The Girl Downstairs

by Iain Maitland

  If I shift my position to balance my weight equally on both feet, she will see me. A slight movement, even an inch or so to my left, will give the game away. To her, what might have been a wardrobe or a chest of drawers will suddenly come to life and move. And she will know it is me. And I wonder what she will do. But still she waits there, on and on. Unmoving. Her hand on the gate, as if she is about to open it and enter.

  And she sinks down, obscured by the gate, onto her haunches.

  I look down and away, the slight movement of my head unnoticed by her.

  When I eventually look up, she has disappeared. And I wonder what she will do next.

  I am woken by the sound of a helicopter overhead. Lying in my bed. Trying to sleep. Fluffy by my feet.

  This is the third time I have heard a helicopter in recent days. Daytime before. Now in the middle of the night.

  Circling, searching, looking for something. Or someone.

  I sit up and put on my slippers and wrap my dressing gown around me. Move to the front window of my bedroom. Look out and up.

  I am not sure what I expect to see from underneath a helicopter high above. There must be some lights, surely. And it would hover, I think. So there should be near-stationary lights within sight.

  But I cannot see anything but dark sky. Lights far and away. Maybe planes. The ever-present shimmer of the docks. But no helicopter.

  I push open the window to hear the sound more clearly. It is there. Strong and clear and repeating. The whirr of the blades. But nowhere to be seen.

  I wonder suddenly if the noise is inside my mind.

  My imagination working too hard.

  It would not be the first time. I can never believe a word you say, someone once said to me. It’s all in your head.

  I move quickly to the back window of my bedroom, standing next to an old-fashioned bureau and looking out and up. Once more, I just see the black sky, odd lights in the distance, but nothing close, nothing above the cottage nor circling the lane or fields.

  I open the window, listening again for the sound of the helicopter. I hear it. Yes. For certain. But I do not see it. Reality, or my imagination at work? I think it is my mind. That it is somehow failing me again.

  The noise of the helicopter gets louder, as if it is coming in lower to see what is happening. I look up again, but still I cannot see anything. It is like that for a few minutes. And then it becomes less noisy, more distant.

  All that is left is the sound of the helicopter going round and round in my mind.

  It is still there as I get back into bed and wrap everything around me. Fluffy lies there still, unmoving, breathing noisily through his blocked nose.

  I think this is it. I am starting to go insane. I cannot trust the workings of my own mind any more.

  4

  Wednesday, 20 November, 11.17 Am

  I am hurrying down the prom from the theatre at one end to the pier at the other, the composite photo of the girl tucked safely in my coat pocket.

  The wind is as strong as ever, and it’s now cold enough to snow. I am well wrapped up, with scarf and gloves. A thick woolly cap, too. I have my winter coat on, although it is a thin old thing, really. I need to buy a new, thicker one.

  I feel sick and nervous inside. I know I should not be doing this, drawing attention to myself in this way. This must be the last time. It has to be.

  The mornings are quieter along the prom and on the pier, especially when it’s turning wintery. A few hardy souls walking dogs and little groups of white-haired old women coming in and out of the leisure centre for keep-fit. That’s all. There are no slutty girls and slab-headed boys spoiling for an argument.

  I stop and show the photograph to everyone I pass by on the promenade. “My niece,” I say in a worried voice. Most stop and take a cursory look. One or two turn away in the wind and push on by with muttered comments about the weather and being in a hurry and having things to do. Most of those who stop and look shake their heads and move on quickly. No one bloody cares, that’s for certain. It makes me angry, the indifference. But I do not show it. I can control my temper, even now I am off my medication.

  Some old women, sheltering by the leisure centre entrance, cluck and fuss and bicker whether it looks like Lorraine’s daughter, whoever she may be, and they wonder whatever happened to her. Didn’t she move to Fakenham? Or Hunstanton? The minibus then arrives, and they are on their way, too, without a backwards glance.

  I stand by a lamp post and wonder whether I should go home and print off copies of the photograph. Attach them to lamp posts all over town. Missing! Call This Number. A Reward!

  But I imagine a policeman looking at it, checking the contact details. And I decide not.

  And then I am on the pier and inside the amusements again. A slobby middle-aged woman sits in a kiosk, bored and playing with her phone. An old man – in his eighties, I’d guess – pushing coins into an old-fashioned fruit machine. Two teenagers, maybe fifteen or sixteen, one male, the other female, closest to me. He’s at a machine, trying to manoeuvre a metal claw to pick up a soft toy for the girl.

  I wait for him to finish as he swears aggressively at his second or third failure. He seems aggrieved, somehow diminished in front of the girl. She seems disinterested, barely able to keep the look off her face. She is a fat girl; I think she might just prefer an ice cream. They turn to go, and I step forward.

  “Hello,” I say simply, polite and friendly. I look at him, not her. Looking at the girl could make him feel less important, threatened even. “I’m searching for my niece.” I show them the photograph.

  They look at each other, and both laugh at the same time. A sneering, abusive sound.

  “Fuck off,” he says, pulling her arm and pushing by me. “Wanker.”

  She looks at me, a pitying look, and smirks to herself.

  I am outraged, but do my best not to show it. I just turn away, slip the photograph in my pocket and move towards the old man by the fruit machines. He is humming to himself, in a world of his own, and is jigging slightly side to side in some sort of rhythm. It might be Parkinson’s. He takes a coin from a plastic container with his left hand, slips it into the machine, pulls the handle with his right and makes grunting noises as the fruits spin round.

  I touch his arm. He does not notice me at first, absorbed in his game. I wait as he takes another twenty-pence piece, inserts it, pulls the handle, jigs a bit. As the fruits stop spinning and he shakes his head in frustration, I touch his arm more firmly. He turns towards me, and I show him the photo. “My niece,” I say, “Shannon, I am looking for her.” Shannon is the sort of name young girls have now.

  He ums and ahs, peering at the photograph and rummaging in his coat pocket. He takes out a case and puts on glasses, closing the case and pulling the photograph out of my hand to take a closer look with his faded eyes. He is trying to be helpful, but I could scream with frustration. I really could.

  He asks her name. And how old she is. And why she is missing. I come up with the answers: Shannon. Twenty-two. She had an argument with her mother, my sister. And finally, another long agonising wait, he says no and turns away with a final shake and a judder. I could punch him.

  I take deep breaths and move across to the middle-aged woman sitting in the kiosk, fiddling with her phone. Like she has nothing better to do. Like working.

  I put the photograph on the shelf of the kiosk, ask if she has seen my niece. She pulls it through the window, studying it with a bored expression.

  She then stares at me with a look I cannot read.

  “This is your niece?” she asks sceptically. She’s almost scornful, doubting that such a pretty girl could be my niece.

  I nod. “Shannon.” Then add in a low voice, “She’s twenty-two, had a bit of an argument with her mum. Have you seen her?”

  She nods her agreement, then fumbles with her phone, pressing buttons and scrolling through. She shows me a photo. It is of the girl in the photograph, give or take. At least, the f
ace is. The hair is different, and she looks older. And, if I am honest, not so much like the girl by the pier.

  “This is your niece?” the woman asks in an odd voice. “She’s in that TV series on the telly. Game of Thrones. That’s your niece who’s gone missing? From Game of Thrones?”

  I feel my face flush red. I am hot and embarrassed.

  A stupid, stupid mistake. I’ve made myself look a fool. I now understand why the couple reacted as they did.

  I snatch the photo back. “They look s-similar!” I snap. Then I turn and walk off, hearing her mocking laughter.

  I’ve been on my computer in the corner of the kitchen all afternoon.

  Talking with my friends altogether in various social media groups and individually via email.

  Seeking their help and advice about what I should do. With the girl by the pier.

  It has not been easy. To concentrate on their comments. To pick my words and phrases. To make my carefully chosen replies. I have had the window open a crack for some much-needed fresh air. And there has been noise, endless noise, all afternoon from number five. Where what I call “the perfect family” lives. A young couple and their two small children. It is not a nice noise of children’s chatter and laughter. No, not at all. It sounds as though the parents are breaking up. He is marching back and forth to his car on the driveway. And they are arguing endlessly.

  “Steer clear,” one of my friends writes online. “She’ll be on drugs.”

  “AVOID!!!” another writes, simply but full of emphasis.

  “She’ll be on the game. Have whatever you want for a fiver. Everything for a tenner.” Snide and nasty, that.

  Mrs Gedge, an old Suffolk woman, lived at number five for years. On her own since her husband, Arthur, died in the 1990s. She had no children to care for her in her old age, but a young cousin visited once or twice a week, fetching and carrying. Then, as time passed, someone came in from a local charity; eventually, every day. Finally, Mrs Gedge died, and the ramshackle place stood empty for eighteen months.

  The so-called perfect family bought No. 5. Had local builders and tradespeople in tearing everything out, doing it up, adding an extension, changing the look, making it modern, getting it ready to live in. The family moved up from London. Her, a little blonde slip of a thing with her two identikit children, two girls of preschool age. He, a bull-necked man who always wears a suit, worked in the city – retired at thirty-five or so. Now working from home as an FX currencies trader. You don’t get many high-flyers in Felixstowe. Crane drivers, that’s about it.

  I learned much of this when the young woman, Emma, came round soon after they had moved in. I’d kept myself to myself, as I have always done. She knocked on the front door a couple of times on successive days, but I had seen her from the dining room window and chose not to answer. I do not want to be in other people’s lives, nor them in mine. On her third visit, she caught me as I was out the front, chipping a big lump of bird muck off a downstairs front window, and I could do nothing but have a chat, of sorts, in a polite manner. She was nice enough. Gone within minutes, though. I don’t hang about talking drivel.

  That was early this last summer. I have not spoken to her since. I’ve smiled and waved to her and her children when we passed in the lane on odd occasions. Smile, wave, keep moving, that’s my motto. She acknowledges me and is friendly enough. I’ve only spoken to the husband once. The Man in the Suit, I call him. After a misunderstanding in late summer. When I say spoken, he shouted at me in a threatening manner. I thought he was going to kill me.

  It goes quiet for a moment.

  Outside.

  From number five. A lull, that’s all.

  I write a reply to one of my online friends. I use an anonymous, but friendly, kind of name online and make it clear I am a man, but I do not reveal my age or any other personal details. We live in a time where men like me are assumed to be a scourge on society – a danger to women and children alike.

  I also know that if I say I am a middle-aged man and she is a young girl in her early twenties, some people will jump to the most horrible conclusions. That I am some sort of deviant, wanting her for one thing and one thing only. I am not like that. I am a man who has only ever wanted to love and to be loved. That is all.

  The noise starts up again. Him and her.

  Him, really. Shouting.

  And it brings it all back.

  I had been in the garden on a sunny Sunday afternoon in early August, adding some soil and stones under a part of the patio that was uneven and had a smell of the drains. The two little girls, perhaps two and four years old respectively, were playing in a paddling pool on the other side of the fence and, judging by the squeals and giggles, were having a nice time.

  I found myself listening to their fun and being drawn into it. I kept myself to myself, as ever, but stopped what I was doing to enjoy these happy sounds. From what I could make out, the girls were on their own in the garden, and the mother was inside with the father. I could only hear the sweet little things. Suddenly, I noticed there was silence, and I had a terrible fear that one of the girls might be face down in the water. I moved quickly to the fence where I could see through a broken part.

  All was well. The two girls were sitting side by side in the pool, sucking ice lollies. The mother was stretched out on a sunlounger, sunbathing on her back. She had her top off, and unobserved, I sat there crouched, watching her for some minutes.

  I was aroused, and I am ashamed of what I did. No harm would have come from it, though, if it weren’t for an extraordinary piece of bad luck. As I adjusted my position, shifting my weight from one knee to the other, I caught a broken piece of the fence with the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt, and it moved slightly, making a noise.

  This in itself might not have been an issue – she had her eyes shut, and the children were preoccupied. But by chance, the husband came out at that moment and must have seen or heard me there. I stumbled away, making more noise in my haste, and went back into the cottage, shutting the door behind me.

  There was a minute or two’s silence, and I thought perhaps I had imagined him spotting me. But then there was banging on my front door. And when I did not answer, obscenities were shouted at me. Very nasty words indeed.

  Now, another comment pops up on my screen.

  “You’re a really nice man. But don’t get involved! BIG TROUBLE!”

  Then a more restrained one. “What you are doing is laudable, SimpleSimon, but could be dangerous for you. Be careful.”

  And finally, one that sums up the consensus view. “Donate to charities that help the homeless rather than getting involved personally.”

  I sigh to myself. All these blinkered, narrow-minded opinions. The assumption, almost from every single one of them, is that anyone who has ended up on the streets must be bad in some way – on drugs or a prostitute or an alcoholic or a thief, or 101 other awful things. No possibility that they may have had an abusive parent or step-parent, that the family may have broken up, or they might be down on their luck, or have lost their job and their home through no fault of their own. These people make me feel physically sick.

  I turn off my computer and think about what I should do. There is one last round of shouting from next door, and I hear the woman’s high-pitched scream. A long silence as I wonder if this horror is taking place in front of the children. I feel my mouth go dry and my body tense as I debate whether I have the courage to act. To physically go and help her and the children in some way. I do not think I do. But I know I must do something. I could call the police, anonymously, but doubt they’d turn up for days. But then I hear her shouting back, defiant, and doors are being opened and slammed shut. I hear his car firing up and roaring away.

  I hope he stays gone. He is a man who scares me. After banging on my door and then storming off in the summer, I have barely seen him since. He has stuck his middle finger up at me twice as I walked by with Fluffy in the lane and he was in the front garden. He also called
me a “cunt” on one of those occasions. His children were within earshot. And a few weeks ago, as I was walking up Bluebell Lane with Fluffy, I turned suddenly at the sound of a car accelerating fast on the road behind me. I had to move quickly onto the verge, almost into the hedge, as he raced by in his Audi. I am not sure what he mouthed at me, but judging by his contorted face, it wasn’t very nice.

  I get up from the computer, deciding I will have one last go at finding the girl.

  God help me if I don’t.

  Left alone with the Lump, Widow Woman and the Man in the Suit, I am going stark, staring mad.

  It is well into the early hours. I am lying face down on my bed, still dressed, with my boots on and Fluffy tucked beside me. I am beyond torment.

  I am at the end of my days. I know it. In truth, I have been for some time. The endless descent. This was my last chance of salvation. And it has gone.

  And now, I am at rock bottom. I have nowhere else to go. I turn and look at Fluffy, asleep and making his little snuffling noises. I do not know what to do.

  I went to the seafront at dusk, one final search for the girl. Back and forth between the pier and the theatre on the promenade. In my haste, I bumped into an elderly woman bumbling along, her husband shouting angrily after me as I ran off, calling back, “Sorry, sorry,” as politely as I could.

  Working myself into something close to a frenzy as I searched the shelters and the beach huts, and below the pier, and in all the tucked-away places where I thought she could be hiding. Everywhere. Anywhere.

  Then further on, down towards the docks and by the funfair and the amusements all along the front. Faster and faster. I must have looked a sight by this time, so obviously distressed and hot and drenched in sweat, even in this wintery weather.