Grace Is Gone

by Emily Elgar

  “Your round, lil’ Rob,” he says, slurring slightly.

  The seated man turns and I see a black streak like a lightning bolt on the side of his neck. It’s him, exactly as Cara described. Robbie Craig. He heads towards the bar with slow, viscous movements, like he’s melting, but there’s also a careful grace to him, as if he has every movement planned out well in advance. While the barman—without having to be told—pulls six amber pints, Robbie glances up at the clock hanging behind the bar, his jaw tensing, relaxing, then tensing again. His fingers drum the bar, he’s forcing himself not to hurry. He doesn’t look like a man having drinks with mates—I recognize due diligence when I see it. There’s somewhere else he wants to be, somewhere else he should be.

  I look at his eyes, his mouth, his hands; have they seen, spoken to, and touched Grace? My chest tightens and I have to take a big gulp of beer and look away, to get my shit together. I take my phone out of my pocket, flick the camera on, and fix Robbie in the viewfinder. I try to look like I’m searching for a signal, and just as my thumb lands on the red button one of the fat-bellied older men at the bar slaps Robbie on the back, blocking him entirely. Shit. The fat bloke has a drinker’s nose, bulbous and red like a cartoon. He takes a pint off Robbie and, after swallowing a few deep gulps, makes a sound like air being released from a tire. Relief.

  “So, Robbo, word is you’ve got the southern route—all the way down to Sorrento, isn’t it?”

  Robbie says something I don’t catch, he tries to steer past the man, but he’s awkward, trying to hold five pints.

  “Bloody typical. Favoritism, that’s what it is. Mandy sends you off to look at all those Italian girlies in their bikinis—even after you were a no-show for the Holland job—and I’m off to the fucking sour-faced north again.”

  Robbie shrugs, tries to move away, but the bloke suddenly looks like he’s having a lightbulb moment. His eyes widen, his brow lifts, beer spills over Robbie’s hand as the bloke grabs his arms and says, “Wait a minute, Robbie, you little swine, you’re not shagging fat old Mandy for the best trips, are you?”

  The others turn towards him, sensing sport more interesting than darts. But Robbie just shakes his head, his tattoo flashing.

  “Nah, mate. I’m too knackered from shagging your missus,” I hear him say.

  There’s a beery, excited rumble from the others and for a moment the smile below the red nose drops, his hands ball, and I think he’s about to punch Robbie, before he suddenly smiles again, broader this time, and slaps Robbie on the back, spilling more beer as he does so.

  “Cheeky bastard, that’s exactly the kind of thing your dad would’ve said, isn’t that right, lads?”

  There’s another low rumble of agreement before Robbie slowly makes his way back to the table, greeted with nods of thanks as he hands out the glasses. I turn away quickly as the red-nosed bloke looks over at me, his eyes narrow, before taking another long pull on his pint. Coldness runs through me. Does he recognize me? But then he moves over to a bald guy who’s quietly watching the others play darts. Red nose says something, starts laughing in the bald guy’s face, but the bald guy flicks him away like a mosquito. Robbie says something to the guy in the flat cap, careful not to involve the others, who are all gripped by the dartboard again. The older bloke nods slowly. It looks as though Robbie’s asking for advice. The man talks for longer than Robbie, but he doesn’t look at him. He hardly moves his head, but makes small gestures with his hands, as though explaining something. Robbie stares at him intently, taking it all in. Then he seems to repeat something the older man has just said, who nods as Robbie talks. After just a couple of minutes, the flat-cap man shrugs his heavy shoulders as though casting off a heavy weight and the conversation is over, but not before, under the table, in a practiced sweeping motion, Robbie passes him a small roll of notes, which he takes and puts into his breast pocket without even glancing at it, like he knows Robbie wouldn’t dare be so stupid as to shortchange him. There’s a shout and some swearing from the darts players but the two seated men stay perfectly still while a couple of the others give each other high fives. Red nose shouts, “Fucking bull’s-eye, mate!”

  Even though he’s still got half a pint left in front of him, Robbie stands. He nods once respectfully to the man next to him, who nods back.

  “Oi, oi, I’m done,” he shouts to the others. They swear at him, call him a pussy. Robbie’s jaw tenses again but he chooses to ignore them. They turn back to their game. None of them seem too disappointed to see him go. Robbie shakes a few hands, slaps a couple of backs. I catch him looking at the clock again before he makes his slow, sloping way to the door. Before he leaves he stares at me for just a moment, and as our eyes meet in that brief second I see the thin face from Dave’s photo. They’re almost identical: the sallow cheeks, the sharp cheekbones, the prominent Adam’s apple. But where Tony’s eyes in the photo were dulled, as though ashamed, Robbie’s eyes are bright, alert, and emotionless. In that moment I have the feeling that Robbie’s dark eyes have seen things I can’t even imagine. I make myself count to twenty before I get up and, without looking at the other men, follow him out of the pub and into the warm night.

  He’s in a hurry, walking fast. I have to jog a couple of paces so I don’t lose him completely. The lighthouse flashes like a searchlight in the sky, urgent, as if we’re all convicts and Rainstead one huge prison. Robbie walks quickly up the steep high street, away from the sea, and for a mad moment I think he’s heading to the Lamb, that somehow he knows Cara is there. I start running towards the hotel and look up to see, with relief, that the curtains in Cara’s window are drawn. I have to get to him, stop him before he can get anywhere near her, but then he makes a sharp left at the sign for Raynor Beach. Thank God. I stop, try to get my breath and my hammering heart to calm. But as I start to follow this man who threatened Cara, who probably murdered Meg, I think about Jakey, and regret washes over me like nausea. He still hasn’t called me back or answered my texts. And as I move deeper into the night I wish I could hear his voice, just for a moment, because his faith in me makes me brave and now, like never before, I need to be brave.

  21

  Cara

  The moon casts a silvery path, as if showing me the way towards the beach, while the lighthouse keeps its beady eye open, searching for danger. I feel like they’re on my side, my team, here to keep me safe. I try not to let myself think too much. I know if I do I’ll let fear take over, run back to the pub. I don’t know what I’m doing exactly, but I feel like I need to see the place Danny died, where it all began. It’s like an invisible string is connecting me to Grace, leading me there. I feel like I’m sleepwalking, but I don’t want to wake up. I stop at the sign where Jon paused just half an hour earlier, then take the path signposted Raynor Beach, opposite the empty fish and chip shop that Luce’s ex-mother-in-law works in.

  I start to follow the path, which bends down towards the sea. The salt in the air seems to fill my lungs, the sea glugging to my left, calling me on, a warm breeze gently pushing behind me. At times the path gets rocky and I have to crouch to clamber down short but steep drops, lift myself over stone stiles. Nettles and overgrown gorse bushes sting and grab my skin with tiny sharp mouths, but I ignore them. I’m getting closer, I must be. To my left the sea no longer gulps and sloshes but has become a low, steady roar. Suddenly the path opens onto a small grassy patch; the lighthouse sweeps its beam over a cove below. I’ve been told enough times never to go near the edge at places like this, the ground might look secure but it could be false, a weak grassy overhang, the stone and rock underneath eroded, licked back into the sea. It’s not clear how to get down into the cove and, for the first time, I hesitate. My eyes start to adjust to the gloom. I tell myself I’ll just go down and see it, just for a moment—I’ve come all this way, after all. The path is steep and narrow. I bend low and use my hands to help me along. I slip a couple of times but stop myself from crying out.

  With the moon bouncing off the w
ater and the sea-slick rocks, the cove is lighter than it looked from above, the night more navy than black. Stars like benevolent spirits seem to smile down at me. The cove is almost a perfect horseshoe shape. The sea strokes the sand where the two meet so gently. I can see why Simon thought this was a good place for his family, a safe place. I decide to sit for a moment, then I’ll make my way back. It seems impossible that this flat, soothing sea stole a small boy and planted the seed for so many years of sadness and pain. I close my eyes but the noise of falling rocks makes them fly open again. It’s the noise I made as I came down the path. There are no voices and whoever or whatever it is doesn’t make any other sound. I listen hard. Above the sound of the sea I hear the steady crunch of small rocks being disturbed, rubbing against each other. Footsteps. I shrink back. Who the hell would be coming down here now, in the dark? Could Jon have seen me go, followed me? But why wouldn’t he have shouted after me?

  I see Robbie’s dark eyes, his thin arm pulling back before sending the heavy lamp crashing against Meg’s skull. Drip, drip. Please, please, I beg the sky, don’t let it be him. They’re getting closer, footsteps steady, they’re coming down to the beach. If I don’t do something he’ll see me. I have to move, I have to move now. I slowly come to a crouching stand and then run behind a large boulder. I push myself close, its cold bulk reassuring against my cheek. The footsteps stop as the person steps down onto the sand. It’s worse not being able to hear them. He could well have seen me from above. Perhaps he’s already holding a rock in his hand, testing its sharpness against his thumb, nice and heavy. Drip, drip.

  I don’t know where he is. I’m too frightened to turn around in case I see him behind me so instead I hold my breath, gather my courage, and force myself to look up, over the edge of the boulder. My veins jolt as soon as I see him. He’s looking out at the sea, his back towards me, wearing an oversized coat, the hood over his head. He starts to walk across the sand, towards the darker side of the beach, towards me. He walks carefully, with a slight limp. He looks smaller, much smaller than I remember. The wind picks up from the sea and a gust almost pulls his hood back. I see a flash of short, spiky light hair, before a hand rises to put the hood back in place. But it’s too late, I know what I’ve seen. The lighthouse searches the cove, flashes over us both. I move out onto the sand, my cold limbs oiled with adrenaline. I keep my eyes fixed on her, terrified that if I blink or turn away she’ll vanish again. Like me, she’s keeping to the shadows like she shouldn’t be here. I call her name loud and clear in the night:

  “Grace!”

  6th June 2019

  Raynor Beach

  The night it happened, Tony carried me into an old caravan, Mum’s blood still on his face. It left a stain on one of the stars on my dress. He didn’t say a word, just left me in the filthy, empty bathroom, the tiny bathroom suite the color of well-stewed tea. He came back with a sleeping bag. The next few days were a blur. I was in shock from that night and still in withdrawal from the drugs. When I opened my eyes, everything around me vibrated, but it was worse when they were closed—that’s when Mum would come for me, her face crumpled and bloodied. But in my dreams she’d give me the drugs I now craved. Sometimes I heard low voices, hands changed me out of my clothes, cleaned the wound in my stomach. The caravan shook with weather and footsteps. I don’t know how long it took, but at last the fog started to lift from my mind and when I woke the bathroom door was open.

  They’d changed me into leggings and a blue hoodie that smelled like deodorant. I wondered who had worn it before me. There was a bandage on my stomach. I tried to walk, my legs like chewing gum, but slowly I made my way out of my bathroom cell. They were both there, Tony and his brother Robbie, the one with the tattoo. Tony had told me about him. Mum’s red box was open and empty in front of them on the plastic table. I couldn’t look at Tony without seeing Mum and he didn’t look at me. I stood in the middle of the room and Robbie pointed at the empty box and said, “It’s not enough.”

  I knew where to take them. She’d been stealing for as long as I could remember. She told me she stole to pay for the drugs I needed but now I think it gave her a thrill. And she was good at it. She stole from friends’ houses, from old people in nursing homes, and hospitals. Apart from that GP office in Plymouth where Mum worked for a little while, no one ever suspected her. Even if they did, no one would ever dare accuse her. The whole of Summervale would turn against anyone who uttered a single word against Cornwall’s most adored mum. Just ask that reporter, Jon Katrin.

  When we got to the cemetery I played up my confusion, said I couldn’t remember where Danny was buried. I knew three of us searching for one small grave would draw attention—they had no choice but to leave me alone. I didn’t know how many days I’d been in the caravan exactly. It was only when I stood in front of his grave that I counted the number of times I’d watched the sun rise and fall out of the grimy window and worked out the date: June 6th. The day Danny died, Mum’s birthday. I knew the twins were watching, so I mouthed a silent “happy birthday” to her in the pouring rain as I dug up the wet earth at the foot of Danny’s grave. I lifted out the blue box I knew I’d find there. I only had to peek inside to know it was enough. It had to be enough. Even in the dull light the brightness of the diamond rings, the gold watch, and necklaces stung my eyes, so I shut it again and put the box in the pocket of Robbie’s coat, just like he told me to. I wanted them to see me do exactly as they said. I know what they’re capable of now. I’ve survived so much for so long. I have to survive them.

  22

  Jon

  Robbie uses the flashlight on his phone to light the path in front of him, which is good—it means I can keep a good few paces behind and not risk losing him. The light glimmers through even the thickest gorse bush. I walk as carefully as I can, mindful of loose rocks and lifted roots. In the distance, the huge yellow eye of the lighthouse winks. My heart beats hard in my chest, like a third set of footsteps. I think only about the next step and the one after that. I don’t let myself think what he’d do if he found me following. After half a mile or so the path opens out into a small grass clearing, the sea growling like a guard dog on my left. Robbie shines the flashlight ahead of him, between two dense bushes. It doesn’t look like a path, but he wraps his coat around him to protect against the sharp thorns before he dives between the bushes. There was a path here once. Again I force myself to wait, count to twenty before I follow. The thorns tear at my raincoat like long nails, trying to pull me back. I freeze, but ahead I see Robbie’s light flickering, moving forward and up; he didn’t hear. Temporarily reassured, I push forward. The overgrown path opens a little, like it’s been used a few times recently; some of the brambles look freshly broken. Without warning, the path gets steeper, and at times I have to use my hands and claw the ground for balance. The sea, behind me now, sighs and moans and the lighthouse keeps up its rhythmic beat; like a strobe light it catches time in pulses. From afar there was comfort in it but now it makes everything too strange. Up ahead I see there’s a shadow, darker than the others, and as I battle my way towards it I think it’s a huge rock, but when I get closer I realize it’s too uniform, too big, to be a rock. It’s a rectangle, a small caravan, dark and almost choked by brambles. It’s clear no one’s had a holiday here in years.

  Ahead, the phone light dances on and I follow, past more abandoned caravans. Suddenly, the light from the flashlight disappears and darkness falls like a blanket. I duck down; I feel more exposed without the light. I don’t know where he is, where he’s gone. I count to twenty again. I want to turn around, bolt back to the warm glow of the pub. I’d order a whisky to settle myself and then I’d call Upton, tell her everything I know. But what if it’s too late by then? If I go back now we may never know the truth about Meg, about Grace. I owe it to Simon, to Cara, to myself. I think of the promise I made to Jakey, see him waiting for me, glancing at his watch. I’ve broken too many promises already.

  Bending low to the ground, I ma
ke myself move forward. Without Robbie’s flashlight it’s hard to see which way to go, but then my eye catches a flicker. To my right there’s a small light, no bigger than the light from a match. But it’s there and it’s all I have so I decide to go towards it. I keep my eyes on the light and my shin smacks against something hard and flat. I yelp in pain, fall to the ground biting my tongue to stop from calling out. My mouth fills with the coppery taste of blood. I clutch my leg and wait for the pain to subside. My hands are damp as I lift them off my leg. I’m bleeding, but there’s no serious damage done. I stand slowly and, pulling my coat over my hand, move the nettles to the side to see what I crashed into. It’s a sign on top of another sign. The top one says PRIVATE and the one below says PORT RAYNOR CARAVAN PARK. I remember Simon in the café, telling me he booked a caravan for Meg’s birthday, the weekend Danny died. I remember Dave telling me the twins’ dad used to work in tourism—thought he ran a hostel, but wasn’t sure—could it have been a caravan park? The nettles nip at my ankles, and as I walk on the light grows, the glow welcome in the darkening night. The light is coming from another, larger caravan. The overgrown yard is dotted with the forgotten skeletons of family life, an abandoned child’s bike, a rusty small trampoline, all being slowly digested by brambles and ivy. There’s an old Volvo parked carelessly at an angle, its nose almost touching the front of the caravan. I stay crouching behind a tiny, moldy pile of logs. The curtains in the caravan are drawn, but they’re flimsy, easy to see through, though from here I can’t make anything out, just the occasional shadow, nothing more. The caravan rattles and groans as someone walks about inside. Words are spoken but they’re too muffled, I can’t make any sense of them. More words come soon after. They are shorter, angrier, like punches thrown in a fight. One of the voices starts shouting and, as the door flies open, I shrink back, careful to keep myself hidden.