by Ivan Pope
Their relationship was complicated. They’d met five or six years previously, soon after Allen came out of prison. Allen was trying to place a couple of pieces he’d written, and Jenkins, recognising something intriguing in him and a raw talent, had taken him under his wing, giving him a series of assignments. As Allen became a better writer, Jenkins took to treating Allen to lunch lunching him and passing on titbits of gossip and intelligence that he’d picked up from his police contacts or links to the ever-changing criminal scene. Allen, on the other hand, was more interested in a seedy demi-monde that was completely alien to Jenkins and constantly tried to drag him towards it. In this way, over time, they formed a powerful alliance. Jenkins provided a home for research that sometimes took months or years to pull together and he opened doors for Allen as he needed them.
He wrote a swift reply.
Your place? tomorrow lunch, see you there. Allen
The offices of London Strife were in Fitzrovia, that slice of historic London that sat between Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. It didn’t take Allen long to get over there. He found Jenkins sitting in the spring sunshine outside a trendy restaurant, Rack, on Charlotte Street. He was wearing a suit, no tie and big sunglasses. Not one to abstain at lunchtime, he was sipping a vodka tonic.
‘Allen,’ Jenkins said enthusiastically, patting the seat next to him. Allen sat down and they surveyed the street together.
‘Drink?’ he asked as a waiter emerged.
‘No thanks,’ Allen said. He didn’t really drink these days, that had been part of the problem that had led him into temptation. They both ordered steak frites, rare, before the waiter could get away again.
‘So, how’s your underworld?’ said Jenkins.
‘Gloomy,’ said Allen. ‘Nothing dramatic, just the usual procession of lost daughters and missing sons.’
‘Why is it that daughters are lost but sons go missing? And children, what do they do?’ said Jenkins.
‘Children are always snatched by strangers,’ Allen said. ‘Even when they’re not. Come on, then. What’s your big mystery?’
Jenkins laughed and paused for effect.
‘I’ve only got Jennifer fucking Ransome.’
Jennifer Ransome. Allen knew the story well. Twelve years after disappearing she had walked back out of history, large as life, all grown up. Came into a police station in Holloway two months before and told them who she was and that she wanted to go home. They had no fucking idea. She’d been gone for so long, there was a whole new generation of police. The guy who had led the search was long retired. The press went crazy as she was swept up into a safe house and closeted with police liaison and psychiatrists, doctors, family, the works. But no press. No stories had leaked, no photos either. She was a blank, a fascinating, tantalising, blank.
Jenkins sipped his vodka. ‘You know it was always my story?’
Allen nodded. ‘Of course, but how …’
‘I know her parents well. I talked to them a lot after she went missing. At first, I was just another reporter, but, after a few months, when everybody thought she was dead, I kept on plugging away, asking questions, demanding her return. I did think she was dead, I always thought that, but I couldn’t admit it to her mum and dad. I’d got too close. I kept telling them, she might have run away, with a boy or something. It wasn’t very likely, she was too young, but we grasped at straws. It didn’t seem to do any harm. The weeks passed, then the months, and eventually I think we all decided that she was dead, but we never said it out loud. It sort of became the great unfinished business of London Strife, of my life really. I carried some guilt, tell you the truth, that I’d gone on so long about her being alive, but in the end the story drifted away. You can’t keep focussed on one person like that, and the mag had started to grow, we had a lot of other stories, we were learning our trade. In the end, though I never lost touch with them completely, I moved on. I’m not sure they ever moved on, even by one day. Allen looked at Jenkins’ expensive suit. He sure had moved on, he thought, on the backs of these stories.
‘And now?’ he said, not wanting to spend the whole of lunch rehashing old stories.
‘Now? Now it turns out they never forgot me, and when she reappeared, they called me first. Anyway, eat up. How’s the steak?’
‘Steak’s good. Tell me about this girl.’
‘She’s not a girl anymore. She’s grown up. I’m not sure what happened to her, you’d think she would be broken, but …’
‘But?’
‘It’s hard to explain. She’s motoring. She’s got ambition, like she wants to be fucking famous. Get on the telly.’
‘Well, good for her,’ said Allen.
He paused.
‘But what’s that got to do with me?’
‘Well, she needs someone to write her book, of course. You know, ghost her story. I thought you could do it.’
A ghost for a ghost, he thought, and his pulse quickened. Of course. This was the book, he thought, that he’d been waiting for.
He knew Jennifer’s story was valuable. Everybody wanted to know what horrors had gone on, where she’d been held, what indignities she had been subjected to: the usual prurient interest masquerading as public interest. The media had speculated with abandon, but barely any word leaked from the Ransome camp. The police filled in a few of the gaps for their favoured contacts and promised a press conference, maybe even Jennifer herself, ‘in good time’. Denied their story, the press made up whatever they wanted, harassed any relatives or friends of the family they could find and constructed elaborate graphics on the basis of their guesswork. Forensic artists were brought in to make impressions of what she might look like now, impressions that varied so much from paper to paper as to be a joke. Nobody really knew what had happened, nobody really knew what was happening.
Allen gripped Jenkins’ arm hard, convinced for a moment he was joking. ‘Why would she want me?’
‘Her mum wants her to be happy. And there’s money in it, lots of money. We’ve got an agent, we’ll set up an auction for the rights. It’s just a fixed-fee job – and your name on the cover. Below hers, of course.’
‘So, is it true?’
‘True?’
‘That stuff, any of it? The stories?’
It was said that she was quite mad, that she had three dwarf children, that she talked in a strange language, that she had twenty-inch fingernails and white hair. It was also said that she was preparing a media career, that she had signed up as a columnist with a red top and that she would be a contestant on Celebrity Big Brother.
‘That’s what you’ll find out, I guess. All I’ve heard is that she was talking to the police and the doctors and that she got the hump for some reason and moved out of hospital and is holed up with her parents in a rented house somewhere. The papers are sniffing around, my guess is that they will find her soon, so you better get a move on. Her parents have given me first sniff, for old times’ sake.’
He giggled. ‘Does that sound sick?’
‘She’s not stupid, you know. The press is going crazy for her and everyone wants to know what happened. To see her. If she wants to write a book, and she wants you to help her write the book, then you fucking get in there and write the book.’
The waiter returned. Jenkins went quiet. When he had gone, Jenkins continued.
‘There’s another thing. A copper, Herman. He’s a Detective Constable now, thinks he owns the case.’
‘And?’
‘Well, we’ve been sparring over this for a long time. When she went, he was just a spotty plod in a hat, but now he’s serious, a real detective. He’s already warned me off the case.’ Jenkins smiled. ‘Do you understand?’
He was serious now. ‘Herman can fuck this story up for us unless we’re smart. But you’re a professional, it’s your job. And it’s your big break. You keep everyone happy and I’ll sort us out a contract.’
‘Since when were you my manager?’ said Allen quietly, under his breath. But he
knew that, if the book was going to be written, he would make sure he was the one who wrote it.
Jennifer
Two days later, Allen took a bus out through East London to the leafy edge of the city. Through nervousness he got off the bus too early and, holding a scrap of paper with an address on it, walked for a while, getting more depressed as he went. Family cars sped past, sending dust into the air while the occasional mother pushing a buggy passed him by.
Eventually he found the long, quiet road lined with houses that looked very run-down, standing behind spindly hedges stunted by the grimy traffic fumes. When he got to the house, he double-checked the number on a gatepost and walked up the path past an overgrown front garden. He rang the doorbell and listened as it jangled in the distance. After a short delay the door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing leather trousers and a top with Vogue marked out in pink sparkles. She wore a lot of makeup and was holding a small dog by the collar, which put her into an uncomfortable, half-stooped stance.
He smiled broadly at her. ‘Mrs Ransome?’
‘Yes,’ she said blankly and smiled back.
He held out his hand. ‘Allen Kimbo. I’ve come to talk to Jennifer. I’m the writer, it’s about her book? I phoned.’
She seemed to finally get it and, ignoring his hand, nodded him in across the hallway towards the front room. It was large and overheated, violently carpeted and filled with furniture, people and a smoky fug. Allen edged in sideways while the woman who’d answered the door pushed in behind him.
‘Don’t worry about them, Mr Allen, things are a bit hectic but they’re just family. Mostly.’
She spoke into the room, loudly. ‘Everyone, this is Allen. He’s come to talk to Jenni. She might be writing a book.’
Everybody in the room looked at him with a certain expectation. He half-expected them to give a round of applause, but they just clucked in approval, as if he was a publisher come to announce a gifted daughter’s first novel.
He said that he understood what they’d been through, though of course he didn’t.
‘I’m sorry about the crowd,’ said Mrs Ransome. ‘This is my sister. Her husband. My oldest. It’s his birthday.’
‘And this is Mr Soanes, our new lawyer.’
Mr Soanes grinned broadly and waved a wine glass at him in a friendly gesture.
She waved vaguely at the rest of the people present who smiled back at him in turn and returned to their conversations.
‘Let’s go to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I expect you’d like a cup of tea.’
The kitchen was empty. He sat at a small table by a window while she busied herself with the kettle. He looked out at a large back garden and a small tiled area littered with dog faeces.
‘Nice house,’ he said.
‘Yes, isn’t it just? The government are paying for it, for therapy they said, for the best. For now, anyway. They said we needed to be away from everyone. Jenni likes it, she likes the garden.’
‘You must be very glad to have her back,’ he said.
‘I still can’t believe it, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. All those years, gone, empty.’ She looked away. ‘You know, although you always have to say you believe she’s still alive, I didn’t really. Not at all. I just gave up hope, years ago, otherwise I would have gone mad. My doctor told me: “Julie,” he said, “Julie, you’ve got to face up to facts.” When I asked him what he meant he said: “She’s gone, you know, and she isn’t coming back.” He was wrong, wasn’t he? But I believed him after that. I didn’t say it to anyone, but I did. I thought she’d gone for good, into the ground.’
She took a mug from the cupboard.
‘She’s like a different girl now, all grown up and knowing what she wants to do. I don’t really know her – don’t tell her I said that – but sometimes it’s like a miracle from god. It’s come as a shock, I’ll say. Her brother, well, he didn’t really know her, he was only tiny when she went, but he’s happy. I say happy, he’s a bit confused. But he’ll get used to it. Even the vicar has been round, you know. He said I need to get back to church. Funny, isn’t it? I stopped going, years ago, and he never visited all those years, but I don’t think I could start again now. Do you think I should go back? Is there any point? I’ve got her back and all.’
Her voice had become high-pitched, volatile. She stopped to take a breath. He could feel the stress coming off her.
‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s just a reaction to her, um, time away. All those years on her own, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’
He hesitated, not sure where this was going. ‘I imagine she spent a lot of time thinking about you.’
Mrs Ransome twisted her handkerchief in her lap. ‘It’s the doctors, they wanted us, her, to be safe. But you know …’ And she looked behind her to check in case anyone had entered the kitchen, ‘… you know, the newspaper wanted to send us to a hotel. In London. They said they would pay for everything, and Jenni could do some interviews. But the doctors, they didn’t want us to do that. I would have liked a hotel, although this house is very nice. But it scares me, at night, it’s too quiet.’
‘What did Jenni want to do?’
‘Well, she’s got her own plans, that one. It’s as if she came back with plans. But she won’t tell me, she won’t listen to me on anything now. I suppose she’s an adult, but it seems strange to me. I never got to see her grow up, never got to teach her anything, and now I’m going to lose her all over again.’
He felt pity for this woman, dragged along her whole life by forces she was not in control of.
‘My husband won’t talk about it, but then he won’t talk to anyone, poor love, he’s not been well. It’s this television thing that I’m worried about, it seems all wrong to me, that she could go on television and, well, I’m not sure if even she knows what. Become some sort of television person and have her own programme and everything. Where did that come from, that’s what I want to know?’
He wasn’t sure whether he was taking advantage or if this was what she wanted. Play it by ear, he thought, go where it leads. She opened the kitchen door and they stepped out onto the tiny concrete patio. She pointed to some lichen covered plastic garden chairs and they both sat down again. Mrs Ransome lit a cigarette. Allen pulled out a digital recorder.
She reached over and pressed down with her fingertips on his wrist.
‘You know, I didn’t think she would ever come back. I really didn’t. I waited such a long time. I didn’t want to give in, but inside I did. Every year we still did our ceremony, on the anniversary, and on her birthday, but in the end, you just give up believing – can you understand that?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘She was my little one and I lost her and then I tried to forget about her. And then she came back. Can you, can you …’ She looked around nervously, as if somebody might be listening, then drew deeply on her cigarette.
‘How is it, between you and her?’ he said.
‘Strange thing was, I had a dream about her the night before she appeared. I hadn’t dreamed about her for years. Then I seemed to spend the whole night chasing her in and out of this old building.’
She laughed. ‘You know how dreams are, first we were standing on the street, on the high street here, where we used to go shopping together. Then I turned around and she was gone. But I knew it was a dream. Even so, I panicked, I thought, what if I wake up and I could have found her and I haven’t. I set off where I thought she’d gone, into the shopping centre, but every time I got near her, I lost sight of her again. Funny isn’t it, how dreams do that to you? I woke up with a very strange feeling that morning, like I now knew what had happened to her, that she was alright. The truth of it was, year on year, I never stopped wondering where she was but I never thought the worst. And then she came back to me, just like that.’
Allen made sympathetic noises.
She pulled another cigarette from the packet and lit it quickly. ‘I really
should give these things up. What with the dream and everything, and it was a bad time and I was feeling a down. I just cried, at first, when she came back. I didn’t want to believe it. But then, when I was sure, then I started thinking even worse things. I was scared, I don’t mind admitting. She was fifteen when she went, and now she’d be in her twenties, and I’d never clapped eyes on her all that time. I didn’t know who she was, or what was she coming home to. Or who was coming home. What I’d dreamed of and wanted for so long, suddenly came true, and it made me feel stupid. Stupid.’
She looked into the distance with a thousand-yard stare.
‘She won’t really talk to me now, though.’ She seemed close to tears. ‘She pretends everything is alright, when other people are around. But she doesn’t really want to talk to me. I lost my girl, my baby, what I got back, I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, you don’t have to be sorry, Mr Allen,’ she said, and burst into tears. Then she stopped as suddenly as she had started, pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. ‘I hope you won’t put that in your book,’ she said.
Allen realised this was taking them around in circles.
‘Can I talk to Jennifer then?’
‘Of course you can, my love, but please keep it short. And be nice to her. She’s got some crazy ideas, but we do love her, we don’t want her hurt. Not anymore.’
He followed her up the narrow stairs to a landing. They passed a bathroom smelling of damp flannels and mildew. At the top of the stairs Mrs Ransome went up to a closed door and pushed it slowly open, warily. ‘Hello Jen,’ she said. ‘I’ve got that nice writer man here to talk to you.’ She reached back and tugged at Allen’s elbow. ‘You go on in,’ she whispered.
He stepped part way into the room. The curtains were shut but several dim lights were on. His eyes took time to adjust. The room was stuffed with belongings, bags piled around a bed, shelves laden with books, trinkets and boxes. A three-bar heater was on, space carved out for it at the end of the bed, with more bags piled precariously around and dangerously close to the hot elements. Jennifer’s mother hovered behind him.