by Jane Casey
The scrapbooks had been Granny’s idea. She had spent the weeks and months after Charlie’s disappearance working her way through stacks of newspapers, cutting out any reference to him that she could find. There was a perverse kind of pride in it, as if this was Charlie’s outstanding achievement – something to commemorate, like sporting prowess or academic excellence. Why she thought they would help, I had never understood. Mum had inherited them when Granny died: three heavy albums that crackled as the glue-stiffened pages turned. I had seen them many times but never actually looked through them. For one thing, I didn’t want to, and for another, Mum guarded them with her life. She kept them hidden away in a safe place, which I suspected was under her bed, but I had never bothered to look. Recent events seemed to have prompted her to dig them out for a wallow, for old times’ sake.
‘I’m back,’ I said unnecessarily, passing through the sitting room to the kitchen, where I took a tumbler out of the cupboard and filled it at the kitchen tap. The water was tepid and faintly metallic, but I was parched and drank the whole glass in one go. I refilled it and came back to stand beside the sofa. Mum looked up for a second, then returned to the page in front of her. I craned my neck, trying to read the headline upside-down. With a thud that was loud enough to make me jump, she snapped the book shut and glared at me.
‘What do you want?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing. I was just looking.’ I sat down on the arm of the sofa tentatively. ‘Are you reading about Charlie?’
Something like an electric shock ran through me as the syllables left my mouth. I never said his name, never. Especially not to Mum. There are two things, an old teacher of mine had once told the class, that cannot be taken back: the sped arrow and the spoken word. I waited, cringing slightly, for the reaction.
After a second and quite calmly, Mum said, ‘I’m just looking through these.’ She patted the album that was on her knee.
‘Can I see?’ Without waiting for a reply, I reached over to pick up one of the other scrapbooks from the coffee table. We could look at them together. It might help us to come to a better understanding of each other. I was beginning to think that I didn’t know her at all. Maybe that was the problem.
The scrapbook was a little too far away to reach comfortably. I managed to hook one finger under the spine and pulled it, trying to draw it nearer to me. It had stuck to the book underneath it and I yanked at it to break the seal that had formed. With a crack, the plastic binding ripped in a horrible jagged tear that wavered across the base of the spine for about two inches. The paper lining showed through the tear, stark white against the chocolate-brown of the cover. I froze.
Mum leaned forward and picked up the scrapbook, running her fingers over the damage, not saying a word.
‘I – I’m sorry,’ I started to say, but she turned her face up to me, her eyes blazing.
‘This is typical of you. Typical. You just want to destroy everything that matters to me, don’t you?’
‘It was an accident. The books are old. They weren’t that expensive anyway. The plastic must have perished.’
‘Oh, they mean very little to you, I can tell that. But they matter to me, Sarah.’ Her voice got louder, higher. ‘Look at it. It’s ruined.’
Ruined was a bit much. ‘We can tape it up,’ I said, hating that I was in the wrong.
‘No, we can’t. You aren’t to touch these again.’ She gathered them into her arms, glaring. ‘You are a destructive, careless girl. You always have been. Especially where your brother is concerned.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I shouldn’t have to explain it to you,’ Mum said, standing up with some difficulty, still cradling the books. ‘You’ve always resented him. Always.’
‘That’s absolutely untrue. I—’
‘I don’t care, Sarah!’ Her words cracked like a whip, and I actually flinched. ‘You are a very great disappointment to me. My only consolation is that your father isn’t alive to see how you’ve turned out. He would be devastated if he knew.’
‘If he knew what?’ I stood up too, and I was shaking. ‘If he knew that I lived here to babysit you, instead of having a life of my own? If he knew the opportunities I’d passed up rather than leave you on your own?’
‘I never asked you to come back here,’ Mum spat. ‘This has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you not taking responsibility for your own life. It’s much easier to stay here and resent me for the way you live than to make your own way in the world. But you can’t blame me. I didn’t even want you here. I’d rather be alone.’
‘Oh, because you managed so well when I was at university. You wouldn’t last a week,’ I said coldly. ‘Unless you actually want to die. I can see how I would be inconvenient to have around the place if you were trying to drink yourself to death.’
‘How dare you!’
‘How dare you? You really shouldn’t be encouraging me to leave. I might take you up on it, you know.’
‘I would never be that lucky,’ Mum said flatly.
I looked at her for a long minute. ‘You really hate me, don’t you?’
‘I don’t hate you. I just don’t need you.’
Two lies for the price of one. But she knew, and I knew, that it didn’t make any difference. She could say what she liked. I couldn’t leave, and neither could she.
I walked past her without saying another word and went upstairs to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me with violence. Standing with my back to the door, I looked around the room – really looked at it, for once. It was depressing to see how little it had changed since my childhood. The room was small, dominated by the double bed I had bought with my first pay cheque, feeling like a grown-up at last. I had revised for countless exams at the little desk that was jammed awkwardly into the bay window, sitting for hours with my feet braced on the radiator. Beside my bed, there was a bookcase crammed with the books I had read at university and before – the classics, for the most part, their spines threaded with white from reading and rereading. Apart from my chest of drawers and the tiny bedside table, there was nothing else in the room. There was nothing that reflected my own taste. There was nothing I wouldn’t have been happy to walk out and never see again, with the exception of my father’s photograph.
A fly was buzzing somewhere in the room. I walked over to open the window, then stood by the desk, opening and closing the drawers aimlessly, looking for nothing in particular. The drawers were stuffed with bank statements, receipts and old postcards that I’d never bothered to throw out, from university friends. Fell asleep on the beach and burned my back! Greece is lovely – can’t wait to come back here! Or Alain is a sweetie and such a good skier … Wish you had come with us! I wasn’t on the postcard or Christmas-card list for anyone any more. It was hard to keep in touch when the answer to ‘What’s new with you?’ was always ‘Nothing’.
The fly zipped past me and out through the open window. Was it true what Mum had said? Was I blaming her for my own mistakes? A feeling was building inside me, one I hadn’t had for a long time, a kind of recklessness born of frustration and fatigue and just being fed up. I didn’t, on the whole, allow myself to be emotional often, and the strength of what I was feeling surprised me.
The floorboards creaked on the landing and I stiffened, waiting until I heard Mum’s bedroom door close. She had gone to ground as well. It was our tacitly accepted practice to stay out of each other’s way for a few days after a row. Nothing was ever resolved, or forgotten, but time passed. Time passed and there was no end in sight.
I sat down on the edge of my bed and thought about everything and nothing, about Charlie and Jenny and Dad and the rest, and reached no conclusion at all except that something had to happen, and soon. I wondered what it was I really wanted. I watched the clouds and let ideas drift through my mind until I settled on one thing that I longed for, something that, once I’d thought of it, I couldn’t put out of my mind, something that was within my reach, i
f I hadn’t misread the signs. I went and found my phone, checked the number I needed, and sent a short message without stopping for long enough to let myself second-guess what I was planning. And the reply, when it came, was simple: yes.
The light was draining from the sky when I let myself out of my room and slipped into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes and turning the shower on full. I stepped under it while it was still running cold and tilted my head back, letting the water rush through my hair for a minute or two. I moved slowly, deliberately, meticulous in washing my hair until it squeaked, the water running over me as my skin tingled. When I was finished, I wrapped my hair in a towel and worked moisturiser into every inch of my body until my skin gleamed like satin.
Back in my bedroom, I put on barely-there black chiffon underwear that I had bought in Paris what seemed like a lifetime ago, at the insistence of one of my friends, and had never worn. There had been no reason to. There had been no one to see that kind of thing since Ben. But I didn’t allow myself to think about Ben. And now was definitely not the time to start.
At the back of a drawer, I found a fitted black top with a plunging neckline and pulled it on, along with my favourite jeans, which were ancient, soft as suede. Flat sandals on my feet and a wide bangle on one arm were the last details. It was the right balance between looking good and trying too hard, I judged, looking at myself in the mirror critically before starting to work on my hair. After drying it, I pulled it all back into a low knot at the base of my head and clipped it. A few soft tendrils spiralled on either side of my face. I left them as they were. There was colour in my cheeks from the heat of the hairdryer, but there was heat within me too, a self-sustaining slow burn of determination and desire.
I took my time with my make-up, emphasising my eyes with dark liner and mascara so they looked huge, and dabbing just a little gloss on my lips. In the mirror my eyes were steady but wary. I looked different, even to myself. I looked like someone I hadn’t been for a long time. I looked like the person I should have been all along, not the pale shadow I’d become.
It was after ten by the time I was finished. Grabbing my bag, I hurried downstairs, not bothering to be quiet, and slammed the front door, some childish part of me hoping that Mum had heard, that she was wondering where I was going at that hour, and why.
I was dry-mouthed with nerves as I parked, refusing to listen to the little voice in my head that said I was making a fool of myself, that he would back off. He’d have to, some part of me knew. What I was planning was a bad idea in so many ways. I got out of the car and walked into the building decisively, taking the lift to the top floor as if I had every right to be there. I walked up to his door. Faint music was just audible from where I stood. I knocked gently and closed my eyes for a second. My heart was fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird.
When Blake opened the door, our eyes met and it was as physical a jolt to me as if I’d parried a blow. He was barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt, and his hair was slightly ruffled, as if he’d been lying down. He looked at me impassively for a moment that seemed to stretch for hours, then smiled and stood back.
‘Come in.’
‘Thanks.’
I stepped past him into the hallway, dropping my bag on the floor before going any further. To my right was the main room, an open-plan living room and kitchen, lit softly by a couple of lamps. Uncurtained floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a balcony that ran the length of the room. In daytime, it would make the most of the river view. The room was indefinably masculine, functional. There were no pictures on the cream-painted walls and it was minimally furnished: a vast brown sofa, a dining table and chairs, an intimidating music system and shelves of records and CDs. There were books, too, and I wandered towards them, skimming the spines for titles I knew. They were all nonfiction – history, biographies, even politics. I smiled to myself; Blake was a man who appreciated facts. It was no wonder he enjoyed his job. The kitchen was spotless; I wondered if he’d ever cooked anything in it.
‘The bedrooms and bathroom are on the other side,’ he said from the hall, where he was watching me. Whatever he was thinking was masked by his usual self-possession. It was as effective as a steel shutter at locking me out.
‘Very nice.’ I walked back through the room towards him. ‘Your parents were generous.’
‘Can’t fault my dad for that,’ he said with a grin. ‘He never held back when it came to money. Emotional support you could whistle for, but there was always plenty of cash.’
‘Lucky for you.’
‘If you say so.’ He looked around, as if seeing the flat for the first time. ‘Anyway, this is it. My inheritance. More of an investment than a home.’
It did look impersonal, like a stage set or a hotel suite. Somewhere Blake was prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, I guessed.
‘It’s very tidy.’
He shrugged. ‘I like to keep things neat. And I’m never here to make it untidy.’
‘Lucky that you were in this evening, then,’ I said lightly. ‘I was expecting you to say you weren’t free when I texted you.’
‘Vickers gave me the night off. He told me there was no point in being there if I was too tired to think.’
‘You do look tired.’
‘Thanks very much.’ He moved a couple of paces forward, into the living room. ‘Did you just come over to check the place out or can I get you a drink?’
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t come here to drink.’
‘I see. So it’s the conversation that brought you here.’
‘I wouldn’t say that either.’
We were standing a few feet apart by then. I moved closer to him, until he was within touching distance. The air between us seemed to crackle. I took another step towards him, so close that I could feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, and waited, my eyes locked on his, for him to move. Slowly, deliberately, he trailed his fingertips down from the hollow at the base of my throat to the deep V of my top, feather-light contact that made me shiver with desire. I leaned into him, sliding my hands up his chest, and turned my face up to him for a kiss that started out as tentative, then grew deeper, passionate. He slid a hand around to the back of my head and freed my hair from the clip to let it fall down my back. He twined his fingers through it, holding a handful at the base of my neck, so that I couldn’t move away, even if I had wanted to. I pressed myself against him, sighing as he kissed my neck, his other hand exploring, the taste of him in my mouth, his heart thudding against mine.
I don’t know what it was that made him stop. Without warning, he grabbed hold of my upper arms and held me away from him. I felt dazed, as if I had been roused from a deep sleep. He was breathing hard and at first he couldn’t meet my eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sarah … I shouldn’t be doing this.’
‘Why not?’
He looked straight at me, obviously angry. ‘Don’t be obtuse. You know why. It’s unprofessional.’
‘It has nothing to do with being professional. It’s personal.’
‘It’s just—’ He broke off, struggling to find the words. ‘I just can’t.’
I waited for a second to see if he was going to go on, then stepped back. ‘OK. I get it. You could have told me not to come over.’
I kept my tone light, not confrontational, but he folded his arms and glared at me as if I’d attacked him. ‘I don’t always make the best decisions. Especially where you’re concerned, it seems. You’re a witness in the biggest case of my career. I can’t do this, no matter how much I might want to. I could lose my job.’
I dredged up a crooked smile. ‘It’s nice to know you want to, anyway.’
‘Don’t do that. Don’t be so humble.’ His tone was sharp. ‘I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you. You don’t have a clue how men look at you, do you?’
He reached out and ran a finger down the side of my face, tracing the line of my cheek, and I closed my eyes for a
moment. I felt tears sting the back of my throat and swallowed hard; I would not cry in front of Andy Blake. I had more pride than that.
I turned away from him and walked over to the window, pushing the hair back from my face. My cheeks felt hot. For a second, I stared at my face floating against the dark background, blurry and indistinct. Then I leaned against the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes, and peered out at the buildings opposite and the lights reflected in the river. ‘It is a great view,’ I said in an absurdly conversational tone, as if nothing had interrupted our discussion of the flat.
‘Fuck the view,’ Blake said violently, and crossed the room in a couple of strides, pulling me around to face him. He looked down at me with something like despair. Then his mouth was on mine again and I gave myself up to him willingly, wrapping myself around him when he lifted me up and carried me to his bedroom, helping him to take off my clothes and his. The world was reduced to his skin against mine, his hands, his mouth, and as I arched my back and cried out, I had no thoughts in my head, not a one, and it was bliss. And afterwards, he held me tightly, and I didn’t even know that I was crying until he wiped my tears away.
1992
Two weeks missing
I know that I’m in trouble as soon as they tell me we are going to the police station. Every time Mum and Dad have been there since Charlie disappeared, they have left me with Aunt Lucy. I sit in the back of the car, behind my mother, and I think about saying that my stomach hurts. It’s not a lie. But I doubt that it would be enough to make Mum and Dad change their minds. There is something in their faces that makes me think that I am not going to get out of this, and at that thought, my stomach hurts more.
Someone is waiting for us at the station. When we walk in, my father holding my hand, a small woman with short hair rushes over.