The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  “A red anorak.” The color had glowed against the trees when she was playing in the garden earlier; red for danger, no one thought of that.

  “Where are her favorite places?”

  “The wood down the garden.” Is that still true? She’d looked unhappy out there today, it was obvious, even at a distance. “Or in the kitchen near me.”

  “So where were you when she went missing?”

  Brenda’s young, that’s the trouble, far too young. Her face is unlined, untried. What experience would she have in looking for missing children? Does she have any of her own?

  “Mrs. Kershaw?”

  “Sorry, what—”

  “Where were you when she vanished?”

  “In bed.”

  Brenda is scribbling something in her notebook; she might be writing that Eve is lazy and careless, criminally careless twice over. Eve looks away from that fast-moving pen; snow has arrived as forecast, white flakes whirling in the brilliant searchlights of the helicopter. Sorrel has waited all year to play in the snow.

  “I have to go; it’s cold out there, she might be—”

  “There are fifty men and women searching the grounds. Once they’ve finished they will start over again, in case she’s returned in the meantime. If she’s here, we will find her.” Brenda puts her hand on Eve’s; her nails are painted a translucent pink, as if painting your nails was something that mattered. “We need your help to build a timeline so we can work out what might have happened to her.”

  So Sorrel has shifted from being lost to something worse, a victim that something has happened to: an accident in the woods or on the railway line; Eve’s thoughts plunge deeper, getting darker. An assault, an abduction, a murder, that kind of “happened to”? Why doesn’t Brenda talk about that? Doesn’t she know all the possibilities are already playing in her mind, twisting and tangling in a knot that’s getting bigger all the time?

  “Was Sorrel a happy little girl before your son’s tragic accident? I suppose we are wondering if there was any reason at all for her to run away.”

  “Happy.” It takes Eve a second to process the word. “Yes. Of course she was.”

  “Is she being bullied at school?”

  “Everyone loves her, her family, her friends, the teachers. Everyone.”

  Brenda looks up. “Children can sometimes run away if their parents quarrel; were you two okay?”

  “Fine.” They never argue in front of the children; they hardly speak.

  “A happy marriage then?”

  “Yes.” It was happy, for years, happy enough.

  “And what about you?” The voice becomes warmer, more sympathetic. “Looking after kids can be stressful—”

  “No; it’s losing them that’s stressful, more stressful than you could possibly imagine—” Eve stands up. “Sorry, I have to go.”

  They don’t try to stop her; perhaps Brenda realizes she’s asked enough questions, at least for now. Outside flashlights are bobbing in the wood; it looks like a party, a Halloween party where kids muck around with lights in woods and scare themselves for fun. The helicopter has moved away; she can hear it hovering over other gardens toward the village. She finds Eric searching under the trees, one by one. His face is muddy, he looks spent. The tall trunks surround them like a hostile army, he had been right all along. She had joked about jungles but he’d known better. He warned her about danger and she’d taken no notice. She kicks aside heaps of leaves, hauls away fallen branches, blinded by tears and gasping for breath. She’s made so many mistakes. Is Sorrel’s abduction, if that’s what it is, the price her child’s paid for the sake of freedom? How irrelevant that seems, how stupid she’s been. Eric was right to put safety first; it seems so obvious now but it’s too late. He can do what he wants, raze the trees to the ground if he thinks it would help, though there’s little point. It won’t make any difference. The wood, thronged with men and dogs, feels as empty as any desert.

  Grace

  Two policewomen walk through the rooms, searching the entire house again. They check cupboards, under beds, and behind chests of drawers. The younger Indian woman looks delicate beside her middle-aged colleague, a stout redhead whose rolling accent sounds as though she’s in a play, pretending to be Scottish. Thankfully they both move quietly and carefully, in order not to scare a hidden child.

  Grace leaves the policewomen and branches off on her own, climbing narrow stairs to the next floor. She has never been so deep in this house, so high. The rooms here are smaller, uncarpeted, and cold. Martin raved about this house, its size and warmth; he clearly got as far as Eve’s room but no farther. She hurries down the corridor, her feet thudding on the floor, treading down fury.

  “Sorrel? Are you here, sweetheart?”

  There are curled flies on the floors of the rooms that open off the passageway, cobwebs at the windows; the lights are dim. The dusty air stings her throat. None of the children would come up here. Charley would hate the dead flies. Blake would be frightened by the gloom. She could have that wrong, though. These things might not matter in a group; they might seek out the half-light, the undisturbed air; her children might be different in a gang. There are cigarette butts in a corner of the last room along the corridor, the floor darkened by scorch marks, a lighter on the mantelpiece. A heap of little stones under the bed, flinty ones. She picks one up, muddy, red-stained on one side, and stares around, seeking an explanation. Perhaps these items belong to past inhabitants or guests long gone. It’s unpleasant up here, gloomy, the air feels stale, no one has been here for a long time. She leaves the rooms and hurries downstairs, meeting Melly in the hall. She looks tired and anxious.

  “The police have been questioning us all in turn: Eve, Eric, me, Paul, Igor; everyone who was around last night. They’re having a break now; it’ll be you and Martin next. Paul’s had enough; he wants Izzy to come back with us but she’s refused.” Melly’s voice is trembling. “She says Poppy needs her to stay the night. Paul’s waiting outside, he’s put my bag in the car. I’m not sure what to do.” Her eyes are lowered, as if reluctant to look Grace in the eye.

  “Go home with your husband, Melly.” Melly clearly feels guilty for keeping quiet about Martin and Eve, but Grace has had time to think and now she understands. Melly meant well; if Paul had been unfaithful, she might not have told Melly either, out of compassion, and the hope the affair would burn itself out. “Tell Paul I’ll keep an eye on Izzy. My kids can stay too, it’s late. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be back,” Melly promises. “First thing tomorrow.”

  Grace nods. When disaster struck in her grandparents’ village, family moved in, kept the children fed and the homestead alive; as long as it took. Eve doesn’t have family; it’s down to her now, her and Melly.

  Paul is waiting in the car, staring ahead, grim-faced. He turns as the door opens, gives an unsmiling salute to Grace as Melly climbs in beside him then drives off quickly, gravel spraying from the wheels.

  The wood burner has gone out in the main room. At the far end, Poppy, Izzy, and Blake sprawl over one another on the sofa like animals in a litter. Their faces are grimy from searching in the wood. Blake looks hollow-eyed. Charley is lying on the floor with the dog. Grace sees with a shock there is a dark mark on her forehead, the skin has been broken.

  “Charley, you’re hurt. Let me see—”

  “It’s nothing; I fell when we were outside.” Charley turns her face away. “Don’t fuss, Mum.”

  “Is anyone here hungry?” Grace forces herself to sound cheerful; she’ll check Charley later, when her friends aren’t there. She might get the full story then. “We didn’t eat supper; you might want something now?”

  They stare at her blankly.

  “I’ll heat something up.”

  Charley and Blake nod, but Poppy looks at her as if she scarcely knows her. Izzy doesn’t reply. The forgotten food has congealed on the plates in the kitchen; it looks greasy and unappetizing. They need comfo
rt food, something warming, easy to digest. There are three cans of tomato soup in the back of the cupboard, hidden away as if Eve was ashamed of keeping canned food. Grace opens them all, tipping the thick orange liquid into a pot and setting it on the stove to heat. She makes toast, glancing back at the silent group of children. Shouldn’t they be asking questions? Demanding to know what the police are doing, how long it will take to find Sorrel? Aren’t they frightened, as she is?

  The door opens; Martin kicks off his boots and comes in, blowing on his fingers. “I’ve been in the barns and outhouses with the police.” His teeth are chattering. “We’ve searched the garages and the shed, nothing.”

  She fills mugs with soup for the children, leaving them on the coffee table in front of them with a plate of buttered toast. As Blake stretches for a mug, his sleeve slips back, revealing a wound on his wrist, a round red mark, wet-looking and surprisingly deep.

  “What’s that?” She takes his arm.

  He snatches it back and shakes his sleeve down.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Science.”

  “Can I see?”

  “S’okay.” He holds his wrist to his chest; the other children stare at her.

  “It needs cleaning.”

  He shakes his head.

  She rejoins Martin. “Blake’s got what looks like a nasty burn on his wrist. He says it’s from science; it might need treatment. Charley’s got a mark on her forehead too. We ought to speak to our kids on their own, away from the group, and find out exactly what’s been happening.”

  “I’ll take a look.” He moves a little closer to her. “I’m sorry, Gracie. I made a mistake.”

  She steps back, rage beginning to rise again. A mistake? Like a mistake in math that you erase so it looks as good as new; except that it doesn’t. If you look closely the surface of the paper is roughened; closer still, the tiny fibers have been torn apart.

  “It started in the summer,” he continues. “Just a few times. My work was going badly; you couldn’t bear to let me touch you.”

  “So it’s my fault?”

  “Of course not. Eve was lonely, I let myself be flattered.”

  “Ah, I see. It’s Eve fault.”

  “Eve and I are done, Gracie.”

  “You really think it’s that easy?”

  “I don’t know what to say. It should never have happened; I know that. I’m sorry.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Grace says under her breath, glancing at the sofa. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  The door bangs open again. Eve comes in followed by Eric. Snow rims their hair and eyelashes and they are covered in mud as though they recently emerged from the ground. They walk through the kitchen without a word.

  “Izzy isn’t here.” Poppy sounds alarmed. “She was next to me a minute ago.”

  “Where’s Noah?” Charley looks around.

  Martin puts his soup down. “Let’s not panic now, I expect she’s taken him for walk. Any minute—”

  “It’s snowing, Dad,” Charley interrupts. She sounds patient, as though explaining something to a child. “Noah’s too young to be out in the snow for long.”

  At that moment Izzy walks through the door from the garden, Noah following.

  “The dog needed to go out.” She kicks off her shoes. “He’s been stuck inside all day.”

  They’d all forgotten about Noah until now. Izzy walks barefoot across the room and folds herself gracefully on the sofa; she puts an arm around Poppy, who has started to cry.

  Grace shivers; Izzy has left the door open, and the cold smashes into the room like a fist.

  Melissa

  “Slow down, Paul.” Melissa winces as the car lurches around a corner. They skid to a halt by a traffic light. There is a dull thump from the trunk. “We’ll have an accident.” She holds the dashboard as though braced for serious pain. “The road is icy.”

  The car smells of alcohol; Paul has been drinking again. He knows he shouldn’t be driving, though she daren’t point it out. If she’d realized how intoxicated he was, she would never have gotten in the car. He moves forward before the light changes, wrenching the wheel to the left.

  “I’m sick of being part of that crazy setup.” He takes another left. “We should get Izzy out of there as soon as we can. They’ve lost two kids; can’t you see that something weird is happening in that house?”

  Izzy had insisted on staying; she refused to abandon her best friend. It can’t possibly be true that she’s in danger, that there’s some peril lurking at Eve’s, picking off children one by one. Ash drowned in a terrible accident, Sorrel is missing; separate tragedies. Melissa doesn’t reply; in this mood, he’ll argue with whatever she says.

  “I’ve had enough of the police and their bloody questions.”

  She glances at him, the flushed face and dilated pupils. He must have been at the wine all afternoon; a glass at his elbow while working, frequently replenished. He’d had more when he arrived at Eve’s. The alcohol has tipped him into paranoia; she’s seen it before.

  “The police were simply doing their job.” She tries to speak soothingly though her voice trembles; when he’s drunk like this he takes it out on her later. “I was questioned, everyone was. It wasn’t just you.”

  The Mercedes shudders to a halt by a pedestrian crossing, allowing two old men to walk across the road, but Paul steps on the accelerator when they are only halfway, and their terrified faces flash white in the headlights.

  “If you hit someone on a crossing, it’s manslaughter.”

  He doesn’t answer, he’ll probably punish her for that remark too. He turns into their road and speeds toward the house, his fingers clenched on the wheel. Melissa grips the edge of her seat, sweating in fear. The electronic gates swing open just in time and the car screeches in. The security lights flash on, lighting up her car on the forecourt, but it’s too late. The crash of metal against metal is deafening. Her body slams up against the seat belt.

  “What a bloody stupid place to leave your car,” he yells. “You can fucking well pay for it.”

  She gets out trembling. Thank God Izzy hadn’t been with them. The side of her car is badly dented and the windows are smashed, though his seems unscathed.

  She reaches in the back for her bag as he slams his door and comes around the car toward her. She backs out quickly but he doesn’t give her long enough. He doesn’t see that the strap of her bag has become tangled with the seat belt. When he kicks the door shut, it catches the side of her face and her shoulder, knocking her to the ground. She lies quite still. Bright skewers of pain penetrate the darkness. Her tongue probes salty tatters of flesh in her mouth, though her teeth feel unbroken. She turns her head to watch Paul lurch into the house. She rolls on her side trying not to cry. Crying doesn’t make any difference, it simply makes you more tired. She gets up slowly. The world spins and she steadies herself by holding on to the car. After a while she follows Paul into the house and shuts the door behind her.

  “What does she think she’s doing?” Poppy asks nobody in particular. It’s as though Sorrel has done this on purpose to pay her back; she’s pushed her away enough times. She bites her nails, spitting out the stuff underneath. Everyone’s in bed but no one is sleeping.

  “We could track her down,” Blake says, “in the woods.”

  Charley sits up. “Let’s try now.”

  “How would that work?” Izzy asks. “Your mum’s downstairs, she’d never allow us out.”

  Izzy gets out of bed and onto Poppy’s mattress; she takes Poppy’s hand. “We need to stay close to each other now, like sisters.”

  Sorrel’s hands are small, her fingers are soft, the nails are bitten. She smells of sweets. Izzy isn’t anything like a sister. Poppy pulls her hand away.

  “We’re stronger if we stay together,” Izzy says.

  “Like Russell Crowe in Gladiator,” Blake mutters. “You know, before they fight.”

  Charley laughs, a hopeful sound that
fades quickly in the dark.

  “Do your parents fight?” Blake asks Poppy.

  She shakes her head. “They don’t talk very much, well, hardly ever.”

  “That’s fighting,” Izzy says.

  “Ours do, a bit,” Blake says.

  “Well, my father hurts my mother, he strangles her,” Izzy says. She sounds different, angry. They all sit up and stare at her. “In sex,” she adds.

  “How do you know?” Blake asks.

  “I’ve seen it,” Izzy replies.

  “That’s so fucked up,” Charley says.

  “Not as fucked up as yours.” Izzy laughs. “Your dad is screwing Eve.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Blake says furiously.

  Poppy has never heard Blake talk like that to Izzy; normally he’s sort of gentle. Now it sounds like he wants to hit her; she feels the same. Mum and Martin. She wants to be sick.

  “How would you know?” Charley asks.

  “I sneaked into the room while they were doing it,” Izzy replies.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Charley sounds outraged and as if she wants to cry at the same time.

  “Bet you knew,” Izzy murmurs.

  “Poor Dad.” Poppy wants to cry too. “Do you think he knows?”

  Izzy tries to take her hand again but Poppy snatches it back and gets up and walks over to Charley’s bed. Charley moves to make room for her and she slides in beside her. Izzy stays where she is, on her own on the mattress; she doesn’t say anything. The last thing that Poppy remembers of that evening is how warm it is lying next to Charley and the sight of Izzy sitting upright as still as a little statue carved in stone. For the first time ever, Izzy looks lonely.

  Part Four

  Damage

  I’ve thought of all the times when we could have forestalled damage to the children, but the truth is we were damaged ourselves. Even if we had worked that out, it wouldn’t have been much use. Those early wounds run deep.

  Eve had been ignored as a child, controlled but neglected; longing for freedom and longing for affection, she was ridiculously generous with both, and I don’t just mean Martin. She trusted everyone. How would she have recognized cruelty when she was determined to love everyone she met?