The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton

by Eleanor Ray

  “Like a princess,” said Daniel.

  “I found some old clothes,” said Amy, feeling uncomfortable.

  “Blue suits you,” said Richard.

  “Got it!” The excavator spun round in victory, clutching the lipstick.

  “Nice skills,” said Richard, dragging his eyes away from Amy and back to his son.

  “Watch this.” The machine dropped the lipstick and went up to the chest of drawers. Charles pursed up his whole face in concentration, as the excavator arm reached up, grabbed the drawer handle, and pulled. The drawer opened, and they all clapped. “Shush,” he said. “I need to focus.” The machine let go of the drawer and pulled out a handful of silky underwear. “Ta-dah!” he said.

  They clapped again, and the machine spun around in victory, spreading underwear over the floor.

  “What’s going on?” The laughter stopped and they all turned to look at Nina, standing in the doorway. “What’s that on the floor?”

  “Sorry about that,” said Richard, gathering up the panties. “Charles was just showing us how good he’s gotten at using the excavator.”

  “Are those my underwear?” asked Nina. “And is that my perfume on the floor?” She looked around the room, and her eyes fixed on Amy. “Oh, hello again,” she said. “You’re all dressed up.” Her eyes went back to Richard.

  “I found some old clothes…” began Amy.

  “Indeed,” said Nina. “Richard, you didn’t tell me we had company?”

  “I’m actually here to see Charles,” said Amy.

  “Of course,” said Nina. “Charles, you have a perfectly good room to play in without coming in here.” She turned to Richard. “Tell him, darling.”

  “He didn’t mean any harm,” said Richard, shoving the underwear back in the drawer. Nina went over and took them out again.

  “Silk needs to be folded,” she said.

  Amy saw the look in Nina’s eye. “We’re all sorry, Nina,” she said. “Would you like some help folding?”

  “Good-bye, Amy,” said Nina.

  “But Amy hasn’t had any pineapple juice yet,” objected Charles.

  “I’m sure Amy is very busy,” said Nina. “Aren’t you, Amy?”

  Amy slipped through the door and hurried down the stairs.

  * * *

  THE NEXT EVENING Amy saw a woman at her door as she walked home from the station. She felt a moment’s annoyance and stood back to wait for the person to put whatever flyer she had through her door and leave. It was a large matriarchal woman wearing loose floral trousers. Amy felt herself coveting them, even though they’d be several sizes too big for her. After coming home the previous evening, she’d created a pathway to her old wardrobe and was enjoying wearing the odd bit of color again. It made every day feel a little more hopeful. To Amy’s surprise, the woman bent forwards and peered through Amy’s letter box.

  “Can I help you?” said Amy, in a tone that told the woman she wanted her to leave.

  The woman straightened. “Are you Amy Ashton?” she asked, with a jovial smile that revealed teeth of a shade suggesting she enjoyed tea and coffee. Or red wine.

  Amy frowned at her. “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Leah Silverton,” said the woman. “From the council.”

  Amy looked at her blankly. Leah waved an identity badge from a lanyard round her neck at Amy. Amy peered at it. A much younger Leah smiled back at her.

  “I’m glad I’ve finally caught you,” Leah continued. “Can I come in?”

  “No,” said Amy.

  “That’s quite a collection of stuff you have in your front garden,” continued Leah, unperturbed. Amy looked at her, suspicious of the compliment. “What’s it like inside?”

  “What do you want?” asked Amy.

  “I think it would be better for us to discuss indoors,” said Leah. “In private.”

  Amy looked around. “Outside is fine,” she said. “Why are you here?”

  Leah gestured upwards, and for a moment Amy thought she was going to ask if Amy had found Jesus. “That chimney of yours,” she explained.

  “Who called you?” asked Amy, rolling her eyes. “Was it Rachel? She needs to mind her own business.”

  Leah ignored her question. “If we can’t talk inside, let’s have a seat on your wall,” she said, sounding resigned. “I’ve been standing up for a long time and my back aches.” The two women walked back up Amy’s path and perched uncomfortably on her wall. Amy felt a flash of guilt as she heard Leah exhale loudly as she did so.

  “I’m sorry not to be more hospitable,” said Amy, relenting. “But I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Leah raised an eyebrow. “I understand you refused a visit from my colleague Bob Hendricks, back on the ninth of July. That will need to be rearranged.”

  “I don’t want anyone in my house,” said Amy.

  “There’s another matter,” continued Leah. “We’ve been sending you letters for months, but you haven’t responded.” She opened her bag and got out a brown envelope full of papers, which she shuffled through like a deck of cards. “Starting in October last year. Seven in total. I can give you the dates?”

  “I haven’t had any letters,” said Amy.

  “Could they have got lost?” asked Leah. “That does happen. Especially in these types of cases.”

  Amy thought about her hallway and didn’t reply. “What do they say?” she asked.

  “We’ve had a complaint,” said Leah. Amy turned to look at Rachel’s house, and saw the curtains flicker. “An anonymous complaint,” added Leah. “Someone was concerned for your safety, and we wanted to check your living conditions.”

  “I’m fine,” said Amy. “My house is fine.”

  “About that,” continued Leah. “You do own the leasehold, but the council holds the freehold. We have a duty of care—”

  “Thank you,” said Amy, trying to quell the anxiety that rose in her throat like heartburn. “But it’s my house and there is no issue.”

  “I’m not here to judge,” said Leah, in the most judgmental tone Amy had ever heard.

  “Everything is fine,” replied Amy.

  “And I understand there was an incident involving your back garden and the children next door? On the…” She referred to her notes. “Fourth of July, two weeks ago?”

  Amy bit her lip. Maybe Nina had reported her. The letters dated back months, so Rachel must have started it off. She suddenly felt the brunt of her neighbors on both sides being against her. Fighting on two fronts. For a moment, she felt she wanted to move house, to get out of here. But she couldn’t leave. Not now. What if he came back?

  “It was nothing,” said Amy, trying to sound breezy, a hard feat when she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. “A cat. The kids shouldn’t have been in the garden, but no one was hurt. We’ve fixed the fence now. The children can’t get in.” She realized she was talking too fast.

  “Can I see the back garden?”

  “No.”

  Leah made a little sighing sound and shifted her weight on the wall. “We’re not getting very far, are we?” She made a note, but angled her paper so Amy couldn’t read it. “I’m going to have to come back, I’m afraid,” she said finally. “With some support. We need to get inside your house, for your own safety. You’ll get a letter in the post with a date and time. Look out for it.” Leah put her notebook away. “In the meantime, I’d suggest you have a clear-out, especially in areas that could be a danger to others. That ‘garden’ needs to be cleared, and we need access to your chimney, at a minimum.” She put a hand on Amy’s arm. Amy flinched. Leah spoke more softly. “We don’t want this to be traumatic,” she said. “But we need to think of everyone’s safety, including yours. If you can make it better, even just a little better, we might be able to avoid any unpleasantness. Do you think you can do that?”

  Amy nodded.

  “Good.” Leah got up and smiled, as if they were old friends catching up over a cup of tea. “I’ll be in touch. Look out for the
letter. We don’t want it getting lost again.”

  Amy watched her walk away, and made sure Leah was right at the end of the road before she turned and walked back up her front path. She put the key in the lock and disappeared inside her house.

  February 2004

  Amy couldn’t work out what the sound was. She opened her eyes. It was dark, except for a beam of light from her phone. That’s what it was. Her phone was ringing. She rolled over and grabbed for it on the nightstand, instead finding Tim’s china ashtray, shaped like a guitar. At least he’d bought one now, instead of using her mugs. She sat up and grabbed her phone, blinking the fuzziness of sleep from her head. Tim emitted a soft grunt and snuggled his head deeper into his pillow.

  “Amy? Thank God you’re there. I need your help.” Chantel spoke quickly, as if she were on fast-forward.

  “What is it?” Amy sat up in bed. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a call like this in the middle of the night. “Tim doesn’t have any weed,” she said. “He’s given up.”

  “Shush,” said Chantel. She paused. “I’ve been arrested,” she hissed.

  “Arrested?” echoed Amy.

  “It’s all a big mix-up,” she said. “I was carrying some gear for Spike, and then when the police turned up he chucked another bag at me, and you know I used to captain the netball team, I caught it like an idiot. He ran and I was left looking like some kind of dealer. But I’m not. You know I’m not.”

  “Where are you now?” said Amy, feeling around the floor for her clothes.

  “Holborn police station,” said Chantel.

  “On my way,” said Amy.

  Tim rolled over and opened his eyes. “Chantel?” he questioned.

  “I need to go to the police station,” said Amy.

  Tim looked at his phone. “It’s one a.m.,” he said.

  “She needs my help.”

  Tim got up and flicked on the overhead light. Amy fumbled to get her jeans on. She could see Tim in the mirror, scratching at his pale chest and blinking in the light. “You’re not going to the police station in the middle of the night,” he said, talking to her reflection. Amy opened her mouth, ready to argue. “At least not alone,” said Tim. “Give me a minute to find my trousers and I’ll come with you.”

  “It’s okay,” said Amy. “She’s my friend. Go back to sleep.”

  “No way,” said Tim, pulling on a crumpled T-shirt. “I can always call in sick tomorrow.”

  “Again?”

  “Emergency,” he replied. He leaned forwards and kissed her, his breath tasting of the nighttime.

  “Thanks,” said Amy.

  * * *

  AMY BLINKED UNDER the harsh glare of the lights in the police station. She was grateful for Tim’s arm around her shoulders as they stood together, watching a drunk man in a disheveled suit complaining to the female officer on reception.

  “Sit down, sir,” said the officer. “If I have to tell you once more…”

  “I’ve been robbed,” slurred the man again. “My wallet. My phone. My bloody house keys. It’s all gone and you lot are doing nothing.”

  “I’ve given you a form,” she said. “Kindly take a seat.”

  The drunk man turned to Tim. “We pay her wages with our tax money and she’s telling us what to do?”

  “Maybe just fill in the form,” suggested Tim, pulling Amy farther away from the man.

  “Formedy form form form,” said the man, looking disappointed that Tim didn’t share his outrage.

  “Trouble, WPC Kelly?” A large, muscular man strode into the reception. He was in plain clothes, but his bearing showed that he was a policeman. “Perhaps this gentleman needs to spend some time in the cells for being drunk and disorderly?”

  “I’m fine, officer,” said the man, all talk of his taxes disappearing. “Just filling in my form.” He sat down.

  “Thanks, Jack,” said WPC Kelly with a smile. She turned to Amy. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice tired.

  “My friend’s been arrested,” began Amy. “But it’s all a misunderstanding—”

  “Your friend’s name?”

  “Chantel Smith,” said Amy. “She shouldn’t be in here. It’s her boyfriend’s fault—”

  “Fill in this form,” said Kelly, handing her some paperwork. Amy felt a moment’s affinity with the drunk man.

  “Will she get out once I fill this in?”

  “Fill in the form and I’ll see what the situation is,” replied WPC Kelly.

  Amy sat down on the institutional plastic chair, leaving as much space as she could between her and the drunk man, who was now muttering under his breath about the contents of his lost wallet. Tim was standing up, looking uncomfortable. The officer who had threatened the drunk man leaned on the reception desk chatting quietly to WPC Kelly. Every once in a while a short burst of laughter between the two of them punctuated the silence.

  Amy finally completed the form and stood up to hand it back. The female officer was still smiling at something when she took the form.

  Tim grabbed Amy’s arm and she looked around to see Spike hurry past, his head down.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Home,” said Spike, reluctantly pausing. “I’ve been released.”

  “You’ve been released?” repeated Amy.

  “Yes.”

  “But Chantel is still here,” said Amy, looking to the policewoman for verification. She nodded. Spike carried on walking.

  “Stop!” commanded Amy. Everyone looked up. Even the drunk man stopped muttering. “This is all your fault,” she said. “Have you told them that?”

  “Keep your voice down,” said Spike. “It’s not my fault.” He smiled at the muscular policeman and gave him a little shrug of the shoulders as if he didn’t know what Amy was talking about.

  “Chantel is in trouble,” said Amy.

  “She’ll be fine,” replied Spike. “She’ll probably just get a caution.”

  “I can’t believe you’re letting her take the heat for this,” said Amy, feeling anger mount inside her and spill out like lava from a volcano. “Actually, I can.” She looked around. “He is a drug dealer,” she declared, addressing the policeman. “He should be in prison.”

  “Shush,” said Spike, trying to laugh it off. He hissed at Amy, “Cut it out. She was the one holding the drugs.”

  “Because you chucked them at her.”

  “Shut up, Amy,” said Spike, squaring up to her.

  Tim came to put his hand on Amy’s shoulder. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he said.

  “You can shut up too,” said Spike. “It’s not like you’re squeaky clean.” He turned back to Amy. “You don’t know what happened. Are we going to have a problem?”

  “Is he giving you trouble, ma’am?” The policeman had come to stand between them.

  “Yes,” said Amy. “He’s the drug dealer and he’s got my friend to take the rap for him.”

  “Interesting,” said the policeman.

  “She’ll go along with it and he’ll get away scot-free. It’s not fair.”

  “Amy doesn’t know what happened,” said Spike, turning to the policeman. “This is libel.”

  “Amy!” Chantel rushed into the middle of them all and flung her arms around Amy. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “This is the friend you were talking about?” asked the policeman, looking Chantel up and down.

  “Yes,” said Amy.

  “Get out,” he said to Spike, giving him an encouraging steer towards the door. Spike didn’t need to be asked twice. The policeman looked at Amy and Chantel. “Wait here a moment,” he said, and went for a word with WPC Kelly.

  “I hope you told the police what happened,” said Amy.

  “I’ve just got a caution,” said Chantel. “It wasn’t worth making a fuss.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” added Tim.

  “Right,” said the officer, returning. “A quick word with you, ma’am”—he looked at Chantel�
��“and then you can all go.”

  “Thank you,” said Amy. She took Tim’s hand and watched as the policeman spoke with Chantel, handing her a small piece of paper. “I can’t wait to get to bed,” said Amy.

  “I need a little something to calm me down,” whispered Tim. “It’s been quite a night.”

  * * *

  TIM WENT STRAIGHT to the Beatles tin in the living room when they got back to the flat, removed a tiny clear plastic bag, and gave it a little shake. “Just enough left,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” said Amy. “You’ve given up.”

  “Special situation,” said Tim. “Tonight was pretty stressful.” He fetched the guitar-shaped ashtray from the bedroom before settling down to roll up.

  “Brilliant idea,” said Chantel, watching him.

  “Terrible idea,” said Amy. “Chantel, drugs got you into this mess.”

  “Spike got me into this mess,” countered Chantel. “Can you believe him?”

  “Yes,” said Tim. “He’s an arsehole.” He lit up and inhaled deeply.

  “He’s got some making up to do,” agreed Chantel, reaching for Tim’s joint.

  “You can’t be thinking about taking him back?” said Amy. “Chantel, you need some self-respect.”

  Chantel took a deep drag and watched herself blow smoke rings in the mirror. “We’re not all Little Miss Perfect with fine arts degrees and bright futures,” she said. “Some of us are massive screw-ups.” She passed the joint to Tim. “Aren’t we?”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Tim. He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Amy grabbed the joint from his hand and stubbed it out in the ashtray before it singed the cushion. Chantel calmly picked it up and lit it again.

  “No lectures,” said Chantel, throwing herself down on the sofa too. “I can’t face it.”

  “You need to break up with Spike,” said Amy. “You’ll have a criminal record now.”

  “They just gave me a caution,” said Chantel. “It’s no big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” said Amy. “And can you please put out that joint? It’s making me feel sick.” She reached out to take it, but Chantel held it out of her reach.