A Person Could Disappear Here

by Terri George

  “Salute, papa. I hope you made a wish.”

  My father’s smile wavers, just a little. “I did, but if I tell you what I wished it might not come true.”

  Thin trails of smoke drifting from just-blown-out candles follow the progress of the waiter who carries dad’s cake back to the kitchen for slicing; taking our voices with it. There’s shifting in seats and nervous sipping of drinks. After an hour and a half of pretence we’ve all exhausted our supply of disingenuous cheerfulness.

  Mum touches dad’s arm to get his attention. “Enzo. It’s time.”

  Dad’s smile fades as he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. In navy Armani for the occasion, he looks especially handsome today and has caught the eye of more than one of the female Mediterraneo diners. He hands me a swollen white envelope. “Cristina, Alessandro, this is for both of you.”

  Alessandro exhales a breathy whistle as I flick through the dollar bills stuffed inside the envelope.

  “Wow, dad, there must be two thousand dollars here, at least.”

  “You’ll need ready cash while you’re away. And we’ve deposited money into your account for car rental, decent hotel rooms, things like that. Not five-star rooms, but enough so you can stay somewhere better than a cheap motel.”

  “But papa, we have money, there’s no–”

  “Take it, piccolo. Your mother and I are concerned enough without worrying that you’re not staying somewhere safe.”

  “We care about Abbey too,” mum adds. “And this is all we can do to help you find her.”

  ***

  I’ve always dreamed of travelling first class. Complimentary bubbly in the private lounge, big squishy leather seats, my choice of meal from the stiff-carded menu served on china rather than neatly fitted within the compartments of a plastic tray. I don’t care who you are, we all long for the preferential treatment enjoyed by the rich and famous.

  It’s another world at the front of the plane, one that, short of winning the lottery, will remain closed to the likes of me. Still, it could be worse. Alessandro and I could be held captive for the ten-hour flight, cooped up in cattle class with the screaming babies. At least the premium economy section is far enough removed from that, and, as Alessandro proves, head leaning against the window in the seat next to me, sleeping through at least part of the flight is a distinct possibility.

  The plane lurches as it hits a patch of turbulent air. Alessandro snuffles in his sleep but doesn’t rouse. It wasn’t that big a bump, but it would have been enough to have Abbey white-knuckled, clutching her arm rest. She’s such a nervous flyer, I mean really nervous, as in needs a tranquiliser before she can even get on a plane. She’s always packed and ready to go days before she needs to be; a clear sign of trepidation. It’s the paradox of wishing for the thing you fear to happen sooner just to get it over with.

  She’s anxious enough on a two or three-hour flight to Europe, how did she cope alone for ten hours without me to hold her hand?

  Mulled wine, cute little snow-covered wooden houses, twinkly lights everywhere and masses of stalls selling all sorts of Christmassy things. Copenhagen’s Yule market in the Tivoli gardens is well worth a visit and really gets you into the seasonal spirit. I’m sure some people would think it’s a tad schmaltzy, but they’re just boring old bah humbugs. Abbey and I loved it and had great fun, but our long weekend just before the Christmas break was too short a trip for her to truly relax. I could tell the thought of the return flight was always in the back of her mind, taking the edge off her fun.

  As it turned out she had good cause to be anxious. The buffering the plane’s enduring now is nothing to the turbulence we flew through coming home from Denmark. Abbey’s grip on my hand was almost tight enough to cut off circulation.

  Anyone who says they always tell the truth is a liar. We all lie, every day. Politicians do it for a living. Of course, as with most things, there are degrees of lying:

  a) harmless fibs we tell to spare someone’s feelings (yeah, migraine-inducing shocking pink is really your colour)

  b) little white lies that get you out of trouble (sorry I’m late, traffic was a nightmare)

  c) great big send-you-straight-to-hell-when-you-die lies (the Iraqi military are able to deploy chemical or biological weapons within forty-five minutes of an order to do so)

  Although I definitely mean business and it will be my absolute pleasure when I find Abbey, and Jensen’s arse is sent to rot in jail for years – I don’t actually know how long you get for kidnap over here, but I hope it’s decades, if not life – I decide this is one time when honestly wouldn’t be the best policy. So, given the choice between a) business and b) pleasure, when I finally make it to the head of my queue and I’m asked the purpose of my visit, I go for option B. I reckon that’s somewhere between a fib and little white lie.

  Supermarket, bank, post office, somehow I always manage to pick the wrong queue, and clearly I have here too because the bloke checking my passport has a face like a wet weekend.

  His ‘Welcome to America’ might actually sound sincere if he could find it within himself to crack a smile. This is a visitor’s first impression of the mighty US of A after all, so you’d think they’d employ someone who’s more of a people-person.

  But then, I suppose you never know what’s going on in people’s lives. He could be dealing with all sorts of crap:

  1) he could have just discovered his wife of ten years is cheating on him with his best friend

  2) maybe his doctor is concerned that mole on his back might be something serious

  3) his dog died.

  So, I decide to be magnanimous and give him the benefit of the doubt; flashing him a wide smile as I retrieve my passport. And anyway, who’s to say they’re any friendlier at Heathrow to non-British passport holders entering the country. Their fall-back position on foreign visitors may well be just as suspicious.

  Mind you, as I wait for Alessandro going through the next line over, I can’t fail to see the smile the female officer gives him as she returns his passport: distinctly warm, and somewhat inappropriate given she’s almost old enough to be his mother.

  Maybe it’s a gender thing. Maybe women are naturally friendlier. I don’t know, and care even less. I just want to get out of this bloody airport.

  The anxiety on the faces of people waiting in the arrivals lounge melts away when they spot their loved ones. I watch as a twenty-something girl rushes into the arms of her man. They kiss deeply, entwined in a tight embrace. It’s a scene that’s played out in airports all over, every day.

  Was Abbey’s welcome as warm?

  She must have been pretty shell-shocked after a ten-hour flight, but did all that disappear when she saw Jensen for the first time?

  Did he take her in his arms too, kiss her just as deeply; or was their first hello hesitant and unsure? I’m betting he went for the romantic option of a kiss. He’d got her to travel thousands of miles just to meet him, so what had he got to be nervous about?

  Abbey was probably right that the view from the train’s windows is more interesting than that from a taxi. And the money Alessandro and I save on the tickets will pay for our dinner tonight. So, it makes sense to travel to downtown Denver this way.

  The difference in Abbey when we take Eurostar to Paris, Lyon or Brussels rather than flying is astonishing; gazing excitedly out of the window, chatty incessantly, already in the holiday mood. To me, a train is just another form of transport to get you to where you’re going, but to Abbey it’s so much more. Although I have to admit our trip to Venice on the Orient Express was fun.

  From the moment the smiling peak-capped steward, resplendent in his gold-piped cerulean uniform, took our bags and showed us to our cabin we knew this train journey was going to be something special. And it was. Sheer unadulterated extravagance: Michelin star worthy meals in the wood-panelled splendour of the dining car, the light from the fringed table lamp glinting off monogrammed china and crystal glasses; sipping cockta
ils in the bar carriage, sitting on an ink-blue sofa near the pianist; lulled to sleep in our cabin by the gentle rocking of the carriage.

  I’d been worried about how good an idea it was to go on holiday so soon after Abbey’s parents had died. Probate had finally gone through and she’d got her inheritance and we were taking the trip as a homage to her father who’d never got around to crossing it off his bucket-list. So, to see her smile after months of deep despair was worth far more than any amount of fancy food or glamourous luxury.

  The difference between the Orient Express and travelling to your destination by train is that the thirty-six hours spent on board the Orient Express is part of the holiday; an experience never to be forgotten.

  Still, I’ve never really understood Abbey’s love of trains in general. Although her broken-heartedness as she padlocked the door to the attic to keep her father’s beloved train set safe when we were preparing the house to be rented out, knowing it would be years before she’d set eyes on it again, was clear to see and easily understandable.

  I understand her attraction to Jensen even less. I got a good idea what he’s like from the little I could see on his timeline as me, but logged on as Abbey, scrolling through his entire Facebook timeline, my suspicions were confirmed. He’s a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal. A fuck-‘em-and-chuck-‘em misogynist dressed up as a good-time cool-dude. There are any number of reasons that could explain why his silly-girlie followers who speak in emojis are attracted to him:

  a) lack of self-worth – if you’re told you’re not good enough for long enough you’ll end up believing it

  b) repetitive behaviour – mum made a bad choice, chances are you will too

  c) low self-esteem – confusing a bloke’s desire to get between your legs with affection

  d) social conditioning – the pressure on girls to be popular with the opposite sex because even now, whether or not they actually have a brain, the ultimate goal is still to get married and have babies.

  Or maybe some of them are female reflections of Jensen; girls who out-drink, out-swear and out-shag any bloke.

  But Abbey has a sense of self-worth; her parents were nurturing, loving people who encouraged her to be all she could be. She’s intelligent, independent. What does she see in him? She could do so much better. Not that I was stupid enough to tell her that. Best friend slagging off current love interest can put a serious strain on any friendship. So, I kept quiet knowing when it all ended badly and her misguided little heart was broken, I’d be there with a shoulder to cry on, wine and comfort food.

  Clearly the idea of sisterhood is an alien concept to the hotel receptionist. I might as well be invisible for all the notice she takes of me when we check-in. Despite the fact that I was the one who booked the bloody room, she speaks only to Alessandro, looking up through lashes, a small smile playing on her mouth as she confirms our reservation.

  I snatch the room key from her, catching her, “I just love your accent, are you British?” as I march off across the lobby, leaving Alessandro to bring my large pull-along suitcase as well as his own over-stuffed holdall.

  He catches me up just as I press for the lift. “What’s up with you?”

  “Women like her really piss me off.”

  “She was only being friendly. Bloody hell, if you’re like this when a girl flirts with your brother, what are you like as a girlfriend?”

  “I’m not jealous. I just hate women who treat other women like they’re invisible.”

  I jab for the lift again, the doors open, and I wait, almost patiently, as Alessandro trundles my case inside before hitting the button for our floor.

  “Sounds like you could use a drink. Tell you what, let’s dump the bags then go and find a decent bar.”

  “We’re not here on holiday. And it’s only four o’clock. Bit early to start boozing, isn’t it?”

  “It’s eleven UK time, so no. I want to find Abbey just as much as you, but you’re frazzled after a long flight and liable to open your big mouth and say something that’ll get us in all sorts of trouble–”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Alessandro cuts me off.

  “You know it’s true. You’re tired and grouchy. So I say we enjoy one evening. Have a mooch around, see something of downtown Denver, then a few drinks and a nice meal somewhere, and go to the police in the morning.”

  He may have a point. After sitting on my arse for ten hours I could do with some exercise. And a drink.

  Big screen TVs, burgers and beer. If I shut my eyes I could almost believe I was in Riley’s in Haymarket, although the open brick walls of the place we picked for dinner gives it a more industrial feel.

  “Was everything okay?” asks our ever-smiling waitress.

  It was burger and fries. You’d be hard pressed to get that wrong, although some places manage it. But our meal was pretty much what the menu promised. And the beer was alright I suppose, but a bit gassy for my liking. “Fine, thanks.”

  The waitress shows even more of her perfect teeth as she accepts the five twenty-dollar bills I hand her and pushes off. But not before telling us to enjoy the rest of our evening.

  It may still be early to her, but my body thinks it’s nearly half past three in the morning and is starting to protest that it’s long past time for bed.

  Alessandro drains the last of his beer and we leave to make the two-block walk back to the hotel.

  After the almost-chill of the restaurant’s air-conditioning, the slight increase in temperature is welcome; comparable with the pleasant early summer weather we left behind.

  Even in my relaxed state courtesy of a belly full of food and a couple of pints of beer, my senses pick up on something in the air; a slow tsunami of expectation rolling down the street, catching everyone in its wake. Something’s happening.

  One by one, people turn their heads and look in the same direction. Mobile phones are taken from pockets and handbags.

  There had been far more police cars wailing, lights flashing, zig-zagging the gridded streets while we wandered downtown before dinner than would be normal for an average mid-week late afternoon in central London, but hey, this is America. I thought nothing of it, but this is different. The sound surging towards us isn’t a single siren, it’s an undulating cacophony of discordance. The same chaotic clamour that not so long ago filled the streets surrounding London Bridge.

  All sorts of scenarios whizz through my mind, but not one of them comes anywhere close to the cause of all this commotion.

  A small green tractor makes its trundling way down the street, the bit that connects to a trailer, snaking behind it.

  Red and blue lights strobing, a veritable entourage of police cruisers follow. That’s the only word to describe the number of SUVs shadowing in slow pursuit. All that’s missing is ticker-tape and we’d have ourselves a bona fide parade. I count the police vehicles as they pass. One. Two. Three… Fourteen in all.

  People around us cheer as they film what surely has to be the most bizarre sight ever witnessed in LoDo. And it is sort of comical in its ridiculousness. What do the police hope to achieve by just following? Why don’t some of the vehicles at the rear peel off and drive down side streets to get ahead and block its progress? Are they waiting for it to run out of petrol, or diesel, or whatever the hell tractors run on?

  “Only in Denver,” someone nearby says, laughing as he films.

  Then it all suddenly stops being funny.

  One of the SUVs veers off, blasting its horn as it mounts the kerb. Pedestrians who’d been laughing and filming on their phones scuttle out of the way as the police vehicle drives along the pavement, turns sharply back onto the road and slams head-on into the side of the tractor. The front of the SUV concertinas almost all the way back to the windscreen on impact, writing off around fifty-thousand dollars of Denver PD assets. The damage to the tractor is minimal, if any.

  The police officer in the passenger seat squashes down his fast deflating airbag, is out of the car in a heartbeat, r
ushes to the tractor and tasers the driver. The squad of police vehicles slew to a halt at angles, sirens shut off, but lights are left to strobe the street in a swirl of red and blue. Officers spill out, barking orders to the driver of the tractor as they converge on him like a pack of hounds in pursuit of its quarry; guns drawn.

  For one awful, hideous moment I think I’m going to witness my first police shooting, but they stand their ground; more weapons than I can count all aimed at the same spot.

  Real hounds are released; a snarling pack of K-9s, all rabid wide eyes and bared teeth that bite and snap at the stunned suspect.

  Then the action just stops. Dogs are whistled back and the tractor driver is handcuffed.

  Excitement over, people stop filming on their phones and go back to their evening.

  Alessandro lets out a stunned exhale. “Looks like half of Denver PD were chasing this bloke. Talk about overkill.”

  Just as well we didn’t go to the police this evening. They wouldn’t have been interested in a missing English girl. They were far too busy expending all their energies on slow-chasing this bloke through the downtown streets.

  The adrenaline pumping through my system plummets; the abrupt drop off leaving me feeling shaky and breathless. Blimey, welcome to Denver.

  Chapter Ten

  ABBEY

  JOURNAL ENTRY SEVEN

  I’m self-sufficient; know the difference between being alone and being lonely. All those hours at university studying in solitude, I was content by myself. When I craved it, the company of others wasn’t hard to find. Chatting with friends, breathing in the freshly mown greenness of the quad, hushed conversations about assignments in the library, or downing a pint in the student bar; there were plenty of social groups to flit between. And, of course, I shared a room with Cristina.