by Jane Shemilt
“After that, while Naomi was changing, she yelled through the door for me to go. She told me a friend was coming to walk her home. She made me go.”
I knelt in front of him, held his arms. “It’s not your fault, Ed—or it’s everyone’s, mine and Dad’s as well. Naomi always makes people do what she wants.” As I said it I knew it was true and it gave me hope. It meant she could make whoever had taken her let her go. Ed turned his face away.
Theo leaned against the wall wearily. “Mrs. Mears resigned,” he said.
I stood up and turned toward him. “Why?”
Behind me, Ed got up and walked out.
“A member of staff is supposed to be in the theater with the kids at all times. She must feel awful . . .” Theo’s voice trailed away.
I felt sick again. So Mrs. Mears knew that if she had acted differently Naomi might still be here, but whatever guilt this teacher felt couldn’t compare to the terror Naomi might be going through. The agony we were enduring. Blazing anger surged inside, but I knew it wouldn’t help because then I would have to feel angry with Ed as well, and the useless rage would swell and block out everything else. I had to stay sane.
“No one’s saying anything to me,” Theo said. “No one wants to talk to me at all. It’s weird.”
I tried to explain: “They think they should say something, but they don’t know how to, so it makes them feel awkward. It doesn’t mean they don’t care. Perhaps you’ll have to take the first step.”
“I tried, but two guys just walked away. It’s as though I’ve got some disease they’re frightened of catching.”
I hugged him quickly. We had to talk to each other properly soon, but I couldn’t tell him what they had found in the cottage yet. How could I worry him when it didn’t make sense? At six we watched the news. Even though I watched and listened, I took in only fragments. “Naomi Malcolm . . . Last seen by friends immediately following her performance in a school play yesterday . . . The police are looking for a dark-haired man in his twenties or early thirties to eliminate him from their investigation . . .” Then her picture, another school one I hadn’t seen. She looked even younger. Her smile was wide; not the new half smile. Her eyes were open and trusting. They wouldn’t be trusting now. To everyone else in the world she was somebody else’s child. I switched off the television.
There was nothing much in the kitchen cabinets but no one was hungry anyway. I made Ed a sandwich, which he ate in silence. After the boys had gone upstairs, I walked around and around the kitchen, winding myself tighter and tighter, until I felt about to snap, like a weighted fishing line that has been reeled in to the breaking point.
“Help me . . . help me . . .” I whispered over and over again, clenching and unclenching my hands, sweating, drenched in despair.
I WAS STILL in the kitchen when Ted came back much later. He went straight to the liquor cabinet and found an old bottle of whiskey at the back. He drank quickly, tipping the glass rapidly upward.
“They got the stuff they needed; they’re analyzing it. He must be stupid. He left fingerprints all over the place. You could see them on the wine bottle.” He drank again, put the glass down and looked at me for the first time. His eyes were narrowed. “We’ll get the bastard. He could have gone anywhere with her, but we’ll be able to get him now.”
“What about the blood? What did the police say?”
“They didn’t say anything to me. It was mostly smears on the sheet and in the footprints.”
Not that much blood, then. She hadn’t been hurt. I would have known. Just a week ago her silence had been intense. She had been guarding a secret, not an injury. What had she been thinking about? Her lips had been moving—had she been saying his name?
Ted’s voice was angry. “I’ve been thinking about who would do this. Someone normally powerless, showing the world that he could take what he wanted, sex with a little girl in her parents’ territory. She might have been flattered, not realizing that all the time he is saying to himself: this is easy. The first part of the plan.”
“Slow down.” I took his hand; it was trembling, like mine. “What plan?”
“Don’t they call it grooming? He’d obviously worked it all out.” He was whispering now, his breath came in little gasps. “Sleeping with her in the cottage was the first part of it. He must have done that to gain power over her, so she would go out with him after the play, unsuspecting.”
Ted must have thought this all through on the long journey home; now his words tumbled out as if he couldn’t contain them anymore.
“By the time she realized it was a mistake, it would be too late. He would have taken her miles away. She could be a prisoner anywhere. He is free to hurt her however he wants. Rape her. Kill her.”
At least Ted’s voice was quiet as he said those words. I walked to the bottom of the stairs and listened. It was quiet. The boys were asleep. I thought of how the empty cottage must have smelled. Perhaps the curtains had been drawn so the mess in the room was suddenly revealed when Ted had pulled them back; there might have been flies buzzing at the windowsills or dead in the dregs at the bottom of a glass. The journey back would have seemed endless; it would have been difficult to wait in the line by the suspension bridge over the Avon. His eyes looked tortured; I put my arms around him.
“Perhaps it was different,” I whispered. “Perhaps it wasn’t like that at all. What if he loves her? If he loves her, he won’t hurt her.”
Ted didn’t reply, and the hopeful words disappeared into the silence as completely as if I had never spoken them.
Chapter 15
DORSET, 2010
ONE YEAR LATER
The wind gets up again later. I wake suddenly as the window rattles, catching as I do the edge of a dream. Harsh knocking. The sound of water. I’m dreaming the memory of another dream. Then a blast, shocking the night. Shaking everything, it has the quality of splintering. I listen, frozen still. Something has been broken out there. Despite the noise and my fear, I float and drift on the surface of sleep, aware that my hands are open and moving on the sheet, searching.
There is a difference to the morning: the absence of sound, the unusually brilliant light. I look through the window and the garden has disappeared. Unseasonably bright sunshine lies over wreckage. There are shards of bark and broken pieces of tree trunk everywhere. The apple tree has gone, carved up and scattered by the storm. Large wooden splinters have fallen on the garden walls and blackcurrant bushes. The gate has been crushed.
There is an old saw in the garage. Oiled and still sharp, immaculate as my father kept all his things, it hangs on a nail next to the chopping ax. A robin is pecking around the torn disk of turf at the base of the tree, whose rough twisted roots now point toward the sky. Bertie noses the glistening boughs of wood, cocks his leg by the wall, and settles by the broken gate. Sawing into the great sections of trunk, I throw off the coat, and then my sweater. My hand slips with sweat as I work the saw back and forth. The peaty smell of the fresh wet wood reminds me of bonfires before they are lit, and of hiding in the bushes as a child before bed. The dark curved branches of the crown stir another memory, which I can’t quite reach. I work on through the changing light of the morning. At my feet is the little hopping, whirring bird, looking and pecking. At midday I drink water and keep going until my fingers can’t bend around the handle anymore and the skin on the palms is bleeding.
I kick off my mud-clogged boots outside the open back door, and walk into the cottage. The rooms feel washed with fresh air after the storm. A smudge of yellow shows through the glass of the front door. There is a small bunch of yellow chrysanthemums on the step, with four eggs in a plastic ice-cream container. Mary must have left them. As I put the flowers in a milk bottle; my hands are so tired they tremble. I hold one of the eggs; the very shape feels kind. I can’t remember when I last ate an egg—a year ago? It is freckled; there i
s a tiny soft feather stuck to its smoothness, a faint brushstroke of mud. I boil it quickly and eat it, then boil another, then another. I have no butter and no egg cups, so I peel the eggs and fold them into slices of bread, into which I have pushed a knifeful of Marmite stiffened with age. I found the pot at the back of the cupboard. I scrape the egg shell and bread crumbs into the bin, a sudden burning image as I do of Naomi’s freckled baby face at two, of Marmite soldiers.
Mary is better or she wouldn’t have been able to leave presents here. I walk out quickly before I can change my mind. Her cottage door is open and voices come from inside. I back away, but Mary has heard me.
“Don’t go running away,” she calls.
There are bunches of bright flowers in cellophane wrappers on the table, heaped packets of cake. Villagers have heard she wasn’t well. Mary is sitting by the table in an apron; her cheeks are pink-brown, unlike the papery white of yesterday. A bird-thin man stands in the middle of the room, eating cake and dropping crumbs. A dark-haired boy is smoking a hand-rolled cigarette at the table, texting rapidly with both thumbs. He is introduced as Mary’s grandson, Dan. He nods at me, looking up with eyes half shut against the smoke. The bird man steps forward, eagerly offering his hand.
“Derek Woolley. Neighbor. Retired solicitor and chief bell ringer.” He laughs self-consciously.
“Jenny.”
His handshake is flabby; his eyes on mine move quickly from side to side as if to catch escaping secrets. I know his questions will be intrusive. I am tired of the ugliness of curiosity.
“So, Jenny, how long have you been here? Of course, I’ve seen you and the family in the past, weekending as it were . . .”
I don’t remember this man from then; since I’ve been here, I’ve turned my head away when anyone passes me in the street.
“Since the summer.” I glance at the door. How soon can I escape?
“Jenny was the one who helped me yesterday, Derek. She picked me up.” Mary speaks quickly into the silence.
“Aha. So you’re our Good Samaritan. I’ve always wanted to ask—”
“That’s the bell. They’ve started already. You’ll need to hurry now.” Mary holds the door open. “Perhaps you could tell them I’ll be along for choir practice on Tuesday as usual—they’ll be wondering.”
Derek Woolley shrugs, empties his cup, and picks up another piece of cake as he leaves, nodding briefly at me.
“Sit down, dear,” Mary says to me, shutting the door behind him.
Dan, on the way home from Sixth Form College in Bridport, has come by to help in her garden. Mary asks me if I want help too. She heard the tree fall last night. When I get up to go, Dan, still texting, holds the door for me. Something in his face, unformed and restless, reminds me of Ed.
Back in my cottage, the play of light and shadow is different; looking outside again I notice that the curving bars of the crown of branches make a pattern. Then I see that, for a second, Naomi’s face has slipped among them. Of course, that’s what the curved and fallen branches reminded me of; Naomi’s naked body within twigs. Theo’s pictures.
BRISTOL, 2009
TWO DAYS AFTER
Michael Kopje and two colleagues stood in the kitchen early on Saturday, November 21. Ted was sitting down, still tired from his trip to the cottage the day before. His skin was pale and his eyes bloodshot. Neither of us had slept more than an hour. I had made breakfast, cleared up, brushed my hair. My mind was empty, which was good; I needed an empty slate on which to write a plan, uncontaminated by fear. There was a drill for medical emergencies, simple letters to remember. Don’t waste time on emotion, we had been told as students, just follow the drill: A for airways, B for breathing, C for circulation. Think, don’t feel. I reached for the cups and made tea. Think in a list.
Michael watched us closely. He spoke slowly; he might have thought we wouldn’t understand. They were following all the clues in the cottage, and collecting information from neighbors. The old lady opposite thought there might have been a car parked outside the cottage for a while, though she wasn’t sure. No one so far had seen Naomi or anyone else. DNA samples from the sheets and towels and CCTV evidence from local garages had been collected. Michael was here today because they needed to go through Naomi’s room, then all the rooms in the house again. He wanted to speak to Theo and Ed separately, at the station, in the presence of a support worker. This part was routine. He introduced two colleagues, Ian, a heavy man in his mid-thirties, and Pete, a young Jamaican. They would be helping with the search, which could take all day.
Ted said he had to go to the hospital. There was a little silence after his words. They sounded normal to me, he had said them so often, but Michael nodded respectfully. Pete looked impressed.
I followed him outside, shutting the door behind us.
“Do you have to go now?”
He looked down at me, but his mind was already at the hospital. I realized this would be his way of coping.
“Of course I do,” he replied. “I’m on call.”
“Christ, Ted. Hand it on.” My grip tightened on the door handle.
His gaze didn’t flicker. “If I go now, it will only take an hour. I don’t want to use up too many favors of my colleagues at this stage.”
I understood what he meant. But I had always understood. It didn’t make it right.
I woke Theo and Ed and explained what was happening. Ed turned back into sleep; Theo was awake quickly and sat up, worry crumpling his forehead.
I took Michael to Naomi’s room. I had left it untouched, as he had asked me to, but I wouldn’t have put away anything anyway. I couldn’t bear to change how she had left it. Now, seeing it through Michael’s eyes, I wanted to hide the clutter of unfamiliar underwear and clear away the scattered makeup. I could feel his eyes taking it in, red lipstick protruding in a domed stalk, lying on its side in the small pool of foundation, the lacy bras, the thong, the unmade bed. But that wasn’t the real Naomi. Naomi was here, I wanted to say, in the cello against the wall, the photos of Christmas and Corfu in the shell frames that she made, in the friendship bracelets in the bowl. The dried autumn leaves behind her mirror. She loves autumn, I wanted to tell him. She collects leaves, like a child does. She is just a child. That bra must belong to a friend, the thong as well. They can’t be hers. I’ve never seen them before. But then, I hadn’t seen the shoes before either, the high-heeled ones with straps. There was that smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the way she had turned away when I spoke to her. What have I missed? What clues do I need to understand now, quickly, before it’s too late?
Michael reached up and was looking through her books, glancing at me. I nodded. He picked out every book and shook the pages. On the second shelf down, a third of the way along, he pulled out a slim book which I hadn’t noticed. The shiny cover was patterned with flowers. Inside, as he flicked the pages, I could see her rounded handwriting. It looked like a diary. I wanted to snatch it back. Naomi’s thoughts, if that was what she had written there, didn’t belong to Michael. They were hers, mine to look after for her. I put out my hand.
“I need to go through this,” he said quietly.
“So do I.”
“I’m sorry. But . . .”
“Please can I have it?” My hand was stretched out, the fingers trembling.
“I know how you feel—” he said.
“No, you don’t.” Don’t say that, I continued silently. You’ve never lost a child of your own. I looked at him. Perhaps he hadn’t had a child; he had the unscathed look of a childless man.
“You’re right.” He sounded contrite. “Of course I don’t know exactly what you are feeling. But there could be vital clues in here.”
Perhaps Naomi’s things didn’t belong to her anymore; perhaps it was right to let strangers plunder her secrets, if it helped to find her. In her absence she had forfeited
her right for privacy. Think. Don’t feel. ABC.
“Please look through it first.” He handed the little book to me then. “But I will need to take it away afterward. It’s evidence. I’m sorry.”
Did he think I would alter things, or tear out pages? Would I have done?
I sat on the bed to read Naomi’s words. I flicked through the pages. Her writing was smaller and tighter than I remembered. My eyes skimmed the lines. The first entry was dated nearly two years ago. January 2008. Something about Christmas presents. I opened it at another place. August 2009. Three months ago. I saw the words Dad and hospital. I turned to the last page for a name, a place, anything to go on. The last words:
Cottage tomorrow. J. 10 weeks.
She must have written this just a week ago. J? Ten weeks until what?
Back a page. A scatter of penciled hearts overlying three letters. XYZ. The X and Z had been written in black, the middle letter in red, a little heart just touching the forked top. No names anywhere. No dates.
Hockey first away. Cut science, bring cigs.
Naomi cutting science? She loved science. Smoking? I put the diary down for a second, feeling giddy. These notes could have been written by a stranger. I looked rapidly around the room, my glance stopping at the little mirror. She had looked at her face in the glass just two days ago. Who was she becoming as she put on her makeup?
Further back:
Theo got commendation. Thanks to me.
His photos of her in the tree. That bit made sense.
XYZ. After school. Tell N.
Those letters again. After school . . . the play? Words or scenes to learn for the play, maybe? N for Nikita? Nikita had been so silent, so awkward when we saw her that night. What else did she know?
Michael was looking in the closet now, pushing the hanging clothes apart and picking up her shoes, turning them over. He went across to the chest of drawers, opened them one by one, felt under the clothes. I had to be quick. I jumped further back in the diary, seeing just a list of dates and times that started back in August, the school holidays. The same initials. And a new one, K.