Deceive Me

by Karen Cole

  Grace, I think, dropping the dress I’m holding.

  ‘Grace?’ I call out.

  No answer.

  There it is again behind me, louder this time, and it’s not in the neighbour’s garden. It’s closer than that. It’s coming from the bushes at the far end of our garden. I whip around, gripped by a hope that’s so intense it’s almost fear. But it’s just Lola, carrying something in her mouth. I’d forgotten she was there.

  ‘Lola . . . you gave me quite a fright,’ I say shakily, and she veers away from me, wagging her tail wildly, the way she does when she’s picked up something she knows she shouldn’t have.

  ‘What’ve you got there, girl?’ I ask. But the words choke in my throat as I get closer.

  ‘Lola! Drop that right now! Drop!’

  She drops it immediately. It flops to the ground sticky with saliva. Grace’s doll, the one Hakan sent her shortly after she was born.

  I pick it up and stare at it. It’s a mess. One eye has been gouged out and her plastic belly has been slashed. I drop it to the ground as if it’s burnt my fingers. Then, feeling foolish, I try to laugh. It’s ridiculous to be afraid of a doll. But it’s not the doll itself that scares me, it’s what’s been done to it. It hasn’t been chewed by a dog or an animal, but cut with deliberate anger, with a sharp implement.

  Chapter 9

  2001

  When the doorbell rings I’m sprawled in a beanbag watching a nature documentary on TV. It’s about a lioness who adopts a baby antelope. Instead of eating the antelope, the lioness treats it as her own baby, protecting it from the other lions and refusing to let it wander far from her side.

  I don’t want to answer the door. There’s nobody apart from Hakan that I want to see, and I don’t want to miss the end of the documentary. I want to know what happens to the lion and the antelope calf. But Grace has only just gone back to sleep. I don’t want whoever’s at the door to ring again and wake her up, so I get up and rush to the door.

  It’s the postman. Tall and nondescript, with a slight stoop.

  ‘This one’s from Cyprus,’ he says, smiling and holding out a pen and a clipboard for me to sign. ‘You got friends there? ’Cos my sister lives in Paphos . . . She moved there—’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, cutting him off. I don’t want to waste any more time talking, because I know who the parcel must be from. I scribble my signature on the receipt, snatch the package from him and close the door in his face before he can bore me with details of his sister’s life.

  In the living room I sit on the edge of the sofa, my heart hammering with excitement as I weigh the parcel in my hands. I would have known it was from Hakan even if the postman hadn’t told me that it came from Cyprus. It’s Hakan’s handwriting on the front. I trace the letters reverently with my forefinger. I love the way he writes the J in Joanna with such a bold downward stroke and the n’s, all sharp, impatient angles. Strange how even something as simple as an address written in blue biro can have such a powerful effect on me because I know that he has written it.

  I tear off the brown paper, careful not to rip through the writing, and examine the contents. It’s a doll, with a plastic face and wide, blinking blue eyes. It’s the ugliest-looking doll I’ve ever seen. But I don’t care. I’m not bothered, either, that it’s probably not suitable for a child under three. It’s from Hakan and that’s all that matters. It shows that he cares – that he’s thinking of us. As I take out the doll a folded sheet of paper slips out of the packaging – a letter! It’s just a single sheet but never mind. It’s better than nothing. I can barely breathe as I open it. This is it, I think. He’s going to tell me when he’s coming to England to see Grace.

  Dear Jojo,

  Thank you for the photo of Gracie. She’s a beautiful baby and I will treasure it. Here is a doll for her. Sorry I can’t be there in person to deliver it. Give her a big kiss from her daddy.

  Love, Hakan

  That’s it. No kisses for me. No promise to come and visit. No real sign that he feels any regret for the decision he’s made. I feel physically sick as I scrunch up the paper and fling it into the bin. Then, after a couple of minutes, I fish it out again and try to smooth it, poring over his words, searching for anything, the smallest hint of love. But there’s nothing.

  I watch the end of the nature documentary, tears blurring my vision. It does nothing to cheer me up. In the end the baby antelope gets thinner and thinner as it has no mother’s milk to drink and, eventually, one morning when they go to the watering hole to drink, it gets eaten by a male lion.

  Chapter 10

  Where are you, Grace? Why are you doing this to us?

  She has been missing for over thirty hours now. And I know from all the TV dramas I’ve seen over the years that the first forty-eight hours are the most crucial in a missing person’s investigation. After forty-eight hours the trail often goes cold. We need to find her soon.

  I park near the marina and walk along on the beach side of the road. The harsh midday sun glares down, reflecting off the sand and the pavement. The sun loungers are full of tourists marinating in their own sweat. Children romp in the water, laughing and splashing. It seems like another world – a world that has no connection to me anymore. The world I live in is a much darker place, a place a million miles from theirs.

  Andreas is already at the café, sitting outside at one of the tables, hunched over his smartphone. He doesn’t see me immediately. He’s absorbed in something on the screen, his face screwed up in concentration. Could this boy have hurt my daughter? I wonder. I’m suspicious of everybody and everything lately. But what motive would he have to hurt Grace? And he looks like an ordinary teenaged boy. But sometimes, I remind myself, appearances can be deceptive.

  I order a coffee and carry it over to his table.

  ‘Hi, Andreas. Thanks for meeting me,’ I say, taking off my sunglasses.

  He looks up and twitches nervously. His tongue flicks over his lips. Grace and Maria used to call him Sideshow Bob, I remember – a reference to the character in The Simpsons. It’s a very apt name for him, I realise, looking at him now, but surprisingly cruel. My Grace can sometimes be cruel. Not intentionally, I think, but cruel, nonetheless. The careless cruelty of the young and blessed. I know that because in recent months I’ve been her victim. I tell myself that people always hurt those they love the most but I’m not sure that’s true and, sometimes, I wonder if Grace loves me at all anymore.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Andreas shrugs and puts his phone down on the table.

  I sit down opposite and smile in a way that I hope is not too intense. ‘I’m talking to all Grace’s friends to find out if anybody knows anything that could help us find her.’

  ‘Yes, you said,’ he replies in a monotone. His eyes are dull and bloodshot like he hasn’t had enough sleep and his pupils are small like tiny pinpricks. I guess what Maria said about him being a junkie is probably true. I’m sure he’s been taking drugs. I couldn’t live ten years with my stepfather and fail to recognise the signs.

  ‘But I don’t see how I can help,’ he adds. ‘I really don’t know anything. Grace and me . . . we aren’t all that close.’

  ‘Maria said you’ve become good friends recently.’

  He blushes faintly. ‘Yeah, well, I suppose you could say that.’

  ‘Grace really admires you,’ I try. There’s no harm in a bit of flattery to oil the wheels. ‘She says you’re the cleverest boy in her class.’ It’s true. She did say that. I don’t mention the other things she said about him. That he was weird, that he creeped her out. That he was always staring at her.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, bright red now.

  ‘You talked to her on Monday morning. The morning she went missing.’

  He starts visibly. ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maria says Grace stopped to talk to you on their way to the first lesson.�
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  ‘Oh yes . . . that’s right. I’d forgotten. We only exchanged a couple of words.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘It was about our art homework. She wanted to know what we had to do.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  You’re lying, I think, but why? I lean forward across the table.

  ‘Maria says you gave Grace something?’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks upwards, as if trying to remember. ‘I took a photo of Grace on my phone and then showed her. Maybe that’s what Maria saw.’

  ‘Why did you take a photo?’

  This time the answer comes quickly, glibly almost. ‘It was for the programme. I’m designing the programme for talent night. We need a photo of all the people taking part.’

  ‘Grace entered talent night?’ I say, bemused. ‘She never told me. What was she going to do?’

  ‘She was going to play the guitar and sing,’ he says, ‘along with a couple of other people.’

  ‘Sing?’ Grace hasn’t got a bad singing voice, but she’s always been self-conscious about it. I can’t imagine her voluntarily choosing to sing in front of a crowd and I wonder if Andreas is making the whole thing up.

  ‘Can I see?’ I ask.

  ‘I haven’t finished it yet.’

  ‘No, I mean, can I see the photograph of Grace?’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ He shrugs, scrolls through his phone, taps the screen and hands it to me.

  I draw in my breath at the sight of her. It’s like being punched in the gut. There she is, just a day and a half ago, so alive and vibrant – my beautiful Grace with that slight dimple, the elfin chin. No wonder Andreas is infatuated with her, I think. No wonder Tom gave up his degree and his life in England just to be close to her. I peer at the photo. In it, Grace is fiddling with the gold pendant around her neck, the pendant with the aquamarine stone that Tom gave her for her sixteenth birthday. I’d forgotten she was wearing that. I zoom in on her face, searching for a clue to what she was thinking, but her expression doesn’t give much away. There’s a sort of ironic half-smile on her lips, the kind of smile she gives when she thinks you’re trying to trick her.

  What were you thinking at that moment, Grace?

  ‘Where are the photos of the other kids?’ I ask. If he’s telling the truth, I think, there will be photos of the other people taking part in the talent show.

  Andreas seems unphased. ‘If you scroll back, you’ll see them,’ he says coolly.

  I swipe left and sure enough, there are pictures of other children: a group of long-haired teenaged boys posing with guitars, a graceful-looking girl balancing on one leg, toes pointed, arms outstretched. Funny, I could have sworn he was lying. I swipe further back through his pictures and come across a series of photos of crumbling buildings, an empty guard post and a photo of a house which must have once been beautiful, blue shutters hanging off their hinges, peeling plaster and ornate railings along the balconies. There’s something about the photos; maybe it’s the light or the angle they’re taken from, but they manage to convey a feeling of desolation.

  ‘These are good,’ I say.

  He smiles and suddenly looks handsome. ‘I’m doing an art project about Cyprus as a divided island. You know, after the Turkish invasion a lot of the land was left empty when people evacuated their homes.’

  I nod. I’ve been to Varosha, the ghost city in the no man’s land between the North and the South. I’ve seen the miles of deserted sandy beaches and empty hotels, abandoned after the invasion in 1974. But, as far as I remember, entry is strictly forbidden, and there are signs prohibiting the taking of photographs near the checkpoints.

  ‘Are you even allowed to take these?’ I say.

  He grins and pushes his hair behind his ears. ‘No. It’s not allowed. I have to be careful not to be seen.’

  ‘Do you often go there?’ I ask thoughtfully, handing his phone back.

  He shrugs. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘According to the police, Grace crossed over to the North on Sunday. Do you know why?’

  He looks genuinely surprised, shakes his head and slips his phone into his pocket. ‘No, she didn’t say anything about that . . .’ He blinks and chews his fingernails. ‘Like I said, we’re not all that close.’

  ‘So, you have no idea who she might have gone to see there?’

  He shakes his head and looks down into his Coke. I scrabble in my bag and pull out the scrap of paper I found in Grace’s pocket.

  ‘Do you know someone called Marilena? Is it someone at school maybe?’

  ‘No . . .’ he says. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes.

  I lean forward, convinced I’m on to something. ‘Are you sure? Because you seemed to react, just then, when I said the name.’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s just that my mum was called Marilena. But Grace didn’t know her. Why would she write my mother’s name down?’

  ‘Was?’ I say, without thinking. ‘Your mum was called Marilena?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says bluntly. ‘She’s dead. She died in a car crash three years ago.’

  There is no emotion in his voice, as if it’s a totally normal thing to lose your mother when you’re . . . what? He must have been just thirteen at the time. Nearly the same age as Jack. I shudder. But Jack will never lose me . . . I won’t let that happen.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, and my eyes mist up, because I know what it’s like to lose your mother at such a young age. Even if my mother didn’t actually die, she might as well have for all the use she was.

  ‘Thanks.’ Andreas looks down at the ground and shrugs.

  ‘What about your dad?’ I ask gently.

  ‘Oh, he left years ago.’

  ‘So, do you live alone?’

  ‘No. I live with my older brother.’

  That must be the older brother Maria mentioned, I think – the one she said was involved with the mafia.

  I look around the café. There’s a man hunched over a cigarette and an espresso and a couple of young mothers chatting, their babies asleep in prams. My heart goes out to this boy who has lost so much at such a young age and has somehow found the strength to carry on. But I can’t forget that he could have had something to do with Grace’s disappearance.

  ‘Did you see which direction Grace headed after she spoke to you yesterday morning? Because she didn’t turn up to her biology lesson.’

  He frowns. He looks down, his eyes not meeting mine. ‘I don’t know. I think she said something about going to the toilet.’

  Why is everyone lying to me, I think. First Maria, now Andreas. Or is it me? Am I becoming paranoid?

  Chapter 11

  It’s seven thirty. Grace has been missing for thirty-three hours and I’ve been awake almost as long, running on pure adrenalin. My head is buzzing, and I keep seeing lights flashing in front of my eyes. On the drive home, I black out for a moment at the traffic lights and when I come around there’s a long queue of cars behind me hooting angrily.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Chris asks curiously when I get home. ‘I thought you wanted to stay here in case Grace turned up.’

  ‘I did,’ I say. ‘But that boy, Andreas Pavlou, got in contact. Maria must have told him we wanted to speak to him. I thought it was too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘Oh? And?’ Chris stares at me. ‘Did he have anything useful to say?’

  ‘Not really. He claims she just asked him about homework and that was the last he saw of her.’

  ‘Claims? You didn’t believe him?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure.’ I try to put my finger on exactly why I had the impression that Andreas was lying but I find it hard to put it into words.

  ‘He said that Grace was taking part in the school talent night. Did you know anything about that?’

  ‘Sure, she was
going to sing that Carole King song, you know the one – “‘Killing Me Softly With His Song”.’

  I do know the one. I can hear her now in my head, strumming her guitar in her room, struggling over the higher notes. Why didn’t she tell me? I think sadly. I suppose it’s just another sign of how far apart we’ve grown over the past few months.

  ‘Oh, I don’t fucking know . . .’ I say, suddenly feeling totally overwhelmed and exhausted. ‘I don’t know anything anymore.’

  ‘Shh.’ Chris presses his finger to his lips and tilts his head over to where I notice Jack for the first time, sprawled on the sofa. With the exception of a couple of road rage incidents, I don’t think I’ve ever sworn in front of him and he’s put down his phone and is staring at me, eyes wide with shock.

  ‘Hey, Jack. Sorry, I’m not myself at the moment,’ I say, sinking into the sofa next to him and ruffling his hair. ‘You okay?’

  He nods and looks up at me, but there’s so much sadness in his face that I want to weep. I gaze into his grey eyes and notice the dark shadows under them. I notice too his unbrushed hair and the black dirt in his nails. He looks like a neglected child and I feel a pang of guilt. I’ve been so caught up in worrying about Grace I haven’t been thinking about Jack at all and I’ve forgotten about the impact that all this must be having on him. Since his tears on the night Grace went missing, he hasn’t really shown any obvious emotion and he hasn’t spoken about her at all, but I know that he must be taking this hard.

  ‘We’ve been busy while you’ve been out, haven’t we, Jack?’ says Chris with false heartiness. ‘Jack’s been helping me make some posters. We were just about to go into the village with them when you got back.’

  He fetches a large pile of papers from the top of the dresser and hands me the top one.

  MISSING PERSON is written in large red letters across the top, above the photo we gave the police, the one of Grace on her sixteenth birthday, blowing out the candles on her cake. She’s staring directly into the camera and the look in her eyes, so happy and carefree, claws at my heart. Grace Appleton it says underneath. Ten thousand euros reward for information leading directly to her safe return.