The Final Child

by Fran Dorricott

  “No,” I said. “She seemed fine. I was the one who was jumpy.”

  “Okay, what about the Father. Did you ever talk to Monica about him? About what happened to you and Alex? Any theories you might have had?”

  “No,” I said. “I never talk to anybody about that stuff. The only bastard thing that connects Monica to all of this is me, and it’s my fault she’s dead. What if it’s him? What if he’s back?”

  Godfrey paled a little. Or maybe it was the lights as she shifted in her seat. I made sure my eyes met hers and I let her see all of the things I was feeling.

  “You still haven’t remembered anything new about what happened to you?” she asked softly. “With therapy or Wendy?”

  “No. Just… what I’ve said a hundred times before.”

  “And the red candles?”

  “…What?”

  For a second I thought of the ones that had been left in my house but the look on Godfrey’s face said she didn’t mean those ones.

  “Candles. In Monica’s house. You don’t know why they might be significant?”

  “I…” I couldn’t think of anything at all except the colour of red blood on white sheets and I felt sick again. “No. They’re not mine.”

  “Were they the same kind of candles that were left in your house?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured. “I think so, but it’s hard to be sure. Both were red pillar candles. I got rid of the ones in my house, threw them away. I’m so – I’m sorry.”

  Godfrey leaned back in her chair. It creaked and I jumped, my skin prickling. I forced myself to sit still while she asked me a few more questions, the world a blur of guilt and sadness. Eventually she was done.

  Relieved, I let myself be led out into the wider building, the buzz growing around me. Now what? Where could I go? Harriet… Had I put her in danger? Monica had known me, and look what had happened to her. But would Harriet even leave me alone if I asked her to? I wanted to call my mum but I didn’t want to scare her. I didn’t want her to panic and try to come home. I didn’t want that on my conscience, but more importantly I wanted her to stay away, to stay safe until I knew what, exactly, was going on.

  Fifteen minutes later Harriet showed up with coffee from a machine. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and her hair wild, but she marched straight for me, thrust a cup of coffee right into my hand, and demanded I come home with her.

  I didn’t say no.

  * * *

  At Harriet’s house I sank onto the sofa while she ran the bath. My arms felt like they were on fire, itching and crawling with hundreds of fire ants. I pushed both sleeves up and scratched at them until my skin was scored with red marks. When Harriet came back I forced myself to stop, but the crawling sensation didn’t abate. She led me into the bathroom, which was painted in shades of purple, white borders on everything making it look crisp and bright.

  The police had taken my clothes as evidence. They’d been covered in Monica’s blood. Harriet guided me towards the toilet and sat me down on the closed lid. She seemed glad of the distraction, glad to be helpful. She took my shoes off while the water ran and bubbles gathered on the surface, also lilac.

  She peeled off my socks. My borrowed jumper. My shirt over my head. I didn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed but I noticed, somewhere in the back of my mind, that Harriet’s neck and face had gone pink. She looked away as I stood up to pull my trousers off.

  “I’ll leave you—”

  “No!” I said. I dropped the trousers to the floor, panic overtaking me. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to be on my own.”

  She nodded once and then sat herself on the toilet while I continued to undress, her gaze fixed on the closed door. I didn’t care. I didn’t want her to see me. I just needed somebody to be here.

  “It doesn’t make sense…” I sank into the water, felt the heat rush over me and the first wave of feeling return to my toes and fingers. “It must be because of me.”

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it is. I just wish I could remember what happened back then. What if I know who he is? What if I’ve seen him on the street – would I even recognise him?”

  “I’m sorry if you feel like I’ve been pushing you too hard,” she said, “taking you places you’re not ready for.”

  “No. I asked for your help. Not that I thought it would lead to all of this.” I rested my chin on my knees and stared at the water.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It isn’t, though.”

  Harriet was looking at me now. Her gaze started at the crown of my head and followed the arch of my back. Her colour was more red than pink now, but she was calm.

  Afterwards, I dressed in clean pyjamas. Harriet led me to her spare room. It was furnished more than any of the other rooms, with what looked like home-knitted blankets on the futon, degree certificates on the walls. A desk sat against the back wall in front of a window, curtains shut tight; her laptop was set up haphazardly beneath, folders and notebooks piled either side of it like a fortress.

  When Harriet was gone I crawled under the blankets and sheets, shivering despite the layers. Finally, in the darkness, I let myself think about the conversation with Detective Godfrey.

  What was so important about red candles? They were following me, mocking my own love of candles and fire to cleanse and soothe. Was there something I should remember about them? There must be.

  For a long time I’d been afraid of fire; I hated the way the shadows danced when Mum lit the hearth or her scented candles, and for years after what happened to Alex and me I avoided candles. I didn’t remember being afraid before. I’d beat the fear, worked hard to turn it into love. But now I found myself questioning that original feeling of dread. Where had it come from?

  I was too tired to examine the thought carefully. The darkness swayed me with its heaviness. I bundled up a spare jumper I’d brought with me, using it as a teddy bear, holding it to my chest to pretend that I wasn’t alone. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, with the first grey light smudging the sky, I fell into a fitful sleep.

  * * *

  I was running. The trees were like monsters in the black night. The only light came from the moon, silvery and weak. I stumbled over roots and my feet skidded in slick mud.

  My breath came in plumes. I ran harder and faster than I ever had before. And somewhere behind me I heard somebody shouting my name.

  “Jilly! Jilly, go!”

  Then I was inside. Inside a big house with wooden panelling. Clean, but old.

  I stopped. It was freezing. The hairs on my arms stood to attention as a curtain fluttered nearby. Somewhere there was a creaking sound. Stairs. All of the windows were open but the curtains were closed. I wanted to curl into a ball.

  I couldn’t though. I had to keep moving. I had to go somewhere. I had to do something. I just couldn’t remember what.

  Suddenly there was a big staircase behind me, a door to my right. A long corridor stretched ahead. Brown leaves scuttled with the wind, which snaked around my ankles. I had to leave. Had to run again, but I couldn’t find the way out.

  The door had disappeared. I spun around until I was dizzy but the only way was the corridor. A basement smell, damp and cool, dragged me onwards.

  “Jilly… Jilly, please.”

  Alex?

  I spun around again. His voice had sounded so clear. I peered into the darkness, the floor spilling out in front of me like a map. I followed it quickly, the leaves still bristling with the wind.

  “Jilly?”

  The voice came from the corridor. There were no lights and the walls closed in on me as I tripped forwards. I wanted to squeeze my eyes tight but something in me made them stay open. I drank it all in.

  There were oil paintings on the walls. Or at least they looked like oils, shiny and crackled in places. There were two closed doors, one after the other.

  The corridor was long. Too long. I started to run, tugging my body into mo
tion. And then, finally, too quickly it came to an end. I smacked into the door, felt it hard and cold under my hands.

  I pushed it open.

  In the middle there was an old cot. The sides were slatted like bars but the front was open. It was bigger than a regular cot. Not like the one Alex or I had slept in. The mattress was thin and mouldy, mottled with green and black.

  On top of it was a body. A girl, maybe. It was hard to tell. Her hair was short like mine, boyish, and she wore shorts and a t-shirt, both too grubby to identify.

  Dark brown skin. Hollow eyes. Skin taut around her cheeks, bitten fingernails ragged, the fingers on one hand broken and twisted, wrapped around an old child’s toy. A doll with a pink dress. This face was the same one I’d seen a flash of during therapy. Like Jaspreet, but younger.

  Jaswinder.

  There were candles, too. Red candles. Four of them on the floor, casting the room in wavering light. One for each us. Four children – now three.

  Now there was just Randeep, Alex and me.

  TWENTY TWO

  9 NOVEMBER 2016

  Harriet

  I WOKE HOURS BEFORE Erin. I checked my work emails and found one from Sharon, checking in. It took me a long time to build up to calling her. To explain what was going on. As I expected, she flapped and fawned, and somehow that felt worse than her not being bothered. But either way, she said I could take some time.

  I put on a pot of coffee. I drank my first steaming cup standing in the kitchen. The caffeine was like electricity and it sent a buzz through my dull limbs. I remembered when a really good karate practice had done the same thing. I hadn’t been in almost a year. That was long before I found Oscar and Isaac’s news article languishing under my mother’s lino. Before Jillian became Erin. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I didn’t know what to do. The police hadn’t given me any details but I wasn’t sure I’d have been in a fit enough state to take them in anyway. All I knew was that Monica knew Erin, and now she was dead. I couldn’t get the sight of her lying in that bed out of my brain. But who would have wanted to kill her?

  I thought of the note we’d found. Erin thought it was from him. The Father. That he wasn’t dead after all. Could it be true? Was it possible? If the Father had been in prison all this time, it wasn’t completely outside of the realms of possibility. But the question that Erin had asked haunted me as well: why?

  Why now? Why do this at all? If he’d wanted to hurt Erin, he could have. Easily. So either it wasn’t him, or it wasn’t that simple.

  I wanted to go over my notes again, but my laptop and files were all in the spare room. I couldn’t bear the thought of waking Erin, not after everything she’d been through.

  I was overtaken by the desire to make sure she was safe, a sensation so strong it made me breathless. I wished that she would have gone somewhere other than here, where somebody else could protect her and reassure her. The weight was heavy on my shoulders. But I also knew I didn’t want her gone; I wanted her where I could keep an eye on her. I put on another pot of coffee.

  It was midday before Erin appeared, her blonde hair mussed and her face shiny and pink with sleep. I noticed one of my notebooks in her hands as she entered the kitchen.

  “I found your notes,” she said.

  I had a lot of them. Newspaper articles, interviews both new and old in longhand, photographs and photocopied chapters from a couple of books on unsolved child abductions and murders. I felt sorry, suddenly, that I hadn’t moved them away. Not because I was worried Erin would be angry with me, but because I didn’t want her to have to see her brother’s face when she wasn’t expecting it.

  “Are you okay?” I asked gently. “Do you want coffee?”

  She nodded. I got up, poured a fresh cup and pushed milk and sugar towards Erin.

  She came forward, putting the notebook down softly, as though it was a child. Something had changed, I realised. I wasn’t sure exactly when it had started, but over the short time I’d known Erin she had opened up, peeled back the disinterested veneer to expose the fear and insecurity within. This morning it was as if the final walls had fallen. She wanted to know what had happened to her and she wasn’t going to give up until she had answers.

  “I’m… I’ve spent so long avoiding it. And I’m – I’m disappointed.” She sighed through her nose and began to load up her coffee with sugar and milk. “I was hoping… maybe there might be something that made sense to me, once I looked.”

  “Erin, it’s okay. Be gentle with yourself. You’ve never allowed yourself to ask these questions before.”

  She wasn’t really listening to me. “I mean, how do you abduct that many children and never leave any evidence?” she asked. “It’s like now. How did the police not find anything? It must be him. Christ… I know he probably wore gloves or whatever – that’s probably what I smelled, over my nose, the gloves… But the rest of it. How do you do that? How do you get away with it?”

  “A lot of the early crime scenes were a mess,” I said tentatively. “Windows open for hours before the police got there, sometimes rain got in. The first couple of cases weren’t connected publicly until 1996 because of creating a public panic, but journalists leaked information that they shouldn’t have known. The police literally interviewed hundreds of people, but stories conflicted, people misremembered things. Parents trampled through the kids’ rooms before calling the police, as you’d expect. Some even lied about leaving bedroom windows open, afraid that they’d be judged for it. It happened twice, I think.

  “It took the police over two weeks to connect the Davies girls to the Father because their mother said they’d gone missing in the morning, not overnight, and didn’t mention the window right away. The newspapers got involved, reported eyewitness testimony that meant that for a while people were looking out for a green transit van on the motorway, but then that turned out to be nothing, and then Mrs Davies backtracked…”

  “Do you think it would have made any difference if none of that had happened?” Erin looked different without her armour – her baggy jeans and smudged eyeliner. She looked vulnerable and human. She looked more like the little girl whose photograph had been plastered over all of the newspapers for weeks back in 1998. Young, boyish, overwhelmed.

  “No,” I said honestly. “I think there wasn’t much to find anyway. He probably wore something that limited trace evidence, was prepared. I wouldn’t be surprised if he chose more victims than we ever saw, and relied on luck, or rather opportunity, as the first step. Open windows, children sharing rooms, large trees out front or ground-floor bedrooms… The Father was clever. Meticulous. You have to know how to plan, to be patient. Especially as parents got more savvy and the media were all over it. But he’s also somebody who knows to subdue instead of fight. Which makes me think he’s used to being persuasive. And without a motive everybody is just chasing their tails. I don’t think we were ever going to find any evidence.”

  “I just hope they find something,” Erin said. “That when he hurt Monica he made a mistake…” She blinked. “I keep going over everything in my mind.”

  “Things have come a long way since the nineties,” I said. “They’ll find who did this. Maybe we should leave the police to do their job.”

  “How can I trust them now?” She caressed the handle of the mug with her thumb, back and forth subconsciously. “After the way they were with me. What if they missed something? What if he left a clue in my house and none of us realised because we all just thought it was a – a joke? Somebody died. Who knows what will happen before they catch him? I think he’s taunting me, Harriet. He knows there’s something in my head that might tell me who he is, but for some reason he wants me to remember it. And that’s why he killed Monica.”

  “What—”

  “I think he wants to teach me a lesson. I’ve forgotten what happened to me, to all of us – and somehow he seems to know this. He’s tormenting me. I don’t think he’ll stop now until either he gets caught or I
remember.”

  “Okay,” I said. I ran a hand over my face. I felt suddenly shaky. “So if the police don’t find any DNA or trace evidence, nothing physical, what about psychological motive? We still have the fact that he took siblings—”

  “And Oscar and Isaac,” Erin said. “I keep coming back to this in my mind, but what does his obsession with siblings say about him?” She gestured animatedly, her coffee forgotten now. “Did he have a sibling he hated?”

  “Or maybe he never had one,” I pointed out. “Or he had one and lost them. Maybe he didn’t protect his own sibling or maybe he feels betrayed. You could spin this any way and it won’t help.”

  Suddenly a spark of something flickered in Erin’s eyes. “Protection…” she muttered. “Did I tell you I went to see their foster mother?”

  “What?”

  She waved away the look of distress on my face. “I pretended to have car trouble and I went to her house.”

  “Erin, why?”

  “I wanted to see if I could figure you out. And I guess it felt like something I needed to do for myself.” She said it simply, but there was a gritty determination there. I realised that she was more afraid, more angry about the police not believing her than she’d let on so far. “Anyway, you said she wasn’t helpful when you talked to her. Because you’re a writer. Well, I’m not a writer – and she didn’t know who I was. I never told her. When I was there she said something weird. I’m thinking about it now and I just… I’m trying to remember exactly what she said. Something like ‘siblings should protect each other’. Hang on, maybe I should…”

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket, prodding at it mercilessly before holding it up to her ear. My brain was buzzing. Here we were, back to Oscar and Isaac again.

  “What are you—” I tried. She shushed me.

  I could hear the faint hum of the dial tone.

  We waited. The phone rang, and rang. Slowly Erin’s eyes narrowed and her lips thinned until all that was left was a grim line.

  “Maybe we should try again later,” I suggested. “Do you think she’s okay? Should we call the police?”