Pretty Little Things

by T. M. E. Walsh

  I swipe at my eyes when I feel tears brimming.

  ‘Mum, are you . . . crying?’

  ‘No,’ I answer too quickly. I sniff. ‘No.’

  She gives me a quizzical look, then turns her attention to making breakfast. She fills her bowl and adds milk, and it’s taking her longer than it should. She’s avoiding having to come and sit with me.

  ‘So,’ she says, and shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. ‘Kenzie . . .?’

  I try and pull myself together.

  ‘I thought it was just us girls today.’

  ‘Kenz is a girl . . .’

  Having a teenager also comes with a healthy dose of smartarse, I’ve come to realise, but I don’t have the energy to make anything of it.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Elle comes to the table, sits down and stares at the bowl in front of her before looking up at me through her eyelashes. I feel myself relenting just so I can have an easier day ahead.

  I cup my hands around my hot mug of tea, hoping it will relieve the chill in my body, but it doesn’t. I still feel icy down to the bone when I say, ‘OK, you’d better tell her we’ll be ready in twenty.’

  Elle smiles. ‘Already did,’ she says, tapping at her phone.

  I go to speak but my attention is drawn to the television. The live press conference is on now, like Ruth said it would be.

  On the screen I see the Thames Valley Police crest as a backdrop, behind a long table with a series of microphones running along the top.

  There are two chairs awaiting occupants.

  Then a series of flashbulbs go off and I hear the click-click-click of camera shutters, just as a man and woman appear on the screen. They each take a seat and wait for there to be quiet.

  I watch. I wait. I read the bottom of the screen as it informs me that one man is the Chief Constable and the other is a Detective Inspector – the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the investigation.

  Her name’s DI Madeleine Wood and the first thing I notice is that she has an air of kindness about her, somewhat hidden behind the mask she has fixed for the cameras.

  Elle is looking at the screen, sees it’s about the murdered teens, and now her attention is back on me. She watches to see my reaction. She knows I might put a block on her going out at all without an adult.

  The man on the TV begins to speak, introducing himself and the female detective, their roles and what they have so far.

  They confirm what everyone already knows: the bodies they have found are believed to be those of the four missing teens but a formal ID will take time and the media and community should avoid speculation and let the police get on with their job.

  I understand their stance on this but I’m a mother. It’s natural I will worry, and besides, the police should’ve done more as soon as Caroline went missing. Things might have turned out differently.

  The cameras cut to another section of the room and I see Mike. He’s sitting with the families of the other girls.

  His skin is ashen, eyes dead to the world.

  I can’t watch any more.

  I’m about to switch the TV off but something the female – DI Wood – says stops me.

  This is a new development.

  Another missing girl.

  My God.

  ‘Not another one?’ I say aloud.

  Elle goes to the TV set. ‘We’ll be late, Mum,’ she says, like I can’t see what she’s really doing. She forgets I can easily read all this on the internet but I tell her to leave the TV on as DI Wood speaks.

  ‘Bryony Keats is seventeen years old. She was last seen walking along the main road from the village of Bronze Mead, the B256, around midday on Wednesday, wearing blue jeans, a white top and a light jacket and carrying a small rucksack. Bryony looks older than her years, and can easily be mistaken for a woman in her twenties. I’m asking – appealing – for the whole community to think back. Could you have passed Bryony while in your car? There are no CCTV cameras along that stretch of road, or the roads that feed through to it. The road is quiet and this is where we think Bryony went missing. We believe she is with someone. It’s looking increasingly likely that Bryony got into a vehicle on this stretch of road.

  ‘If you were travelling this stretch of road, or were in the vicinity on Wednesday, I urge you to contact us. You may have seen something you didn’t think had any relevance at the time, that could prove crucial to our investigation.’

  DI Wood’s voice is sombre in tone and I realise this is not just a missing persons appeal. It’s another victim, not a runaway.

  Bryony Keats is likely dead already.

  A pain worms its way inside my gut, a dull ache for the trauma her family must be going through.

  ‘Her poor mother,’ I say, and this time I don’t mind that Elle switches the TV off. I look at her and see her face fall.

  ‘I can’t go to the party Friday, can I?’

  I don’t answer her.

  ‘Seriously, Mum, what’s any of this,’ she says, pointing at the blank TV screen, ‘got to do with whether I go to a party or not? We’ll be in a house.’

  Yes, she’s right, I guess, but I feel like if I’m not there, with her whenever she goes out, then I can’t keep her safe.

  She raises her eyebrows at me when I don’t answer straight away.

  I know I’ve got to tell her about postponing her birthday party, and I know, no matter how I sugarcoat it, she’s going to be upset.

  I avoid her gaze as I clear the breakfast table.

  It’s not a good enough answer, not really, and it’s something Iain’s mother says a lot, but the words come out of my mouth anyway. ‘You’ll understand one day, when you’re a parent.’

  Elle’s face is frosty. ‘Really? You’re quoting Nan now?’

  I look at her, and I tell her about the party. It’s better I do it now, like ripping a plaster off in one go, getting it out of the way.

  She looks at me, and she’s visibly pissed off.

  ‘Fuck my actual life,’ she mutters.

  ‘Don’t you use that language,’ I snap.

  ‘You’re cancelling my party.’

  ‘Postponing. Why does no one pay attention? Postponing is not cancelling.’

  ‘May as well be the same thing.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘All my friends are coming.’

  ‘Elle—’

  ‘No, Mum, we can’t move it.’

  She goes on like this and I try to listen, but I feel like my head’s reeling. I sit down at the table again.

  ‘Does Dad know?’ I hear her say, and her voice sounds far off.

  I feel a sense of dread coming over me and it’s like my head’s under water, my ears clogged.

  She never used to talk back to me. I know I should’ve nipped it in the bud when she first started it, but I had the accident and . . . well, I know it’s my fault.

  I feel myself retreat a bit when things get too much. It’s my body’s way of coping with all that’s happened in the last six months; what’s going on now too.

  I feel, just, blank, like I’m in some kind of void.

  ‘Mum!’

  Elle’s voice snaps, breaking into my thoughts, bringing me back into the room, so to speak.

  I look at her and see her face is red and tears are just brimming in her eyes. I feel bad now.

  ‘Why are you getting so upset?’ I say.

  Elle looks at me, appalled. ‘You’re being serious?’ she spits at me.

  She puts her hands up and walks out of the kitchen when I go to speak.

  ‘Just forget it,’ she huffs, slamming the kitchen door shut behind her.

  I stand there, feeling buffeted by this whirlwind of emotions. I’m actually in two minds about whether to take her shopping now. That was a complete overreaction and, in a few hours, I hope Elle will realise that and apologise.

  I hear her feet pounding across the landing and a spark of anger flares up in me. I reach for the kitchen
door, push it open. As I’m about to yell up the stairs, I hear my own mobile ring and vibrate on the table in the kitchen.

  I grab my phone. When I see the caller ID, I head into the living room, shut the door after me and just stare at the screen.

  CHAPTER 9

  CHARLOTTE

  I’m torn about what to do.

  Part of me wants to reject the call immediately because I know any contact with the caller is a bone of contention with Iain. But I know it’ll be easier to just answer it, and I make a mental note to change the name of the caller in my phone to something less inflammatory.

  I look out of the window to make sure Iain is outside still. He’s rummaging in the back of the van.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, pressing the phone to my ear. I try to let the simmering anger I feel after Elle’s outburst settle down a notch. I push shut the living room door and already feel guilty, like I’m deliberately hiding away.

  It’s just a phone call. It’s just a phone call.

  ‘Morning. How are you? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

  I pause. ‘We spoke two days ago.’

  I can hear the laughter in his voice. ‘Feels like ages ago.’ He pauses and I know what’s coming next.

  ‘You’ve heard the news, I assume?’

  He means the missing girls. He’s had just as much interest in this as I have. Maybe more.

  ‘Have you spoken to Ruth?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say and glance out of the window. I watch Iain moving things around inside the van. I need him to stay outside right now. He can’t hear this conversation.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘You know, I really don’t want to talk about it. She was in a bad way.’

  ‘To be expected really.’

  ‘Yes . . . so . . .’

  He laughs. ‘So, how’s things?’

  I close my eyes. Count in my head. Calm down. Damn Elle, making me anxious . . . ‘I’m good. We’re all OK.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  I hear Elle’s feet pound across the landing again, in the direction of the bathroom. I feel my breath catch in my throat all the same. She might as well be in the same room, I’m sweating that much.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling more than a little irritated. ‘Did you want something?’ My words sound a little harsh even to my own ears, so I quickly add, ‘Only I’m off out soon.’ I pause. ‘At least, I should be, Elle’s just . . .’ I break off, decide not to disclose anything further about my daughter’s outburst. ‘I can’t really stop to chat.’

  I hope this is enough.

  ‘Can’t it wait, whatever you’re doing? I was going to invite you out for coffee.’

  This was something I’d hoped to avoid.

  John Hague – my saviour – is nothing if not persistent.

  ‘Have you remembered any more?’ John says, and I can hear the excitement in his voice. He seems to enjoy slipping into the role of my protector – one of the reasons why Iain thinks I’ve not had any contact with him for several weeks.

  I stare out of the window, watch Iain’s movements. Any minute now he’ll be coming back inside for the rest of his things. He’ll kiss me on the cheek and I’ll feel bad for smiling and pretending I’m not keeping anything from him.

  ‘I haven’t remembered anything else of use since we last spoke,’ I say to John, keeping my voice low.

  I’m also conscious that Elle could come in at any minute. I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong, not really. I’m not doing this to hurt anybody, but I know if Elle tells Iain, he could blow it all out of proportion and I just don’t need the stress.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ John says. ‘We should meet maybe? I’ve got the next two days off work. We should go for a coffee this morning.’ He pauses and I know he’s trying to gauge my reaction.

  I let him.

  Static feels alive in the air, and a part of me wants to meet now. Only John knows to what extent the accident has affected me. I hold my breath, then slowly exhale.

  ‘John, I don’t know . . .’ I blow out a deep breath. ‘I’m going shopping with Elle and I promised her.’

  I can almost hear him bristle. ‘You can shop any time. Don’t you think this is more important? You know what Paul Selby’s defence is going to say in court.’

  I close my eyes tight. Something inside me wants to retreat inside myself again.

  A headache feels like it’s expanding across the width of my forehead. I really don’t need this.

  ‘It’s not really about the shopping; it’s the time I need to spend with my daughter.’ We’ve had this conversation before. He knows this. ‘And Selby can say what he wants. I know the truth. You know the truth.’

  ‘Nothing’s certain yet.’ His voice has a bitterness to it, but he softens almost immediately. ‘It’s just coffee. I think our meeting is helping you.’

  I’m not always convinced. It’s an issue with Iain, and another crack in our marriage, that’s for sure.

  ‘Iain thinks—’

  ‘What does Iain know?’ It’s out before he can stop himself, and said with a real sense of malice. I hear the sharp intake of breath as he realises he’s overstepped the mark. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure Iain’s been more than supportive . . . in his own way.’

  I smile inwardly. We both know that’s not true.

  I nod even though I know he can’t see me. ‘I know what you meant. Please don’t apologise.’

  I hear Elle overhead. She’s coming out the bathroom.

  ‘Look,’ I say, voice rushed, ‘why don’t we meet later on? I’ll give you a call, let’s say between two and three?’

  It’s not ideal for him, I can tell by the pause he’s deliberately leaving, but I can’t help that. Elle, despite her rudeness, her outbursts, needs to, and must always, come first.

  After John’s agreed to meet later, I hang up, just as Iain slams the van’s back doors and makes his way through the garage, back into the house.

  I hear him in the kitchen, grabbing his lunch out of the fridge, keys jingling in his hand. ‘I’m going,’ he shouts.

  I come into the kitchen and, when he kisses my cheek, I pull him into me. He seems to hesitate a moment and then wraps his arms around me. His cheek is rough against mine where he hasn’t shaved today. It’s a strange sort of comfort to me.

  ‘I told Elle about her party.’

  A pause, then, ‘How did she take that?’

  ‘As well as we expected.’

  ‘Right.’

  I’m expecting a little more from him and squeeze him tighter. ‘I need you to stand with me on this one.’

  He doesn’t answer, just squeezes me back.

  He pulls back a few seconds later, dark eyes looking into mine. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  I nod and know I should let him leave none the wiser, but I don’t want there to be secrets between us unless absolutely necessary. I can’t not mention the phone call.

  I pull at his arm as he turns to leave. ‘John phoned,’ I say. He hesitates before turning towards me, but this time he keeps his eyes trained to the floor. ‘Just now. He wants to meet for coffee later.’

  Now Iain looks at me.

  It’s a hard stare but there’s a lot of vulnerability in his eyes too.

  ‘You’re not going, though, are you?’ he says. He steps closer to me. ‘Are you?’

  ‘I . . . maybe I—’

  ‘Because you know I don’t like him.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t want this to be an issue.’

  ‘There’s no issue, because you told him no. Isn’t that right?’

  My eyes narrow. ‘What have you got against John?’

  He gives a mock laugh. ‘How long have you got? I can give you a list of reasons.’

  ‘He was there for me.’

  ‘I was there for you.’

  I look away. ‘Not always.’

  Iain chucks his keys down on the countertop. ‘How many times do we have to ha
ve this conversation?’

  He rakes a hand back through his hair. He looks at me again and I feel guilty for even mentioning John’s name now I can see the uncertainty in his face.

  This has been my life with Iain for the last six months. Things change so quickly, escalate with just the wrong thing being said, the wrong word being used in haste.

  I feel like we’re always on a knife’s edge.

  ‘I can’t help that it wasn’t me, Charlotte,’ he says. ‘I wish I’d been there right at that moment, but I wasn’t. That’s not my fault, but I’ve tried to be there every day after.’

  ‘John’s the one who pulled me from the wreck. He saved my life, and I owe him a great deal of gratitude and respect.’

  ‘And he’s got that.’

  He gestures at me, angry.

  ‘He’s got that gratitude and respect . . .’

  He practically spits the words.

  ‘. . . He’s got that and a whole lot more, obviously.’

  His words sting and he knows it.

  How can there not be more?

  The day of the accident, John was there when my car was hit.

  If he hadn’t been there . . . well, I wouldn’t be here.

  There’s now a deeper connection between us. I mean, how could there not be?

  ‘He saved me from burning to death.’

  ‘He knows we’re thankful for that,’ Iain says, ‘but where does this end?’

  I’m about to speak but he cuts me off.

  ‘I mean, who is he really? He’s just a porter. You barely had anything to do with him.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘Come off it, Char. Had you met outside of work, you’d have had nothing to do with him.’

  I still remember the first few weeks when I started at the hospital. John made me feel so welcome.

  ‘He’s a friend.’

  Iain shakes his head. ‘Only in the way that people become friends with people they work with.’

  I hold his stare.

  There’s guilt there, underneath a façade on Iain’s part.

  John visited me in hospital after the accident, and along with everyone else he brought me flowers and sent a card. But unlike everyone else – Iain included – John’s taken an interest in how I’ve really been coping day to day. We’d exchanged numbers – I’d felt obliged to, despite my originally not wanting to get too close to a work friend. I have always liked to separate business and pleasure, so to speak – but John was insistent. Insistent that we now shared a special bond.