by Liz Flanagan
I kept getting my phone out to start a text to Eden. I deleted each attempt savagely. What could I say? What was the point of words today? But some words had to be better than no words, so I eventually sent:
So sorry, E. I can be there in 10, just let me know? Love you. Jx
Then chucked the stupid phone down and sobbed for being so inadequate.
But Eden didn’t reply. Death closed around Eden’s family like a big black fence with ‘Keep Out’ notices.
I missed Eden at school. I kept walking past conversations that were shushed into silence as I got near, and suddenly I had courage to face the gossips, cos it wasn’t for me, it was for Eden.
‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘No, she wasn’t drink driving.’
‘Have a bit of respect.’
In the middle of the second week, Mr Barwell read out a letter to our form group, from Eden’s parents, Claire and Simon, that began, ‘We are devastated at the loss of our beautiful daughter Iona. We invite her friends to celebrate her life with us …’ and ended with the time and date of the funeral.
So there we were, a ragged knot of kids, parents, teachers, milling around by the iron gates of the chapel on the hill. Not sure if we should be there. Wishing we didn’t have to be there, not for this. So tense and nervous we hardly dared speak. Katie Sutcliffe was at the front, Iona’s best friend, her face already swollen and blotchy with tears. Everyone sweltering in black on the hottest day of the year. My heart was a panicky helium balloon, bumping and rising inside me. My senses were muddled, working overtime. The blue June sky stretched tight from hill to hill, pressing down on us like a lid. Everything was too bright, too sharp; HD unreality.
I felt the change as the black cars pulled up: everyone bracing for this.
A white coffin was hoisted into view. It wobbled forwards on the shoulders of Simon, Eden’s dad, and five other men I didn’t know, all wearing the same expression of desperate concentration. Eden and Claire came next. I hardly recognized them. Death had done this to them, made them distant as celebrities, flat as cut-out paper dolls. They clutched each other, tissues like crumpled white flags in their free hands, and I couldn’t tell who was holding up who.
This had to be wrong. Surely this was where I woke up? Eden, Eden, I had the strangest dream.
We blundered into the chapel in their wake.
‘I’ve got you,’ Mum said, gripping my elbow as she steered me into a row at the back. I couldn’t look at the coffin, or I’d have to realize what it held. The service passed in a blur of heat and tears. I focused on the worn wood of the pew in front of me, counting all its little knots and scars. My chest ached, iron lungs. Katie managed to read a poem. They played Iona’s favourite song. That’s what undid me. Mum and I filled tissue after tissue, trying not to make any noise.
Afterwards, the coffin left first, then the mourners followed row by row, in a strict hierarchy of grief.
We beetled after them, a black stain spreading over the churchyard, towards the place they’d prepared. I wobbled, grabbing at Mum, my head full of snot and cobwebs. The brightness hurt my eyes. I wanted sunglasses, but it felt disrespectful. I saw buttercups like broken glass, glinting on the grass. Bees groaned past in the hot still air, the noise grating on my nerves.
‘OK, love?’ Mum whispered and I nodded, lying, feeling the pressure build.
We huddled around the deep grave, where they’d spread fake grass to hide the mud. They started to lower the coffin on fabric straps. Eden, Claire and Simon stared, eyes wide, mouths open, faces rigid with horror.
I had to concentrate on something, or I was going to lose it, and it wasn’t my place to do that. I named the colours of the earth’s rainbow layers as the white box descended: emerald, loam, rust, cream, ochre, jet.
Someone was reading prayers.
Claire flung a handful of earth. It clattered on the bone-white lid. On the plaque reflecting light and sky. It looked wrong to dirty it up. Iona wouldn’t like that: her room was always so neat.
Eden froze, soil in her hand, staring down. Long moments passed. People started to murmur.
The look on her face was an electric shock, zapping me back to life. This was what I was for. This was real. I crossed to her and took one side. Liam appeared at the other. I hadn’t even seen him till now. He looked older in his black tie.
We each passed a hand around Eden’s waist, tinier than ever in this black dress. I felt her sag against us. Her fingers sprang open, scattering dry little clods of soil over our feet. She gazed down at our shoes in a row: my boots, polished up for today; Eden’s low slingbacks; Liam’s shiny new lace-ups.
‘It’s OK … Come with us, it’s all right,’ Liam whispered. ‘Hold on.’
Moving as one, we manoeuvred Eden backwards. The sea of black parted for us. We stumbled down the slope and found a place near the long grass at the edge of the graveyard. We sank down, looking out over the summer valley, at the farms and the distant hills beyond.
Nobody spoke. We held her. I could feel Liam’s arm below mine, the warm fabric of his white shirt.
I would get her through this. I would save Eden’s life, like she saved mine. Nothing else mattered. Not school, not exams, not parents, not work. This would be Eden’s summer. I would do anything to get her through.
I looked out at the patchwork of green fields, at Stoodley Pike pointing to heaven in the far distance, at the kestrel hovering above us like a witness, and I swore my vow.
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen
12.05 p.m.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Mum. I hate running out on her like this. My feet beat out the apology, sending loose stones skittering, till I’m halfway up the hill and I can let it go. Trees curve over the road, creating cool, green shade that smells of earth and fallen leaves. Even today, running helps. It makes my fear the second thing, because first there is this:
Each breath, pulled hot from my chest …
My stride, feet pounding earth …
I lose myself in the effort of it, breath, muscle, eye, foot, falling forwards and pushing on, on, on. I leave the trees behind and hit the last steep bit. It’s hotter here and I have to work at it with piston arms.
When I’m nearly there I stop to catch my breath, so I don’t burst in all sweaty and gasping. I take a minute to lean on the nearest wall, finding a patch of warm stone not smothered in brambles all heavy with ripening blackberries. I push back, stretching my calf muscles while my breathing slows.
As soon as I stop moving, the thoughts crowd in. Will Claire and Simon let me in? Will they be angry? Do they think it’s my fault?
I sigh and trudge forwards, dreading what I’ll see at Eden’s house. I feel like I’m wearing some kind of iron corset made of fear, tightening around my ribs with every step. I look around me, hoping I’ll see something Eden dropped, anything to give me a clue, but the lane and the fields are empty. Up here the sky feels bigger, out of the hemmed-in valley. The hills sprawl away to the moors at the distant horizon, where tiny pale wind turbines spin in a row, like beach toys. The fields and woods are deep green, clinging to summer, and the warmth rises off them, bringing a scent of baked earth and heather.
I reach the top of the hill. There’s a row of wind-bent trees and a line of stone buildings along the ridge: four farmhouses, hundreds of years old. Eden’s is the third one along. The stone is worn, all the hard edges smoothed away by lifetimes of wind and rain. As I get near, the dogs in the neighbour’s yard go crazy, barking and throwing themselves at the gate.
Claire opens her door at the noise and comes out. I see the strained hope in her face as she scans the lane in each direction. ‘Eden? Eden?’ Her voice sounds thin and high.
‘No, sorry. It’s only me,’ I call. Seeing her face collapse with disappointment nearly makes me turn round.
‘Oh, Jess, I thought … Has she …? Have you …?’
‘No.’ I shake my head, hating to see the last trace of hope erased. ‘I’m sorr
y, Claire. I needed to come … I wanted to say …’ What exactly? What can I possibly have to say to her when she’s living her worst nightmare? Only the need to find Eden stops me running back down the hill.
Claire’s looking at me with a desperate hunger in her pale blue eyes, as if I’m the one who’s going to conjure her daughter back, right here. She looks thin and older than before, in her loose green jumper and jeans. I can tell with half a glance that she hasn’t heard any news, good or bad. She’s still waiting, every nerve strung tight. ‘What do you know, Jess? What did she tell you?’ One bony white hand shoots out, and her fingers are cold where they grip my arm.
‘Nothing. I mean, nothing new. She seemed all right yesterday.’ I blush, the feeling that I’m a complete letdown overriding my reaction to her touch. Claire’s fingers release. I make myself ask the question that’s been buzzing around my mind like a wasp trapped up against a windowpane. ‘Mr Barwell said you had a text from her. What did she say?’
Claire’s face slams shut now. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Jess. But now you are, you’d better come in.’ Her tone is sharper. She turns and disappears into the dark shadow of the doorway.
I follow.
Inside, the house looks the same – same bright living room with its huge arched window, same massive squashy sofas where me and Eden have watched so many DVDs, curled together like two kittens. It even smells the same – flowers in a vase on the piano, fresh coffee drifting in from the kitchen. But the wrongness of it all overwhelms me. Eden’s new absence and Iona’s older absence are the biggest things in the room, pushing out all the air. I wrap my arms around my ribcage, ignoring the iron corset, and try to breathe normally.
Simon walks in holding a piece of paper. ‘Jess?’ He’s tall, and I always thought you could see he was Eden’s dad, in spite of his darker colouring. For a moment I think he’s taking it better, that he’s not as crushed as Claire. Then I meet his eyes and see how wrong I am.
‘I want to help,’ I blurt. I feel stupid. ‘I mean, I’ve just spoken to the police. I know they’re doing everything …’
‘They’re sending a Family Liaison Officer. Should be back any moment,’ Simon tells Claire.
She doesn’t react. She crosses to the mantelpiece and picks up her phone to check the display. I wonder how many times she’s done that today.
‘Jess, where would she go?’ Simon halts, folding forwards and grabbing the back of a chair. ‘We’ve been over and o—’ he gasps as if he’s been punched.
‘I wish I knew. I want to look though. I mean, that’s what I’ll do today. I’m going to look for her.’
He nods and straightens up. His skin is grey against the white of his crumpled shirt. ‘What do you know about Liam Caffrey? He says he brought her home last night.’ His voice is tight and bitter, forcing out the last few words as if they tasted bad. ‘Seems upset. Puts on a good act.’
‘It’s not Liam,’ I tell them both, as gently as I can. ‘Please, you can’t think that. Whatever’s happened, it’s nothing to do with him.’
‘Well, who the hell is it to do with then? Because someone out there knows where our daughter is.’ Claire’s voice is unrecognizable.
‘Did she tell you about Tyler? From the party last Saturday? Has she mentioned him?’
‘What? No, she hasn’t. Tyler who?’ says Simon. ‘He was in my house? You mean, he knows where she lives?’
‘Do you think it could be him? Why aren’t you telling the police? You can’t just walk in here and throw names at us, Jess. Don’t you realize how important this is?’
I flinch beneath Claire’s rage. It was a mistake to come here. They don’t want to see me. Their grief is too big: it’s a tsunami, overwhelming. I’m no help to them, unless I find Eden. I need to stop talking and just do something.
‘I did tell the police. Please believe me, I’m trying to help. Tell me if there’s anything I can do.’
‘The police said they’ll need a photo.’ Simon sounds like he’s only just keeping control. ‘Something about a media strategy.’
‘What about the one from her online profile? She likes that one.’ I chew my lip.
‘We don’t even know what she was wearing, but that Caffrey boy gave us a list. You might as well check it, Jess. Does that look about right?’ Simon puts one hand to his eyes, as if he can press back tears, and holds out a bit of paper with the other.
I scan it – cropped jeans, red T-shirt, black hoodie. ‘Yeah, think so.’ But there’s something wrong. My brain is trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear it in here, with all the deafening absence.
The silence grows between us. Three little islands of pain in this big room. I’ve no idea how to speak to them today. Not so long ago, Claire and Simon were like anyone’s folks: making polite conversation when I came for tea. Simon making crap dad-jokes. Claire bringing us snacks. June changed that forever, but this is beyond worse. What happens to them now? Who will they be, without Iona and Eden?
I can’t bear the way they’re looking at me. ‘Should I take a look in her room? I might notice if anything’s missing. I mean, if she packed a bag or something.’
‘Will you? I’ve tried, the police have searched, but you might see something different. Just don’t touch anything. The police said …’ Claire’s already turned away to pick up her phone again.
I go up the stairs and along the corridor, past Iona’s room, and then I pause outside Eden’s. There’s a glass frame of childhood pictures hanging on the wall between the two doors. It’s like they’re mocking us. Eden and Iona, pot-bellied blonde toddlers in matching yellow sunsuits on a foreign beach. In their old garden, the house before this one. The riverbank nearby, where they always went. I touch the glass covering the photo. There’s Iona aged ten, giving Eden a piggyback, laughing and squinting against the sun, all skinny brown legs and knobbly grazed knees. Eden and Iona, frozen in time. Happy together.
The photos dislodge a memory.
The last time we all went to the riverbank together. We must’ve been twelve, Iona nearly fourteen, at the end of the summer holidays. Iona and her best friend, Katie; Eden and me. A whole day at the river. Iona was in charge. I remember she was bossy – rationing out the sandwiches, giving us challenges – but she was kind too. She carried the heaviest bag. She found dock leaves for my nettle sting. I remember me and Eden pretending to catch fish. Iona and Katie climbed ahead, downstream to the shadowy pool hidden by the rocky overhang. Rays of sunlight shafted down, bouncing off the water, reflections of reflections, casting rippling veins of gold everywhere. We found Iona and Katie curled up together on the same shelf of rock, so their hair was tangled, light and dark entwined, whispering secrets, their feet dangling in the water. Mermaids.
When we got close, Eden whooped and scooped a glittering wave of water, soaking them both.
‘Oi, I’ll kill you!’ Iona shrieked, but laughing, not cross.
‘Well, you did just say this was heaven!’ Katie told her. Then we all started play-fighting, splashing and sliding right into the water in our shorts.
I remember Iona pulling Eden out when she got too deep. I remember her arms, wet and slippery, around her sister’s neck. I remember them hugging.
I go into Eden’s room. Inside, it’s bright and still. The curtains are open. The bed hasn’t been slept in. The whole room looks unnaturally clear – you can’t usually see this much carpet. Claire must’ve tidied as she searched. But it’s still shocking, like Eden’s been neatened away already.
I look around me, trying to work out if anything else is different.
The walls are covered with posters – three of her favourite bands, two vintage film posters – and over her bed, the vast pinboard covered in photos, postcards, notes.
‘Like Pinterest,’ she’d said, ‘only, y’know, with real pins …’ There were photos ripped out of travel magazines: Machu Picchu, New Zealand, Cambodia – places we were going to go together one day. There’s the card I got her last bi
rthday because the girl on the front looked like her. It’s hanging open and I can see the sign-off and the cake I drew: ‘Big love with cherries on top, Jess xxxx’.
My heart clenches again, and I push down the panic. I need to stay focused. What would she take, if she was running away? Her tablet sits dark and blank on her desk, on top of a pile of school textbooks. Her iPod is in the speaker dock. I sit on her bed and feel under the pillow: the T-shirt she sleeps in is there.
Eden hasn’t run away. She would have told me. Whatever might be happening with her folks, she couldn’t leave me, not now.
‘E, where’d you go?’ I whisper to the empty room. ‘Is it cos of Iona? You know it’s not your fault. Thought we’d done that one. Come on. Come back. We need you.’
And maybe it’s just my lonely synapses firing crazily, but for a moment I’m sure she can hear me. Eden’s right there.
Folded arms, that stormy blue-grey light in her eyes, the jut of her hip, frowning at me, warning me.
I blink. I have an idea. I know I’m not supposed to touch anything, so I wrap the fabric of my tunic awkwardly over my hand and tug open her bedside drawer where I know she keeps her diary. It’s not there. As I’m looking down, I see a flash of silver catch the light, something small at the edge of her bed. I reach down, and my fingers close on something hard and cool.
I lift it for a closer look: in my palm is the small twisted lock from Eden’s diary. Someone broke it open. I dive onto my hands and knees and check under the bed, but there is no sign of the diary.
Who broke the lock? And when?
At the same moment I hear the sound of a car coming up the lane, and a footstep in the hall squeaking on a loose floorboard. I manage to get up just as Claire comes in the room, hoping my face isn’t flushed. I wrap my fingers around the broken lock.