by Lizzy Barber
She remains tensely skittish all morning. Tidying things that don’t need tidying. Moving objects from one place to another, then back again. I try to keep her company, but I feel like I’m underfoot – sitting on a sofa when she’s just puffed up the cushions, setting down a glass without a coaster – so instead I hover, my hands fiddling at my waist, until she sends me upstairs to change.
I stare at my open wardrobe, trying to decide what, exactly, is appropriate to wear to a party celebrating my missing sister. I dig out a pleated skirt in a deep shade of coral that I know Mum likes, and match it with a white blouse that has ruffles down the centre. I practise my smiles in the mirror – How nice to see you. Thank you for coming. Yes, exams are really soon – as I rim my eyes in black.
My hand hovers over the pair of tweezers in my make-up bag. How I would like to score a line on some soft part of my flesh; the skin just above my knee, the knobbly line where my hip bone meets pelvis. How like scratching an itch. Instead, I chew at a fingernail until I’ve exposed pink rawness.
In my bedside drawer, Michael’s number remains folded up and uncalled. I’ve read and reread Astro7402’s page, but I feel frozen, inert. Jane’s false lead has left me bruised and broken. The thought of doing it all over again, of building up all that hope and then having it destroyed, makes me wish I’d never started. But I know time is running out. Today, it’s just over three weeks until the end of May.
Downstairs, a girl in a starched white shirt and an expression that says she has no idea what she’s here for, and doesn’t really care, has been stationed near the door, with a tray of half-filled plastic champagne glasses and a bottle in her hand.
‘Can I have one please?’ I point to a flute. She must be in her early twenties, and I see her wrestling with the decision, but instead she shrugs and tops one up for me.
In the garden, finger sandwiches have been laid out on a table, next to two big bowls of Eton Mess that Mum made up fresh this morning. The fruit is haemorrhaging into the cream. With no one looking, I stick my finger in and scoop a dollop into my mouth. I crunch on meringue with my back teeth, feeling the sugar condense and stick. And I can sense it: Mum’s desperation, in this dessert, in this manic desire to make everything good. And I know I have to keep going.
Three weeks left to find an answer. To find Emily. To save Mum.
In the kitchen, she’s tidying away the last of the debris, stuffing the empty sandwich trays into black bin bags as Dad sits at the kitchen table, simultaneously stacking napkins and plates into a tower and reading off a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘And so, in short, this is a celebration as much for Emily as it is for all of you: the people who have touched our lives, and indeed hers, in so many ways. Without you, we could not have gone on. So, I would like to raise a toast, to Emily. And to you all.’
‘It’s great, David.’ She kisses him on the top of his head, holds his hand just a little too tightly.
‘You think?’
‘Honestly, I think it’s perfect.’ She sees me coming in and smiles. ‘Hi, darling, you look very pretty. I do love that skirt on you.’ Her eyes flick to the champagne in my hand, but she says nothing. The atmosphere remains light, upbeat. We’re spreading a picnic blanket over the mud today; there’s no room for arguments.
The doorbell rings, and Dad looks at his watch. ‘Gosh, is it time already?’
Mum turns grey, hurriedly stuffs the bin bags into a corner and starts upstairs.
Showtime.
Auntie Sally is at the door. She takes a glass from the tray and pulls Mum into a hug. She catches sight of me – ‘Rosie … goodness!’ – and then bursts into tears. I stand there awkwardly, feeling the extremities of my body harden as she dabs at her eyes with a cocktail napkin the waitress hands her. Mum’s jaw has tightened, and she’s doing her best to pat Auntie Sally on the back, but all the while I can see her blinking forcefully, fixing her gaze on the spines on the bookshelf in the corner.
Dad saves us. Propels Sally into the living room and murmurs, ‘Celebration, Sal, remember?’ as he turns the speakers on, floating soft choral music into the room and out through the open doors.
When I turn back around, I catch sight of Mum’s feet as she disappears upstairs.
I ache to go after her, but then people start to arrive, and I’m swept along on a stream of hellos and how-do-you-dos. There are some faces I recognise – family, obviously, and Aunt Pam, who’s not my real aunt but an old friend of Mum’s – but there are others, too, who have made up various factions of the Emily machine over the years. Mark Alcott, the ‘family spokesperson’; John Buck, a private investigator; several members of Scotland Yard; journalists – the few who’ve garnered my parents’ respect. And then I see Sarah Brown, the director of the Emily Archer Trust. The one who wrote the email. She’s talking to someone, a glass of champagne in one hand, throwing her head back in laughter. And I want to storm over there right now and confront her. Demand to know why she’s trying to destroy everything. Force her to take it all back.
But then Mum appears, the shadow of a smile pinned so forcefully to her face. And I can’t. Instead, I head back over to the doorway, top up my flute. That sandwich and that bit of meringue is all I’ve eaten today, and I knock it back, letting the bubbles fizz through me and dissipate my anger. Keira arrives as I’m topping up a third time, flanked by her parents.
Caro eyes the glass in my hand, and I see her and Keira exchange a look. I wonder how much Keira has told her about the party. I think she’s going to say something, but instead she kisses me on the cheek and pulls Keira’s dad past us into the house. ‘Nice to see you, Rosie. Tom, let’s go find Susie and David. We’ll leave you two to catch up.’
‘You on the fizz already?’ Keira nods to my champagne-filled glass. I give a weary sigh, but she loops an arm around me, nudges her shoulder into mine. ‘Hook us up, then?’
We take a couple of glasses into the garden, where a greyness has blanketed the sky, and it’s starting to spit. It looks, at first, like everyone’s going to be all British about it and ignore it, but then it soon becomes apparent that it’s not going to let up, and suddenly it’s all hands on deck, moving the sandwiches and paper plates into the living room, running to cover up the Eton Mess, and whipping off the tablecloth, which is now speckled with wet splotches.
‘So much for the weather,’ Dad says, to no one in particular. I can tell he’s starting to feel nervous about his speech, fiddling with his top shirt button, doing and undoing it as his eyes roam restlessly around the room.
I hear the doorbell ring, but the waitress has left her post to help with the food, and with no one else around I reach out for the latch and open it.
Standing on the topmost step is a man of about my dad’s age, with hair a fading brown like a squirrel’s fur, and a short, peppery beard. He’s holding a bunch of flowers that look sort of mournful, their heads drooping down, and he himself has an odd, embarrassed expression on his face, as though he doesn’t really know how he got here.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask when he makes no move to introduce himself or come inside.
‘Oh, ah, yes.’ He looks up, and there’s something intelligent in his eyes, an alertness that suggests he’s constantly assessing his surroundings, as he does with me now. ‘Rosie.’ He blinks, taking me in.
‘Yes.’
‘These are for you.’ He holds the flowers up like he’s glad of the barrier between us. ‘Well, for your family.’ As I take them he skulks inside, but before I shut the door he seems to glance around the street, as if he’s looking for someone coming up behind him. ‘Listen, I can’t stay long. I really shouldn’t be here at all. I’m not even strictly invited, but an old colleague told me about the celebration, and I wanted to come and pay my respects to your family. To say … to say … Sorry, where are your parents?’
I point into the living room, and he scuttles off with barely another word, still in his long, grey overcoat. I frown at his departing back. I don’t
recognise him. He has a gravelly, plummy tone which suggests to me he might be some sort of lawyer or detective, but if so he’s not one who’s been involved within my memory. There’s something so odd about his manner – his twitching movements, his nervous speech – but I can’t work out whether it’s something about today, or whether that’s just what he’s like.
I follow him down the hall into the living room but soon lose sight of him in the crowd. Keira spots me, and together we meander through the damp guests, picking equally damp sandwiches off the trays that have begun to recirculate. I want to tell her about him, to ask her what she thinks it’s all about, when a hushed conversation to my left stops me.
‘Did you see Michael Davis is here?’
‘No. Really? Where?’
‘Over there, by the window. But don’t stare.’
‘Jesus, I haven’t seen him for three or four years now. Why was he even invited?’
‘I don’t know – maybe because he wrote for The Times? He did publish a couple of articles about Emily, didn’t he? Maybe Sandra invited him – she was features editor then, wasn’t she?’
‘Yeah, maybe. Just seems odd. What’s he doing now?’
‘I think he moved to Chesterfield. Works for the local paper there.’
‘Poor bloke. He was a good journalist. I don’t really understand what happened to him but it really messed him up. Said he needed a new start.’
‘I never really got to the bottom of what it was about. Something to do with a woman in a navy dress – he thought it was connected to all this. Surprised he even showed.’
I clutch Keira’s shoulder, and she jumps so abruptly that the champagne jerks in her arm, and a cloud of bubbles fizzes over the rim.
One of the group catches my eye, and hesitates on whatever she was about to say. ‘You must be Rosie.’ She beams at me, and holds out a hand. ‘I’m Helen Daly, from the Mail. I did the exclusive with your parents about the Emily Archer Trust, when it was first started.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ I hurriedly take the proffered hand, then I grab Keira’s arm and pull her towards the stairs. ‘You will excuse me, won’t you? My friend needs to borrow something from my room … it’s … talk to you later …’
‘What’s going on?’ Keira asks as I push open the door to my room and grab my laptop from the desk.
‘Did you hear who they were talking about just now?’
‘No.’
‘Michael Davis.’ I go to TheHive, and almost subconsciously my fingers hit the keys to find the page I am looking for.
‘Who’s that?’
I pull up the page. The heading looms on the screen – ‘The Woman in the Navy Dress’. Underneath it, I see the avatar my eyes have skimmed over hundreds of times, of what for some reason I thought was a line drawing of an organ, but now realise is an old-fashioned typewriter. I turn the laptop towards her. ‘MikeD.’
Keira peers at the screen. ‘What?’
‘Didn’t you hear them, Kiki? The man who just came in: they said his name was Michael Davis; that he was a journalist, and that something happened – something that scared him. And they mentioned a woman in a navy dress.’ I scan the page, trying to find something that will confirm it, but just like before, it remains blank. ‘It has to be the same person. When I spoke to him, there was something in his voice that sounded … I can’t explain it … almost frightened.’
Frustrated, I navigate away from TheHive and start searching frantically. At last I find the page I’m looking for, and click it open to show Keira.
‘MIKE DAVIS JOINS THE CHESTERFIELD BUGLE.’ There’s a picture there: grey-haired, and slightly leaner than he is now, with the same short, speckled beard, and an almost uncomfortable way of avoiding the camera’s eye. He looks kind of handsome, in an old-man sort of way.
We’re pleased to announce the appointment of Michael Davis as features editor for the Chesterfield Bugle, the short paragraph reads. Mike has recently moved here from London with his family. He joins us from The Times, where he was a news reporter.
‘I’m right. It’s definitely him, Keira. Here, in my house. I have to talk to him. Maybe there’s a reason the page is blank. I have to find out what he knows.’
That familiar feeling builds inside me, the same way it did with Jane. The chance is too good to be true: that he could be here this very moment, ready for me to take up the search. I toss the laptop aside and pull Keira behind me, back down the stairs.
I scan the living room for him, trying to pick his grey coat out across the room. Nothing. The rain has reduced to a drizzle and a couple of people have chanced it outside, but he’s not there either. I’m about to check down in the kitchen when I see it, a flash of charcoal wool moving across the hallway, and I realise in horror that he’s heading for the door.
I dart across the room, nearly crashing headlong into a man with flushed pink cheeks who splashes champagne and says ‘Wotcha!’ as I wrestle free.
I get to the front door just as it clicks shut behind him. I struggle on a pair of trainers and throw myself into the open air.
‘Mike!’ I call to his retreating back, moving fast and already halfway down the street. He doesn’t hear, or pretends not to. ‘Michael!’ I shout louder, picking up the pace as I hurry after him. ‘Hey.’ I eventually catch up to him, tapping his shoulder so that he flinches and turns around.
‘Rosie?’ He looks at me quizzically. ‘Did I leave something behind?’
‘No, no.’ I catch my breath, taking him in. Trying to get my thoughts in order. ‘It’s just … you’re Michael Davis, aren’t you?’
The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘Yes.’
‘MikeD?’
His shoulders seem to close in on him. He turns his head away. ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘Wait,’ I scramble, seeing he’s poised to take off. ‘Please.’ I reach out helplessly, catching hold of the sleeve of his coat.
‘Rosie, seriously, let me go.’ He jerks his arm away, setting off again down the road.
‘I don’t understand! Just tell me why you’re leaving?’ I call out to his departing back, desperate to run straight after him.
‘I shouldn’t have come.’ He stops suddenly, whirls around to face me. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t even invited. It was rude of me to show up unannounced. I don’t know what I was thinking. Lying to Rebecca. Coming all the way over here. I just wanted to see if you were all doing OK. To convince myself that you didn’t need my help, that I’d made the right decision to leave it all alone. It was a terrible idea.’ He’s speaking more to himself that to me now, muttering under his breath and waving his hands erratically.
‘I do need your help.’ I bite my lip, searching his face for some kindness, some sign that he’s listening. ‘I’ve seen your page on TheHive. The woman in the navy dress. I know there’s nothing on there now, but my friend saw it. I want to know more. Maybe … I don’t know … maybe there’s something you’ve found that no one else has. I spoke to Jane – Jane Thomson – and she thought that perhaps …’
‘Jane,’ he snorts. ‘That woman’s a conspiracy theorist. Way too much time on her hands,’ but then his voice softens, and he touches a hand to my shoulder. ‘Listen, I’m so very sorry about what happened with Emily. I wanted to come here today to say that, but that’s as far as it goes. I can’t tell you anything more about the woman in the navy dress. It’s over now. We shouldn’t be having this conversation. I can’t risk them finding out I’ve been here. I have no idea who might be listening.’
‘Who’s “they”?’ I ask.
‘I said no, Rosie.’ I’m taken aback by his sudden forcefulness. And then he whips his head around, like he’s expecting to see someone watching, and pulls me in closer, his voice fast and low. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. There are factors beyond my control here. Things that could put my family at risk. Both our families. And I don’t want to get involved with it again. I told him I wouldn’t get involved again. I have t
oo much at stake.’
My mind fizzes, trying to find something to say or do that could convince him to stay.
‘I’ve said too much already.’ He removes his hand from my shoulder. I haven’t realised until now how firmly the tips of his fingers were pressing into it. ‘Just trust me, Rosie, you’re better off not getting involved. He’s not someone you want to mess around with.’
He gives me a final, apologetic look and heads off down the street, his head bowed low into his coat, as if hiding his face from some external threat.
‘How can this be better off?’ I scream at his back, fighting the tears that dance around my eyes. He doesn’t turn around.
In the living room, Dad has already started his speech. Mum gives me an irritated look as I slip into a space next to Keira. ‘Bathroom,’ I mouth back, turning my eyes quickly away. But I can barely concentrate.
‘Where did you go?’ Keira asks as the applause starts and the audience begins to break up.
‘To talk to Michael.’ I shake my head. ‘He wouldn’t talk to me, could barely even look at me. It’s like there’s someone following him. And I think that’s why he’s cleared his page on TheHive. I think this person, whoever they are, stopped him. Made Michael leave London, leave his job, scared the shit out of him. But I can’t let it go. I need to find out who this person is, and how they’re connected. Keira,’ I look up at her, clenching my fists as I realise my next move, ‘Mike says he won’t talk. But if I want to find out what happened to Emily, I’m going to have to convince him.’
ANNA
15
Images invade my drugged sleep, edging themselves closer to memories.
Snatches of the green T-shirt; the feel of it beneath small, sticky fingers. Those fingers gripped by another hand, guiding, urgent, as the carousel fades into the distance.