Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  The truth was, however, that Jackie knew what Angela was going to say before she said it. She tried to enjoy the calm of the waiting moments, knowing that after this there would be no calm. Call it a mother’s instinct or something else, but she knew and already her mind was trying to process the information, trying to think what came next.

  How long she stood clutching the receiver between hopeful palms she couldn’t say. Maybe two minutes, maybe less, more, who knows? These details would only become important later.

  ‘Jackie, hi. Sorry to keep you.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Why she said that she didn’t know, it was all far, far from okay.

  ‘Had a word with Vicks, apparently she left Gemma at school after the play. Hope everything is okay. Not a problem is there?’

  ‘I… I… don’t know really. I need Neil.’ She placed the phone back in its cradle and stared at the two mugs awaiting hot water. Her legs felt like lead.

  Jackie eventually managed to rouse herself and go upstairs. She pushed on the bathroom door, which was unlocked. Neil was in his trousers, naked from the waist up, a slight bulge of fat sitting like a cushion above the tight black belt of his trousers. He was shaving, pulling his chin with his left hand into a taut and unnatural angle while scraping at the whiskers with the razor in his right hand. She had always liked watching him shave, finding it very intimate. He spoke to his wife’s reflection as it hovered over his right shoulder.

  ‘Did you speak to her?’ His tone was almost jolly and she felt a surge of something that she couldn’t readily identify, but it was close to anger.

  ‘No. She’s not there, Neil.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I spoke to Victoria’s mum and Gemma’s not there.’ She had to repeat it, as though he hadn’t been concentrating or simply couldn’t process what she was telling him.

  ‘Not there?’ Again it was as if he had misheard or doubted the information that he was being given.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  There was a second of silence before he spoke.

  ‘Well where the bloody hell is she then?’ He turned to face her as though she had the answer and he needed her to give it to him.

  She stared at him. ‘I’ll phone around.’

  Her adrenalin had started to pump as her heart pounded; her vision and hearing felt sharp. Neil looked vacantly at his wife. She could see that mentally he was where she had been five minutes before.

  She called Luke’s mother, knowing the two of them were close, but it was pointless, the woman could barely recall Gemma, let alone help with locating her. Next it was Alice’s mum and she had the same conversation, as earlier. Was she with them? Had they seen her?

  Jackie noted that Alice’s mum sounded really upbeat and it annoyed her.

  ‘She isn’t here, but let me go and grab Alice for you. Have you lost her?’ The woman, whose name escaped her, sounded as though she were trying to be funny, making a little joke. The question, however, reverberated in Jackie’s skull. Have I lost her? Have I lost her?

  ‘Hello, Mrs Peters.’ Alice sounded coy, wary, as if she might be in trouble.

  It was strangely comforting to be speaking to a friend of Gemma’s, a connection of sorts.

  ‘Hello, Alice love, do you know where Gemma is? Did you go with her for hot chocolate?’

  ‘Mmmmno, we left her at school, she said she was being picked up.’

  ‘She said she was being picked up?’

  Jackie’s stomach muscles contracted and she shook her head. Was it her that had got the plan wrong? Should she have picked her up? Is that what they had agreed? But if Gemma had been waiting, she would have called; she could have walked home by now.

  ‘If you hear anything, Alice, give me a ring will you, love?’

  ‘Yeah, course. Is Gemma all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, she’s fine, love, don’t you worry.’ Her lie was swift and unconvincing to both of them.

  Jackie became aware that Neil was standing by her side in their little kitchen; she didn’t know how long he’d been there. He stared at her as she replaced the phone. The two were silent for a second or two. Who was going to say it?

  ‘Shall I call the police?’

  Jackie said it. She had said it out loud, the phrase and the act that they had both been pondering, dreading, delaying.

  ‘Or maybe not.’ She shook her head. Was it a stupid idea? ‘It’ll be embarrassing if we get them involved, I don’t want to waste their time. Plus I don’t like the idea of it, it’s like we’ve done something wrong: how could we not know where our little girl is? I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  Neil squeezed her arm. ‘You won’t, Jacks. I think it’s a good idea. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Neil—’

  She heard the kitchen door open and jerked her head up to see her daughter standing in front of her. Jackie only hoped that her youngest didn’t sense the wave of disappointment that enveloped her.

  ‘Jesus, who were you expecting?’ Stacey folded her arms across her chest.

  Jackie didn’t tell her off for blaspheming, which she would normally have done, but equally she couldn’t answer her daughter. It wasn’t so much who she had been expecting as who she had been hoping for, and it hadn’t been Stacey.

  Day One

  Jackie and Neil Peters sat perched on the edge of their sofa. Shock rendered them pretty useless; they were fuelled by hope and nervous energy. They leant forward, almost sliding off the sofa, trying to pay attention, to hear every syllable and catch every nuance. Poised, like shaking leverets caught in the headlights, ready to bolt, to make tea or coffee, to answer the phone or the door should the bell ring. There were police in their house and the Peters were unused to dealing with the police, unsure whether they were clients or suspects. On this last point they were correct.

  Neil exhaled loudly as though he had taken a deep breath. His wife sat silently by his side, wringing her hands and fidgeting with invisible bits of thread on her skirt. She stared at the cuckoo clock, preoccupied with the maths of the hours since she had last seen her daughter, as if mentally trying to resolve a problem on an exam sheet.

  If Gemma leaves school at 9 p.m. and walks at an average of three miles an hour, where could she have got to by ten o’clock the next morning? Thirty-nine miles, thirty-nine miles… What, or more importantly where is thirty-nine miles away from here? Somewhere like Colchester? How far is that? And what if she wasn’t on foot, what if she was being driven. Driven where? By whom?

  Block it out, block it out, don’t think about that, don’t think about it, Jackie, it will all be okay. Her self-soothing mantra did not help.

  Stacey was at school; everyone figured it was best to keep things as normal as possible for her.

  Detective Sergeant Gavin Edwards sat in the chair to the side of the fireplace. He was pumped up, newly promoted and without any of the cynicism that someone with more years under their belt might display. His colleague, Melanie Vincent, hovered by the door, allowing her eyes to appraise the house, the decor, looking for clues, anything at all. The introductions had been brief and curt; everyone was eager to get on with the job in hand. A list of all Gemma’s friends and their parents and telephone numbers had been given to one of DS Edwards’ team who at that very moment was double-checking for any information and confirming Gemma wasn’t with any one of them. The school had been given a quick sweep and statements had been taken from those that had seen her leave the previous evening, for people had indeed seen her leave.

  As far as DS Edwards and the team were concerned, the case of Gemma Peters was genuine and worrying, warranting the level of manpower and time that they were throwing at it. Her situation didn’t fit either of the usual scenarios. She wasn’t from one of the rougher estates or not so nice postcodes where children played truant, might sleep at the homes of any number of distant ‘relatives’ and were more often than not misplaced rather than missing. Neither had the report been filed by an estranged partner whos
e access and visiting rights were sketchy and who felt the agreed rules were not being adhered to. This was no malicious call from a disgruntled parent. Usually and thankfully, such children turned up safe and sound before the ink had dried on the first page of the report.

  Gemma Peters was different. She hadn’t gone missing before and appeared to be from a caring, stable family with a comfortable home environment; she was smart, doing well at school and popular, and this was entirely out of character. The fact that the last confirmed sighting of Gemma had been at 9 p.m. the previous evening was cause for great concern. The first few hours of a disappearance were crucial and the more time that elapsed, the less hope there was of finding that child alive. This was a cruel fact, but a fact nonetheless.

  ‘So you noticed she was missing at three o’clock this morning?’

  Gemma’s parents nodded in unison.

  ‘And you called us at a quarter to seven?’

  Neil caught the look that the policeman threw at his colleague. Had they failed already? Why hadn’t they called earlier? It hadn’t seemed real, it hadn’t seemed urgent, they were tired and it had been late. This reasoning sounded pathetic and inadequate in the face of what was happening now.

  ‘We thought she was at her friend’s.’ Jackie was aware of her apologetic tone.

  ‘Why? Because she told you she was staying at a friend’s?’ Gavin asked.

  ‘No. No, she said she would walk home, but if she ever stays over anywhere then it’s at her friend Victoria’s and so when she wasn’t home, we just assumed that that was where she would be.’

  ‘So she had done this before, stayed at Victoria’s without letting you know first?’

  ‘No, never. She’s not like that, she’s a good girl.’

  ‘So this had not been discussed and was grossly out of character?’

  Jackie nodded, feeling every inch a suspect and not the parent desperate for answers.

  ‘And this was at 3 a.m.?’

  Jackie nodded again.

  ‘And you called us at just before 7 a.m.?’

  ‘It didn’t feel like that long.’ Her voice quavered.

  ‘What did you do in the four hours between three and seven?’

  ‘We were in bed, asleep in bed.’

  ‘So, just like a regular night?’

  Jackie nodded. The way he said it made it sound like they hadn’t cared, hadn’t noticed. She felt sick.

  ‘Does Gemma have a boyfriend?’

  Neil coughed. ‘Well, no, not really a boyfriend, but a boy friend, if you get my meaning. Luke, he’s in her class and I think they might be a bit sweet on each other, but not boyfriend and girlfriend in the sense you mean it. She’s not a very worldly girl, only goes out with her mates at the weekends and is more interested in revising. She’s going to Oxford.’

  Gavin nodded. ‘Does she ever stay at Luke’s house?’

  ‘Good God no!’ Neil raised his voice. ‘She’s not that kind of a girl. What sort of parents would let a fifteen-year-old stay at a boy’s house?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. I understand how invasive this must seem, Mr Peters—’

  ‘Neil, please.’

  ‘Thanks. Neil, the reason I ask is to help build up a picture of Gemma, her friends, her lifestyle. It will help us fill in all the gaps and the sooner we can do that and locate her, the better.’

  Neil nodded but continued to stare at his hands, which were locked in a pyramid resting on his knees.

  ‘Could you describe Gemma for me, Mrs Peters?’

  ‘Do you mean what she looks like?’ Jackie was wary of getting the answer wrong.

  ‘Not so much; we already have the photos you’ve given us and her physical details, but I’d like to hear how you would describe her as a person. Take your time.’ He smiled at her.

  Jackie pictured her daughter standing on the stage. She spoke quietly and looked at the carpet; it made it easier somehow.

  ‘She’s a very clever girl, top in everything, but she’s not big-headed at all, she’s quite shy actually. She’s a kind girl, brings down her plates and cups from her room and her dirty laundry, I never have to ask her twice. She’s very popular and beautiful, but I suppose you can see that in her pictures. Gemma’s never been in trouble, never done anything, but make us so proud. She is nice to her little sister and spends time chatting to her nan when she comes over. Oh no!’

  Everyone watched as Jackie’s hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘What’s the matter, love?’ Neil coaxed.

  ‘Her coat’s in her wardrobe, she didn’t take it in because of the play! I’ve only just remembered. She’ll be cold.’ Jackie’s hot tears fell hard and fast, clogging her nose and throat as she slumped against her husband’s chest. ‘I want her home, Neil, I want her back!’

  Eight Weeks

  ‘It’s bedtime, Stacey.’ Jackie’s voice was no more than a cracked whisper.

  The girl nodded and stood, bending to kiss her mum on the forehead before wordlessly treading the stairs. Her deep sigh was as much an expression of relief at being able to escape the insufferable silence of her parents’ pokey lounge as it was recognition of the tiredness that dogged her waking hours. When your sleep tumbled on a sea of nightmares and imaginings, it made functioning normally almost impossible.

  Neil came into the lounge from the kitchen, drying his hands on a red-checked tea towel.

  ‘Stacey gone up?’

  Jackie nodded.

  Neil sat by her side and removed the folded local paper from her lap. He ran his hand over his stubble, which now grew in yellowed skin. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat, love?’

  She shook her head. Food had become tasteless and pointless; every mouthful felt like wet cardboard that choked in her throat. How could she be expected to eat food prepared in their warm family kitchen, by the loving hand of her husband, and served on clean white china, when her little girl might be hungry, scared, hurt?

  Jackie picked at the already torn nails that had been ripped and bitten from the nail bed. The momentary flare of pain gave her something to focus on; the dots of blood that peppered the quick on each finger were strangely satisfying.

  ‘It would do you good, Jacks, to get something inside you, even if it’s just a bit of toast.’

  ‘Would it, Neil? Just how exactly would it do me good to eat a bit of toast?’ she snapped. ‘Would it give me a night of rest or bring Gemma waltzing through the door?’ Tiny flecks of spit flew against the sweatshirt that hung from Neil’s frame. He was used to it, every suggestion was barked at or rebuked, and tears always followed this. It was exhausting for them both.

  Jackie didn’t bother with a tissue or hankie anymore; she had learnt they were pointless. It was easier to let her body shed its tears and allow them to soak into her hair and clothes, becoming part of the fabric, part of her, like a fountain on a timer. Constantly reaching for, refreshing or binning sodden loo roll or tissues only slowed the process.

  Neil stood and ambled to the window. He did this a lot, staring out through the net curtains into the black void of night, hoping for a glimpse of something and grateful not to have to be in such close proximity to his wife. He was sick of bolstering her, he wished that she would stop crying, if only for a while. He longed for respite from the soundtrack of their misery.

  ‘I’ll pop out for a wander, see you in a bit.’

  Neil collected his coat from the row of hooks in the hallway and closed the door behind him; he didn’t know if she had heard him, it was hard to tell. Jackie’s expression no matter what was happening or who was talking to her remained the same. Her eyes darted from beneath swollen lids, her teeth chewed at her bottom lip, which was sore, and her head almost lolled against her chest, as though keeping it upright required strength that she did not possess.

  Neil spent his days and a large part of his nights wandering, looking and searching. His job took him all over the south of England, giving him the chance to peek up alleyways and peer into windows
. He prodded at mounds in skips, looked under every mattress discarded on a country verge and stared into the murky depths of drains. It was madness, but it was how he now lived.

  Jackie swallowed three shiny pink pills daily. ‘Just to take the edge off.’ That was what the doctor said. She hadn’t really understood what that meant, but she did now. They took the edge off her, leaving her less like herself, muted, and for that she was grateful.

  It was as if she functioned on power-saving mode, with even the smallest chore using up her fragile reserves. A couple of minutes spent concentrating on a photograph of Gemma taken at nursery school, or trying to remember how they had celebrated her last birthday would leave her in a state of confusion; then a quick glance at the cuckoo clock would reveal that several hours had passed.

  This worked in reverse too. Extreme fatigue would carry her to bed, where the duvet would envelop her in a cocoon of apathy. A deep, dark slumber would take over, offering relief from the wearying yoke of grief. Yet when her eyes darted open, her breath coming in shallow pants as the ghost of the nightmare returned, she would realise that it had been only minutes since the warm space had offered solace.

  The phrase ‘spending time’ went round in her head. She concluded that if time was a currency, it was the emotionally stable that had the biggest reserves. When your mind flitted between distress and chaos, time was not yours to spend. It flipped you over and usurped you at will.

  Jackie Peters was now a shell; all the marrow and matter of her former self had been sucked out. In their place was a person she didn’t recognise. The face that stared back at her from the mirror was only vaguely familiar.

  She stared at this face to see if it would move or talk. It began to scare her; she could feel the cold cloak of madness wrapping itself around her in those minutes. There was something tempting about the idea of sliding into an abyss in which she could hide, just for a little while. The tidal pull of insanity within her was strong, but she would not give in to it, not yet. She needed to be strong for when Gemma came home; she would need looking after, and that was her job.