by Beth Moran
My rescuers clucked and fussed, sitting me down and bringing me a cup of sweet tea with a custard doughnut. As much as I protested that I was fine, my hands were shaking as I picked up the mug. The burly man who had chased after the thief limped back, my now empty bag in his hand, but with no sign of the perpetrator.
“D’you wanna call the police?” the waitress, a younger woman called Jo, asked me.
“No. Thanks, though.”
“You’re not from round here, are you?”
I shook my head.
“You that new girl working for Scarlett?”
“Yes.”
She picked up my empty mug and turned to go back inside. “See you around, then?”
I nodded, but she had gone.
The pink-haired woman handed me back the photograph, tucked inside the ripped remains of the envelope. She looked me up and down but said nothing, scraping back to her stall on heels as high as her pencilled-on eyebrows.
I had spoken nine words since the day of my daddy’s funeral, nearly a year ago. Four of those were by myself, where no one could hear, so they didn’t count. Each word was a tick of a bomb, counting down to the Bad Thing that would happen. I didn’t know how many ticks the bomb would have, but it would be my fault if it reached the end of the fuse. Because I did not talk, nobody wanted to sit next to me at school any more. My old friends had stopped knocking to see if I was coming out to play. At first, the grown-ups were kind. “Give her time,” they told my ma at the kitchen table and in the queue at the Post Office. My mother was happy to give me time – and space – enough to form my own universe. She did not hug me or look at me. She had not said sorry. She had not forgiven me. For a long time she pretended everything was fine, but the curse she had spoken grew between us like a thick fence of poisonous thorns. So I kept quiet, and when the doctor tried to cajole sounds out of me with sweets and books and promises of a trip to the beach, I shook my head, and shrugged my shoulders, and smiled to tell him that things were better this way.
But now Ma wouldn’t get out of bed. For three days she had not left the bedroom except to go to the toilet. She hadn’t eaten the sandwich I made for her, or the crisps, or the biscuits. She hadn’t drunk anything. The bedroom smelled. Different to when my daddy was in it. She lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I had been eating cereal and bread with ham and salad cream, but Ma hadn’t been shopping properly for weeks and now there was nearly nothing left. The phone rang four times but I daren’t answer it. I wanted to tell somebody, so badly, that my mother wouldn’t get up and we had no food left and we needed a new card for the electricity box. But she was lying in bed and wouldn’t move and there couldn’t be many ticks left. I thought she was nearly dead. I stuffed my pillow into my mouth to keep the sobs from getting out, but hot tears squeezed from my eyes, and my throat ached and ached with the pressure.
I didn’t know what to do. It was four weeks until school started again. Maybe I would be dead by then too.
I wanted my daddy.
I was still trembling when I ducked back under the cover of the forest. It was late afternoon, still warm, only the heat felt oppressive now, its caress no longer comforting, but claustrophobic. The quietness was foreboding, the shadows ominous. I battled the urge to keep looking behind me, convinced I would see some creeping enemy in pursuit. Every rustle sent a jolt through my tight nerves, causing the bike to veer off to the side until I controlled myself enough to pull it back onto the track. I muttered as I rode, berating myself for picking up the breadcrumbs of my neuroses as easily as I had scattered them aside that morning.
It didn’t help that I felt tired, and my backside was sorer than I could have believed. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have ample padding. How do professional cyclists manage days in the saddle? Do cycling shorts have special sewn-in cushions? I picked up speed, grimly aware that by the end of this journey I might indeed be suffering from women’s issues, when a streak of brown shot out of the trees to my right and rocketed in front of me. I panicked, weaving from side to side while the brown something flashed in and out of my peripheral vision. Then a fallen log blocked the path ahead; I careened off the track and into the brush, crashing through ferns and bouncing over the uneven surface. The wood sloped sharply downwards, and I began to speed up. My feet left the pedals, and I totally lost control. Even worse, the brown blur was still running alongside me, dashing toward Pettigrew’s wheels before veering away again.
I yanked on the brakes. Nothing happened. I really was in trouble now. Up ahead I could see a brook, racing toward me at a frightening rate. I was going to end up very wet if I couldn’t pull this together. What would a rider on a runaway horse do in this situation?
I screwed my eyes shut, and screamed. Just at that moment, Pettigrew hit a tree stump. I flew over the handlebars and soared through the air, crashing into the stream, sending shockwaves juddering up my outstretched arms. Well, my head and torso were in the stream. My legs landed in a pool of stagnant swamp mud.
I lay there, my body submerged, head tilted up so I could breathe. Every movement caused my legs to squelch a bit further into the sludge, and it was too much of an effort to even think about pulling myself up. Perhaps I could sleep here. It was cooler than the caravan, and nice and quiet. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was somewhere else for a minute.
But while I was still nowhere near finished my imaginary walk up Mount Fuji, a pair of rough hands yanked me out of the mud and plonked me on my feet.
A man, a few years older than me, stood there shaking his head in disbelief. He was carrying a small brown dog, a labrador puppy. Was it really that tiny? It had seemed a lot bigger when it was leaping up at me at a hundred miles per hour. The dog lay still in the man’s arms, one leg sticking out at an awkward angle. It was whimpering softly.
Oh no. I had broken his dog.
“What was that? Are you completely insane, or just a total idiot?”
He was dressed in running clothes, hair almost black with perspiration, and his broad shoulders were heaving. From exertion or because he was really, really angry, I wasn’t sure.
“Sorry.” I wiped my wet hands on my trousers. They came off sticky with mud.
“Sorry? Oh, that’s all right then. I am so sick of tourists.” He said this with an impressive sneer. “Trampling about the forest, damaging the wildlife, dropping litter, starting fires, leaving gates open, winding up our livestock, provoking the local kids… they are so infernally irritating!”
I stood, wide-eyed, not sure whether to point out that I wasn’t actually a tourist.
“You’ve probably broken her leg!” His voice cracked, and I realized he was more upset than I was. “Sorry? Of course you are. Isn’t there a law about stupid city girls who don’t know what they’re doing, riding bikes if they can’t control them?”
Woah! I don’t react well to being called stupid.
“Isn’t there a law about letting a dangerous animal unsupervised on a public footpath where it can attack members of the general public? I was perfectly in control of my bike until you lost control of your dog! Who do you think you are, telling me what to do in a public place?”
He pulled his head back, surprised.
“And – I’m not a tourist, not from a city and I got the top score out of my whole school in the cycling proficiency test!”
There was a tiny flicker at the side of his mouth. “Wow. The top mark in the whole school. You must be very proud. And this isn’t a public place. This is my land. So, as the landowner, I’m asking you to leave before I have you arrested for trespassing, damage to private property and seriously harming my dog.”
I had run out of bluster. I felt terrible about the puppy. Hauling up Pettigrew, who had thankfully landed in soft earth and appeared undamaged, I scanned the forest, trying to get my bearings. The mud was beginning to set on my legs and backside. It was freezing cold and so was my wet top. I was exhausted. My bag had been stolen. I had cuts and bruises to complement m
y aching muscles and sore buttocks, and I didn’t even know which direction to take to get back to the path.
A tear popped out of the corner of my eye and slipped down my cheek. The man sighed and shook his head again. He took my bag out of the basket and handed it to me. Then, gently placing the dog in Pettigrew’s basket, he started wheeling the bike through the trees. I had to scurry to keep up with him, stumbling over roots and scratching myself on poking out branches. He ignored me until we reached the edge of the woods and I could see the campsite only a few hundred metres away.
Passing me Pettigrew, he scooped up the dog, who responded by licking his hand furiously. “Next time, keep to the path.” He strode off, calling over his shoulder. “And tell Scarlett I’ll fix her brakes on Fire Night.”
I leaned on Pettigrew, inching my way forwards one slow, squishy step at a time, only glancing back when I heard the bark of laughter coming from the woods. That man stood, one arm braced on a trunk for support, helpless with mirth, his dog dancing around his ankles.
I woke in the pitch black. Jolted out of deep sleep by a noise. A crash. My blood hammered so loudly in my ears that I had to strain to hear if the noise, whatever it was, sounded again. I lay in bed, every muscle rigid. Waiting.
My eyes fixed on the shadow of the doorknob as the shapes of furniture and belongings emerged from the darkness. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even, ready to feign sleep if the door began to open.
Silence. Stillness. The initial panic gradually subsided and I inched up the bed, rustle by rustle, until I was in a sitting position. I carefully leaned over to peep through the chink at the edge of the curtain. A pale face loomed at me from the glass, sending me careening out of the bed into the tiny space by the door. I realized, too late, that the face was my own reflection. Furiously swiping at the tears on my cheeks, I scanned the darkness for a possible weapon.
Two fifty-three. Ten minutes crept by on the digital alarm clock. For most of those I stood, braced against the door, Supervalu hairdryer in hand, wondering if I should stay there until the sun rose. But it is incredible how quickly fear can turn into boredom.
Propelled by an urgent need to empty my bladder, and pretending what had woken me must have been a bird on the roof, I whipped open the bedroom door. I charged into the kitchenette, hollering like Grace O’Malley, the Pirate Queen of Ireland. Bouncing off the sink I stumbled forwards into the living area. Here I crouched, jerking the hairdryer from side to side in front of me as if I was going to blow-dry the intruder back to where they had come from.
There was nobody there. I collapsed onto the brown sofa, my legs shaking so hard they tap-danced the rhythm of my panicked heart on the lino. Placing my hands flat either side of me, I concentrated on sucking air back into my lungs. Only as my body stopped trembling did I notice the tiny stones under my palms. Not stones. Chips of glass.
Jumping up, I half fell over to the light switch. Squinting in the glare, I found what had caused the crashing noise. Somebody had thrown a rock the size of a tennis ball through my window. It had bounced off the sofa and landed underneath the table. Wrapped around the rock and held on with elastic bands was a piece of A4 paper. On the paper was written, in harsh capitals, the words “BACK OFF”.
After the hastiest possible visit to the bathroom, I swept up the glass, wrapped the rock and the note in a carrier bag found in the bottom of my wardrobe and went to bed, where I stared at the ceiling until morning.
At six-thirty I dragged myself into the shower, managing to swallow down half a cup of black coffee before leaving the van. I stuffed every precious possession into my bag as a precaution against further intrusion, but had no real plan. I just needed to get away from the ugly, jagged scar in my window; somewhere I could quieten the angry swarm of bees that had built their nest in my skull during the night.
I hurried up the path to reception, nodding hello at the occasional camper making an early morning trip to the wash block. A baby cried in one of the tents, and the scent of frying bacon wafted through the trees. Business as usual at the Peace and Pigs. Chickens scratched, pigs oinked and birds tugged at worms in the dewy earth. The air was mercifully fresh and light, in stark comparison to the dread dragging at my shoulders and squatting in my stomach, as cumbersome as the bulging bag slung across my back.
I planned on waiting at the bench until Scarlett showed up, but as I rounded the top of the slope to the main block, I saw a police car parked on the gravel. Confused, wondering how word could have reached the authorities so soon even in this close-knit community, I went straight into reception.
I found Scarlett inside, pacing up and down in the small space. She had scooped her hair into a rough ponytail. I hadn’t seen her without make-up before. Her eyes, heavy with purple shadows, stood out in her pale, drawn face. A policewoman sat at the counter, nursing a mug of steaming tea.
I stopped in the doorway. Scarlett sighed, closing her eyes briefly.
“Hi. Brenda, this is Marion, who stepped in for Jenna Moffitt. Can I fill her in?”
Brenda stood up and placed one hand on Scarlett’s arm. “I’ll explain. You go and check on Valerie, and phone that list.”
Scarlett hesitated, but Brenda ushered her past me out of the door. Returning to her seat, she gestured for me to sit at the stool behind the counter before picking up her mug again.
“How well do you know Grace?”
“Grace? Not very. I’ve only been here since Saturday.”
“But you have spoken to her?”
“Nothing much beyond work stuff. I might have asked her where something was kept a couple of times, or to pass on a message. That’s it.”
“Did you ever see her with anyone else?”
“Only the other workers here. Jake or Valerie. Why, what’s happened? Is Grace okay?”
“That’s what we are trying to determine.”
Brenda refused to tell me any more, but her eyes sharpened when I described what had happened to me the previous night. She asked if I knew any reason why Grace might send me that message. I thought of the way she had lingered in Jake’s shadow, remembering just how all-consuming teenage crushes can become. I didn’t want to believe that Grace would have thrown a rock through my window. But the truth is, I couldn’t believe that anyone else would have done it either. I told the policewoman about Jake, rambling on about how there was nothing going on between us, until she snapped shut her book and stood up.
“Let’s take a look.”
By the time Brenda had finished examining the window, and the note, Scarlett had found us. Brenda left and I made us both another coffee. Scarlett told me Grace had taken a rucksack and vanished. Her bed hadn’t been slept in and there was food and money missing. Scarlett had phoned Grace’s two friends, only to discover Grace had barely seen them all summer. Brenda would follow up at the nearest train and bus station, out of kindness to Scarlett, but could offer little hope of police intervention for a seventeen-year-old leaving of her own accord.
I showed Scarlett my broken window, and the note. The creases deepened on her forehead. She shook her head. “What is going on in your head, my sweet child? What are you thinkin’?”
“Could she have left because she did this, and felt bad?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice, soft and gentle, cracked with pain. “I just don’t know any more.”
I reached out and took Scarlett’s hand. She gripped on, tight. The coffee went cold.
It was Valerie who noticed Pettigrew was missing. My heart stopped when I realized Grace had taken a bike with broken brakes, but two hours later Brenda found it at Mansfield Station. Maybe Grace had cycled the eight miles to the station without stopping or slowing down. Scarlett crumpled at the thought of Grace reaching Mansfield safely, only to leave for some other city, knowing first-hand the kind of men who wait for lonely, vulnerable girls to ensnare in their evil webs.
Katarina, who had been an obelisk of strength throughout the day, banged one thick fist on Scarlett’
s table-top.
“Underneath all those studs and streaks she is a sensible girl, Scarlett. She is angry but not weak. She will know what it is that she is doing.” She bent down and put her arms around Scarlett’s shoulders. “She is not running from a wicked father. She is not you. She knows she has a good mother who loves her here. If she is in any danger she will call.”
Saturday… Sunday… Monday… she didn’t call.
Scarlett tucked her hurt behind a mask of glossy lipstick and large sunglasses, and got on with running her campsite. She knew very few people in the UK a train journey away, only one or two regular holiday visitors, and it took no time at all to make sure Grace wasn’t with them. She had taken her phone and her laptop with her but, thankfully, not her passport.
Jake, grim faced, replaced my window. He offered to sleep on my sofa, but as everyone assumed that Grace had thrown the stone he let it go when I declined, sloping back, embarrassed, to his flat in the village. Samuel came by each evening and sat with Scarlett and Valerie. He brought them soup and simmering casseroles, tenderly coaxing Scarlett to finish at least a few spoonfuls before the sun set and he returned home.
For the holidaymakers, unaware of the drama, the campsite remained a place of laughter and sunshine.
As for me? Well, I heeded the note. I worked as hard as I could, head down, mouth closed. I filled up my car and restocked my fridge. I spent the evenings with my windows shut and door locked. I tried to sleep, wondering what on earth I was doing there and if it could really be coincidence that less than a week after my arrival, the “Peace and Pigs” campsite, once so aptly named, had become a lie.
Tuesday it rained. The campsite resembled a ghost town. Tents zipped up, families either huddled inside or went out to the cinema, shops or museum. The downpour turned the whole world grey. We scurried from one shelter to the next, accompanied by the unrelenting staccato of warm, fat drops drumming tirelessly upon the roofs of the caravans and beating time on the oak leaves. Water streamed off the ends of our noses and became one with the rivers running along the campsite paths.