The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  “The people there need you to talk to them. I’ve already told them a little about your story but now they need to hear from you, to make sure you’re okay with this plan.” Melissa hands over the phone. “A woman there speaks Arabic, you can tell her what you want to. You’ll be very private; I won’t understand a word.”

  Lina speaks hesitantly at first but gradually the tone changes, becoming more animated. She speaks more confidently though there are tears in her voice. She listens then talks some more; after a while, she sounds calmer. The conversation lasts twenty minutes, and then she says goodbye.

  “Okay.” She hands the phone back; she sounds very tired. “Okay.”

  They are free of London now and speeding past fields fringed by shadowy woods and dusted with snow. Lina’s eyes have closed and her head rests against the window. The roads are busy but Melissa drives as fast and smoothly as she can. The tall spire of the cathedral takes her by surprise when it appears between the hills. The GPS guides her to the suburbs, an unremarkable street of terraced houses, damp sidewalks, box hedges, and trash bins. She pulls up outside the gate.

  Lina struggles awake and looks around, taking in the houses and the road. Is she working out where her escape routes may lie?

  “We have arrived, Lina. This is your shelter,” Melissa tells her softly. “You’ll be safe here.” They get out of the car. She won’t mention plans or promise visas; it’s enough that they have arrived, that a different life is about to start for Lina. She digs in her handbag, tears out a page from her diary, scrawls her cell phone number and hands it over. Then she takes Lina’s hand and together they walk through the wooden gate and up to the front door.

  Eve

  Eve and Grace cower behind the half-open door of the sitting room. Through its hinged gap they see Igor enter the bungalow, he is still wearing Eric’s jacket over his pajamas. His body seems to fill the narrow hallway as he walks past. Eve’s heart is beating wildly, Grace is silent beside her, scarcely breathing. The electric murmurings of a kettle reach them from the kitchen, then the clash of cups. He is getting ready for guests. Who can he be expecting, what accomplices?

  Igor’s footsteps come out of the kitchen, cross the lower part of the hall, and enter the little cloakroom. Eve holds her breath and then it comes, a bellow of surprise. He has seen the open window and surmised a break-in. They hear his footsteps coming closer as he heads back down the hall. Eve moves swiftly, ignoring the little ripping noise of fingernails on cloth as Grace tries to hold her back. She steps out, barring the front door. Igor comes to a halt in front of her, his face blank with shock. He looks familiar yet different, as if he had turned into his older brother or even his father. His cheeks are loose, the eyelids swollen as though he has been crying. He shoulders roughly past her and disappears out the door, shouting something in Polish. Eve fumbles for her phone while Grace starts after him before a policewoman appears, Eric at her shoulder, Igor hovering behind him. The policewoman is new to them, young and fierce-looking, her thick brows low as if angry. Eric’s are raised in disbelief.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice is furious. “This is Igor’s house.”

  “You can’t expect me to sit quietly at home, waiting for scraps of news,” Eve snaps back. “I had to do something.”

  The hall feels cramped with bodies. Igor is breathing heavily, the policewoman watching him. Grace is standing close; Eric’s face has turned red.

  “You aren’t allowed to enter someone’s home like this, it’s against the law. He has the right to privacy, like everyone else,” he tells her.

  “The right?” She spits the words. “Igor had our daughter’s clothes under his bed and you’re worried about his rights?”

  “He has no idea where Sorrel is.”

  “We found this hidden behind a photo of his family.” Eve thrusts the picture of Sorrel at him.

  Igor moves toward her but the policewoman steps between them and steers him toward the kitchen.

  “There’s something you should know.” Eric takes her arm while Grace turns toward the front door.

  “Don’t go,” Eve says quickly.

  “This is between you and Eric,” Grace replies. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

  Eve watches Grace walk down the path; guilt and gratitude jostle. She wants to run after her, thank her, tell her she needs her strength, beg her to return, but Eric is leading her into the sitting room.

  “You’d better sit down.” He closes the door behind them.

  She watches Eric pace about the room, frowning at the floor as if planning his words.

  “Sorrel came here often,” he says after a couple of minutes. “She and Poppy gave Igor their own clothes for his family.”

  Eve stares at him, astonished. “That’s utter rubbish. They hardly know him.”

  “They spent hours here.”

  “Who told you that? Igor?”

  “They’ve been coming here for years.” Eric’s voice is flat. “They came to watch television. He made them jam sandwiches and gave them crisps, sweets, chocolate biscuits. Normal stuff that kids like, things we never allow them to have.”

  “He’s making it up.” Eve stands up but the room turns and she sits again quickly. “They would have told me.”

  “Poppy did tell me, today, in the police station.”

  “Poppy?”

  “I took her out of school. It turns out they’ve been giving him their stuff for a long time.”

  “It’s not true; I’d have seen things disappear.”

  “The girls dared each other to take more and more: jerseys, school uniforms, winter coats. Poppy said you never noticed.”

  Clothes go missing sometimes, it’s impossible to keep track. When she can’t find something, it usually turns out to be at the dry cleaners or stuck behind a radiator, perhaps on the floor of the car. If it fails to reveal itself in time, she buys a replacement; it’s easier than hunting for hours.

  “. . . as often as they could,” Eric is continuing. “They made sure it was when I was away from home so they wouldn’t be noticed.”

  How is it possible that the girls spent so much time at Igor’s? She’d kept an eye on them from the kitchen window, watched them running in the garden, playing among the trees. Admittedly she’d gotten on with cooking, studying, and looking after Ash, but they were safe and happy in the woods, making dens. They told her that, didn’t they? They always came in for meals.

  “They told him you were putting the clothes aside for charity anyway,” Eric tells her. “They begged him not to say anything or they’d get into trouble.” He picks up the framed photo. “They live in that trailer. His kids are the same ages as ours. They don’t have enough warm things to wear. It’s not surprising the girls wanted to help.”

  “It sounds like he was manipulating them; he probably sold it all for cash.”

  “Why is this so hard for you to understand?” Eric puts the photo down, his fists ball in his pockets. “Everything Igor says checks out with the police. It’s not very complicated. Our children have more clothes than they need so they gave some to Igor for his kids. They like him, he’s kind; he made them feel normal, like other kids.”

  “It’s a pity we don’t live in a trailer.” She stands up. “Why don’t you buy one? We might all feel more normal then.” She can hardly believe she said that, a ridiculous, childish reply. It will infuriate him, but perhaps that’s what she wants. Perhaps she wants to make him shout at her so she can scream back; they could fight for once. Everything could come out: Ash’s death. Sorrel’s disappearance. The affair. He could yell that it’s all her fault. She would yell back about despair and loneliness, guilt and rage. She stares at him, panting slightly; the air seems to ring with all the words they haven’t said.

  Eric follows her from the room into the hall. “Igor’s staying until Sorrel is found; he’s going to leave us after that, he’s decided.” He leans against the wall looking tired. “The important thing is he’s our friend
and not a criminal.”

  She walks out the front door without replying and continues down the path. He’s wrong; the important thing is Sorrel. Sorrel is the only thing that matters now. The impulse to fight has gone. She doesn’t need Eric to make her feel guilty, she is crushed with guilt already.

  When she reaches the kitchen it feels empty. Grace must have gone back home; it’s her turn to fetch the children later. Eve looks around, shivering. The house is cold and messy, it’s really far too big for them. There are dirty plates to load in the dishwasher, and the floor looks unwashed. Eve stares out the window, searching the garden as if to catch sight of her two precious daughters running away from her to the warm, tidy little bungalow hidden behind the trees.

  Grace

  The puddles on the road are bright with reflected lights, the streets packed with tired-faced shoppers carrying bags. Children tussle on the sidewalks. It’s Christmas in a month’s time, fervor in the air already.

  “The search for missing six-year-old Sorrel Kershaw is now well into the second day. An estate worker who was helping police with inquiries has been released. The net has been widened to include nearby gardens and garden sheds, schools, parks, bus and train stations. Anyone who has any information—”

  Grace switches off the car radio. The second day—children can be found sheltering in huts or doorways forty-eight hours after they run away. Survivors of avalanches or earthquakes last that long, babies are pulled from the wreckage days after the event. Another voice whispers that if Sorrel has been abducted she faces far more danger than if she’d been in an accident; the harm isn’t random.

  She swerves to avoid a car, distracted by a little girl with fair hair flying behind her as she skips along the sidewalk holding her mother’s hand. Ash had three Christmases, that’s all; Sorrel may not have another. Grace blots her eyes with her fingers as she draws up on the road opposite the Charter School.

  Izzy and Poppy are waiting on the sidewalk. Izzy is standing near Poppy, leaning toward her and talking, but Poppy is staring blankly at all the other children who swirl about them in little groups as if they were inhabitants of a different planet. Grace gets out of the car and hurries across the road.

  “Hi, you two.”

  Poppy stares at her, a question flaring in her face.

  “Sorry, Poppy. No news yet, but—”

  “Give us some credit,” Izzy interrupts. “We knew there wasn’t.”

  Poppy didn’t, Grace wants to retort—she was hoping for something, for a piece of news that might just have arrived. The girls climb into the back seat, Izzy sitting close to Poppy, who stares out the window.

  “Where’s Blake?”

  Izzy shrugs, Poppy doesn’t answer. In the rearview mirror Grace sees a tear roll down her cheek.

  “You don’t have to go to school tomorrow, Poppy; I’ll talk to your mum and dad.”

  “Like they’d care,” Izzy mutters.

  A message pings through from Blake. You need to come to the assistant principal’s office.

  “I’m going to find Blake,” Grace tells them. “It could take a while, you could walk home if you like.”

  “Blake’s done something wrong, I expect. We’ll wait.” Izzy sounds bored.

  Grace calls Dulwich Hamlet to ask them to tell Charley it might be some time before she picks her up, then she walks quickly down the lane, past the bike rack, and across the forecourt to the school. Mr. Richards hurries across the large hall to shake her hand, a quick, firm clasp. She met him two terms ago to discuss Blake’s dyslexia, he seems older already. A good-looking man, his dark hair going gray, a kind face creased with worry.

  “Is Blake okay?”

  “Let’s talk in my office.”

  The stuffy room is crowded with piles of books and papers, a laden desk occupying half the space. Blake is hunched at a table; he looks smaller in these surroundings, much younger. He’s staring at a pair of pruning shears on the table, medium-sized, with a worn-looking wooden handle and blades neatly curved together. The sharp edges shine in the harsh overhead light. Mr. Richards indicates a seat and she sits down slowly.

  “I’ll get straight to the point. Blake is here because a boy—let’s call him Tim—saw these in Blake’s backpack. Tim was going through the bag to borrow a ruler, or so he says. When he saw these he told his mum, and she phoned me. We called Blake in, searched the bag, found the shears. It’s straightforward if disappointing.” He pauses as if to give her a chance to reply, but there is nothing to say, though her heart is thudding with anxiety. There will be a plan or punishment of some kind. Blake’s lips tighten; he’s waiting too.

  “Blake told us that he was lent them by a friend of the family, a landscaper for whom he does gardening jobs. Blake apparently used these to prune apple trees; he said he’d put them in his bag to keep safe over the weekend and forgot to take them out before returning to school.” Mr. Richards, to his credit, doesn’t sound skeptical, just tired. It has probably been a long day. Blake can’t have been the only child to cause trouble. “Blake says he had no intention of using these shears for any other reason than to prune trees. I’d like to call his gardener friend to find out if what he says is true.”

  Grace gives him Eric’s name and his cell phone number; luckily Eric never answers his phone, he doesn’t need this distraction now. She’ll find him herself, have a quiet word . . .

  “Ah, Mr. Kershaw, sorry to trouble you, sir . . .”

  Eric has answered after all; perhaps he thought this could be news of Sorrel. Grace pictures his face falling and feels a deep pang of guilt. At the end of the conversation Mr. Richards turns to face them both.

  “Mr. Kershaw corroborates Blake’s story. He says it’s probably his fault that the shears are in the bag because he forgot to take them back.”

  Blake looks at Grace, a narrow-eyed glance that assesses her reaction. It carries guilt as well as relief; you would have to know him very well, as she does, to see he is still hiding something.

  Mr. Richards is continuing. “. . . not complacent about weapons of any sort in school. The police classify bladed garden implements as weapons if found in an inappropriate place; school is an inappropriate place. Blake knows this. His good record of behavior, Mr. Kershaw’s endorsement, and the fact that this is a gardening tool all work in his favor.” He sighs briefly. “Blake will tell you we met with the school safety officer this afternoon. As a first offense and for the reasons I’ve just related, we will not be taking this further at the present time, beyond recording the incident in detail, of course.” His tone sharpens. “However, you will know that knife crime is soaring—forty thousand knife-related crimes in Britain last year and counting. The police take even the possibility of such crimes extremely seriously. If Blake brings any instrument that carries a blade into school again the consequences will be significant.” He stands briskly and opens the door. “I’ll be sending you a letter.”

  They walk out to the car in silence. Blake climbs in the front, ignoring Poppy’s questions.

  Grace drives to Dulwich Hamlet and hurries in for Charley. Her daughter slides into the back seat next to Izzy and then leans forward eagerly. “Any news?”

  “Not yet, but the police are searching, people are looking all over London—”

  “Could you stop saying that?” Izzy interrupts. “You are upsetting Poppy. And Blake.”

  She leans forward and trails her fingers over Blake’s face. Blake is frozen; there is something about his immobility that reminds Grace of an animal caught in a trap.

  “Poor Blakie,” Izzy murmurs, then she leans back again.

  A decision arrives in Grace’s mind like a gift or directive. “Silly me. I forgot to go to the bookshop.” She turns the car onto Eve’s road and pulls up outside the gate. “You girls go in; Blake needs a couple of books. We’ll have to pop back to the village.”

  “Can I come?” Charley asks. “I want a book.”

  “This is for school. Out you get now, girls, w
e won’t be long.”

  The girls get out silently; she watches them walk slowly up the drive. Izzy has her arm around Poppy, who is hunched into herself. Charley follows, shouldering her backpack and glancing back at the car.

  “Which books?” Blake asks.

  “I’ve just had a better idea. Let’s get some tea—the books can wait.”

  The café is packed—it’s that time of day when energy runs low; people need a pick-me-up, something sweet in their mouths. They are jammed against three women eating macarons and some kids from the middle school stuffing their mouths with crumpets; questions about the shears will have to wait till they are back in the car after all. Grace orders tea with crumpets and chocolate cake. They’ll chat instead, as she’s wanted to do for weeks.

  “So how’s things in big school, in general, I mean?”

  He shrugs.

  “Mr. Richards seems okay.”

  He glances at her then away.

  “What about the other teachers—who’s the nicest?”

  He shrugs again. The crumpets and cake arrive with the teapot and she pours them both tea. Blake eats his crumpet fast and then another, then the chocolate cake; he seems to relax.

  “So what’s it like, pruning trees?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Eric really values your help; you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” He sounds casual but his face flushes pink.

  “I thought we might go somewhere this weekend, find a wood maybe. A family outing, what d’you reckon?”

  “Okay.” He sits up. “Dad too?”

  She glances out the window; a couple walk by, arms entwined, each with a hand on the baby carriage, smiling at the unseen child. She shouldn’t have used that word, “family.” Blake thinks she and Martin are together but it’s hard enough to be polite to Martin; an outing with him would be impossible.

  “He’ll be busy,” she says, still looking through the window. “You know, tutorials.” She glances back. Blake is staring at her; his expression contains contempt and something worse, like pity. She was wrong; he doesn’t think they’re together; he knows what’s happened and probably why. Izzy must have filled him in.