‘Hmm.’ I get to my feet and follow Mum down the stairs. ‘Did he sound angry?’ I speak quietly so Peter won’t hear me down the telephone line.
‘Not at all. Why would he?’
‘Mum, who’s on the phone?’
We linger on the bottom stairs.
‘It’s your old friend, Nathan,’ she whispers. ‘Lovely man. Even asked how I was.’ She’s grinning at me, as though everything is just wonderful. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She tiptoes across the hall and closes the living-room door.
It seems I’m living in the twilight zone.
I sit on the bottom step, like I’m sixteen again, and reach for the handset.
‘Hello?’
‘Debs! Your mum and dad still have the same number.’
‘They do. Nothing seems to change in this house.’
He laughs.
‘Is your wife there?’ I say.
Why didn’t I call Monica by her name?
‘No. Don’t know where she is, to be honest. I thought her and Leo would be here when I got home, but the house is empty.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I didn’t. I phoned yours and Peter’s first to see if Monica was there, but there was no answer.’ He sighs loudly down the line. ‘Is everything okay, Debs? You don’t seem yourself.’
I twist the phone cord in my hands.
‘I don’t know. I just feel … different. It’s the sleepless nights. Things should settle back down soon.’
‘You know I’m here, if you want to talk.’
‘Thanks, Nathan. But, like I said the other day, I should be talking to Peter about things.’
‘Okay. I know Peter’s busy at work at the moment, so the offer’s there.’
‘Thanks.’
I lean against the wall to my right and rest the handset on my shoulder. Nathan hasn’t telephoned me in years. Hearing his voice, and him listening to mine, makes me feel as though I could close my eyes and float to the ceiling.
‘We used to talk for hours, didn’t we?’ he says.
‘We did.’
Mum used to walk past sighing loudly, pointing to her watch. ‘It’s okay,’ I’d hiss, my hand covering the bottom of the phone. ‘He rang me.’
‘We’d listen to your records all the time,’ he says. ‘Blondie and – what was that song you used to bring round to mine and made me put on again and again? By The Beatles – your dad bought it from a jumble sale or something.’
I smile. ‘“Norwegian Wood”. I haven’t listened to it for years.’
‘It came on the radio today. It made me think of you.’
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
‘I think I can hear the car,’ he says. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Okay.’
‘Bye then, Debs.’
‘Bye, Nathan.’
There’s a brief silence before he hangs up. Still, I hold the phone against my ear. It’s quiet for several seconds before the angry tone starts. I place the handset back in its cradle, and put my arms around my knees.
The living-room door opens. Mum probably listened in.
She stands at my feet.
‘Deborah, love,’ she says, towering above me. ‘Why are you crying?’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Anna
My laptop and the photographs are scattered around me on the bedroom carpet. The letter Dad gave me this afternoon lies unopened in front of me. I won’t be interrupted; it’s ten o’clock and Sophie is asleep. Jack says he’s at work, but I don’t know. There is a part of me that is past caring. Everyone lies, don’t they? I don’t know why I expect so much from people. They always let me down.
Dad seemed angry that I had more questions about Debbie today. Have I exhausted the subject of my mother? When I was a child, I wanted to know everything about her, but this changed as I reached my teens. My curiosity turned into anger. No one else’s mum had vanished – why had mine? I wasn’t good enough to have a real mother. It wasn’t enough that I had Monica. It singled me out, when all I wanted was to be like everyone else.
I cross my legs and pick up the envelope. It’s addressed to Monica, written in capital letters.The date stamped is 1996 and the bright-green stamp is priced twenty pence; second class, probably. It came from Eastbourne, Sussex.
I flip it over; the seal is yellow with age, like the paper inside it.
The writing is slanted, scruffy.
Monica,
I know what you did. What will everyone think of you if they knew the truth?
x
I read it again and again.
Why would they think this is from Debbie? There’s no signature, and no one has ever mentioned her being in Eastbourne. It must be from a stranger who saw Debbie’s photo on the missing persons’ website. Grandad put it up there when the site first started.
My laptop pings with an email notification from Sally Munroe.
Yes, send everything you have. I await.
She’s straight to the point.
I use my phone to capture Robert’s photographs, but most are ruined by the reflections of the main bedroom light. They will have to do.
I place the photo of Debbie and Nathan in front of me on the floor. Their faces are so close together, but I can’t read their expressions. It looks like Debbie is frowning and Nathan is saying something to her. I wish I could have been there properly. It might be the last photo of her.
I upload them as attachments, and type out Debbie’s date of birth, height, hair colour. I don’t know what else would be useful. My childish list of facts is meaningless when searching the world for somebody. How would it help Sally to know that Debbie was terrible at cooking?
I am about to press send when I remember I also need to send her details about Jack. I type in Francesca’s name, and the details of Simon Howarth, the man who sent my husband the Facebook message: Have you told her yet? I attach the photograph from my mobile of the letter Francesca wrote Jack, and send it before I change my mind.
I feel the adrenaline running from my heart to my feet.
I’ve sent it. I might finally get some answers.
It is almost ten thirty and Jack still isn’t home. I get off the floor, turn the light off, and crawl onto the bed. I lie on top of the quilt – it’s too hot to get under.
At times like these, I wish I had a close friend to call and talk about things with. I live in my head too much. But there’s no one any more. I have my volunteers at the bookshop, but that isn’t the same. I could never call them with my problems; it would be too unprofessional.
I feel so alone.
The voices from the bedroom in the house next door, on the other side of the wall, affirm it. The woman laughs at something her husband has said.
When I was younger, I had imagined my life to be just like hers.
I reach over and flick the lamp off. I turn my head to the side and smell Jack’s pillow. It doesn’t smell of him, just fabric softener. I can’t remember the last time he slept next to me – I wish we’d never bought that sofa bed for his office.
The key goes into the front door downstairs. A few seconds later, the stairs creak as Jack creeps up. The floorboard next to the bedroom door groans as he pauses outside it. He must have seen our lamp light on from outside, minutes before.
‘Are you awake, love?’ he whispers.
He hasn’t called me love for ages.
I don’t answer. I’m not up to arguing or interrogating him about phoning my dad – as well as all the other things he is keeping from me.
The door handle turns; he pushes it open, and I close my eyes. I breathe in heavily, faking deep sleep.
He sighs, and walks out again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tuesday, 15 July 1986
Debbie
It’s dark and Bobby should be getting ready for bed by now. I should get up from this single bed, but my body feels like it’s made of stone: cold and heavy and no use to anyone. I gla
nce at the record player on my left. A small collection of records lies on the wicker shelf underneath it. ‘Norwegian Wood’ will be amongst that pile. I’ll try to remember to put it into Annie’s changing bag before I leave.
A triangle of light on the carpet.
Mum’s in the doorway. She comes into the bedroom; Annie’s in her arms.
‘I’ll just put her down,’ she whispers. ‘Then I’ll give Bobby his bath.’
I can’t even sit up.
‘I’ll do it,’ I say, anyway.
‘You get your rest. And stop talking or you’ll wake the little one.’
She wouldn’t accept the irony, so I don’t argue.
She lays Annie down in the cot.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I whisper.
She nods, backing out of the room. When the door shuts the landing light away, I close my eyes.
Annie’s stirring.
‘Please don’t wake up,’ I whisper.
I must’ve been too loud: she whimpers.
I’m useless. Mum probably spent ages getting her to sleep.
She’s about to cry, I know it.
I will myself to sit up, grabbing my pillow and placing it at the end of my bed. Moving from one end to another has robbed me of the small amount of energy I had.
I put my arm through one of the gaps in the cot and rest my hand on Annie’s shoulder.
‘I’m here, little one. I’m here.’
Annie’s cries feel like they’ve pierced my ear drum. We’ve only been asleep for minutes, surely. There’s no light under the door. She cries out again, and I leap out of bed to pick her up.
‘There, there,’ I whisper.
I half expect Mum to rush into the room, with the noise coming from here, but she must be asleep. There are no shouts coming from downstairs, no telly blaring, though it’s hard to be sure with Annie screaming in my ears.
I creep onto the landing, avoiding the three places where the floorboards squeak. Annie’s still shrieking; she’s never slept here at night before. I tiptoe down the stairs, praying Mum’s made up a bottle. I can’t believe I only just remembered. What kind of mother am I?
They’ve left the lamp on in the living room. It’s a gesture I appreciate, as Dad can’t bear wasting electricity. I grab Annie’s blanket from her pram near the window, and lay her on the living-room floor. Her little face is bright red from screaming.
‘Shh, sweetheart. I won’t be a sec.’
I almost cry with relief when I see three bottles lined up in the fridge. Dad must’ve bought two more from the chemist. I’ll have to get Peter to pay him back.
The sound of the gas heating the kettle seems to soothe Annie. I take it off the heat at the first cheep of the whistle. The bottle doesn’t take long to warm; Mum only made 4 oz bottles.
Annie gulps it down as I sit in Mum’s chair, under Jesus with the bleeding heart. I feel His eyes burning into the side of my face, and I turn away from Him.
She stops drinking after only two ounces.
Screaming again.
I sit her forward and rub her back.
She burps twice, but she’s still crying.
How did I end up here, alone in the near-dark at my parents’ house, with a baby who hates me? I want to be Monica with her perfect house, perfect life. I want to be Michelle Watkinson, getting to fly on Concorde. They say in the news, it’ll be able to carry passengers around the whole world soon. Dad says that plane is beautiful. ‘A work of art, she is,’ he said. ‘If the British can help build something like that, just think of what else we can do in the future.’ After working at the Leyland factory, he appreciates design.
‘Be quiet, Annie!’ I say. ‘You’ll wake everyone up.’
I try her with the bottle again, but she closes her mouth firmly whenever it touches her lips. I get up and pace the room. That doesn’t work either.
‘Please, baby. Please do this for me.’
As I walk, my tears fall onto her Babygro.
‘I’m sorry, Annie.’
We walk up and down the room. The house is the same size as ours, yet this room feels smaller.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie. I can’t remember how to do this. Somewhere, there’s someone who’s totally right. Who wants to do this.’
I want to place her on the floor and run away.
I can’t believe I said that to her out loud.
I hope she doesn’t remember … use it in arguments against me.
My head is killing me – she’s so loud.
‘You’re ludicrous. You know it, don’t you? You’re not good enough for her. They’re all going to find out about you. And what they think will be right. You’re a piece of shit.’
‘What?’ I look around the room; no one’s there. ‘You’re wrong,’ I say out loud, to the settee, to the wall, to Jesus. ‘I can do this.’
I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do, and still she’s not happy.
I sit on the edge of Mum’s chair. The room spins.
I’m not really here. My body must be lying down somewhere, and it’s just my mind living this nightmare. I give my little finger to Annie’s palm and she clutches it. Instinct, I read once; not intention. Her skin is soft, warm. The dry creases on her hand are like hardened flakes of candle wax.
The time on the video flashes: 23.15. It’s earlier than I thought.
I put Annie, still screaming, into her pram. We could both do with some fresh air; the whole house’ll wake if she carries on like this. I grab Dad’s jacket off the hook, and back the pram out of the front door.
I take a deep breath as the gentle breeze makes the tears on my face cold. The air outside smells sweeter than it has done for months. I close the gate behind me and am grateful there’s no one around. Most of the houses in the street are in darkness – even Mrs Birchill’s opposite. She’s always been a nosy old cow. She used to tell me off for sitting on our own wall: ‘You’re staring at me, I know it. This estate’s gone downhill.’
I don’t even know if she’s still alive. I don’t pay attention when Mum announces that another acquaintance has popped their clogs. Mrs Birchill was wrong. This estate’s all right. Growing up, there were a few of us from round here at the school in the next town, but some of the kids there turned their noses up at us. And then, those from our estate called us traitors for not going to the local secondary school. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.
The houses are in rows of four. Some are rendered or pebble-dashed – the owners showing off that they exercised their right to buy. I miss the time when every house looked the same. Summers lasted forever, and we played outside all day, only coming back when we heard our mothers shout, ‘Tea’s ready!’ We knew our own mother’s voice from a distance.
Annie’s eyes are wide open; can she see the stars, or is her eyesight not developed enough? I look up, too. There are a few wispy clouds and the stars look so near.
‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ I say to her. She blinks, and I smile. ‘I guess that’s all I’m getting from you.’
I walk around the whole of the estate. It takes twenty minutes because I walk slowly. I’ve never known it so quiet. I turn the corner a few streets away from Mum and Dad’s. The bench, lit with the harsh, orange light from the lamp post next to it, has only one plank left; the white concrete has been covered with graffiti. I don’t remember it being like that. Perhaps Mrs Birchill was right after all.
At the top of the road, there’s a car with its engine running. It wasn’t there a moment ago; I didn’t hear it start or pull up. I begin walking again, slowly, and reach the middle of the street. The car’s engine idles. I can’t see what make of car it is. I should turn around. It’s waiting for me, I know it.
No, no. They’re probably waiting for someone to come out of the house they’re in front of. But the house has no lights on inside. My hands are sweating, shaking around the pram handle. My legs don’t feel strong enough to run.
I stop, turn the pram around. The car engine growls as it st
arts to crawl along the pavement. I walk faster, glancing at it behind me. The lights are so bright, I can’t tell who’s driving – or even the colour of the car.
I run, the pram wheels gliding smoothly over the cracks in the pavement. The car goes faster, matching my speed. A right, then another left, and I’ll be at my parents’ house. There’s a short cut through a ginnel.
I look over my shoulder. A man’s face is in the driver’s window. Dark hair. Is it Nathan?
I look forward again, and turn down another street. The car follows. I’m nearly at the ginnel.
Oh God. It might be the person who sent me the letters. I should’ve told someone about them, made Peter listen to me. What if this is the end? No one knows where I am. I shouldn’t have just sneaked out of the house; I should’ve left Mum and Dad a note.
I can hardly breathe; I’m running faster now. There’s no one else on the streets. Where is everyone? I look down at Annie and she’s fast asleep. How can she sleep now? I thought babies were meant to sense the emotions of their mother.
I come to the ginnel. The street light in the middle of it isn’t working. I run down anyway – trees towering either side; rotten wooden faces lean towards me. The car lingers at the entrance behind before speeding away.
I didn’t check on Bobby before I left. What if the man in the car has taken him? They all might have disappeared for all I know. They might be in the boot. I reach the end of the pathway and bend over. I want to vomit, but there’s nothing in my stomach.
The car turns down my parents’ road.
Oh God. He knows where they live.
It crawls along, stopping a hundred yards from the house, but I’m closer – only twenty feet from my parents’ front door. I push the pram hard over the grass verge before it bounces off the kerb. The wind blows through my hair as I run down the road. The car doesn’t move.
In seconds, I reach Mum and Dad’s house. My heart’s racing; my breaths are short.
Shit. I haven’t got a key.
I put my hands into the pockets of Dad’s jacket. There are only a few bus-ticket stubs, no keys.
I tap on the door. Oh Jesus. It’s me who’s going to be waking everyone up, not Annie. I crouch down and check under the terracotta pot. Thank God. Bless you, Mother. I grab the key from underneath and wipe off the dirt.
11 Missed Calls Page 16