by Jane Shemilt
“I can’t keep up.” He shrugged. “So, she’s out with her mates. Perhaps they’re having such a good time they stayed on.”
“Ted, it’s after two . . .” My face flushed hot with panic and fury. Surely he realized this was different, that it felt wrong.
“That late? Gosh, I’m sorry. The operation went on and on and on. I hoped you’d be asleep by now.” He spread his hands in apology.
“Where the hell is she?” I stared at him, my voice rising. “She never does this, she lets me know even if she’s five minutes late.” As I said it, it occurred to me that she hadn’t for a long time now, but then she had never been as late as this. “There’s a rapist in Bristol, it said on the news—”
“Calm down, Jen. Who is she with, exactly?” He looked down at me and I could sense reluctance. He didn’t want this to be happening; he wanted to go to bed.
“Her friends from the play. Nikita and everyone. It was just a meal, not a party.”
“Perhaps they went to a club after.”
“She’d never get in.” Her cheeks were still rounded; she had a fifteen-year-old face, younger sometimes, especially when she was tired. “She’s not old enough.”
“It’s what they all do.” Ted’s voice was slow with tiredness. He leaned his tall frame against the wall. “They have false IDs. Remember when Theo—”
“Not Naomi.” Then I remembered the shoes, the smile. Was it possible? A club?
“Let’s give it a bit longer.” Ted’s voice was calm. “I mean, it’s kind of normal, still early if you’re having fun. Let’s wait until two-thirty.”
“Then what?”
“She’ll probably be back.” He pushed himself away from the wall, and rubbing his face with his hands, he began to walk toward the steps at the end of the hall that led down to the kitchen. “If not, we’ll phone Shan. You’ve phoned Naomi obviously?”
I hadn’t. God knows why. I hadn’t even checked for a text. I felt for my cell phone but it wasn’t in my pocket. “Where the bloody hell’s my bloody phone?”
I pushed past Ted and ran downstairs. It must have fallen out and was half hidden under a squashed cushion on the sofa. I snatched it up. No text. I punched her number.
“Hiya, this is Naomi. Sorry, I’m busy doing something incredibly important right now. But—um—leave me a number and I’ll get back to you. That’s a promise. Byee.”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
“I need a drink.” Ted went slowly to the drinks cupboard. He poured two whiskeys and held one out to me. I felt the alcohol burn my throat, then travel down the length of my gullet.
Two-fifteen. Fifteen minutes to go before we would ring Shan.
I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to leave the house, I would go down the road to the school theater, wrench open the doors, and shout her name into the dusty air. If she wasn’t there, then I would run down the main street, past the university, storm into all the clubs, pushing past the bouncers, and yell into the crowds of dancers . . .
“Is there any food?”
“What?”
“Jenny, I’ve been operating all night. I missed supper in the canteen. Is there any food?”
I opened the fridge and looked in. I couldn’t recognize anything. Squares and oblongs. My hands found cheese and butter. The cold lumps of butter tore the bread. Ted silently took it from me. He made a perfect sandwich and cut off the crusts.
While he was eating, I found Nikita’s number on a pink Post-it note stuck to the corkboard on the cabinet. She didn’t pick up either. The phone was in her bag. She had pushed it under the table so she could dance in the club they’d managed to get into. Everyone else wanted to go home, her friends were leaning against the wall, yawning, but Naomi and Nikita were dancing together, having fun. No one would be able to hear Nikita’s phone ringing in the bag under the table. Shan must be awake too, waiting. It was only a year since her divorce from Neil; this would feel worse on her own.
Half past two.
I phoned Shan and, as I waited, I remembered her telling me a week ago how Nikita still shared everything with her and the stabbing moment of jealousy that I’d felt. Naomi didn’t do that anymore. Now I was glad Nikita still confided in her mother. Shan would know exactly where we could pick them up.
A sleepy voice mumbled an answer. She had fallen asleep, like me.
“Hello, Shan.” I tried to make my voice sound normal. “I’m so sorry to wake you. Do you have any idea where they are? We’ll pick them up, but the trouble is . . .” I paused, and attempted to laugh. “Naomi forgot to tell me where they would be.”
“Wait a moment.” I could see her sitting up, running her hand through her hair, blinking at the alarm clock on her bedside table. “Say all that again?”
I took a breath and tried to speak slowly.
“Naomi’s not back yet. They must have gone on somewhere after the meal. Did Nikita say where?”
“The meal’s tomorrow, Jen.”
“No, that’s the party.”
“Both tomorrow. Nikita’s here. She’s exhausted; she’s been asleep since I picked her up hours ago.”
I repeated stupidly: “Hours ago?”
“I collected her straight after the play.” There was a little pause and then she said quietly, “There was no meal.”
“But Naomi said.” My mouth was dry. “She took her new shoes. She said . . .”
I sounded like children do when they want something they can’t have. She had taken the shoes and the bag of clothes. How could there not have been a meal? Shan must be mistaken; perhaps Nikita hadn’t been invited. There was a longer pause.
“I’ll check with Nikita,” she said. “Phone you back in a moment.”
I was outside a gate, which had just shut with a little click. Behind it was a place where children slept safely, their limbs trustingly spread across the sheets; a place where you didn’t phone a friend at two-thirty in the morning.
The kitchen chairs were cold and hard. Ted’s face was white. He kept bending his knuckles till they cracked. I wanted to stop him but I couldn’t open my mouth in case I started screaming. I picked the phone up quickly when it rang and at first I didn’t say anything.
“There was no meal, Jenny.” Shan’s voice was slightly breathless. “Everyone went home. I’m sorry.”
A faint buzzing noise started in my head, filling in the silence that stretched after her words. I felt giddy, as if I was tipping forward, or the world was tipping back. I held tightly to the edge of the table.
“Can I speak to Nikita?”
By the tiny space that followed my question, I could measure how far away I had traveled from the gate that had clicked behind me. Shan sounded hesitant.
“She’s gone back to sleep.”
Asleep? How could that matter? Nikita was there, safe. We had no idea where our daughter was. A wave of anger was breaking on top of my fear.
“If Nikita knows anything, anything at all that we don’t, and Naomi might be in danger—” My throat constricted. Ted took the phone from me.
“Hi there, Shania.” There was a pause. “I appreciate how difficult this will be for Nikita . . .” His voice was calm but with an edge of authority. It was exactly how he talked to the junior doctors on his team if they called him for advice about a neurosurgical problem. “If Naomi doesn’t come home soon, we may need to call the police. The more information you give us . . .” Another pause. “Thanks. Yes. See you in a few minutes, then.”
The boys were sleeping in their rooms. I leaned into the warm, breathing space around their heads. Theo had burrowed under the duvet; his hair, sticking up in a ruff above its edge, was stiff under my lips. Ed’s black fringe was damp; even in sleep his eyebrows swooped down like the wings of a blackbird. As I straightened, I caught my reflection in his mirror. My face, lit by
the streetlamp shining through the window, looked as if it belonged to someone much older. My hair was dark and shapeless. I dragged Ed’s brush through it.
As we drove past the school theater, Ted stopped the car and we got out.
I don’t know why. I still don’t know why we had to check. Did we really think you would be there, curled up and sleeping on the stage? That we could wake you and that you would smile and stretch, sleepy and stiff, with some explanation about taking too long to change? That we would put our arms around you and take you home?
The glass doors were locked. They rocked slightly as I pulled at the handles. There was a night-light in the foyer and the bottles in the bar were shining in neat rows. A torn red and yellow program lay on the floor just inside the door; I could make out red letters spelling “West” and “Story” on different lines and part of a picture of a girl with a blue swirling skirt.
Ted drove carefully, though I knew he was tired. He had pressed the button on the dashboard that made the back of my seat warm up. It made me sweat, and nausea seemed to rise from the deep leather upholstery. I glanced at him. He was good at this. Good at looking serious, not desperate. When Naomi was in difficulty during her birth, his calmness had stopped me from panicking. He had organized the epidural for the Caesarean section, and he was there when they lifted out her small, bloodied body. I wouldn’t think about that now. I looked out of the window quickly. The streets were shining and empty. A fine rain had started to mist the windows. What had she been wearing? I couldn’t remember. Her raincoat? What about her scarf? I looked up into the roadside trees as if the orange cloth might be there, tangled in the wet black branches.
At Shania’s house Ted knocked firmly. The night was silent and still around us, but if anyone had been passing in a car, they would have seen a couple like any other. We were wearing warm coats and clean shoes as we waited quietly, heads bowed in the rain. We probably looked normal.
Shania’s face was prepared. She looked calm and serious as she hugged us. It was hot in her house, the gas fire flaming in her tidy living room. Nikita was hunched on the sofa, a cushion held tightly to her, her long legs in rabbit-patterned pajamas tucked beneath her. I smiled at her, but my mouth felt stiff and trembled at the corners. Shan sat close to her on the sofa; we sat opposite and Ted took my hand.
“Ted and Jenny want to ask you about Naomi now, babe.” Shania put her arm around Nikita, who looked down as she twisted a thick lock of her dark hair in her fingers.
I moved to sit by her on the other side, but she shifted slightly away from me. I tried to make my voice gentle.
“Where is she, Nik?”
“I don’t know.” She bent and pushed her head into the cushion, her voice was muffled. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Shania’s eyes met mine over her head.
“I’ll start, then,” Shan said. “I’ll tell Jenny what you told me.” Nikita nodded. Her mother continued: “Naomi told Nikita that she was going to meet someone, a bloke, after the play.”
“A bloke?” Ted’s voice cut across my intake of breath. “What bloke?” The word in his mouth sounded dangerous. Not a boy. Older. My heart started banging so loudly I was afraid Nikita would hear and refuse to tell us anything.
“She said . . . ,” Nikita hesitatingly began, “she said she had met someone. He was hot.”
I uncrossed my legs and turned around to face her properly. “Hot? Naomi said that?”
“That’s all right, isn’t it? You asked me.” Nikita’s forehead puckered, her eyes filled with tears.
“Of course,” I told her.
But it wasn’t all right. I’d never heard her use that word. We had talked about sex, but as I desperately scanned my memory for clues, I couldn’t remember when. Relationships, sex, and contraception—Naomi didn’t seem interested. Had she been? What had I missed?
“Was he . . . did she . . .” I groped in a forest of possibilities. “Was he from school?”
Nikita shook her head. Ted spoke then, lightly, casually, as though it wasn’t important.
“This guy. She must have met him before?”
Nikita’s shoulders dropped fractionally, she stopped twisting her hair. Ted’s calmness was working but I felt a stab of anger that he could manage it so easily. I could hardly keep my voice from trembling.
“Yeah. I think he was around in the theater sometimes.” She glanced down. “You know, at the back.”
“At the back?” Again, barely inquisitive.
“Yeah. Where people waited. Maybe.” She looked up and there was reluctance in her dark eyes. “I didn’t really see.”
“What did he look like?” I asked quickly.
“Don’t know.” Nikita didn’t look at me. There was a pause. “Maybe dark hair?”
She moved nearer Shan on the sofa and closed her eyes. I didn’t think she would tell us anything else, but Ted was asking another question.
“And tonight? What did she say to you about tonight?”
There was silence. Nikita was completely still. Then Shan stood up. “She’s tired now.” Her voice was firm. “She needs to go back to bed.”
“Tell us, Nikita, please.” I touched her on the arm lightly, carefully. “Please, please tell us what she said.”
She looked back at me then, her brown eyes wide with surprise. Her best friend’s mother was a busy figure in the distance; cheerful, running in and running out. In charge of her life and her family. She didn’t plead.
“She said”—Nikita paused for a fraction—“she said, ‘Wish me luck.’ ”
Chapter 2
DORSET, 2010
ONE YEAR LATER
Autumn deepens into winter. In the morning the silence presses coldly against my face.
I listen, though I’m not sure what I’m listening for. By now I should have learned the absence of the sounds that I took for granted: the muted steps of bare feet, the distant kettle, murmuring radio voices, and the porcelain clink of the coffee cups on the edge of the bath. The noises one person makes are quiet, careful, separated out. They ebb into silence. I open the window and the softly crashing breath of the sea comes into the room like something alive.
I touch her bedroom door as I pass to the bathroom. She chose this room when she was small. It was never really her bedroom, because until the past few months it had just been our holiday home, but we all thought of that room as hers. As a child she liked to pretend the little round window under the thatch was a porthole and that her bed was a boat.
The police took the mattress away, and all the bedding. The wood of the door is cold and damp under my fingertips. Ted washed the blood off the floor; I haven’t been inside since I arrived.
The wavering reflection of the window frame fractures around my hands as I lie in the bath water. When the bell rings I get out quickly, a towel around me, then my dressing gown. At the top of the stairs my steps freeze. I can see a man in uniform through the glass of the front door. My heart goes so fast I feel faint and I hold the banisters. This could be the moment they have come to tell me they have found something in the mud of a field: the heel of a shoe perhaps, soft and rotten, the gleam of a silver charm, the white of a tooth. There is nothing they can tell me that I haven’t thought of, but I stop as if I’ve been shot. Then I see red somewhere on his jacket, a bulky bag. Someone with a special delivery. When I open the door, he hands me the post: the order of small paintbrushes from the art shop in Bristol. On the mat already is a postcard of a Welsh mountain from Ted’s vast collection. His way of keeping in touch. No message, as usual. I sit at the kitchen table and my heart slows. The sketchbook is in front of me and I pull it toward me, open it at the next page. When the police came to the door, and I saw the black and white, the padded jackets and the badges, her absence became official. It was still dark but it must have been early morning, maybe four or f
ive A.M.
The pencil is rough in my fingers; I can feel the chips where it’s been bitten as I draw a little hooded top, shading between the folds with short gray lines.
BRISTOL, 2009
THE NIGHT OF THE DISAPPEARANCE
The policeman at the door was in his mid-fifties, his colorless eyes sunk in soft pouches of flesh. Whatever natural expression he had was overlain by a veneer of professional calm, though his eyes, moving quickly over my face, betrayed his unease. Behind him was a small woman, brown hair in a tight French pleat, immaculate red lipstick. I thought I could see anger tamped down. Perhaps she’d had to get up specially, put on the crisp uniform and the thick makeup.
“Dr. Malcolm?” The man’s voice was carefully neutral.
At home I didn’t call myself doctor; I was the children’s mother, my husband’s wife, but if this policeman thought I was a fellow professional he might try even harder.
“Yes.” I stood back to let them in.
“I’m Police Constable Steve Wareham and this is Police Constable Sue Dunning.”
He took off his hat; there was a little ridge running around his thin gray hair. He shook my hand and spoke quietly. He was sorry for us but not the sort of sorry I was afraid of. I’d been afraid he would say sorry for your loss. The woman was brisker. She nodded but put her hands behind her back as if she didn’t want to touch me; I was the kind of woman whose child doesn’t come back home.
I took them to the kitchen. We had just returned from Shan’s house and I needed to watch the clock. It was ten hours since Naomi had walked out of the back door, and I wanted to tell them immediately about the man whose shadow seemed thrown against the bright walls of the kitchen. In my mind I was screaming at them to hurry. Leave now. You might catch them. He is driving with her down a long street in the rain, he is going into a house, he is locking the door, he is turning around to face her, she is crying. No, of course not, she never cries. Hurry.
Ted began talking; he started from the beginning, which was what they wanted. They wanted everything and it took an hour. They asked for her laptop, then her birth certificate and passport. They tried the cell phone again, but there wasn’t an answering message, or even a ringtone this time. Out of charge. Naomi’s phone was often dead, it didn’t mean anything. When Steve Wareham told me they could have traced the location of the phone if it had been charged, I fought back a surge of helpless anger and fear.