by Karen Cole
‘What do you think?’ asks Chris, hovering over me. ‘Have I spelt everything right?’
Despite his size, his physical strength and his outward confidence, Chris is sometimes surprisingly insecure. Especially about stuff like this. He wasn’t academic at school and even though he’s been successful in adult life, setting up his own very lucrative business from scratch, with more practical intelligence than any man I know, that feeling of inadequacy has stayed with him.
‘They’re good,’ I nod. ‘But do you think a reward’s such a good idea? Won’t it result in lots of false leads? People who’re just after the money?’
Chris looks annoyed. ‘Maybe,’ he shrugs. ‘But just maybe one of those leads will help us to find Grace, had you thought about that? It’s too late to change it now, anyway. I’ve already printed off hundreds and the printer has run out of ink.’
‘Ten thousand euros, though. Can we afford it?’ I murmur. Ten thousand euros is a lot more than we have saved in the bank.
‘We’ll find a way,’ Chris says grimly. ‘Can you put a price on our daughter’s life?’
‘No, of course not.’ It goes without saying that I would do anything, pay any amount of money to find Grace, but I don’t know how we can offer more money than we actually have.
‘Well then,’ says Chris, as if the matter is settled. ‘Come on, Jack. Let’s go.’ And he picks up the posters and his keys and heads for the door.
As Chris opens the door Lola comes bounding up, thinking that it’s time for her walk, and I’m suddenly reminded of the doll she found earlier. I guess it must still be out in the garden where I dropped it.
‘Wait, before you go, I want to show you something,’ I say, opening the French windows and stepping outside into the afternoon heat. The doll is still lying there in amongst the dried-up leaves and broken clothes pegs like the victim of some kind of natural disaster.
‘Grace’s doll,’ Chris exclaims as I bring it inside and place it on the breakfast bar. The doll slumps there, staring at us blankly with its one eye. ‘Jesus. What happened to it?’
I shiver. ‘I don’t know. I thought you might?’
He shrugs. ‘Lola?’
‘No, look, those aren’t teeth marks. It’s been cut with a knife or scissors. Anyway, since when have you known Lola to chew anything up?’
‘Jack?’
‘Do you know anything about this?’ I turn to Jack, who frowns and shakes his head. ‘Tell me the truth. Did you do this?’
He curls his lip sulkily. ‘No, of course not. Why would I? I’m not some kind of psycho.’
I sigh and pick up the doll. I know it’s not Jack. It’s not the kind of thing he would do.
I stare into the doll’s empty eye socket and it sends a shiver down my spine. When did I last see it? I’m sure it was recently. It always sits on top of the wardrobe in Grace’s room. Was it there yesterday? I can’t remember. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is a warning of some kind – that there’s someone out there who wishes us ill.
I watch out of the window as Chris and Jack head down the road towards the village, Jack’s tousled ginger head nearly reaching Chris’s broad shoulders. I think how similar they are, how much I love them both and how strange it is that that fact doesn’t give me much comfort. You’d have thought it would make it easier, having a second child, wouldn’t you? You’d have thought I could be grateful that at least I still have Jack, even if I may have lost Grace. But love’s not like that, is it? It’s not quantifiable. It doesn’t divide neatly in half if you have two children or into thirds if you have three. Instead, love is infinite for each child and the loss of any child causes infinite pain.
Looking down at the doll in my hands, I feel a wave of despair washing over me. I let out a howl of anguish and rage and hurl it across the room. It lands in the corner and stares at me with it’s one eye until I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t have that thing in the house with me. I just can’t. Snatching it up, I rush outside and shove it into the bin. I’m just pulling the bag out to take to the collection point when a police car pulls up outside and three officers get out – Dino and Eleni and one other man. Their faces are grim and purposeful, and seeing them, another wave of fear grips my heart. With an effort of will I replace the lid on the bin, wipe my eyes and force myself to walk to the front of the house.
‘What’s happened?’ I blurt as I open the gate.
Dino takes off his sunglasses and gazes at me gravely. ‘Is your husband at home, Mrs Joanna?’ he asks.
‘No. He’s just popped into the village. Why?’
They’ve found Grace, I think. They’ve found her dead and they want to tell me and Chris together. I lean on the gate, trying to breathe. Just tell me, please, I think. Tell me and get it over with.
To be fair to Dino, he looks a little embarrassed as he waves the warrant under my nose. ‘Er . . . Mrs Joanna. We need to search your house.’
They haven’t found her. She’s not dead. Relief floods through me and my legs buckle under me. I hold myself up by clinging onto the gatepost as the police officers sweep past me through the front door and into the living room. But the relief I feel is followed swiftly by confusion and annoyance. Why the hell are they here? They should be out searching the streets, not looking in the one place we know Grace certainly isn’t.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, following them inside. ‘Grace isn’t here.’
Dino shrugs and looks at the floor. ‘Can you take us to her bedroom, please?’
I lead them upstairs, heavy boots tramping after me on the stairs, and I watch helpless as gloved hands go quickly and efficiently to work, picking through Grace’s life, rifling through drawers and papers, exposing her, dissecting her. They are so quick I don’t have time to protest. I don’t have time to hide her dirty knickers still balled up in a corner. I don’t have time to explain why I’ve left that apple core to rot on her desk. There’s no dignity for the missing or for their families, it seems.
‘We’ll have to take her laptop,’ says Eleni, unplugging it, coiling up the lead and placing it in a large plastic bag. ‘Do you know her password?’
‘No, sorry. I wish I did.’
‘Never mind,’ she smiles. ‘We’ll find a way.’
Once they’ve finished in Grace’s room, the police officers spread out and search the rest of the house. They peer into cupboards, climb up to the attic, even tap on the walls. God knows what they’re looking for. Do they think we’ve murdered Grace and hidden her in the walls? The idea would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic.
It makes me feel sick watching this farce and I can’t keep an eye on all of them at once anyway, so I go downstairs to the kitchen and begin to prepare something for tea, turning up the radio loud, trying to block them out of my mind – to pretend they’re not in my house. But Dino follows me downstairs and perches on a stool, watching me thoughtfully as I whisk eggs in a bowl.
‘You didn’t tell us your husband has a criminal record,’ he says loudly over Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.
I put the whisk down and stare at him in surprise. Then I turn down the radio. That was so long ago, before I even met Chris. I’m amazed he even knows about it.
‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ I say. ‘You can’t think that he has anything to do with Grace’s disappearance? He adores Grace.’
‘No, I’m sure he hasn’t,’ Dino says soothingly. He wanders over to the window and casts a speculative eye over the garden. ‘But we have to explore all the options.’
So that’s why this search is so thorough, I realise with a shock. They suspect Chris.
‘Grievous bodily harm,’ murmurs Dino, tapping his fingers on the windowsill. ‘In February 2002.’
‘It was an accident,’ I say. ‘A misunderstanding. I’m sure he can explain it when he gets back, if you give him the chance.’
But I don’t get to hear Chris’s explanation because when he and Jack return from the village Dino pulls Chris to one side and I bundle Jack away into the kitchen. Jack doesn’t know about his father’s past and I certainly don’t want him finding out like this. So I close the door firmly, turn up the radio and dollop out eggs and beans onto our plates.
‘Aren’t we going to wait for Dad?’ asks Jack, pushing his food around with a fork. ‘Why is the policeman talking to him?’
‘He just wants to know a bit more about Grace, that’s all – to help them in their search.’
‘What did they say?’ I ask Chris after the police have gone and Jack is safely tucked up in bed.
Chris winces and rubs his face. ‘They wanted to know about Nathan Brown – what happened in the pub that night. I knew that would come back and bite me one day.’ His face is red and a vein pulses in his head. He stares at the floor tiles angrily. ‘They think I’ve done something to Grace. It’s just ridiculous. You know I would never hurt her, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I say, and I kiss the soft stubble on his head.
But the idea is out there now. It’s been spoken and can’t be unspoken. When we finally get to bed, I lie awake for a long time staring at Chris’s broad back, wondering. But I know Chris and it’s impossible to believe he could ever hurt Grace. As if to prove that to myself I curl my arm around him and press my body against his skin, damp with sweat. He smells of the earth. He smells of home. He makes me feel safe. He always has.
Chapter 12
2004
Thank God Grace is already asleep when the power goes out. She’s terrified of the dark and won’t go to sleep without the light on. I bought her a night lamp a few months ago, in an attempt to get her gradually used to sleeping in the dark, but all that’s happened is that now she insists on having both the lamp and the main light on.
I’m enjoying a few minutes of hard-earned peace, watching an old DVD of Dr Zhivago. I’ve just got to the bit after Dr Zhivago is released from the partisan army and has returned to Yuryatin, where he’s reunited with his lover Lara. It’s my favourite bit of the whole film and it’s just typical of my luck that the electricity has decided to fail at this exact moment.
With a sigh I stand up, feel my way to the window and open the curtains. The lights are still on in the house opposite and the street lamp too. So, it’s not a general power cut, just my house. I fumble for my phone, which I’ve left on the coffee table, use its light to find the fuse box in the hallway and try flicking a few switches. But nothing happens, so I ring my landlord. If I call an electrician myself, I know he’ll refuse to pay – he’s such a tight old git. But even he has to admit that this is an emergency and he agrees to send someone as soon as possible.
I light some candles and sit around watching the shadows flicker on the wall and listening to the sounds of the night, trying not to scare myself. In the blackness it’s hard to stop my mind from straying to dark places. Dave was always full of ghost stories when we were kids. When he wasn’t drunk or high, he would tell us how his Irish mother heard a banshee just before his grandmother died and how a poltergeist invaded their home when he was a teenager. Not that I believe in ghosts. Not really. Dave has always been full of bullshit.
It’s only because I’m alone that my mind is wandering like this. If I had someone to talk to, things would be different. A wave of self-pity and loneliness washes over me as I pick up my phone and scroll through the numbers. Who can I call at this time of night? I don’t know anyone well enough. I’m just wondering if it would be appropriate to ring Anya, a woman I met at toddler group a couple of weeks ago, when a sound carried on the air makes my finger freeze. The high-pitched cry of a baby.
It’s only Grace, I think, trying to laugh at the way it makes me shudder. But it doesn’t sound like Grace and I can’t shake the thought that the cry is thin, more like a baby’s grizzle than the cry of a sturdy three-year-old.
‘Superstitious nonsense,’ I mumble out loud and I fumble my way up the stairs to Grace’s room. But by the time I get there, the crying has stopped. The beam of the torch swings around the room, illuminating the damp patch on the wall and the thin blue curtains, and lands on Grace, asleep in her bed, her little mouth open, breathing softly. A strand of dark hair sticking to her flushed cheek.
Did she cry out in her sleep or did I imagine it? Whatever it was, the crying’s stopped now. But my legs are still shaking, and I’m so wired that I nearly jump out of my skin when there’s a loud knock at the door downstairs.
A large shadow looms behind the glass. I guess it’s the electrician, though it could be an axe murderer for all I know. But I don’t really have a choice. It’s already getting cold now the radiators are off. It’s either let him in or freeze to death.
‘Hiya, mate,’ he says, shaking my hand as I open the door. ‘I’m Chris. You got a problem with your electrics?’ I can’t really see his face in the darkness but his voice, deep with an Essex twang, immediately inspires confidence and I feel myself slowly relaxing. ‘Can you show me where your fuse box is?’ he asks.
I show him the box in the hallway. And then the one upstairs.
‘The fuse has blown,’ he says, and he takes out a tool box and begins rummaging around. I leave him to it and head downstairs. But after just a couple of minutes there’s a noise and the lights come on. Then he comes down the stairs, whistling. In the light he’s younger than I imagined, mid to late twenties, thickset and freckled with very short sandy hair. He stops halfway down when he sees me and gives me that look men sometimes give – the one that means they think you’re fit. I pay no attention. He’s not really my type.
‘There’s a leak in your roof,’ he says, heading to the door. ‘It’s making the electricity short out. I can fix it for you temporarily but if you don’t get your roof seen to, it’ll happen again.’
‘I know. I told the landlord, but he hasn’t done anything.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ he says as he steps out into the cold night air. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’
The next day Chris pulls up outside my house in a blue van with Bright Sparks painted on the side in electric yellow letters and a lightning bolt underneath. He’s beaming from ear to ear as I open the door.
‘I’ve come to fix your roof,’ he says.
‘I thought you were an electrician.’
‘Jack of all trades, that’s me.’
He looks down at Grace, who’s clinging shyly to my leg. ‘Hello, sweetheart.’ And he smiles at me. ‘Well, ain’t she a cutie? What’s her name?’
‘Grace.’
‘Pretty name. Where’s your daddy then, Grace? He at work?’
Grace twists her body, sucks her finger and looks at me. She’s not used to visitors. ‘I don’t have a daddy,’ she whispers shyly.
‘We’re not together anymore,’ I say quickly. It sounds less slutty that way.
Chris doesn’t look shocked. He looks pleased in fact. ‘Well, I have a lot of respect for single mothers,’ he says. ‘My mum was a single mother. Brought us up on her own, she did, worked two jobs. It’s tough doing everything by yourself, I know.’
‘It’s not always easy,’ I agree. I think it’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me, and I feel so grateful I could almost cry.
Chris comes back the next day and the day after that to fix something else. He keeps finding new things to repair around the house. We chat a lot while he’s working, and I find that he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. During one of our conversations he tells me how he used to be in the army stationed in Cyprus.
‘That’s funny, I lived in Cyprus too and I must have been there about the same time as you.’
‘It’s like the universe wanted us to meet,’ he says. And he moves a little closer, giving me that look. When he moves in for a kiss, I don’t try to stop him.
It�
�s only much later, after we’re married, that he tells me about his conviction. We’re on our honeymoon, staying in a B and B in Devon. The heating has only just started working, it’s freezing cold and we’re huddled together under the duvet, trying to keep warm.
‘It was just after I came out of the army,’ he says, his voice muffled in the darkness. ‘It was a difficult time for me. I didn’t know how to live in the outside world. I ended up drinking too much and one night I got into a fight with this bloke. Nathan Hill – right wanker he was, trying to chat up my bird. I pushed him off a wall. How was I supposed to know the wall was way higher on one side than on the other?’
‘Oh my God, was he okay?’
‘He cracked his skull and broke his arm, but he was all right in the end.’
I am silent. Chris turns my face towards his and looks searchingly into my eyes.
‘Do you hate me now?’
‘No.’ I pull him towards me and kiss him on the lips. ‘It’s in the past, isn’t it?’
After all, who am I to judge?
Wednesday, 20th September 2017
Chapter 13
Grace is crying in the back of the car.
‘Shh,’ I say, turning and stroking her cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Gracie.’
But something is very wrong. The car is moving. It shouldn’t be moving, not like this. It’s swaying and rocking like a boat, and when I look out of the window I see black water rising, threatening to swallow us up. We’re in the lake, I realise, and I’m paralysed by terror as thick greenish water starts pouring in through the cracks. We’re sinking and I’m struggling with the straps of Gracie’s car seat, trying to get her out. But they’re jammed, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t unclip them. Water is filling the car, sloshing around. It keeps getting higher and higher until it reaches Grace’s toes, then her waist, then her neck. And I’m crying and screaming but no sound comes out of my mouth. Then we’re both underwater, unable to breathe. We’re going to drown. I make a last desperate attempt to wrestle Grace free. I can’t let her down. She expects me to save her. She needs me to save her.
