Then she covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘You can leave her here.’
I wasn’t expecting that. I thought she was going to peel the sheet off and give it to me.
Then she was dialling again.
When she saw I hadn’t moved, she nodded at the plastic chairs against the wall and said, ‘You can wait if you want to.’ She was still pissed at me, I think.
At that moment, the door flew open and a man in work boots backed in, helping an old woman through the door. She was moaning and crying and carrying something heavy in a tartan blanket.
‘I hit a dog,’ the man said over his shoulder. ‘It’s been hit.’
The nurse rushed out from behind the counter, nearly falling over your dog, and opened a door that had a sign over it saying ‘Surgery’. ‘RTA,’ she called into the room and then they all bundled in. The man who’d hit the dog ran his fingers through his hair like he didn’t know if he was supposed to go in as well, but then he did and the door closed.
I could hear the woman crying and someone saying, ‘There’s a girl,’ soothingly, to the dog I think, not the woman. Then everything went quiet.
I picked your dog’s lead off the floor and went over to the desk.
The yellow Post-it pad was sitting next to the phone. I leant over and pulled off the top sheet.
I thought maybe I should just leave your dog like she said and go. I’d got your name now. I’d got your address and phone number too. I looked down at the paper to check. It said Mrs E. Caldwell. ‘Mrs’?
Then I had a horrible thought: It’s the wrong dog! I’ve taken some old lady’s or something . . .
I started whispering. I tried to remember the dog by the school fence – your dog – and whether it was same as the dog looking up at me now. It was the same. Definitely. But I couldn’t know for sure unless I waited. Or went to the address on the Post-it.
‘Come on,’ I said.
I didn’t stop till we got round the corner. Then I sat on someone’s front wall and read what the nurse had written again, while your dog sniffed a poo on the pavement.
Mrs E. Caldwell
81 Claybourne Road
01934762891.
I got my phone out to look on Maps. Then I saw two girls from Heathfield School walking towards me in their black uniform with the bright pink trim. I’d forgotten about school. I’d only been out since three o’clock, but it felt like ages ago. Of course they stopped talking when they saw me, like everyone always does, and I saw the one with eyeliner that flicked up at the edges plant her elbow in her friend’s arm as she looked from me to your dog and back at me again. They walked past like they were holding their breaths, then started sniggering. Yes, very funny, I thought: owners are meant to look like their dogs, not the complete opposite – not like an elephant and a mouse. Haha, hilarious.
I typed Claybourne Road into my phone. I know quite a lot of roads round there because I’ve always lived in the area, but I didn’t know that one. It was on the estate, down the bottom near the houses that are for families of people in the military. From where I was, it was down the Avenue, then across the park. Not far – maybe ten minutes.
I wondered if I should call first, because whoever’s number it was might think it was a bit weird, their dog going missing, then me suddenly turning up on their doorstep with it. Or they might not be in. They might still be in town trying to find it.
Then I thought of something that hadn’t even occurred to me before – that you might be married. That Mrs E. Caldwell might be your wife. And if she was, and she answered the phone, I still wouldn’t know if I’d got the right dog. It also meant that you might be the one that answered. I got a funny feeling when I thought that – a chill went through me – and it suddenly seemed a lot less scary to go to your house than to hear your voice in my ear. I mean, the bad man that’s gonna slit your throat and hack you up isn’t usually the one answering his front door, is he?
He’s the one talking to you on the other end of the phone.
Your dog seemed to know we were going to your house. It was like she wanted me to stop using my phone so she could show me the way herself, like she couldn’t wait for you and me to get introduced because she just knew in her bones that we were gonna be best buddies or something. She kept looking up at me as if to say, ‘Yes, this is the way, well done, keep going, I’ll show you . . .’
Once we got to the estate, though, I got this queasy feeling in my stomach and slowed down. I still let your dog pull me closer, step by step, but I was thinking, get out of here already. Just let her go. She knows the way home. But she probably wouldn’t have gone on, even if I’d shooed her. She’d probably have gone up on her back legs and licked my knees till I surrendered or something. Anyway I had to carry on. If I didn’t, I’d never know if I had the right dog or not, and I’d look pretty special telling the police I knew who’d abducted Alice and then leading them to some dear old biddy.
I don’t think it was the only reason I kept going, though. It was something else too – the idea of meeting you, I think. I mean, I was scared of meeting you, obviously, but I also wanted to. I wanted to know what you looked like up close – to know what it was like to look into those eyes that’d stared so menacingly at Alice.
We went down about six roads. The estate’s a maze, not that I needed to worry about getting lost. Your dog was still skipping ahead going ‘Left here, that’s it, well done, left again, now it’s right . . .’ I gave in and put my phone away. I thought, who needs GPS with this crazy dog?
Some of the roads had blossom trees on them, but as we got further in, the trees disappeared and there were just houses and lamp posts. It was actually kind of a nice feeling, being somewhere I didn’t know and being led along by a dog, like I didn’t have to think about anything, just plod along behind. Like I was the dog.
Claybourne Road looked pretty much like all the other roads round it, but when we got to number 67 it started curving round to the right. I stopped. I don’t know why, but that curve got me panicky. I knew there could only be more road and more houses round it, but I didn’t want to see.
I got my inhaler out and had two puffs, doing it exactly like the nurse at the doctor’s showed me: trying not to hunch my shoulders up too much, holding each one in and counting to five.
Your dog strained on the lead. Then she barked – a sharp, high bark meant for you, I think – or for Mrs E. Caldwell anyway. She cocked her ear, listening ahead. I got a funny feeling then that you might suddenly appear from round the bend and catch me standing there by your neighbour’s hedge, whispering and clutching your dog’s lead like a nut-job, so I started walking again.
You’ll be fine, I told myself. Just stay where people can see you.
Everything was pretty much the same round the corner – road, pavement, semi-detached houses – though there was a little parade of shops further along on the other side.
Your house was the same as all the others: brown concrete with rough walls like sandpaper and joined to the house next to it. The other side it had a narrow gravel driveway leading down to a garage, and at the front there was a small, messy front garden and a step going up to a red front door.
Red for blood, I thought. Red for ‘Don’t Do It!’
Your dog started making gruff little noises and pulled like crazy, hauling me up the path.
‘Alright!’ I told her and dumped my bag.
I stood on the step and waited a second. I took a big breath in and blew out slowly through an imaginary straw, like Mr Webb told Steph to when she said she couldn’t go on stage in last year’s play. I’m not sure it worked because a second later she threw up everywhere. Anyway, I did the straw-breathing thing. Then I rang the bell.
Nothing. It didn’t work. I couldn’t hear anything anyway, so I knocked.
Your dog leapt up and started scrabbling at the door. ‘Good girl,’ I said and gave her a stroke, thinking there was still time to go before someone answered. I didn’t move, though. I stood lo
oking at the stone Scotty dog hiding in the nettles in the flowerbed, then at your front window. It had net curtains hanging in it, which seemed a bit creepy. I didn’t think net curtains were the sort of thing a man like you would hang in his window, but then if you were married, or I had the wrong dog . . .
Suddenly your dog stopped scrabbling and barked again. There were footsteps the other side of the door. Then the silver latch turned and there you were.
Not an old lady.
Not any lady.
You.
Rum and Cokes
I was relieved you bent down to your dog because I went red. I don’t know why. Because you didn’t really look like I’d thought you would, I suppose. You were taller – and younger. On the school field I’d been quite far away. I’d seen your clothes and your high forehead and limp black hair going down either side and I’d thought you were sixty or something, but you were only about forty.
You put your knee on the floor next to a shoe rack that had two pairs of muddy trainers on it and let your dog lick your face. She had her front paws on your shoulders and was going licklicklicklicklick like mad as you rubbed her sides with your big bony hands. Then you held her little feet in your fingers and looked up at me. I saw you clock the badge on my blazer that says Ashfield Senior School on it.
I stepped back, forgetting I was on a doorstep, and stumbled a bit.
‘Steady,’ you said, standing up and you sort of smiled when I’d got my balance. I thought of the paedo-smile. Your lips were quite thin, but because your mouth was wide, they were also long and curvy. Then you said, ‘How’d you get this address?’
I saw the blue coat you’d been wearing when you were watching Alice. It was hanging behind you above the shoes. I felt my face go even redder and my palms go sweaty and I wanted to swallow but my mouth was too dry. I took another step back, so I was next to my bag and said, ‘The vets.’
‘Where was she?’ you said.
‘On Market Street.’
You looked down at your dog and shook your head like you were sad. ‘Must’ve been kids,’ you said. Then you looked up and fixed your dark eyes on me.
I wiped my palms down my skirt slowly so you wouldn’t notice, even though I think you might have because you glanced down at them. Then you turned and went back inside, into your hallway, and your dog went in too.
I thought maybe that was it – that you weren’t coming back. I didn’t move, though, because you’d left the door open. I looked round. Some little kids were playing over the road, taking turns on a tricycle, and a man walking further up near the shops stopped to light a cigarette. I picked up my bag.
‘Here,’ you said. You were in the doorway again, holding out a tenner. I knew it was a trick. I knew if I went to take it, you’d grab me and pull me into your house. You waggled it and smiled and I saw the gap between your front teeth.
I still didn’t move. I said, ‘The vet said she belongs to Mrs E. Caldwell.’ I don’t know why I said it because it was crazy enough going round there at all without asking nosy questions that might get you mad.
You dropped your hand with the tenner by your side and with the other one you started smoothing down your hair at the back, looking at the ground like you were deciding whether or not you were going to tell me who Mrs E. Caldwell was. Then obviously you decided you were – because you thought I was doing a good job, I expect, making sure your dog was going back to her proper owner. You said, ‘Yeah, well, she did.’ You looked away across the road. I saw the muscles in your jaw move. Then you put your hand in your pocket and looked back at me. ‘She was my mother’s. She passed away a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Oh,’ I said, then because the silence was awkward, I said, ‘Sorry.’
You nodded slowly. ‘Well,’ you said, ‘thanks again,’ even though you hadn’t thanked me before.
I wanted to go, obviously. I didn’t want to hang round with a weirdo who stares at girls, but at the same time I sort of wanted to keep talking to you, so I said, ‘Can I say goodbye?’
You looked a bit confused for a second like you didn’t know who I wanted to say goodbye to, but then you turned and gave a soft whistle into the house – through the gap in your teeth, I think. ‘Here, Bea!’ you said. I thought it was Bee as in bumblebee till later, when you told me it was short for Beatrice. But I still thought it was the perfect name. Small and fluffy and round, just like her.
She appeared at your feet, water dripping from her chin.
‘Say goodbye,’ you told her. You had a funny way of smiling that made you look sadder than when you weren’t smiling. Bea looked at you like she didn’t know what you were on about, which she probably didn’t. Then you looked at me, still smiling, but squinting a bit because the sun had come out and was shining on your face. ‘You’ll have to forgive her,’ you said. ‘She’s not really herself right now.’
Then she did the cutest thing ever. She came running over and sat at my feet, her little tail brushing the path, her little nose pointing up at me. I bent down and stroked her head. I wanted to kiss her, but that would’ve been a bit weird with you watching, so I just did a kissing noise instead and said, ‘Bye Bea.’
‘Looks like you’ve made a friend,’ you said. Then, when I’d given her a bit more fuss, you held the tenner out again. ‘Change your mind?’
I stood up and shook my head.
You started smoothing down your hair at the back of your head again – probably because you didn’t know what else to say, and because I couldn’t think of anything to say either, I said, ‘Bye,’ and walked away.
I stopped when I got to the corner, though. I realised I hadn’t asked you what your name was. But you weren’t there anymore, and neither was Bea. The door was closed like it’d never happened.
I thought I wouldn’t see you again. Maybe in court to point you out and say It was him, that was the man I saw watching Alice, but not at your house. There was no reason to go back there. I already had way more information than I needed, even without knowing your name. I knew your surname and your address and phone number. I even knew your dog’s name and the vets it went to. All I had to do was wait.
It was like, It’s your move, Mr Caldwell.
I lay in bed that night and the next, planning exactly what I was going to do to prepare for when you took Alice. If she was ever more than two minutes late to class from break, I’d say I needed the loo so I could leave the classroom, then I’d ring 999. And if we weren’t in the same class, I’d wait near the Head’s office where I’d see her, no matter which door she came through, and I wouldn’t go to class myself till I knew she was OK.
I kept imagining how it’d be reported in all the papers, how I’d feel, knowing I’d saved her, how I’d say it was worth risking my life to save Alice’s. I imagined sitting opposite Holly Willoughby on This Morning’s red sofa and Mum squeezing my leg as we waited to go on air. I even imagined Gary putting his arm round me and saying something like, I got you all wrong, kid. I had no idea. But the best daydream I had was waiting to see Alice after she’d been rescued. I’m outside a big building – maybe a police station – with hundreds of press people pointing their cameras at the door and then suddenly all the cameras start clicking and flashing and I see Alice coming out wrapped in a police blanket, her hair caked in mud, her face all scratched and bleeding from her struggle with you, and tears running through it all as I rush over to her and she falls into my arms.
I couldn’t wait, couldn’t wait for it all to be real, to actually happen. I thought, hurry up already, Mr Caldwell – make my day!
I put Avril’s password in and Googled you during a free period at school. Since I got hauled into Miss Ward’s office in Year 8 for trying to Google Most interesting ways to commit suicide I never log in as me. It’s none of their bloody business what we look at. It’s abuse of our civil rights. We don’t get to see what they Google and I’m guessing some of their searches would be pretty interesting – Mr Faraday’s, for one. Anyway, when I put y
our name in, nothing came up. Well, tons of Caldwell stuff came up, but nothing about you, so I tried out a few first names with Caldwell then, to narrow it down – names I thought a bad man like you might have, like Malcolm or Colin or Brian. Brian – I hate that name, it sounds like ‘brain’.
None of the pictures that came up were you, of course, but it was quite funny looking at them all. There was a Malcolm Caldwell with a massive beard sitting in a giant yellow clog which was a bit random, and a Trevor Caldwell that was probably the most good-looking guy in the world, though he knew all about it. Like Sophie does. It’s something in their sparkly eyes that spells S.M.U.G. I knew I was wasting my time, but I quite like looking at pictures of people I don’t know. When I’m in the mood, I can look for hours. I just type in any random name and then pick a picture and imagine their lives and what their houses look like inside and what their favourite food is.
Anyway, then I tried Caldwell Criminal and Caldwell Paedophile as well. I knew the pictures that came up wouldn’t be you. I mean, they wouldn’t be, would they, because you hadn’t been caught? Yet, I thought. Haven’t been caught yet, and my heart started thumping again in anticipation.
It wasn’t till the next day in Maths I realised that instead of looking for information on you, I should’ve been looking for information on the people you’d taken, so I went back to the library in lunch and looked up Missing girls, even though I knew I should’ve really been watching the path.
A site called Missing Kids came up. It had pages of pictures of teenagers with their ages and where they came from. The pictures were mostly of boys and any girls were either black or Asian. It wasn’t till I got several pages in that I saw Amelia Bell.
She wasn’t as pretty as Alice. She didn’t have Alice’s eyes or nose or any of the stuff that Alice has which makes her so, well, Alicey. But I suppose she was similar – slim with long, straight fair hair. The same type of girl. Similar enough to make me gasp, to get a funny feeling deep inside that told me you might’ve watched her too, just like you were watching Alice now, only no one had seen you watching Amelia Bell . . .
Things We Have in Common Page 6