My green eyes glare back at me accusingly.
I twist the mirror down further. I’ve got to play him right. If I can distract him for long enough, the police should come back looking for us when they see the Jeep’s not down at the beach. I try out a smile, a tilt of the head, a pout of the lips.
Katie would never have drowned if I’d been looking after her properly – if I hadn’t been careless and irresponsible.
There, I’ve accepted it now. There’s no running from the truth: Katie is dead and it’s all my fault. But this isn’t the time to be beating myself up.
He’ll be back any minute.
I’m running out of time.
In a frenzy, I rip open the glove compartment. A few maps, a metal hip flask, more than half empty. I unscrew it and sniff – he’s been drinking rum. I take a gulp for Dutch courage. Save that he’s been drinking and driving as well as taking drugs, there’s no incriminating evidence I can see in the car. What am I looking for? Bloodstained clothes? A murder weapon?
I run my hands along the mats under the seats. Under the passenger seat, nothing. On the driver’s side, nothing. But wait. Something small and hard. I hold it up to the light: an earring. It looks like one of Christina’s treasured jade earrings, given to her by Katie’s father. But how did it get here? As far as I know, she hasn’t been out in the Jeep. Whatever! Christina would be gutted to lose it. I slip it into the pocket of my shorts. She’ll be delighted to have it back.
I clamber up onto the seats and lean over into the trunk compartment hoping to find Damien’s golf clubs – after all he told Christina he’d gone off to play golf. I could defend myself with a golf club, I think optimistically. But they’re not there. In fact there’s nothing much in the trunk, save for a suit carrier containing a stained tuxedo and a small black rucksack.
I grab the rucksack and yank open the zip expecting to find it stuffed with Damien’s gear. But, no – instead it’s stuffed with yellow plastic bundled up and pushed in tight. The same bright yellow as Katie’s lilo… He must have bought two of them.
But here comes Damien, zipping up his jeans and swinging his hips. From the way he sniffs and rubs the back of his hand on his nose I can guess he’s just taken a line of cocaine before disposing of his stash. I twist round quickly and slide back into my seat. He looks every bit the unreconstructed, redneck hero of an old-fashioned cigarette ad. I’ve got nothing to defend myself with, short of battering him over the head with the hip flask! He’s finally got me cornered. Looks like I’m going to have to resort to desperate measures to keep him occupied until the police come back and find us.
‘Damien, have a swig of this’ I say, holding out the flask as he slams the door. ‘Caribbean rum.’
I smile, tilt my head and pout my lips.
He looks into my eyes, takes a long slug, down to the last drop, and tosses the empty flask into the back of the Jeep.
‘Now that’s more like it’, he says, as he turns his body towards me, caresses the tops of my thighs with one hand and slides the other inside my T-shirt.
I screw up my eyes and press my nails into the palms of my hands.
6
Photograph Two
15 June 1999: Trinity College, Oxford
Here we are partying again. Our Survivors’ Photo, taken by the Oriel cox on my camera at six o’clock in the morning as dawn broke on the debris of the Trinity College Grand Venetian Masked Ball 1999. The image is a little blurred but camera-shake can be excused, considering the vast amounts of alcohol we’d all consumed by the time the sun rose over the festive scene.
We went as a foursome: you and James, of course, as you’d been going out together for the whole of the first and second Years – all thanks to my unconventional match-making at the Oriel Boat Club Freshers’ bash; and I went with Hamish (or ‘Number Three,’ as I preferred to call him) who, as president of the Oriel Boat Club (and a rowing Blue to boot) had managed to pull some strings with the chaps in the Trinity College Boat Club and get his hands on two pairs of tickets.
The tickets were like gold dust. Hamish told me it was the most lavish and extravagant of the May Balls in that last year of the dying millennium and I believed him as we gyrated under a thousand lights to the beat of Coldplay in the purple haze of the sumptuous marquee.
By the time this photo was taken we were pale, dishevelled, spent and content after the revels of the night.
The four of us are sitting on the steps of Garden Quad, drinking flat champagne and munching soggy croissants, arms entwined, huddled together for warmth in the grey, damp, misty chill of morning.
We swapped masks and dresses just after midnight – look closely, I’m wearing your blue satin ballgown and you’re wearing my black silk. They fit us perfectly. It was my idea, if you remember, to play a trick on the boys, to add a little extra spice and excitement to the night – as if that were possible.
They were so out of it by then, I’m not sure they even noticed…
And, if so, they didn’t seem to care.
*
Gabrielle was so excited. This was promising to be the high point of her summer, the high point of her year. She was on a temporary contract working in the photographic department of an online fashion retailer. Though the job sounded glamorous on paper and was the first step in her career as a photographer, it was in fact extremely dull, being warehouse-based and involving spending her days processing literally thousands of digital images of clothing. Her ambition was to manage her own photographic and film studio. This job bored her rigid.
The girls spent the whole day preparing for the ball – getting their legs waxed, their hair curled, their nails manicured, their make-up perfectly applied. By six o’clock in the evening Gabrielle was raring to go and impatient for the boys to come and collect them from Lara’s room in college. It was a beautiful warm summer’s evening. It was going to be a magical night.
Those hours of preparation had paid off. She and Lara looked exquisite, or so James told them, as he stepped through the door.
‘You’ll be the belles of the ball,’ he said. ‘We’re the luckiest men in the world.’
James and Hamish also looked fabulous in black-tie and brightly-coloured silk waistcoats, both impressively tanned and toned from many hours spent training on the river. Gabrielle couldn’t wait!
‘Let’s get the party started,’ said James. He held out a champagne bottle to Gabrielle and while she struggled with the cork, he folded Lara in his arms and waltzed her round the room.
‘You are so beautiful, you make my head spin,’ he said as they tumbled onto the sofa.
*
The May Ball absolutely lived up to Gabrielle’s expectations – and her expectations were exceedingly high. A spectacular and intoxicating night of live bands, wild dancing, discos, fairground rides, bumper cars, a full-size pop-up casino, decadent marquees, fine dining and endlessly flowing alcohol – all in a dream-like setting of beautiful historic buildings and spires, green lawns and ancient woodland. The atmosphere was electric. The exotic masks added an extra layer of excitement and intrigue to the night.
Hamish was all over her. He was an amusing and attentive host, plying her with alcoholic toasts and treats, and they moved like greedy butterflies from one entertainment to another as he romanced her through the night. He was showing her a good time and she was making it worth his while.
But Gabrielle just couldn’t take her eyes off Lara and James – it was torture, seeing them arm-in-arm, laughing, kissing, so comfortable in each other’s company, so much in luuurve! It made her sick. By rights, James should be hers. It was so unfair. Lara had stolen him. Lara would never have even met James if it hadn’t been for Gabrielle. She had found him first and she was determined to take him back.
*
For Lara too, this night was the highlight of her year – celebrating the end of Trinity term exams and the end of her second year at Oxford. She and James had been virtually inseparable since their first date at
the Penultimate Picture Palace on the Cowley Road. Despite her stunning good looks, she had undoubtedly been surprisingly reserved and insecure when she arrived in Oxford as a fresher but had since (in no small part thanks to James) matured into a confident and vivacious young woman who enjoyed life to the full and wore her intellect lightly. From the moment he’d dropped down beside her in the shadows on the back row of the PPP and presented her with another rose, white this time, ‘as a peace offering’, he’d won her over with his kindness and charm, lighting up her life. He was her best friend as well as her lover. He was her rock, supporting her though countless essay crises and hangovers, making her laugh when she was down, and, when he was not stuck in the labs or poring over medical journals, constantly at her side making her feel special, intelligent, beautiful and adored.
But Gabrielle was not one to be upstaged.
As the clock tower chimed midnight and the moon hung low over the dazzling set, Gabrielle had a brainwave. The four of them were standing in line, swaying in unison to the sensual rhythms of a jazz quartet performing under the stars.
‘Let’s play a trick on the boys,’ she whispered in Lara’s ear. ‘Let’s swap our masks and dresses and see how long we can deceive them. I’ll bet you ten pounds they won’t notice!’
Lara had drunk five cocktails and the best part of a bottle of champagne and was in no fit state to resist, so the girls slipped off to change.
Gabrielle didn’t waste any time dragging off her dress. Soon she was back to the boys and playfully leading James away for a game of croquet in the dark. He had drunk three bottles of champagne and was up for the challenge.
*
By the time the clock on the tower struck one, Gabrielle knew her bet was won. The croquet mallets were abandoned on the grass. James was shackled at the ankles and wrists by the metal hoops she had hammered in with her mallet. He was her captive, trapped in exquisite torment flat on his back, watching the clouds scudding overhead. Their passionate embrace was shielded only by the moonlight shadow of the bust of Cardinal Newman, whose stony figure looked on in solemn distaste all the while she rocked to-and-fro.
Now the clouds had passed over. Lara’s mask was tossed aside. Gabrielle had released James from the hoops. They lay still on the freshly mown grass in the Back Lawns of Trinity, satisfied and exhausted, their bodies touching, their heads reeling, their eyes sparkling with the most dazzling firework display she had ever seen lighting up the indigo sky.
7
Scarlett
At last I hear the shriek of a police siren.
Thank God!
I open my eyes. The sky is bright blue overhead.
Shaken and bruised. Humiliated but alive!
I shove Damien off as a police car pulls up beside the Jeep, its blue lights flashing. Damien tugs at his jeans and straightens his shirt.
‘I know you’re hiding Katie,’ I hiss at Damien. ‘Now for God’s sake tell the police what you’ve done with her.’
Twenty minutes later I’m riding in the back of a squad car. Looks like I might get the chance to give Sergeant Costa my statement after all. The gargoyle face of the officer sitting alongside me leaves me in no doubt that I’m going to have some explaining to do. We’re riding in convoy. I can see the back of Damien’s dark head in the car in front. They clapped a pair of handcuffs on him and bundled him in, no messing. He’s being ‘escorted’ to the police station, arrested on charges of dangerous driving.
When we pull into the police station, Damien’s already on his way. I see only a fleeting view of him disappearing into the building, flanked by police officers. My car door is opened by a female officer. As she walks me to the entrance of the police station shielding me from a couple of stray reporters, a woman comes out of a café on the other side of the road. I don’t recognise her at first but it’s Christina, wearing a new pair of aviator sunglasses, a wide-brimmed sunhat and a flowery nipped-waist and full-skirted sundress I’ve never seen the like of before. Anyone would think she was trying to disguise herself! She’s seething. She falls in beside me and starts firing questions.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ She can barely contain her anger. ‘We were supposed to be here first thing to see the Commissioner.’ She pushes back her sunglasses and gives me a look of pure contempt. ‘What on earth were you playing at giving me sleeping pills last night? I didn’t wake until after eleven o’clock, wasted the whole morning. You should’ve woken me up instead of going off alone.’ Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot. ‘And where the hell is Damien? He didn’t come back last night or this morning. I’ve still heard nothing from him. Have you seen him?’
‘You just missed him,’ I say.
My first impressions of the police station, as we are led through the shabby painted doors, are not good. Officially we’re here for an update on the investigation. But I’ve a sinking feeling we’re being called in for further questioning as unofficial suspects.
The waiting area is crowded, scruffy and chaotic. It’s flooded with light from the afternoon sun streaming through the bank of sealed, dusty and grime-stained windows along one length of the room. The police officer asks us to wait and disappears through the crowd of bodies down a corridor. We stand just inside the waiting room uncertain which way to turn. In her retro get-up Christina looks like a 1950s movie star. She’s still wearing her silly aviator sunglasses to hide her sore eyes, bloodshot from crying. I guess this gives her the illusion of concealing her identity.
There’s not a police officer in sight in the waiting area and nowhere to sit. The few hard, plastic seats are all taken and all those without seats are camped out on the floor. Some have their eyes shut, leaning back against the walls, others are listening to music through headphones or talking in loud animated voices recounting the ins-and-outs of some dispute or violation which has brought them to the police station. It reminds me of crowded train stations on inter-railing holidays when I was a student.
‘What a dump.’ I say. Christina looks around nervously, conscious of a stir in the room, and a hundred eyes looking at us, then a sudden hush followed by whispering, and pointing, none too discreet, which leaves me in no doubt that we’ve become reality TV celebrities overnight. I have a blurred memory of us having been accosted yesterday evening by one of the local paparazzi for a statement. Christina was clearly caught off-guard and almost speechless. When she opened her mouth, the only words that came out were, ‘She’s gone. She’s still missing. Please bring back my little girl. Please don’t give up.’ The hotel manager had swiftly called over a security guard to bundle the pushy journalist and her crew off the premises. But no doubt our images and Christina’s faltering words were flashing up in the island’s ‘breaking news’ broadcasts.
Sure enough, when I look over at the screen fixed to the wall of the waiting area, the news channel is replaying a continuous loop of film cuts from last night’s search operation: Christina’s clumsy, awkward statement, pictures of us both on the beach, panoramic views of the bay, shots of the lifeboat coming into shore, a close-up of the deflated yellow lilo being ceremoniously taken away for analysis – but no Katie.
I feel sick.
I turn my back to the screen but I can still make out the reporter’s voiceover: ‘… no sign or sightings of Katie… Katie lost at sea… Katie, still missing… Katie last seen on the beach playing with the yellow lilo…’
The land and sea search is continuing and as soon as any further information is available they will update their viewers immediately.
‘What about someone updating her mother?’ says Christina in a bitter tone.
As I walk restlessly round the room looking for someone in uniform to tell us what to do, I catch sight of a freshly-printed poster, tacked up on the noticeboard, in amongst other faded notices and mugshots of persons wanted for drugs and armed robbery offences, along with miscellaneous police guidance notes on burglary prevention measures, safe motoring, and the like. I drag Christina over to see it. She gasps and tu
rns pale. The poster is a close-up photograph of Katie wearing her stripy pink swimsuit. The poster caught my attention immediately because I was the one to take the photograph. I emailed the picture to the police station from my phone late yesterday evening. It shows Katie, looking straight at me, her blue eyes shining with pride, as she holds out a handful of shells she collected on the beach, cupped in her sandy little palm. The single word, MISSING, is stamped in large black capital letters at the top of the poster.
Christina can’t resist the impulse to reach out and touch the sun-kissed cheeks of her beautiful daughter. Her hand moves up towards the picture then she lets it drop. She peers more closely at the photograph. In the corner you can just make out the date and time recorded on my phone.
15:35 16.06.15.
She was still alive then…
It’s chilling to see Katie’s innocent face pinned up next to that of a former convict wanted for armed robbery, painful to imagine her out there, with all those dangers, all alone.
Like acquaintances at an art exhibition, we stand together reading the short police report printed below the photograph with a growing sense of dislocation, unable to connect the dispassionate words to Katie.
Police are seeking the public’s assistance in locating a four-year-old female, Catherine (‘Katie’) Jamie Kenedey, dual national, citizen of the United Kingdom and the United States. The child, who answers to the name of Katie, was reported missing by her nanny at about 5 p.m. on Tuesday 16 June 2015 when she went missing on the beach at the Palm Reef Beach Club on Grand Carmola island in the British Leeward Isles (BLI).
She's Mine Page 5