A Person Could Disappear Here

by Terri George

  A Person Could Disappear Here

  by

  Terri George

  A Person Could Disappear Here

  by Terri George

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part maybe reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Terri George 2019. The right of Terri George to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  Dedication

  Although this novel was inspired by real events, it is a work of fiction. However, the characters Cristina and Shari are so named as a homage to two remarkable women; my lifelines.

  This book is dedicated to them, with love and thanks.

  Glossary of Terms

  Doolally: possibly originates from the former British army transit camp at Deolali, India. (Doolally) Meaning to lose your mind due to the boredom of being there.

  Wotsit: an unnamed thing. (what’s it)

  Bollocks:a) something that’s rubbish or nonsense: “load of bollocks”.

  b) something that’s excellent: “the dog’s bollocks”.

  c) an exclamation of annoyance: “oh bollocks!”.

  d) to make a mess of something: “you’ve bollocksed that up”.

  e) to hell with someone/something: “bollocks to them/that”.

  f) to emphasise that you won’t do something/are not something: “will/am I bollocks”.

  g) testicles.

  To mean business: when you’re determined to do something.

  Face like a wet weekend: to look miserable, fed up, bored.

  Sweet FA: to do nothing: i.e. Sweet F*ck All.

  Tosser/Dickhead: a man who’s an absolute idiot.

  Not being backwards in coming forwards: not shy, forthright.

  Nice wedge: large amount of money.

  Not half bad/ not bad: means something is pretty good/okay.

  A good (something): another way of saying at least. “I waited a good half hour” means you waited at least 30 minutes, probably more.

  Hush Puppies: a brand of shoes known for their comfort rather than style.

  Get your leg over: a bloke getting lucky, having sex.

  Dodgy: something/one that’s not completely legal or honest. What Americans would call sketchy.

  Raking it in: earning a lot of money.

  Starkers: naked.

  Knickerbocker Glory: ice cream sundae served in a tall glass.

  Uncertainty Principle info sourced at heycheryo.wordpress.com

  Gagging: Doesn’t sound like it, but this is a good thing. Gagging for something means you really, really want it.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Terri George

  Prologue

  ABBEY

  To whoever’s reading this.

  If you’ve found this journal, carefully hidden beneath the loose floorboard in the small back bedroom of this old weather-boarded house somewhere in the wide-open spaces of Nebraska, will you do me a favour?

  Tell my friends I love them.

  And that I never stopped trying to find a way out and come home to them.

  Thank you.

  Abbey Mitchell.

  Oh, and look for me too. Would you? Please.

  I’m probably buried somewhere in the back yard.

  Chapter One

  ABBEY

  JOURNAL ENTRY ONE

  First, you need to understand how I came to be thousands of miles from home, held captive by a man I barely know.

  I met Jensen online. Facebook to be precise. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Are you rolling your eyes? But he wasn’t a complete stranger. We’d been Facetiming for a while, and during that time I got to see the real Jensen behind his frivolous Facebook persona. We got closer, opened up to each other, shared our innermost secrets and dreams. Well I had. I didn’t know then that everything Jensen was telling me was made up; just what he thought I wanted to hear. Things that would make me feel connected to him, make me care.

  Predators are masters of manipulation.

  Back then I believed every word, but it’s true what they say about hindsight having perfect vision, and I realise now I was too trusting.

  When my mother was my age, if she wanted to speak privately to a friend she had to walk to the phone box in the high street. But then admittedly she was unusual, being the only one among her friends who was still living at home in her twenties – she didn’t meet my father until she was pushing thirty. Unlike me, fleeing the nest for university a hundred and sixty miles and three hours away by train.

  But these days we are all too eager to spill our life story to virtual strangers online. Social media is a predator’s playground. In my defence though, it was easy to be so open. He was so easy, and we clicked in so many ways.

  Never having known his father, and with no brothers or sisters, he understood the pain of being left a solitary orphan too young. Although less violent and sudden than my parents’ death at the hands of a drunk driver clocking over a hundred miles an hour on the M25, his mother’s slow malignant decline was tragic and no less traumatic.

  We had the same tastes in music, movies and TV shows.

  He read.

  Socially aware, he was outraged by injustice and discrimination just because of a person’s skin colour or sexual orientation; worried about the state of the world, what we are doing to it.

  He loved dogs.

  So how was I to know he’d turn out to be a monster?

  I’d been so excited. I was finally going to meet Jensen in person. And see a part of America I’d never been to before. All the girls at work were dead jealous. No such enthusiasm from Cristina though. Did she have some sort of sixth sense premonition she didn’t tell me about? I expected more in the way of support from her but, psychic abilities or not, turns out she was right. Coming here was the worst decision I’ve ever made. More likely though, I reckon she was just ticked off because I was having a week in Colorado rather than the seven days of decadence in a gorgeous European city we usually have in the spring.

  Oh, how much do I wish we were having fun in Rome, Barcelona, or Amsterdam? And I would be having fun, because it’s impossible not to with Cristina. You’d like her. She’s sor
t of my alter ego; the wilder version of me. The person I would be if I dared. (Yes, the irony that it’s me who rashly flew thousands of miles to meet a man I only knew virtually isn’t lost on me.) Cristina may be fiery, loud and not afraid to say what she thinks, (probably down to her being half Italian) but she’s the kindest person I know. I knew that right from the very first day at infants’ school when she marched up to the shy five-year-old me alone in the playground and announced that we were going to be best friends. And she was right. Twenty years later she’s the sister I never had.

  So anyway, I was up for my trip to Denver, no question. The only problem I had then was the actual getting there.

  To say I’m a nervous flyer is an understatement of monumental proportions. A couple of hours at thirty-five-thousand feet flying to Milan, Zurich or Copenhagen are bad enough, never mind a transatlantic flight, and then some. Despite knowing statistically I’m safer in the air than on the road or even at home, and that the odds of the plane taking me from Heathrow to Denver crashing were almost as long as my randomly chosen six numbers coming up in the lottery, I still needed my usual Valium before I set foot on board.

  And a bumpy ride hadn’t helped. Whenever the plane rattled and shook I looked to any nearby flight attendant, trying to calm my nerves by telling myself that, as they’re weren’t panicked and rushing to strap themselves in their seats, but calmly serving coffee to a man in the aisle seat three rows up, everything was fine.

  So, after ten anxious hours of figuratively, and occasionally literally, clutching my seat’s arm rests, getting through immigration and a protracted wait for my suitcase to make it onto the luggage carousel, I was more than a little fraught by the time I followed a crowd of fellow travellers into the arrivals hall.

  I skimmed the faces of the people waiting until my gaze found him… All six feet two of him: espresso-rich tousled hair and powerful rugby number-eight build. (I suppose the American equivalent of a rugby number eight is a Quarter Back, but without the armour. Rugby players are tough. The scrum cap being detested by purists, they make do with just a mouth guard, and maybe some duct tape to avoid having an ear ripped off.)

  Then we were standing in front of each other, inches apart.

  I remember how his gaze scanned my face as if committing every freckle and pore to memory; little creases appearing at the corners of his honey-hazel eyes as he smiled.

  I barely had time to say “hi” back before he took my face in his hands and kissed me long and deep, stilling the chaotic turmoil that had been churning in the pit of my stomach. A calmness replacing it as he wrapped his hand around mine.

  I couldn’t help the wide smile my mouth shaped itself into, or the sense of rightness that spread through me like a sunrise. And right then, looking into his eyes, I knew I would go anywhere with him, because with him was the only place I wanted to be.

  How ridiculous I sound. But in truth, I’m no dewy-eyed romance junkie waiting for her prince to come. Of course, I have read romances, but not the, his steely blue eyes and she quivers kind; the kind that when it starts getting interesting, blushes and waits coyly outside the bedroom door until morning. I read the kind that follows them in and takes comprehensive notes. Realistic love stories full of angst and anger, where couples explode into furious rows. Emotional rides where the characters behave how real people in love do. And that includes sex. I don’t want soppy romance. I want passion. I want a real-life version of my favourite book boyfriends. A Nick Frost or Aiden Byrne to sweep me off my feet.

  Even now I remember how Jensen’s han--d holding mine elicited a renewed fluttering in my stomach, but the good kind that time.

  Despite that my gaze still drifted to the view beyond the windows as the train whisked us the twenty-eight miles from airport to downtown Denver. I could have had Jensen pick me up in his car or gone by taxi, but why would I do either when I could relax in a train and get there just as fast?

  I love trains. The clackerty-clack of the lines reminds me still of childhood seaside holidays on the south coast got to by train. There’s no doubt my love of them stems from how much of my childhood was spent with my dad, playing with his huge train set. Complete with stations, villages and make-pretend countryside, it sprawled the entire attic space. I think dad secretly wanted a boy and hadn’t held out much hope that his daughter would share his passion, so he was thrilled I did. It’s a wonder my parents didn’t buy a house near a train station rather than the London Underground.

  So, I’d arrived. And back then my only concern was how much I’d spent on the hotel room, but my return flight was so cheap I’d decided I could splash out, stay somewhere really nice.

  The deeply carved inscription still declared the building to be the Colorado National Bank. Its ionic columns fronting the white stone façade, just a hint of the luxury inside.

  As we stood at the hotel’s impressive entrance, Jensen’s relief that I’d arrived safely seemed sincere; his advice to get some rest so I didn’t get slammed with jet-lag nothing other than genuine concern about my welfare.

  One day into my visit, Jensen was everything I’d expected him to be: caring, funny, attentive, and, although Denver doesn’t have all that much in the way of sights, I’d enjoyed spending time with him. I realise now he was just luring me into a false sense of security, but that’s hindsight for you.

  We were sitting outside a café when he suggested it.

  The 16th street mall reminded me a little of Oxford Street; only without the red buses and black cabs. Although I wouldn’t have said it was a mall, more like a high street. Aren’t malls enclosed spaces?

  Whatever. You’re unlikely to find me in one. With their piped muzak, faux marble floors and ersatz domes in high vaulted ceilings, I detest these cathedrals of consumerism. They’re such depressing places, filled with the apathetic, shuffling from one same-old-same-old shop to another in a futile quest to find the meaning of life in Fendi or UGG, and carry it away in a plastic bag. As if self-fulfilment can be purchased. There’s a reason the reanimated deceased gravitated to the mall in George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead.

  But I’m getting off track again. Tangenting, Cristina calls it.

  We were outside the café. I was convincing Jensen he should come to London; listing all the sights we could see from the open top deck of a bus on a tour of the capital: Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the London Eye, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square. Because people should know there’s a hell of a lot more to see in central London than just Oxford and Regent Street shops.

  He laughed and said that a girl who wasn’t into shopping was practically unheard of.

  What can I say? I hate shopping, even for food. I get most of the regular stuff delivered once a month, so I only need to nip out to Sainsbury’s for the weekly perishables. And I only ever go clothes shopping when I absolutely have to. Shopping isn’t my idea of fun, and life’s too short to spend it buying stuff you don’t need.

  Jensen’s grin was teasing. “Except books.”

  Books: my Achilles heel. In my opinion it’s a physical impossibility to have too many books. And I told him so.

  He continued teasing, saying he thought he was never going to get me out of the Tattered Cover Bookstore. Of all the things we’d seen, that was the perfect place to take me. Just the smell of a second-hand book shop... Heaven.

  He laughed again, saying I could have spent all eternity there if he hadn’t dragged me away. And I said I could think of worse ways to spend forever.

  I didn’t realise it at the time of course, but I’d just handed him the perfect segue. Or more likely he manipulated the conversation.

  His gaze drifted; his question as to what I planned to do for the next couple of days innocent enough.

  I was surprised when he said he had to go to Nebraska. It sounded so far away. To be honest, I’d be hard pressed to point out each county on a map of England, so I’m hardly likely to know where each state of America is. But as it turned out it’s the nex
t state over, and the house outside the small town only a three-hour drive away.

  His story about his grandfather getting out of hospital and how he wanted to get him settled, make sure he was okay, didn’t sound like a story at all. Just genuine concern for the elderly relative who’d practically brought him up when his mum got sick.

  It’s silly I know, but I couldn’t help the small twinge of envy at Jensen’s obvious fondness for his grandfather. I only knew my mum’s mum, and she wasn’t the sort of woman you got close to. My over-riding memory of her is complaining. Oh, those interminable Christmases. Hours of how dry the turkey was, turning up her nose at our gifts, and why couldn’t we watch the film on the other channel... Even the house seemed to sigh with relief when dad drove her home.

  “You could come too. I know Gramps would love to meet you.”

  And that’s how he reeled me in. With one small innocent sentence.

  I remember picturing a big sky and wide-open spaces, room to breathe. One day had almost exhausted what Denver had to offer in the way of sights, so I thought, why not?

  I might be mis-remembering, hindsight playing tricks on me, but for the briefest of moments, barely a heartbeat, had there been a flicker of something in Jensen’s eyes as he smiled? Something… malevolent. If it was ever there it had gone in an instant, then he checked his watch and said we’d better go, or we’d miss the start of the movie.

  Is it really little more than twenty-four hours since I spoke to Cristina? It feels like an age, yet on the other hand like I’ve just hung up. I can remember our conversation almost verbatim…