by Rosie Fiore
I knew as soon as Dad didn’t come to pick us up and they couldn’t find Helen, you see. I knew it was my fault.
This is the story. Daddy has an iPad, and sometimes he takes it to work and sometimes he leaves it at home for me and Marguerite to play on. Helen sometimes lets us have a go on it for half an hour while she makes the dinner. The problem is, Marguerite and I don’t like the same games. I like Minecraft, and she likes those babyish Disney games. So we always fight about what we’re going to play. Helen makes us take turns, but one day she was tense and busy, like she was thinking about something else, and when Marguerite said she wanted to choose the game, Helen said yes. When I said it was my turn to choose, she said all crossly, ‘For heaven’s sake,’ which wasn’t an answer, and she walked quickly into the kitchen. I tried to take the iPad away from Marguerite, but she made that whiney noise she does when she’s about to scream like mad, and took the iPad through to the kitchen.
Anyway, then I knew I wasn’t going to get my turn to play. When I said Helen was cross, I meant she used her ‘I’m disappointed’ voice and got that line between her eyebrows. Helen never shouted or lost her temper. I’ve seen other parents do it – yell at their kids, and go all red in the face. I even saw Conor in my class get a smack once for running into the road without looking. Helen never did any of that. I think Marguerite and I are quite good children anyway, so she didn’t have to shout and scream, but actually her disappointed face was usually enough to make me feel bad. I didn’t need shouting.
So on the day of the iPad, I went to sit on the sofa and I was really cross. It was unfair, and I couldn’t wait to tell Daddy. I could have asked to put on the television or I could have read a book or gone to my room to play, but I stayed on the sofa. I wanted to play Minecraft and anyway it was my turn. After a while I got bored, so I started balancing on the arm of the sofa on my stomach, trying to hold my whole body straight like a plank. We’re not supposed to do that. Helen says it’s dangerous and we’ll end up damaging the fabric. But she was in the kitchen with smarmy Marguerite, so I did it anyway. I got the balance wrong and nearly tipped head-first over the arm of the sofa. I managed to catch myself in time, but when I was hanging with my head down, I saw Helen had put her handbag down the side of the sofa (she liked to keep it there ‘out of the way’). I heard something inside go ‘ping’, like a phone does when you get a text message or email or something.
Now, one of the number-one rules in our family was: ‘Don’t Go Into Helen’s Handbag. It is a private space and it’s rude to dig in other people’s private things.’ Still, I wasn’t going to open it. I would just take it to her. Helen liked to have her phone with her all the time, so I thought it might make her happy with me and then she’d ask Marguerite to let me have a go on the iPad.
I pulled the bag out from next to the sofa and carried it through to the kitchen. Helen was stirring something on the cooker.
‘I heard your phone make a noise in your bag, so I brought it to you,’ I said, and I put the bag on the counter next to her.
‘You must have been mistaken,’ she said, not looking up from the cooker. ‘My phone’s right here.’ And it was – she had it on the counter next to her and she was typing a text with one finger while she stirred.
But right as she said that, there was a ringing sound. Not Helen’s phone on the counter. A ringing sound from the bag. I looked at her and she looked at me.
‘There’s a phone ringing in your bag,’ I said.
Her face changed then. It went all pale and funny. She turned off the cooker, and she grabbed her bag and rushed out of the room. And that was when everything went wrong.
If she’d let me pick the game on the iPad, I wouldn’t have been in such a bad mood. And if she’d said thank you to me for bringing her the bag, instead of rushing off without saying anything, I might have left it. But I didn’t. I followed her as she ran upstairs holding her bag.
‘Why do you have another phone?’ I said.
She didn’t answer, just went into her bedroom and shut the door. I stood outside the door and kept yelling questions.
‘Whose phone is it? Why didn’t you answer it? Does Daddy know you have two phones?’
When she didn’t answer, I didn’t stop. Helen was always so calm, and she always answered questions. Because I was angry at her, I liked the fact that she was all freaked out and I couldn’t stop.
‘Why aren’t you answering me?’ I said ‘Are you not supposed to have that phone?’
Suddenly she pulled the door open, grabbed my arm and dragged me into the room. She held my arm tightly.
‘You’re hurting me,’ I said.
‘You never know when to stop, do you?’ she said.
I had never seen her face like that – it was blotchy and tense and she looked furious. Helen was never furious.
I don’t cry much, and I didn’t cry then. I could tell that the phone was what had made her so upset. I stood still, but inside I was terrified. I had never seen Helen like that. It was like a bad spirit had come and taken over her body. I don’t know how long we stood and stared at each other. It felt like forever. The she talked, very quietly.
‘You are not going to tell your dad about this. You are not going to tell anybody at all. You are going to forget you heard a phone ringing. There is no phone. Do you understand?’
I did understand. I didn’t tell anybody. I wanted to, but I didn’t. And it was only a week after that that Helen disappeared. Maybe I said something in my sleep, or maybe she thought I was going to say something. But she went away forever and she’s never coming back, and it’s all my fault.
Sam
I slept. Twelve, solid, dreamless hours. It was like being knocked unconscious. Once Mum and Dad had packed up the girls’ things, loaded Miranda and Marguerite into their car and gone, Tim pushed me upstairs and into the bathroom. I showered, shaved and brushed my teeth, and then went to lie down on the bed for a minute. When I woke up, it was dark outside. I didn’t jerk awake, as I had every time I’d managed to sleep since Helen disappeared. I gradually came to consciousness, lying on my back on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling. I was cold – I hadn’t managed to get under the covers before I passed out. I looked over at the digital clock – 9 p.m. I listened to the silent house.
Slowly, I rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. I felt numb, but I was experienced enough in emotional pain to know that that state was temporary. I suppose it’s like when a shark bites your leg off. You might intellectually know that your leg is gone, but there’s a lull before the pain and the bleeding and the realization that you’ll be spending the rest of your life without a limb. I was in the lull. It was such a relief to be freed from the crushing fear that Helen had been abducted and murdered that I wasn’t able to move on to the new storm of emotions that awaited me – anger, bitterness, heartbreak. My wife had abandoned me and my children, had walked away without a backward glance and had made certain that I had no way to reach her and ask her why. She’d left me with a mess to deal with, and no mistake.
I couldn’t think about that just then, however. I had a pressing need to pee, I was thirsty, and, I realized, for the first time in days, hungry. Very, very hungry.
When I got downstairs, Tim was sprawled on the sofa. He’d managed to connect up my old Xbox and was playing some shoot-’em-up videogame I’d forgotten I owned. He looked up as I came in.
‘Crikey, you slept,’ he said. ‘I came up and checked on you a few times, but you were unconscious.’
‘That’s what forty-eight hours without sleep will do. Now I’m wide awake and I’m bloody starving.’
‘That I can fix,’ he said, pausing for a moment to save his game and then jumping up and heading for the kitchen.
He went for speed over style and produced a plateful of fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon and multiple slices of toast in a matter of minutes. I sat at the kitchen table and wolfed it down. When I’d finished, he dumped a big mug of tea in front of me and sat d
own across the table.
‘You’re not going to sleep for hours now,’ he said. ‘Shall we go out?’
‘I can’t,’ I said automatically, and simultaneously realized that of course I could. The girls were with my parents, and Helen was. . . Well, who knew where Helen was? ‘Scratch that. Of course I can. Where shall we go?’
‘I’d say somewhere local, but you probably don’t want to run into your neighbours in the pub tonight.’
‘Good point.’ I thought for a while. ‘Well, there’s always the Bell and Anchor. It’s nearer Mum and Dad’s than here, so we’re unlikely to bump into anyone we know. And I’m sure they have a late licence.’
‘Cool,’ said Tim, getting out his phone.
It took him moments to arrange a cab, and I had just a few minutes to change out of my crumpled shirt and comb my hair. Soon we were in the back of a minicab, moving quickly through the dark streets.
It felt unbelievably strange. It wasn’t just that my life was in ruins – I was still dazed and the reality of that hadn’t hit. It was more the oddness of the moment: Tim and me, off to get pissed late at night, like we used to when I came home from uni. He was already working as a junior chef, so we could only go out when he knocked off work. We had lots of late-night sessions at the Bell, although in the old days we’d have gone there on the bus from Mum and Dad’s and come back on the night bus with greasy cones of chips. Or sometimes we’d walk, weaving along slowly, putting the world to rights, singing old Smiths’ songs. Now we were in the back of a Mercedes, gliding swiftly towards our destination. I was wearing a fitted shirt from Hawes & Curtis and I had a crisp wad of twenties and a selection of credit and debit cards in my wallet. I felt as if I were standing in a hall of mirrors, at a weird junction between a life I had known years ago and my life now. Except of course my life now no longer existed. In a funny way, all that existed were the deep leather seats, the cloying odour of artificial pine from the air freshener which dangled from the rear-view mirror, and the intermittent flashes of neon from shop windows as we passed by.
We pulled up outside the Bell and Anchor. It was quiet, although clearly still open. It had always been a raucous local pub, often with a local duo playing live music in the corner, known for its good food and friendly ambience. But in the intervening years, it had obviously changed hands. Tim and I glanced at each other, unsure if we wanted to see the changes, but we were there now, so we went in.
It was unrecognizable. The old floral carpet and leather banquettes were gone, replaced by stone-coloured walls, scrubbed tables and discreet art. It had become an upmarket gastro-pub, but one of the large chain ones that try to look quirky and unusual and somehow fail. Tim picked up a menu from a nearby table and I saw him wrinkle his nose in disgust. He named the brewery that had bought the pub. ‘Same menu everywhere you go,’ he said, ‘and it’s all shit. I’m glad we’re not planning to eat.’
‘I’m sure their beer is fine,’ I said, and we took a seat at the bar.
The young barman strolled over, looking bored and supercilious. We were one of only five or six people in the place, and I’m sure our late arrival had ruined his plans for nipping out for a fag, or hitting on the waitress or something. Tim tried to ask about the various ales on tap, but the barman clearly had no idea what he was talking about. In the end, Tim chose a pale ale for himself and a bottled wheat beer for me.
We got our drinks and found a table in the corner. Tim tasted his gingerly. ‘Better than I expected,’ he said. ‘Someone here knows what they’re doing.’
We drank in silence for a while, then Tim said, ‘Listen, you’re going to have to give me a lead here, mate. Talk about it or not talk about it?’
‘Not talk about it right now, I think. I haven’t got my head around it. At the moment I’m tremendously relieved that she’s not dead. I haven’t quite grasped the other part yet.’
‘It’s a fuck-up and no mistake.’
‘That’s true,’ I conceded and gulped down two thirds of my beer in one go. I looked over to the bar, thinking I’d signal the barman to get me another, but he’d vanished.
I could see Tim wracking his brains for a safe topic of conversation. He’d already tried football, although neither of us were huge fans. He’d mentioned films he’d seen recently, but with a hectic job and two small children, I’d not been to the cinema in months. He knew not to try politics – our views had never coincided.
I was starting to feel antsy. My drink was finished now, and I definitely needed another one, but there was no one behind the bar. I stood up abruptly.
‘Going to look for that useless barman,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you one too.’
There wasn’t a single staff member in the whole bar section, so I walked through into the dining room part of the pub. There was a woman standing behind the reception desk, obviously checking over the reservations for the next day.
‘Can we get some service in the bar, please?’ I said, and my voice may have sounded louder, ruder, sharper than I meant it to. I really wanted a drink.
She looked up quickly. ‘Sam?’ she said, and her face registered real shock.
I stared at her. Sometimes, when you see a person out of context, or looking slightly different, even when you know you know them your brain can’t make sense of what it’s seeing at first. After an endlessly long few seconds, I realized who it was. It was the red-haired mum from Miranda’s class, who’d taken the girls back to her house the night Helen disappeared. Whenever I had seen her at school, she’d been wearing jeans, or casual skirts and tops. Here she was wearing a tailored blouse, pencil skirt and heels, and her hair was drawn back in a neat bun. I guessed she must be the manager.
She’d obviously seen my confusion because she pointed to herself slightly awkwardly and said, ‘Lara.’
‘Lara, of course, I know. I’m so sorry. You caught me off guard,’ I said.
‘Same here. I was surprised to see you too. Still, nice to see you here. We heard the good news at school.’
‘Yes,’ I said. This wasn’t a conversation I had expected to have tonight.
‘Is she here with you?’ Lara craned her neck to look past me into the pub.
‘No,’ I said, but I didn’t elaborate.
The silence grew between us, enormous and awkward. I could feel Lara’s enquiring eyes examining my face closely. Then she shook her head and said quickly, ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll get someone to come to the bar and serve you now.’
She walked away quickly, and I went back to Tim in the bar.
‘Well, that’s a cock-up,’ I said as I slid into my seat.
‘What is?’
‘One of the mums from the girls’ school is the manager here.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s obvious that all they’ve heard at the school is what they’ve seen on the news – that Helen is safe and well. No doubt they’re all expecting her to turn up on Monday morning as if nothing happened.’
‘Ah. That is a cock-up. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t even know what drink I’m ordering next. I don’t have a clue what to do about the utter wreckage of my life. I mean, how do I tell people? I didn’t think I’d have to face it this evening, that’s for sure.’
‘Do you have to face it this evening?’
‘Well, I have to say something. She’s clearly already realized that something’s not right.’
‘And you reckon she’ll be at the school gates on Monday spreading gossip and rumour if you don’t tell her the truth?’
‘I don’t think she’s like that – she’s not like some of them. She’s sweet, actually. A single mum, bit of a hippie, I think. But still, if she tells people she saw me out in a bar the night Helen was found. . .’
‘I’ll talk to her,’ Tim said suddenly.
‘You? Why?’
‘Damage limitation. I’ll tell her a carefully managed version of the truth.’
‘Like what?’
‘That Helen is away for the
moment, but she’ll be back soon.’
‘But that’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it?’
I realized he was genuinely asking me. ‘Do you actually think she’s coming back?’ I asked him incredulously.
‘Well. . . I thought it was likely. I mean, people don’t just walk away from everything, from their whole lives like that, do they? I figured it was a nervous breakdown or something, a blip. That you guys would work it out somehow. Don’t you think so?’
I sat back in my chair and stared at him. ‘Do you know, I actually don’t. Not for one second, not for even half a second since PC Shah told me she’d gone voluntarily has it crossed my mind that she might come back.’
‘Really?’
‘Do you know Helen?’
‘Not like you, but I have a reasonable idea of who she is.’
‘Have you ever known her to be less than certain about something? To do something half-heartedly? Do you remember the level of detail that went into planning our wedding?’
Tim nodded ruefully. As best man, he’d been on the receiving end of endless emails and spreadsheets.
‘Helen always does everything to the best of her ability. To the best of anyone’s ability. She’s the ultimate perfectionist. So I can tell you one thing for sure. If Helen has disappeared, it’ll be the best fucking disappearance the world has ever known. Jesus, now I think about it, she even stocked the freezer with food before she went. She knew she was going. She planned for it. And she’s definitely not coming back.’
That stunned Tim into silence. He sat back in his seat and had a long drink of his beer. He’d been drinking a lot slower than me and still had some left. Until that moment, I don’t think he had grasped exactly what had happened to the girls and me. But Tim is nothing if not adaptable. He rallied, and smiled.
‘That might be true, but no one else needs to know that yet, do they? They need an explanation, and as Helen isn’t here to give one, you get to choose what you say.’
