by Eleanor Ray
Amy opened a new window and went to the ceramics section of the Oxfam website. She bought an ashtray in the shape of an upturned tortoise. Feeling better, she opened her packet of sandwiches and took a bite.
She was interrupted by an instant message popping up. Liam. She chewed her sandwich and frowned. She’d suggested to Mr. Trapper that instant messaging be turned off. Her team seemed to use it to chat to one another while appearing to be working, occasionally betraying themselves with a guffaw of laughter.
Perhaps Liam was using the system appropriately, thought Amy generously. For a message more urgent than e-mail but less intrusive than the phone or another visit to her desk. She read the message. Nice to chat to you today.
Hardly important. She deleted it without replying.
Another appeared. If you won’t help me with my research, maybe you’d like to join me for a drink?
Flakes of Amy’s half-chewed sandwich launched themselves from her mouth onto her screen. She coughed and took a gulp of water.
“You okay?” asked Carthika.
“Fine,” stuttered Amy. She minimized the message and went back to the Oxfam site. Her fingers hovered over the image of a porcelain canary perched on a gnarled branch. She added it to her basket, then chose a pretty yellow cup and saucer set adorned with a pink lily.
Another message. How about it? The words were followed by an image of a fat little face indulging in what Amy guessed was meant to be a wink.
She wouldn’t normally reply to instant messages, but Amy decided this time she must. No thank you, she typed. For any further research questions please liaise directly with Carthika via e-mail.
Feeling a little better, she went back to Facebook. Of course, she didn’t really go in for social media. Meeting people in person was bad enough, without having to see pictures of people’s kids, dogs, and dinners. But she’d kept her profile open all these years. Just in case.
She had a surprising number of friend requests from people she used to know. Some of them she barely remembered, but other names brought back vivid memories. George Matthew. She’d doubled over in laughter when he’d got a sunflower seed stuck up his nose in primary school. Mary Cook. She’d solemnly told Amy that her dog had got pregnant by sniffing a baby. Georgina Pewter. She’d deliberately wet herself, age eleven, in PE when the teacher refused her a toilet break. Georgina had giggled while she did it and dropped her hockey stick in the puddle.
Amy ignored the requests. Another message popped up from Liam. This one was only a face, and it seemed to be crying. Amy felt a pang of pity; then she saw the face was also smiling. Crying with laughter, she realized. Whatever next. Amy deleted the message and did a search on Facebook. There he was.
Simon Oaks.
His profile picture showed him onstage clutching a bass guitar. Amy scanned his other photos and found a few shots of his band. She didn’t recognize any of the members from the old days—presumably more “artistic differences.” He and Tim used to have them all the time, though they’d stuck together.
Until they hadn’t.
Amy looked and saw that he had a little green circle next to his name. He was online now.
No time like the present, she told herself, and took the plunge.
* * *
AMY ENDURED A long hug. “I can’t believe it’s you,” he said, as if Simon were expecting someone to have hacked her Facebook account, arranged a meeting, and then impersonated her. “You look the same. As gorgeous as ever.”
Amy knew that wasn’t true, and she couldn’t bring herself to return the lie. Simon had the look of a shoe even Amy would decide was ready to be retired: well-worn and less than fresh. But his smile was the same, taking over his whole face until his eyes crinkled. She was surprised that he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
“It’s good of you to meet me at such short notice,” said Amy. She’d been a little taken aback when he’d turned out to be in town and proposed getting together that very evening. She’d fished around for an excuse, but found none. And here they were, hugging outside a pub on a quiet street near the station.
Amy extracted herself from the embrace with the excuse of buying him a drink. He settled down on a green leather sofa near the door, and Amy marched to the bar, trying to compose herself. She ordered a gin and tonic, ignoring the barman’s suggestion to make it a double. She bought a pint of “whatever’s on tap” for Simon that came, to her relief, in a rather sturdy and unattractive vessel. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about something more fragile in Simon’s always rather shaky hands.
She delivered the drinks and graciously clinked glasses with him. Simon took a long draft of beer and grinned at her again. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “Course it is.”
Amy nodded.
“The band is going strong,” Simon volunteered. “Did you meet Tony? Best drummer we’ve ever had.”
“No,” said Amy.
“Oh yes,” continued Simon, warming to his theme. “You should hear us now. Completely different sound. More cosmic. Hoping to get a gig soon at the Sheep and Goat. You should come.”
“Maybe,” said Amy, who couldn’t think of anything worse. They sat in silence for a moment.
“So I saw on Facebook that you’re single still,” said Simon. “Never settled down myself either. Had a few goes, but you know how it is. Never found the right woman.” He looked at her expectantly. Amy nodded noncommittally. “Phil married off, couple of rug rats. And Idris too. He had twins with Sandy, remember her?”
“Of course,” said Amy. She felt in her pocket for the ring. “I have to admit,” she began, “I have an ulterior motive for inviting you here.”
“I thought so,” said Simon, smiling at her. “We always did have a connection. Course we did.”
“What?” said Amy.
“Chemistry,” continued Simon. “Wouldn’t have been right back then, of course, but now…” He paused. “It’s really nice to see you. You look great.” Amy started to wish she’d not applied that blusher Joanna had given her. She took a sip of her gin and tonic, feeling the ice cube clink against her teeth.
“Let me stop you there,” she said. He frowned at her. “There’s something I need to show you.” She took the ring from her pocket and held it out to him.
“You should wear that on your finger,” he scolded, leaning back in his chair and taking a swig of beer. “It’s just rude, leaving it off. Gives a guy the wrong idea.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
He leaned forwards again, and enclosed her ring-free hand in his own. His hand was a surprise, warm and rough. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m happy for you. Course I am. I’m glad you’ve found someone. After what happened, we all thought you might—” He stopped himself.
“You misunderstand me,” said Amy. “This ring”—she popped it onto her finger—“I haven’t met anyone else. It’s from Tim.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “From Tim?” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Amy. She paused.
“You’ve seen him?” he asked. He narrowed his eyes at Amy, and she could tell he thought she’d lost it.
“Of course not,” said Amy. “He’s been gone for years.”
“That’s right,” affirmed Simon.
“I found it,” she continued. “In my garden. I don’t know how long it’s been there, it was buried under…” She paused again. “… a few bits and pieces. But he knew I liked this ring. He was the only one who knew. So he must have…” She stopped.
“I always thought he loved you,” said Simon. “Course I did. I was as shocked as anyone when it happened.”
“Did he ever mention to you…”
“Never,” said Simon. “Not the ring, not Chantel. Nothing. We were having some creative differences at the time though. You remember.”
“Yes,” replied Amy.
“So I was surprised when he told you he was meeting me that night,” said Simon. “He wasn’t, course he wasn’t. But it was nice, in a way
, being the cover story. I always thought it meant he still considered me a friend, even when he was planning to leave.”
“And he hasn’t been in contact, all these years?”
“Nope,” said Simon. “If he contacted anyone, I think it would be you.”
“Not if he left with Chantel,” said Amy, bitterness creeping into her voice.
“I don’t believe that,” said Simon. “Never did. Tim needed you. You were his rock. Chantel couldn’t be a rock, she was adrift at sea herself.” He smiled. “Sounds like that would be a decent line for a song, don’t you think? I might write that down.”
Amy watched as Simon grabbed a pen and started scribbling on a beer mat, ignoring a scowl from the barman. “You were all of our rocks,” added Simon when he was done. “Tim, Chantel. And me.” He hesitated, and Amy saw a cloud of hurt drift across his features. “I think it was you that I missed the most,” he said. “When they went missing.”
“I’ve been here,” said Amy.
“You were at first,” he said. “When you thought I might be able to help you find them. But when you found out I didn’t know anything, you stopped calling too.”
“I was upset,” said Amy, feeling the need to defend herself.
“Course you were,” said Simon. “I was too. You guys were my best mates. When those other two went, I thought maybe we’d get closer. But it was like you went missing too.”
Amy hesitated. She had never thought of herself and Simon as particularly close, but they had a lot of shared history, shared experiences. Even a shared flat for a long time. She supposed they had been friends too. And she’d left him—just like Tim and Chantel had left her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Water under the bridge,” said Simon, his voice falsely light. He held his beer up to Amy and they chinked glasses again, the sound of glass on glass making Amy flinch.
“Anyway,” babbled Simon, clearly wanting to lighten the maudlin tone, “I hadn’t seen him for a little while before he was off for good. He’d fallen in with some others, a bad crowd.”
“What others?” asked Amy, her ears pricking.
“House music fans. Up to no good. Wouldn’t know decent music if it hits them in the earhole. He even went to a few ‘gigs’ with them. Not that you can call that stuff a gig.”
“Right before… it happened? I don’t remember that.”
“It was probably while you were away in Florence.”
Amy nodded. “Do you have names?”
“No chance. Only met them once myself. Seemed nasty.” He stood up. “Another drink? We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“No thanks,” said Amy. “I need to get home.” She hesitated. “But another time,” she added. “I’ve missed you.” As soon as she said the words, Amy realized she meant them.
Simon smiled at her, his face brightening. “For sure,” he said. “Course you have.”
* * *
SHE HEARD IT before she saw him. Boing boing boing. Irregular, arrhythmic. Sure enough, Charles was bouncing his ball outside her house. “I’m being careful of your pots,” he preempted. “Look, the ball is under control. That’s fifty-six bounces now.” The ball rebelled and bounced away from his hand at an acute angle just as he said that. Charles gave chase. He bent down to coax it out from under a parked car. “You put me off,” he scolded her.
Amy nodded and walked past him to go into her house.
“It’s okay,” said Charles. “I don’t mind. I’ve finished now anyway.” Amy turned and realized he’d followed her up her garden path, his ball fitted neatly under his arm.
“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out?” she asked.
“I’m eight and a half now,” said Charles. Amy looked at him blankly. “That’s almost nine,” he explained, then added, “You’re late too. Where have you been?”
“Nowhere interesting,” said Amy. She wanted to open her door and go inside, but she’d much rather the boy and his ball were at a safe distance first.
“Was it a date?” asked Charles.
“That is certainly none of your business,” said Amy, surprised. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Would you like a pineapple juice?”
Amy found she was rather thirsty after that gin and tonic and would like a pineapple juice, but she wasn’t going to admit it now. Not when she needed to go inside and plan her next steps. “No thank you,” she said. “Won’t your parents be worried about you?”
“My dad knows where I am,” said Charles confidently. “And Mum is dead.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that Amy didn’t know what to say.
“Is Nina home?” she asked finally.
“She’s at Rachel’s house,” said Charles. “They are besties now.” He grimaced.
“Maybe I will have that juice,” she said, remembering Richard’s invitation to pop in. “Just quickly.”
Charles let out a whoop of joy. “You’re the first friend I’ve had to visit here,” he told her, taking her hand in his own clammy one and leading her to his front door, where he released her hand again to struggle with the key for a moment. “Do you like diggers?”
“Not particularly,” replied Amy. She followed him. He turned around to shush her as they walked past the living room. She glanced inside. Richard sitting on the sofa with Daniel curled up on top of him, with a little stream of dribble running from his mouth onto his father’s T-shirt. Richard waved and put his finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. Amy crept past. They both looked so comfortable, so relaxed. So happy.
“Excavators?” asked Charles, when they reached the kitchen.
“What?”
“Do you like excavators? I’ve got a really good one. Fully to scale, just like the one they use on real-life building sites. Dad gave it to me for my eighth birthday, because I’ve been so good.”
“Not really,” replied Amy. Charles took the juice from the fridge. He filled a glass to the very brim with the bright-yellow liquid, and some swilled out onto the floor as he walked over to where she’d perched awkwardly at the small breakfast bar. He lifted her glass to his mouth and siphoned some up before passing it to her.
“Cranes?”
Amy thought a moment. “I suppose they are all right,” she said. “For lifting stuff up high.”
“Great choice,” said Charles enthusiastically. “Cranes are awesome. They are my third-favorite heavy vehicle, after diggers and excavators. Do you want to see my collection?”
“Maybe later,” said Amy, sipping her juice. It was wonderfully cold and made her think that she should get her fridge seen to. Nothing ever got this cold at home. Then she thought about having a repairman in her house, and changed her mind.
“I like your ring,” said Charles all of a sudden. “Are you married?”
“No,” replied Amy. She paused, trying to think of something else to say.
“Good,” said Charles. He paused too. “My dad isn’t married to Nina.”
Amy nodded, and took another sip of her juice.
“The ring is a bit of a mystery,” she confided. It felt weird to talk about it to this little boy, but once the words were out it was a relief. “I found it in my garden. After the cat knocked over the pots.”
“Finders keepers,” said Charles approvingly.
“I think it was meant for me,” said Amy. “From my boyfriend.”
“You have a boyfriend?” Charles picked at a scab on his knee.
“No,” said Amy. “He left, a long time ago.” She paused. “Disappeared.”
“My mum’s gone,” said Charles. “That’s pineapple juice and losing people that we have in common. And cranes.” He paused. “So where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” replied Amy.
“Did you call the police?” asked Charles, looking excited.
“Of course I called the police,” said Amy. “As soon as he went missing.”
“Police cars are my seventh-favorite vehicle,” Charles told her.
“After diggers, excavators, cranes, fire engines—”
“They searched for months,” interrupted Amy. “Nothing.”
Charles paused. “What do they think happened?”
Amy took a sip of juice. She didn’t like talking about their explanation. “Someone else left at the same time as he did,” she said slowly.
“The murderer!” said Charles. “It’s obvious.”
“No,” said Amy. “It was my best friend. The police thought that they’d run away together, and I thought that too, eventually. But now I’ve found the ring, and it makes me think that maybe they didn’t run away together after all.…”
“Oh,” said Charles. He frowned.
“What’s going on in here?” Richard stood in the kitchen doorway. His hair was even messier than usual, mirroring the shape of the couch cushions. Daniel stood next to him, thumb in mouth.
“It’s private,” said Charles. “Go away.”
“No, I’ll go,” said Amy. She hesitated. “Thank you,” she said to Charles.
“You should go back to the police,” said Charles. “Tell them you’ve got a new clue.”
“Police?” asked Richard. “Amy, are you okay?”
“Nee-nor nee-nor,” contributed Daniel.
“It’s nothing,” said Amy. “I need to get going.” She turned to Charles. “Thank you,” she said again. “The pineapple juice was lovely.”
July 2002
“Great to have you on board, Amy. It’s nice to have a younger face around. Freshens the place up.” Mr. Trapper smiled at Amy, and she felt her glorious summer slipping away.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s only for a month,” she added, more for her benefit than his.
“Of course. Fine arts student, your gran said. Maybe you can brighten up the office. In between photocopying, I mean.” They both looked at the drab gray office, the only color a framed photo of Mr. Trapper’s baby daughter, her head encased in a candy-floss-pink hat as she stared accusingly into the camera.