My Name is Anna

by Lizzy Barber

  I clutch tightly to the mottled rainbow of string, a thread joining me to who I am. I strain to see the face of the person leading me, trying to force any other scrap of memory to rise to the surface. Where did we go when we left the park? Why did nobody stop us, or find me? Why didn’t I scream or try to run away?

  Mamma keeps me off school for a week, and I allow her to, giving myself over to the illusion that I’m just sick, that all I need is for my mother to make me better. But I can’t fool myself forever.

  On Tuesday morning I hover at the threshold of the kitchen, eyes parched and cheeks puffed from restlessness. I swallow down the vitamin pills that are resting on the counter for me without committing to sitting down. ‘Mamma, I feel much better today. I’m going to go to school early; there’s a Spanish test I need to prep for.’

  The bracelet grasps at my pocket. I don’t look at the wedding photograph as I turn to go.

  The whirr of my bike against the tarmac is the sound of relief, each turn of the wheel bringing me further from the house. And yet the further I am from it, the more my restless mind clamours for attention. I should go to the police. I should ride over there right now, slam open the doors and scream, ‘I know!’ But what is it I know?

  I beat the pedals faster.

  After school, I walk my bike over to church for choir practice. I know I’ll see William there, and the thought squirms inside me. I have a desperate desire to go to him, to tell him what I’ve discovered, but I hear the distant echo of his dismissal, and my hurt makes me guarded.

  I have never thought of myself as a lonely person, but now, with no William and no Mamma to turn to, my tiny world has closed around me.

  I missed practice last week as well as church. Mamma will have told them I’m sick. And so I hesitate, as I open the door to the church, bracing myself for the questions. But Sam the choirmaster gives me a precise, well-timed nod as I enter, murmuring, ‘Good to have you back,’ before pulling distractedly on his earlobe, turning his attention back to the group. ‘All right, everybody, please turn to page number twenty-five. We’ve got a lot to get through this evening.’

  But then, in the break, there William is, pushing past Phillip’s vibrato belly and Jenna’s high-pitched gossip as they pass around jugs of water, seeking out the space beside me. His hand brushes against the sleeve of my shirt as he picks up a glass, and I shrink away, unable to help a shiver as his insouciant touch pulls at the fine hairs of my forearm.

  ‘How are you feeling? Your mom told Dad you were sick. You’re never sick,’ he asks steadily, pouring me a glass of water and grabbing a cookie from a plate of chocolate chip.

  ‘Fine, thank you. It was just a bug.’ I feel the rest of the group go quiet; my cheeks grow hot. I don’t want to be the subject of their Chinese whispers.

  Sam clicks his fingers together, and I gratefully take my place.

  When he finally dismisses us – ‘Good job, everybody. Same time next week’ – I sneak out the door without saying goodbye; secrete myself in the restroom until I hear their chatter fade and die, and know I am alone.

  Outside, I head over to the railings next to the graveyard, eerily silent under this grey sky, and start to unlock my bike. There is a wind picking up. It disturbs the branches, tugs each little leaf in its sway and sweeps through my hair, dragging strands across my forehead and into my eyes, so I have to keep brushing them away as I bend towards the lock. The wind pulls with it the unmistakable scent of white jasmine that clings on to the walls at the back of the church, and I feel a ghost of rain on my neck. I draw my cardigan in closer, cursing myself for not bringing something with a hood. If it really starts up in earnest, I’ll be soaked through by the time I’m home.

  I fumble, lose my grip on the keys and drop them on the gravel. As I bend to pick them up I hear a crunch of footsteps, and rise to find a man standing by me, so close I can smell the medicinal notes of cloves on his breath. He is in his early fifties, with a deeply lined, handsome face and bewitching, glacial blue eyes. He’s wearing a light cream suit, immaculately pressed, and his hair, a soft grey, is pulled tight into a ponytail that reaches just past his collar.

  Silently, he takes a finger to his jacket, removes a barely visible thread from the cuff, perusing my features so deeply I raise an involuntary hand to my face, as if his fingers are prodding inside my skull.

  ‘Can I … can I help you?’

  There’s a barely imperceptible twitch to his top lip, before his features smooth. ‘You tell me – did you receive my gift?’ He steps towards me, his face clarifying, and I instantly take a step back, my insides lurching, as if I’ve been dropped from the peak of one of Astroland’s roller coasters.

  But this is far more terrifying than any ride.

  I’ve seen him before: walking away from my house the night of my birthday; on Newberry Road – just a glimpse, before he folded into the trees.

  ‘Father Paul.’ It’s not a question.

  A pause. ‘Yes.’ His expression is as cryptic as his cards. Is he surprised? Impressed? ‘Remarkable.’ He clicks his teeth, observing me. ‘How very like her you are.’

  I visualise his looping handwriting, the bundle of cards in her bottom drawer. ‘Mamma?’

  His eyes laugh at me. ‘Her too.’ The veins in my legs prickle, ready to run if he gets too close. His calmness has an edge to it, setting my senses screaming.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  He opens his mouth, lets out a low rumble halfway between a laugh and a growl. ‘My dear, it was never about you.’

  Danger stalks the hairs on the back of my neck, but I force myself to meet his gaze, wrap my arms tight around my torso. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Anna …’ he crows, breaking my name into two chastising syllables, ‘or is it Emily now?’ There’s a lick of delight in his eyes. I try not to flinch. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t asked your mother about my card?’ He tuts. ‘And I thought you were so close.’

  My hands, still holding the lock and key, clench. ‘What do you want from us?’

  ‘I know this must all be very confusing to you,’ he says, ‘but you’re intelligent enough: surely you must have figured it out by now?’

  I shake my head, as if ridding my ears of the words. Half of me is desperate to know, for him to tell me straight out. But the other half can’t bring myself to ask.

  ‘Anna.’ He steps closer, his voice deepening. ‘You must realise. I know you are a good girl, I see it in your eyes; the way you’re holding yourself now, keeping yourself closed off from potential threat. And I know you care for Mary, regardless of who she is and what she’s done. But you’re an adult now. It’s time you realised the truth.’ His voice beats at my temples, makes me want to close my eyes and block out the thoughts I don’t wish to have.

  Despite my thin layers, I can feel the sweat pooling at my chest, the nape of my neck, the warning rippling through me, Don’t listen! Get away!

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen to me.’ He’s so near now that the smell of cloves is overwhelming, as is the clean, talc scent of his finely pressed suit. A pristine exterior disguising what lies beneath. ‘You have to face up to the truth. She’s done a wicked thing, Anna. There are people out there who will lock her up and throw away the key, if they find out. But you don’t want that, do you?’ His eyes bore into me as he shakes his head, the grey ponytail swaying side to side. As if under his power, I find myself mimicking him, the strain of my neck as my head moves from side to side. He reaches into his pocket, drawing out a little white envelope and holding it out to me. ‘Good girl. Which is why I need you to give this to her. To your mamma.’

  Instantly I pull myself back; the cool metal railings bite the back of my knees. The tease in his voice; the way he says ‘mamma’.

  ‘No,’ I force out, my voice small. ‘No, I’m not giving her anything from you.’

  I see him flinch. He waves the envelope at me. ‘Anna, don’t be silly. I need you to give this to her.
’

  I look away, biting back tears. ‘I won’t.’ His words have run rings around me, as confusing as they are clarifying. But I will not be the conduit for whatever plan he is enacting.

  His features corrupt, the sheen of composure at last breaking. This isn’t a man used to being disobeyed. He snatches at me, grabbing my sleeve at the elbow and pulling me into him. I can see the strata of his irises, the way they’re not the blue skies of Mamma’s, but so clear they’re almost grey. I clench my teeth, force myself to stop trembling.

  ‘Now, you just listen here.’ His voice grows thorns. ‘Your mother has had her folly long enough. It’s time she’s back where she belongs. I need you to give this to her. I am the only one who can protect her. She won’t hear it from me, so she’ll have to hear it from you.’

  ‘Get off of me!’ My forcefulness startles him, and I use the flicker of distraction to wrench my arm away. ‘I won’t let you do this to me. I won’t be part of it. Stay away from me. Stay away from us.’

  I grip hold of my bike, adrenaline pulsating through my veins and readying me to flee. The rows of tombstones grimace beside me. He tries to reach for me again, but I twist my body from his grasp.

  ‘I said leave me alone!’

  I kick the bike into gear. Fear makes me dizzy, pumping blood in my ears as I focus on the road ahead, on getting as far away from him as possible.

  ‘You stupid girl,’ he snarls at my retreating back. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’ His frustration rips through the air behind me, and I will myself not to look around as his voice roars despite the increasing distance between us. ‘The past will catch up with you both! And when it does, you’ll see it won’t be me who takes the fall!’

  I power the pedals down the nearly empty road as his voice fades into the air, replaced with the sound of my own laboured breathing. The weather is an unfinished promise: no rain yet, but a lash of wind against my back as I race through the dark streets. It seems to be calling me; I can hear the whispered sound of Anna, Anna whirling through the trees. And then I don’t know exactly how it happens, but I find myself turning into William’s street, juddering to a halt outside his house, the nerve endings in my legs pinging in response.

  His face, when it appears at the door, is mottled with concern. ‘Anna?’

  I’m so relieved that it’s him who’s answered that I half collapse into him. ‘Are your parents home?’ My thudding heart negates politeness. I stumble through the hallway, searching for any sign of them.

  ‘No, they’re at Kate’s recital. Anna …’ He stalks behind me, takes hold of my elbow. ‘You’re shaking.’

  I feel a momentary beat of respite, knowing that we’re alone. ‘I need you to look up the name Emily. And Astroland.’ Decisive, I turn towards the stairs, start to lead the way to his room.

  ‘Anna, is this …?’

  ‘Emily. And Astroland.’ I don’t turn back.

  In his room he pulls his laptop onto the bed and opens it. Each clack of the keys seems to thud in my ears like a hammer on drywall.

  Emily.

  Astroland.

  I hold my breath, watching Will’s eyes narrow, blink, grow wide. I may not be entirely computer literate, but even I understand what the stream of results that populate the screen means.

  He clicks the first one and a headline flashes up, stark, indelible type: ‘EMILY ARCHER, MISSING FROM ASTROLAND, APRIL 2003.’ A child with blonde hair, short in a bob and held back with a headband, and large brown eyes the colour of maple syrup, beams into the camera. She is wearing a cloud-blue sundress, with frilled sleeves and a pattern of yellow and white daises, and has a hand raised to the camera in a half wave. There is another image next to it: a ‘forensic artist’s impression’, the caption underneath reads. The child in this is older, ten or twelve; the hair is darker and the smile less, and a plain blue T-shirt replaces the daisies. It’s not exact, but it’s a good enough approximation of how I remember myself looking at that age. Next to that, she’s older and more serious, her hair frozen in the same bob but her features somehow uncertain, blurred. As she would look today, 2018, the caption reads.

  Emily Archer.

  I whisper it, my lips barely moving, like I’m scared to wake up my long-forgotten self too soon. As if in answer, she stretches; uncurls; reaches out the invisible limbs that fit with such perfection into mine.

  Yes?

  I wait for William to say something. I sense his eyes flitting between me and the photographs.

  ‘Well?’ I ask in the face of his silence.

  ‘I mean …’ He shrugs, casts his eyes to the ceiling.

  As if this new self has now taken root, I feel the skin on my face start to burn and an unfamiliar anger lick like fire at my core. I wave my hand at the laptop. ‘Can’t you see? Doesn’t she look like me?’

  He is collecting himself. His face is too open to hide his thoughts; I’ve always joked he’d be a terrible poker player. He swallows, licks his lips. I can almost see his mind whirring, finding a way to answer. ‘In that she is a blonde, white girl with brown eyes. Yes, I see that.’

  His denial clenches around me. ‘William, it’s me!’ I snatch the laptop from its cord and hold it up next to my face. ‘Look!’ I shake it, forcing him to bear witness. ‘My eyes, my hair … my face. Why can’t you see?’ Hurt cracks my voice. I turn my head, not wanting him to see the tears threatening to fall, and reach into my pocket to feel for the curl of woven thread, lay the bracelet on the bed, the white letters grinning at me like tiny teeth.

  William’s mouth hangs open. ‘Where did you …?’

  ‘The backyard.’ I breathe the smell of his room’s air freshener so deep into my lungs that its synthetic brightness hits me right in the back of my ribs. ‘With another pendant – same as the one in Mamma’s photograph, same one that was sent to me. And a T-shirt, from Astroland. A child’s T-shirt. And this bracelet, Will. A bracelet with the name Emily on it.’ I let the words settle, feeling William’s muted attention beside me. ‘There were cards. In Mamma’s room. From a man – Father Paul. He was there, just now, at the church. Waiting for me. He wants to use me to get to Mamma – I don’t know why. And I think … I think …’

  He lets out a long, slow whistle. ‘Anna, are you saying …?’

  I can’t bear it. To speak the words out loud.

  I run a finger over the smooth surface of the letter E. And I picture it, tied to my wrist. My hand outstretched, fingers curled around someone else’s, someone leading me through crowds, into the back seat of a car. And I picture myself straining forward, catching a glimpse of them in the rear-view mirror. I work my way up a long, pale neck. A pointed chin. Round cheeks that rarely see colour. Thin lips that have never seen more make-up than Chapstick. Fair hair that’s most comfortable pushed back with a headband. And then I place the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle. Those blue eyes. The ones that crease in the corners and can flit between warmth and anger in a breath.

  And I see their face in full. Her face.

  My silence betrays me.

  William sucks in his cheeks, mutters ‘Shit’ under his breath. ‘You’re sure?’ he asks again. But then he looks at the bracelet and shakes his head. He scoops it between his fingers. I hear the clack, clack, clack as he moves each letter in turn.

  ‘Lord, Anna, we have to do something.’ All of a sudden he’s a flurry of movement, setting the bracelet down and slamming the laptop shut. ‘We’ve got to go to the police. Now.’

  ‘No!’ I reach out for him, dragging him back down onto the bed.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  What will happen to Mamma? ‘I can’t go to the police, William. I don’t know why Mamma … there must be a reason. She’s never harmed me. She’s raised me like a daughter. But this man – there’s something wrong about him. I sensed it. What if he’s involved? What if he’s trying to hurt Mamma, or threaten her? I need to hear it from her.’

  ‘You were abducted, Anna.’ I flinch at the
word, my fingers tensing against the tartan comforter, twisting it beneath my hands. ‘This isn’t a joke,’ William says. ‘You have the evidence right here: you have to go to the police with it. I know how you feel about your mother, and I know that you would never intentionally want to hurt her, but you have to understand that she has done something very, very wrong. And besides, you don’t know who this Father Paul is, or how she knows him. He could be dangerous. They could both be dangerous. They could be in this together. They could—’

  ‘I said no!’ I spark. William’s mouth opens and closes, a grouper underwater. ‘I need just a little more time,’ I say. I ball into myself, press my head into my hands. I feel exhausted, weighed down. ‘I need to work out what to do. I can’t think right now. It’s all too much. You have to respect me on this.’ I uncurl enough to look at him, hard. William has always lived his life by right and wrong; he believes any problem can be solved by someone in authority. It’s who he is. But I’m only just beginning to learn who I am, and I’m starting to understand that life isn’t like that.

  He swallows, but at last he holds his hands up in a gesture of submission. ‘I do. I do respect you. I just want to protect you.’

  I pick up the bracelet. The letters leer at me. I stuff it back in my pocket.

  ‘I don’t need protecting. I know what I’m doing, William. I know her. I know her quirks, her habits and her moods. She must have been driven to do what she’s done. I have to understand why before I do anything else; I at least owe her that. Do you trust me?’ He stares wordlessly at the ceiling, but nods. ‘Take me home now, please?’

  He squeezes his eyes tight, and nods.

  The car has reached a reluctant halt at the top of my road. William remains in his seat, fiddling awkwardly with the keys in his hand. ‘I can’t just let you go like this.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘You have to trust me.’

  ‘I do.’ He blows air from his cheeks, a long, exaggerated breath, and then reaches into his pocket and holds an object out to me. ‘Take my cell.’

  ‘What?’ The black rectangle feels cool against my palm as he sets it down.