Me and You

by Claudia Carroll

I yawned and stretched and stood up to try and unstiffen my legs.

  ‘You going home now?’ Simon asked. ‘Want me to drive you? Or you could stay if you wanted?’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘I want you to.’

  ‘Be lovely, thanks.’

  3 January, Kitty’s house, 9.45 a.m.

  Sarah wasn’t joking. We are plastered all over the papers today, the whole unexpurgated story. Now that the Xmas silly season is over, this really seems to have caught the imagination of editors; an attractive young student working in a well-known Italian restaurant, without any prior history of depression, who, quite literally, vanished into thin air just before Christmas.

  Headlines are varying, from sober ones like the Times: ‘GARDAI CONTINUE TO SEEK PUBLIC ASSISTANCE IN SEARCH FOR MISSING WOMAN’, to the slightly more sensational Star, which put us on page three (and no, the irony wouldn’t be lost on Kitty, that she’s finally a page three gal). The massive, banner headline was: ‘MYSTERY SURROUNDING WOMAN’S DISAPPEARANCE. POLICE APPEAL TO PUBLIC. HAVE YOU SEEN HER?’

  Wherever you are, I find myself silently willing her, for God’s sake just turn on a TV or open a paper. And see for yourself just how much worry you’re causing us.

  12.59 p.m.

  Me and Simon are glued to the TV for the lunchtime news, just in case. The pair of us are sitting right up on top of it, like it’s Cup Final day at Wembley.

  Come on, come on, come on …

  1.01 p.m.

  Headline is about pending property taxes and how half the country is refusing to pay up.

  ‘Yes, we get it, now kindly move on!’ I yell at the telly. A raised eyebrow from Simon shuts me up.

  1.03 p.m.

  Bum clenched with tension.

  Aung San Suu Kyi is to leave Burma on a trip to Washington. Good for her, fantastic for world peace, etc., but absolutely shag all use to us.

  1.05 p.m.

  An inquiry has begun after a paramilitary left a gun and ammunition in a Belfast house … Jesus! Kitty’s miles more important than any bleeding mislaid gun! Come on …

  1.08 p.m.

  Yes! Success! We’re the fourth item! Just behind a trade delegation over visiting from China, but ahead of a transatlantic flight having to divert to Shannon on account of some halfwit leaving their mobile phone to recharge in the cabin loos.

  ‘In other home news,’ a v. Botoxed-looking newsreader says straight to camera, ‘Gardai are appealing to the public for information about a missing woman, last seen leaving a well-known restaurant in the Camden Street area of Dublin in the early hours of December the twenty-fourth …’

  Simon and I instinctively grab hands, lace fingers and cling tight, eyes glued to the screen.

  Then up comes the same photo of Kitty that’s in all the papers.

  ‘Kitty Hope, aged thirty-one years, is described as being five feet ten in height, of slim build, with dark hair and hazel eyes.’

  We grip onto each other even more. My fingers are now in danger of having the circulation cut off, Simon’s hands are that strong.

  ‘Kitty Hope was working at Byrne & Sacetti, a popular restaurant on Camden Street, and was last witnessed …’

  My phone rings.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, who’d be ringing me in the middle of this!’ I yell waspishly, but when I look at the number, I see that it’s Jack Crown. Anyone else, I’d have ignored it and rung them back, but this might be important. Crown, after all, is hardly the type to ring up saying, ‘Hi there, just checking in with you! Having a good day? Happy with all the publicity? Tired after the huge emotional roller coaster you must be going through?’

  ‘Angie?’ he says urgently, the minute I answer. ‘By any chance are you free now?’

  ‘Yeah, we were just watching the news actually …’

  ‘Is Simon with you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s right here. He’s beside me.’

  ‘Then I think you’d both better get in here. The sooner you can, the better too. Believe me, I wouldn’t disturb you, only it’s important.’

  2.22 p.m.

  Jack Crown is already waiting for us as we arrive, nods a quick hi at each of us, then ushers us directly into a private room. And for the first time since this nightmare started, the guy actually looks hassled; a bit scruffy and unkempt-looking in shirtsleeves, like someone who’s now going into the eighteenth hour of a gruelling working day. ‘Look, I’m so sorry to haul you back,’ he says, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve brought you both in here to warn you.’

  ‘Warn us of what exactly?’ Simon asks, leaning forward on the tiny desk in front of us and eyeballing him.

  ‘To date, we’ve had over fifteen very definite reports of Kitty Hope being sighted in various parts of the country,’ Crown answers tersely, shoving a fistful of his thick, sandy hair out of his eyes and looking more exhausted than I think I’ve ever seen him.

  I do one of those involuntary gasps and look back over to Simon, who’s now completely frozen.

  ‘Fifteen sightings! But surely this is fantastic news?’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, we only need for one of them to be genuine, and then we’ll find her!’

  ‘Yes and no, Angie,’ Crown says. ‘Yes, with great good luck, one of them may turn out to be accurate. But we have to bear in mind that it’s physically impossible for her to be in all of these places at once. I just don’t want either of you to get your hopes up at this stage, that’s all.’

  ‘Where exactly are these reports coming from?’ Simon asks him urgently.

  ‘From as far afield as Kerry, all the way to Belfast. And one, via our website, of a sighting in Amsterdam. Which will, of course, take us that bit longer to investigate fully.’

  ‘Amsterdam?’ I ask, suddenly puzzled. Why would Kitty have gone to Amsterdam?

  ‘Local police will follow up on all of these reports, on a case-by-case basis,’ he explains patiently. ‘But as I say, you have to remember that there’s a high chance that the vast majority of these – and perhaps even all of them – will turn out to be little more than hoaxes.’

  4 January, Kitty’s house, 6.50 p.m.

  Have been in a blind temper ever since this afternoon. Mainly because, so far, Jack Crown’s turned out to be absolutely right. We’ve had absolutely nothing but sham reports that turned out to be worthless, or else out-and-out hoaxes. A retired farmer in Dingle reported seeing Kitty cycling through the town and onto the local hotel. I really got my hopes up at that; thought maybe Kitty travelled all the way down there and maybe checked into a hotel to get her head together. Plus she always loved Dingle, she loved nothing more than being close to the sea … Somehow the whole thing had the ring of truth to it.

  But when coppers followed it up, it turned out that the woman who’d been sighted was actually, a) in her early forties, b) a redhead, and c) a guest in the hotel for her husband’s surprise fiftieth birthday do. Turned out farmer who reported it was on a waiting list to get his cataracts done and had dodgy eyesight at the best of times. It ended up with him apologising profusely to the cops and sending everyone home with a few of his wife’s home-made mince pies.

  I was utterly incandescent. How could anyone mistake a redhead in her forties for Kitty? They wouldn’t even look remotely alike! But as Simon patiently pointed out, at least we were finally reaching people. At least the public were on general lookout. And that it was just a matter of time before something solid turned up.

  Simon’s being a total rock of positivity these days.

  Wouldn’t have a blind hope of getting through all this without him.

  5 January

  More dead ends, including one sighting of Kitty in a petrol station on the 27th, just off the M7. Pair of us got v. hopeful at that; the M7 is the motorway you take to get to Foxborough care home. But the guy who’d reportedly seen her had the foresight to video her on his iPhone. I saw the footage for myself: a girl of about twenty-three or so, v. similar hair and build to Kitty’s, but when you looked at the face, yo
u knew it was just a bad lookalike.

  Disappointment was crushing.

  And so far, every other report has turned out to be little more than a wild-goose chase. All from well-intentioned people, clearly thinking they were doing their civic duty when they spotted someone even remotely resembling Kitty and quite rightly reporting it. But all roads lead to nothing more than one frustrating anticlimax after another.

  Amsterdam’s a real puzzler, though. For starters, I never bought into Crown’s far-fetched theory that she’d been planning this for a long time and even went as far as to source herself a fake passport. I just knew that Kitty, with the best will in the world, wouldn’t be capable of keeping something as huge as that to herself. Simon made a v. good point too: we’re pretty certain that she discovered the engagement ring only a day or two before vanishing. So if she did plan on making a run for it, that hardly gave her enough time to trawl the internet looking for dodgy websites that flogged fake passports, now did it?

  No, the more we talk about it, the more we decide Amsterdam’s just another hoax. But coppers are leaving no stone unturned, and apparently even Interpol are working with Dutch police checking out the lead from Schiphol airport. It’ll take time, we’re told, we’re to be patient. Amsterdam’s a primary gateway for flights ‘out foreign’, to quote Mrs Butterly. KLM use it as their major hub to connect worldwide, as well as United, Delta, Lufthansa; all the big boys.

  So in the unlikely event of Kitty genuinely passing through there, where was her ultimate destination? And why even go there in the first place, when she’d so much more to live for here?

  I steel myself to face yet another dead end. Mainly because I know deep down that’s all this’ll ever amount to anyway.

  6 January

  Simon’s back to work today. So, so weird being without him during the day. Over the past week or so, we’d fallen into a sort of habit; he’d pick me up at my parents’, drive me here, then the pair of us would spend the whole day doing what needed to be done. Answering calls, talking to police, setting up a website about the search, replying to emails and tweets, filling in Sarah, Mags, Jeff and all the neighbours who keep phoning all day, every day, all wanting updates.

  Which so far, there never are.

  7 January

  And now Simon’s at work from early till late and I’m doing all this on my own. I think he’s grown to be every bit as dependent on me too, because he’s taken to calling me at lunchtimes for long chats on what’s been going on, what’s come in, what, if anything, has been happening. Even if it’s just a few random strangers posting sweet, concerned messages on our website promising that they’ll keep their eye out and wishing us well. He’ll always want to know and so I tell him.

  Strange without him being here all day, though. Really feels like being without my right hand. But so far every day this week, while we’re chatting away at lunchtime, without fail he’ll come out with something like, ‘Look, I’ll be back at about seven-ish. How about I pick us up some take-out on my way home? And we could have a bite to eat together and just talk.’

  I’ve said yes every time. And to take our minds off everything, we’ve even taken to watching movies after dinner. By then, pair of us are usually all talked out about what’s been happening in the search for that day, so the distraction is a v. good thing. The only rule we have concerning film choice is nothing romantic: too upsetting for Simon. Action movies, we’ve decided, are perfect. Or thrillers, as long as they don’t involve any kind of abduction scenario.

  No doubt about it, evenings are getting to be by far the easiest part of my whole day. And after all, if I go home, what’s waiting there for me? Home = sitting around dreading that Madeline might call, or else looking at the four walls worrying. Wishing that for once Mother Blennerhasset would permit the telly to be turned on, just for a bit of distraction.

  And so I stay.

  8 January

  Amazing to think that not that long ago, we were a ‘hot’ story, but somehow it’s all cooled off now. Sarah saw it coming, though. ‘Today’s newspapers are wrapping tomorrow’s chips,’ as she wryly put it, ‘which is why we now have to concentrate on our digital campaign.’

  A few more leads have shown up, but I can’t bear getting all built up about them, only to be let down again. So on Simon’s advice, I’m just letting the coppers get on with it and only allowing myself to get excited when Crown tells me they’re chasing something definite.

  Which of course so far, hasn’t happened.

  My days are falling into a sort of pattern now. Wake up at home, scuttle out of Mum’s way as early as I can and come straight over to Kitty’s. Simon’s usually gone to work by the time I get here, so I let myself in, play with the cat for a bit if she’s wandered in on the scrounge for grub, then head straight to the computer.

  I’ve discovered an Irish website, missingpersons.ie. Would nearly break your heart. Some people on it seem to be gone years. There’s a big, public notice board, where concerned family and friends all post messages that would make you bawl. All just pleading, begging for whoever they’re appealing to, just to get in touch and let them know they’re OK. How long, I can’t help wondering, before I turn into one of those people?

  One thing’s v. clear from trawling through this site, though. No matter what reason anyone may have had to check out of their life and just bugger off without telling anyone where they were or why they left, it’s just not fair on those left behind.

  One woman, whose twenty-nine-year-old son has been missing since 2010, wrote that it was exactly like a bereavement. Only worse, because this way, you never get closure. You’re almost afraid to go into full mourning because at any time, front door might ring and it could be them. So you never even allow yourself to start speaking about the person in the past tense, always the present.

  And human hope is a v. dangerous drug. I should know.

  9 January

  Crown calls me. Says they’re now widening the search. Widening it how, exactly? I ask him. Because aren’t we already doing everything humanly possible that can be done? But no, apparently not. Now coppers want to do a full background search on Kitty.

  He asks me about Kitty’s life before we met so I tell him what I know, which isn’t really all that much. But Crown keeps me on the phone for ages, insisting on coming back to the years after Mrs K. was taken into full-time care and before Kitty first came to Dublin. Not that there’s all that much I can tell him. It wasn’t something Kitty ever really went into. I knew she’d had a tough time of it, though; one drunken night she’d even told me she’d ended up living out of a suitcase in a hostel at one point. Kitty being Kitty, though, just laughed and made a joke out of it. ‘Terrible shame that I never went the whole hog and started sleeping on the streets, like Heather Mills. You never know, it might have been me who went on to marry and divorce Paul McCartney, and ended up twenty-five million quid richer.’

  I can still remember her saying that, can still hear her big, hearty belly laugh.

  But somehow Kitty managed to turn her life around after that; she got her act together, got work, found her feet again, got her life back on track. An incredible achievement by anyone’s standards. Because if anyone started out on the bottom rung of life’s ladder, it was Kitty. And now here she is, studying at night school, like she’d always promised herself she would, with a decent job that paid her reasonably well, a lovely home, boyfriend who adores her and friends who’d walk through flames for her.

  ‘So there you have it,’ I tell Crown. ‘And I probably know as much as she was prepared to tell anyone about her past.’

  I don’t tack on what I’m really thinking, which is that it’s her present I’m far more interested in.

  ‘It’s worth looking into,’ Crown says thoughtfully. ‘It could just somehow be in some way connected to her disappearance. But one thing is for certain, we’ll never know till we dig a bit deeper.’

  I drift off a bit at that, for the first time wonderi
ng if he could possibly be right. Is it possible those shadowy years that Kitty point-blank refused to get drawn down on have something to do with this?

  ‘Angie?’ Crown says down the phone, a bit more gently. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Just thinking. Well, worrying, actually.’

  ‘Look, I know how hard this is on you, and on Simon too …’

  Silence from me.

  ‘And I also know that you think police procedures are getting us nowhere …’

  Can’t help myself flushing a bit at that.

  ‘And so far, you’d be right. But please understand that I’ve seen a lot of these cases. And if we’re ever going to find Kitty, believe me, this really is the only way. Thoroughness is what’ll get us there in the end.’

  ‘I know,’ I manage to say, in a small and slightly mortified voice.

  ‘All I’m saying is that I’m on your side, Angie,’ he adds, but not sounding like he’s in a nark with me.

  ‘Yes. And thank you.’

  ‘And I’m moving heaven and earth to get her back. But what I really need more than anything now is for you to trust me.’

  I hang up the phone and make a silent vow. Better drop the attitude round Jack Crown from now on. I mean, quite apart from everything else, it’s never a good idea to get on the wrong side of a copper, now is it?

  10 January

  Really, seriously starting to get bored now.

  It’s fine in the evenings when Simon’s here, but the days are just so bloody long when you’re unemployed. I find myself looking at the time on my phone every few minutes and nearly rejoicing when I find I’ve got through a whole hour. Then I tell myself, right, now I only have to last another sixty more minutes and that’s yet another hour gone. That’s how I’m getting through this on a day-by-day basis … and sometimes, it even works.

  I thought habit and routine would save me, but it hasn’t; instead it’s just reinforcing the miserable state I’m in. Everyone else I know is back at work, bar me. Also, I haven’t a single bean. Savings are running dangerously low and my dole’s about to run out any day now.