by C J Parsons
‘Yes, a glass of water would be good.’ She started to get up, but the officer held out a hand to stop her.
‘I’ll get it.’ The chair scraped backward as the policewoman rose, still speaking. ‘Sofia isn’t at Simon’s flat, so I need you to think about where else he might have taken her. Was there a place they liked to go together?’
Carrie closed her eyes as she considered the question. Heard the squeak of the kitchen tap, then the swish of water against glass. She focused inward, tuning into memories of Sofia’s bright voice chattering about her day out with Daddy.
Daddy pretended to be a shark and grabbed my ankle and I swallowed some water, but I spat it at him like a whale . . .
A girl got stuck in the rope tunnel and Daddy had to go and get her because she was crying and her mummy was too fat to fit in there.
I went on the pirate ship all the way up to the crow’s nest but there was no crows and no nest . . .
The memories battered her heart, leaving fresh bruises.
When she reopened her eyes, the policewoman was back in her seat and there was a glass of water on the table between them. Carrie sipped from it gratefully, wetting her parched throat. ‘The Kensington Leisure Centre pool. It’s a five-minute walk from his flat.’ Another sip. ‘Bundy’s: an indoor play centre in Hammersmith. But only when the weather’s bad.’ A longer gulp. ‘The Princess Diana Playground.’ She stared emptily over the rim of her glass, blinking fast. ‘Oh. And sometimes the zoo. Sofia and I are members.’
The DCI nodded as she jotted this onto her notepad. Then she put down the pen and leaned across the table, making Carrie recoil automatically.
‘Now, I’m going to repeat a question I asked you earlier. And this time I want you to think very carefully about your answer. Because it will help determine whether this case justifies the current level of police involvement.’
Carrie crossed her arms over her stomach and turned her gaze towards the living area. A couple of reporters had shown up a few minutes ago, so someone had drawn the curtains to keep their cameras out. It made the house feel smaller, like a cave. The kilim rug had been rucked up against the wood by all the investigators who had been and gone, distorting the geometric pattern. Carrie was suddenly conscious of her breathing – growing faster – and of the charged bursts of adrenalin now overlaying the nausea that had hung in the background since Sofia’s disappearance. Because she didn’t need to be able to read the officer’s face to guess which question was coming back.
‘Has Simon ever harmed your daughter?’
And just like that, she was trapped. Because if she lied, the police would think Sofia was safe and scale back their efforts to find her. And if she told the truth, they would know that Carrie was an unfit mother. She picked up the water glass again, just for something to hold on to.
A knife. Blood falling like dark tears.
The images boiled back up. And this time, she didn’t push them away.
Her fault, all of it had been her fault. If Carrie had been whole, had been normal, it would never have happened. In fact, the entire relationship with Simon would probably never have happened. Because she had believed him when they’d met for the first time, in the waiting room of the Riverside Psychiatry and Psychology Practice. Just here for a spot of depression. Nothing serious. Gone now, but thought I should speak to the doctor about it. That’s what he’d told her and she hadn’t thought to question it. Because she couldn’t read the lie in his face. And it had lowered her guard, meeting him that way. Because in that room, no one was a freak or an outcast. They were all adrift in the same boat: just a bunch of lost souls in search of a map. So she had told him straight away about her trouble understanding people and making herself understood. He had responded with a smile – a big, easy-to-read one – and suggested they go for a pint together after their appointments.
They had spent the afternoon on a breezy pub terrace by the river, drinking beer and eating mussels and fat chips. For Carrie, it had been a novel experience. Normally, she responded to the tug of sexual cravings by putting on her short black dress and going to a club – one with loud music, so she wasn’t expected to speak. Lots of alcohol, so when she got things wrong, the men put it down to that.
But there was no music on the terrace and their conversation had lasted for hours. It was Simon who had kept the words flowing, with his easy banter and an endless supply of questions. And she remembered thinking that anyone watching would have believed they were just another couple, chatting over beer. She’d never felt so normal.
That evening, on her doorstep, he’d kissed her goodnight, tasting of lager and smelling of soap. Of clean, new things.
And it had been good. Great, even. For months, she had felt like she belonged in the world, as if somebody finally understood her – maybe even loved her, though he’d never actually said that. Carrie hadn’t realised how dim and shadowy her life had been until Simon shone his light into it.
And then, on the day she’d found out she was pregnant, it had happened for the first time.
She had asked him to meet her at the Black Sheep. Christmas was only two weeks away, so the pub was decked out for the holidays. Tinsel snaked up the Edwardian pillars and a fake tree sparkled in the corner. A bartender in a Santa hat was ladling mulled wine from a plug-in cauldron. The smell of cloves drifted over, sending Carrie’s stomach into a queasy roll. The pub was busy: couples and groups were crowded into booths and perched on stools, taking a break before the next assault on the shops, their purchases bagged at their feet. Carrie had been lucky to land a window table. Rain squiggled down the pane, warping the faces of the pedestrians hustling past, their shoulders hunched against the downpour.
Looking back, she remembered noticing the beads of sweat on Simon’s forehead. Should she have read something into that? Or into his refusal to take off his woollen coat, despite the pub’s stuffy heat? Perhaps. But, to be fair, she’d been distracted. Nearly two hours had passed since she’d taken the test, but the shock of it was still spinning inside her, making her feel sick. The world seemed tilted off its axis, her mind wheeling around the moment of realisation. How had this happened? Everything she’d thought she was, everything she had assumed her life would become, had been upended in less than two minutes.
She watched Simon pick up a cardboard coaster (an advert for London Pride) and spin it on its end, the disc blurring with motion before losing momentum and stuttering to a halt. It occurred to her that she was standing on the border between ‘before’ and ‘after’. In a moment she would tell him and everything between them would change. How would he react? Would he get angry and stalk off? Or clasp her hands and say that it was all going to be OK – that she should let it happen? Carrie cradled her mug of tea. Was that really an option? It seemed impossible. Unimaginable. She wasn’t the right sort of person.
Simon’s shoulders jerked up and down: a fast-forwards shrug. Then his eyes narrowed, as though trying to bring something distant into focus.
Carrie took a sip of tea. Her throat was dry and she could feel her heart surging.
‘Simon, there’s something I need to tell you.’
He stared wordlessly across the table, gnawing on a lip. Usually he was a talker, filling the gaps she seemed to create. But not this time. In the pause that followed, she could hear Mariah Carey singing ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’. A pair of women at the bar began swaying with the beat, high-heeled boots hooked over the struts of their stools.
She put down the cup. ‘I took a test this morning. Because of what happened last month after we went to see that play? And—’
A muscle jumped in his cheek. She’d never seen it do that before.
‘What are all these people doing here?’ His volume rose with each word, drawing eyes their way. Heads turned. Carrie looked around, puzzled, scanning the pub’s patrons, trying to work out who he was talking about.
‘No, they’re staring at me, can’t you see that?’
She glanced around again before shrugging.
‘Maybe a few of them are now. But only because you raised your voice.’
He ignored her, twisting in his seat to address a couple standing beside the bar: a skinny man and an auburn-haired woman holding a Hamleys bag with an enormous stuffed giraffe poking out of the top.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ he shouted. ‘Is there a problem?’
Mariah Carey’s voice became clearer as the babble it had been competing against suddenly dropped away. The woman took a step backward, mouth opening. Her companion held up a palm and said: ‘Whoa, easy mate, we were just looking out the window to see if it’s still raining.’
‘Raining?’ Simon squinted, as though trying to see something hidden behind the word.
Then the woman picked up the Hamleys bag and touched her companion’s shoulder, leading him away, towards the other end of the bar. A moment later the buzz of conversation rose again, swamping the music.
The muscles of Simon’s face were squirming under his skin. Carrie put a hand on his and felt a tremor there, like a current passing through his body.
‘What’s happening, Simon? Is something—’
He snatched his fingers away.
‘Wrong? That’s what you’re about to say isn’t it? You think there’s something wrong with me. I thought you were different, but you’re just like all the others. Trying to get rid of me.’
Carrie withdrew her hand, letting it drop into her lap, where it clutched at the navy hem of her jumper as she tried to work out what he meant. Her gaze moved instinctively to the ceiling, taking comfort in the solidity of it, the physical logic. She understood perfectly the balance of brick and beam. The way a vaulted ceiling displaced its burden and the interlocking puzzle of the roof tiles beyond. Form, function, aesthetics. These were things she knew and was able to translate – into wood and stone, glass and concrete. But the crease of an eye, the pull of a lip, the tilt of a head. She couldn’t translate those.
When her gaze returned to Simon, he was staring across the table, teeth clamped together, breath loud and fast. Where was the patient lover who baked his own bread and brought her toast and coffee in bed? A stranger seemed to have taken his place. Had there been clues along the way? Signals that everyone around her had read in his face?
‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, Simon. I was simply asking . . .’
He banged a fist against the table, making her jump.
‘Bitch!’ A fleck of spittle flew across the space between them, hitting her on the cheek. ‘I see what you’re up to, but I’m not going to let you get away with it.’ Then his voice dropped. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you? You’re blind, so you can’t see who I really am.’
He leaned closer, until she could smell the beer on his breath, and a sour smell underneath, as if he’d forgotten to brush his teeth. She sat perfectly still, paralysed by shock and confusion.
‘Poor little Carrie. You have no idea what I’m capable of.’ His lips curved into a smile-shape. ‘But don’t worry; you’ll find out. You just wait.’
Five
The first thing Sofia noticed when she woke up was the pain. It felt as if a tiny person was inside her head, kicking the same spot over and over again.
Bang-bang-bang.
She squeezed her eyes tighter shut. Zion, who sat behind her at school, sometimes kicked the back of her chair over and over until she got so mad she shouted at him and then the teacher got mad at Sofia for shouting in class, which wasn’t fair. But this was a million times worse, because that chair-kicking was just annoying, and this also hurt. And another thing was: her mouth felt sticky and dry. She needed a glass of water. She would ask Mummy to get her one.
Sofia opened her eyes.
And let out a shout of surprise. Because instead of the mobile of a seagull with wings that flapped when you pulled the string, there was a dirty ceiling made of planks of old wood. And lots of old spiders’ webs that the spiders didn’t want any more, which were called cobwebs. Sofia sat up, making everything swirl around her. The headache kicked harder and a school of white spots flickered in front of her eyes like burning fish.
Where am I?
Her heart banged against her rib cage as if it was trying to get out of there. Her eyes flew around the tiny room. She was on a blow-up mattress with a thin blanket that had fallen down onto her lap when she sat up. The penguin from the park was lying on the floor at the foot of the mattress. The only other things in the room were a broom and a rake with rust on it leaning in the corner. Then she saw something good on the floor beside her: a big glass of water and a plate with a cheese sandwich. Relief coursed through her. Mummy must have come in and left that there, which meant she was somewhere nearby. Sofia’s panic ebbed, and she remembered that she was thirsty. She drank the water until she had to stop to catch her breath. Then looked around again. What was this place? How did she get here? She remembered going all the way to the top of the rocket. Seeing the penguin, going to give it a hug. And then . . . She searched inside her head but there was nothing else. Maybe she’d played a game of hide-and-seek afterwards and this was her hiding spot, but then she fell asleep and forgot about it?
The kicking in her head wasn’t so bad now that she’d had the water, and her thoughts were going in more of a line and less of a tangle. But now that her thoughts were clearer they were starting to get scary again. If Mummy had been here with the sandwich, why did she go away and leave Sofia all by herself? She stood up and the room swung around her. Except she could see now that it wasn’t really a room. More like a tiny wood house with a door painted green. It must be a shed, like the one at the end of their garden, except with no piles of boxes and no Mummy’s bicycle. There were two windows with bars on. She could see the sky through them: cloudy and starting to get dark. The scared feeling was getting bigger, wriggling around inside her stomach. She went to the door and grabbed the handle, which was shiny and new, even though the rest of the door looked old. Tried to open it. But the handle wouldn’t turn. She pushed and pulled and twisted and then she kicked the bottom of the door until she hurt her big toe. But it wouldn’t move.
‘Mummy?’ she called through the green wood, then waited for the familiar footsteps. But there was nothing. Just a big, empty silence. She could feel the fear getting bigger now, expanding like a balloon until it filled up her insides, pressing against the walls of her chest. She beat against the door with both fists, screaming.
‘Mummy!’
The house suddenly seemed quieter. Carrie could hear the clock above the fridge. Tick-tick-tick. The sound of time crawling and crawling, going nowhere. She spread her fingers against the kitchen table, pressing her palms against it. The policewoman’s question seemed to spread, like a noxious gas, until it filled the house.
Has Simon ever harmed Sofia?
How long had it been since the officer had said those words? It felt like a long time, but she was still waiting silently, so perhaps it had only been a few moments. Time had been doing strange things since Sofia’s disappearance. Stretching and sprinting and stopping altogether. Even moving backward, flowing into the past. She drew in a long breath. Clenched her toes against the wood floor.
‘Yes, Simon has harmed Sofia.’ It surprised even her, how flat her speech sounded. As though all the fear and confusion had been gated back somewhere along the synaptic pathway between thought and speech, refused permission to complete the journey.
The policewoman nodded. ‘When?’
‘Six weeks ago. May fourteenth.’
The officer’s lips rubbed sideways, back and forth against each other.
‘I’ll need you to talk me through exactly what happened. From the beginning.’
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br /> ‘OK,’ Carrie said. And in a way, it was easy. Because the memory was right there on the surface, just waiting to be let out.
Anyone can see he’s not right in the head.
That’s what the old woman had said. But it wasn’t true, was it? Because Carrie couldn’t see. Carrie was blind.
Still, she couldn’t put all of the blame on her condition. The truth was, she had let her guard down. Because everything had been fine up until that day. There had been no repeat of the scene in the pub – not in the three years they’d been a couple, or the two years since the split. The heightened emotions of breakup had flattened into civilised routine. The childcare handovers had been uneventful, the conversations cordial. Simon was always friendly, punctual, respectful. So somewhere along the way, she had stopped searching his face, analysing his words, running through the memorised checklist of warning signs from his doctor. And, of course, Sofia loved seeing him. Daddy, with his booming laugh, animated speech and easy affection. Daddy, tossing her into the air and catching her, making jokes only the two of them could understand, setting off overlapping waves of laughter. There was no point denying it: Carrie had been jealous. Jealous of their closeness and their giggling and the way their faces and bodies moved when they were together. She’d certainly been jealous that afternoon, as she watched her daughter waiting at the living room window, hopping from foot to foot, as though her body wasn’t big enough to house the excitement of waiting for her father to appear. The zoo, he’d said. Then dinner. Swimming the next morning. He would bring her back on Sunday at 6 p.m., as usual.
Carrie had noticed the sheen of sweat on Simon’s forehead when she’d opened the door, but it was unseasonably warm that day, so she’d assumed that was the reason. And, yes, she remembered thinking his eyes were open a bit wider than usual, but she’d been taught that widening of the eyes was associated with excitement, so she’d put it down to anticipation of a weekend with his daughter.
