by Linda Coles
As a lorry blew past, forcing her blonde hair to stick comically across her face, she found herself laughing out loud. The wide-open world lay straight ahead and with spirits lifted after a good night’s sleep, Susan felt like the woman she’d been some years ago.
Carefree. It was as if something inside of her had been released, like a tight elastic band had been broken. It was the only way she could think of to describe it.
Chapter Sixteen
She didn’t have long to wait before the deep grumbling sound of air brakes and a lorry pulling up nearby. The cab lurched a little as it came to a complete stop and diesel fumes filled her nostrils. Air seeped out with a loud hiss. Susan wasn’t entirely sure of the etiquette, having never asked for a lift with a stranger before. Should she climb up to the passenger side? Should she go around to the driver’s side and speak to the driver? The thought amused her. She was so far out of her comfort zone it was laughable, and this was something else to add to her repertoire as a free woman. While it was only a small action, it was the start of doing new things. In the end she climbed up the passenger side and stuck her head through the window, hoping when she got up there the guy wouldn’t be a creep.
He looked quite normal.
“Any chance of a lift?” she asked with a smile.
“Where you headed?” he questioned. Susan took a moment to glance him over before answering. He had messy brown hair along with three- or four-days’ beard growth, and he looked like a stereotypical lorry driver that hadn’t had a great deal of sleep, probably having just got off the ferry. A chequered shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans completed his ensemble, though he didn’t appear to have a beer belly hanging over his trousers. In an instant Susan decided he’d do. What was she looking for exactly? A good-looking chauffeur at the wheel of a limo that was never going to come? Chequered-shirt man had a friendly face.
“I’m headed south towards Paris. Can you help?”
“Sure can, jump in,” he said casually. “I could do with the company. I’ve been on my own too long.”
Susan wasn’t sure whether the guy was simply tired of driving on his own or advertising his relationship status. Not one to ask, she opened the door and climbed inside. It was high up compared to a car, but then she was at the equivalent level of sitting on a car roof, and the view from the cab looked quite different to that from down on the gravel. Like being in an aeroplane’s cockpit almost but with fewer instruments. As the lorry pulled out, she fastened her seat belt and settled in, again wondering about etiquette. Was she meant to talk or stay quiet? Either way introductions probably needed to be made.
“Thanks for the lift,” she said by way of something to say.
“No problem, glad of the company like I say. I’m John. What’s your name?”
She thought for a moment before answering. Not Susan. “Tabby,” she said, figuring the casualness of the name suited her better than Tabitha. Perhaps it would be best to keep away from Tabitha anyway, just in case.
“That’s unusual name for a human, Tabby. My daughter has a cat called Tabby.” His smile was warm and held no offence.
Not feeling insulted, she let a smile spread, which was becoming easier as she relaxed. “That’s nice. How long is it to Paris?” she asked, avoiding more about Tabby the name.
“About four hours from here so you might as well sit back and relax and enjoy the view. I don’t intend stopping, but if you need a pee, let me know. We should be on the outskirts of the city by lunchtime.” He turned to her and gave her an easy smile; she noted his bright-white, even teeth. The guy had standards while out on the road; he looked after his dental.
They quickly caught up to speed. The warmth of the sun shining through the window relaxed her, and even though she’d had a good night’s sleep, it wouldn’t be long before she dropped off again. The stress and strain had caught up with her, but inside she vowed to stay awake, after all she’d no idea who this John character was, where he was from or even where he was going. Except south. He could have been in prison until last week for all she knew.
“So, Tabby,” he said, “where are you travelling to? Going on holiday? I can tell you’re English just like me.”
“Yes, and yes, you could say that I’m taking a break, a bit impromptu actually.”
“I find that those are the best type of trip – no plans, free as a bird, go where the spirit takes you.”
“It’s the first time I’ve done it actually, you’re my first hitchhike lift.”
He turned to her and smiled again and said, “I’m honoured to be your first.” Then, “How did you get the shiner?” he asked, pointing to her eye.
Tabby instinctively touched her forehead and remembered how it had got there, how this whole escapade had started only yesterday. Had it really been only yesterday?
John must have picked up on her change in mood and added, “None of my business. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No problem,” she said, trying to pick up her mood again. There was no sense in being maudlin over past events.
“Shall we put some music on or would you prefer quiet?” he asked.
“Whatever, you’re the driver, you choose.”
John reached for his smartphone and handed it over. “Here, pick a playlist, find something you like and if it’s too young and hip for me I’ll tell you.”
She took his phone and searched through his Spotify playlists to see what music he’d listened to in the past and found ‘singalong through the decades’. A moment later and Aretha Franklin filled the cab singing about saying a prayer, which was apt under the circumstances.
“Good choice,” he said and began to hum along to the song, filling in the bits he knew, odd words filling the cab. “At least you picked something you can hear the words to.” He turned, flashing a white smile again.
“That makes you sound old and you’re not,” she said, “but I know exactly what you mean.”
As Aretha Franklin finished and Status Quo started, she found herself singing along with him, and as the miles passed by under the tyres of the lorry, they sang for the next couple of hours. It was the most fun that Susan, now Tabby, had had in a long time, and she felt at ease with her new lorry-driver friend. Whoever John was, like her, he wasn’t giving much away about himself.
John had been right. It was lunchtime by the time they neared the city limits. Not wanting to disrupt his plans, they hadn’t stopped along the way and now not only was she bursting for a pee, but her stomach was howling with hunger. In the last twenty-four hours she hadn’t eaten or drunk anywhere near what she should have and she marvelled at how, even without fluids, her bladder still managed to complain.
“This is as far as I go,” he offered by way of explanation as they pulled into a service station. “It’s best you try for another lift here. You’ll do better than at the depot where I’m going a couple of miles away.”
Tabby looked around somewhat nervously. She’d struck lucky with John, had in fact actually enjoyed his company, and his singing, and was sorry their journey was at an end.
“If you’re looking to get into the city centre, I suggest a smaller vehicle this time, a car or van maybe. Most of us heavy-goods vehicles go around the city rather than through it. Might be easier that’s all.”
Tabby looked at him trying to keep the disappointment from showing on her face. “It’s been nice meeting you, John. And thanks for my safe carriage,” she added, sounding like someone from a bygone era.
He smirked in response to her word choice. “I’m sure you’ll fair well enough but keep safe, eh?”
Tabby waved as he pulled back out on to the road. The smell of food from café behind her caught her stomach and she made her way inside. She was famished.
Chapter Seventeen
Marcus Smith was annoyed and his frustration at having to leave Hong Kong before he’d finished his business was beginning to show. Now he’d have to head home to sort out the mess that Susan had got herself int
o and then return, having rescheduled meetings for a later date. Now he had to deal with the fallout, both business and Susan, wherever she was.
Even for business-class passengers, airport passport control can take an age. He stood, foot tapping impatiently, waiting his turn. It seemed the woman ahead was having difficulties with the machine and simply stood waving her passport to gain attention from an officer. Marcus wanted to scream, “Move over!” and process his own. It was bad enough he was back at Heathrow so soon, and the time difference coupled with the thirteen-hour flight wasn’t helping with his fatigue or temper. A uniformed official eventually appeared and stepped in to help. With the woman now finally out of his way, he slipped his own passport into the machine and wondered about Susan. He’d seen the full report on the news before he’d left, and since he’d been in the air, and therefore out of the loop for so long, hadn’t had an update as to what was going on. All Julie had given him was the emergency number that went through to the command centre somewhere near the crash site. They’d been unable to tell her anything, but now he’d arrived, he’d finally get to the bottom of things. They’d talk to him.
Once Marcus had left the airport and was in his corporate taxi home, he dialled. After introducing himself he was put through to one of the coordinators on the disaster recovery team, a man called Dean Duffy, who was, in fact, a pathologist who had picked up the ringing phone in passing. Stating who he was and who he was looking for, Marcus hoped for some cooperation and answers. Was Susan alive or dead?
“Can you confirm that my wife was actually on the train first off? Susan Smith. Can you check your lists, please?”
“Yes, Mr Smith, I can confirm that your wife Susan was on the train, according to passport control. But as of yet we have not been able to locate or identify Susan at this time.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asked Marcus, anxiety simmering with fatigue and tension, bubbling like a stew on the stove.
“It means that we have not identified her as deceased and we do not have her listed as taken for medical assistance. I’m sorry, sir, there is little I can tell you right at this moment. I know it must be incredibly hard for you.”
Marcus ignored the remark and carried on, “A friend of ours sent down some items of her clothing for DNA comparison and I can tell you who her dentist is. How long will it take to find out for sure?”
“I know this is hard, but it will take several days. We do have a lot of casualties and we work our way through them as quickly as possible, but we have to do it with precision and accuracy as you can understand, sir. But having a DNA sample and her dental records will be a great help. As you can probably imagine there was luggage and belongings strewn over a wide area, and if your wife didn’t actually have anything on her person at the time of the incident, it would have been very difficult to identify her.”
“So, let me be clear,” said Marcus, “you can’t confirm if she is in a hospital, and you don’t know if she is deceased or not?”
“That’s correct, sir. I know it doesn’t sound much help, but it’s early days yet and the team are working as fast as they possibly can. You’ve done all you can so far, I can only ask that you bear with us while we search for your wife.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Marcus resignedly. “The hospitals don’t have her so that suggests to me that you have Susan. Is there anything else I can do to speed this process up?”
“There is one thing, sir,” said Dean. “It would be helpful if we could send an officer to meet with you and get a clearer picture of who we are looking for. For instance, what she was wearing when you last saw her, a recent photo, preferably a smiling one so we can see her teeth. Anything you can tell us will be helpful in finding your wife.”
“Yes, okay, if that’s all I can do.” He didn’t hide his exasperation at all. “Send somebody around. You’ve got my address, you’ve got my number. I’ll wait to hear from somebody.”
“I’ll get one of my colleagues to contact you. Thank you, Mr Smith.”
But Marcus had already hung up; his side of the conversation was complete and he didn’t feel the need for hollow pleasantries or condolences. Frustration boiled and he flung his phone across to the other side of the rear seat where it bounced off the side door and fell into the footwell. The chauffeur glanced in his rear-view mirror at Marcus but wisely decided against saying anything. No doubt he’d heard half of the conversation anyway. The possibility of a dead wife wouldn’t be easy to comprehend.
“Damn you!” Marcus shouted as he travelled towards home.
Chapter Eighteen
Julie was desperate to call Marcus. He’d told her what time he’d be landing at Heathrow, but she didn’t want to intrude or, knowing what the man was like from the few times she’d met him, suffer his wrath. What Susan saw in him she would never know but each to their own. People said the same about her Richard, particularly Chrissy who suffered him for the family’s sake. That’s why she childishly pulled her tongue out to the man behind his back so often. And last night Julie had felt like doing the same thing, his article in the newspaper of more interest than her missing friend. It had annoyed her.
“Dammit,” she said. She composed a short text requesting an update as soon as Marcus knew anything and hit send. She didn’t expect a reply for some time, not even knowing if he’d managed to find out anything worth reporting back at this stage. But she had to try, she seemed to be the only person that cared. For something to do she called Chrissy, who answered in her normal sing-song voice.
“Hi sis,” she said. “Any news?” Chrissy always sounded upbeat even when there was sour news, it was her way. Julie wished she could be more like her sister.
“Nothing as yet, no. But Marcus should have landed by now so I’m hoping he’ll be on the phone. I’ve just texted him. I don’t really want to intrude too much.”
“He’ll let you know as soon as he knows something, I’m sure. How are you feeling? Did you get a nap?”
“A short one, and you should see my bags now. I’m going to need some extra help from a facial this week.”
On the other side of the phone Chrissy rolled her eyes at Julie’s quest for perfection. It was understandable she’d have bags after the lack of sleep and worry from a missing friend, but the woman never cut herself any slack.
“Well, I heard on the news that it’s slow going identifying the victims, so it may be some time before we know anything.”
“My gut tells me that she is one of them. Otherwise why hasn’t she called somebody? Even if she was lying in hospital in a coma, surely they would know who she was?”
“Not necessarily, Julie, how would they? Her handbag will have been thrown somewhere and unless she had ID actually on her, which she probably didn’t, how would they know who they’d got in a coma?”
“True. Will you come over? Richard’s at work and I’m all at a loss.”
“Of course I will if you want me to, though I have a couple of errands to run first off, all right. So why don’t I head over in, say, two hours? Will that work?”
“Yes,” said Julie petulantly.
Chrissy picked up on her tone and felt immediately sorry for her – it can’t be easy worrying about a close friend. “Look,” said Chrissy. “Put your lippy on and nip out to that salad bar that you like and get yourself something nice to eat, and I’ll be over soon all right? You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding like a sullen teenager now.
What Chrissy really wanted her to eat was a big, fat, greasy Burger King, or a twelve-inch pizza, rather than the lettuce and carrots that the woman lived on. She certainly couldn’t afford to lose any more weight with worry. Unlike Chrissy, there was no chance of her falling down a drain if she stepped on one. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” she said. “Keep your chin up, and I’ll be there shortly.”
Julie wandered back into her conservatory and sat down in a chair. At least it wasn’t ra
ining to add to the dreary mood. The sun was doing its best to brighten everything it touched, though it couldn’t penetrate her heart or her head where the despair lay. Maybe Chrissy was right, she thought, maybe nipping out will give me something to do, and so she sauntered off upstairs to reapply her lipstick and five minutes later was heading out the door into town.
Her phone started to ring – Marcus.
“Hello Marcus, do you have news?” she asked almost desperately.
“They want to come over and talk to me, find out what she was wearing, get a photo. I’m finding this whole process deeply unsatisfactory; I don’t have time for all this. But that’s the way it is, and I have to follow. Someone will be around at 3 pm apparently. Are you able to help?”
At first Julie was confused. Why did Marcus need her at the interview? But she didn’t question it, the man was not thinking clearly, obviously. Then it dawned on her – he wouldn’t have the first clue about Susan’s clothes or much of what she filled her time with when he was away abroad. For the last few years he’d known precious little about his wife.
“Of course, if it would help,” she offered. “I’ll see you at 3 pm at your place then.”
Once again the phone call had been disconnected. She wondered if he’d even heard her reply. Julie’s beloved Richard might be thought of as odd at times, dour even, but at least he wasn’t the arrogant prick that Marcus Smith appeared to be. She was thankful for small mercies.
At 3 pm on the dot there was a knock at the front door. It was the police. As Marcus showed the uniformed officer into the sterile living room that Julie remembered from her visit previously, it seemed quite surreal what they were about to do. There were no pleasantries, no offer of refreshments from Marcus, though Julie wasn’t surprised. Introductions were made. DS Alan Davies made his north-of-six-feet bulk comfortable on the sofa. While he was tall and broad, he wasn’t overweight, though his size could be intimidating when he needed it to be. Julie noted his kind eyes. Brown curls flopped loosely on his head and Julie found them enchanting. Marcus’s tone brought her back to the room. Anxious to get on with it, he barged in with his question first.
