Missing Pieces

by Tim Weaver

  Gradually, over the course of the next hour, as the bassline thumped through the building, Rebekah and Kirsty became separated from the rest of the women, and some time after that, Rebekah got separated from Kirsty as well.

  The rest was a blur.

  She woke up with an appalling hangover, the kind that pounds so hard at the front of your skull, it feels like your eyes are actually throbbing. To start with, as she moved in bed, nothing registered but the severity of her headache, the dryness of her mouth, the nausea simmering at the base of her throat. But as she became more aware of her surroundings, other things faded in: noises that didn’t belong out on the block she and the girls lived on; the floral smell of the sheets beneath her; the feel of the mattress, its silence as she shifted, when her own pinged every time she changed position.

  She opened her eyes.

  She was in a room she didn’t recognize.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a voice to her left.

  A man she didn’t know was standing beside the bed.

  21

  The clock on the wall showed 1.30 a.m.

  Rebekah was wide awake, her head full of imagery she couldn’t unsee. Gareth. Noella. The idea of them together. An awful thought lingered – that Noe had never had children, was scarred by years of infertility, and that she didn’t want Rebekah to come back because she craved Kyra and Chloe for herself – and the moment she forced it away, something even worse took its place: memories of her and Johnny running for their lives through the forest. She could hear him calling for her through the trees. She remembered the confusion of those moments. And then she pictured him in the minutes just before that, when they’d still been together – terrified, tearful.

  Where did you go after that, Johnny?

  Outside, she heard the occasional caw, the flap of wings as the sea sloshed at the harbour walls. Once, she’d loved the ocean. She remembered the four of them going on their annual vacation to Union Beach, and she thought of how soothed she’d been back then by the sound of the water. It had been liberating, the perfect bedtime melody.

  Now it was the sound of incarceration.

  At two, she got up, thirsty. At two thirty, she got up again and went to the window. There was nothing to see, just an ebony swathe.

  If she slept at all in this place, it was fitfully. Some nights, the fear was so overwhelming it was like a weight, a piece of clothing she couldn’t unbutton. She’d jerk out of a dream in the middle of the night – a lot of nights, the dream, incapable of escaping it, her feet tethered to the fibres of the carpet – and she’d see the store and not recognize it. Briefly, the panic would fill her chest, blowing up like a balloon. She’d struggle to breathe. And then she’d remember.

  I’m on the island.

  I’m waiting for a rescue that isn’t coming.

  She got up and went to the door, double-checking it was bolted. There was no view out to Main Street and, deep down, she liked that. She didn’t want to be able to look out because, as aberrant as it sounded, she didn’t want anybody to look back in. The mind played tricks, especially after the sun had gone down. She knew there was no one else here.

  But that didn’t make her fear any less real.

  Back in bed, she lay with the flashlight on, its glow painting a V-shaped wash on the concrete floor. She closed her eyes, her lids tinged red, and tried to think of something better, of Kyra and Chloe. It was their seventh night without her, but she tried to picture herself in their bedroom, listening to them sleep, their breathing faint.

  I’m home now, she imagined saying to them. I’m home.

  And then she heard something.

  She opened her eyes. As the wind gathered outside the store, the noise came again. It was carrying in off the sea. Not a bird. Not the waves.

  An engine.

  She made a dash for the window, climbing up onto the counter, almost falling off in her desperation, then remembered what had happened when she’d thought she heard a boat the last time. But it took her just a second to realize tonight was different.

  She could see a fishing trawler.

  Shit. It’s real.

  It’s actually real.

  She grabbed a pair of pants, jumped into her sneakers and sprang the locks on the door while she was still hauling on her coat. As she got to the car, she checked again: it was still there, still heading in a northerly direction, past the forest out on the east of the island.

  She fired up the Cherokee’s engine, pulled a U-turn, and accelerated out of Main Street, back in the direction of the gas station. She caught glimpses of the boat way ahead of her, chugging along against the black of the water. But, very quickly, the trees grew thicker on either side of her – and pretty soon she didn’t have a view of the trawler at all.

  She kept going, past the turn for Nuyáhshá, past the gas station, her foot flat to the floor. She still couldn’t see the boat, realized before long that ten minutes had passed and she hadn’t glimpsed it once – but she tried not to let the lack of a sighting defeat her. Keep going. Just keep going. Eventually, she got as far across the island as it was possible to go in a car, a copse of three storm-damaged houses marking the easternmost point.

  A beach ran to either side of her, wedged between the sea on one side and the forest on the other. The trees were straggly and gaunt, battered so hard by the wind that their branches appeared to be reaching inland.

  She couldn’t see the boat anywhere.

  But she could see something else.

  Torchlight, in the forest.

  Before

  The stranger took a step closer to the bed. ‘Good morning,’ he said again.

  Rebekah grabbed the sheet and pulled it towards her, covering everything from her neck down. The man had a towel around his waist and was still wet from the shower. In one hand he held a cup of coffee, steam spiralling out of it. He put it on the nightstand, then stepped away from her, clearly recognizing her confusion.

  ‘I can’t remember if we even did introductions last night,’ he said, but there was no bravado to him, no sense that he saw the lack of names as a form of conquest, a story to joke about. ‘My name’s Daniel.’

  He held out a hand to her.

  She saw there was no ring, but still hesitated, and when he realized she wasn’t going to reciprocate, he drew his hand back, evidently hurt. Rebekah glanced around the bedroom again. ‘What the hell happened?’

  The man frowned at her.

  ‘I don’t …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘We met last night at the Zee.’

  She felt like she might puke. She’d never done anything like this before. She didn’t do casual flings. She didn’t have anonymous sex. She didn’t go home with men after meeting them on a night out, especially not when she was thirty-nine years old and should know better.

  Except I have.

  That’s exactly what I’ve done.

  Shifting on the bed, she thought of Gareth. This was the first time she’d been out since their split. They weren’t together, so it shouldn’t have mattered who she shared a bed with – except, to her, it did. They’d gradually found an equilibrium, and Rebekah had been able to control the terms of it. Gareth’s aberration, the months he’d spent taking another woman to vineyards upstate and to clothes shops in the city, and the fact that Rebekah had been unerringly loyal to him, gave her a certain level of power. She didn’t use it often, but the promise of it was always there. The whole time she was saying to Gareth, I loved you until you broke my heart. I trusted you. I would never be as primitive and crass as you’ve been.

  But what about now?

  She hadn’t cheated on him, but it felt like it. Waking up in a stranger’s bed, with no idea of his name, getting so drunk she didn’t even remember the act: it felt like the same kind of weapon she’d been using against Gareth.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the man asked.

  He was older than her, maybe mid-fifties, handsome and square-jawed, softly spoken, phys
ically fit. She double-checked his ring finger, not for a ring but for a mark, the evidence of a married man who had hidden his band. But there was nothing. That was a minor plus, and he seemed genuinely surprised at her reaction to him, which was another: if he was surprised, it meant he expected her to recall him and their night together. Somehow, he didn’t seem the type of man who’d take advantage of a woman so crazy drunk that she was basically a blackout.

  She tried to focus on what she remembered.

  They’d turned up at the club, danced, and then Rebekah had gradually got separated from Kirsty. Her last memory was of searching the dancefloor for her friend, the restrooms, the cloakroom, then trying to call an Uber. But was that in the club or outside it? And then what?

  ‘I love your English accent.’

  Rebekah looked at the man. He was still in a towel but now he seemed conscious of it: he opened the wardrobe and grabbed a T-shirt. Once he’d pulled it on, he ran a hand through his hair, pointing to a picture frame. ‘My grandfather came from Portsmouth,’ he said, and Rebekah saw he’d mounted an ancient map of Hampshire on the wall, dotted with names in old English. ‘I love Britain. I’ve been over a lot.’

  She just stared at him.

  ‘Which part do you come from?’

  ‘Look, Daniel, right?’ She stopped, swallowed. ‘I don’t remember much about last night, and waking up like this … It’s not something I do. It’s not me.’

  He nodded. ‘I get it. It’s not me either.’

  She eyed him, trying to catch the lie.

  ‘Honestly,’ he said, holding up a hand. ‘I never do this sort of thing so, believe me, I was as surprised as you when I woke up and found you here.’ He smiled; it was warm. ‘I know that sounds like a line, but it’s not. It’s the truth.’

  She was still watching him.

  ‘I don’t blame you for being suspicious.’

  ‘I just don’t …’ Rebekah paused.

  ‘You don’t need to explain.’

  ‘It’s just a blank, that’s all.’

  ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got a few blank spaces too, although I do remember that we were absolutely smashing the shots at one point, so that’ll be why my head feels like it’s on fire.’ He gestured to the coffee he’d brought her, still steaming on the nightstand. ‘I’ve got some Tylenol if you need it.’

  She looked around the room. The sheet was still tight around her, but the anxious knot in her stomach had begun to shrivel. ‘Cambridge,’ she said.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Cambridge. I was born in Cambridge.’

  The man’s face lit up. ‘Oh, wow, I love Cambridge. Such a cool city. One of my friends did a doctorate there. I went over to see him a bunch of times. You sound like you’ve been in the States for a while, though?’

  ‘Twenty-one years. I’ve lived here since I was eighteen.’

  ‘Ah, that explains why we’ve managed to infect that beautiful accent.’ He smiled at her again.

  ‘My dad,’ she said. ‘He was from Brooklyn.’ As she looked at him, his T-shirt damp, the towel around his waist, she started to feel disordered again. ‘I should probably be going. I feel like shit, I’ve got a ton of things to do, and …’ She thought of the girls. Guilt speared through her chest. Had she even sent Gareth a text last night to tell him she wouldn’t be home? ‘Look, I shouldn’t have done this. I’ve … I’ve got … At home, I’ve got …’

  The man held up his hands.

  ‘Understood,’ he said simply.

  ‘I’m sure you’re a nice guy …’

  ‘I get it, honestly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He seemed to realize she’d need privacy, and he got up and headed out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

  Rebekah let out a breath.

  She just wanted to forget this had ever happened.

  But she couldn’t.

  When she got back to the brownstone, Gareth was waiting on the front steps, watching Kyra bounce a ball around. Once she’d given the girls a hug, and they were out of earshot, he said to her, ‘Why didn’t you text me? I’ve been worried about you, Bek.’

  ‘I’m a big girl, Gareth.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  She looked at him and felt another stab of remorse: he genuinely meant it. He’d been worried about her. He still cared about what happened to her.

  She definitely couldn’t tell him now.

  ‘I stayed the night with Kirsty, and I …’ I don’t even remember the name of the man I slept with. ‘We got a little drunk. I’m sorry.’

  His gaze stayed on her. Could he see that that wasn’t all?

  ‘I think I remember now why I don’t do this,’ she added, and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to have to look at him. ‘I really am sorry. Have the girls been okay?’

  When she opened them again, he was smiling, his gaze fixed adoringly on Kyra. ‘They’ve been great. It’s been awesome spending time with them.’

  After Gareth had gone, Rebekah pushed the rest of what she was feeling all the way down. When Kirsty called and asked her what had happened to her at the club and where she’d disappeared to, Rebekah simply said she couldn’t remember because at least, in that, there was a hint of truth.

  And then, in the days and weeks that followed, when she was alone in the house, when she thought of how Gareth had cheated on her and she’d kicked him out, she’d feel the guilt burning inside her, like phosphorus. Sometimes she would defuse it by reminding herself that they weren’t together any more, that he was the one who should be suffering, not her.

  Mostly, though, she worried about how her actions might upset the balance the two of them had found.

  She imagined the conversation that would follow any confession she made.

  And, mostly, she would picture Gareth asking her who the guy was that she’d slept with – and Rebekah having to admit that, until the morning when she’d woken up in his bed, she’d had no idea at all.

  22

  Torchlight, inside the forest.

  She killed the engine, and – leaving the door wide open – started running along the beach. As her shoes slapped hard against the sand, the line of the island began to bend around to her left and she spotted a jetty ahead of her. It was small, its rickety wooden frame perched over the surface of the water – but her attention wasn’t drawn to that.

  It was drawn to the fishing trawler that was moored there.

  The one she’d seen out at sea.

  Rebekah’s adrenalin kicked in and she picked up her pace, shouting into the wind: ‘Hey! Help me! Help me!’ She wasn’t certain if anyone could hear her, but she could still see flashlights, thin arrows of ivory switching direction inside the thickness of the forest. ‘Hey!’ she shouted again, waving her arm. ‘Hey, I’ve been left behi–’

  A noise tore across the night.

  Instantly, Rebekah stopped running, her change of movement so hard and so sudden she stumbled forward and landed on her knees in the sand.

  A gunshot.

  Inside the forest, between the contours of the trunks, she could see separate spears of light, sweeping back and forth. She could hear voices as well.

  Men. Two of them.

  For a second, Rebekah didn’t move. She couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to. Terror gripped her, paralysing her. She didn’t know whether to go forward or retreat, just kept thinking the same thing. What if it’s him?

  The man with the green eyes.

  She got to her feet again, looking back in the direction she’d come. There was no view of the Jeep – it was disguised by the crescent of the beach and the colour of the night – and even when the moon drifted in and out of view and the beach shimmered between different shades of grey, she still couldn’t see it. She was closer to the trawler, the jetty, than she was to her car.

  Should she retreat?

  But what if this was the rescue she’d been hoping for?

  Again, she thought of the
guns. Why would rescuers come armed? She started to move forward slowly, frightened but needing to know, following the direction of the flashlights. When she got to the edge of the treeline, she saw that the forest immediately pitched downwards, into a gully about forty-five feet below where she was. The men were among the knot of trees, deep inside them, beyond the top of a slope on the opposite side of the gully.

  Rebekah hesitated again.

  They definitely weren’t coastguards: if they were, why would they have come in an unmarked trawler? They weren’t fishermen either because the salmon run ended in October. Plus, what were fishermen going to find in a forest at 3 a.m.? And why would they be shooting?

  Dread bloomed beneath her ribs.

  Because she knew.

  Deep down, she knew exactly who it was – and, as she slowly made her way down the slant of the gully, towards a trail at the bottom, she suddenly heard the soft crunch of a footstep.

  She froze.

  It had been close.

  With a small step to her right, she found cover behind the mottled trunk of a tree and tried to follow the source of the noise. For a second, she couldn’t see anything.

  But then he emerged.

  A man with a headtorch.

  The light made it hard to see his face at first, but then he took out his cell and, as he checked the screen, a soft blue glow washed across his features – his jaw, his mouth, and finally his eyes.

  Rebekah’s heart hit her throat.

  It was exactly who she knew it would be.

  The man who’d tried to kill her.

  23

  Green Eyes.

  It was definitely him.