Local Girl Missing

by Claire Douglas

  Daniel came into the living room on Saturday morning carrying a huge bunch of flowers in his arms. I was wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, still pretending to be ill. ‘Look what’s just arrived. Leon must be in love,’ he grinned as he handed me the bouquet. My heart sank. I knew, without even opening the card, that they wouldn’t be from Leon. He doesn’t have money to splash out on flowers, especially ones as opulent as these. He’s called me a few times but each time I’ve told him not to come over, that it might be catching. I haven’t seen him since the night he stayed over and, despite missing him, I feel too guilty to face him.

  I took the flowers from Daniel. They were beautiful, there was no denying it, huge velvety red roses of the kind I’ve never seen before. My eyes welled with tears, not of happiness like my brother no doubt thought, but disappointment. How I wished they’d been from Leon.

  ‘I know you feel the same,’ read the card. ‘I won’t give up on you.’ There was no name. There didn’t have to be.

  Daniel must have noticed my downcast expression because he perched next to me on the sofa. ‘Are you OK? Me and mum are worried about you.’

  This was the first I’d heard of it. Apart from the odd glance, Mum hadn’t voiced any concerns to me. When she got home from her night shift I’d hear her creep into my room, obviously checking up on me, but I’d pretend to be asleep. And then when she got up in the early afternoon she’d make me some soup, telling me I had to get something down me, even though the thought of eating made me want to gag. I’m beginning to feel as though I really do have gastroenteritis!

  ‘I’ve just got this bug,’ I said by way of explanation. I didn’t sound very convincing. Daniel knows me better than anyone, even better than Frankie does probably. ‘I need to put these in water.’ I sidled away from him and his questions, with the flowers in my hands. Water dripped from the stems and down my arm. In the kitchen I hovered over the bin, contemplating throwing them away. The stench rose up to greet me: rotten cabbages, last night’s stew. It hit me in the face with such force that I retched. I had to turn away.

  Mum came into the kitchen wrapped in her threadbare dressing gown, her hair standing up on end, moaning that she couldn’t sleep. Of course she exclaimed over the flowers. Who wouldn’t? And of course I had to pretend they were from Leon. Lie upon lie upon lie. She took them from me, told me I was as white as a sheet and to get up to bed and that she would put the flowers in a vase.

  When Leon turned up at the door yesterday afternoon, Daniel immediately started teasing him about the flowers. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Leon gruffly, his face flushed. I pulled him back into the hall and barked at Daniel to go away.

  ‘What flowers?’ he said as I led him upstairs to my room, where he nearly tripped over the pile of books stacked by my bed.

  ‘Oh, I think they’re from Frankie’s family. Daniel thought they were from you,’ I said, trying to brush over the subject. Leon didn’t seem convinced and he kept snatching glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, as if he was trying to figure me out. I’ve always been a crap liar.

  ‘You still look peaky,’ he said. My hair was scraped back into a pony-tail and I had no make-up on. I knew I wasn’t looking my best. I had dark smudges under my eyes and my face was drawn. And because I’ve hardly been able to eat much more than soup for a week the waistband on my jeans is loose. I couldn’t afford to lose weight, not if I wanted to keep ‘Twiglet legs’ at bay.

  ‘I feel better now that you’re here,’ I said truthfully. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  He sat on the edge of my bed, looking up at me. His eyes were sad and I suddenly felt a rush of affection towards him. ‘I wanted to come over,’ he said defensively, ‘but you kept me at arm’s length. I was worried I’d done something wrong when I stayed last week.’

  I stood in front of him, suddenly feeling on the edge of tears. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. I was just worried to come near you in case you caught it.’

  He looped his thumb in the waistband of my jeans and pulled me towards him. ‘I’ve missed you too.’ Then he fell backwards, me on top of him so that we were suddenly a jumble of limbs on top of my Pierrot duvet cover. Making up for lost time!

  And in that moment I felt that everything would be OK after all. As long as I had Leon by my side.

  TUESDAY

  * * *

  30

  Frankie

  Faces invade my dreams. Faces from the past: you, Leon, Helen, Daniel, Jason and even his sister. I can’t remember her name, just her sad, pinched little face at the funeral and her mass of blonde hair. I haven’t thought about her in years, but being back here, the anonymous letters, all of this has stirred up so much heartache, so much emotion – so much guilt.

  My sleep is fitful; I dream and then wake up with a start. I’m relieved when the first cracks of light appear through the gap in the curtains, surprised to find myself in the bedroom until I remember my frantic phone call to Daniel at 2.30 in the morning, his voice heavy with sleep, the relief when he turned up at my front door fifteen minutes later with bed-head hair and a dazed grin and I realised with startling clarity that I loved him. I’m in love with him, Soph. I’m in love with your big brother. He’s been my rock these past few days. He’s what I’ve been missing all these years. If I’m honest I think I’ve always loved him but I just didn’t realise it, believing I needed someone ambitious, enigmatic, independent. My head was turned by intense indie boys like Jez and Leon. Like Jason. When all the time I needed someone solid, someone dependable, someone grounded. I’ve been so busy trying to escape the Frankie of my past, to run away, when really everything I need has been here the whole time.

  But it can never be. You know that, don’t you, Soph?

  I fling back the duvet and grab my dressing gown from where it hangs on the back of the door and creep into the living room. Daniel is curled up on the sofa, fully dressed, a blanket barely covering his body, his legs too long to stretch out along the length of the sofa. His face in sleeping repose is peaceful, his mouth closed, his breathing shallow. I long to move the dark hair away from his forehead. I stand and stare at him for a while, thinking how lucky Mia is to have him, when his eyes suddenly flicker open, widening in surprise at his surroundings and to see me standing by his side in my dressing gown, open just enough to reveal a glimpse of cleavage. I know, I know, it’s a cheap shot. But you know me, Soph. I haven’t changed that much.

  With a groan he sits up and runs a hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone eight. I’ll put the kettle on.’ I pad into the kitchen but I can already hear his protestations as he throws aside the blanket, the thud of his feet on the wooden floor as he swings his legs from the sofa. He’ll be running back to her. Not for the first time I wonder what she looks like, this Mia. He hardly talks about her, yet his silence speaks volumes.

  I flick the switch on the kettle and wait. Within seconds he’s filling the door-frame, his hair standing up on end, his shirt hanging out of his jeans, the edges creased. ‘I’m sorry, Franks, I’ve got to go. I need to get home and shower before I go to work.’ With promises to call me later he blows me a theatrical kiss, unaware of my sinking heart, and then he’s gone and the flat suddenly feels huge and empty without him.

  I shower and dress, and then force some porridge down my throat, my eyes flicking to the clock on the kitchen wall, the hands moving agonisingly slowly. It’s just gone 8.30 a.m. I need to find a café with Wi-Fi so that I can work out who owns the apartment across from this one. I doubt many are open before nine. Something strange is going on here. Why would someone do that to me? And a baby crying … it’s as if they know, Soph. But how could they? How could anyone?

  When Daniel turned up last night I was crying and shaking. He had poked his nose around the apartment opposite and then tried to talk me down as I sat shivering on the sofa. He held my hands in his as he calmly told me his theory: that the computer was on a timer
, that someone had forgotten to turn it off, that it wasn’t aimed at me at all but was just a coincidence. ‘Maybe someone had set it up for research, or for a film. There could be any number of reasons why someone would have a recording of a baby on their computer,’ he said.

  He had a rational explanation for all of it. But I know, deep down, that this is aimed at me. I saw that envelope with my name typed on the front, even if it had magically disappeared later.

  I thought of what Jez said yesterday, the accusations he’d made about your brother. When I’d asked Daniel about it he’d shrugged it off, said that Jez was talking nonsense, that he hadn’t been the one arguing with you on the pier the night you went missing. Your brother has always been so open, his thoughts and feelings written all over his face. He usually couldn’t wait to blurt everything out. Verbal diarrhoea, you always said.

  But yesterday … I could tell he was hiding something from me.

  The baby crying. It seemed like a cruel taunt, as though someone had set out to deliberately hurt me. I’d told Daniel about my desire to have children, he’s the only one from Oldcliffe that I have told. A thought moves and shifts inside my head; a thought so terrible I push it to one side, refusing to voice it even to myself.

  I have to trust Daniel. I remember how much he loved me and I know he still cares. I have to hold on to that thought, Sophie, because there is nobody else.

  I close my eyes and massage my forehead. My brain feels woolly, a headache tugging at my temples. I know it’s lack of sleep; too many nights curled up on that blasted sofa after downing a bottle of wine. The week stretches out in front of me like a traffic jam on a motorway. I can’t even go home unless I’m happy to share my house with a hostile ex-boyfriend – that is, if Mike did go home. I’ve heard nothing from him since he stormed out yesterday.

  I down the rest of my coffee and then snatch up my laptop and phone and squeeze them into my large handbag. I pause at the door, my mind racing, suddenly afraid of what I might find out on the landing. Will the person who terrorised me last night with those eerie recordings be there, watching me through the gap in the door?

  I pull back the door gingerly and peer out onto the landing. A weak winter sun struggles through the arch-shaped picture window, illuminating the usually dark landing. The door to the apartment opposite is closed and I wonder if it’s still on the latch or whether someone came up here and locked it while Daniel and I slept. Relieved that the landing is empty, I step out of the apartment and close the door behind me.

  Something crumples underfoot and I look down, my heart sinking when I notice the brown envelope stuck under the heel of my boot. I bend down and pick it up, noticing straight away the smudge of blood on the top left-hand corner, like a macabre stamp, and I immediately know it’s the envelope that was on the desk yesterday. The envelope that mysteriously disappeared.

  I rip it open, pulling out a single sheet of plain paper.

  I’M WATCHING YOU

  The hairs on my arms instantly stand to attention and I whip my head around, half expecting somebody to be lurking in the doorway of the apartment opposite. But there is nothing except the white painted door and the silvery number 3 glinting in the weak sunlight.

  ‘Fuck you!’ I say to the door, sticking up my middle finger for good measure. I resist the urge to flee down the stairs as quickly as my legs will carry me. Even though my instincts are screaming at me to do just that, I descend the steps, trying to remain calm and not think about being followed or a hand on my back, pushing me to my death. I grip the banister, swallowing my fear.

  It’s not until I’ve wrestled the heavy front door open, crunched over the gravel to my car and slid into the driver’s seat that I allow myself to release my tears.

  I can’t deny it any more, Sophie. I’m scared. I’m really, really scared.

  Miraculously, I manage to find a café with Wi-Fi near the high street, down a cobbled side street, almost behind the hotel I grew up in. It’s small and practically empty. Although it’s away from the seafront, as I perch myself in the corner by the window I can hear the screech of the gulls, smell the salt in the air that reminds me I’m still in Oldcliffe.

  The waitress tries to engage me in conversation as she brings me coffee and a croissant. ‘I’ve not seen you around here before,’ she says in a thick West Country accent as she places my milky coffee in front of me. I had asked for an Americano but she gave me a blank look so I settled for a normal coffee. I’m surprised she doesn’t know who I am. Everybody else in this town seems to.

  She stands at my table, brushing down her apron and assessing me through narrowed eyes. She’s trying to place me, I can tell. I look up at her. She’s about my age with red hair and freckles. Her name tugs at the corner of my memory. Did I go to school with her?

  ‘Frankie? It’s Frankie, isn’t it? I thought it was you.’

  I smile, trying to conjure up her name.

  ‘Jenny. Jenny Powell. I was in your class at school, remember?’ She fiddles with her notepad and pen, her jolly face clouding over. She’s remembering. It reminds me of how people used to look at me after you disappeared. ‘Terrible business,’ she shakes her head. ‘You know the town never really got over it, Sophie Collier going missing like that. And now I hear she’s dead.’

  She’s still shaking her head while looking at me, and I see something else in her eyes, a glint at the possibility of the gossip.

  ‘Is that why you’re back? To find out what happened?’ I open my mouth to speak but she rushes on. ‘It’s been so long … what is it now? Eighteen years?’

  I nod.

  ‘Terrible business.’ She chews her pen thoughtfully, her eyes never leaving mine. And it suddenly occurs to me who she is. She had plaits at school, so tightly knitted together that I always imagined her mother must have done them in a temper, grabbing the hairs and winding them around each other so deftly that none dared escape. It gave her a severe appearance. She had been friends with Helen and I think she would have liked to have been friends with you too, if it wasn’t for me.

  ‘I really liked her,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘She was kind to me at school. And to Helen. We were the oddballs, the geeks.’ She laughs but I can sense remnants of hurt behind her words.

  You always did have a way with strays, being one yourself until I took you under my wing.

  ‘She was lovely,’ I say. ‘Everybody loved her.’ I always thought you were a nicer person than me. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, Soph.

  Jenny touches my shoulder in sympathy, seeing my distress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says gently. ‘It must be hard being back here, what with all the memories.’

  I tell her that it is. Not least because you’re here with me, but I keep that to myself.

  ‘They should pull that old pier down, it’s an eyesore,’ she says with feeling. ‘Not to mention dangerous. I don’t understand why they’ve kept it standing all these years.’

  I know you won’t agree. You loved anything old and from the past.

  ‘I wish they would.’

  She throws me another sympathetic smile and then thankfully leaves me in peace to go and tend to another customer.

  I take a sip of the sickly coffee, forcing myself to swallow it down, and then I click on Safari, relieved that there is a connection. I bring up the Land Registry website and find the section on owner information. It’s surprisingly easy. I type in the address of the flat opposite the one I’m staying in. I wait, my heart banging against my chest. I need to pay a small fee. I bend down and ferret in my bag to retrieve my purse. I look over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being watched but there is only one other customer, an older gentleman reading a newspaper. I quickly key in my card details and wait for the name of the owner to appear on the screen, my palms damp, coffee churning in my stomach.

  I gasp, causing the man to look up from his newspaper. The words swim in front of my eyes.

  Address: Apartment 3, Beaufort Villas, Hill Street, Ol
dcliffe-on-Sea, Somerset

  Date of purchase: September 2004

  Property owner: Mr Leon James McNamara

  31

  Sophie

  Tuesday, 12 August 1997

  My lies are causing a rift between me and Leon, their toxicity sucking all the goodness out of our relationship. And I feel so guilty because I started all this with my stupid teenage crush. With my ego. What had I been hoping to achieve, kissing Alistair? I was flattered when he first kissed me, like all those teenage fantasies had finally paid off. I did it for the skinny, spotty girl I had been. To make myself feel better, to make myself feel wanted. What an idiot. I hate myself for it. All the insecurities I’ve ever had, about my looks, about Frankie, about playing second fiddle, manifested themselves in that one moment of madness. And now I’m paying the price.

  I’d managed to avoid Alistair thanks to my gastroenteritis story, and then yesterday lunchtime I found out I’d got the publishing job in Ealing. I was so relieved when I tore open the envelope and read the letter that I burst into tears. Mum came running into the hallway, worry etched on her lovely face, until she realised they were tears of joy. I made her and Daniel promise not to tell anyone yet.

  Receiving the letter gave me the impetus I needed to leave the house. I needed my old job back on the fish stall. Even working with Stan was preferable to going back to the hotel. As I walked down to the seafront I tried to quash the feeling of unease that threatened to overwhelm me. Alistair wasn’t following me, there was no sign of him or his car, yet I still felt horribly exposed and anxious.