Little Girl Lost

by Brian McGilloway

  LITTLE

  GIRL

  LOST

  BRIAN McGILLOWAY

  MACMILLAN

  For Ben, Tom, David and Lucy

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  THE LANDSCAPE OF LITTLE GIRL LOST

  CHAPTER 1

  There was definitely something moving between the trees. He’d been aware of it for a few moments now, a flitting movement he’d catch in the corner of his eye, weaving through the black tree trunks set vertical against the snow. At first he had dismissed it as the result of snow hypnosis from staring too long through the windscreen into the unrelenting downdraught of snowflakes.

  Michael Mahon shunted the gearstick back into first as he approached the hill leading into Prehen. He knew almost as soon as he had shifted down that it was the wrong thing to do. He felt the wheels of the milk float begin to spin beneath him, could see the nose of the vehicle drift towards the kerb. He eased back on the accelerator, pumped the brakes in an attempt to halt the inexorable movement sideways but to no avail. He knew the wheels had locked and yet still the float shifted sideways, sliding backwards across the road, coming to rest finally against the far kerb.

  Cursing, he shut off the engine and dropped down from the cab onto the road. Just behind him lay the edge of the ancient woodland stretching for several miles from Prehen all the way up to Gobnascale. Light from street lamps reflected off the snow, illuminating further into the woods than normal at this time of night. Black branches of the trees sagged in places under the increased weight of snow.

  Shivering involuntarily, Michael turned his attention to the milk float again. He picked up the spade he’d left on the back for just such an emergency. As he was bending to clear the snow from the wheels he became aware once more of a movement in the woods, on the periphery of his vision.

  It was cold, yet the goosebumps that sprang up along his arms and down his spine caused him to start. Brandishing the spade in both hands, he turned again to face the woods, dread already settling itself in the pit of his stomach.

  A child came into the open at the edge of the trees. Her hair, long and black against the white background of the forest floor, looked soaked through, hanging lank onto her shoulders. Her face was rounded and pale. She wore a pair of pyjamas. On the chest of the jacket something was written. Her feet were bare.

  When the girl saw him she stopped, staring at the spade he was holding, then looking at him, challengingly, her gaze never leaving his face, her skin almost blue from the luminescence of the snow. It was only as he stepped closer to her, crouching cautiously, his hand outstretched as one might approach an animal, that she turned and ran back into the trees.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lucy Black sensed someone in her room. She felt groggy as she stretched across to the lamp on the bedside locker, her fingers spidering over her service revolver.

  ‘Are you coming?’ her father’s voice whispered into the darkness.

  She swore softly to herself, fumbling with the switch on the lamp, causing it to fall off the bedside cabinet.

  ‘Get to bed, Daddy,’ she said.

  The ceiling light sparked into life, dazzling her. She shifted in the bed, pulling at her nightdress to straighten it around her shoulders.

  ‘Are you coming?’ the old man repeated. He stood in the bedroom doorway, his hand still resting on the switch. He wore a grey suit over his pyjamas, his good shoes, polished. In his hand he carried a suitcase, empty judging by the ease with which he swung it, its sides thumping against his leg. White dollops of shaving foam flecked one cheek. Along his jaw a thin line of blood trickled from a shaving cut, gathering against a clump of grey stubble he had missed.

  ‘It’s half-four in the morning, Daddy,’ Lucy said, struggling to get out of bed.

  ‘He’s coming at nine, they said. We’ll need to get going. Are you not getting dressed?’

  ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘The Pope,’ he said with exasperation. ‘I told you we were going to see him. You’ll make us late.’

  ‘Let’s get you back to bed,’ Lucy said, moving towards her father, taking his arm.

  He snatched away from her quickly, the movement causing the suitcase to swing violently, connecting with her shin.

  ‘We’ll be late,’ he hissed, his teeth gritted. ‘Get dressed.’

  Lucy stood in front of him, wiped the blear of sleep from her eyes. ‘Where is he? The Pope?’

  ‘Drogheda,’ her father said. ‘He’s saying Mass in Drogheda.’

  ‘The Pope was in Drogheda thirty years ago, Da.’

  The old man’s jaw clenched, his bird-like chest puffing slightly. ‘You’re always contradicting me. He’s coming today.’

  ‘It was 1979, Daddy,’ Lucy said, quietly, pleadingly, hoping the plaintive tone to her voice might somehow penetrate his muddled thoughts.

  He looked at her, his mouth quivering, the sound of his denture clacking against his remaining teeth as he considered what she had said. He sniffed and she could see his eyes begin to glisten with tears, as if on some level he was aware of his mistake.

  ‘We’re early yet, Daddy,’ Lucy said, instead. ‘We’ll not need to be leaving until later. Why don’t you grab a few more hours of sleep?’

  The man looked at her a little defiantly. ‘Maybe so,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll tell your mother.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I’ll tell her,’ Lucy said, taking her father’s arm again, gingerly. ‘Let’s get you to bed again.’

  She led him back into his bedroom. He’d drawn the curtains and, as she went to close them again, she could make out the mountains on the far side of the Foyle valley, draped in snow. The reflection of the city’s lights on the water meant she could make out the form of the river itself, snaking in the distance, cutting its way through the city of Derry, splitting it in half.

  Her father lay on the bed and allowed her to remove his suit. She pulled the duvet over him, leant and kissed his forehead, the smell of tobacco from his breath returning her affection.

  ‘Goodnight, Janet,’ he said to her, turning his head on the pillow in such a way that, in the still light of the room, his cheeks seemed sunken, his skin suddenly taut and waxy-looking.

  ‘Lucy,’ she mouthed into the darkness. ‘I’m Lucy.’

  She had settled back into bed, and was on the cusp of sleep, when her mobile rang. She had to rush to answer the phone lest it woke her father.

  ‘DS Blac
k, Chief Superintendent Travers here.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  ‘I need you out. We think we’ve found Kate McLaughlin. A milkman claims to have seen her in the woodland at Prehen. He’s at the bottom entrance, near the hotel. The snow’s making access to the area difficult and I understand you’re living there. A Response team is on its way.’

  ‘I’ll be there as quick as I can, Chief Superintendent,’ she said. ‘My dad’s help doesn’t get here till …’

  ‘Just get a move on!’ Travers snapped.

  CHAPTER 3

  It took her fifteen minutes just to leave the house. She’d needed to have all the breakfast stuff set out for her father in case he woke before nine when the help, a middle-aged woman called Sarah King, would arrive. Sarah could let herself in; she had a key and her father was used to her.

  The snow was still falling heavily. Lucy was wearing a thick jumper over her shirt and had pulled on a heavy black coat. She’d worn her jeans, a pair of tights beneath to keep her warm. Even so, the cold wind bit at her skin and made her lungs ache when she breathed in.

  Her gloves were soaked already from having to brush the snow from her windscreen. Then she’d set off at ten miles an hour, vainly using the bare flat of her hand to rub away the fern-like patterns of ice that formed on the inside of the glass from her own expiration.

  The tyres on the car began to lose grip and Lucy felt the vehicle drift across the road. Quickly she remembered to steer into the skid to keep the car on track. She tried not to be distracted by the snow beating silently against the windscreen, nor the ominous presence of the woodland itself, standing black behind the orange fluorescence of the street lamps. It ran the entire length of Prehen, extending far beyond the estate, almost to New Buildings in one direction and Gobnascale in the other. There were a number of entrances to the woods, including one at the far end of the street on which Lucy lived, but Travers’s comment on the proximity of the hotel narrowed down where the child had been seen.

  When she reached the bottom entrance, she realized that despite the slowness of her travel she was there before the Response team. An abandoned milk float sat at an angle, its headlamps ablaze, illuminating the edge of the woods. Long dark shadows from the trees stretched away into blackness.

  As she got out of the car, a man struggled down from the cab of the milk float and made his way up towards her.

  ‘There’s someone in there!’ he shouted up to her. ‘I think it’s the McLaughlin girl. I’ve phoned the police.’

  ‘They’ve arrived,’ Lucy responded, waving the torch she held in her hand. ‘DS Black. Were you the one who saw her?’

  The man had reached her by now, his cheeks flushed with the chill.

  ‘Michael Mahon,’ he said, nodding in response to her question. ‘She went in there.’ He pointed to his right.

  ‘You didn’t try to stop her?’ Lucy asked, trying not to sound accusatory. Failing.

  ‘Of course I did,’ he replied. ‘She turned and ran.’

  Lucy paused, rephrasing before she spoke again.

  ‘It was safer not to go in alone after her,’ she said.

  He looked at her a moment, as if searching for offence, then nodded.

  ‘Where’re the rest of you?’ he asked.

  ‘The rest are on their way. Things are busy tonight, sir.’

  Mahon grunted in response, spat on the ground in front of him, ran the tip of his shoe against the snow.

  ‘I was thinking it was her. You know, the wee girl Kate.’

  Lucy nodded. ‘Was it?’

  The man grimaced apologetically, shrugged his shoulders. ‘She didn’t stand still for long. I couldn’t tell with the dark.’

  ‘Understandable, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  She puffed out her cheeks, then began trudging through the snow towards the woodland edge. She knew she should wait for the Response team, but in this weather they could take an hour to arrive. The child would be past helping by then.

  ‘You’ll never find her in there on your own!’ Mahon shouted from behind her.

  ‘I’m not on my own, though, am I?’ Lucy replied.

  The surface snow scattered the light from her torch as they moved into the trees. Sweeping the beam from side to side, she scanned the forest floor for footprints, for even the slightest indentation on the snow’s crust that might signal the passage of the child the milkman had seen. Even with the falling snow, the air around them seemed unusually chilled and sharp with the scent of decaying leaves.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Uh?’ Mahon stooped slightly to avoid the hanging branches of the trees now surrounding them.

  ‘You’re sure you saw someone?’ Lucy asked, inadvertently turning the torch on the man as she twisted to look at him.

  ‘I swear to God,’ he said, his right hand raised slightly in front of his face to shield his eyes. ‘I think she came in here; but the whole bloody place looks the same. I definitely saw someone though. A girl.’

  Lucy turned again towards the woods. Looking left and right she saw only lines of tree trunks, the snow settling implacably on the ground around her with a whispered hush. Absurdly, it reminded her of her earlier movement as she pulled her father’s blanket around his shoulders, whispering him to sleep. Further into the woods the trees disappeared among the deepening gradations of darkness rippling out beyond the light of her torchbeam.

  ‘It might have been down there a bit,’ Mahon said, stepping away ahead of her, already having to take exaggerated steps to progress through the thickening drift at their feet. ‘She’ll freeze to death in this,’ he commented, almost to himself.

  They walked along the edge of the trees, treading carefully so as not to walk over any prints. Six or seven hundred yards south of their starting point Lucy saw for the first time marks in the snow, slim indentations, the hollows already filling. The prints seemed to be circling around trees, the movements of the child’s steps indiscriminate. There was no doubt in her mind that the prints were those of a child.

  ‘I told you,’ Mahon said, gesturing towards the marks. ‘I knew I saw something.’

  Lucy grunted acknowledgement, stamped her feet, the snow crunching beneath her. She followed the trail with her torchbeam, her tongue poking through her teeth in concentration, like a child completing a join-the-dots exercise. The trail twisted back on itself a few times, moved towards the edge of the woodland, where presumably the child had watched the milkman, then moved back again and cut at an angle across to the left.

  ‘This way,’ Lucy said, moving off now, walking alongside the marks in the snow, and taking care to preserve them in case they had to retrace the child’s movements again.

  The tracks rounded a tree whose lower branches, though leafless, were fanned with thin twigs that had served to hold a deadweight of snow. Something seemed to have disturbed it in some way, probably the child in her passing, for much of the snow had fallen, piled like spilt sugar on the ground.

  ‘Shouldn’t you call her or something?’ Mahon asked as he trudged behind her.

  ‘It might scare her off,’ Lucy said. ‘The gentle approach might be better.’

  The hush of the falling snow was split with the wailing of sirens as in the distance other police cars approached. For a few seconds, Lucy found herself disorientated by the combination of the snow and the elliptical flickering of blue lights through the trees, like strobe lighting. She considered going back to her colleagues, to Travers, who would no doubt be annoyed at her going into the woods alone. On the other hand, a child alone in such conditions took priority over everything else, she reasoned, and she kept moving deeper into the trees.

  Her breath was laboured as she strode through the drifts, eventually having to kick out sideways in order to step forwards. She could not catch a breath, yet was grateful for the heat the struggle to move generated.

  She heard the silence resume as the sirens were cut off. Her colleagues must have ar
rived and would be following her own prints into the woods, just as she had tracked the child’s.

  She had known these woods once and still remembered them enough to know there were landmarks by which to gauge her whereabouts. She recalled there was a hollow somewhere close by where, rumour had suggested when she was young, an elephant had been buried after dying during a performance by a visiting circus. The hollow had sunken further over the years, making the story seem all the more believable.

  But she did not reach that far. Nor was she likely to in the worsening weather. She had been moving for almost five minutes when she heard something above the roaring silence of the falling snow. Moving forwards more slowly, the torch held low to widen the spread of the beam, Lucy found herself holding her breath as she listened. Stertorous gasps seemed to come from upwind. For a moment, Lucy could see little, the torchbeam only serving to highlight the downdraught of snow pounding towards her. Then, gradually, she became aware of a figure sat at the base of a hawthorn tree fifty yards away.

  The child sat hunched against the tree trunk, her knees drawn up against her chest, the thin cloth of her pyjama top stretched over her kneecaps. Her hair lay flat against her head, lank strands plastered to the porcelain skin of her face. Her lips were almost blue, her teeth audibly chattering as she attempted to control her breathing. When she realized Lucy had spotted her she shrank back tighter against the tree, clamping her mouth shut.

  Lucy lowered the torch a little further, approached the child slowly, her hand outstretched, her body hunched to bring her closer to the child’s level.

  ‘You’re OK, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. My name’s Lucy – what’s your name?’

  The child eyed her warily, her eyes flashing under the dark furrows of her brow. She wrapped her arms around her knees, tightened her grip, as if trying to make herself even smaller.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Lucy repeated. She was aware that Mahon was standing back to her right, didn’t want to look though, in case it drew the child’s attention to him.

  ‘You must be cold,’ she said. ‘Why not come with me?’

  The girl shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut.