Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  “When you called the station yesterday, you said you knew her as Jen Russell. Is that right?”

  “Yes. We were at school together.”

  “Which school?”

  “Padstow College.” I watch her write it down. “Have you found her child?” Since the police posted her details on Facebook, there’s been the typical public outpouring of condolence and shared grief—and a few haters. I’ve checked once or twice, curious to see who else crawled out of the woodwork.

  “Not yet.” Abbie Rose isn’t giving much away. “How well did you know her?”

  “We were in the same year,” I tell her. “We weren’t close friends. We moved in different circles that overlapped from time to time. . . .” Cliques is more accurate. The usual bitchy gangs of girls who shagged each other’s boyfriends behind their backs. That’s how I remember it.

  “When was the last time you saw each other?”

  There’s a question. It’s been a long time. Too long or not long enough? But then, we’re not the same people anymore. “I suppose . . .” I frown, trying to remember, as someone thunders down the stairs, then outside, and slams the door noisily. I glance outside. “Rick,” I say, by way of explanation. “There’s an offshore wind. Good for waves, if you catch the tide at the right time. There’s a brief window of opportunity. At high tide, the beach here is completely submerged.” As I’m speaking, Rick jogs across the lawn, surfboard under one arm, the top half of his wet suit unzipped and flapping behind him. “Do you surf, Detective Constable?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m sorry.” I pause. “You were asking me about Jen. I suppose we last saw each other about ten years ago. Someone’s twenty-first . . . I can’t remember who.”

  “So that would have been after Leah Danning disappeared?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that already the police have linked Jen’s name to what happened. Since before I left Cornwall, all those years ago, it’s the first time I’ve heard Leah’s name mentioned. Three-year-old Leah, whom Jen used to babysit—until one day, in broad daylight, she disappeared. It rocked everyone around here, more so because, as far as I know, the police never discovered what happened to her.

  4

  “It was definitely after.” I hesitate. “Do you think this is connected to what happened to Leah?”

  Abbie Rose gives nothing away. “We’ve no idea. But at this stage, we have to look at everything.”

  “Of course.” But it still surprises me. It must be fifteen years since Leah disappeared. “Poor Jen. I don’t know how you ever get over that. I mean, losing someone’s child when they’re in your care . . . You didn’t have to know her well to see the change in her after. And now her own daughter is missing. . . .” I imagine guilt layered upon guilt, at the same time as I wonder how Jen’s coping with what must be unbearable.

  Abbie Rose doesn’t comment. “And you haven’t seen her since then?”

  “Like I said, the last time we saw each other was at that party.” I get up and walk over to the window. On the beach, I can just about make out clean, barrelling waves and, floating beyond them, the lone dot that must be Rick.

  “Do you remember much about that time? When Leah disappeared?”

  “God. It’s not something anyone could forget in a hurry. It was awful.” I watch Rick catch a wave, wishing I could surf as well as he can. “No one could believe a child would just disappear. It was like a black cloud over everything—it changed our lives. Everyone’s parents became overprotective. And people gossiped.... Eventually, it died down, but at the time, it was like the world had ended.” Turning to face her, I add, “Sorry, Detective Constable. I don’t mean to sound indifferent. It was terrible. It destroyed Leah’s family. Did you know that?”

  “Did you know them, Charlotte?” Abbie Rose’s eyes linger on me.

  “Not when it happened.” I’m not sure what to say, wondering what it will do to Jen right now to have the police asking about another missing child, particularly one who was never found. “I knew of them. I was good friends with Leah’s older sister for a while, but that wasn’t until later.”

  “Do you know what happened to them?”

  “Her father had left by the time Casey and I were friends. Her mother was really strange. I think she had a breakdown. Casey died only a year or so ago. I think she suffered the most.”

  “Casey was Leah’s sister?”

  “Yes.” I don’t say it out loud, but I’m remembering how it was for Casey. The hardest of lessons, having to haul herself out of the darkest place. It was either that or give up. Life makes no concessions for the bereaved. It goes on regardless, mercilessly, ruthlessly. “Did the police ever find out what happened to Leah?”

  “No.”

  “It’s still hard to believe something like that could happen. Especially here. It’s so quiet. . . .” Apart from the influx of drunken teenagers in the summer, it’s true. That’s why as soon as they’re old enough, most young people can’t wait to move away. Yet here I am, back again, I muse, not far from where I started. So is Jen.

  Abbie Rose nods. “I wanted to ask you if you’d come and see Jen. The attack has left her memory badly affected. Seeing a familiar face could really help.”

  I don’t answer straightaway. I’m wondering how it would be for Jen. Too much of a reminder of the past? “Are you sure it’s a good idea? Of course I’d like to see her, but I wouldn’t want to make things any worse for her.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure things could get much worse.”

  My ears prick up. “Really? How bad is it? It must be awful for her.” I look at Abbie Rose quizzically, but her face is blank. “I could see her tomorrow morning,” I add. “Say, around ten?”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell her you’re coming. She’s in the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro.” She hesitates. “You wouldn’t happen to know if she has family nearby?”

  I shrug. “I’m out of touch. But I remember her aunt’s house. It’s out in the sticks—near Bodmin. We went there sometimes during the school holidays,” I say vaguely. “You know, gangs of girls camping in the woods. Being so remote, Helen’s place was perfect.” I try not to smile inappropriately. “All our parents thought camping was such an innocent, idyllic thing to do, which it was—until we got older, of course. By then, Helen was deaf as a post. She had no idea what we really got up to.” I pause. “Just teenage stuff. Nothing bad,” I add quickly, thinking of drunken nights and the boys who used to join us, remembering I’m talking to a police officer.

  “You don’t by any chance remember the address, do you?”

  I pause, thinking not so much of the cottage, but of the woods where we used to camp. “Not off the top of my head.” But then I remember something. “Actually, I think her aunt’s name was Helen Osterman.”

  Abbie Rose writes it down. “That gives us something to go on.” Then she gets up. “I’d better get back. Thanks for your help. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  But I’m still puzzled about something. “Why have the press been calling her Evie?”

  “It looks as though she changed her name. At the moment, we don’t know why. I’m hoping a face from the past might trigger her to remember something.”

  “Okay.” I shrug. It’s understandable: maybe she wanted to break any association with what happened to Leah. Jen—Evie—it makes no difference as far as I’m concerned. “Whatever. At least I know.”

  Abbie Rose walks over to the door. As she opens it, she pauses, a quizzical expression on her face. “Up until that time you last saw each other, do you happen to know if Jen was ever pregnant?”

  “Shouldn’t you be asking Jen that?” After talking about Helen’s place, I’m uncomfortable all of a sudden. It was years ago. Why is she so interested in the past?

  “She can’t tell me much about anything right now.” Abbie stands in the doorway. “I’m trying to help her build a picture of how her life was.”

  I hesitate, not sure what to say. Not
sure, either, why Abbie Rose wants to know. “There was a rumor . . . but I’m fairly sure that’s all it was. Probably spread by a couple of girls who had it in for her. She didn’t look pregnant—certainly not when I saw her. I don’t know if she’s still the same, but she was skinny back then. I can’t imagine she’d have been able to hide it. . . .” I frown. “But there was a time she wasn’t around for a while. And no one knew why. I’m sorry. I don’t really know any more than that.”

  Abbie Rose frowns. “Why would those girls have had it in for her?”

  I shrug. “The usual reasons. Because she was thinner and prettier and smarter than they were. Plus, everyone liked her.” Meaning boys, in particular, but Abbie Rose seems smart enough to work that one out.

  “I see.” Abbie Rose pauses. “There isn’t any other reason?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Perhaps we can talk more tomorrow. You can always call me if you think of anything else.”

  She hands me a card, and then I follow her outside to her car. After she drives away, I wander around the side of the house and onto the grass, which needs cutting again, annoyed by the shrieks of children floating up from the beach below. The beach may no longer be a secret, but most vacationers are too lazy to walk the half a mile down the stony path from the road, then clamber down the rocks. It’s not for the fainthearted. Other than the occasional lunatic like Rick who carries his surfboard down there, visitors are few—an irritation I’m forced to tolerate.

  He’s still out there, the water flat between sets as he waits for the next wave to roll in. Rick has his own philosophy, about how the universe brings us what we need. I learned from him, when he tried to help me surf bigger waves, how to clear my mind as I sat on my board, to feel the rhythm of the ocean.

  Nothing is by chance. A wave is the culmination of many factors. There’s the swell, the wind; it depends on the shape of the coastline, the ocean floor. It shows the divine timing of all things, because you can’t hurry the perfect wave. He’s taught me the need for patience as you see a set coming, to rely on your judgment. The perfect wave will come when the time is right.

  I stand there watching him as he deftly rides a wave to the shore, then—instead of paddling out against the tide—catches the rip. Its powerful flow is an easy ride out past the waves when you understand the forces at work, as Rick does. When you don’t, it’s an easy way to die.

  5

  It’s overcast as I drive to the hospital, drizzle painting the landscape a dull gray. On the way, I stop at the art shop in Truro, which is overpriced but convenient, thinking it will save me a trip to Wadebridge, but half of what I want is out of stock. I leave with paper and a limited palette of watercolors and ask them to order the rest, irritated because it means I have to come back. Then I carry on to the hospital.

  Walking along the corridors to the critical care unit, I’m overtaken by apprehension. Jen and I were acquaintances rather than friends. I haven’t seen her in years. If I was in her position, I’m not sure I’d want one of my old classmates turning up out of the blue. But if there’s no one else, maybe she’ll be pleased to see me.

  The quiet of critical care is broken by electronic noise and low voices. Everyone’s busy, but eventually, I catch one of the nurses.

  “I’m here to see Evie,” I tell her. When she looks at me blankly, I add, “Jen? Jen Russell?”

  “Can you wait here?” She walks briskly through some swinging doors, then comes back a minute or so later with Abbie Rose.

  “Thanks for coming, Charlotte.” Abbie Rose looks drawn, as though she was up half the night. “I wanted to have a word with you before you see her.”

  “Sure.” I frown, wondering what’s on her mind.

  “Earlier, Evie—Jen—got quite upset. Frantic, actually. She’s beside herself about her daughter. I’d hoped to talk to her about Leah Danning, just to see if the name triggered any memories, but she’s far too fragile. She’s been given a sedative, but I wanted to ask you to bear that in mind. It’s probably best not to talk about anything that could upset her further—at least for now. Hopefully, as her memory comes back, it will be easier.”

  “Of course.” I try to imagine how it is to lose all sense of your life. To not remember who you are.

  “I’ll show you where she is.” Abbie Rose starts walking back toward the swinging doors.

  I hedge. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, if she’s upset?”

  Abbie Rose pauses. “There’s a three-year-old child missing. Right now we have to try everything.”

  Her words remind me, this isn’t just about Jen. She has to explore every means she can to find out more about Jen’s missing daughter. I follow her through the doors and along a short corridor of private rooms. Outside one of the doors, the presence of a police officer somehow surprises me. But after an attack of the severity Jen’s survived, I guess it’s standard procedure.

  After we reach it, Abbie Rose pauses. “Evie’s in here. It might be best to keep calling her Evie—for now.”

  The room is small and white; the high ceiling and large window give it an airy feel. The woman on the bed doesn’t move. It’s definitely Jen, only a pale shadow of the girl I remember. Her eyes are closed, and her face is turned away from us.

  “Maybe I should come back another time,” I say uneasily. “I don’t want to disturb her.”

  Abbie Rose takes a step toward the bed. “Evie? Are you awake? There’s someone here to see you.”

  I watch the slightest flicker of Jen’s eyelids, indicating she’s heard, before very slowly, she turns her head.

  Abbie Rose glances at me. “It might be easier if you come around here, where she can see you.” Then she turns to Evie. “Charlotte’s here, Evie. She remembers you. You used to go to the same school.”

  “Hello.” I move closer, watching as her eyes focus on me. “I’m Charlotte . . . Harrison. Do you remember me?”

  Her face is skeletal, with dark circles under her eyes; her hair, lank and unwashed. But it’s not just Jen who’s changed. My hair is short and bleached blond, instead of dark and ridiculously long, which is how it used to be. I’ve put on weight, too. As I watch, Jen—Evie—blinks. I can’t tell if she tries to nod: the movement of her head is barely perceptible. Her eyelids close again.

  “Just talk to her,” Abbie Rose says quietly. “The sound of your voice might trigger something.”

  I look around helplessly, not sure what to say. “Do you remember camping at your aunt’s cottage? There were a few of us who used to . . . in the summer.”

  I wait for a flicker of recognition, anything that suggests she’s heard what I’m saying. But as I take in the machines she’s wired to, how still she is in the hospital bed, I know she hasn’t.

  “Evie? Did you hear what Charlotte said?” Abbie Rose tries to rouse her, then glances at me. “I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere today. Sorry. I’ll walk out with you.”

  “Thanks for coming here,” she says once we’re away from Jen’s room. “I’m sorry it was such a waste of your time.”

  “It’s fine.” I’m still thinking of how fragile Jen looked, as though she’s hanging on to life by the finest thread.

  “It’s probably the sedative. If it’s not too much to ask, could we try again? Maybe in a day or two, when she’s stronger? We’re trying to find her parents, but right now you’re the only person who’s come forward who knows her.”

  I nod—reluctantly. It’s one thing to spend an hour with her to see if it jogs some memories, but another altogether to get more involved.

  “I may be going away in a few days,” I lie, just because I don’t want to commit to anything. “But I can see her before I go.”

  * * *

  When I get home, Rick’s there.

  “Where were you?” He’s less angry with me, but there’s still something eating him, I can tell.

  “You know that girl who was attacked? The one you told me about?
It turns out I used to know her.”

  Rick looks astounded. “How on earth did you work that out?”

  “Photos,” I tell him. “Devon and Cornwall police Facebook page. So I called them. I wasn’t sure at first, but it’s definitely her. I’ve just been to see her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Truro, in the hospital. She’s very weak—and she’s lost her memory. The police wanted me to see her, to try to help her remember.”

  “And did she?”

  I shake my head. “They’d sedated her, but they’re desperate. Her child’s missing. They’ve asked me to go back in a couple of days.”

  “God.” Rick’s silent for a moment. “Makes you wonder what sick bastard would do that to someone. I mean, a child, for Christ’s sake . . .”

  “I know.” I nod numbly, and then a tear snakes its way down my face.

  Rick sees it. “Hey, are you okay?”

  I nod. “Seeing her brought back memories, that’s all.”

  He comes over and puts his arms around me. “Have you thought about talking to someone?” His voice is softer. “About your parents? It might really help.”

  He’s referring to the little I’ve told him about my parents—a father who threw me out and a mother who stood by and let him make her daughter homeless. It’s why I stayed away from here so long. “Maybe.” But I’m saying it to keep him quiet, instead of what I want to say, which is that it’s too late, and no amount of talking can change what happened to me.

  But I’m hoping it’s a truce between us. When he sees the painting materials I’ve bought, I can tell he approves. But he doesn’t explain why he’s been so mad at me. The mood passes, a large block of ice slowly thawing, while I consider whether our time is up, sooner than I’d reckoned on, but then we’re transient, Rick and I. We always will be.

  The truce lasts for twenty-four hours. I come in from a walk to find Rick standing there with a face like thunder.

  “Were you going to tell me?” he says angrily.

  “Tell you what?” I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.