‘Hurro?’
I turned the light out immediately. She was at the top of the stairs. She had a torch or something in her hand. Time to face the music. I put the phone light back on.
‘Hello.’
‘Are you ok?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I heard all this knocking and wondered where it was coming from.’
‘Me, too.’
I looked back into the chamber. Huge metal chains hung suspended from the ceiling. One was swinging against the side like a pendulum. Tip, tap. Only here it echoed like a sonorous bell. The Japanese girl came sploshing through the water to find out. She was braver than me.
She peered into the room. ‘Whoa. A good place to hide.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No one would find you down here.’
No one.
‘What is this place?’
‘I’ve no idea. It looks like a pump room.’
She looked at me under the electric light and recognition flickered. ‘You that man, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘With the baby.’
I said nothing.
‘We saw you on the stairs.’
English? You speak English?
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Are you still looking for her?’
‘The police are.’
‘I hope they get her.’
‘So do I.’
The chains suddenly stopped rattling and there was the whirr of machinery again. It suddenly struck me where we were, directly beneath the lift shaft. Someone else was coming? I imagined the whole building coming down to join us: late night inebriates; lunatics like me who stay up half the night looking for their daughters; Orientals who decide to do flat clearing at two in the morning; the police. I looked up at the ceiling and imagined aliens hanging down to grab her. This was far scarier than the Nostromo: it was the real heart of darkness. I felt like doing something to her. I should never have let her see me. I should never have come down here. I caught her flat, equanimitous expression in the opaque light and imagined it under the brackish water, struggling for air. She was grabbing at me, her arms round my neck, pulling me towards her. It’s only then I realised what was happening. The facehugger had attached itself to my face and I felt the alien tongue in my mouth reaching into my gullet. It’s not what lies on the outside that you need to watch out for; it’s what lies within.
Our feet sloshed in the water as we made our way back. The lights from our phones flickered on the ceiling and long shadows returned to the pump room. When we got to the top of the steps and emerged from behind the boxes, the chains started rattling again. Tip, tap. We were so distracted we missed him.
‘Where’ve you been?’
He was sitting on a box by the door.
I’ve heard that expression many times in my life and, believe me, it never bodes well. It ranks with see me later and ring me among messages that chill your bones. Even if you’ve done nothing wrong, even if you’re as innocent as Jesus, you can’t help the feeling of impending doom.
She said something to him in Japanese but I don’t think he was buying it. He looked at me and thought the very worse, as everyone from my nursery teacher to my ex-wife has done.
Will you never learn to tell the truth?
No. I can’t.
He started having a go at her in Japanese, gesticulating wildly, then pointing at the boxes in the corridor. At one point, I thought he was going to hit her. Or she him. She was feisty and buzzing round him like a fly. It was almost comical, like a manga. I would have intervened but I knew that nothing I’d have said would have made a difference. I know jealousy all too well and have cried myself to sleep like every other schoolgirl.
‘He was looking for his little girl.’
He stopped then and screwed his eyes narrower than a dragon boat.
‘Girl?’
‘Yes. I found him crying.’
She’d saved me. You’re not going to question a man who has lost his daughter. I mean, even the vilest of tyrants would baulk at that. All grief is relative, but when the relative is a child, everyone understands. Even aliens, I suspect. My little girl had bought me a lifetime of excuses. It’s hard not to be addicted to that.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Do you want me to give you a hand?’
I pointed to the boxes.
He threw the girl a quick look, then shook his head. ‘No.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
It was. I don’t know why I said it. I hate it when people say it to me.
‘We’re okay.’
My audience was over. I looked at the geisha in her hotpants and tight t-shirt and put on a masterly display of insouciance. It was a shame so few were there to see it.
‘I hope they find your little girl.’
He meant it, too. That’s what really sticks in my throat. Everyone hoped it. Everyone except the bastard who took her. They should string him up for what he did. How could I be so stupid as to let her go? My beautiful little girl.
The last I saw of the Japanese couple was the pair of them dragging the boxes into the bin room. I wondered what was in them and whether I should bother to find out. I don’t know why I thought it but I felt they had something to hide. Maybe, because I had, too.
14
I have always accepted that day follows night: after the sun comes the rain; after the bad comes the good; but it’s not always like that. Sometimes, things go from bad to worse: and then even worse. They never get better. You keep thinking they will, but they don’t. It’s like being told you have incurable cancer or that Godot’s not turned up. They’re inevitable. From the moment I went into the basement, things had that feel. They span right out of control.
I was down at the police station with the young, urbane officer. He had the map behind him and it was stuck with flags and pins. He looked at it for a few moments, then invited me to sit down.
‘How are you coping?’
I stared at him wonderingly; I didn’t know myself.
‘We’re all thinking about you here. We all want to see her back safely.’
There was a picture of my little girl on the wall behind him. He turned to it. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I don’t like hiding things from people. I never have. I think people deserve the truth.’
That was good to hear anyone saying.
‘So I have to tell you first, I have no news for you. In fact, the lack of news itself may be the most significant piece of news.’
My fingers started tapping on his desk.
‘I’d like you to tell me a bit about her.’
‘My daughter?’
‘Yes.’
I looked at the picture. I remembered when it was taken. We’d gone bungee jumping by the river. I was scared, of course - for her and for me - but she was insistent. They fixed her into one of the adult harnesses and catapulted her off into the sky. I was expecting her to show some fear - she was four - but I got scarcely a look. She was too busy waving at the clouds. When she came back down to earth, she flashed me a milk-white grin and asked if she could go on again. At eight pounds a ride I wasn’t about to say yes, so I got the owners to take her picture instead. They were Poles or something and were doing all they could to make a living. Her hair was a complete mess, which her mother would have a go at me for (I still can’t get ponytails right even after all these years), and her cheeks were all red, but the picture seemed to capture the essence of her better than any other I’ve taken before or since.
‘She’s brave. She’s bright. She’s curious. She talks a lot. She’s like a lot of five year olds.’
‘Would she ever talk to strangers?’
‘Yes.’
‘A lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
‘We were both concerned.’
‘Did you ever try to stop her?’
‘Yes. My wife and I used to a
rgue about how you go about it, but we didn’t disagree that she should be careful.’
‘How did you disagree?’
‘She thought to put the fear of God in her, make her frightened of the whole world. I didn’t want that. I tried to give her some perspective.’
‘You were more lenient?’
‘No. I was paranoid, too. But so long as I was there, I didn’t mind her talking to adults, or trying to make friends with other kids. She knew the parameters.’
‘At five?’
‘She’s a clever girl.’
‘Is it conceivable that she would let someone other than you or your wife take her away?’
‘Everything is conceivable but I think it very unlikely. She would miss us both and she would know it was wrong.’
‘Are there any people who have any grudges against you?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Enough to take your daughter away from you?’
My fingers stopped tapping. Who knows how far people would go? ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Have you any grudges against anyone?’
‘I try not to.’
‘What’s your relationship like with your daughter?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, other than being her father, how did you get on? Was she scared of you? Look up to you?’
‘You got any children?’
‘Yes, two boys.’
‘My daughter is an only child. She needs attention. She has a vivid imagination and one hundred and fifty-six imaginary friends who live in her shoe. Most of the time, I’m her dad, but sometimes I’m her best friend and sometimes I’m her teacher. She likes to dress up and get me to dress up with her. When we do that we’ve been mummy and daddy, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, the cast of High School Musical, and just about anything you could care to mention. At times, she has been scared of me, but not enough that she wouldn’t forget the bad thing she’d done and do it again five minutes later. I can’t say to you that I haven’t wanted her to look up to me. What dad doesn’t? I wanted to be the best dad in the world. I wanted her to love me and respect me and think I’m her everything the way I do about her. But I’m not naïve enough to believe it.’
He smiled wistfully and the interrogator side of him seemed to have gone. ‘I play football with my boys. I don’t have much time these days, but the time I do, is the most important time I have. It used to be a game of waiting: waiting for them to grow up so I could teach them how to play; waiting for them to be old enough so I could play against them properly; now there’s just the waiting for them to stop playing because I’m no longer good enough. You quickly realise you’re no longer needed.’
It’s always dangerous when you start to like someone. You let your guard down.
‘I’m sure that’ll never happen. Boys look up to their dads in quite a different way.’
He smiled again. ‘I hope so.’ He turned back to the picture of my daughter. ‘It’s good to get a mental picture of someone. It helps fill in the gaps.’ He stared at the map of the city centre. ‘You wouldn’t think someone could go missing like that.’
He was back to being the police officer.
‘There was nothing at all.’
My fingers were beating the desk again: five, five, five. They quick stepped across the top to the coffee he’d left.
‘Are there any other questions?
‘Yes, there are, actually.’
I gripped the mug.
‘There are a couple of things in your statement I wanted to check.’
He opened a drawer by his desk and took a plastic bag out. It looked very official, with numbers and letters across the top. Inside was the black lipstick I had seen in the lift.
‘You recognise it?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘When you caught up with the lift, you said it was on the floor.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t remember it being in the lift when your daughter got in?’
‘No, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.’
‘So it got in there afterwards?’
‘I guess so.’
‘In those few seconds your daughter goes to the basement?’
‘Yes.’
‘And disappears.’
‘Yes.’
‘That doesn’t leave a lot of time.’
‘No. I suppose not.’
I wished he’d let on with me rather than being all Sherlock Holmes, but I couldn’t deny he was doing well. He never once lost his cool, never once gave a hint of what he was thinking, or let me think there was anything going on untoward. I hoped he thought I was as good.
‘We checked with your neighbour and she confirmed it wasn’t hers.’
‘Right.’
‘And we checked with those on the floor above you, which is where the lift came from.’
‘Right.’
‘Could your daughter have picked it up from somewhere?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Considering all that’s happened, it would only be natural if you missed certain things or couldn’t remember something. Who could? If it was my two boys…’ He paused. ‘We want to get this right. It’s vital we don’t waste time looking for the wrong thing.’
The moment he said it, my heart stopped. I couldn’t feel the pulse in my head any more. ‘I don’t understand.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Neither do I. Not yet.’
He opened the drawer again and took out some photographs from another plastic bag. Some had time code on them. I recognised the date. It was the day my life changed forever. I wondered if they’d found her, if amongst the eerie greys and whites, you could see a little five-year-old being led away. Darling? I knew I had tears in my eyes and I was glad of them.
‘You recognise the pictures?’
‘Some of them.’
‘How about these?’
He put some black prints on the desk. I wondered if he was joking. There was nothing on them, not even a code.
‘Of course not. There’s nothing there.’
I wondered if the lack of a pulse was doing this to me. Was my brain being starved of oxygen and I was hallucinating?
‘When we checked the CCTV footage from the surrounding streets, we discovered that the camera at the back of the building wasn’t working.’
‘Right.’
‘It had been vandalised.’
‘There’s a lot of riff-raff hanging about at night.’
‘I’m sure. Ironic, though, isn’t it? I mean, it’s the back of the building, not the road.’
I shrugged.
‘Kids can get anywhere.’
‘Yes, they can.’
I wondered if he said that ironically.
‘In this instance, there may be more to it.’
‘Why?’
‘The camera was working two days before your daughter went missing. It had just been serviced.’
He let the dust of revelation settle before continuing.
‘I asked you before if anyone had a grudge against you.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like you think about that very carefully now.’
‘Why?’
‘Stranger kidnappings are very rare. If your daughter’s been taken, it’s highly likely she knew who she was going off with. This has all the hallmarks of a planned abduction.’
‘She knew?’
‘Most probably.’
He took the photographs and the lipstick back and filed them in his drawer. I think I’d just about stopped hallucinating.
I got up to go.
‘There’s something I forgot to tell you.’
‘Yes?’
‘About my daughter.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She’s the most stubborn person on the planet. Just like her mum.’
He smiled grimly.
‘Aren’t they all?’
15
I can remember clearly the day the middle-aged tar
t first met my daughter. We were coming back from town laden with the debris of Saturday afternoon shopping: the bags of half eaten sandwiches, pencils and rubbers, a few books she’d liked the front covers of and would never read, sweet wrappers, leaflets and flyers that had taken her fancy: the usual potpourri a kid gathers when they take you out.
The middle-aged tart was just coming out of her flat, operatic in a white, summer dress with Italian sunglasses perched on her strawberry blonde hair. Ciao, I thought.
My little girl was already working her magic. She flashed her a winning smile. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’ve been shopping.’
‘So I see. Did you have fun?’
‘Yes. I had an ice cream.’
There was a large pink stain round her lips which wasn’t yet makeup.
‘Yum, yum. I think I’ll go and get one, too.’
The middle-aged tart glanced at me. I half imagined something passing between us. It doesn’t take long for me to fall in love; I fall in love with every woman I see.
‘We’ve just moved in,’ I said.
‘Yes, I heard your little girl this morning. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Rashelle.’
She thrust her hand out. Rashelle? It sounded altogether too foreign. She looked more like a Jane or Susan, although they’d have made her far too young, I think. She was more my age.
I find names weird. I say mine over again and again, trying to work out who I am, and it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like using it. If you knew it, you’d feel the same: you’d judge me. Hollywood stars change their names to make themselves more glamorous. Now everyone thinks they’re something, they’re all doing it. Names let people know who you are, but they don’t always match. When the Hollywood star makes it, the stardust of their name becomes the year’s new nom de plume. Who would have thought George or Leo would become popular again? John Smith is now Johnny Smith, or George Smith, or Leo Smith. It gives the kids something to aspire to. But more often than not, John or Peter would have suited them better. Rashelle didn’t suit her at all; she would have made a better Rose; but then you would have judged her, and we don’t want that at all.
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