt with you?”

  Kirsty smiles knowingly. “Natasha enjoyed being provocative, but there’s a difference between physical maturity and emotional maturity. She made a lot of bad decisions.”

  “What about Piper?”

  “Completely different. A born storyteller. One of the best creative writers I’ve ever taught. She daydreamed. Often I’d catch her staring into space, or studying the ground as though it were a river she couldn’t cross. And she had a way of touching things, tapping them lightly with her fingertips, as though playing a secret game.”

  “Academically?”

  “She struggled.”

  “Is she the sort of girl to run away?”

  Kirsty doesn’t answer immediately. She turns to the window, watching girls outside in the playground.

  “Natasha was one of those rare creatures who truly didn’t seem to care what people thought. Compliment her or criticize her and her reaction didn’t change. Piper was more self-conscious. I think there was some hero worship involved.”

  “How did Natasha react?”

  “She loved being adored. Piper was like her faithful retainer.”

  “Why didn’t they have many friends?”

  “They had issues.”

  “Such as?”

  The teacher falters slightly. “I think a lot changed after the accident.”

  “What accident?”

  “There was a fight between two local lads. One of them drove a car into the other. Left him disabled. The driver was arrested and charged with attempted murder.”

  “What does that have to do with Natasha?”

  “It was her boyfriend. They were fighting over her.”

  “When was this?”

  “About four months before the girls disappeared. You should really talk to Emily Martinez.”

  “Is she here today?”

  “I don’t know. She misses a lot of school.”

  Ruiz has pulled an old notebook from his pocket and is jotting down details. It’s not that he needs reminding—he won’t forget—but old habits are hard to break.

  Kirsty turns to Grievous. “Has there been some news?”

  He doesn’t answer, but the knowledge still reaches her. Fear thickens her vowels.

  “Are they dead?”

  “I can’t comment,” he says.

  She looks at me. “Oh dear, you’ve made me do a terrible thing.”

  “You’ve told me the truth.”

  A bell rings. Bodies fill the corridors outside; girls in motion, laughter, musical voices and sentences that end with upward inflections. The English teacher has to go. She stands and brushes the front of her trousers. She touches the corner of one eye, then her hair.

  “We all have reasons to run away,” she says, before turning. “Most of us find the strength to stay.”

  20

  Ruiz turns off the ignition and we sit in silence, watching the empty street. A Network Rail sign indicates the entrance to Radley Station and beneath it is an information board with a poster for a visiting circus.

  Beyond a bus stop is the Bowyer Arms, a chain pub with pale washed walls. Ruiz fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a tin of boiled sweets. He chooses one and sucks on it thoughtfully.

  “Explain to me why we’re here?”

  “This is where they were supposed to meet,” I say. “According to Emily’s statement, they were going to rendezvous here at ten o’clock on Sunday morning, but they didn’t show up.”

  I take out a copy of the original missing persons report. Alice McBain told police she last saw the girls at just before 8:00 a.m. on Sunday August 31. Piper had slept over at Natasha’s house after the Bingham Summer Festival. Alice knocked on Natasha’s door and told them to get out of bed. Natasha had a waitressing shift at a café in Abingdon at ten that morning, but failed to show.

  “Why did they want to run away?”

  “In the last week of the school year Natasha was expelled from school for pulling a prank on a couple of teachers. The details were never released and the expulsion was rescinded when the girls went missing.

  “According to Emily, they planned to run away to London. They packed bags and saved money, but the idea seemed to lose potency as the summer wore on. It came up again on the last night of the Bingham festival. The girls went to a funfair. Piper was supposed to be grounded, but she climbed out of her bedroom window after her parents had gone to bed.

  “Dozens of people saw the girls during the course of the evening. The fairground rides closed down at eleven. Emily had gone home an hour earlier after a phone call. Her mother had suffered some sort of turn and been taken to hospital.”

  “What sort of turn?”

  “It’s not clear. Piper and Natasha were seen near the entrance to the village green just before ten.”

  “Who saw them?”

  “A police patrol.”

  The boiled sweet rattles against Ruiz’s teeth. I continue.

  “Some time shortly after midnight, Piper Hadley knocked on Emily’s bedroom window. She was upset, but wouldn’t say why. She said they were leaving, running away. If Emily wanted to come, she had to meet them here at 10:00 a.m.”

  “Did Emily see Natasha?”

  “No. Emily showed up at Radley Station at 9:50 a.m. but the girls didn’t show. She waited for nearly two hours then went home.”

  “She didn’t raise the alarm?”

  “No. A search wasn’t launched until late Sunday afternoon. Police interviewed passengers on the trains and the City35 bus service, but nobody remembered seeing the girls.”

  “What about their mobile phones?”

  “Natasha’s phone was turned off just after eleven on Saturday night. Piper didn’t have one with her.”

  “How far is the farmhouse from here?” he asks.

  “Just over half a mile.”

  Ruiz is still contemplating the pub in the distance. “Maybe Drury is right about Augie Shaw.”

  “Augie doesn’t have the intellect to have done this.”

  “What about his old man?”

  “Wesley has been dead for a year and a half. Even if he abducted the girls, I don’t think Augie could have carried on without him. It takes food, water, heating, security…”

  “Why keep the girls?”

  “Could be a number of reasons. It’s sexual, but there’s definitely a revenge element. It’s also about possession; owning something special, being completely in control.”

  Ahead
of us a bus lurches to a halt and schoolchildren of various ages get off. I notice a pair of teenaged girls, one model tall, the other short, stout and brunette, walking along the footpath.

  Ruiz steps out of the car.

  “How’s it going, ladies?”

  They both smile and say hello, but keep their distance.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” says the taller girl. She has a blue school bag with neon stickers.

  “The bus that comes through here—does it run on Sunday mornings?”

  “Every hour.”

  Ruiz takes out his notebook and jots something down. “I’m just doing a little detective work,” he explains. “Two girls went missing from this spot a few years ago. Do you remember the Bingham Girls?”

  “Everybody knows about them,” says the brunette, taking a few steps and looking into the car. “Are you really detectives?”

  “Working a case.”

  “Piper Hadley was a really good runner,” says the tall girl.

  “Did you go to the same school?”

  “No.”

  “What about Natasha McBain?”

  “She was just, like, you know…”

  “I don’t.”

  Eye-rolling. “She had, like, this reputation of being a slag.”

  “A wannabe-dot-com,” adds the brunette.

  Ruiz glances at me, already tired of talking to the girls.

  “My dad thinks they’re, like, dead,” says the tall one.

  “Is like dead the same as being really dead?” asks Ruiz.

  They look at him blankly.

  Further along the road I notice a familiar-looking Vauxhall Cavalier slow and pull over. Tinted windows. Fat tires. Two-up. Toby Kroger and Craig Gould emerge. Gould is wearing stylized baggy pants, a leather jacket and an oversized T-shirt like he’s an LA gangbanger an ocean away from home. Kroger has on the same cotton hoodie and battered jeans that I saw him in two days ago.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” he says, grabbing the crotch of his jeans. “Are these old pervs hassling you?”

  The taller girl giggles. The brunette stands with one foot behind the other, pushing her breasts forward.

  Opening the car door, I join Ruiz on the footpath.

  “You know these clowns?” he asks.

  “The local yoof.”

  Kroger tugs at his hood, pulling it over the brim of his baseball cap.

  “I like your hoodie,” says Ruiz. “Justin Bieber wears one just like that.”

  The girls are giggling.

  Kroger takes a moment to formulate a response, peeling back his lips to show splinters of gold in his teeth.

  “Two girls were kidnapped around here, so when we see two old guys putting the hard word on local girls, we get concerned.” He winks at Gould and then at the brunette. “We’re like guardian angels.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet,” says Ruiz. “They’re angels. I don’t see any wings. You know what they say about angels with small wings?”

  Kroger’s eyes seem to click open and his feet are set before he swings. His fist bounces off the side of Ruiz’s head. That was his one half-chance. Before he can set himself again, he’s doubled over with a fist deep in his stomach and no air in his lungs.

  With the minimum of fuss, Ruiz twists Kroger’s arm behind his back. A shirt button pops loose and rolls into the gutter where it spins like a bottle top.

  I don’t see Gould’s arm move. He punches me hard in the side of the face and I fall against the car, bouncing onto my backside. My jaw is simultaneously numb and on fire.

  Ruiz pulls me up. He’s still holding Kroger and nearby Gould has curled up on the pavement, shielding his head.

  “A hundred thousand sperm and you guys were the fittest. It makes you start to question Darwin’s theories, doesn’t it? Survival of the fittest. Natural selection.” Then he addresses the girls. “Maybe you should run along now. Careful how you go.”

  They leave quickly, short skirts swinging against their thighs.

  “This is assault,” whines Kroger.

  “I didn’t throw the first punch.”

  Gould is still lying on the ground, moaning slightly, his teeth like a row of dirty pebbles.

  Ruiz speaks next. “We can play this one of two ways, lads. We can call the police, take statements, lay charges, meet up again in court… or you can run off home.”

  Kroger and Gould look at each other. Ruiz makes a buzzer sound. “Time’s up.”

  He walks away and opens the car door.

  “Try not to let your minds wander, lads. They’re too small to be out on their own.”

  If a broken mirror can bring

  seven years of bad luck, what’s the penance for breaking someone’s body? On the scale of sins, how do you measure something like that? How many Hail Marys and Our Fathers?

  Callum Loach got crippled and Aiden Foster went to jail. That’s when Tash’s life turned to shit. They say a person’s life can spin on one event—one chance meeting or a mistake or a piece of good luck. It’s true. I don’t believe in fate or destiny, but sheer blind-arsed bad luck… that’s another story.

  Tash had been sort of dating Aiden Foster for three months when it happened. I say “sort of” because nobody ever formalizes these things. It’s not like those American teen movies where people badge each other or swap college rings.

  Aiden was four years older and one of Hayden’s friends. They would have been in the same year at school if Aiden hadn’t left after GCSEs to become an apprentice at his father’s garage. He always had dirty fingernails, which turned me off, but Tash didn’t seem to mind.

  She liked making him jealous. She could do it without even trying. Aiden was jealous of her clothes because they got to touch her skin all day. That’s what he said. And he even carried a pair of her panties around in his pocket, used ones, which is just plain creepy.

  He was also a complete tosser most of the time. He had his hair gelled back like he was standing in a howling wind or skydiving. And he thought he was hot shit because he played guitar in a band, which used to get hired to play at parties, mostly by friends. Eighteenths. Twenty-firsts.

  That’s why we went to the party in Abingdon. It was somebody’s birthday. I lied to Mum and Dad and said I was spending the night with Tash. Aiden picked us up in his car. He drove the whole way with his hand sliding up and down Tash’s thigh.

  The party was at a big old house near the center of Abingdon with arches over the doors and windows. The place was full of college-age kids; boys with crew cuts and leather jackets and girls in postage-stamp dresses smelling of Pantene and cigarettes.

  Tash was in a good mood. She was younger than any girl at the party (and prettier) but nobody was going to kick her out. Hayden had given her some stuff to sell and she road-tested the merchandise in advance. Her eyes were like black marbles and she was swaying and giggling.

  A guy called Simon tried to chat me up by telling me dirty jokes. I stopped him halfway through and said I’d heard the joke before.

  “What’s the punchline then?”

  “I can’t remember,” I said. “But I know I’ve heard it before.”

  “When was the last time you laughed?”

  “Yesterday. Eleven thirty-four a.m. And I’m gonna laugh tomorrow when I think about you.”

  He left me alone then, muttering something under his breath.

  People were smoking and drinking and popping pills. I recognized some of them from school, but they were way ahead of me.

  Tash was dancing with Aiden, grinding against him until he was drooling in her ear. Aiden’s friends were watching her, particularly Toby Kroger and Craig Gould. Craig was always looking at Tash in a funny way, like he was hungry and she was a Big Mac and fries.

  Aiden and Tash disappeared for a while. They went upstairs. Tash came back fifteen minutes later, carrying her shoes. She kissed me, wrapping her arms around me and pushing her tongue hard against mine, before pulling back and gi
ggling at the applause.

  The boys were egging her on. The music was too loud.

  Outside, there was a patio and a swing seat. I was getting some fresh air, drinking a Bacardi Breezer, watching three girls and two boys smoking a joint. They offered me some. Told me their names. I told them mine. I coughed when I tried to hold the smoke in my lungs, but I kept trying because I wanted them to like me.

  That’s when I saw Tash in the garden. She was puking. Callum Loach was with her, holding back her hair and making her lean over so she didn’t mess up her dress.

  Callum was tall and strong and played football. Tash had been teasing him all summer. I remember her wearing a bikini and parading past him at the leisure center. Later, when she rubbed suntan oil on her shoulders, she pulled one triangle of her bikini top aside so that he got a glimpse of her breast. Callum looked embarrassed. Tash laughed.

  Now he was looking after her. He went and got her a bottle of water, wiped her face and unhooked her belt because it was too tight around her waist.

  Then Aiden turned up, eyes jittering and his skin all waxy. He told Callum to get his “faggot hands” off Tash.

  Even though Tash was completely wasted, she told Aiden to piss off, but he didn’t listen.

  “Is he a good fuck for a faggot?” he screamed.

  “Better than you,” she said. “Maybe you should ask for some pointers.”

  “Wha? From the dickless wonder?”

  “At least I could find his dick.”

  Toby Kroger and Craig Gould laughed. Aiden tried to slap Tash, but Callum pushed him away. Next came a punch, which missed by a mile. Everybody laughed. Aiden sulked.

  Callum offered to drive us home. He had his mum’s car. Tash had the window open and her head resting on the door so the fresh air could sober her up. I was in the back seat, feeling woozy, but glad to be away from the party.

  When we got to the farmhouse, Tash still felt sick and wanted Callum to drive her around a bit longer. She rested her head on his shoulder. “I want to kiss you but my mouth tastes like puke.”

  “That’s OK.”

  “I could do something else.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.”

  That’s when Tash remembered her handbag. It was back at the house. It had her mobile phone and some of Hayden’s stuff so she couldn’t leave it behind. So we drove back to Abingdon and Callum went inside.