The Final Child

by Fran Dorricott

  * * *

  As I pulled up to the small semi-detached house in Sheffield I’d last visited over five years ago, I had the feeling that very little had changed. The same lace curtains hung at the window, the same weedy plants grew in a garden that had gone bare for the winter. Even me. I glanced down and realised that I was probably wearing the same sort of outfit. The same black jeans, winter boots, plain button-down jacket.

  Molly Evans was the mother of George and Jacob, the children who were taken in June 1995, just a year after Mikey and Jem. Molly had always been the most ardent supporter of my book.

  The doorbell was old and made a squeaking sound as the metal pressed inwards. It was the same one they’d had last time I was here. Back then I’d come to find out the details you don’t get from the kinds of newspaper articles that circulated after the children were abducted. I came to ask the questions I didn’t want to ask my aunt. I’d expected resistance, but Molly was a talker.

  She was the one who had first told me how the Father got his name.

  “A writer in the newspapers gave it to him,” she’d said, a pained look on her face, “because he looked after our children. He clothed them, fed them, brushed their hair, made them clean their teeth. He kept Morgan Bailey for almost a year, you know, before he killed her. We don’t know what he did with them, all that time. But he looked after them.”

  I still shuddered at the thought, that somebody could masquerade as a parent like he had.

  Molly answered the door. She was in her fifties, with a head of dyed black hair that was almost blue and a nose so hooked it made her look like a witch.

  “Hello—”

  “Harriet!” she exclaimed. “It’s been so long. I’m happy to see you. Come in, come in.” She welcomed me inwards, wafting her arms ineffectually as though she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to pet me or give me a hug. “So, you’re still writing about our babies?”

  She acted as if months had passed since my initial interviews, not years. I felt my face flush in embarrassment. Molly led me into the lounge, where a large TV was playing a muted sports channel. A small dog yapped at my legs – a different one than I remembered, but no less irritatingly cute.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Things have been… Well, it’s more difficult to write about than I thought. What with graduating and working and then… I recently changed jobs again. But I started writing again recently. I think I’ve found some new information. Has anybody been in touch with you yet?”

  “No, I’m so sorry, my love, but I expect they’ll come and chat with us in due course. I’m glad you haven’t given up on us. Would you like a cup of tea? Andy – Andy! I forgot to tell you, but come and see who’s here.”

  Molly bustled off and poked her head through to the kitchen. When she returned it was with her husband, who was distinctly less pleased by my appearance. Andrew Evans had aged faster than his wife. The skin around his neck had started to sag, and his cheeks were gaunt, as though he didn’t eat enough and exercised too much.

  “It’s Harriet,” Molly said. “You remember. The journalist cousin. She’s back onto writing that book about Jake and Georgie, aren’t you, love?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Nice to see you again,” Andy muttered.

  His wife continued to bustle, straightening things that didn’t need straightening, and eventually disappeared to make that cup of tea. Mr Evans sank onto the sofa and a haunted look passed across his face.

  “We told you everything we remember about what happened,” he said slowly.

  “I know.” I smiled my best reassuring smile. “But when your wife called I thought it would be good to have another chat. I really want to get this book right, and do George and Jacob proud.”

  I sat on the sofa near Andy and waited quietly for his wife to come back.

  When she did it was with a tray bearing three large mugs filled to the brim with steaming, strong tea.

  “So, love, you said on the phone that you had some more questions.”

  “Yes. I’ve written a lot more. But it’s been so long since my original interviews that I should talk to everybody again. In case there was anything else you want me to add. Anything we didn’t talk about before.”

  Andy let out a small sound, like a deflating balloon, but his wife just nodded.

  “Like what?” she asked. I suddenly realised I didn’t know what else I wanted to ask. Except…

  “Like… Jillian Chambers,” I said slowly. “I’m going to try to talk to her.”

  “Jilly.” Molly’s mug slipped and tea sloshed onto her harems. “Poor girl.”

  “She’s a bit reluctant at the moment.”

  “Well I should think so,” Andy said. “She went through a lot. More than any child should. I’m not surprised she doesn’t want to go over and over it with strangers.”

  “Do you know her well?” I asked, trying to hide the heat in my cheeks.

  “We used to know her, but not well,” Molly said. “They’d never come out to us in Sheffield – we only ever saw them when everybody got together.” Molly set aside her tea and reached for the little dog as he darted between her legs. She lifted him onto her lap and rocked him like a child. “We all— Do you remember I told you about the group we started?”

  “The therapy?” My aunt and uncle had mentioned it as well, but they’d never been. They preferred to spend their reflective time in church.

  “Yes. We still meet sometimes. Less often now, but if there’s an anniversary or if there’s some kind of milestone… It’s not easy to get everybody together since we’re all spread out and people have their own lives, of course. But it’s nice to have somebody to talk to. Jillian and Alex’s mother came with her husband to a few different sessions – oh, years ago. Right in the beginning. But… well, things got a bit heated. Not naming any names, but a few folks didn’t like, uh… they didn’t feel comfortable sharing their loss because they felt like it was different for Amanda and her husband…”

  “Because of Jillian?” I asked, unable to stop the incredulity in my voice. “You mean because she survived?”

  Jillian had shut down, refused to talk about her brother’s disappearance, but who could blame her? The thought that she’d been ostracised from a group that might have helped her to cope simply because her mother and father hadn’t lost as much as the other parents… God.

  I wasn’t entirely surprised, though. Some of the parents were – well, they were hard work. Andrea Davies had been hostile with me at first, and I wouldn’t have put it past her to behave badly without considering how her actions might hurt a little girl, and Randeep and Jaswinder’s father could come across very judgemental when he felt threatened.

  “Well, when you put it like that,” Andy said. “Sounds awful.”

  “It was awful.” Molly glared at her husband. “After that we kept in touch, but Amanda never came back to the group. She hardly even goes to the services unless they’re down in Burton or Derby. Jillian never came back either. Maybe you could mention the memorial…? I’d love it if Amanda or Jillian felt like coming along.”

  “How could they treat her so horribly?” I asked, my brain still caught on what she had said about the other parents.

  Some of the families hadn’t been able to bury one, or both, of their children, but I couldn’t believe that they would push out the Chambers when they needed help. We were all in the same boat, surely? Poor Jillian might never have been able to really talk about what happened to her with people who understood; perhaps that was why she’d been reluctant to talk to me.

  “I think…” Molly sighed. The dog wriggled and she put him down. “I think they felt like their loss was more righteous. It’s partly why we stopped going to the meetings as often. I’m sure that’s why your aunt and uncle don’t go. There are some people there who were martyred by a lack of knowledge—”

  “Because their children weren’t found?”

  “Exactly. And they think they suffered worse th
an the rest of us. As though burying the empty coffin of one child isn’t as bad as both. Did they think I wanted to bury one of my children and not the other? Aren’t we all suffering?” Molly blinked back tears.

  “We don’t want to suffer any more.” Andy’s voice was thick. He stared blankly at the silent TV screen. “We want to live. To stop thinking about all that pain, all that anger he caused.”

  “I know,” I said quietly. “That’s why I need to write this book. So the world remembers the children instead of him. That’s why I want to talk to Jillian.”

  AFTER

  Mouse

  THEY CREMATED HIS BROTHER. The boy sat on the front row of a small, empty crematorium with Mother but they didn’t touch.

  The coffin was tiny, wooden and polished. The boy wanted to touch it, to see if the wood was cool against his skin. Like Chris had been.

  He wondered how hot the flames would get. It was the kind of question he would have asked if they’d been at the house. The sort of question his father would have answered.

  He resented the man at the front of the room who was talking about sadness. As if he knew what they were feeling.

  The boy was surprised by how little he missed his brother. Maybe it hadn’t sunk in yet. Maybe they would get home and he’d be sorry that he was on his own now. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t really understand how it was all supposed to work.

  He shifted in his seat. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably. Mother tensed slightly as though she wanted to swat him but she didn’t move. Didn’t touch him.

  After it was done they all filed out of the crematorium and into the snow. It was still freezing, the sky a solid block of grey. The few mourners stood together for a minute or two and he stood with them while Mother spoke in hushed tones to a man he didn’t recognise.

  The boy waited patiently as one of them pinched his cheek. Another one patted his head. Mother saw this and smiled hollowly, grief painting dark circles under her eyes. She came over to join them, shaking hands with the cheek-pincher.

  Then everybody was gone and it was just him and Mother again, snow creeping around their ankles. He knew there would be a long ride home in their rusty old car and then dinner at the big table with only the two of them.

  He wondered if she might notice him more now.

  FIVE

  Harriet

  I’D BEEN CHECKING MY phone all day, hoping Jillian might decide to call me. I’d played our conversation over in my mind, wondering if she’d think it was my fault that her mother had collapsed. Talking to Molly today had made the guilt worse, and I wanted to apologise.

  Searching for Erin Chambers – which, I reminded myself, was her name now – I’d managed to figure out that she worked for a marketing company in Burton, in an office block not far from town. She was credited with the revamp of their website, and it looked like she was good at her job.

  The address of the office wasn’t far out of my way. In fact, I reasoned, by the time I’d made the hour and a half journey from Sheffield to Arkney to get home, going a bit further south to Burton, just to check on her, wouldn’t take long. I didn’t want to freak her out, but I had no other way of getting in touch without bothering her mother and it seemed like the office might be the most neutral territory I would find. I’d rather have to apologise for scaring her than spend the evening worrying whether she was alright.

  * * *

  By the time I got there it was just starting to get dark, the evening developing that smoke-tinged quality of blueness and the shadowed trees dancing against the sky. I sat in my car, holding a cigarette between my fingers but not smoking it. Daring myself to drive away and forget this whole thing. She’d phone me if she wanted to talk, wouldn’t she?

  But then, there she was. And I still hadn’t driven away. She looked pale, drawn. She buttoned her coat up tight, glancing nervously down the street before heading right towards the car park where I waited. Rather than let her get close enough to scare, I made sure I wasn’t subtle, slamming my car door and waving at her.

  “Jillian?” I called.

  She frowned, stopping in front of a car.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry for just turning up,” I said. “I wanted to apologise for the other night. I know it must have been really jarring, and it’s not how I wanted to meet you. I’ve left a message for your mum too. I didn’t mean to upset her and I hope she’s alright.” And I’m worried about you. I had to stop the words before they tumbled out, too.

  Jillian didn’t move, but her stance softened.

  “Okay, apology accepted,” she said.

  We stood together, still and silent. I tried to work out why that hadn’t made me feel any better. Jillian was still wary, like a cat, but there was something warm between us. I tried to grasp it.

  “Do you think you would talk to me?” I prompted. “About what happened to you?”

  “Why?”

  The word was heavy. But she didn’t turn away, and I wondered if she was hoping I’d ask her again.

  “I know you probably just think I’m some sort of leech. But I’m not in this for the money. My cousins – they were abducted by him, too. I’ve spoken to everybody else, Jillian. Erin, you’re the last one.” I ignored the embarrassed heat in my cheeks and held her gaze.

  “My name is Erin. And what makes you think I care?” Her eyes glittered with a kind of quiet steel that made her beautiful, and I thought of what my mother had said. Was I only doing this because it made me feel better, or could it help her too? Was my new information worth dragging up the past?

  “Don’t you want your voice to be heard?” I asked.

  She laughed. “My voice? Since when has anybody listened to my voice?”

  “I want to hear you,” I said. “I know you don’t know me, but I’m not trying to upset you. I’m trying to help.”

  Jillian – Erin – levelled her gaze at me.

  She was still unsettled, her eyes flicking to the bare space behind me every few seconds. She shivered in the chill of the evening.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “There’s a memorial,” I said. “This weekend. I’m going to go and I wondered if you might want to come with me. We can talk, or not, that’s up to you. But I wanted to offer, just in case you’re ready to talk to somebody. I don’t know exactly what you’ve been through, but I’m a good listener.”

  Erin took a short, sharp breath. Her cheeks were pink, her blue eyes icy in the gathering dark.

  “Tell me the details,” she said. “Then I’ll decide.”

  SIX

  4 NOVEMBER 2016

  Erin

  APPREHENSION FIZZED IN MY belly as I drove home. I’d been fine until Harriet Murphy showed up, so why did I need to talk to her now? I’d forgotten how much I hated being Jillian Chambers.

  I swerved out of a roundabout. It was dark now. Even the shadows seemed to have shadows. I let my thoughts sizzle and pop, because maybe my annoyance that Harriet had turned up uninvited – at my office of all places – would override something else. Something deeper.

  Fear.

  The fear I’d felt for days, that unsettled feeling that had started before Halloween. Mum wouldn’t be much use if I told her; she saw Alex – boys and men that looked like him, anyway – at least ten times a year, in supermarkets and banks. She was always on the phone to Wendy, the liaison officer we shared, about one thing or another. But this wasn’t like that. I didn’t know what it was, but for the first time in years I was jumping at my own shadow.

  There had been a time, in the early days after I first came home, where everything frightened me. The dark, the shadows that bright lights cast, candles and fire and thunderstorms. I was frightened to pet dogs in case they barked and I jumped, frightened to watch TV shows with even the most cartoonish of villains. But eventually that wore off, the edges dulled and I could manage it. I learned to channel the fear, started making candles and listening to rain-sound playlists l
ike white noise. When year after year followed with no new abductions, no mention of the Father, I convinced myself finally that I was safe. He was gone.

  Then there came a day where I had a realisation, like the cementing of an idea that had been growing for some time. He was dead. He must be. I could never explain the certainty I felt, waking up one morning and realising I had slept without nightmares, realising I hadn’t thought about Alex in a few days without flinching. It had been like an awakening. The Father must be dead because it was as if the spell he had cast was broken.

  Now it felt like going backwards, like that old fear rising again. Even though there was no reason why it should. I was jumping at loud noises, feeling the hairs prickle on the back of my neck every time a stranger walked too quickly, or laughed in the street. And I hated myself for it.

  Maybe I was working too hard. I’d been doing a lot of overtime on a website design for a new client, long days and not enough exercise. Except I didn’t feel overworked. I liked my job, liked the control I had when I was designing and the pride over finished projects.

  No, this fear had nothing to do with being overworked or tired. It was something else. Like a shadow following me wherever I went. Could Harriet Murphy help? I didn’t want to talk to her about Alex, about me. I didn’t want to be interviewed for her book. But there was nobody else I could turn to. My colleagues didn’t even know I’d had a brother, never mind that he was dead, and none of my friends these days knew the truth. They didn’t know who I really was. I kept a firm line between my social life and my mother, wary that one day she might accidentally tell them more than I wanted them to know – a line I’d drawn as a teenager and never really allowed to lapse. For the most part it worked, helped me to stay ‘normal’, allowed me to be like everybody else. But now I realised I didn’t have anybody to talk to.