The Road to Bedlam cotf-2

by Mike Shevdon

  The image of Blackbird wrapped in a blanket and clinging resolutely to a horseshoe came into my head. If Deefnir went for her, I could see her beating him to death with the damn thing. Would there be headlines tomorrow – Pregnant Woman Arrested in Horseshoe Assault?

  Despite my worries, I smiled. I could just see that happening.

  I knew Blackbird was resourceful, intelligent and very determined. I also knew she was heavily pregnant and without any power. I could disobey Garvin and go to London, but would I be making the situation better or worse? If Deefnir was using Blackbird to draw me in, then he needed her as bait. He wouldn't move against her until I was there. By riding in unprepared, I could trigger the trap that would fall on both of us. On the other hand, if he was really after the baby then I should be there to protect my unborn son, shouldn't I?

  I was torn between helping Blackbird, trying to find my daughter and dealing with Raffmir and his friends. The suspicion that Raffmir was leading me on with speculation and half-truth was probably well founded but, as Garvin had said, they were here for a reason. Could that reason have anything to do with Alex? Did he really have a way of finding her?

  Eventually I came to the conclusion that if Blackbird needed me, she would have said. It wouldn't matter what Garvin wanted, or anyone else for that matter; if she needed my protection she would let me know. She had surrounded herself with iron, which I could no more abide than Deefnir could. Ironically, her protection against the wraithkin would work just as well against me. I had to trust that she knew what she was doing. I knew she would protect our baby whatever happened.

  I was sure Raffmir would appear as and when it suited him, and be as cryptic as ever, but he was the best lead I had on Alex so far. There must be a better way of finding Alex, surely? Perhaps the truck that was parked outside the hospital would provide a lead? Not for the first time I wished I had noted the registration number, but at the time my head had been full of Alex and the accident, not tracking rogue trucks.

  It was a clue, though, and I would have to find a way of linking it to other clues. With enough information, maybe I could piece it together and get a lead on her location. If I could find her I was sure I could help her. In the meantime Garvin had given me an assignment. Perhaps I should get on with it.

  The church wouldn't be open yet, nor would the library. Breakfast was served after seven, so I made myself go down and eat plastic sausages and limp bacon and drink cups of thin coffee. Martha asked me if I wanted seconds, but I patted my stomach and shook my head.

  "Thanks, but I'd better get going."

  I went back upstairs and cleaned my teeth. The grease sat heavy in my stomach and I made a mental note to ask her for cereal the next day, or toast. The rain threw itself against the window, driven by the blustery wind. The taste of summer in yesterday's sunshine was a fond memory.

  Emptying out the black holdall revealed a dark grey coat at the bottom, light but silk-lined and waterproof. It would serve to keep the worst of the rain off. I shrugged it on to my shoulders, pocketed my keys and collected my sword. It slid into the shape of an umbrella in my hand, though it was too windy to be useful in that capacity. Still, no one would question my carrying it on a day like this.

  The harbour was deserted. The spray from incoming waves kicked up against the outer wall of the harbour, only to be hurled at the town by the wind. I walked down the front, turning up my collar and putting my back to the worst of the weather. I could see the clouds sliding into the hills above us. It made the town look cut off, as if reality stopped where the mist began.

  Walking up the hill I debated how to approach the subject of the missing young women with Greg. Maybe I needed a new approach. So far he'd helped me find Karen, if only to persuade me from getting further involved. He'd said we would talk again this morning after I'd slept on it. Well, I had slept, but it hadn't made things easier. For a moment I thought about Debbie. If my dream wasn't a dream, did that mean that she'd woken to find her sheets covered in blood, her body marked with punctures and arms covered in scratches? What would she make of that? Would finding that her dreams had leaked into her life change her? Would it make her less willing, less wilful? Whatever choices she'd made, she was still someone's daughter. There were parents who missed her terribly or there wouldn't be the posters and the appeals for information, would there? How would news of their daughter's new lifestyle be received?

  The church of St Andrew stood against the wind, and not even a window rattled. The rain ran down the roof and into the gutters, but it did no more than stain the stone a darker shade of brown. I hurried under the porch out of the rain. No one had been to open the church yet, but now that I knew what I was doing it was a simple matter to get inside. I closed the door behind me but didn't relock it. I wanted Greg to know there was someone waiting.

  The board pinned with photos looked more colourful in daylight. Anything from hair ribbons to teddy bear keyrings had been pinned to it, filling in the gaps left by lack of news. I picked out an early photo of Debbie astride a new blue bike. Her hair was longer and she was leaner than she was now, but I thought I could see a girl who would pedal to see what was around the next bend, over the next hill, or maybe that was just my knowledge of her colouring my perceptions. In the photos, though, her evolution was revealed. In later ones her hair was blonde, not brown, and shorter. As she got older, she wore more make-up and her choice of clothes drifted into darker fashions. The girl with the bike had become a girl with few limits and a determination to wring every last drop from life. I pinned it back.

  Yesterday these girls had been blank faces. Now they were people. Helen's uncomfortable smile revealed a shyness and a hesitancy. Other photos revealed a plain simplicity to her. She looked straightforward and honest, with none of the artifice that Debbie had adopted. I wondered how that had translated into becoming a mother. Had she planned it or had things simply got out of hand? It was hard to imagine her getting carried away with some boy and ending up pregnant. Maybe the baby wasn't hers? Maybe she was looking after it for someone else? With that thought came the memory of that quiet reassurance and rhythmic suckling. "Mummy's coming…" No, the baby was hers. The photo, though, revealed nothing of that.

  There were pictures of Karen there, though they tended to be at the back, covered by newer postings. As a girl, Karen had looked a lot like her sister, Shelley, reminding me to find a way to pass on Karen's message to her sister. I would do it discreetly, away from her parents. Karen smiled out of the picture at me, reminding me of the way she had looked across at Ahmed. I couldn't help wishing that one day she would find a way to be close to her family once again.

  In every picture, Trudy Bilbardie was with someone else. I had looked for a good picture of her by torchlight the previous night and settled for the one with her standing between friends because it was a clear image of her. It wouldn't have mattered, though. Trudy was always the centre of attention, hugging those about her close, a big smile for the camera. She looked bright, sparkly and full of life.

  For the first time I wondered whether there were other photos of these women. How much had the choice of pictures been governed by the people searching for them? Were there pictures in a drawer somewhere of Trudy on her own looking nervous? Were there photos of Helen in glamorous dresses and Debbie in jeans and no make-up? If there were, the people searching for them had not chosen to show them.

  That left me with Gillian, her hair framing her face like a halo as she leant forward. It must have been a recent picture, or perhaps she was older than the others, since there were drinks on the table behind her and the photo had been taken with flash so that the shot faded out into a vignette of darkness – a nightclub, perhaps?

  What had she been leaning forward to do? Was someone offering her something, or repeating something not quite heard? Of all the pictures, this one was the least posed. It captured an unconscious moment. There were a couple of other photos, but they looked like mobile phone pictures or shots taken of
someone else that Gillian had happened to be with. I could imagine her holding up a hand when the camera was raised, or stepping aside, but for this one shot she'd just been Gillian.

  Replacing the photo, I stepped back. Greg had been right. It wasn't just about finding the girls. It was about knowing what became of them, where they went and why they'd made whatever choice they'd made. And for two of them it was about closure. I would never know if Gillian and Trudy were like their photographs. It was too late for that question. I knew that now.

  Greg said that you had to find out what people needed before you tried to help them. I knew what it was like to lose a daughter. I knew the emptiness and the nagging thought that there was something more I could have done. The parents of these girls needed to know, good news or bad. This wasn't news I could carry, though. I needed Greg.

  When he arrived I was sitting in a pew at the back of the church, listening to the rain and the wind and thinking about the girls, about what to say, and how to say it.

  "Was the door open when you got here?" he asked me.

  "No."

  "You borrowed a key?"

  "Not that either. I let myself in. I hope you don't mind. I'm not here to steal the silver or make off with the collection."

  He closed the heavy door behind him, shutting out the weather, and walked into the centre of the church and genuflected towards the altar. He was silent for a moment.

  "You saw Karen?"

  "Yes."

  "How is she?" He came and sat beside me in the pew, looking down the church towards the big east window.

  "She's well. Ahmed is very protective of her. He looks after her."

  "A good man."

  "A protective man. He took exception to me asking around for her."

  "There was a fight?"

  I shook my head. "It didn't come to that. Karen intervened. We had mint tea together."

  "Quite refreshing, isn't it? Not with sugar, though. That spoils it."

  "She asked about her family. She misses them."

  "It's difficult. Tony, Karen's father, isn't a racist. He just can't deal with the fact that his daughter loves a man whose culture, upbringing, religion and way of life are so very different from his own. He doesn't know how to speak to Ahmed; doesn't know what to say. It comes out as aggression. He doesn't mean it."

  "Karen thinks he does."

  "And that's why they live apart. It's better. At least for now."

  "But why the photos? They know where she is. They could ring her up if they wanted to. Why make a show of it?"

  "When Karen first vanished, they thought Ahmed had kidnapped her. They made a huge fuss. The police were involved, everything. Then they found out where she was and what she was doing. They'd already joined the group, posted photos, made a public statement. I think they thought she'd realise what a mistake she'd made and come back. They could say she'd run away and then decided to come home."

  I shook my head. "She's not coming home."

  "I know. So do they. The fiction remains, though."

  "I spoke to Debbie, too."

  "Debbie? You found her?"

  "Not exactly. I spoke to her. I don't know where she is, but she's alive and well, mostly."

  "How did you find her?"

  "She found me. I don't think she's coming home either."

  "Can you get in touch with her?"

  "Maybe, I'm not sure. It's not easy to talk to her."

  Greg steepled his hands in front of him. He thought for a long moment before speaking. "Debbie's mum isn't part of the church community. Comes to the meetings on a Friday. Makes tea when its her turn. Talks about her daughter, mostly. Never met the dad. Not even sure there is one. A series of boyfriends, maybe. What we used to call uncles."

  "Stepfather?"

  "Not that involved, or that reliable. They come and go. I don't know, but it's possible that one of them took a shine to Debbie."

  "You think that's why she left?"

  "Maybe. You'd have to ask her that question. Her mother doesn't know, I can tell you that. She'd kill them if they touched Debbie."

  "She might not know, though."

  "D'you think you could get her to phone home? It doesn't have to be from her own number. A call box would do it."

  "I don't know whether I'll speak to her again."

  "If you do. She'll know the number, I'm sure. Just a call. It would mean a lot."

  "I found the others too, Greg. Some of them."

  He looked directly at me for the first time. "What do you mean, some of them?"

  I stared resolutely at the east window, avoiding his gaze. I was reminded of a technique I'd learned professionally, on a course on presentations. It's called a shit sandwich. If you have bad news then you wrap it between two pieces of good news. It helps to make it more palatable. There was no way of making this any easier.

  "Gillian and Trudy… they're not coming back."

  I sat under his unwavering stare. It was a little while before he looked away.

  He cleared his throat. "You only started looking yesterday. You could give it a little more time."

  "When people say things to you, Greg, you can hear whether they're lying, can't you?"

  He became still beside me.

  "And when they tell the truth, you can hear that too."

  He might as well have been carved from the same stone as the church.

  "So you'll be able to hear in my voice whether I'm telling the truth. Trudy and Gillian can't be found. I think they're dead."

  "How do you know?" His voice was close to a whisper.

  "I told you yesterday. I have different ways of finding people. If they're alive, I can find them."

  "What if they've moved away? They could have gone abroad, taken a plane, maybe."

  "Let's call it a talent, like knowing whether someone's telling the truth. If they're out there I can tell they're there. I can't find any trace of Gillian or Trudy."

  "What about Helen?"

  "Helen I found. She's OK. She has her hands full."

  "She's had the baby? Thank God. I thought she'd gone for a termination."

  I saw the news of the baby's safe arrival spread relief on his face and I felt like I'd cheated. There should be no good news after that. Once again, though, it meant he knew more than he was saying.

  "You knew she was pregnant." It was a statement, not a question.

  "No. Young man came to call. Wanted to know whether her parents had found her. Whether she'd been in touch. I had to tell him, no. Sat him down, made him tea. Asked him why he didn't go to her parents, if he was so worried. It was like pulling teeth."

  "He's the father?"

  "Thinks he is. She was underage. He said it wasn't supposed to happen. They were holding hands, kissing, that sort of thing. All very sweet. Then one afternoon after school she takes her clothes off in front of him. He's a good lad, but he's not made of stone."

  "Just bad luck, she got pregnant first time?"

  "Hardly. It became a regular thing. He was scarlet by the time he told me this."

  "Why didn't they take precautions?"

  "He wanted to. She wouldn't hear of it. Her family are churchgoing, strict with it. She said it would be up to God."

  "You believe that?"

  "He moves in mysterious ways, but usually within the sanctity of marriage. By then it was too late. She'd gone and I dreaded the worst. It's a relief to hear she'd had it. Boy or a girl?"

  "I don't know. I didn't get to ask."

  He studied the glass in the big window. "Quite a gift, that."

  "What?"

  "Finding people. These girls have been missing for months, more than a year, some of 'em. You walk in one morning and by the next day you know where they are."

  "I know they're there. Where they are, I can't tell."

  "Still, quite a gift."

  "As you say."

  "Ever been wrong?"

  "You know I'm telling the truth. You can hear it."

  "I
know you believe it. I just don't know whether I believe it."

  "Even if they were in a coma, down a mine, gone to Australia, I think I would know."

  "A gift and a burden."

  "Pardon?"

  "It isn't easy, always knowing the truth. When people say, 'I'll see you on Sunday', and you hear the lie on their tongue, it isn't easy."

  "I don't suppose it is."

  "Worse when they say things like 'thank you' or 'hope to see you soon'."

  "Yes. It must be."

  "This daughter you lost. Must be a burden knowing for sure that she's dead, but being unable to see the body."

  "I didn't say she was dead."

  "No, you didn't, did you?"

  There was another long silence while the rain lashed against the windows. It was Greg that eventually broke that silence.

  "We live in hope."

  "I'm not a religious man. I said that before."

  "You don't have to believe in Him," he said. "The important thing is that He believes in you. If you have a gift, then it's for a purpose. Maybe you were brought to us to give us certainty. I think you know what that means."

  "Closure."

  "Perhaps. I will need to think about this, Neal. I believe you are sincere and that you know what you know. That doesn't mean I'm going to tell the parents. That might mean explaining how I know."

  "I understand."

  "If you could tell me where, it would be easier."

  "Debbie? A city. Somewhere with nightclubs and loud music. Helen? Could be anywhere."

  "Gillian? Trudy?"

  "There's nothing, Greg. If I knew, I'd tell you."

  "You would. Let's leave it there, then, for now. Try again for me, if you would? Not that I don't believe you, but it can't hurt. People have been mistaken before. If you get the chance to speak to Debbie or Helen, tell them their parents are worried sick about them. A phone call would make all the difference."

  "I don't know if I'll be able to speak with them."

  "You could also tell Helen that there's a young man who's desperate to hear from her and wants to do the right thing, and not just because it's the right thing to do."