Local Girl Missing

by Claire Douglas

  I sighed. ‘Alistair, so am I.’

  ‘You’re a woman, Sophie. You need a proper man.’

  The conversation was making me more and more nauseous. I moved away from the bed and to the small attic window, desperate for air. The room had a sea view and from where I stood I could see the Grand Pier and the beach packed with bodies. I longed to open the window wide and scream for someone to help me. Not that I felt in any danger, not really; I was embarrassed more than anything else. I wanted to be down on the beach with Frankie, acting like normal young girls, not up here with some middle-aged man with a hard-on.

  ‘Alistair … I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression,’ I said, continuing to look out of the window. I felt close to tears.

  The bedroom door slammed, making me jump. When I looked around Alistair had gone.

  MONDAY

  * * *

  24

  Frankie

  I awake the next morning with Mike curled up next to me in the double bed. Nothing happened between us, Soph. I didn’t think it was fair to sleep with him. I wanted comfort, that’s all. Is that so wrong?

  By the time I’m showered and dressed, Mike is up and in the living room, lighting the fire. He’s wearing my lilac dressing gown, which is much too short on him, the cuffs up by his elbows and the hem just reaching his knees.

  ‘Wow, this place is cold,’ he says unnecessarily as he blows out the match. ‘What do you want to do today? I’d quite like to explore. I’ve never been here before …’

  ‘Mike.’

  At the warning tone in my voice he looks up and I see disappointment etched into his features. ‘You’re going to tell me to leave, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And you’re not going to come with me?’

  ‘I need a few more days, that’s all.’

  His shoulders slump. ‘Why do I get the feeling I’ve been used, huh, Fran? I came here hoping to sort things out between us. When you let me stay I thought you might have changed your mind about us.’

  I take a step towards him. ‘I haven’t used you …’ But my words sound hollow. Of course I’ve used him. I’ve not slept so well since being back in Oldcliffe. Even the baby’s cries in the early hours of the morning didn’t bother me. I felt safe in his arms in spite of any misgivings I had about him yesterday.

  I’d asked him how he found out where I was staying, and he said he’d found the note I’d made of the address on the kitchen table. I remember scribbling it down on the notepad but I was sure I’d crumpled it up and thrown it away after I’d typed it into my phone. Did Mike go through the kitchen bin? An image of Jean going through the dustbins outside flashes in my mind. What was she looking for?

  I shift from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortable. A weak light filters through the cream curtains. A pool of wine has formed around the base of a bottle of Pinot Noir. It looks like blood.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ he says gruffly. ‘Then I’ll be out of your hair.’

  I go to the bay window, pulling the curtains aside. The sky is a dense white, but at least it’s not raining. Instead a layer of ice has coated the windscreen and roof of my car. I avoid looking towards the pier because I can’t bear the thought that you might be there, watching me.

  I can’t be depressed – this is nothing like what my mum experienced – but maybe the grief and guilt I feel about your death has manifested in delusions. Since I received that call four days ago, I haven’t been able to stop talking to you. Maybe it’s being back in Oldcliffe again. This town is so intrinsically linked with you – with our childhood, our teenage years, the accident with Jason and your disappearance – that it’s only natural I’m going to be thinking about you all the time, isn’t it? I can hardly remember a time when I was in Oldcliffe without you; a brief period before you moved here, and an even briefer time after you disappeared and we left for London. In those first few months you went missing there was still hope; that you would turn up, shamefaced, admitting that you’d had a row with your mum, or were upset by how things ended with Leon and had just gone away for a few days. But you didn’t turn up, did you? Until now.

  Mike finds me in the kitchen, spooning cereal into my mouth. He looks fresh in a clean jumper and jeans.

  ‘So, you really want me to go then?’ he says.

  I swallow down the muesli. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sorry.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I didn’t ask you to come.’

  He stares at me, hurt in his eyes. ‘I can’t believe how cold you can be, Fran. I agree with you, this relationship isn’t going to work. When you do eventually decide to come home, I won’t be there.’

  I lower my gaze. When I look up again he’s gone, slamming the door behind him.

  You always said I treated my boyfriends badly and you were right. I didn’t set out to hurt them. My relationships always started off well enough, until they fell in love with me and then, in my mind, they became needy and unattractive. Except with Christopher. My ex-husband was fiercely independent and never needy – so much so that he ended up having sex with someone else.

  Maybe I would have felt that way about Leon if he’d fallen in love with me. As it is he despises me, that much is obvious from yesterday. And what about your brother? Would I end up treating him badly too if he reciprocated my feelings? You would probably say yes and remind me of how I treated him when we were younger. I’m not proud of it, Soph. I like to think that I’ve changed, it’s just that I haven’t found the right person who challenges me yet. Who refuses to take my crap. Maybe that person is Daniel.

  At least I thought it might be Daniel until I remember last night. I was sure he was with Leon. Could I have been wrong?

  I need to get out of this apartment that still smells of Mike. I shoulder on my coat and wrap a scarf around my neck. With my hand grasping the doorknob I steel myself, as though mentally preparing for a fight. Will there be another anonymous letter or a sinister gift left on the doormat? Or will you be waiting for me at the end of the driveway again? Who knows what I’m going to face. Gingerly I turn the handle and tiptoe to the top of the landing. There is only Jean downstairs, but after embarrassing myself in front of her yesterday I can’t risk bumping into her today. I squint, trying to determine whether there is anything on the doormat or hanging out of the letter box. I feel almost giddy with relief when I see nothing. I make sure to lock my door before quietly making my way down the stairs, stopping midway when I see Jean come out of her door. She has her back to me as she bends over the welcome mat.

  I clear my throat and she stands up, swivelling on her slippered feet to face me, a newspaper rolled up in her hand. It has a dark stain covering the end. ‘Hello, Francesca, love. I just came out to get the local newspaper.’ She waves it about to emphasise her point. Is it my imagination or does she look shifty? ‘Someone must have a subscription because it came last week as well.’ She shakes her head. ‘Who would waste money like that? Still, it means I can read it. I like to know what’s going on, even though I live thirty miles away.’ She chuckles. And then I notice a flash of pink plastic in her other hand.

  I run down the few remaining stairs so that I’m standing in front of her. ‘Is that … a dummy?’ I point to her left hand.

  She frowns down at it in her palm, as if wondering how on earth it got there. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But … you said you didn’t have a baby staying with you.’

  She looks flustered. ‘I don’t … I just found it, sitting on the mat next to the newspaper.’

  I stare at her in disbelief. Why would somebody post a dummy through the door? The letters and dog tags I can understand; they were personal to me – to us, Soph. But this? This doesn’t make sense. Unless she’s lying and she really does have a baby in her apartment. But why would she lie?

  ‘Anyway, must get on. Need to visit our Graham at the hospital later.’ She closes her fingers around the dummy and pushes it into t
he pocket of her cardigan, then, with the newspaper clamped under her armpit, retreats back to her apartment, closing the door firmly behind her.

  I’m too shocked to do anything but stand there for a few moments, staring at the door that she’s just closed in my face. I need to get out of here.

  The air is freezing, the wind slapping my cheeks. As I’m about to get in my car I notice my right wing-mirror has been smashed. I take a deep breath. It looks as if someone has punched it; the imprint of a fist splintering the glass into shards that resemble a spider’s web. Mike? Surely he wouldn’t have done such a thing. But he was so angry when he left this morning.

  Maybe Mike is right and I should just go home. But what if, in my absence, Daniel finds out what happened to you? I get behind the wheel and turn the heater on, watching as the ice on the windscreen slowly dissolves. When it’s all melted away I reverse out of the driveway, half expecting to see you in my rear-view mirror. Then suddenly I’m thrown forward in my seat as the car hits something with a sickening thud.

  Oh God. Is it you?

  I pull on the brake with a trembling hand and dart out of the car. But thank God it’s just a dustbin. Did someone put it deliberately in my path or did I just fail to see it? With great effort I drag it out of the way, rolling it over the debris that has spilled out onto the road. BEAUFORT has been painted on the side of the bin. I haven’t taken any rubbish out to be collected yet, which must mean it’s Jean’s. Was she out here this morning messing with the bin? I dust down my coat and step over the empty egg carton and tin cans to get back into the car.

  I need to get out of Oldcliffe, even if it’s only for a few hours. I turn left, down the bumpy hill and onto the coastal road. The old pier is on my right as I head through town.

  As I pass the last few houses, I feel as though I can breathe again, the tension seeping out of me. I don’t know where I’m heading, I just keep driving until the road turns into a dual carriageway, and then a roundabout with directions. I take the exit for the M5 towards Bristol. I need to spend a few hours in a city, and Bristol is the nearest one.

  The last time I was in Bristol, you were with me, Soph. We used to catch the train so we could go shopping. There never were any decent clothes shops in Oldcliffe unless you were over fifty. We’d spend hours walking around Broadmead, and inevitably venturing up to Park Street so that we could go into Rival Records.

  I switch the radio on, the sounds of ‘Begging You’ by the Stone Roses shocking me for a moment. You loved this song. My eyes flick towards the radio and I frown. Why is it on Radio 2 when I always have it on Classic FM? You wouldn’t understand, you hated classical music. And so did I, back then. But I find it soothes me now. But this song, Soph, it takes me right back so that I’m there, in The Basement, with you on that packed dance floor, the smell of smoke and sweat and bodies filling my nostrils. I can remember how I felt; that surge of adrenaline coursing through me, the beat vibrating through my body as we danced with abandon, alcohol lowering our inhibitions, arms flung in the air, the lights flashing through the smoke. It’s so tangible that I’m twenty-one again. I can’t breathe. My heart starts pounding and I have to loosen the scarf at my neck before I reach over and turn the radio off.

  Bristol city centre is almost unrecognisable since we were last here. I take the wrong exit on more than one occasion as I try and navigate the new streets. The roads by the Hippodrome have become pedestrianised; bars and cafés have popped up alongside the waterfront and there is a huge shopping mall called Cabot Circus, with, can you believe, a Harvey Nics. Oh Soph, we would have loved shopping there. Although I doubt we would have been able to afford much back then. I haven’t been here since the summer you died. You found out you got that editorial assistant’s job; you were so excited and wanted to buy some smart clothes. I recall the stab of jealousy I’d felt when you talked about moving to London. You were leaving me behind and I sulked as we ambled around Broadmead. I’d followed you in and out of Oasis and French Connection, feeling more and more dejected and abandoned with every shop we went into. It was in Kookaï, in between the combat trousers and strappy tops, that you turned to me and demanded to know what was up. When I eventually admitted how I felt you hugged me and told me that I was more than welcome to come with you, that we could share a flat, that it would be fun. We could get out of Oldcliffe together. We had such plans.

  But two weeks later you were dead.

  The café in Park Street is large, modern, anonymous. And warm. We’re experiencing a cold snap according to the radio.

  I settle myself at a small table by the window overlooking the busy street. People are scurrying past with oversized shopping bags, chins hidden by scarves and hats pressed down on heads.

  I’m catching up on emails and phone calls when I get a text from Daniel: Where are you? I’ve been to the apartment. No answer. D xx

  It’s funny how, in a matter of days, we are so familiar with each other we can put kisses after our text messages. Before Friday I didn’t even have his number or any idea where he was living. He told me he’d managed to get my number from my hotel website, although thinking about it now he rang me on my mobile. But of course, Daniel is a journalist. He has ways of getting in touch with people, of finding information, that I don’t have. Your brother is more hard-nosed than I remember and just because he calls me Lady Frankie and talks fondly of our past, I shouldn’t forget that.

  I ignore his text and get back to my emails.

  Then I’m interrupted by a call from my mum.

  ‘Hi,’ I say quietly so that the other customers can’t hear.

  ‘Frankie. I’ve been trying to call you for days …’ She charges straight in, not even asking how I am. ‘Are you still in Oldcliffe?’

  ‘I’m in Bristol at the moment but, yes, I’m still staying in Oldcliffe. The reception isn’t always that good—’

  ‘Anyway,’ she rushes on, ‘I thought you’d like to know there’s an improvement to your dad’s condition. Isn’t that great news? I told you he was a survivor, didn’t I? He’ll get through this.’

  ‘I’m so happy to hear that, Mum, I really am. But this doesn’t change anything, does it? He’ll still have the court case to face if he gets better.’

  ‘Why do you have to bring that up now? He’s innocent. We all know he’s innocent. I’m just about holding it all together, Frankie. And with you a three-hour journey away, well, it’s selfish. It really is …’

  I close my eyes and listen to her tirade, letting her words wash over me. I know by now not to get offended by her criticisms. That her anxiety and depression can make her short-tempered. Of course she’s worried about my dad, she would be lost without him. She’s stuck by him through everything, I have to give her that. She doesn’t ask about you, or even about the hotels; since Dad’s stroke, she hasn’t taken any interest in them. After semi-retiring two years ago, they’ve enjoyed the cruises and holidays to far-flung places that the profits allowed them.

  You’d be surprised how dedicated I am these days, Soph. It turns out that I enjoy running a business after all. I never thought of it as a substitute for a family, a life, until now. Since my marriage ended I just jogged along, not really thinking of the future, just living day to day, throwing myself into my job, the occasional non-serious love affair. Now I know I was living half a life, waiting, as though I always knew that eventually I’d be exactly where I am now. It was inevitable somehow.

  ‘Anyway, I need to get back to your dad. Just thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘I’ll be home in a few days, hopefully. Tell Dad I love him …’

  She hangs up without saying goodbye.

  I order another cappuccino and I’m just about to ring the hotel manager, Stuart, for an update when my mobile buzzes in my hand and Daniel’s name flashes up. I contemplate ignoring it and letting him sweat a bit more. Hopefully he thinks I’ve gone back to London, and if I did would he really care? He only wants me here to help him find out what happened to
you. But we are no closer to knowing anything now than we were on Friday. After the sixth ring I relent and answer it.

  ‘Frankie?’ He sounds tense.

  ‘I thought you’d be at work.’

  ‘I am,’ he says and, as if on cue, a phone rings in the background. I imagine the busy newsroom, although I’ve only seen it once, when we were at school. It’s bound to have changed. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a café. In Bristol.’

  ‘Bristol? Why?’

  I sigh. ‘I needed to get out of Oldcliffe. It’s so oppressive.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Oldcliffe,’ he says, his voice laced with defensiveness.

  I stay silent; there is no point arguing with him. What was I thinking? I’d never be happy living in Oldcliffe-on-Sea again and he loves the place. It’s just as well that he has this Mia. It would never have worked between us.

  ‘Are you OK, Franks?’

  I feel a flash of irritation. It’s all his fault. I trusted him.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I hiss into my mobile. ‘I saw you last night. With Leon.’

  ‘Leon?’ He sounds perplexed. ‘I wasn’t with Leon last night.’

  I take a deep breath, vigorously stirring my cappuccino. ‘I saw you, Daniel. You crossed right in front of my car. You were with Mia too, heading for the Seagull. I thought you hated Leon. What’s going on?’

  ‘I do hate Leon. I certainly wouldn’t go drinking with him. I was with a bloke from work. He’s a sub. New to the area. I said I’d meet him for a pint.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Is he lying to me?

  ‘Rob.’ He doesn’t miss a beat.

  Could I have been mistaken? It really looked like Leon. Am I imagining him now, just like I’m imagining you?

  ‘What does Rob look like?’

  Despite the noise of the coffee machine, I can still make out the note of repressed irritation in Daniel’s voice. ‘I don’t know … he’s tall. Dark, curly hair.’

  Like Leon? I want to ask, but don’t.