The Hidden Girls

by Rebecca Whitney

  Next to Frieda’s gate, a large evergreen shrub has collected clouds of snow in its leaves. On the ground, a fresh line of footprints make a trail between the bush and the front door.

  A movement next to the plant. Then a shadow leans from the leaves. A figure emerges, opens the gate and walks out onto the pavement. Ruth’s temperature plummets – it’s Leila. The girl sets off at a pace down the road. Ruth grabs a jumper and socks, stumbling to put them on, bumping into the chest of drawers in her panic to leave the room. A picture of her sister topples from the dresser onto the floor, glass cracking.

  Giles stirs. ‘Ruth?’ He sits up and blinks. ‘Where are you going?’

  She freezes on the landing, one foot still inside the bedroom. ‘Just going downstairs. Can’t sleep.’

  ‘Really? Did you take your medication on time?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I always do.’

  ‘Then come back to bed, you’ll drop off again if you give yourself a chance.’

  ‘I was going to make a hot milk.’

  Giles pushes the bedcovers back. His feet plonk plonk on the floor. ‘I’ll do it. You go back to bed. Try and rest.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Ruth.’ He’s next to her now, holding her arm and guiding her back into the room. ‘Let me help. You need your sleep too.’

  She takes a last peek from the window but Leila’s gone.

  Back in bed, Ruth shivers under her big jumper, her body boiling and freezing at the same time as a tide of sweat runs down her back. She takes off the extra layer and her pyjama bottoms, kicking the covers aside. Downstairs, a pan clanks. Cups chink as they’re taken from the cupboard.

  Leila will be close to the end of the road by now. Ruth’s nails make tiny crescents of pain on her thighs. She shouldn’t have left the girl alone today, she should have found a way to help there and then, or been brave enough to tell Giles, perhaps even call the police. But what can she do now? There’s no one next door any more, and even if she did take Giles out with her to look for Leila, the girl would hide. Whichever way Ruth comes at the problem, there’s only ever one outcome, and that’s confirmation to Giles that she’s ill.

  Ruth’s husband’s feet are a sturdy trudge on the stairs. He puts a cup at her bedside, another over his side for himself, and props up pillows to rest his back against the headboard. The light stays off.

  ‘Drink,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait with you till you go back to sleep.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. You’ll be tired for work tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s OK. I want you to be rested.’ He turns to her. Light from the street sparkles in his watery eyes. He takes a big breath as if he’s about to sing, but only a whisper comes out. ‘I’m sorry if you being ill is my fault in any way, for leaving it all to you when Bess was first born.’ He strokes her hair, palm warm on her head. ‘I took it for granted you’d just get on with it. You were always so capable, so adamant you didn’t want help. I simply assumed it would be the same with a baby.’ She knows his words are heartfelt because he’s waited until dark to say the things he really means. ‘And I guess that assumption was convenient for me. It made me lazy, a little selfish. But if we had our time again, I’d be more present. I realize now it was all a shock to your system.’ His voice cracks. ‘I want us to be back to how we were. I miss you, Ruth.’

  She holds his hand across the covers. Both of them are shaking. How good this man is, Ruth thinks; she chose well in marrying Giles, did one thing right at least. These long-awaited intimacies need to be shared if there’s any chance of being a couple again, and Ruth wants to leap into the space being opened up for her with her own apologies and failings, of which there are many and mounting, but all she can think is that Leila will have reached the petrol station by now. A young woman is out alone in the night, and no one cares apart from Ruth. And if Leila’s discovered by the wrong people, she’ll be snatched back, then Ruth will have no chance of reaching her ever again.

  Scraps of sleep until morning finally arrives. Ruth is downstairs making Giles a packed lunch, tidying the kitchen, and has Bess dressed and fed before her husband is even out of bed. She fidgets with any extras he might find to help with, kindnesses she’s normally grateful for but will get in her way this morning. A fat black spider lurks in the sink. The drain is partially blocked so the creature must have come up the eggy pipes. Usually, Ruth would cover the spider with a glass, put a card underneath to take it outside, but she hasn’t the patience today and runs the hot water hard until the last of the creature’s legs has disappeared down the plug. From the cabinet in the downstairs toilet, Ruth takes out her pills, pressing one dose into her palm and, with lips to the tap, swallows it with a gulp of warm water. Now there’s nothing Giles needs to stay home for.

  He comes down into the lounge, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and faltering in the dawn of the immaculate room. ‘Wow!’ Ruth is on the floor finishing changing Bess’s nappy. Giles bends to kiss her neck. ‘Those extra hours last night obviously did you good.’

  ‘Yes, thanks for that. Thought I’d return the favour and help get you to work. For once you could be early, imagine that? And you’re going to the pub tonight, aren’t you? Isn’t it Faye’s leaving do?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot about that.’ He stretches and yawns, flicking on the kettle. ‘It seems a bit soon to be leaving you on your own for that long. I’m not sure I’ll go – I mean, I don’t have to.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Ruth says loudly. ‘It will be good for you. And I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Really?’ His inflection is tinged with relief, and he hugs her, breathing her in as if smelling her for the first time. He moves his arm round her waist, their intimacy fully unlocked by last night’s words, and they can touch again without permission. Giles whispers, ‘In fact, I’m sure I could swing it with work to stay home today.’

  Ruth slides from his grip and lifts their daughter from the floor. ‘Bessie’s not due her sleep for another hour.’

  Giles follows Ruth with his hands. ‘You could put her down, perhaps with some toys in her cot?’ He wraps his wife in both arms, seemingly less scared of her breaking. ‘We could give it a try.’

  Ruth is unwashed, with bed-breath and grey underwear. Not an inch of her feels sexy while she’s preoccupied with Leila, and she’s flummoxed too that Giles can so quickly revert to fixing all the broken parts of them with the physical – but the regaining of what’s been lost warms a point inside her. Husband and wife kiss. In spite of herself, she slides her hips into his, and is moments from accepting what they both want when her mind forces her back to a desperate girl who needs her help.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, shaking a little with the effort of pulling away. ‘I’m just not in the mood.’

  Giles’s resentment is plain, his rejection harder to bear because she too needs to continue what they started only the other night. The choice to be a couple has been taken away and there’s no way to explain the real reason, so all fault lies with Ruth.

  ‘If I mess up Bess’s routine,’ Ruth mumbles at the floor so Giles can’t see the tears in her eyes, remembering Sandra’s edict too, that men need sex or they’ll look elsewhere, ‘the day will be chaos.’

  Giles slumps away, grumpy and resigned. He gathers his things to go, sending a few texts before he leaves, his phone pinging with replies, then he cycles off without turning to wave as usual. Ruth rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, so hard it hurts, as the urgency of Leila quickly overtakes her sadness. She collects Bess in her arms and leaves the house, checking down the road to be sure Giles has turned the corner before striding round the back of Frieda’s. Fresh snow has fallen in the night and her footsteps leave a trail on the path behind her. She slides the key into the lock and shoves open the back door, the force of her entrance slamming it against the wall. Bess startles as Ruth charges through to the lounge.

  ‘Leila?’ she calls into the empty space. ‘Leila, are you here?’ No response. She shouts up the stairs. ‘L
eila.’ Silence rolls through the rooms. ‘Please, answer me.’

  A scrape of furniture from above. Ruth’s relief is brief; it’s a heavier noise than she remembers from before. One of the men from the petrol station could have forced Leila to bring him back here, and now Ruth is unprotected in this house with her daughter. She curves herself round Bess, clutching the baby close with a full palm over her little head. Footsteps across the floorboards, slower than Ruth remembers. Her legs shake – they wouldn’t hurt a woman with a baby, would they? She remains by the exit, hand on the latch and ready to run if she needs to, but if she leaves now she’ll never know if Leila is safe. Feet clomp down the stairs. Ruth opens the back door an inch in readiness as Leila appears, limping.

  ‘Leila, thank God!’ Ruth bangs the door shut, relief switching to anger. ‘Where did you go last night? I saw you. It was so late, you left the house.’

  ‘Is crazy doing nothing.’ Leila’s chin crumples and tears spring into her eyes. ‘I have to try to help. Is the first time I go.’

  Ruth moves closer, a hand on the girl. ‘I was worried about you. You mustn’t leave without telling me.’

  Behind Leila’s vulnerability is a simmering rage. She shucks off Ruth’s hand. ‘I can do what I like.’

  Ruth doesn’t react; Leila is a girl struggling with a woman’s problems, a state Ruth recognizes only too well.

  Leila continues, ‘I did not know if you would come back.’

  ‘Of course I was going to. I said I was, didn’t I?’

  ‘How can I trust?’

  Ruth says gently, ‘Well, I’m here, aren’t I?’

  Leila’s shoulders soften and Ruth guides her to the sofa where they sit. A scummy tide mark circles the bottom of the girl’s trousers, the material having soaked up the snow, and her clothes smell musty. The overhead lights have been turned off, leaving only a couple of standard lamps in the corners of the room, and in the twilight of the curtained lounge, Leila’s complexion is as dull and dry as old cloth. It must be weeks since she’s been out in real sunlight.

  Ruth says, ‘Why did you leave? Do you need more food?’

  ‘I went for Farah. I told you, I am too long here and I have to find her.’

  ‘But I thought you didn’t know where she is?’

  ‘I don’t.’ A tiny shake through the sofa, Leila’s fear running into the seat. ‘But I cannot wait any more, so last night I try to find a clue.’ She pulls a white silk scarf with black spots from the pocket of her fleece.

  ‘What’s this? Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Is Farah’s. I found it at the petrol station.’

  ‘You did? How?’

  ‘I broke a window. The room behind the shop is an office.’

  Ruth’s memory spools back to that day when she’d asked about the scream, a group of men in the back room with food on their laps, Katty eating Haribos and putting her finger in Bess’s mouth. A pretty silk scarf hanging from the door handle. ‘God, Leila, what if someone had been there?’

  ‘I had to chance. I was lucky.’

  Outside, barking and growls. A man shouts, then a squeal and yelp, like someone’s kicked a dog. Angry voices trail into the distance.

  ‘But why was the scarf there? Do you think that means Farah’s in the tank?’

  ‘She is not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I looked.’

  ‘Jesus, Leila. How did you even get the manhole up?’

  ‘In the shop is the tool.’ The girl pushes out her bottom lip and shrugs her shoulders. ‘And I am strong when it is for my sister.’

  ‘But what about what the police said? That the tanks are filled with water?’ Ruth thinks back to that night she saw figures emerging from the ground.

  ‘Is no water. I think you call it a sewer? A ladder in the wall to go down. Blocked off at the bottom and dry at least.’

  ‘Huh.’ Ruth slumps back on the sofa, running a hand through her hair. ‘Well, that makes more sense.’ Not a petrol tank at all, but a sewer. She’d be relieved to know she hadn’t imagined people climbing out of the ground if it didn’t make the reality so terrifying. The nails on her scalp hone her focus. ‘So what now then?’

  ‘There is nowhere else to look. Only thing now is to ask Ray.’

  ‘But that’s not possible.’

  ‘Later, I am going to the petrol station. They can take me back, take me to Ray.’

  ‘Leila, that’s crazy.’

  The boiler in the kitchen fires up with a clank and both women jump. Leila leans forward and says more quietly, ‘Is for my sister.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go, Leila. You need to find another way.’

  The girl’s expression blackens. ‘It is not up to you. This I do because there is nothing else.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I do not know what they have done to Farah.’ Leila tips her chin up to Ruth. ‘I was stupid, I should not have left, but I thought I could find help outside.’ Bess tucks into her mother’s neck with an anxious cry and Ruth strokes her daughter’s soft head. Leila continues, lips twitching with anger, ‘Now Mrs Frieda has gone, I have only you.’ She blinks rapidly, keeping her tears inside. ‘And you can do nothing.’ Then she jumps up and limps into the downstairs toilet. The door slams behind her.

  Ruth stands and flattens her ear to the door, knocking gently. ‘Leila?’ No answer. Inside, the trickle of a running tap.

  She uses the pause to fill the kettle, putting teabags and sugar in cups, the familiarity of the ritual giving her space to think. Ruth was only supposed to be feeding Leila, but now she’s giving advice too, actively deepening her involvement and widening her own problems, the repercussions of which could swallow her whole. But it’s nothing compared to what Leila’s going through. Even taking into account Ruth’s illness, Leila’s experienced more hardship in her few years than Ruth ever will; Ruth’s multiple safety nets – family, money, healthcare, citizenship – catch her whenever she falls. She returns to the empty lounge with two mugs in hand, imagining the young woman on the other side of the door, repacking her emotions, weaknesses impractical for both herself and the clients she once had.

  Minutes pass. Steam blows out of the teacups. Ruth changes Bess and feeds her with a pouch of food she keeps in her bag for emergencies. On the wall next to the toilet door is another of Frieda’s photos of the kestrel, perhaps taken on the same day as the picture in the woman’s bedroom. The kestrel is hovering over trees, the chimney pots of the terraces and petrol station roof in the background, the perspective only possible if Frieda had been standing on the sidings looking back towards the street.

  Ruth knocks again on the door. ‘Leila? I’ve made you a drink.’ Silence. Outside, the wheels of a car hiss through slushy snow. ‘Leila!’ No sound from the toilet. Fear rises in Ruth. She thumps the door with her fist and pushes down on the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it bursts open. Leila is standing in the middle of the small room, stripped down to her T-shirt and pants, skinny body lithe with muscle; a street cat honed for battle. Down her arms are bruises, like stains, like hung meat. Ruth puts her hand to her mouth. Leila’s foot is immersed in a shallow tub of water that’s pink with blood.

  ‘Who did this?’ Ruth says.

  The girl’s face is sullen. ‘Last night I cut my foot on glass from the window.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say? Are you OK?’

  Leila’s stooping, so slim it’s like she’s bent over the hollow of her stomach. Wads of bloodied tissues lie on the floor. ‘Maybe I need a bandage.’

  ‘I’ll see if Frieda’s got one.’ She leans in for a closer look. ‘But I think that’ll need stitches.’

  ‘No.’ The girl gently pushes Ruth away. ‘The hospital will ask questions, then I will be sent to detention centre.’

  Ruth measures out her words. ‘And what about the rest?’ She nods at the girl’s arms, lifting the corner of her short sleeve. The bruises continue across Leila’s shoulders. ‘Where did these
come from?’

  Leila pulls away from Ruth, shrugging as if it’s nothing, but her scowl could boil the water. ‘Sometimes Ray, sometimes one of the men who pay.’ She turns bloodshot eyes up to Ruth, challenging her with the same stare she gave before, refusing sympathy, urging action. ‘Farah did not want to work, so she stopped eating, stopped talking. The customers complained she was no good. They did not want to pay if she was difficult, not sexy.’ She stands a little straighter, pained effort in her face. ‘Ray did not hurt her because she was popular, the men pay less for bruises, so he punish me instead to make Farah change.’ Her face is sweating and she tries to rebalance her weight, wincing as she leans too hard on her bad foot. ‘Ray think when Farah sees my pain, will force her to work to make him stop. But I did not tell her what he was doing to me. I was happy for him to hurt me as long as she was safe. Then he sent her away from me. Is why I need to find her. She has no help without me.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Ruth puts a hand to the wall, the totality of Leila’s predicament sweeping under her feet, like the river underneath has scooped out the earth and opened up a sinkhole. She used to think that threats were from aliens or storms, floods and famine, biblical catastrophes that seemed remotely tangible. And whatever energy she had left over she’d used to carry on with her tiny life, fear circling her lovability and the minutiae of childcare, when all around was this other darkness, real and urgent and foul. She’s always known it exists – everyone knows – but there was only so much she could do when all she had was suspicion.