by B M Carroll
The dress is ready by mid-afternoon. I fold it reverently and place it in a carrier bag by the door so I won’t leave without it. Maybe custom-made clothes are something I should consider doing more of. With everything that’s happened, it feels time to reassess my much-neglected career. I can see now that I put too much on hold while I was waiting to get pregnant again. Having something else to focus on would have helped in so many ways.
Wednesday is my day for getting things done. Jasmin goes straight to soccer after school, and that gives me an extra hour and a half that I wouldn’t usually have at my disposal. I prepare some vegetables and meat for dinner and bring in the washing from the line. There’s not a lot because it’s just Jasmin and me. Soon Aidan will be living with us again. I’ll be catering for his appetite at dinner time, washing his clothes, and everything will feel more substantial, more right. Now I’m making him sound like one of those men who needs to be waited on, which he most definitely is not (Aidan does more than his fair share of household chores). It’s only that I feel his absence more keenly when I’m doing these everyday tasks, like laundry and cooking dinner.
At four thirty I shrug on my warmest jacket and my new scarf – the one Aidan laughed about last night – for the short walk to the training fields. The light is dwindling by the time I get there. I can see the kids in the distance, and my eyes automatically search for Jasmin. She’s the only girl, so she’s easy to pick out. I can’t see her. Strange. Maybe she’s sitting down or having a drink.
I’m closer now. Davy is putting them through their paces, shouting instructions in his booming accent. ‘Inside foot. One touch. Find space.’
‘Where’s Jasmin?’ My eyes skim the far side of the field, where a few parents and siblings are watching. The woman who ordered the dress isn’t here yet.
Davy stops mid-stride and turns his head to stare at me. ‘She didn’t come today. I assumed the lass was sick.’
There is a horrible moment of realization. Jasmin isn’t here. For the last hour and a half, when she should have been here training, she was somewhere else. Where? Where?
Davy bellows at the children. ‘Come in, lads … Has anyone seen Jasmin?’
The kids respond to the urgency in his voice and converge around us, their heads shaking, one by one. The training fields are directly across from the school. The kids make their own way here. It’s such a short distance, perfect to practise a little independence. There’s even a volunteer at the pedestrian crossing to see them across safely.
‘Where is she?’ I appeal to Davy, even though he clearly doesn’t know the answer and is every bit as clueless and helpless as I am. ‘Where is my daughter?’
The kids hear the panic in my voice and now they’re scared too. Other parents begin to walk towards us, no doubt wondering what all the commotion is about.
‘Have you seen Jasmin?’ I ask them frantically. ‘Has anyone seen Jasmin?’
Their replies offer no hope.
‘No.’
‘She didn’t come today.’
‘No. Sorry … Maybe check with the school?’
‘The school office is closed by now. The staff will have gone home.’
Davy swipes out his phone from his pocket. ‘I’m calling the police.’
The police? Oh Lord. What am I forgetting? I must be forgetting something. Focus. Was there something special on after school? Was she meant to go to a friend’s house? No, nothing is coming to me.
My phone. Has she been trying to call? No. Nothing. No missed calls or texts.
Oh dear Lord. This can’t be happening. Where is she? Did she forget about training? Has she been waiting for me outside school all this time?
Where is my daughter?
51
Sophie
My cheeks sting. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. Or so violently angry. Or so liable to burst into tears.
‘I am not a bully.’
John Greenland and Alyssa are sitting across from me. Neither of them looks as though they believe me.
‘I’m exacting.’ I direct my appeal to John, my mentor, who knows how much I strive for perfection. ‘Some people find that hard to take, and to keep up with what I expect from them.’
‘Phone calls at eleven o’clock at night? Work demands all through the weekend? Sophie, there’s a line between being exacting and harassing your staff.’
What a hypocrite! He has called me after hours and over the weekend, and I haven’t gone around calling him a bully, have I?
My desk phone begins to ring. I glance at it meaningfully, because it’s 6 p.m. and, technically, we should all be at home by now. ‘We don’t work in a nine-to-five environment, John.’
‘Yes, I understand that. And we’re all guilty of expecting after-hours input from our colleagues. But on one occasion – on Monday night, I believe – you made four phone calls, and sent two texts and numerous emails to Mrs Evans. Requesting a complex piece of work to be completed by first thing the next morning. Is that true?’
He looks at me with his most intimidating stare, and my head scrambles back to Monday. Yes, the risk analysis. ‘Hannah didn’t complete a certain task by the time she left for the evening …’
‘How did you expect her to get sufficient sleep? To spend any time with her family on this particular evening?’
Seriously? Come on, John. How many times have I worked late for you? How many times have I come into the office early the next day on only a few hours’ sleep? OK, so you didn’t specifically ask me to work around the clock, but I knew – without being told, I might add! – when it was necessary, when a special effort was required to get the job done.
‘I’m committed.’ My chin rises as I return his stare. As though to prove my point, my phone begins to ring again, and I raise my voice to talk over the trilling. ‘I put my job first, and I expect the same of my staff. I needed that analysis to be completed.’
Now he looks sceptical, which is even worse than when he’s being plain intimidating. ‘The risk analysis? It was the risk analysis, wasn’t it? The one for me? Something that wasn’t due until later in the week, if I remember correctly.’
‘Yes …’ Give me strength! I shouldn’t have to justify myself like this. ‘I needed to review it before it got to you and, as you mentioned previously, the standard of work coming out of my department has been an issue …’
‘Sophie, you don’t need three days to do a review. Stop making excuses. There was no urgency, no reason to make Hannah work extra hours. None at all.’
If I were Jane, this would be the point when I’d resort to saying, ‘Fuck you.’ I can understand now what motivated her, how it must have felt like the only appropriate response. Fuck you, John Greenland, you big, fat hypocrite. And fuck you, Alyssa, with your clipboard and fake concern.
Alyssa clears her throat. ‘Look, Sophie, as you know, this isn’t the first complaint we’ve had about your behaviour towards your staff. For this reason, we’re taking swift and firm action. This is your first and final warning. It will be put in writing …’
A warning? Me? I’m a senior manager. One day – soon, I hope – I’ll be an executive. And now my fucking phone has started ringing again.
Alyssa glances at it, and then at me. ‘Do you have a response?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Very serious,’ she says, the bitch. ‘I know this is a shock to you, Sophie. Nobody likes to think of themselves as a bully. Sometimes the truth can be harsh.’
‘I approved Hannah’s pay rise, for God’s sake. Do bullies give a shit about what their victims get paid? Do they? Of course they don’t.’
‘Calm down, please,’ John commands, in a voice that tells me everything has changed. There will be no more mentoring, no more career acceleration, no more talk of an executive position.
Calm down? I could strangle Hannah with my bare hands. Alyssa and John too. And Aidan, the bastard, for not coming home last night. Jasmin and Chloe too. I could strangle each and
every one of them.
But Hannah! How could she? After all I’ve done for her? She’s playing the victim – can’t they see that? I bet her husband was addicted to prescription drugs or something, and that’s why the life insurance didn’t pay out. I bet she’s blaming the doctor, the pharmacy, the health system, anyone but him, or herself. Stupid, stupid bitch.
There’s a knock on the door. What now? What the fuck now?
The receptionist sticks her head in. I can’t remember her name; I never did get around to formally introducing myself.
‘I’m so sorry for interrupting,’ she murmurs, looking nervous.
We’re in the middle of something here. We’re in the middle of a formal warning. Go away!
‘It’s just that the police need to see you, Sophie. I’ve been trying to phone to let you know.’
I can see them through the gap in the door. Two blobs of navy, male. Is it something to do with the sentencing? Some residual paperwork? Couldn’t it wait? But before I have the chance to protest, they’ve swarmed my office, their uniforms and weapons stark and out of place in the room.
‘Excuse us, Miss McCarthy,’ the older one says, advancing until he’s right in front of my desk and uncomfortably close. The other one hovers by the door, as though preparing for someone to make a run for it. ‘This is an urgent matter. We need to speak to you about Jasmin Ryan.’
‘What about Jasmin?’ I ask, my head whirling.
John and Alyssa seem rooted to their seats. Can’t I have some privacy here? Is that too much to ask? Apparently it is.
‘I believe Jasmin is well known to you?’
‘Jasmin? Yes … She’s my partner’s daughter. What –’
‘Jasmin failed to arrive at her soccer training this afternoon, a short walk from her school … Do you know anything about her whereabouts?’
Why is he asking me this? Is it because Aidan’s away?
‘I’m sorry, I have no idea … Has she run away?’
‘When did you last see Jasmin?’
I feel dizzy, unfocused. Can this day get any worse? ‘At the weekend …’
‘You’ve been here in the office all afternoon?’
Everything about him radiates suspicion: his tone, his stance, his stare.
‘Yes … What is this about? Why are you questioning me? Surely Chloe would have a better idea?’
‘Jasmin’s mother mentioned you as a person of interest.’
‘She what? You don’t seriously think –’
My phone starts ringing again, interrupting me, and everyone turns to stare at it.
‘Maybe you should get that,’ John Greenland suggests, reminding me that he and Alyssa are still here, watching, judging, and no doubt jumping to all sorts of conclusions.
I snatch the receiver from its cradle. It’s Mum on the other end, breathless, panicked. ‘Do you know where your father is? The car is gone, and there’s been no sign of him all afternoon. His phone is switched off. This isn’t like him. I’m quite concerned –’
‘Jasmin is missing too,’ I say, before it strikes me that this is an extraordinary coincidence.
Both Jasmin and Dad are missing. What are the chances?
He wouldn’t, would he?
No, of course not. He was upset for me last night. That’s all.
But how can they both be missing at the exact same time? And Dad wasn’t just upset last night, was he? He was distraught. Kept saying, ‘I can’t bear this to go on any longer. This is killing me, Sophie.’
‘Sophie, you don’t think he …’ Mum’s voice trails away but it’s clear she’s also considering the possibility. This is not good.
I keep coming back to the chances. Both of them gone at the same time.
Oh, no. The idiot. The fucking idiot. Oh, no.
52
Richard
We’ve been in the car about ten minutes before she speaks.
‘This isn’t the way home.’ A statement of fact.
I don’t answer. Traffic is infuriatingly slow with the after-school rush. It would have been better if we’d left earlier in the day, but then it’s not as if I bloody well planned this, so the traffic is what it is.
‘Where are we going?’ Curiosity now. And a thread of panic. ‘Where’s Mum? Is she at hospital?’
‘Shush,’ I tell her. ‘I need to concentrate on the traffic.’
‘But where’s Mum? What’s wrong with her?’
‘I told you already it’s nothing serious. Now shush. We’ll be there soon.’
Ten more minutes of silence and horrendous traffic. My head is as clogged up as the roads. Am I really doing this? Is Aidan’s daughter really here with me?
Then her small, scared voice behind me, confirming that this is real, as real as can be.
‘You said we’d be there soon … Why won’t you answer any of my questions? … I want my mum and dad … I shouldn’t have got in the car with you.’
Smart girl. No, she shouldn’t have got in the car but, to give her credit, she hesitated before getting in.
‘Your mum’s not feeling well,’ I said when I intercepted her outside the school. ‘Your dad asked me to pick you up today.’
‘What’s wrong with Mum?’
‘Nothing serious. She just needs a rest, that’s all.’
‘But I have soccer training. I’m meant to go straight there. Daddy knows that.’
‘He thought you could miss one week,’ I said, keeping my tone light.
It was in the balance for a few moments. A slight frown came over her face as she tried to weigh up this unexpected deviation from her normal routine and all the stuff they teach them at school about stranger danger.
‘I’m not a stranger. You know me. I’m Sophie’s dad.’
She got in the car, at last, and now here we are, heading west, towards the mountains, because that’s the only place I can think of going. I hear the click of the door handle.
‘It’s locked,’ I snap. ‘And the windows are locked too.’
‘Are you going to hurt me?’ she asks breathlessly.
‘Of course not.’
‘But Mum’s not really sick, is she? So why are you doing this? Why have you taken me?’
Because I want to hurt Aidan Ryan. I want to hurt him as badly as he hurt Sophie. I can’t smash open his chest – if I were young and fit, that’s what I’d do, rip him apart – but I can get to him in a different way. Through you, Jasmin. A daughter is her father’s weakness. We can be as strong and invincible as we like, but our daughters instantly reduce us to more vulnerable beings. I would do anything for Sophie. Anything. Seeing her last night, so broken and distraught, one thing became clear to me: I couldn’t bear to watch this go on any longer. I had to do something. Something drastic.
‘It’s not you,’ I explain, as much for my own sake as hers. ‘It’s your father. I’m doing this because of your father and what he did to my daughter.’
She contemplates this for a little while. It doesn’t take her long to work it out.
‘You mean the accident?’
‘Yes.’ Plus the fact that now he’s broken her heart as well as her body.
‘But he said sorry for that. And he went to court, and the judge didn’t punish him any more.’
My rebuttal is harsh. ‘Sometimes being sorry just isn’t enough.’
This upsets her. Cracks her composure, which has been admirable until now. She begins to sob, then tries to stop herself by sucking in her breath.
‘So you’re trying to get back at him?’
I decide not to answer that, for fear of upsetting her again.
‘Retribution,’ she says next, more to herself than me.
Her vocabulary is impressive. ‘That’s a big word for a small girl.’
‘I do extension words at school.’
Yes, she’s clearly a bright young thing, and I have a softness for intelligent girls. Stop talking to her, Richard. Stop getting sucked in. Focus on the traffic. And make a bloody plan, f
or God’s sake.
‘You need to be quiet. I need to concentrate. The last thing we need is another bloody accident.’
Another sob and gulping sound from behind. Then several – more desperate – clicks of the door handle.
‘I’ve already told you it’s locked. Now listen, Jasmin. You have two choices. You can keep trying the door, even though there’s no point, and getting more and more upset. Or you can sit quietly and make the journey more pleasant for both of us.’
‘The journey where?’
‘Shush.’
‘I want my mum and dad.’
‘Just shush.’
Thankfully, she responds to the harshness of my tone and quietens down.
An hour later we’ve begun our ascent up the mountains, my ears popping as we climb. Jasmin has spent most of the time gazing out of the window. Every couple of minutes a sob or a sniff reminds me she’s there, not that I could forget. She gives the impression that she’s trying very hard not to descend into full-blown hysteria. Such a tough little thing.
More from instinct than anything else, I turn off the main road at one of the smaller towns. The road is narrow, tree-lined, and eventually the houses taper away and we’re deep in the bush. Another half an hour and it’ll be dark. I need to find somewhere before then.
Jasmin takes a water bottle from her school bag and drinks noisily, then puts on her jacket; she must be feeling cold.
‘Do you have a house here?’ Her voice is croaky. It’s been a while since she’s used it.
A house? Ha, that would be nice! Dee and I were on the verge of buying a holiday home – an apartment near the beach – when Sophie had her accident. Dee brought it up again only last week. We should start looking again, Richard. But the mountains would be too wild, too isolated, too cold for Dee. Her face flashes in front of me, her lips tightened in a line of anger and worry. She’s been saying for ages that she’s concerned about me, and now I’ve gone and proven her right. My wife’s talking to me now, conducting a conversation in my head.