Margaret put on her coat and walked down the corridor. The hospital was too warm and she was looking forward to being outside.
There were few visitors in this critical ward and Margaret was alone in the corridor as she moved toward the lift. As she walked, she slowly unfolded the note she had clutched in her palm. It was not a receipt but a telephone number handwritten in thick, bold felt pen.
Margaret stopped still in the corridor as she realized that it was the main office telephone number for her school: Byron Academy.
CHAPTER 21
Big George
Thursday, October 3, 1985
LEAVING NEWCASTLE, GEORGE CHOSE NOT TO FOLLOW THE A1 south but cut west, onto the smaller roads, passing through Consett, Crook, and Bishop Auckland. Moll sat looking out of the window at the passing fields, villages, houses. He kept the radio on and drummed his fingers on the wheel to the beat of the tunes that were played, but turned it off when the news came on.
They had stopped their game half an hour or so ago. George had said he needed to concentrate on driving.
When the radio was turned off, the car seemed too quiet—all of the sound lost to Moll’s sad eyes. The day was waning and the sun cast sharp shadows on the harvested fields. Cylindrical haystacks were spaced around the corn stubble, random yet deliberate, like pagan standing stones. The horizon was pink and bloodied by the sinking sun, and George flipped the visor down to shield his eyes from the glare.
He took one hand off the wheel and reached inside his right pocket, taking out a coin. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said, offering it to her and winking at her when she turned.
She took the coin from him, smiling thinly and clasping it in two hands, as if holding something alive, a beetle or a butterfly. The smile stayed on her lips and yet she didn’t share her thoughts with him.
He knew he had it in him to win her.
He wished he had thought to buy sweets for the journey and decided that he would get some when they stopped. Was he possibly the only man to kidnap a child and forget them? George had smoked cigarettes since he was eleven years old and could now barely taste sweet food, but he remembered being Moll’s age and loving it—elbowing his way to the front of the queue when the ice cream van came.
“Right,” he said, rolling down the window and lighting a cigarette. “Don’t you know any car songs?” The friction of the air against his window was awakening. The smell of his cigarette blended with the smell of manure off the fields.
“I know ‘Row the Boat,’” she said, eyebrows raised.
“So do I.”
They sang “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” overlapping verses, each trying to sing louder than the other.
George had no idea where he was going, but he ended up in York at six thirty at night. The wean was starving again and tired and they both needed a bath. He wanted a big hotel, where people wouldn’t ask too many questions, and so settled on the Queen’s Hotel, which looked onto the banks of the River Ouse. He was apprehensive about taking her inside after the incident in Newcastle, but they needed real food and a bath and a bed and he believed that he had begun to win her over.
George turned off the engine, then turned to look at her. He could see that she was weary.
“This is a hotel. I’ll get us a room here and we can have something nice to eat.”
She turned to him, nodding.
He took a deep breath. “The truth is, people are looking for you. They’re looking for a little girl. I know you don’t like your hair short or those clothes I bought you, but you can grow your hair again. It’s kind of a disguise, like I said … like dressing up.”
She watched his face.
“It’s just like pretending. Do you ever pretend when you’re playing?”
She nodded vigorously.
“Well, that’s what this is like. I need you to help me out. You just pretend that you’re a little boy. It’s a game we can play, and only you and me know we’re playing it. You can even choose a boy’s name. What name do you think you’d like?”
The thought brightened her. She put a finger to her lips, considering, her body suddenly tense with the thrill of it.
“Come on,” said George, getting out of the car and taking their bags from the boot. He looked down at her and smiled. She was convincing with her Batman trainers and her jeans. He touched the brim of her cap. “Well, Batman, did you come up with a name?”
“Batman?”
“Your shoes, I was meaning. What name do you choose for yourself? Your pretend boy name.”
“Batman.”
“You can’t be Batman, that’s a bit weird, but you could be Robin. That OK?”
“OK, are you Batman, then?”
George grinned at her. “No, I’m George Harrison, like in The Beatles.”
Moll smiled and George felt grateful.
“Come on then … Robin.” She giggled.
The receptionist was a young woman who wore bright red lipstick. George put a hand on Moll’s shoulder and smiled at the young woman, making sure that he made eye contact.
“I wondered if you had a twin room free?”
“Certainly,” she said, blushing as she checked the register, so that George knew that she liked him. “We have a twin available for sixty pounds, and the suite for one hundred.”
George paused to consider. He had the money for three suites, but experience had taught him only to throw money around when you wanted to be noticed. Where he came from, the only people with money were doctors, lawyers, and gangsters, and it would be obvious which one George was.
“I think the smaller room will be fine,” he said.
“Very well, I just need you to fill this in, and then it will be sixty for the room and a ten-pound deposit.”
George stared at the form, feeling a desolate sickness that he remembered feeling every day at school. He opened his wallet and counted out sixty pounds and placed the money on the counter. “Here you go.” He took another five-pound note out of his pocket and placed it near the woman’s long pale hand. “And this is for you, for that beautiful smile.”
“I can’t really,” she said, blushing deeply, and passing the note back to him.
“What do you mean? I could give it to the guy who’ll carry our bag, but I can guarantee that he won’t have a smile that beautiful.”
“Hardly.”
“What do you mean?” said George, warming to her already. “Don’t underestimate your beauty.”
The woman laughed, and gently pushed the form toward him.
“If you could just fill this in.”
“I tell you what,” he said, winking, “you’ll not believe it, but I sprained my right hand only last week. Even driving’s difficult. If you need it completed desperately, could you do it for me and I’ll sign it?”
The receptionist frowned in confusion but then agreed.
“Your name?”
“George Harrison.”
The woman glanced up, smiling.
“I know. That guy from The Beatles is mistaken for me all the time.”
The receptionist printed his name. “And your son is …”
“Batman,” said George, winking at Moll, who grinned and corrected him.
“Robin!”
“Address?”
George gave the address that he had had printed on his fake driving license, which he had arranged before he left. It was an address in Edinburgh.
“You’re just in York for the weekend?” the woman asked.
“Just passing through. We’re on our way back up north.”
“Well, enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.”
The woman took their key from the slot and then smiled down at Moll, before passing the key to her. “He has your eyes,” said the receptionist, and George winked at her.
“Lucky him.”
Their room was large, with its own bathroom, and there was a view of the river and the parking lot, which George thought was useful, although he was tr
ying not to get too paranoid. As soon as they were inside, he gave Moll the room service menu and asked her what she wanted to eat, then began to run the bathwater.
“Do you like bubbles in your bath, Robin?” George said, raising an eyebrow at her.
“Yes,” Moll said, reading with her forefinger pressed against each word. “I want steak pie.”
“That sounds great. I’ll get one for me too.”
While the bath filled and the bubbles frothed, George made the call and asked for two steak pies, a pint of lager, an orange juice, and a chocolate ice cream sundae.
“There you go,” he said, hanging up. “You get your ice cream after all. I told you I always keep my promises.”
Moll smiled at him, but it was a wary smile and he wondered what she was thinking.
“Come on,” he said, kneeling on the bathroom floor to test the water. “I think this is cool enough for you. You get in there, wash your hair, mind, and then we’ll eat our tea and watch the telly.” He left the bathroom door ajar and fetched her fresh clothes. When he returned she was deep in bubbles and trying to open a small bottle of shampoo.
“Will you be all right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll shout if you have any trouble.”
He turned on the television, then saw the minibar and poured himself a whiskey. He drank it straight as he changed the channel. It was the six o’clock news and Moll’s school picture flashed onto the screen.
“And now to our top story,” said the suited male reporter. “Police continue their search for young Molly Henderson, who was abducted from her home in Thurso in the Scottish Highlands yesterday. The seven-year-old, who was last seen wearing the school uniform pictured, was witnessed getting into a dark-colored car with a tall dark man, wearing a suit. Highlands police are coordinating with the national force but have asked for the public to report any suspected sightings.”
George turned the volume down a little and stepped closer to the television to hear the report. When Moll had been asleep, he had listened to the news about her on the radio. One of the radio stations had suggested that the abduction could be linked to other child murders, and this had pleased George. He wanted the police to waste time comparing Moll’s disappearance with other crimes by other criminals.
“Yesterday evening, Molly’s mother, Kathleen, gave the following address …”
The camera cut to a recording of a press conference, where Kathleen was sitting with her husband at her side. They were both gray with grief, and Kathleen’s lip trembled, her eyes searching with confusion, not sure where to look. She had prepared something to say and now looked down at the piece of paper that shook in her hands.
“Molly’s very little and I know she’ll be frightened.” Kathleen’s voice trembled and broke, but then she regained composure. “If anyone has any information, I urge them to come forward so that I can have her back. Please. Please. We … miss her very much.”
George cleaved at the sight of Kathleen in such pain. He took a large sip of his whiskey, wincing.
Just then, Moll screamed in the bathroom.
“Shit,” he said, assuming that she had heard and spilling some of his drink as he rushed to change the channel.
He went to her, cringing at the bathroom door before he entered.
She had soap in her eyes. Her hair was covered in white foam and she was screaming with her knuckles pressed into her eyes.
George rinsed a facecloth and wiped her face, then got a fresh towel and dried it off.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, blinking. Wet, her eyelashes seemed impossibly long.
“You’ve got too much soap in your hair, you daftie. Do you want me to help you rinse it?”
She nodded silently, so he took down the shower hose and ran the water until it was the right temperature.
“Lean your head back.”
She did as he asked and he washed all the soap out of her hair, noticing some areas where he had almost shaved it to the scalp. When her hair was clean, he picked up one of the big towels and lifted her out of the bath, wrapping her in it. He rubbed her a little, and then told her to get dressed.
Their dinner came, on a trolley and hidden under silver serving dishes. George paid and tipped the waiter and then set the table up for her, and changed the TV channel to cartoons. They ate in silence, watching Bugs Bunny.
She ate almost all of her dinner and he let her sit on the bed with the ice cream to watch the television better, while he took a shower.
The water was hot and the jet was strong, and he felt relief as he washed. He hadn’t bathed since he left Glasgow and he felt the dirt and stress of the journey rinsing off his skin. He thought about Kathleen and the brave way she had fought back tears at the press conference and he thought about Moll and her strange shorn head that made her seem like an urchin.
He had started this, and he didn’t know what was next, but he hoped to find someplace where they could be at peace, and then he would try to persuade Moll to stay with him. There was no going back now, he thought, as he rinsed his hair and turned off the shower.
George roughly toweled himself dry, put on one of the hotel robes, wiped a clear spot on the steamy mirror, and shaved. When he opened the bathroom door, he found her asleep on the bed with an empty dish of ice cream beside her. He looked at the clock: it was nearly eight.
He put the ice cream dish on the trolley, then folded her limp sleeping body under the covers. He was exhausted himself, so he lay on the bed opposite, drinking his lager and watching a war film with the sound turned down low. He was about to light a cigarette when he became aware that she was whimpering. Her eyes were rolling under her eyelids and her hands were clutching the bedcovers.
“Wheeesht,” he whispered in an attempt to soothe her.
She became more restless and just as he was about to go to her, she sat up in bed and burst into tears.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked, leaning over.
She didn’t seem to hear him, and so he sat on the edge of her bed and put his arm around her.
“Hey, Moll, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”
She looked into his face, her lashes wet and her eyes full of confusion.
“Were you dreaming?”
She nodded, once.
“What were you dreaming about?”
“A monster was … was coming to get me,” she said, between stolen breaths.
“A monster? I wouldn’t let any monsters near you, would I?” She looked at him, the same wariness in her eyes as earlier, but then shook her head. He got a tissue for her and she dried her eyes, then looked around at the hotel room, as if she had forgotten where she was.
The film he was watching was full of guns and fighting, so he changed channels, but only found the news again, or a soap opera. He turned the television off.
“Settle down now,” he said to her. “Lie down and try to get back to sleep. We have another long day of driving ahead of us tomorrow.”
She lay down, her big eyes open.
“Try and sleep.”
“I like to be read to, but you said you can’t.”
“I could sing to you.”
“OK.”
He sat on the bed opposite, facing her, and began a quiet rendition of “Sweet Caroline.” She giggled and turned on to her side to face him, two hands tucked under her cheek. When he finished, she asked him to sing it again. He sang instead, “Song Sung Blue.” which she thought she knew and tried to sing along at the chorus.
When he was finished, he tucked her in and pulled the covers up to her chin, the way he remembered his mother doing when he was little. He bent and kissed her forehead. She smelled of lemon shampoo. The skin of her cheek was clear and perfect, and he touched it briefly with his thumb, which seemed rough and old and dark in comparison. He thought he had never felt anything so soft and smooth as the skin of her cheek.
“Why can’t you read?” she asked him.
/> “I dunno, I just can’t.”
“Can you write?”
“I can write my signature: GM.”
“But why can’t you read and write? I can read and write.”
“I just … was never good at school.”
“You mean you weren’t clever?”
“No, I was the dunce.”
“What’s a dunce?”
“Someone who’s stupid.”
“Why were you the dunce?”
“I don’t know why. I just … was never able to do the lessons.”
“But even people who’re not good at school can read. Everyone can read and write even if they’re not good at it.”
“Can they?”
Moll nodded, her mouth hidden under the edge of the bedsheet, making her blue eyes seem bigger. As always when she was facing him, he found that he spoke to the eye that looked straight at him and not the eye that turned away, so that after a while he was unaware of her squint.
“Well, when I was wee, I used to write with my left hand.”
“So do I,” said Moll suddenly, raising her face up off the pillow and smiling at him. She held her left palm outstretched toward him, and he touched it with his.
“And that’s OK now, is it? The teachers allow that?”
Moll shrugged and nodded.
“When I was wee, the teachers would belt me when I used my left hand. Do they have the belt at your school?”
Moll shook her head.
“Well, it was the nuns, you see … They wanted me to use my right hand and so every time I picked up a pencil with my left, I got it. Sister Agatha was the worst. I still remember her. She was tall and fat and in her habit she looked like a big, giant … penguin.”
Moll giggled. “Giant penguin.”
“Aye, but you wouldn’t laugh if you saw her. I remember one day, she told me to come forward and hold my hands out for the belt. And I got up and went to the front of the class and did as she asked. You had to hold your hands like this, one hand under the other, so it was harder for you to pull away.” George demonstrated, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding out his hands toward Moll. She was rapt, listening to him. “One day, I remember, there was a hair on my hand. It might have been my own, or one of the girls’, I don’t know,” he said, winking at her. “But anyway, when Sister Agatha belted me she caught the hair, and it cut the palm of my hand so that it was bleeding. The class saw the blood after that first crack, and I remember they all just gasped …” George paused again to mime the shock of his classmates. Moll was frowning now, her small mouth pursed together. “But it didn’t stop Sister Agatha. All she did was ask me to change hands, then she kept on till she’d finished.”
Everything She Forgot Page 21