by Jill Childs
‘Why?’ He looked incredulous. ‘I didn’t want to. You wanted to go so badly. You pushed me into it. Remember? All that nonsense about Gracie’s angel. I went for you, Jen. To show you how much you mean to me.’
I lifted my tea. I didn’t want to listen. I just wanted him to go. To leave us alone.
‘And then she walked out on me, Jen. I told her how much I loved her. I said I’d take her back, despite what she did. But she wouldn’t listen. I thought, for a long time, that she’d realise what we had and come back to me. I kept telling her I’d forgive her. We could start again. We were made for each other.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s what you said about us.’
His voice rose. ‘I mean it, Jen. Ella doesn’t matter to me any more. We’ve got each other now. You and me and Gracie. We’re bound together. You can’t leave. We love each other too much.’
He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, made to come round the table to embrace me, his eyes on my face.
‘No, Matt…’ I put my mug down on the table, sloshing tea in a dark ring round the base. ‘I’m sorry. ‘
I got to my feet. Matt’s eyes were brimming with tears and all I wanted was to go back upstairs, crawl into bed and wrap my arms round you. Lie there, lost in your smell and the slow, steady rhythm of your breaths, until you woke.
I took a deep breath. ‘Please go.’
He bit down on his lip. ‘Don’t do this, Jen. Please. I love you.’
I didn’t answer. We both stood there, a few feet from each other, tense. When he spoke again, his tone was sneering.
‘All that stuff about Gracie going to Heaven and meeting the dear departed. I mean, really?’ He shook his head. I thought again how little I knew him. ‘I didn’t argue. I kept my mouth shut. Did I tell you it was nonsense?’
‘Maybe it isn’t nonsense.’ I swallowed. ‘How do you know? None of us do.’ I looked past him, through the house to the shadows in the sitting room. ‘How could she know those things? About the accident. About Catherine.’ And about my father, I thought. The quiet man still taking care of the children as he always did in life.
He shrugged. ‘She heard things. She sensed them. She’s bright. That’s all.’
I hesitated, watching him. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? On the phone to Ella.’
His eyes flicked away from mine, just long enough for me to know I was right. I thought of what you’d said. Auntie Ella had shouted down the phone. Go away. Stop it. Leave me alone. The fury and frustration of a woman whose ex simply wouldn’t stop calling, wouldn’t stop stalking her.
‘It was you.’
He didn’t answer. And that night in the club when I’d come across them arguing so furiously. She hadn’t followed us there at all. He’d gone looking for her.
‘Go.’ I didn’t want to hear any more. I wanted to be rid of him. ‘Go away. And don’t come back. Ever. Don’t phone. Don’t follow me. If you do, I swear, I’ll call the police.’
‘You don’t mean that.’ A look of sudden panic crossed his face. ‘We belong together, Jen. We do. I’ll make it up to you. Just give me a chance.’
He reached across the table for my hand and I snatched it away.
‘Leave me alone.’ My legs, under the table, shook. ‘Don’t you understand? I don’t want to see you again. I mean it. It’s over.’
He didn’t move. He sat, wordless, staring at me. Something in his eyes seemed to fold and crumple and I saw the pain there but couldn’t respond, couldn’t speak. His breathing was short and hard. I sat very still, holding myself separate from him, willing him to recover enough to leave. From above, the drone of an aeroplane’s engine swelled, then faded as it crossed the sky.
Finally, he seemed to regain control of himself. He pulled his eyes from mine and looked down at his lap. His voice became quiet: ‘So that’s it.’
When he looked up again, his expression had changed. Where before his eyes seemed desperate, pleading, now they seemed cold. ‘How very sad.’
‘I’m sorry—’ I stuttered ‘—but you need to go.’
He scraped back his chair. He stood for a moment, looking down, broader and stronger than me.
‘Fine.’ His voice was too calm. ‘I need the bathroom, OK? Then I’ll go.’
I sat there in the silent kitchen, pinned to my chair, listening to his heavy, familiar movements round the house. Up the stairs. The thud of the bathroom door. Later, the rush of the cistern as the toilet flushed, the creak of the banister as he came down again. I didn’t look up, didn’t go through to the hall to watch him go, just listened to the bang of the front door as he left.
Fifty-Four
The silence in the house became intense. My head ached. I made my way slowly up the stairs, my legs shaking, exhausted by him, by his strange, intense emotions. I wondered if you were still asleep. I wanted to crawl back into bed beside you and stay there, cuddled round your body, for a little longer.
The door to my bedroom stood open. Morning sunshine reached round the curtains and sent weak streaks of light down the carpet. I walked in, already unfastening my dressing gown, moving round the edge of the door towards the bed. Stopped.
The bedclothes were tossed back. A rumbled sheet. A pillow, twisted to the side. You were gone.
I turned and ran blindly next door to your room. Your own bed was empty too, the sheets neat, unused.
‘Gracie? Gracie!’
I rushed back to my room and fell to my knees, scanned under the bed. Your bear, arms crooked, abandoned. Wildly now, I pulled open the doors to the wardrobe, pushed the clothes aside. They screamed along the rail.
‘Gracie!’ Panic suffocated me.
I hurtled to the bathroom, nowhere there to hide, then stumbled downstairs, crossed the hall in a second and heaved at the front door. I ran into the street, my dressing gown flapping round my legs, my bare feet pricked by the gravel.
‘Gracie!’
A man, passing. A steady, unhurried step. A middle-aged man in a sensible coat.
‘Please. Help me!’
I ran to him, grabbed his arm. He stopped, looked down at my hand as if the sight of it on his sleeve worried him.
‘Quick. He’s taken her. Go after him.’
‘What?’ He frowned. His eyes travelled over my naked feet, the dressing gown cord unravelling at my waist.
I clutched at him, clawing at his coat even as he pushed me away.
‘Please.’ I started to sob, losing control. ‘My little girl.’
My face was close to his, my breath sour with last night’s wine. He grimaced, turned his head away.
He nodded past me to the house, the front door standing open. ‘Call the police if you need help.’
Fifty-Five
The policewoman was restless. She strode round the sitting room as I talked and looked things over, her eyes making professional judgements, of the windows, of the house, of me. Her radio kept spitting static and I strained to hear if there was news.
From the kitchen, the light slap of cupboard doors. The kettle rattled on its stand and boiled in a rush of steam. A few moments later, the young Asian officer came through with a cup of strong, sugary tea and set it in front of me. He gave me a meek smile.
‘Forced entry?’ The policewoman lifted back the curtain and studied the gaping sash. ‘No locks?’
I shook my head. Time had stopped. I was hoarse. Dizzy. They kept asking meaningless questions. Exactly how much had I had to drink last night? What exactly was my relationship with Matthew Aster? Was there anything else I could tell them about him? Anything at all, however trivial?
I could barely think. All I could say was: ‘Please. Hurry. Please find my daughter.’
My eyes were sore from crying. My arms ached with emptiness. He’d taken you. My beautiful daughter. I’d given them photographs of you. The portraits last term, taken by the photographer at nursery. They didn’t do you justice but they were clear. They’d reproduce well, the young man said and he was trying to be kind, I could see, bu
t the senior shot him a look. I thought about posters with your face pinned to noticeboards, stuck on trees: Missing. It set me crying all over again.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel you against me. Your small, hard body on my knee, your face against my shoulder, your warm breath on my neck.
‘And this was, what time?’
I opened my eyes. Her words hung in the air.
‘What?’
She spoke more slowly.
‘At what time did he enter the property?’
I took a deep breath to stop myself from shouting at her. What did it matter?
‘I don’t know. Some time in the night. I came down at about seven and he was here, sitting right here.’
Scratch, scratch of the young officer’s stubby pencil.
‘Are you aware of any missing items?’
My voice trembled, hit a higher note. ‘Just her, my daughter. I keep telling you. Why don’t you find her?’
‘There’s no need to shout.’ She looked down at me without expression. ‘We’re doing everything we can.’
The young officer, glancing from her to me, said in a low voice: ‘I know you’re upset. But just try to answer the questions. OK?’
I shook my head, feeling tears rise again.
He set down his notebook for a moment, lifted the mug of tea from the table and put it into my hands.
The police officer’s radio squawked. She raised it with her thumb and forefinger, talked into her lapel.
She spoke across me to the young officer. ‘Not at the property.’
‘What property?’ I said.
She sat beside me, rested her hands on her thighs. ‘We sent a car to Mr Aster’s home. To the address you gave us. He isn’t present but officers are interviewing his mother.’
I thought of the dingy sitting room and of his mother, presiding over the teapot, dignified and endlessly polite. Of the officers, bristling with kit, perched on the old-fashioned suite, helping themselves from a plate of biscuits or of buttered scones.
‘So now what?’
‘We’ve already extended the search. Believe me, we’re doing all we can. We could have news any minute.’ She hesitated, her eyes on my face. ‘We’ve every reason to stay hopeful, at this stage.’
She and the young officer exchanged glances and drifted through to the hall together. Furtive whispering. Another blast of radio static and a short, sharp exchange on the walkie-talkie.
Something tightened in my chest. I tried to relax my shoulders, panicked now, and focused on breathing. In, out, in, out. Slowly, the pressure eased. My arms, my legs hung like weights. The room tipped, shivered, then righted itself. Your books stood in a row against the edge of the mantelpiece. The shiny purple cover of Beauty and the Beast stuck up above smaller books. The spine, weathered, curled up at the bottom.
When they came back in, the senior officer asked: ‘Is there anyone who could come over? Anyone we can call to sit with you?’
I shook my head. ‘Not really.’
‘Any news at all, we’ll let you know. OK?’ She pointed to the windows. ‘I’ll send someone to fix those.’
As she left, the young man said gently: ‘They’re trying to get hold of the family support team. I can stay until someone comes, if you like?’
‘No.’ I got up. ‘I can’t just sit here. I want to look for her too.’
He looked worried. ‘Please don’t go far. In case we need to get hold of you.’ He hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision, gave me a final nod and turned to leave.
The front door opened and slammed shut. His heavy boots slapped down the path. The gate clanged as it closed.
I thought of the bed upstairs, its sheets still crumpled. The clock said ten past nine. Two hours ago, we both lay there, you and I, my body curled round you, keeping you safe from the world. Now you were gone.
I picked up my phone and dialled Matt’s number for the twentieth time, my fingers trembling. Again, it clicked onto voicemail and I left another frantic message.
‘Please, Matt. Bring her back. We can talk. But please don’t hurt her.’
I ran to get dressed, trying to think where Matt might take you and where you might run to hide if you managed to get away from him.
Fifty-Six
The church café had just opened. The young woman was unloading metal trays of scones and croissants and Danish pastries into the glass-fronted cabinet. She didn’t look up as I ran through the door.
‘Is she here?’
She frowned. ‘Who?’
I scanned the café. Deserted.
‘Gracie. My daughter.’ What was the matter with her? ‘You know. She’s three. Nearly four. About this high.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve been in the back.’ She gestured to the fresh food. ‘Still setting up.’ She went back to fiddling with her pastries, straightening them in their baskets.
My heart pounded. I ran through to the church. The morning light filtered softly through the stained glass. I crossed to St Michael’s window and checked under the pews there, trying to think where a three-year-old might hide. Nothing. The Lady Chapel too was empty.
I stood beside the altar, looking back down the body of the church, breathing hard. I’d been driven by the sudden hope that she might be here, that she’d seek refuge here if she could. Now I was again at a loss, deflated by the silence, the emptiness. I didn’t know where to go next. What to do. I checked my phone. Nothing.
The loss of you pressed down on my head and shoulders, a suffocating weight. I slid sideways into the nearest pew and leaned forward, rested my forehead against the worn wood.
I closed my eyes. I saw you again in the hospital, a frail, small figure, stabbed with wires. I remembered the commotion as machines sounded and nurses and doctors came rushing in. Richard smelled faintly of aftershave when I pressed against him, close in his arms. You were saved. I thanked God for it. Thanked him for sending you back to me.
‘Are you alright?’
A shift in the light. I looked up. The vicar, Angela, looked down on me, a cardboard file in her hand. Her face was creased with concern.
‘Oh.’ Her expression altered as she saw who I was. ‘Jennifer.’
She bent over me, put her hand on my shoulder. Her breath smelled of coffee.
‘What is it? Do you want to talk?’
My thighs trembled on the wooden pew. I felt a stab of anguish, of fear, deep in my stomach. I needed so desperately to see you, to hold you. No one seemed to know how to help.
‘It’s Gracie.’ I put my hands to my face. ‘He’s taken her. Matt. I don’t know where she is.’ I started to shake, then to sob, managing to blurt out: ‘What if he hurts her?’
She slid in beside me on the pew, a warm, soft bulk of person.
‘What do you mean, taken her? Should we call the police?’
‘I have.’ I raised my wet, running face to look at her solemn one. ‘They’re looking.’ I pointed to my phone. ‘They said they’d call me the minute they had news.’ I paused, trying to explain. ‘I just thought she might be here, you know. If she got away. She loves this church.’
She nodded. ‘She does.’
I gulped, tried to stop crying, to stop the shudder in my breath. I looked past the pew to the swimming patterns of light on the stone.
‘She likes to play up there, under the windows.’ I could almost see you, sitting on a hassock with your knees drawn up, jumping up and swinging on the end of a pew.
She reached out and put her hand on mine. ‘Wherever she is, Jennifer, she’s in God’s hands. That’s what I believe. He’s taking care of her.’
I thought of Matt’s eyes, so desperate and full of pain.
‘But what if he hurts her?’
She sighed but didn’t answer. We walked together back towards the café. The young girl was unpacking a bundle of newspapers and setting them out on one of the long, wooden tables.
My legs buckled and I sat heavily. My hands shook so much that I fumbled my
phone, scrabbled on the floor to pick it up again, dropped it on the table. The sharp lines of the counter, of the tables, started to blur. I hung my head and stared unseeingly across the café. Please God. Bring her home. Please. I was too exhausted now even to cry.
A low buzz. On the table, my phone rang. I snatched it up.
His voice. But different. Desperate. ‘Jennifer …’
‘Is she alright?’
He paused. I strained to listen to the noise in the background. The throb and rattle of traffic.
‘You called the police, didn’t you?’
‘No.’ My voice was wild. ‘Where are you?’
‘Don’t lie to me.’ His breath juddered as if it were close to breaking. ‘They’ve been to my mother’s house. Upsetting her. Why did you do that? What’s she ever done to you?’
‘Matt. Please.’
Angela, listening, came to stand beside me and put her hand on my arm.
‘Just bring her back. Please.’
‘What about me?’ His voice rose in a wail. ‘I love you, Jen! You can’t leave me! Don’t you understand?’
I felt sick, took a deep breath. ‘Please. We can talk. Just tell me where you are.’
‘Come on your own. Promise? No police.’
A few moments later, as I ran across the café to the door, Angela called after me: ‘Is she alright? Was that the police?’
I didn’t stop to answer.
Fifty-Seven
It was cool by the river. A low breeze blew across the water and stung my cheeks. I walked quickly, shoulders hunched, arms folded, down the path through the park, towards the embankment, scanning always for him, for you, sick with dread.
The concrete path running alongside the bank was quiet. I stood at the rail, looking down at the river far below. The tide was in and the brown, swirling water was fast-flowing, carrying sticks and duck feathers and scraps of water-logged plastic.
Off to the left, beyond the park, buses and cars roared across the curved stone bridge which straddled the river. It was edged by ornate Victorian streetlights, shaped like lanterns, which gleamed in the sunlight. I thought of Venice and the wrought-iron lights there, which made pools across the darkening campo and glistened on the canal. Another time, another world.