by Lizzy Barber
I’m almost at the mailbox when I hear the gunshot.
I freeze, aching to turn around. But then I’m running. Trying not to let myself think. Trying not to contemplate the object in Mamma’s hands, and what she has done. Earth splatters my calves and the bottom of my nightgown. The road rips at the soles of my feet. My lungs barely sustain me.
When I reach the double doors of the police station, I throw myself through, stumbling over my nightgown as I can already feel my body start to fail me.
‘Miss?’ I hear a voice call, distantly, and know that I am finally safe.
‘Help,’ I manage to whimper as exhaustion claims me. My vision starts to blur, but I can make out bodies, moving around me.
‘Miss, what’s happened? Who are you?’
‘Help me. I’m … I’m …’ My limbs turn to pools of water as I sink to the cold, hard ground.
I feel arms lifting me up, shouting to others to make way. And then someone pushes through; a familiar voice: William. ‘It’s her. I told you.’ I see his face come into view, feel his hand squeezing mine.
‘I’m … I’m …’
‘Shh, it’s OK. You’re safe now. Everything’s all right.’
And whatever I am about to say is given over to black release.
ROSIE
28
When I step out of the Underground at Highbury and Islington, I can’t believe it’s still light outside. It feels as though I’ve been away for days, not hours. The journey has agitated me, made me tetchy and impatient. I have in my possession a key to Emily’s disappearance; the door that it unlocks still seems so far away.
When I walk into the house, I assume no one’s home: Rob will still be at school, Mum and Dad at work. I power upstairs through the silent house, playing it through in my head: the woman in the photograph must be the one who took my sister; she must be connected to The Lilies. But why did she take her? And where are they now? How on earth will we find them? All notions of going back to school have dissipated. I need to gather my thoughts: the photograph, the image of the woman in the navy dress. I need to go to the police. I push open the door to my bedroom, fingertips tingling, ready to spring into action.
And there’s Mum, sitting on the edge of my desk. Around her, spilled across the bed sheets, are all my notes. I can see my emails open on the laptop screen.
‘How long has this been going on?’ Her voice is a needle, pointing somewhere between exhaustion and rage.
‘I can explain. I—’
‘No, Rosie.’ I blink up at her, silenced by the vehemence in her voice. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you all morning. School called. They said you missed French.’ I curse my bad timing. ‘Apparently Keira tried to cover for you. They rang me at work to check.’ Guilt pulses through me – poor Keira; she’ll have got it in the neck. ‘I tried your mobile – you weren’t answering. I spoke to Keira myself. She mumbled something about some boy. But I knew that wasn’t it. I could tell there was something she was hiding from me. So I came home to see for myself. And yes, I checked your emails.’ Her anger is accelerating, gripping at her voice. ‘I have a right to. I am your mother, however grown-up you think you are. And I found the emails from that Jane. And then – hands up – I looked in your bedside drawer – any mother would have done – and I found the notes, and the names. Not to mention the cigarettes.’ My stomach lurches. ‘That page – TheHive – it was still loaded on your browser. And this rail booking – Slough? What were you doing there? Who were you seeing? I want to know now, Rosie. No more secrets. ‘
‘I – I …’ My thoughts jumble together; I can’t get them straight. ‘Mum, you won’t believe it: I found something. That journalist, Michael Davis – he came to the party; he gave me the first clue. I went to see him. He’s been researching Emily’s disappearance for years. I don’t know how it adds up, but it does. Father Paul; these people called The Lilies. Somehow they’re involved with what happened to her. That’s where I was today. At one of their churches. Looking for something to prove it. And I was right! There’s a woman, Mum. She took Emily. I don’t know why, but we have to go to the police. Now.’ The story tumbles out of me almost faster than I can grasp it.
I motion towards her, to spur her into action, but Mum seems to pale. ‘Where did you say you were today?’
I realise I’ve spoken too soon. I should never have mentioned The Lilies without making her see first. ‘Mum, I—’
‘Rosie.’ Her eyes harden.
I stare down at my feet. ‘The Lilies,’ I mumble. ‘The church.’
Mum rises, her lips a scored line across her face. ‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘But—’
‘I can’t even look at you, I’m so angry.’ She storms out of the room without another word.
‘Mum, wait!’ I call after her but she’s already halfway down the stairs. I can cope with shouting, but this white silence is terrifying.
I follow her down into the living room, where I hear the vibration of her phone, buzzing against the bottom of her bag. She picks up the bag, glances at the phone but ignores it. It’s probably Dad. I wonder if she’s told him.
‘Please, just listen to me.’ I hurry behind her as she moves through the house, taking her coat down from the rack. ‘I know what I did was wrong. I know I shouldn’t have skipped school, and that I should have told you what I was doing. But I knew you’d never believe me and—’
She shakes her head, picks up her car keys from the side table. ‘Stop it, Rosie. Go put your uniform on. I’m driving you back to school.’
I feel the panic rising in my chest. I can’t go back to school. Not now. ‘Mum, please. I’m telling you, this woman took Emily. She was involved with some kind of cult. I think she’s still alive. Out there, somewhere, we just need to find her.’
‘Rosie, I don’t want to hear this nonsense. Five minutes and we’re leaving.’ She starts putting on her shoes.
Her phone buzzes again, momentarily stuttering my thoughts. Mum huffs. ‘It’ll be your father, asking about dinner. I haven’t even told him you were missing. Go. Get dressed.’
‘Just hear me out.’ I hover, back to the stairs, not quite ready to admit defeat. ‘Michael knew it. He recognised the necklace the woman was wearing, traced it all back. You can talk to him yourself.’ I try to keep my voice calm, hoping that reasoning with her will work better. ‘And it’s easy to see how it could have been overlooked, because the only reason Michael recognised the necklace is because he knew about The Lilies first hand. No one else would have known what to look for. And so I went there, to The Lilies. I snuck in. I wanted to see for myself, if there was something they were hiding. And I’m really, really sorry that I upset you. I know it was wrong, and that I should have told you. I realise how worried you must have been; but I was right – I found something! And now we can go to the police and it’ll all—’
‘Enough, Rosie!’ The rage in Mum’s voice stops me. Angry tears prick the corners of her eyes. ‘I told you that these theories were all crazy, that the police would have already looked into any viable leads. And I specifically told you not to get mixed up with these people – these conspiracy theorists. Do you have any idea of the danger you could have put yourself in? I can’t believe you’ve been so irresponsible. This Michael could have been anyone. He could have done anything to you – anything. And this church! What if they really were a cult, and he was mixed up in it all? What if this was all part of some sick plan? It’s so thoughtless for your own safety, and to Keira, and to me … and … and …’
I can’t wait a second longer. In desperation, I reach into my pocket and thrust the picture in front of her face. ‘Mum, look.’
In an instant she freezes. Slowly, she holds her fingers out to it, trance-like. A silent gasp howls through her body; a storm through trees. ‘… How?’
And then the phone rings again. Mechanically she takes it out, holds it in front of her then presses it to her ear, never letting her eyes waver fully from the
photograph.
‘David?’
A wash of grey comes over her face. Her body starts to quake – I see her visibly convulsing – as she backs against the wall, slinking slowly down it until she’s sitting in a heap on the floor, the phone still pressed to the side of her face. The photograph floats from her hand, falling to the floor beside her.
‘What is it?’ I ask. Nausea throbs through me. ‘Is Dad OK? Rob?’
Mum isn’t speaking, just making a rasping, dry heaving noise and pressing her free hand to her mouth, her cheek, her chest.
‘Mum?’ I ask again. ‘What’s happened?’
She shakes her head, unable to say anything, and holds the phone out to me with an unsteady hand. I take it, pressing it against my cheek.
‘Hello? Dad? Is everything OK?’
‘Rosie?’ His voice is hoarse. ‘You need to get in the car and come to the station now. They’ve found her. They’ve found Emily.’
ANNA
29
The wallpaper in William’s parents’ guest room has eighty-nine blue stripes on it. I count them from the bed – one, two, three – only, when I stare at them for too long, my eyes go funny, and the poster-paint blue seems to bleed into the white.
Next to the bed is a side table. And on the side table there’s a glass lamp, whose base is filled with seashells. I press my index finger to it, trace the outline of the starfish whose petrified form butts against the glass. Ten lines, traced up and down, to make up the shape of a star.
It’s much easier to distract myself with concrete facts like these.
I’ve been in this room nearly twenty-four hours. By now I know every inch of it by heart. William’s parents convinced the hospital that I would be far better off cared for in their home, without the constant threat of reporters sneaking in – posing as a doctor, as one did last night, and nearly getting to my room before security stopped them. A small length to go to, for the sake of a story. Especially when that story is one of the Biggest Unsolved Mysteries Of The Last Fifteen Years, and it has finally been answered. This from the headlines in the newspaper one of the nurses mistakenly brought me with breakfast. Better all round for me to be with William and his family. Close observation at all times.
To my left, cool air blows from the window I have asked them repeatedly to stop shutting. I can’t bear to be closed in. From it I can see the tops of the linden trees on the sidewalk opposite and hear the laughter of the children playing in the street – not the voices of the twins, though, swiftly dispatched to an aunt and uncle in Texas. Such normal, everyday sounds. So at odds with the world in my head.
From this same window I can also hear the clatter of the reporters who spill around the front door and catcall to anyone who steps in or out. Their incessant hum is a small price to pay for the pleasure of feeling the fresh breeze against my skin, after the dankness of the attic. Voyeuristically, I like to stand by it, shaded just out of sight by the calico curtains, and try to make out the individual voices, take in the weight of the fact that the person they are calling for is me.
The diamond on my left hands catches the light. I wear an engagement ring now. What excuse would I have not to, without Mamma to question it? It twinkles, unnervingly unfamiliar, on my finger when I tweak the corner of the curtain, seeking a closer look.
William bought it for me this morning. He thought I would be thrilled. I tried so hard to remember what that feels like. He sat beside me, trying to read my movements and my unspoken words, stroking the untarnished gold band in an endless loop; telling me it is the symbol of us looking towards the future. I can’t explain how for me it feels more like a reminder of the tangled past.
He has apologised, over and over in pained, pleading tones, for not trying to find me sooner. He says he wanted to show he respected my wishes, to prove to me he was listening. But when he saw Mamma in church without me, he knew something wasn’t right. He went straight to the police, but they didn’t believe him: they laughed in his face, told him he’d been watching too many made-for-TV movies and that he should take the hint. When he came to the house that day – oh, the irony of thinking he was Father Paul, of letting salvation slip through my fingers – he returned to the station and refused to leave until they took him seriously. He was on the cusp of a physical fight with them – only interrupted by my staggering in at that very moment.
I forgive him, numbly, take his head on my lap and stroke his soft hair and tell him it’s not his fault. What else can I do?
He doesn’t call me Anna now. None of them do, not his parents, or Ms Abrams, who visits, distraught, with a stack of books whose titles swim before my eyes. To them, I am ‘How are you feeling, dear?’ and ‘Honey, how about something to eat?’ and ‘Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t want to close the window?’
The others don’t either. The men in suits – and they are all men – who take my fingerprints and a DNA sample, and then later talk about evidence and hearings and statements. They stomp in and out of the house like little boys playing soldiers, talking through me as William’s father mutters ‘Uh huh, uh huh, I see’ a lot, and Hilary scurries around them, making endless cups of coffee. They’ve appointed a spokesperson, a man with translucent skin and a protuberant Adam’s apple and a ‘please, call me Greg’ smile, who stands at the threshold of the house and asks the press to respect the family’s privacy at this difficult time.
I’m not a person, but a purpose: the answer at the end of a question.
I try to ask them what’s happening to Mamma now, but they seem almost bothered by me asking; tell me I shouldn’t concern myself about it, that there will be plenty of chances for questions later, that it’s all being taken care of. They regard me with caution, as if the wrong word might break me or, if they come too close, they risk being infected by the same rottenness that surrounds me.
She’s being held in a psych ward now, closely monitored, that much I know for sure. And I know, of course, that she’ll stand trial, and will most likely go to prison for a long, long time. I know as well, from the snatch I heard from Hilary, that Father Paul is alive. The bullet entered through the top of his left shoulder, missing his heart. At least this means she won’t be standing trial for murder. And that he will live to fight a series of cases against him, not least of which will include intimidation, money laundering, fraud, perversion of the course of justice, and, of course, manslaughter … maybe even murder.
I wonder if they ever found her body.
The thought pierces through me, but it also brings me a strange sort of comfort. I think of her almost like a sister, twinned, in some twisted way, by our shared name and our shared parentage. I like to think that knowing where she’s laid to rest will bring Mamma some peace. I hope she’ll get a chance to visit, to say a proper goodbye.
I can’t bear the idea of her being incarcerated. The thought tears at me as much as the twine that made the welts on my wrists. I can’t get the image out of my head of her in a dank, dirty cell. I picture her pacing the four walls, lying on a cold, hard bed, having to wash her hands and do her business within the same few square feet. How will she stand it? Will they let her have a Bible? A bar of soap? How often will they change her sheets, or let her taste the fresh air?
Who will tend to her garden, with no one left to care for it?
I try to ask the nurse, the one who comes after they bring me back from the hospital. I grab her arm as she reaches to remove the drip that has been steadily pumping fluids into my body, and beg her, please. She’s Caribbean – from the Bahamas, she tells me – with peppery hair scraped back into a bun, and a heavy bosom that jiggles up and down when she huffs and puffs around the room, packing up the equipment to go back to the hospital.
She calls me Emmy. ‘Don’t you be bothering yourself with that, Emmy girl.’ She clicks her teeth, checking the IV line in my hand. ‘She’s where she belongs. That woman will never hurt you again.’ But I hear her talking, whispering to Hilary when she thinks I’ve fallen asle
ep. ‘I’ve heard of this sort of thing before – it’s that “Stockholm syndrome”,’ I hear her tutting. ‘That poor girl. What she’s been through? Lord dreads to think.’
I know what Stockholm syndrome is. It makes me think of prisoners in cells, women kept in bunkers by awful men and forced to bear their children. But that wasn’t me. That wasn’t us.
In a funny way, it’s here that I am captive most. I am not allowed out. These walls are my world, for now. The media swarms on the driveway, and, besides, even if I wanted to go out, where would I go? The thought of it rises in my chest, squeezing so hard on my lungs I feel I’m back in the attic.
There’s a knock on the door, and William’s head appears around it. He’s holding a familiar green cardboard box: a Scrabble set, which takes me instantly back to sunny weekend afternoons, spreading a picnic blanket out under the shade of a tree and taking turns picking letters out of the green cloth bag. It has always been a thing between us: William will be losing, terribly, so I deliberately play badly until he eventually notices and demands I treat him like a grown-up. When I think back to those days, they’re covered with a golden glow: how lucky I was, how much I would give to go back there.
He comes fully into the room and offers the box out to me. ‘I thought we could play?’
I nod, and he curls up gently on the edge of the bed, removing the lid and opening the board out between us.
He hasn’t kissed me once. Perhaps he’s afraid to.
We play in amicable silence, punctuated by the clink of tiles as we rearrange them on our racks, and the occasional hiss from William, as I add an S to one of his words, or take the triple word square. But I feel his eyes on me, even as I keep my attention fully on the tiles, forcing the letters that swim before me to fight their way into my murky mind, and form the words I will them to.