The Stolen Child

by Sanjida Kay

  She glances at her watch. I know she’s thinking it’s getting late and dark. I wonder if her own family are missing her. If she has a mum who’ll keep her tea hot in the oven.

  ‘Have you looked down here?’ I ask.

  ‘No. Not yet. The moor’s so big and we haven’t the manpower. The helicopter would have covered it if it hadn’t been for this fog.’

  I try to think rationally about why I want to search here. If someone took Evie, they’d probably have a car. This old drover’s road is one of the few places you can take a vehicle part of the way across the moor. It leads to Harris’s house – nowhere else – but still… if someone took her hoping to find a quiet spot… maybe she escaped… maybe they left her… terrifying scenarios are jumbled in my mind with images: Evie’s smooth, unblemished skin, her naked body. I have to stop this.

  ‘I want to look down here. I came this way last week. You can get a car down the track.’

  Ruby crosses over the road to join me.

  ‘Was Evie with you?’

  She sounds hopeful.

  I shake my head. Jack picked Ben and me up from the other side of the moor – just below White Wells, where the search began this morning. Ruby and I head down the track together. The stones are slippery. A curlew calls. The sound is so mournful it makes my whole body ache.

  ‘Were you out walking?’

  I wonder if she’s checking up on me or making conversation.

  ‘Yes – with Ben.’

  Evie’s fascination with the moor didn’t extend to actually wanting to hike across it, I think.

  ‘My backpack broke and then we got caught in the rain. This guy I know happened to be passing and he rescued us. He lives down here.’

  I don’t tell her how frightening the ‘rescue’ actually was.

  ‘I didn’t know anyone lived on the moor.’

  ‘Neither did I. It was probably an old farming croft originally. It’s quite far away – maybe a mile or so.’

  She shivers. ‘I can’t understand why anyone would want to live out there. You’d be totally isolated.’

  I do. I could imagine waking up each day and instead of looking out of the window and seeing the moor in the distance, you’d be in the heart of it, feeling the wind turn, the storm rage, the rain lash, hearing the plovers piping. But then, that is partly why I fell for Harris – this shared understanding of what matters to us. Even now, in spite of what happened, I miss him. I have to fight not to pick up my phone and dial his number right now; to tell him my beloved daughter is missing. He’d run to find me, I know he would; he’d hold me tightly, take me back to his house in the midst of the heath and shelter me where no journalists would ever find me. That fierce side of his personality would work in my favour: he’d be utterly ruthless to anyone who tried to hurt me. But, of course, I won’t. And I can’t forget the way he turned his anger on me; leaving me and my small son to struggle home through the rain on our own out of spite.

  It’s getting dark but I can’t turn back, not yet. A sheep bleats close by and another answers. Something looms like a rock out of the mist and I startle, not sure if it’s my imagination. It’s half blocking the path. Ruby shines her torch on it but the fog scatters the beams and we’re temporarily blinded. We go closer. There’s a strange, acrid smell. It’s a car, turned on its side. Ruby walks gingerly round it, flicking the torch over it. It’s been completely burnt – the rubber flayed from the tyres, the paint scalded from its surface; there are pools of glistening oil and charred matter pock-marking the grass. The windows have been smashed and tiny chips of glass glisten in the beam of the torch. Ruby peers inside but it’s empty. I walk a little way further on. There are tyre tracks here, the path has been churned into mud. The shape of the car nags at me. It’s familiar. I feel a cold sensation in my ribs. Could it be Harris’s? I spot something glittering in the dim light, caught in a stand of rushes.

  ‘Stop!’ shouts Ruby. ‘Come back. Don’t step on anything – not even the tyre tracks.’

  I ignore her and walk a little further, off the path, into the rough grass. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. It’s a flat black disc, a little scorched, with gold letters. I swing round to face her. ‘I know whose car it is.’

  And now I’m ice cold all the way through to my core, because – what does this mean? That Harris was in a crash? That he could be hurt?

  Ruby is already on the phone when I reach her.

  ‘Forensics are on their way. Just in case,’ she says, holding out an evidence bag for me to put the disc in.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It could be nothing – but, well, don’t you see? A burnt car on the moor the day after your daughter goes missing. If she was in this car, the driver would need to destroy it to get rid of the evidence. I’ll wait here for them. You go on back. I’ll call another officer and tell him to meet you. Someone should be with you.’

  I’m shaking my head.

  ‘But I know whose car it is,’ I repeat, ‘and he wouldn’t have taken Evie.’ As simultaneously I’m trying to clear the images from my mind, of blood on the seat, of strands of Evie’s hair, of Harris – and how angry he is with me.

  Ollie is so pale he’s almost green. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red and raw-looking. He’s eating a plate of toast when I get home. I can’t face food. Even thinking about eating makes me feel sick.

  ‘We found a car on the moor,’ I say. ‘Someone had burnt it – there’s just a shell left.’

  I look at Ollie and from the way his face sags I can see he’s understood what finding the car might mean.

  ‘Do they know whose it is?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I don’t want to tell him my hunch that it’s Harris’s – not until I know for sure. It could have been a coincidence, finding his ‘Peace’ disc by the path. I don’t believe Harris would have taken Evie – I can’t believe it. It’s more likely he was in a crash, driving home late; maybe he was drunk. But if I say to Ollie that I recognize the car, he’ll ask me how, and when I got into it. I won’t know how much to say, where to draw the line. I never told him about my escapade on the moor with Ben. He doesn’t know about all my meetings with Harris.

  ‘It’s probably nothing to do with Evie,’ I add. ‘They should be trying to find out who her real, her biological father is. And they still don’t know where Jack is.’

  He hugs me and speaks into my hair: ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He starts to cry, great jagged, gulping sobs that shake his whole body. I cling on to his chest tighter, harder. I can’t look at him. He’s brought this upon us – Ollie should have been there for us, for Evie. But right now, what I need from him is not an apology. I need him to be strong, for all of us.

  You’re not here. I can’t believe it. I’ve looked everywhere. I want to howl with rage.

  I had to leave you. It was part of the plan; I need an alibi so that I won’t become a suspect. I begrudge every moment I’m away from you. I think of you every second that we’re apart. You have everything you need here: toys and books and food. It broke my heart to see your distress this morning. You cried for your so-called mother and father and brother. I explained that I’m everything to you: I’m your mother, your father, your brother. I am your all. It won’t take you long to realize the depth of my love for you. I can give you more than they ever could.

  You wanted to go outside to play but I told you that you couldn’t leave the house. You cried even more when I said I had to go.

  ‘It’s only for a little while,’ I said.

  Later, you’ll be able to go outside as much as you please. I tried to tell you what our new life together would be like.

  ‘It will be magical,’ I said. ‘There are mountains. They reach right up to the sky. There are beautiful flowers and there’s snow on the highest peaks.’

  I helped you dress up in the Frozen costume you’d been carrying around in your school bag.

  ‘You can be a princess of ice and frost where we are going,’
I said.

  I kissed you and told you I would be back soon.

  So I don’t understand. How could you leave me? How did you even manage to get out? I’m terrified you’ll be hurt or discovered. I’m going to search for you. I will look all night if I have to, but I will find you. I will not lose you again.

  It’s dusk and the light is fading fast. The wind has a bitter edge and slices right through my fleece. At least the fog is starting to clear. You weren’t even wearing a coat. I clamber up the steep path, past the reservoir. I shudder when I think of its slippery sides and how deep it is. You’re too sensible to go near it, aren’t you? I hope you haven’t gone into the wood either and got lost in the thick undergrowth or fallen into Heber’s Ghyll. I pull myself up jagged boulders until I reach the top and I stand, panting, next to the Swastika Stone. My breath is rasping in my lungs, my throat feels raw. I climb on a large rock by this ancient pagan site and scan the moor.

  It’s October and the heather has died. The bracken is the colour of rust and the dried grass is ash-blond. I’m looking for a little girl in a shiny silver-blue dress, the colour of ice. Would I see you even if you were here? You’re small for your age. The heather is dense, the bilberry bushes grown tall and leggy. It’s foggy. You might have fallen, twisted your ankle; the tracks are strewn with stones.

  It’s grown too dark to see far. My heart is thumping in my chest, hard enough to hurt. What if I can’t find you? I don’t know if you can survive the night out here. I’ve brought a torch, but it won’t illuminate much in this wilderness.

  If we were walking here together, I’d point out the carnivorous plants that grow on this spot: sundews with sticky red leaves, eating insects to sustain them because the soil is so poor. If you were with me, I’d take you to the Doubler Stones, where, thousands of years ago, Neolithic peoples carved channels in the rock to drain away the blood from their sacrifices. I would show you where the plover nests, and the green hairstreak butterfly lays its eggs. I love this place. I love this land. It’s part of me, it’s part of who I am. But it’s no place for you: a seven-year-old girl in a princess costume.

  There are other dangers too. Old quarries. Jagged-edged cliffs. Sharp rocks and bogs that could suck you in. I know them all. I pass a stand of rowan trees; the fine, gold leaves brush against my face. The clouds obscure the moon and the first stars. I switch my torch on and its beam seems feeble; the darkness appears darker. I suppress my feelings. I can’t show any weakness, not now. I have to find you, before it’s too late. I have to find you before anyone else does.

  And when I do, we will be together, for ever, my darling.

  SUNDAY: TWO DAYS AFTER

  I can’t sleep. I walk round the house. I stand next to Ben and listen to his breathing. He’s sprawled across the bed, hands curled into loose fists, the covers pushed back. I replace them gently and crouch next to him, watching him, touching his forehead to check he’s not too hot or too cold. Evie never sleeps like that. She always curls into a tight ball, the sheets wrapped around her. Ben snores: unbelievably loudly for such a small child. Evie is quiet; she was so silent as a baby I used to worry she’d stopped breathing in the night. I go into her room and lie down, my face in her pillow, and inhale her smell.

  I’m still there when Ollie comes in to wake me in the morning. I jump when he speaks. My eyes are raw and my neck aches where I’ve been twisted into an uncomfortable position in the night. I hadn’t realized I’d finally fallen asleep. My limbs feel like lead.

  ‘It’s time to take Ben to hospital,’ he says.

  His voice is raw. I rub my eyes and sit up. We’re both still. He continues to stand in the doorway and I sit on Evie’s bed, my head in my hands.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ I say. ‘You need some rest. We’ve got to meet Ruby at eleven at the police station for the briefing. The media statement is at twelve.’

  He doesn’t protest. He looks dead on his feet. I splash cold water over my face and go to wake Ben. I soak up the small pleasure of holding him, warm and sleepy in my arms. I carry him to the car and slide him into the seat. I’ve brought his breakfast with me, but I’m hoping he’ll doze off again as we drive towards Silsden.

  ‘Zoe! Zoe!’

  Someone is shouting at me. I stand up too quickly and hit my head on the car door. My heart starts to beat faster. I hope it’s good news. Two men are running towards me. The one nearest is clutching his phone, the one behind him is laden with cameras. I can’t believe it. It’s 7 a.m. I panic. I climb back in the car, crawling over Ben and slam the door shut and lock it.

  ‘Zoe! Mrs Morley? Just a few questions? Have you found your daughter yet?’

  I buckle Ben in. He wakes up properly and seeing the men leaning in the window shouting, the flash of the camera, he starts to shriek. I’m so angry I want to get out and punch them. I climb into the front seat and drive off as fast as I can. I grip the steering wheel hard to still the tremors in my hands.

  Dr Kapur removes the stethoscope from Ben’s chest.

  ‘He’s had a significant heart trauma and low blood pressure caused by the high dose of the toxin in his system, all of which can lead to neural damage. But we caught it fast and children can recover fully. Ben’s brain scan was clear and his ECG readings were normal for more than twelve hours before we discharged him.’

  I take Ben from Dr Kapur and kiss his cheek, tuck his top back in.

  ‘So has he recovered? Is he going to be okay?’

  ‘It’s too early to say. Keep an eye on him and if you’re worried about anything, no matter how slight, come back. Do you have any idea how he got hold of the spindle berries?’

  ‘Blueberry?’ asks Ben hopefully.

  ‘I haven’t got any, love. No. Unless he grabbed them from a garden as we were walking to school?’

  ‘This will have to be followed up – the school playground and surrounding houses need to be checked, as does your garden. They’re a common ornamental plant round here. Less common in the wild now.’

  I remind myself that we’re lucky: Ben could have died. He looks well. His kidneys and heart are functioning normally, Dr Kapur said. I glance at my son in the rear-view mirror as we drive back. He’s staring vacantly out of the window. Children do that, don’t they? Go into a zoned-out state in the car. And he’s tired – he’s had a traumatic time in hospital. But could it be more than that or am I being paranoid?

  Just before 11, Ollie and I cross the road to the police station and that’s when I see them. Posters of Evie. They’re everywhere, on every lamp post and telegraph pole, pasted into the window of M&S and Smiths; plastered across the bus stop. It’s her school photo and ‘MISSING’ in large black letters above it. There’s a number to ring. Who has printed them? Will it work? Will someone see her with a man and remember her face?

  We sit down in front of Ruby in the police station. She glances from one to the other of us. Ollie looks terrible. His hair is greasy; there are dark rings under his eyes and his skin is puffy. I know I’m no better. I’ve managed to have a shower, but I haven’t had time to dry my hair and it drips onto the collar of my shirt. Ruby tells us that we should read the prepared statement and Collier will deal with any questions.

  ‘I did a draft for you but it’ll come out better if it’s in your own words. No one knows Evie like you do.’ She pushes the piece of paper over towards us. ‘I’ll give you a few minutes’ privacy to go through it. By the way, your friend Andy? His alibi checked out, so he’s been released.’

  ‘Is he still a suspect?’ I ask.

  I have a thick, cold feeling in my stomach when I think about Andy. I didn’t do anything to help him. And I can’t help wonder whether he could be Evie’s father; whether he really does know where she is. After all, if Jack was helping him, it wouldn’t matter where Andy was at 5 p.m.

  ‘Until we find Evie, everyone is a suspect.’

  After Ruby closes the door, I turn to Ollie. He hasn’t moved.

  ‘“A lovely girl. Our darlin
g daughter.” Jesus.’

  He wipes his eyes with his hand and I can hear the scratch where he hasn’t shaved.

  ‘We have to make it personal. We have to make it about Evie so that people will care about her. What shall we say?’

  What can you say when your seven-year-old goes missing? When the child you love more than your own life has been abducted? Ollie continues to sit catatonically still. I can’t do this. I can’t do it by myself. I glance at Ollie again. I have to. I snatch up the pen and scribble furiously.

  A few minutes later, Ruby returns. She reads what I’ve written and nods. ‘It’s good. I’ll type it up for you.’ She glances as me. ‘I know it must be the last thing on your mind, but appearances are going to be important,’ she says as gently as she can in her strong, Bradford accent. She hands me a brush and a small bag of makeup. ‘The toilets are the second door on your right. There’s a hand dryer. You might be able to dry your hair off a bit.’

  I stand in front of the mirror. The powerful blast from the dryer has made my hair windswept and fluffy. The bags under my eyes are the colour of a bruise and the whites are bloodshot. My cheeks are gaunt and my skin no longer glows. In the harsh fluorescent lights I can see every line and broken vein and pore. I’ve aged ten years. I should care but I don’t. I brush my hair and look inside Ruby’s make-up bag. It’s all wrong for me – black kohl, foundation in Caramel Toffee, Violet Plum lipstick, Sunblush bronzer. I use her mascara, a clear powder and lipstick, smudging it off so there’s only the barest hint of pink.

  The journalists are already in place when we enter. The small room is packed and everywhere I look lenses are being pointed and focused at us. A small sea of phones rises up to record our words.

  ‘Ollie? Do you want to read it?’

  He shakes his head. Ruby must have persuaded him to shave while I was in the toilets. He’s cut his neck in three places and there’s a spot of shaving cream on his ear. I try to hold his hand, but it’s lifeless in mine. I glance at the faces in front of me. They look hostile. I feel my throat closing, my heart squeezing tightly. My hands shake as I hold the statement. Ruby passes me a glass of water and I take a sip. Most of the journalists are men. The women amongst them seem impossibly young and glamorous, wearing suit jackets and fitted dresses, bright red lipstick. I assume they’re going to be presenting televised reports on Evie in a few minutes. I notice one woman who looks different, though. She’s a few rows back. Her curly hair is in wiry corkscrews, threaded with grey. She could be in her fifties. She looks tough and she has an expression on her face that I can’t quite read. It might be disgust. She catches me looking at her and her expression shifts instantly, to something warmer, more sympathetic. While everyone here is only thinking of what a good news story Evie will make, she’s sorry for her, for me.