by Suzy K Quinn
‘You know, Lorna, even criminals get visitation with their children. Why don’t you set something up? In a safe space.’
I swallow, feeling sick. ‘If you knew him like I do, you wouldn’t even suggest something like that.’
‘So tell me about the guy. Then maybe I could know him like you do. Why is everything such a big secret? What did he do that was so bad?’
I roll away from Nick, imagining packing boxes, separating finances … who will stay in the house? Me or him? It has to be him. Darcy can’t go through another house move so soon, not now she’s settled. It’s not fair. But then again, I chose this area for a reason. A good reason. God – how is this going to work?
I roll back again. ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘If Liberty gets close to her father, he’ll turn her against me. That’s what he does.’
‘I know he hurt you.’
‘It wasn’t just me he hurt.’
‘Isn’t Liberty old enough to make this choice for herself now? Isn’t it her right?’
‘No.’
There is a heavy silence.
‘What are you so afraid of, Lorna?’
‘Her father doesn’t have any feelings.’
‘That’s all?’
I hesitate. ‘Trust me. It’s enough.’
Once upon a time …
The night after I slept with Michael, I woke to the sun rising through slatted metal blinds. It was cold on the tour bus, with cloying, damp air. The window was slightly open and morning flowed over my naked body. My mouth was dry and sugary. I wanted to shower and brush my teeth, but I was in heaven. Everything was perfect.
I looked around glossy, fibreglass walls, smiling, smiling. I’d fallen asleep wrapped up in Michael’s arms. As I blinked away sleep and felt my nakedness, I rolled around to find Michael’s eyes were open too.
‘Good morning, my gorgeous girl,’ he said. ‘Welcome to this beautiful day.’
He had a craggy face that looked even older in the morning light and he smelt of beer and whiskey. There were lines all around his eyes and one huge groove along his forehead. But to me he was beautiful. My handsome prince. My hero. His eyes were intense, mesmerizing pools of light.
‘I think I love you,’ I told Michael, eyes all big and dumb and earnest. Jesus. What an idiot I was.
Michael said: ‘Love is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? In all its forms.’
‘So … where do we go from here?’ I asked.
‘You can’t always have a plan. Right?’ Michael pulled me into his arms, holding me against his bare chest.
‘We’ll see each other again, won’t we?’
‘The band and I leave for Washington tonight,’ said Michael. ‘We’re doing some photos today, then we hit the road. The big world tour, starting in the US.’ He took my hand and drew a road down my palm. ‘Washington. Atlanta. Houston. You wanna come with us? Be our lucky mascot?’
‘You’d take me with you?’ I asked, sitting up. ‘On tour?’
Michael laughed, showing white teeth in black stubble. ‘You know, it’s just travelling on a bus with a load of old men. That’s all a tour is. But sure. I’d love to have you along. We’ll keep you a little bit quiet, though.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, my wife can’t find out about you, right? Or there’d be trouble.’
I sat bolt upright. ‘Your wife?’
‘You must know about Diane. You’re a fan, aren’t you?’
‘I knew you got married when you were really young. Your childhood sweetheart. But I thought …’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t realize … you’re still together?’
‘Together is too strong a word for it. We’re friends. Good friends. Not a husband and wife in the true sense. But it would break the poor girl’s heart if I put her through a divorce right now. She’s just lost her father.’
Happiness drained away like warm bathwater, leaving me cold and exposed.
‘I would never have stayed last night if …. I had no idea you were still married.’
‘I told you.’ Michael lay back then, arms falling away from me. ‘Diane and I are just friends these days. But it’s your choice, Lorna. If it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. I’ll tell you something though – last night was magic.’
A lump hit my throat when he said my name. ‘It was more than magic. Last night was the best night of my life.’
I sure didn’t know about playing it cool back then …
‘You and I have a soul connection,’ said Michael, stroking my hair. ‘I felt it the moment I saw you. I believe in that kind of love. Soul love. Not bits of paper, who belongs to who. Boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, all those labels. You love who you love when you love them. But it sounds like the world down here has a hold over you. The planets aren’t aligning.’
‘I have to go.’ I pulled a blanket around my body and searched the shiny floor for my clothes, tears coming.
Michael sat up, watching me. ‘Listen, you blew me away last night. Totally blew me away. We had a good time together. Soul mates always meet again. Maybe not in this life but another one.’
As I opened the bedroom door, I saw two other sleeping bodies in the lounge area: girls from outside the stage doors last night. They were naked and partially covered with blankets.
It looked sordid and I felt the cheapness of it all – young girls sleeping with musicians who couldn’t care less about them.
Michael came to the door. ‘I can see that pretty little brain working. Put all that down. All that stress. That’s what gave you cancer.’ He put a hand to my chest. ‘We’re old souls, you and I. We’ll meet again somewhere, somehow.’
My chest felt warm with his touch. Like he was imparting some kind of energy.
‘I wish you weren’t married.’
Michael kissed my head. ‘Danny will take you home. Okay? We’ve got my little Jaguar F-Type tucked under this bus, believe it or not. It’s in the hold, right underneath us. How about that? Don’t say anything to the press, will you? Don’t be that girl.’ He pushed the door all the way open. ‘Danny,’ he shouted down the bus. ‘Danny – this girl needs a ride home.’
The driver poked his head out from the cab at the front.
‘You’ll be safe with Danny,’ said Michael, slinging his arm around my shoulder in a pally way. ‘I’ve known this man for years. He’ll look after you. Okay, love?’
The term of endearment felt dismissive. Disconnected.
I felt the cold, hard thump of the bedroom door closing behind me.
Lorna
It’s 8 a.m.
‘Liberty?’ I yell up the stairs. ‘What’s happening up there? It’s nearly time for school.’
Liberty still hasn’t come down for breakfast. Usually she’s up at seven, walking the grounds with Skywalker.
She’s angry with me, I’m sure. Sulking.
I wonder how well she slept last night. I only managed a few hours.
This morning, I’m determined to smooth things over.
Last night was not a good night.
I’ve made Liberty a fresh fruit plate with a side of yoghurt, coconut and quinoa – her favourite.
Nick and Darcy have already eaten breakfast omelettes and left for nursery. Cheddar cheese omelette with crunched-up cornflakes for Darcy; spinach, feta and tomato for Nick.
Omelette is Nick’s speciality, and the only thing he can cook well. He makes omelette for himself and Darcy every morning, and sometimes for lunch and dinner too.
‘Liberty?’
I carry Liberty’s fruit plate to the table and adjust slices of fruit to neaten the display. I’ve cut the kiwi, mango and strawberries to look like the artist Frida Kahlo, with mango for the face and slivered grapes for eyebrows. Liberty loves Frida, and I love doing fun little things like this for Liberty. Showing my love however I can.
‘Sweetheart?’ I call. ‘Rise and shine. You’ll be late.’
Still no answer.
I climb Liberty’s staircase, the bare wood smooth and war
m under my feet. I am grateful for this house. There was a time I never believed I’d have a life like this. Our own land. A yoga room. Study. Library. And high, high gates all around.
‘Liberty?’
I knock on my daughter’s door.
‘Honey?’
It’s unlike Liberty not to answer, but the fight last night was pretty bad.
I push the door open, listening.
There’s nothing – no sound, no grumbling, no shower running. Skywalker doesn’t come running to greet me.
Liberty’s bedroom is dark, but the bed has been made. Liberty always makes her bed the moment she gets up, even when she’s not well.
Where is she, then? And where is Skywalker?
I stroke the cotton duvet, feeling for Liberty in the gloom, but find nothing – no soft, warm body.
‘Liberty?’
The ensuite door is slightly open, but no light spills out.
Flicking on the bedroom light, I feel uneasy.
I start to rationalize.
She must have gone running in the grounds, maybe she’s training Skywalker outside, maybe, maybe …
But things are missing. Liberty’s miniature turtle bookmark – the one she keeps on her desk for good luck. Her cherry-red DM boots.
I open her built-in closet, heart racing.
Some clothes are gone and there’s a big, gaping hole where her canvas army backpack usually sits.
Suddenly, I am overwhelmed. Immobilized by fear.
‘Liberty, please,’ I say, voice weak. ‘If you’re here … it’s not funny.’
I go to Liberty’s ensuite again. Maybe she’s hiding in the dark. Playing a trick on me. But when I pull the light cord, flickering light shows me an empty room. Liberty’s bamboo toothbrush has gone. Her hairbrush too.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Now I’m tearing downstairs, screaming over and over again:
‘Liberty! Liberty!’
The chain is off the backdoor. It’s never off. I latch it every night. Every single night. It’s part of my routine or, as Nick calls it, my OCD.
Why have a chain on the back door? Nobody has a chain on the back door. And when we have that great big gate out there? Isn’t this a little bit of overkill?
I imagine someone creeping upstairs in the dead of night. Stealing my beautiful daughter. But Skywalker would have barked. Liberty would have shouted and fought. And none of her things would be missing …
No. That’s not what happened.
Liberty crept downstairs – probably early in the morning, after I’d fallen asleep. Skywalker was close at her heels. She carried her army bag stuffed with clothes. The front door would be too noisy, she wouldn’t risk it. Instead she headed out the back way, softly slipping the chain from its metal tunnel. She carefully took Skywalker’s leash from the hook and clicked it to his collar.
Now she’s outside, alone in the dark, heading to the front gate. She knows exactly where she’s headed. She’s going to see her father …
I hear myself scream her name. ‘LIBERTY!’
Okay.
Calm. Calm.
Breathe in, breathe out.
She could have gone to a friend’s house.
Call Liberty’s phone, I think. Just call her. But then I realize I took her phone last night.
Call the police then. You know the number …
I grab my own phone from the solar charging station.
I’ve called the police so many times about Liberty. I am the woman who cried wolf.
‘Hello, what is your emergency?’
For a stupid second, I jump at a disembodied voice:
‘Oh! Hey. Hello. Police.’ And then I add a British, ‘Please.’
There’s a slight delay as I’m connected.
‘Sussex police. Can I take your name?’
‘My daughter. She’s gone. She’s … she’s run away.’
‘Can I have your full name and address?’
‘She’s called Liberty. Liberty Miller. She’s tall. Nearly five foot ten. Very thin. Tanned skin. Green eyes and brown hair, but she’s cut it short, like chin length, and dyed it blonde. Well, parts of it. Bright blonde. I think she left early this morning.’
I’m crying now, trying to hold it together.
‘We need your name, madam, before we can take details.’
‘My name?’ My throat tightens. ‘Why? Why do you need my name?’
‘It’s just the way we do things.’
Of course. Of course they have to take my name. They always take my name. Nothing to worry about.
‘Lorna,’ I say. And then I add Nick’s surname, even though we’re not married yet. ‘Lorna Armstrong. We live at Iron Bridge Farm, Taunton Wood.’
The policewoman is soothing. ‘First things first. Are there any friends your daughter could have gone to?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know who her friends are. If I did, I’d have Facebook stalked them by now and harassed their phone lines.’
The policewoman hesitates for a moment, and I think she’s going to make a comment like most people do. Something about me being overprotective. But instead she says, ‘It’s good that you care.’
Some people understand. The ones who’ve seen the bad side of the world.
I give more details, and then the policewoman tells me she’ll get someone over ASAP.
‘In the meantime, call people you know,’ says the policewoman. ‘Try not to worry too much. This happens more than you might imagine and they always turn up unharmed. How old is your daughter?’
‘Sixteen.’
Another pause.
‘And you think she left home of her own free will?’
‘Someone could have put her up to it. Tricked her or … something.’
‘But no signs of force? I don’t want to scare you; I just want to get things clear. No signs of a … a scuffle or anything like that?’
‘No. She made her bed.’ I’m crying again now.
‘We’ll get a police officer over to you now.’
‘There’s something else.’ I leave the sentence hanging, not sure if I’ll manage to finish it.
The policewoman is kind, offering a gentle, ‘Yes?’
I grip the phone. ‘I think she might have gone to see her father.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, that could be a simple answer, couldn’t it? Do you … What’s the situation there then?’
‘She’s never met him before.’
‘You have sole custody?’
I hesitate. ‘Yes. He’s … not a good guy.’ I pause, considering my next words carefully. ‘He’s famous. It’s hard to explain.’
‘What’s her father’s name and address?’ the policewoman asks.
‘Her father’s name?’ My throat goes tight again. I know what comes next. I know what happens when I say his name. It’s like a witch’s curse.
I look up then, seeing my scared face in the sliding-door glass. White skin. Black hair. Blue eyes cornflower coloured again, bright with fear.
‘Michael Reyji Ray.’
There’s a long pause.
‘Michael Reyji Ray?’
‘Yes.’
‘Michael Reyji Ray is your daughter’s father?’
And suddenly the policewoman’s tone totally changes – a subtle thing, but I feel it. She’s gone from being on my side to thinking I’m crazy.
This is Michael’s power. A man she’s never met is controlling her.
‘Yes.’
‘But your daughter’s never met him before?’
‘No. She’s never met him. I don’t want her meeting him. He’ll use her to get at me.’
Another pause.
‘I thought … Michael Reyji Ray is married, isn’t he? Has been for years.’
‘Yes. Married men can still have children with other women.’
‘Have you … do you stop your daughter seeing her father, then?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘So she’d have a good reason
for wanting to meet him?’
‘He isn’t the person you think he is,’ I say. ‘This kind, environmental, happily married man. It’s all just an image.’
‘Sometimes when people hurt us—’
‘He’s a bad person.’ I shriek the words.
The police officer’s voice becomes more serious. ‘Listen. I understand why you’re feeling threatened, but let’s not start throwing accusations around. You’re worried. Your daughter is very young to just be packing a bag and leaving without telling you. But she is legally allowed to do so.’
‘Please. You have to get her back.’
‘Look, we can’t go knocking on Michael Reyji Ray’s door, accusing him of taking your daughter away. If she’s sixteen and he … well if he is her biological father, she has a right to see him. She has a right to leave home if she wants to. Have you tried calling her?’
I put a hand to my throbbing forehead. ‘I took her phone away last night.’
‘Oh. Right. Why did you do that then?’
I pause. ‘Because … because she was looking up things about Michael.’
‘Listen, we’ll send someone over,’ says the policewoman. ‘But I think you’re playing a risky game. If you’ve stopped your daughter see her father, well, this is the age they rebel, isn’t it? And there’s no law against that. You can’t control them when they get to this age, Ms Armstrong. At some point, you have to let them fly.’
‘No.’ The word is firmer than I meant it to be. ‘She can’t fly. It’s not safe out there.’
There’s a long pause.
‘We’ll get someone over to you. In the meantime, try to stay calm. I’ve been in this job a long time. This sounds like something that will blow over. Not as bad as you think.’
‘It’s absolutely as bad as I think,’ I say. ‘Every bit as bad.’
Once upon a time …
The day after I slept with Michael Reyji Ray, he was all I could think about. If I’d been obsessed before, that was nothing to how I felt now. It was like being a drug addict, wanting another hit.
Michael Reyji Ray was in my head, like a catchy song.
Danny, Michael’s driver, dropped me off outside my shabby brown walk-up apartment, and I climbed three flights of stairs, dropped into bed and stayed there all day.
