The Day We Disappeared

by Lucy Robinson

  I’d often wondered who Stephen’s grieving father really was. Petra? Someone else? And that conversation on Christmas Day when he’d told me he was walking down the street in his father’s supposedly chocolate-box village and seen a dog crapping on the pavement. Where had he actually been? Whose Christmas had he actually been sharing?

  A gust of wind blew past the stables, carrying the smell of damp turf and wet heather from the moor. I had to get out of there. He could be literally minutes away.

  I ran inside, managing to dodge Joe who was already out filling water buckets. I locked myself into my room and started throwing things into my wheelie case, pausing every few seconds to check out of the window. My phone beeped suddenly with an incoming message and I gasped with shock.

  Morning, you very nice thing, said the text. Mark. No sign of you in Stumpy’s stable or the yard. I would pay good money for another cuddle. Please come out of hiding. Mum just asked me why I’m smiling so much. xx

  I began to cry. I was right back where I’d started: a fugitive in my own life, looking over my shoulder, petrified by the sound of a creaking floorboard. Only now I had the guilt of abandoning my family and the heartache of losing Mark. Mark, my lovely warm bear, with the gentle paws and the big kind eyes and the slow, sweet smile.

  ‘Why?’ I asked the empty room. ‘Why must my life be like this?’

  The room shrugged. That’s your lot, it said. You couldn’t hide for ever.

  That was the worst part, I thought, tipping the contents of my dressing table into a carrier bag. I was back to being Annie Mulholland again, couldn’t pretend to be Kate Brady for a moment longer.

  But I didn’t want to be Annie Mulholland! I hated being her! I wanted to carry on being Kate Brady! There’d been laughter in my time being Kate! Fun! Joy! Why was it that, wherever I hid, Annabel bloody Mulholland – with her bereavement and her breakdown and her small, frightened life – always found me?

  I stuffed the contents of my little chest of drawers into my wheelie case, holey socks, holey gloves, holey jumpers, and with that my life was packed once again.

  I called Becca. ‘Morning, pet,’ she said. I could hear her munching her dry Shreddies. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘He found me,’ I said. ‘Stephen’s found me.’

  ‘Okay, pet,’ Becca said, without a pause. ‘I’ll be over in five.’

  ‘I have to get away. Properly. Will you take me to Bristol Airport?’

  Becca paused.

  ‘Please, Becca. I beg you.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ she asked, less certain. ‘Would it not be easier to call the police?’

  ‘No. He got out of it in four hours last time, Becca, and now he’s angry.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I’ll square it with the gaffer and jump in the car.’

  ‘Please hurry.’

  I sat with my hands circled tightly round my legs. What wouldn’t I give for just two more hours as Kate Brady. Two more minutes.

  When I had discovered on New Year’s Eve ten months ago that my boyfriend was mad and possibly dangerous, I knew I was going to have to put my long-held emergency plan into action. At that stage, however, it had not so much as crossed my mind that I should pretend to be someone else, once I’d snuck back into the UK from Abu Dhabi.

  All I’d worked out was that I would take the first train out of Paddington and head west. I’d stay in a B&B wherever the train terminated – somewhere buried deep in the Devon or Cornwall countryside, hopefully – and find myself a job. Some sort of live-in job where I’d be paid cash; a pub, maybe. I would throw away my phone and get a new one with a new number, and I’d close down my email, Facebook and Skype accounts. And everything else Stephen could access.

  But once my plane to Abu Dhabi was airborne I’d begun to panic. My online life no longer existed. My phone was soon to be dismantled and thrown away, and once it had gone I would be completely alone. There would be nobody on earth who knew where I was. It was just me, entirely alone in the world, trying to start again. How exactly was I going to find this mythical job? How much would they want to know about me? What if someone recognized me?

  I’d found myself in a sort of terrified stupor. I had reached into my little bag for some Rescue Remedy, but before my hand had found it, it had found a fat envelope. Kate! Of course, I’d had a letter from Kate. It had been at the top of the pile on my doormat when Tim and I had gone to my house and found Stephen in the garden. I opened it, praying slightly hopelessly that it might cheer me up. Or at least break me out of this mental paralysis.

  And, actually, it had. A little. It was a wonderful Brady ramble, a rude, hilarious and rather moving account of her six months on a ‘farm sabbatical’ somewhere in Kilkenny.

  I’ve had the time of my LIFE [she’d written]. And now I’m back in my little box of a flat, squeezing myself on the bus every morning to get to Google, wondering what the feck I was thinking of, coming home. I keep whacking myself round the head with one of those trendy copper saucepans that my mam made me buy, shouting, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

  … It was the best thing I ever did [she wrote later, in a more thoughtful passage]. Those earthy smells, and the feeling of having done a hard day’s work, and being near those lovely horses. Not having any phone signal. Annie, do you remember what that felt like? I had to use a phone box when I wanted to call someone! It was wonderful! Although I did miss chatting to you all the time.

  I’d read the letter again and again, feeling a little less frightened and alone each time.

  And then: A farm?

  The first train out of Paddington had taken me only as far as Exeter, which still felt far too close to London, so I’d taken the next departure and ended up in Barnstaple. I’d checked into a tired B&B, with a thin strip of a sea view and, after a short, fitful sleep, had started scouring the internet for jobs on horse yards or farms. If it had worked for Kate, it could work for me.

  After a few weeks a sweet little advert had appeared on the Yard and Groom website, written by Sandra, for a job only twenty miles from where I was now. No pay, said the ad, but all meals and accommodation provided.

  Great, I thought. If I wasn’t being paid they wouldn’t want National Insurance numbers or bank details. I doubted Stephen was up to hacking bank systems but I wasn’t going to take any risks. And since he’d hired me I’d been earning stupid money, which I hadn’t spent because he’d paid for everything. I could afford not to earn for a while, as long as I was being fed and housed. Stephen, ironically, had funded my escape.

  I jotted down the email address – a lady called Sandra Waverley; Mark’s wife perhaps? – and sat down to write a letter of application.

  At first I’d struggled. Should I pretend to have experience I didn’t? Should I spend time researching Mark Waverley first? And what about horses? Should I try to sound knowledgeable?

  I read Kate’s letter again, in case there was any useful farm vocabulary I could pinch.

  Nothing.

  What would Kate say? I found myself wondering.

  And that was how it began, really. As soon as I started trying to think like Kate Brady might, I began to write. I wrote a short, funny, honest letter to Sandra – no lies, no bullshit, just a nice email that probably made me sound decent and hard-working, rather than desperate and frightened.

  My hands hovered above the keyboard before I signed off. I couldn’t imagine how Stephen would ever find me there, but Annie Mulholland was quite a distinctive name. And it was a name that many people knew anyway: that poor girl whose mother was raped and murdered up in the Peak District, back in the eighties. Do you remember? Terrible business.

  What if this Sandra recognized my name and mentioned it to someone else?

  Kate Brady, I signed off, just like that. I gave the K a big long flourish, like Kate probably would, and found myself smiling. Slightly manically, but a smile all the same.

  The next day, to my great surprise, I received a lovely reply from Sa
ndra inviting me to come to the farm for ‘a cup of tea and a nice chat’. I’d swung into a hairdresser’s and had my long blonde hair dyed red, then gone and bought a load of clothes; the sort of clothes that modern people might wear. Normal people. Kate-type people. Toiletries too; normal people spent money on those. I even bought a bottle of Kate’s perfume.

  Why not?

  I arrived back at my B&B feeling happier and more hidden. I was disappearing out of Annabel Mulholland by then, although I hadn’t realized it yet.

  On my way to the ‘interview’ with Sandra a few days later, I’d got myself into another terrible panic. What if I wasn’t offered the job? What then?

  What would Kate do? I interrupted myself. I took a deep breath. Kate would not be flailing around in the Bad Shit, for starters. She’d be sitting on this bus, maybe whistling a tune, or chatting to the mad old guy on the seat behind. Or she might be counting trees-that-looked-like-goats, which was something she used to do during long-haul bus journeys when we were travelling.

  By the time I’d arrived at Hythe Farm I’d felt lighter than I had in days. ‘You see?’ I muttered to myself, in Kate’s Irish accent, as I walked up the drive. ‘You see how much better life is when you’re not sitting in the Bad Shit?’

  I paused. Irish accent? Would I do that, too?

  Of course not. That’d be insane! Basket-case territory!

  Still I paused. Mum was Irish. When I’d stopped being able to remember her face without looking at a photo, I’d still been able to hear her voice when I closed my eyes. Soft and musical, as if someone had filed down all the sharp points of the English accent and left only its rolling hills and rounded valleys. Lizzy and I had been perfecting our Irish accents since we were tiny, and as an adult I found it almost as easy to speak in an Irish accent as I did my native English.

  But even so, I thought. That was mad.

  Then: ‘You’ll be grand,’ I heard Kate Brady say. ‘Stop worrying, you great dingbat! Go for it! It’s a brilliant ruse!’

  I didn’t care if it was mad. I didn’t care about anything, really, other than being untraceable for the next few months.

  So that was that. I cut off Annabel, because I couldn’t cope with her, and I became Kate, because in her shoes, life was bearable. The monstrous fear of Stephen had not gone away. Or the mess of my life. But as Kate I’d been able to cope with all of it. What would Kate do? I’d ask myself, day in, day out. How would Kate react? What would Kate think? And, after a while, I discovered I’d started to see the world through Kate’s eyes without prompting.

  As Kate I looked for the humour in everything; I always had a joke to crack or a story to tell. As Kate I trusted and liked people; I found a cheekiness and ease of communication I’d never felt in myself. Above all I felt hope: hope that I would somehow get through all of this Bad Shit and have a decent life again.

  Kate Brady had made me the best possible version of myself. She had made me a human being that people liked. Fell in love with, even. She had made me happy.

  I yelped as a sudden rap on the door set off panic like a gun.

  ‘Kate?’ It was Mark. ‘Kate, are you okay?’

  ‘Grand,’ I called. A terrible sob came out, strangling the word.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m grand,’ I repeated. ‘Doing some admin.’

  ‘Really?’ Mark asked. ‘Admin? With screams and sobs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The floorboards were still creaking: Mark wasn’t going anywhere. For a brief second I had a sense that he was smiling – that warm, slow, lovely smile that melted my bones.

  ‘I don’t think you’re doing admin,’ he said. ‘Let me in.’

  ‘I will,’ I called. ‘But later. I need some time to, er …’

  ‘To do your admin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re being weird and mysterious.’ Mark’s voice was gentle. ‘What was it? Nescio et mirum?’

  My heart was breaking. I had to get this precious man away from the mess of my life and I had to do it now. Where was Becca? ‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ I called. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Now look here …’ he lowered his voice ‘… look here, you. I’ve just hauled my crappy legs up two flights of stairs and I’d quite like a little kiss and a cuddle before I go back down. Can I at least have that?’

  ‘Not right now,’ I called, and another terrible sob came out.

  ‘Okay, you fruitcake. But I’m reserving you for some kissing and cuddling later, Kate Brady, and that’s that. I think you’re the very best.’

  And I couldn’t answer because I was crying so hard. I’m not Kate Brady, I wanted to shout. I’m just a messed-up freak-show of a woman who’s about to leave you without saying goodbye. And my heart is completely broken.

  I cried silently into my hands, and eventually I heard him go.

  I’m outside, Becca texted a little while later. Parked behind the barn. Mark’s teaching some Pony Club kids and Joe’s out on one of the horses. Coast’s clear.

  I slid my phone into my pocket, and grabbed my things. As I did, it beeped again.

  Hello, Pumpkin.

  My phone didn’t know the number, but I did.

  My chest felt no more substantial than air. ‘Oh, God,’ I whimpered, running down the stairs. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘I didn’t say goodbye to Stumpy,’ I muttered, slamming the car door and locking myself in.

  ‘No, pet, you didn’t,’ Becca replied, starting the car. ‘But neither did you say goodbye to Mark, and you’ve been sleeping with him.’ She put a steadying hand on my shoulder. ‘I know this feels like the end of your world, pet, but it’s not. You will see Stumpy again. And Mark. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Becca inched the car forward slowly, leaning forward to check that the coast was clear.

  ‘I do. Can you see Joe anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, then. Let’s go.’

  ‘Please.’

  Becca set off. ‘It’s bloody weird hearing you speak in an English accent, pet. Are you sure you’re not Irish?’

  ‘Certain. Just mad.’

  ‘You’re not mad. I ran off to the farm too, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but not while pretending to be in Thailand. And not nicking your friend’s identity.’

  ‘True.’ We swung out into the driveway. I still couldn’t see Mark.

  ‘I’ve lied to my family all this time,’ I said sadly. ‘It’s killed me, Becca. The guilt’s nearly driven me insane. And yet I’ve carried right on lying.’

  ‘You did it to protect them and protect yourself,’ she said softly. ‘Stop beating yourself up.’

  She turned briefly towards me and I saw her face, softened to white at the sides by the low, bright sun. ‘You look so lovely, Becca,’ I said, then began to cry. ‘I don’t want to leave you. You, Mark, Stumpy, Joe, Sandra. I don’t want to go back to my shit life.’

  Becca stopped the car down the side of the indoor school and held my hand while I cried.

  ‘I can’t stand the thought of being Annie Mulholland again. I loved being Kate.’

  Becca handed me a dirty old bobbly glove, just like she had on the day we’d met. ‘Blow your nose on this filthy thing,’ she said soothingly. ‘And listen, pet. You were always Annie Mulholland.’

  I looked hopelessly at her.

  ‘I know you think you’d sort of “become” your friend Kate, sweetheart, but I’m afraid that’s a load of shite. I’ve not met the girl but I’m pretty damned sure that all you did was to approach life with more of her positivity. You were still you. Still Annie.’

  If only! ‘No … Kate Brady is, like, this funny, mad, beautiful Irishwoman. She’s sparkly and hilarious and everyone loves her. Whereas I’m just a depressed, washed-up, frightened old mess. Trust me, Becca, I’ve lived in this skin for a long time. Mark would never have fallen for the real me. It was Kate he fell for. I
should introduce them some time,’ I said, and cried even harder.

  Becca seemed to be smiling. What was wrong with her? ‘Pet,’ she said gently. ‘As I said, you’re talking shite. You never stopped being yourself. You just decided to be happier and more confident. More in control of your feelings, rather than letting them control you, as my mam might say.’

  She tucked my hair behind my ear. ‘The girl who brightened up our yard was you. And the girl Mark fell for was you. Annie Mulholland.’ Then: ‘Fuckin’ hell, that’s weird.’ She grinned. ‘Annie Mulholland!’

  ‘That’s my name.’ I dabbed Becca’s dirty and now snotty glove at my eyes.

  Becca watched me kindly. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘Sure you don’t want to say goodbye to everyone?’

  I wavered. One last sight of Mark, one final chance to inventory every detail of him. One last hug with Stumpy, his warm breath and round ears and his fail-safe ability to lift my mood. And Joe, and Sandra, and those lovely dogs.

  ‘No,’ I said softly. ‘Mark’s been through too much already. I’ll call him tonight once he’s back in the house and he’s got his mum there.’

  Becca seemed unconvinced. ‘Right. I’m sure that’ll make him feel loads better.’

  My phone beeped loudly and I jumped, fear pinching at my stomach. I pulled it out of my pocket and passed it to Becca with shaking hands. ‘Is it him? I can’t bear to look.’

  Becca’s face fell. ‘’Fraid so, pet,’ she said quietly. ‘The fucking twat. Soon I’ll be waking up with you in my bed, Pumpkin. What a thought. It’ll take me a while to forgive you everything but I know I’ll get there. S xx PS Isn’t the Somerset countryside glorious?

  ‘Fucker,’ she muttered. ‘Fucking fucker. Pet, can we please call the police? I don’t know the first thing about the law but this sounds like stalking to me. I mean, how did he even get this number?’

  My eyes were fixed on the drive. ‘We need to go. Now.’

  Becca sighed, turned her key in the ignition, and it started slipping away from me. The hedgerow along the drive, the barns, the outdoor school, round which trotted some excitable girls who were no doubt as much in love with Mark as I was. The back of Joe, driving the Tank round the side of the muck heap with four bales of straw wobbling precariously on the front. My life, my happy place. I forced my eyes straight ahead.