by Natasha Bell
“We’ve got a bit of bad news,” Fran began.
“It’s okay,” Marc said. “I’ll do this.”
He reached across the table for our daughters’ hands, Lizzie’s sporting yellow nail polish that he realized had probably got her in trouble at school. “I don’t want you to panic, girls, because we’re doing everything we can, but Mummy didn’t come home last night and we’re not sure where she is.”
Charlotte’s bottom lip began to quiver. Lizzie clenched her jaw and looked at him with her practiced “grown-up” expression.
“I spoke to a police officer today and they’re looking for her,” he said. “They think she’ll probably be back in a couple of days. We just have to stay strong and will her to come home.”
He glanced from one pair of wide, silent eyes to another. What could he possibly say to make this better?
“Should we pray?” Lizzie said eventually.
Marc hesitated. We took them to church at Christmas and Easter, but we were not a family who said grace or discussed theology. Her class had just completed a project on different religions, though, and we’d always said we wanted to let them make up their own minds. “Why not?” he said, wondering if he should have thought of it himself.
Lizzie put her hands together and checked Charlotte was doing the same. “I’ll start.” She bowed her head and began, “Dear Lord, I know you’re very busy and there are lots of people in the world praying for things, but we have a very important request and if you answer it, I promise not to ask for anything, not even Christmas presents, for a very long time.”
“Me too,” said Charlotte.
“Our mummy didn’t come home last night and we need her back.”
Marc lowered his head to hide his tears.
“She belongs in this house with us. We need her to love us and look after us and be our mum.” Lizzie nudged her sister. “You want to say something?”
Charlotte nodded, her eyes squeezed tight. “She’s the best mummy in the world because she always knows what to do. If we’re sad, she makes us happy and if we’re hurt, she makes it go away. She cooks the best meals and gives the best cuddles and we miss her so much.”
Charlotte’s voice cracked and Lizzie put her arm around her. “Please, please, please,” she said, resuming the prayer. “Send her home to us. We’ll be very good from now on and always say our prayers and go to church and help the poor. Thank you, Amen.”
“Amen,” Marc and Fran echoed.
Charlotte sniffed, tears wetting her cheeks.
Lizzie pulled Charlotte into a sideways cuddle. “Mummy wouldn’t want you to cry,” she said.
Charlotte folded herself into her sister’s neck. Lizzie made shh sounds, her own face blank and serious. “Why don’t we go play your knight game?” she said. “Dad, is that okay?”
Marc gave a stunned nod and Lizzie took Charlotte’s hand and led her in search of Emma. Charlotte hesitated, looking back at Marc before disappearing into the hallway.
Marc let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“They’re remarkably resilient,” Fran said, herself slightly teary.
“Yes,” Marc replied through a sob, wishing he too could go play.
* * *
I can tell before he speaks that he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. He’s leaning against the door, looking down at me. The keys are in his left trouser pocket. I try not to stare. His arms are crossed over his chest. He looks healthier today. There’s color in his cheeks.
“Do you really think your daughters wanted to play after hearing this news?” he says, shaking his head.
“Fuck you,” I say. Why did I even tell him that? Why am I answering his questions, playing his games? My daughters are perfect and beautiful and, yes, they would have been sad when I disappeared, but I can’t let myself believe they’re damaged beyond repair. Lizzie and Charlotte are strong, intelligent and inspiring young women. I refuse to let him dangle them in front of me as a means of torture.
“Fine,” he says. “You don’t want to talk about your daughters. I’m a reasonable guy. What about Fran? What was she doing there? Do you trust her?” He looks at me, amusement in his eyes. What does he want? For me to talk about another woman taking my place? To torture myself with her presence in my home, with my kids, my husband?
I shrug. I’ve tried to imagine Marc sitting at home not knowing what to do, then looking at the clock and realizing he needs to pick the girls up, realizing life has to go on, and I just can’t picture it. His world would have stopped. I don’t want it to—I want to protect him and the girls from everything, to save them from what they’ve been through, what they’re still going through—but it’s out of my control. This man knows it’s out of my control. He enjoys watching me suffer.
Marc must have been broken without me. So Fran brought the girls home. That’s all. There’s no greater meaning. I will not let him fuck with my head like this.
“You see,” he says, breaking the silence. “To me it feels like you’re placing another woman in this situation to soften the blow of your absence. To tell me it didn’t make a difference, that it doesn’t make a difference that you’re here with me.” He uncrosses his arms and places his hands in his pockets. I hear the jangle of the keys.
“Fuck you,” I repeat, spitting on the concrete between us.
This time he shrugs. “As you wish. You are your own worst enemy. You know you need to co-operate with me. It’ll only get worse if you don’t. And I have a limited amount of patience.”
Then he smiles. That slimy, smug smile I see in my nightmares. I’ve felt that smile pressing to me while I try to scream, while nobody listens. That smile makes me want to vomit.
He turns toward the door, kicking the plastic tray with the crumbs from the stale sandwich I wolfed so desperately earlier. “This could be much, much worse for you, you know?”
1998
FRIDAY, AUGUST 28
At the end of the night, Marc walked me along the river path to my father’s house. I was buzzing with an energy I hadn’t felt since my teens. I imagined myself swallowing Marc whole as soon as he made a move, was already wondering if my dad would be asleep, whether he’d hear if I invited Marc in. Was it absurd to sneak a boy into my room in my twenties? I didn’t care.
But Marc didn’t kiss me, or even attempt to hold my hand on the walk back. He was the perfect gentleman, which only made me want him more. He’d been so attentive all night, drinking me in, making me feel like the center of the universe. I imagined unbuttoning that ill-fitting shirt and running my lips across his chest, directing his nervous hands, kissing his sweet lips. He was so quiet and contained. I thought I had him pegged as this beautiful, calm man who considered his words before he spoke, who spent his days locked in the library contemplating enormous things. I wanted to unzip him, see what happened when those enormous thoughts spilled out of him. I wanted to be the thing that made him spill.
By the time we turned on to my street I felt almost crazy with desire. I was horny and tipsy and this sweet stranger had flattered me all night. But when we reached my door, Marc said, with a nervousness that suggested he expected me to refuse, that he’d like to see me again. There was such innocence in his face that even I couldn’t bring myself to ignore it. I suddenly felt crass and wanton. Marc saw me as a delicate young woman, someone to be treated gently, respected. For the first time in my life, I wanted to be that girl.
I bit my lower lip, took a deep breath and admitted, “I’m flying back tomorrow.”
Poor Marc just stared at me.
“I should have mentioned that earlier, but we were having so much fun and…” I trailed off.
“Oh,” Marc finally said, nothing more.
“I’ll—I’ll be back for Christmas,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you then?” I offered him a half-smile.
/> “Great,” he mumbled, backing away.
“Thank you for today,” I said uselessly as he turned back toward the darkened path. I watched him walk, his shoulders hunched, hands thrust into his pockets. “Wait!” I shouted and, dropping my bag on the path, ran after him.
Marc turned and I crashed into his torso, launching myself up on to the toes of my boots to press my mouth to his. I reached to run my fingers through his hair. I felt his hands tentatively touch my sides and my back, then wrap around me as if he could hold me there, in England, in York, in that moment.
I couldn’t tell you if that kiss lasted seconds or minutes or a lifetime. We pulled apart and I ran back up the street, smiling like an idiot, shouting, “See you at Christmas!”
It wasn’t until I was inside that I realized we hadn’t swapped numbers. I didn’t even know his last name. I pulled off my dress and lay on my childhood bed, feeling it float and rock on a liquid floor.
Saturday
Forty-eight Hours Gone
Saturday slithered solemnly into existence and the girls slept late. Marc pulled on a pair of jeans and crept downstairs. Bags heavy as bricks hung beneath his lashes. His matted hair desperately needed washing. He made coffee and turned on Radio 4. The Today program wafted through his thoughts as he sipped from a mug and tried to contemplate the day ahead. Fran found him as Saturday Live began. Whole hours lost to nothing thoughts. She made toast and told him to eat.
A little after ten the doorbell rang and he found DI Jones on the step. Marc wondered vaguely what hours he worked, whether he’d been called in for the weekend because of us.
“Dr. Southwood, how are you?” he asked, removing his gloves.
How do you think I am, you idiot? Marc’s mind spat in silent hostility. Outwardly he shrugged.
“I’ve brought some colleagues with me. We’d like to conduct a search if you don’t mind?”
Marc noticed two more officers hovering by the police car. “Well, yes,” he said, folding his arms. “My children are asleep.”
“Perhaps we could start downstairs,” said DI Jones, maintaining eye contact.
“I’ll get them up,” Fran said from the top of the stairs. “Why don’t I take them swimming, get them out of the way?”
DI Jones offered a grim smile and Marc searched his face for signs of surprise or suspicion. He felt a stab of something like guilt, but if DI Jones was making assumptions about Fran’s presence, his features betrayed nothing.
“Thank you,” Marc said to Fran’s retreating back, then mumbled to DI Jones about her offering to help out. He hated himself for having to explain, hated this man and his officers for making him feel he must.
DI Jones watched Marc as he spoke, finally cut in, “Could you show us around?”
“Okay,” Marc said and three pairs of black boots tramped across the threshold. “Can I ask what you’re looking for?”
“Anything that might help,” DI Jones said levelly. “Has Alexandra’s passport turned up?”
Marc caught his eye, tried and failed to determine what he was thinking. “No,” he said. “You’re welcome to look for it.”
“We submitted an exit check inquiry to the Border Agency yesterday,” DI Jones said, studying Marc’s face. My husband scratched his temple, unsure how to respond. “Her passport doesn’t appear to have been used, but we’ll have the full report on Monday.”
“I’m telling you, it’s here,” Marc said. “She wouldn’t have left.”
The officers were quiet. After a pause, Marc gestured to the rooms on the ground floor. They clomped through to each in turn.
“Is there an attic space?” asked the female officer, her hair so tightly ponytailed it pulled her features into a Botoxed squint.
“A little one, but we haven’t been up there for years.” Marc stifled a snigger at the idea of me hiding out in the dusty roof, ready to jump out and squeal SURPRISE! “It’s just boxes.”
“We’ll need access. And to any locked sheds in the garden,” the stern officer said, scribbling something on her pad.
“I’ll get the keys,” Marc said.
DI Jones followed him into the kitchen. “Would you mind if we went over a couple of things about Thursday morning?” he said.
Marc turned from the key drawer and looked into DI Jones’s eyes. “Anything that will help.”
They sat across the breakfast bar from each other and DI Jones pulled out a notebook. He asked once more about my mood and our conversations, what I was wearing and what time I left. Marc tried to answer without allowing his frustration to seep to the surface. Hadn’t they gone over this? After a pause, DI Jones changed tack. He began asking what Marc was doing on Thursday, where he was at specific times. Marc told him he drove to campus; DI Jones asked where he parked. Marc said he walked to his office; DI Jones asked which route, who did he see? Marc described his supervision meetings; DI Jones asked for his timetable. Marc said he visited the library; DI Jones asked what books he checked out. Marc told him he picked up the girls; DI Jones asked about the traffic.
“This is ridiculous,” Marc said eventually. “You’re wasting time. Alex is out there, she needs you to find her.”
“That is exactly what I am trying to do,” DI Jones said.
“Rubbish!” said Marc, his face growing hot. “You’re not going to find anything in this house, you need to be looking out there!”
“I need you to calm down,” DI Jones said. “We are doing everything we can and everything we need to. This may seem frustrating to you, but these questions and this search are just as important as everything else we’re doing.”
“What else are you doing, though?” Marc said. “I don’t see you doing anything except making me feel like a suspect.”
DI Jones exhaled. “Please, Dr. Southwood. As you know, we’re conducting interviews with Alexandra’s friends and colleagues. We’re searching her route to work and we’ve scheduled a public appeal for tomorrow afternoon.”
DI Jones glanced down at Marc’s fists. Marc moved his hands beneath the counter.
“Right now, though,” DI Jones continued, “we need to be in this house doing this. Do you understand?”
They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Marc caved first, flicking his eyes to the doorway. He looked through to the dining room, at the table waiting to have a school bag dumped upon it, to be cleared and laid, laughed and chatted over. He looked at the sideboard covered in pens and phone chargers, plastic toys and bills that needed filing. A framed photograph hung on the wall, not of us but another supposedly perfect family, dolled up and posed like stiff Victorians. The project I’d been playing with in my last months in Chicago seems so crass now, but Marc had found it hilarious, insisting this picture was the perfect reminder of what we’d never succumb to. He’d had it blown up and framed as a surprise, given me my own piece of work as a present the day before our wedding. The text beneath the family photograph annotated their glossy happiness with a secret desire they’d each shared only with me: “I dream about selling up, buying a camper and traveling around India”—“I wish my sister would wake up one day and all her hair had fallen out”—“I want to tell my physics teacher I’m in love with her”—“Sometimes I think about going to Ann Taylor’s on a busy Saturday afternoon, taking out a knife and slitting my wrists all over the racks of beige.”
Marc peeled his gaze from the frame and back to the kitchen. He concentrated on leveling his breathing, matching DI Jones’s composure. “Is there anything else?” he said finally.
DI Jones closed his notebook, still looking at Marc. “Not at this time. Perhaps you’d like to go swimming with your family.”
Half an hour later Marc sat in a café overlooking a pool of screaming children. Lizzie waved at him from the diving board. Marc waved back. He sipped his coffee and thought about DI Jones’s questions. He’d watched
enough true-crime documentaries in his life to know the police started by looking close to home, but to turn their suspicions to him was ridiculous. He should make a complaint. He’d been nothing but helpful. Couldn’t they see he was concerned, distraught? They shouldn’t treat people like that, it added to the trauma. He was okay, he was confident and, anyway, had nothing to hide, but imagine what kind of damage that treatment could do to a less stable person. It wasn’t right.
He scanned the pool for Charlotte, spotted her in the shallow end with Fran and a little boy who seemed to be challenging her to a bubble-blowing competition. Nothing should be this normal right now, he thought. That fat man in the blue Speedo shouldn’t be belly-flopping and the woman with red nails next to him shouldn’t be slowly consuming her bodyweight in fresh fruit. He closed his eyes and imagined the treadmills sparking and spinning out of control, worms crawling from the café food and the water in the pool boiling bubbles of blood.
“Fuck!” he said, opening his eyes as hot coffee spilled into his lap. The liquid dripped down his jeans as he stood up and looked helplessly around for something to mop it with. The woman with the red nails continued to chew, staring now at the crumpled paper cup in Marc’s hand.
* * *
“We’re here to appeal for information concerning the location of Mrs. Alexandra Southwood, a thirty-seven-year-old part-time Art History lecturer—”
This is the third time I’ve been shown this video. He’s placed a laptop at the end of the bed. There was an incident in the night, so my wrists and ankles are tied. I think he prefers me this way. Bound and helpless. He presses play, watches me as I watch the screen, scrutinizing my reactions.
Marc sits beside DI Jones, microphones and paraphernalia cluttering the desk before them. I watch as DI Jones continues: “Please refer to your press packs for details of her appearance and the clothes she was last seen wearing, plus a recent photograph. I’m now going to introduce Dr. Marc Southwood, Alexandra’s husband, who would like to make an appeal in his own words.”
