The Daughter

by Jane Shemilt

  “Lost property went out long ago.” He shakes his head. “Thrown out, back in the summer.”

  My heart sinks. Stupid of me to come.

  The man nods again, turning away, but in that instant Bertie jumps down into the pit, pulling the lead taut. I let go in case he is strangled. The man laughs, bends to the dog.

  “Likes me, you see,” he says triumphantly, stroking Bertie’s ears.

  “I’m sorry.” I sit, swing my legs over the edge, and then jump down; it’s farther than I thought and I land awkwardly, jarring my ankle. There is a stab of pain when I put my weight on that foot, and I can barely stand. “Sorry,” I say again, conscious now that I’m being a nuisance and that I want to leave.

  “Watch yourself there.” The man comes close and helps me limp over to one of the bulging bags in the corner.

  “Sit yourself down on one of those. Costumes. Can’t hurt. Cup of tea?”

  “Costumes?” I lower myself cautiously onto the canvas.

  “The police left them here. Ready for the next time, like.” He bends to fuss at Bertie, warming to gossip. “No call for plays since that young girl went missing. Terrible, that.”

  I need to get away from this man before he says anything else, but as I try to stand again he puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry.” He grins. “Sit yourself down. She’s not in one of them bags.”

  I stare at him, feeling sick; no words come.

  “You look a bit peaky.” He looks into my face and then scratches his head. “Tell you what, you rest yourself right there and I’ll get you a cuppa. Back in a tick.”

  He heaves himself up and disappears from view.

  There are at least six bags. Something of Yoska’s might have been found and bundled up in here by mistake. I slide off the bag I am sitting on and, kneeling, pull it open. It’s a long shot and I’ve only got minutes before the man returns. Groping inside, I touch rough sacking and rope. I open another and drag out a thick black velvet jacket edged with gold binding and a felt hat with bent brim and bedraggled yellow feather. I stuff them back in. The third has army fatigues, neatly folded. What plays were they from? Naomi probably saw them. Did she tell me? Something else I missed if she did. The fourth bag has clothes that feel soft. I pull out a blue skirt and then, my heart banging, a police cap: Officer Krupke’s. Quickly heaving the bag over I manhandle it all out through the narrow opening, red and blue skirts, flouncy tops, lacy dresses, silky wraps. As I tip the bag out completely, some purple netting, a pair of ankle boots, scarves and tights fall out onto the floor. No boys’ costumes. They must have worn their own stuff for the stomping dances over the rooftops. I look at everything for a moment; I can see the dancing scenes where the skirts were swirling and Bernstein’s music filled the auditorium. But now, like the trees and the mud, this bright heap of clothes and tumbled shoes tells me nothing. Just costumes, as the man said.

  I grip the boots angrily to shove them back in the bag and my fingertips brush something silky that has been rolled up and pushed deep inside. Socks? A neckerchief? Unfurled, it’s bigger than I thought, and spread on the floor it becomes a silky dress, a short red dress with a low front. Mother-­of-­pearl buttons. Nikita’s dress. The one Naomi borrowed for the dress rehearsal, the one she didn’t bring home again. Because it was hidden in the boot, the police must have missed it. I hold it to my face. Is there a faint scent of lemons? I mustn’t cry. I spread it out again and register with the part of my brain that is coldly functioning that there is an uneven white-­yellow stain on the bodice. Lifting the hem, I see it’s inside the dress too. Footsteps approach, so I swiftly roll up the soft fabric and slip it into the pocket of my coat, bundling the rest back in the bag just as he appears. He swings himself heavily over the edge of the trap room and hands me the mug of tea.

  “See you’ve been looking at the costumes.” He looks at me, amused. “Any luck?”

  I shake my head; the tea is dark and very sweet, restoring.

  “Told you,” he says equably. “All chucked out.”

  As I limp slowly back through the streets to the car, I want to wrap the dress around my neck under my clothes, next to my skin. But I leave it in my pocket. Michael will send it to forensics.

  The windows of the tall house are still dark. I settle Bertie into the car, and pull away. My heart is knocking against my teeth with hope and dread.

  BRISTOL, 2009

  TWENTY-­ONE DAYS AFTER

  I couldn’t wait to tell Ed about the missing corals. He would realize it was a good sign, and he needed to feel hope. Ed would understand that it meant she had planned to leave, and that she wanted something to connect her to home until she came back. He would be as excited as I was.

  Ed’s cell phone went straight to voice mail so I phoned the main office. Mrs. Chibanda answered. She went to get him and after what seemed like a long wait I heard his slow steps approach.

  “Hi, Mum.” He sounded tired, older.

  “You okay, darling?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s been two weeks.”

  Ed’s sigh came lightly down the phone, but he didn’t reply.

  “I know they’d tell me if things weren’t all right . . .” I heard myself blundering in the silence. “But it would be nice to hear from you.”

  “Leave it, Mum.” He spoke loudly suddenly. “Leave me alone.”

  I closed my eyes. Since Naomi disappeared, everything was louder. Noises hurt, as though I was getting ill, as though I had lost a layer of skin. I’d forgotten how to talk to Ed. This conversation was already tipping the wrong way. I began to wish I hadn’t phoned him.

  “We think about you all the time.” I didn’t mean to say that; he wouldn’t like that.

  “Typical.” He was whispering now.

  “What do you mean?” I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not why I phoned.

  “I mean, you would say that now.” I had to listen hard to hear him; it was as if he was talking to himself. “Never talked to me before.”

  He’s grieving for Naomi. Coming off drugs. He’s alone. He doesn’t mean any of this.

  “I talked to you all the time, Ed.”

  “At me.”

  I left a little pause and began again. “Good news. Her coral necklace is missing.”

  “What necklace?” His voice is distant.

  “The one with little orange sticks?”

  “So?”

  “She must have taken it with her. It meant she knew she was going away.”

  “Christ, Mum. She probably lost it or gave it away.”

  Does he want to destroy everything?

  “Gran gave it to her years ago.”

  “All the more reason. You don’t know her, Mum. You don’t have a bloody clue.”

  After I had said good-­bye and waited for him to hang up first, I walked to and fro in the kitchen. I wanted to get rid of his words. I didn’t want to think about them now or the anger that seethed underneath them.

  In the end I phoned Shan. I couldn’t think of anyone else, though we hadn’t been in touch since we sat side by side in the police station.

  “Jen. I was going to call you today.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that, but it didn’t matter, because she carried on brightly, “It’s been so busy.” She gave a little laugh. “God knows why. Christmas, I guess.”

  Christmas? How was it Christmas? I looked out of the window, but the street was the same. I hadn’t been to the shops for weeks. Presents would be beyond me.

  “How are you?” Her voice altered in the silence and she sounded more like herself.

  “Coping. Something good’s happened, though. I thought I might come round.” I wanted to see her smile; when I told her about the corals, she would hug me and say that she’d always known it would be all right.

 
“Unless you want me to come over there?”

  “No, I need to get out.” I had a shower and found clean jeans and a new shirt. I even put makeup on carefully. The foundation felt dry and the lipstick looked garish against my pale skin, so I washed it all off again. As I drove, someone on the radio intoned the news, but it was background noise, until after a few moments I caught her name: “. . . missing now for twenty-­one days.” The complacent tone continued: “The search continues. All airports—­” I turned it off, feeling sick. Michael had told me not to listen to the news.

  Shan opened the door and immediately enfolded me.

  “I’m sorry I was so awful at the police station that time. I’ve been a lousy friend.”

  She drew me into her sitting room and we sat down together.

  “You look a bit thin, Jen.” She sounded worried. Then she took my hand, and smiled warmly. “It’s great to see you.”

  “Naomi had this necklace,” I told her quickly. “I was looking in her bedroom yesterday, in her jewelry box—­” Then I paused, hearing noises from the kitchen: a kettle being switched on, someone rummaging in a cupboard for mugs. Shan turned her head and called through the open door.

  “If you’re making coffee, Nik, Jenny would like a cup. So would I. A strong one, please.”

  “Coming up,” Nikita called back.

  Shan turned back to me. “She’s struggling,” she whispered.

  “Struggling?” I repeated. An image of Naomi struggling in the grip of a man stopped me short. Nikita was in the next room, calmly making coffee. Her life was continuing. Naomi’s had been hijacked. I shouldn’t have felt angry; it wasn’t Shan’s fault.

  “Yes,” Shan whispered. “She feels it’s her fault. She should have told us sooner about Naomi fancying this guy.”

  I felt sick again. I shouldn’t have come. Shan smiled quickly, guiltily.

  “Sorry. Stupid me. Forget what I’ve said. You were telling me about the necklace in the jewelry box.” She put her hand on my arm; the warmth went through my sleeve to the skin. She wasn’t to blame if her words sounded wrong; there were no right ones anyway. I smiled back at her.

  “It was made of coral. You know, tiny little strands of orange strung together? I can’t find it anywhere.”

  The noises in the kitchen had stopped completely; I could hear Nikita’s light footsteps quickly climbing the stairs that led up from their kitchen to the rooms above. I could hear the hope in my own voice.

  “It was a present from my mother when Naomi was little. Naomi always kept it in a little musical box. But it’s not there now. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  Shan was staring at me; I could see she was puzzled by my smile. As I leaned forward to explain, Nikita came in, a little out of breath, two cups of coffee carefully balanced on a tray. She bent over the table to clear a space and her hair fell forward in a dark sheet.

  “Thanks, Nikita.” I smiled at her. After all, she was Naomi’s best friend.

  “You’re welcome.” As she stood up, I saw her face was burning.

  She held her hand out to me. In the center of her palm was a coiled strand of tiny orange strands, fragile and lovely.

  “I heard what you said. They’re not lost,” she said hurriedly. “Naomi gave them to me, but don’t worry, it’s not like they were precious or anything. She told me she had never liked them. She was going to throw them away.”

  In a minute I would be able to get up and leave.

  “God, Jen. You’ve gone pale. Have them back. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Nik?” Shan looked worried.

  “No. Keep them.” If I spoke slowly, my voice wouldn’t tremble. “When did she give them to you, Nikita?”

  “Before her last performance. She threw them at me; she was laughing.”

  I stared at her. I was trying to remember when I had last heard Naomi laugh.

  “I’ll go now, I think.” A few moments later I got up and left.

  WHEN I GOT home it was cold and beginning to get dark. The day had gone by somehow and I hadn’t realized.

  “You don’t know her, Mum.”

  I lay down and pulled the duvet over my head. From somewhere far away I heard Bertie barking for his supper, and then he stopped. I must have fallen asleep because I woke to find Ted was asleep beside me. The heat from him came in sweaty waves, and I rolled away as far as I could. I lay curled up, holding on to the edge of the bed, waiting for the hours to pass until morning.

  “You don’t have a bloody clue.”

  Chapter 30

  DORSET, 2011

  FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER

  The newest snowdrop buds are sharp as teeth against the mud; others are flowers already, softer edged, their bent heads green-­veined and vulnerable. As I lean close to absorb them, morning sounds filter through the silence: a robin scuffling in the hedge, gulls crying in the distance, the faintest sound of the sea breathing in and out. Thin-­skinned peace stretches for a minute and another minute, and then I catch a flicker of movement behind me. Michael. His feet were silent on the wet grass. He looks small in the green space of the garden, unreal in his dark suit and shining shoes. His glance takes in Theo’s shrunken pajamas, Ted’s rubber boots. For a second we stare at each other like strangers.

  “Why are you here?” I ask him quickly. “What have you found?” I stand quite still, waiting for his answer. The small noises fade around us.

  “Are you all right? You look . . .” He stops.

  Is he going to say weird? Mad? How could it matter what I look like?

  “I saw the snowdrops from the window so . . . For God’s sake, Michael. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Good news. We know almost for certain Yoska took Naomi and we think she went willingly.”

  I reach for him blindly, tears filling my eyes.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ll explain inside.” He takes my hand. “You’re freezing, your lips are blue.”

  He is serious, almost angry. I probably frighten him.

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “He’s been seen. I’ll tell you more when you’ve warmed up. You need some proper clothes on.”

  His tone jars, and his arm around me as we walk to the back door is irritating. I couldn’t have got this far without him, but I must be careful; we’re not there yet. I dress in the cold bedroom, fumbling buttons, ripping the wool of my tights. Michael meets me at the bottom of the stairs, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in each hand.

  “I bought milk and the chocolate. I knew your fridge would be empty.”

  He’s irritated too. She can’t manage to look after herself, he is thinking, after all this time. He gestures with his head toward the sitting room.

  “I’ve just lit the fire. Let’s sit in there, it will be warmer.”

  He waits while I sit near the hearth, and carefully puts the mug on the table next to me, then pulls up a chair. His knees almost touch mine as he bends forward.

  “We’ve got him now.”

  “Got him?” Is he in a police van, then? Or in a locked cell somewhere?

  “Well, we haven’t actually got him, but as good as, thanks to you. It was a perfect match with the DNA from his previous crime.”

  “What was?” What is he telling me? My heart starts to hammer in my mouth.

  He looks at me and pauses, uncertainty narrowing his eyes; he is wondering how to tell me what he has found out. He says slowly, “His semen was on the dress you found.”

  I feel very sick. I move to get up, but he puts a hand on my arm.

  “Wait.” He clears his throat. “When they analyzed what was on the material, there was blood as well, Naomi’s blood.”

  How naive I’ve been. I should have thought of this when I gave him the dress. I hoped it would help, but my thoughts stopped there. I’ve become good at blocking the
m. Blood and semen. Did he rape her, and then hide the dress in some boot? But as that thought begins to swell, another quickly follows. That night she came back in her uniform, having left the dress behind; she had been hungry, tired, smiling. She hadn’t been raped, just as she hadn’t been raped that time in the cottage with James. She must have made love with Yoska in the dress, then carefully rolled it up and hidden it where no one would find it: in a boot that she knew wasn’t being used. She couldn’t have acted so carefully, so deliberately after being raped. She must have wanted Yoska. Wanted sex with him.

  I stand up at this thought. Michael’s concerned eyes watch me above his mug as I walk around the room. It wouldn’t have been her first time, of course. She was already pregnant. But she had known James for years. They were the same age; children playing at being grown up, innocent somehow. Sex with Yoska would be different. She would be really breaking the rules. I thought of that secret smile. That was Yoska. She must have been worried about the pregnancy, but he had made her happy.

  I look out of the window, but instead of the garden and the sky my mind fills with a vivid picture of Naomi, with her back against the wall in the dark, stuffy trap room under the stage, her soft red dress rucked up high, panties around an ankle, one leg curled around his hip, holding him close. His dark head buried in her neck as his body pushes into hers. Her eyes are closed, the thick makeup on her cheeks smudged with sweat and saliva. I shake my head to drive the image away, but the thoughts race on. Afterward he would tell her she ought to go home so her parents wouldn’t be suspicious. She would hold on to him, slip the dress off, and use it to wipe between her legs. She would put on the school uniform she had brought with her, and rolling up the dress, she would have shoved it quickly into the boot that she must have found in the canvas costume bag. She must then have buried the boot deep inside the bag, meaning perhaps to collect the dress another time, but she forgot.

  The blood . . . “How much blood?” I sit down again, look at him, then away.

  “Not much. Not more than usual.”

  My hands close tightly around the mug. I make myself ask: “Usual for a ­couple who’ve made love, or usual for rape?”