The Stranger In My Home: I thought she was my daughter. I was wrong.

by Parks, Adele

  ‘So what happened on Friday night?’ she asks patiently.

  ‘He pounced on me. Quite aggressively, actually; it wasn’t pleasant. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I didn’t enjoy it.’ It’s not until I say this that I realise how true it is. I’ve felt guilty and implicated, but it wasn’t my fault. ‘I have been drawn to him. He is attractive. I was conned. But I didn’t want to have an affair with him and I did not ask for him to kiss me. I didn’t ask for any of this.’

  ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No. Olivia interrupted us before things could get out of hand.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ I wonder what Annabel thinks this man is capable of.

  ‘By the way, what was she doing at his house, anyway? I thought there was an injunction.’

  ‘I know. She shouldn’t have gone there.’

  ‘I’m glad she did.’

  ‘Yes, as it turned out, but I was furious with her when she told me she’d gone to his. She just said she felt really sorry for him. She went round on the spur of the moment because she felt awful that he was spending his Friday night alone.’

  ‘That was kind.’

  ‘Well, she is quite soft, underneath her bravado, and besides, he’d been texting her all evening, even though, strictly speaking, he’s not supposed to.’

  ‘Texting to say what?’

  ‘Saying he was lonely. Can you imagine her surprise when she found the two of you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I’m deeply ashamed to have added to Olivia’s distress, but Annabel plainly says, ‘Well, it’s not your fault, is it?’ I see her calm, honest face turned towards me, radiating assurance. ‘Is that all that happened?’

  ‘He said some wild nonsense.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That we could be a family, all of us together.’

  ‘How did he think that was going to work?’

  ‘He said he was in love with me.’

  She doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t believe anything he said any more.’ We both sigh at the truth of that. ‘Do you think I need to tell the police?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Inspector Davis already knows you spent more time with Tom than Jeff did. I’m not sure how relevant it is other than to say he might be in a vengeful, desperate state of mind, but they know that, because of the court order I put on him.’ She shrugs regretfully. It’s my call, and she can’t make it for me. There’s something companionable in the dense, dark early-evening air. Shared regret and understanding, shared sympathy and support. ‘I suppose if he really thinks he’s in love with you, that might become useful.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, he might want to please you, still.’

  ‘He’s stolen my daughter!’ I can’t keep the anger out of my voice.

  ‘I know.’ Annabel doesn’t say anything else. It’s clear she is leaving the matter with me. We sit in silence now. No doubt she, like me, is scrambling around her brain for clues as to where he might have taken my daughter; Annabel has already drawn up a list of holiday homes they’ve rented in the past and given that to the police; each one is being checked. We have to find her soon. It’s still raining, and I can’t bear the idea of her spending another night out there. Out somewhere. It’s only when I hear the crunch of the tyres of Jeff’s car that we jump into action. We quickly put on the main overhead lights and try to dispel the gloom by collecting the half-empty teacups. ‘Will you ask Olivia?’

  ‘Ask her what?’

  ‘Tom said she was playing truant as well as Katherine; that’s how he found out about Katherine visiting. Will you ask her if it’s true?’

  ‘I will, but I think I know the answer. I’m pretty sure, with all the problems we’ve been having for months with Tom, that the school would have contacted me immediately if Olivia was absent. When was this?’

  ‘Late September, early October.’

  ‘Hmm. I’ve had her half-term report: her attendance was a hundred per cent. I bet you’ll find the same for Katherine.’ I barely remember her half-term report; we had so much on our minds when it arrived. We were simply pleased her grades hadn’t slipped too much.

  ‘Why would she search out a new family? She has you and Jeff. You are clearly devoted to her.’

  ‘We are, but—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Did that make her happy? Was I cloying? Irritating? Pushy?’ My voice breaks as tears rush to overwhelm me. Annabel stands in front of me; awkwardly, because of her blooming belly, she pulls me into a tight hug.

  ‘Of course she was happy, of course she was. And she will be again. When they bring her home. She’ll be home soon.’

  However, I don’t know. It’s easy for her to say. Her three children are safe and close by. Her fourth is still cocooned, far away from harm. I’m not sure of anything any more, because no one knows.

  Did he take her?

  Or did she run from us?

  39

  It’s unbelievable to me that another night has passed without me knowing where my daughter is. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much. Nor did Jeff. Inspector Davis is right about patterns: humans do cling to them for survival. The pattern we have established is to lie on our backs staring at the ceiling, obsessively, relentlessly, replaying the decisions we made that led us to this place. We keep pressing rewind then play, rewind then play. To see when it all went wrong, to discover at which exact moment we could have changed it all. If I hadn’t let her go to Maddie’s on Friday, if we hadn’t let her have a phone, if we hadn’t allowed Tom into our lives.

  More journalists than I expected turn up to the press conference, considering it’s a filthy Monday morning and the event was hastily arranged. I suppose the lurid details are irresistible. A baby mix-up, a long-lost birth father, a beautiful fifteen-year-old girl.

  It takes place in the town hall. I’ve never given any thought to where these things are staged. I watch as the elderly ladies who volunteer at the town hall fuss about setting out a long table. They put on a white tablecloth, jugs of iced water and glasses. One of them asks whether we’d like flowers. ‘It’s not a bloody wedding,’ snaps Inspector Davis. Everything is taking so long. People are moving in slow motion. I swear they are. They need to hurry. I feel it keenly. Time is relentlessly marching on. Jeff takes tight hold of my hand. He’s squeezing so much it hurts. Annabel asks, ‘Do you want me to come up there with you? Sit next to you?’ I shake my head but ask her to stay close by. She nods and squeezes my shoulder. People keep squeezing me, as though I’m playdough, as though I’m malleable. But I don’t think I am. I am brittle.

  The camera flashes are distracting but most overwhelming is the whirl of the digital lenses zooming in and out of focus, moving closer to us, trying to capture every one of our sighs and tears. I’m aware that everyone is expecting something from me. Inspector Davis wants me to make a statement, but I’ve said I don’t think I can. ‘Well, somehow appeal to Tom Truby, throw a look or a word that will draw him out, make him do something that will reveal his whereabouts,’ she persisted. Jeff wants me to hold it together. The press want me to fall apart. I want this not to be happening.

  Inspector Davis gives a statement first. She throws details to the pack; I can hear their breath, held in their lungs. It’s sensational. I can’t follow her words exactly. I catch some of them but others float away from me, wayward. ‘Grave concern … missing for over forty-eight hours … unable to confirm any sightings of Katherine … Tom Truby … person of particular interest … asking the public to stay vigilant.’

  Jeff reads a statement. It’s full of all the usual clichés, which are ferociously true. ‘We just want to see our daughter home safely … She’s a wonderful girl … our world … If anyone knows anything. Has seen anything …’ He looks directly at the camera. ‘Please bring her home, Tom.’

  The press start to yell out questions. Their voices are abrupt, unsympathetic; the questions are worse than that. They
want to know if the police are looking for anyone else besides Tom Truby; Inspector Davis states: ‘That’s where the focus is.’ They ask if Katherine might have gone with Tom of her own accord, or was she forced? Inspector Davis says that both scenarios are being considered. One reporter asks: ‘Is the relationship simply one of lost biological father and daughter being reunited, or is it something more than that? Something other?’ Inspector Davis wins my eternal gratitude when she ignores the question. She simply reiterates the importance of finding Katherine and bringing her home.

  After the conference we are put in a police car and driven home. Inspector Davis says she’ll call round later this afternoon to update us. We have her telephone number if we need to get in touch.

  Annabel, Callum and Olivia come back to our house, without being asked; there’s an implicit agreement that we all need to be near one another. There’s another batch of gifts on the step. Left by people who don’t want to disturb us. Two bunches of flowers, the sort you buy at a garage, which never quite cheer enough; a casserole; and a couple of packages. Someone has also lit a candle. I don’t like it; it’s something you’d put at a shrine. Shrines are for the dead. Yet I can’t bring myself to snuff it out. Olivia and Callum scoop up the gifts and dump them in the kitchen. The house seems full. There’s a policeman who was deployed to answer the phone while we were at the press conference. As he leaves, he hands me a message that says Rachel is flying to the UK; she’s boarding a plane now. She needn’t do that. It’s kind of her, but what’s the point? How can she help? How can anyone help? Just Tom. Tom, who has caused all this pain, is the only one who can stop it. But he has not telephoned. Two mums from school are here as well; they put the neglected flowers in water and, on a more or less continuous basis, they kindly make tea and sandwiches. They seem unfazed by the fact that most of it goes undrunk and uneaten.

  Jeff looks at the tea he’s proffered in disgust; I know he wants a whisky, but it is only eleven in the morning. Annabel seems to understand. I watch her make a coffee and then add a nip.

  ‘I’d love one, too, but I can’t,’ she says, looking dolefully at her bump. ‘Alison?’ I shake my head. I don’t want alcohol. I’ve barely slept since Friday, when I drank more than enough. My head is fuzzy, my mouth is furry, but I do understand Jeff wanting a drink. He should take whatever comfort he can, wherever he can. He’s welcome to it. He perches on the edge of an armchair, unable or unwilling to get comfortable. He drops his head into his hands. Mozart whines and licks Jeff’s fingers. I should get him an antihistamine; he’ll be sneezing soon. I stand in the doorway of the sitting room, forgetting to take off my coat until I feel Olivia gently tug my sleeve. She unbuttons the coat and slips it off my shoulders, then takes it away and hangs it up in the hall. I feel like the child. Jeff turns to me and asks, ‘Do you think she might have chosen him? That she went willingly?’

  ‘I don’t know. I almost hope so. That would mean she is safe. If he has abducted her, then how? How is he subduing her?’ Thoughts of gaffer tape, ropes, temazepam, even Rohypnol, come to my mind. I don’t know how I am breathing in and out.

  ‘But which do you think it is?’

  ‘I’m lost, Jeff. I’m all out of ideas and thoughts.’ Jeff looks at me for a moment, as though I’ve betrayed him. It’s odd: I never realised how much he depended on my views until I let him down and didn’t have one to offer. He looks away, worn out.

  The room is hot and stuffy. Suffocating. No one knows what to say. Suddenly, Jeff stands up again, looks like he’s going to charge for the door. ‘I can’t just sit here.’ Callum places a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘At least drink your coffee. Then we can all go and give out flyers.’

  I know that, when they say ‘all’, they don’t mean me. I’ve been assigned to the passive role of waiting, being here, just in case; I know they’re trying to protect me. I’ve had a lifetime of predicting calamity and seeing a disaster at every turn, it’s reasonable to assume that I’m too frail to deal with this. Oddly, the opposite is true. I am astounded to find that I no longer feel cowed. How can I be terrified of what might happen? It has happened.

  Peter drifts to the front of my mind. Over the years I’ve realised that I am always thinking of him, on some level; I ration how often these thoughts can be conscious. Now, even amidst all this horror and grief for Katherine, I think of the first child I let slip through my grasp. I didn’t fight hard enough for him. I’ve lived with that regret all my life. This time, I want to do something about my situation. I want to change something. I envy Jeff, the children, the volunteers, even the police, because they can pound the streets; it must be a relief being in the cold, moving, doing something, rather than sitting in this stifling room. I think I’d be eased if I could do that, I’d somehow feel closer to her. I feel constrained, hampered, but instead of quietly reconciling myself to a feeling of frustration I’m stunned to discover that I feel a slow burning anger gathering momentum in my head and heart. I want to upturn the coffee table, yank down the curtains, smash crockery and throw glasses. I look around the room to see if anyone has read my thoughts. Annabel is staring at me. She gives me the oddest of looks and I think perhaps she might have.

  Jeff and the children quickly get on their way. Annabel is not going to hand out flyers, but she says she needs to go back to her house to pick up some clean clothes for her and the kids. I’m terrified by my own pent-up energy so I choose to open the post and packages rather than sit and do nothing. The post offers up little more than bills and catalogues. I put them in the bin. It’s just the easiest thing to do. The first package is a box of chocolates. There’s a note with it: ‘Thinking of you at this difficult time.’ It’s signed by a family we’ve known since I did NCT pre-natal classes. It’s undoubtedly kind of them. I realise how hard it must be to reach out, to think of something to say; I let the chocolates drop into the bin, too. I’d choke on them. The second package contains a bundle of magazines, a sachet of hot chocolate and a small packet of bath salts: ‘Sending you a care package. Our thoughts are with you.’ It’s from the women I do Pilates with. Bin. How can I read about diets and recipes, celebrities and film reviews? I almost don’t open the third parcel – what’s the point? It can’t offer me any comfort. It might as well go straight in the bin. But I do.

  It’s a copy of Brighton Rock.

  I know at once. It is not the tatty, battered copy I found on his car seat. This copy is brand new. But I know. It’s his. I rush to the front door and fling it open, run up the drive to the gate and look left and right. I can’t see anyone. He’s long gone. Dashing back to the house, I ask the two mums if they saw anyone delivering the various gifts.

  ‘No, sorry. We were at the back of the house, in the kitchen. Can I make you a cup of tea? You look pale.’

  I hurry back to the table and check the envelope. Unmarked. Hand-delivered. No note. I leaf through the book, hoping against hope there’s a discreet note tucked between the pages. There isn’t. I feel frustration and fury bubble with hope and adrenalin. It’s something. He’s made contact. That’s something.

  Then I notice it. A page turned at the corner. A word in the text has been picked out. An old-fashioned code, like something the Secret Seven might do. Underlined in pencil, carefully, not too obviously. You would have to be looking for it. Really looking. Hands shaking, throat dry, I read the sentence.

  On page six: ‘He had come out of the same streets …’

  I flick through until I find another turned corner. Page fourteen: ‘I’m all alone.’

  Come alone.

  I swiftly start to leaf through the book, desperately looking for another turned corner. More underlined words. When I find them, I wish I hadn’t. Page 102: ‘“It’s the last chance for me,” Spicer said.’

  I sit stone still for a moment and try to decide what to do next. I rummage in my handbag and retrieve the inspector’s card. She’s left us her direct number. I hold the card between my finger and thumb, playing with th
e corner, wearing it to a crease. I pick up my phone. Or should I call Jeff first?

  But I don’t call.

  He has not explicitly said, Tell no one. He has not given me instructions to dump my phone or even details of where to meet, but I understand all that. It’s implicit in ‘come alone’. More explicit is ‘last chance’. I can’t take any risks. I’ve often said I’d do anything for Katherine. Anything at all. Now, I have to prove it.

  40

  I know the way to Brighton, but now I also know about the automated number-plate-recognition system. I don’t know if the police will have my car tracked once they realise I’m missing, but I can’t risk it. I put on the satnav and programme a route that excludes motorways. It took a lot of nerve but I thought it best to leave my phone at home, on the coffee table in plain sight, next to the note saying that I’m taking Mozart for a long walk to clear my head a bit. At least this way Jeff will simply think I’ve forgotten it. I’m hoping he won’t worry quite so much. Mozart is sitting in the well of the front passenger seat. He’s a good traveller and I’m glad of the company.

  It’s raining again, quite persistently today. I wonder when it will ever stop. I almost imagine it won’t. I put on the radio and hear that it’s the wettest December on record, so far. The skies are grieving for Katherine. The enormous lorries transporting goods from Argos or food from Waitrose scrape and totter in front of me. I can’t overtake because the roads are too windy, but that’s not a bad thing. I have to stay within the speed limit as I don’t want to be noticed by a speed camera. The satnav predicts the journey will take two and a half hours, because avoiding the main roads means I have to go quite some distance out of my way. Oddly, I’m not tired. I realise that adrenalin is pumping through my body, sustaining me.