Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  “Don’t fuck with me, Charlotte. You tell the police you’re going away in a few days, but you don’t bother to tell me. Where are you going?”

  Rick calls me babe. He never calls me Charlotte. “How do you know what I told them?”

  “You left your sweater at the hospital. One of them very kindly dropped it off. He said that normally they wouldn’t have, but you weren’t answering your phone, and they’d hoped to catch you before you left.” He stands there with his arms folded. “So? Are you going to tell me?”

  I stand there for a moment and consider telling him the truth, that I didn’t want the police to get too reliant on me, before bloody-mindedness kicks in. “None of your fucking business,” I spit back, sick to death of how he’s suddenly on my case about absolutely everything. “You don’t tell me everything you’re doing, Rick. Why should it be different for me?”

  “You are goddamned selfish,” he shouts. “For a moment there, you almost had me fooled. I had actually started to believe that there’s another side to you. That you wanted to help your old school friend—”

  “She’s not really my friend,” I interrupt. “I just knew her. I don’t owe her anything.” That’s not how I meant it to come out.

  But Rick stares at me; then, when he speaks, his icy calm makes my skin prickle. “That’s just it with you. It’s all about you. You don’t owe anyone anything, do you?”

  “It’s not that simple.” I’m shaking my head. I care about Rick—to a point. But people always take advantage of you. This is supposed to be a year for me.

  “It really is.” His voice is flat. “It’s dead simple. Life’s about people, Charlotte. You know what? I’m going away for a bit. See if you can work it out while I’m gone. And if not . . .” He starts walking toward the stairs.

  “If not, what?” I shout after his back. “Don’t you dare bloody walk out like this.”

  He freezes. Then, when he speaks, in his voice there’s a hint of menace, which I haven’t heard before. “I’ll do exactly as I please.”

  6

  September 30 . . .

  Rick doesn’t tell me where he’s going—or who with. I wonder if he’s met someone else. It might explain why he’s behaving like this. But the clock is ticking. Our relationship is slipping through my fingers like grains of sand; the independence that once drew him to me, now pushing him away.

  After he’s left, I get drunk. Not just drunk enough to numb my anger with Rick and the sense of insecurity creeping over me. I get blind, falling-over, forget-everything, throwing-up drunk.

  It’s midday when I wake up, with the mother of all hangovers. Desperately thirsty and unable to keep even water down, I spend the rest of the day in bed, not even bothering to open the curtains. Screw Rick. If he doesn’t want me, he can go to hell. My cell buzzes once. Half asleep, I let the call go to voice mail, imagining a repentant Rick anxiously checking up on me, then wake hours later to find it wasn’t Rick at all. It was Abbie Rose.

  Wishing I’d never told the police I recognized the person in the photo, I play her message, then, with a heavy heart, call her back.

  “I was hoping you’d have time to see Evie again before you go away.”

  “I’m not going. Change of plan,” I tell her. Why did she have to remember? A hangover is no place to lie from.

  “Oh, okay. Well, when would suit you?”

  Never, I’m thinking. Then, not knowing when Rick will be back, I suggest, “Tomorrow? Afternoon?”

  “Can we say three o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Charlotte. I really appreciate it.”

  I mumble something into my phone, then drop it on the floor, lie back, stare at the ceiling, silently cursing.

  * * *

  As I drive, I’m thinking about Rick. A year’s a long time, and we were never destined to be long term. But I still don’t really know why he’s so angry with me. I know I’m selfish, but I’ve spent a lot of time alone. It’s a form of self-preservation. When no one looks out for you, the only person you can rely on is yourself.

  But as I walk through the hospital, it occurs to me that being here, as well as trying to help the police, is the perfect way to show Rick he’s got me wrong. Walking faster, smugly I imagine his surprise, his apology. No one speaks to me the way he did and gets away with it.

  As I reach the nurses’ station, I see Abbie Rose deep in conversation with another police officer. When she sees me, she stops talking.

  “Charlotte. Thanks for coming back. This is PC Miller. He’s helping with this case.”

  I glance at PC Miller. He’s younger than Abbie Rose, with brown hair and clear, pale blue eyes, which hold mine a little longer than necessary.

  “How’s Jen today?”

  “More awake, but still very unsettled, as you can imagine. She’s been able to give us some more information about her daughter.” She looks at PC Miller. “You may as well go, Dan. I’ll let you know if she says anything else.” As he walks away, she turns back to me. “Come with me, Charlotte.”

  There’s a different uniformed police officer outside her room today. The police are clearly not taking chances. As we walk into her room, Jen’s head turns toward us. Her eyes are agitated; worry is written all over her face.

  “Evie? Charlotte’s here again.” As Abbie Rose says my name, I see it register with Jen, and she glances fleetingly in my direction.

  “Hello.” I say it as gently as I can. “I hope you don’t mind me coming. The police thought seeing me might help you remember.”

  Jen’s eyes are wild as she glances from me to Abbie Rose, then back to me again. “We were at school together, remember?” I persist. “We weren’t good friends, but I saw your photo and I recognized you.”

  Wondering if I’m saying the right kind of thing, I glance at Abbie Rose. She nods.

  Jen whispers something I can’t make out; then she reaches one of her hands out toward me. “Have you seen Angel?” Her voice is hoarse; her eyes are pleading with me.

  “Her daughter,” Abbie Rose says quietly behind me.

  Slowly, I shake my head, then say as gently as I can, “I’m so sorry.”

  Jen’s eyes close as her head falls back on the pillow. I turn to Abbie Rose.

  “We found an address for Evie’s aunt,” she tells me. “Jessamine Cottage, on the edge of Bodmin, just as you said. We’ve been round, but the house is empty.”

  But as she mentions Jessamine Cottage, Jen’s eyes suddenly open. Then she’s trying to pull herself up in bed. “My . . . house . . . ,” she manages to say, her face contorted with pain, as one of the nurses hurries in.

  “I’m sorry, but can you give us a moment?” Turning her back on us, the nurse attends to Jen. “Evie, you need to rest. Let me help you get comfortable.”

  Abbie Rose looks at me, nods toward the door. I walk ahead and wait for her outside.

  She’s right behind me. “So far, we haven’t found anything obvious at Jessamine Cottage. Can you think of anyone else who might live nearby, who might know her?”

  I shake my head. “I completely lost touch when I moved away. I came back here only about a year ago. I suppose you could ask the school.”

  Abbie Rose nods. “We’re doing exactly that.”

  I’m frowning. It seems incredible that I’m the only person who’s recognized Jen. Surely, she has to buy food and fuel for her car. “Angel’s father . . . What about him?”

  “We’re doing our best to locate him.”

  I hesitate. “It makes you think, doesn’t it, if no one’s missed her, and no one’s come forward after seeing her photo, either she lived somewhere else, miles away, or she was hiding?”

  I can tell from Abbie Rose’s face, she’s thinking the same thing. But whom or what was Jen hiding from? And why?

  7

  October 2 . . .

  Whether it’s because of the problems in my own life or her link to my past, Jen’s attack haunts me. Her face fill
s my mind as I find myself trying to imagine what she’s going through.

  I think about Leah, too. It seems incredible that she was never found. But there’s no CCTV in the woods and fields. It’s an easy place to disappear. Then I think about Rick and his cryptic remark before he left. See if you can work it out while I’m gone. Work what out? But I’m uneasy. It’s not so much what he said as how he said it.

  I’m intending only to go food shopping, but I’ve no plans for the day, and idle curiosity, as well as the desire to impress Rick when he returns, draws me to the hospital. Abbie Rose looks only slightly surprised to see me.

  “It’s good timing, actually. I’ve a photo to show Evie.” I notice she’s holding a brown envelope. “It might be helpful that you’re here.”

  She’s clearly read more into our friendship than I intended her to, not that it matters. “Oh?”

  But she isn’t giving anything away, not yet at least. “Shall we go and see her?”

  I follow Abbie Rose toward the same corridor to Jen’s room. “Has she remembered her real name?”

  “We haven’t pushed it. But the photo might mean we have to tell her. We’ll see what she says.”

  Jen’s door is ajar. Abbie Rose knocks, then pushes it open.

  “Hello, Evie. How are you today?”

  Jen nods. “Okay.” An anxious expression flits across her face, and I realize, she is waiting for news of her daughter yet knows without asking that there is none. Good news arrives in bright eyes and smiling faces, not brown envelopes.

  “We found a photo in your aunt’s cottage.” After taking the photo from the envelope, Abbie Rose passes it to Jen. “Do you recognize him?”

  Jen stares at the photo; then she turns to Abbie Rose. “Yes . . . no . . . I think so.” Her flat, detached air of calm makes me think she’s sedated again.

  It’s a photo of a man, facing the camera, unsmiling, an appraising look in his eyes, which seem to look right through you. Jen studies it closely. “I think so,” she says again, but she sounds far from sure.

  “His name is Nick,” Abbie Rose tells her. “At least, that’s what it says on the back.” She gently takes the photo from Jen and flips it over to show the words “love from Nick” written on the back. “Is it possible he’s your husband?”

  Jen swallows. “I don’t know.”

  I try to imagine how it is to look at a photo that could be of your husband but you can’t tell. I watch her closely for the smallest sign of recognition.

  “Could he be Angel’s father?”

  “I don’t know,” she cries. Then she studies it more closely. “Maybe I do know him. . . . I was trying to see if Angel has his eyes.”

  It’s the most I’ve heard her say.

  “Does he remind you of her?” Abbie Rose’s voice is sharp.

  Jen pauses again. “I think so.” She falters. “Slightly . . .”

  “There’s another photo.” This time, Abbie Rose hesitates before handing it to her. It’s of the same man, only his hair is slightly longer and he looks more carefree somehow. Jen takes it, turns it over; then, as she reads the message on the back, her face turns even paler.

  To Jen, with love, Nick.

  Jen drops it on the bed. “Who’s Jen?” Her reaction makes it clear that she has no idea, that she thinks Jen is either an old girlfriend or someone her husband was having an affair with.

  “You don’t know?” Abbie Rose is feeling her way, trying to push for answers, knowing that pushing too far, too soon, could be too much for Jen.

  Staring at the second photo, Jen shakes her head, looking confused. “No.” Whispering it, as if frightened to say it out loud.

  Abbie Rose gets up and walks over to the window, making a call. “We have a potential name of the father of Angel Sherman. Is Miller there?”

  She’s silent for a moment; then she goes on. “His Christian name is Nick. I suggest we look for Nick Sherman, see if it turns something up. Call me if you find anything.”

  She comes back over to Jen’s bed. “We’ve been trying to establish if anyone in the area knows you and Angel. We’ve checked with local preschools, in case you’ve registered her with any. So far it looks as though you haven’t, but that doesn’t really tell us anything. She’s only three. You might not have got round to it yet. But we’ve also checked with local doctors. So far, you don’t seem to be registered with any of their practices, either.”

  Jen looks at her blankly.

  “There’s something else.” Abbie Rose hesitates, and I see what she’s doing: waiting for a subliminal, unspoken message to register before the actual words deliver their shock.

  It seems to work. I watch the look of unease come over Jen’s face.

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Evie. Someone saw your photo on our Facebook page. We’ve been checking out the information we were given. But right now, from everything we know, it looks as though your actual name may be Jen Russell.”

  8

  A mixture of emotions comes over me as I watch Jen’s reaction. Firstly, relief that Abbie Rose didn’t tell her it was me who had identified her. I hope she knows what she’s doing. It’s a huge shock to deliver to someone.

  “No.” Jen pushes herself up, her arms clutched tightly around her body. “Who told you?”

  Abbie Rose hesitates. “It doesn’t matter at this stage.”

  “No! They’re wrong. I’m Evie Sherman. I live here with my daughter, Angel, and my cat. You know I am. I’m not called Jen.”

  “You have a cat?” Abbie Rose frowns, trying to deflect her panic.

  “Yes.” Jen’s tearful; then she’s frantic again. “Why would I have another name?” She’s desperate, needing answers.

  “It explains the photo,” I say to her quietly. Abbie Rose is silent. “The inscription on the back.”

  “No.” Jen shakes her head. I recognize her denial, however irrational, but then it’s too much for her to take in. She turns to me. “We were at school together, weren’t we? Please tell Abbie I’m Evie. . . .”

  But I can tell she isn’t sure. I meet her eyes, then look away.

  “The school has photos,” Abbie Rose adds quietly. “You were captain of the school hockey team. A very successful team that competed nationally. It seems you were the pride of your school. They have photos everywhere, even now.”

  “I don’t understand.” Jen’s hands are shaking.

  “People change their names all the time, Evie. For all kinds of reasons. It explains why we haven’t been able to trace any records of you. What we’ll do now is check for records of Jen Russell and Angel Russell. From the photo, we can assume that Nick knew you as Jen.” She pauses to let Jen take it in.

  “It doesn’t make sense.” Her voice is dull. “Why did I remember my name as Evie? Wouldn’t you think I’d have remembered Jen?”

  “I don’t know. Memories can play the strangest tricks. Maybe you’d been calling yourself Evie for some time, wanting to forget your real name, for some reason. So much of what’s happening suggests you were hiding. If you’re right and you were living in your aunt’s house, there’s the fact that no one’s looking for you. You must have lived alone and avoided people. . . .”

  Including her husband, I can’t help thinking.

  “And what about Angel? What if I’ve changed her name, too?”

  “We don’t know at this stage. But we have her description, and that’s the important thing. Until your memory comes back, we have to keep an open mind.... But it doesn’t stop us from looking.” Abbie Rose hesitates again, looking at her more intently. “What was going on in your life, Evie?”

  Jen’s hands are clasped tightly, her nails digging into her palms, as she stares silently at Abbie Rose.

  “It may not feel like it, but with all of this, you must be getting closer to what really happened,” I interrupt, wanting Jen to hear something more positive. And it’s true, surely. “You have to trust the police, Evie.”

  From a place where n
othing makes sense, it must feel impossible to her, but it’s all she can do. Trust in the police, even in me. That people are doing what they can. It’s her only way through this.

  “I need to make a call. Can you stay a little while?” Abbie Rose is looking at me.

  I nod. “Of course.” This time, she goes out to make the call. When she’s gone, I turn to Jen. “Is there anything I can do?” I don’t know what else to say to her.

  Her eyes blank, she shakes her head. I strain my ears to hear what Abbie Rose is saying on her phone, but she’s too far away.

  “Charlotte?”

  I turn back to look at Jen. Trapped in her fragmented world, she looks frightened witless.

  “Thank you . . . for being here.”

  “It’s okay. . . .” I’m flustered, not sure what to say, because there’s nothing I can do to help her. Then Abbie Rose comes back in.

  “Evie? Someone at the station found a press cutting.” Abbie Rose pauses, as though trying to gauge Jen’s reaction. “It’s about Jen Russell’s—your—engagement. Sara’s e-mailing it to me as we speak. Constable Evans,” she adds, noticing my frown. “This is probably it now.” As her phone pings, she scrolls down to find it. “Here. It says you were engaged to a man named Nicholas Abraham. It was announced in the local paper six years ago. I’ll read it to you. Mr. and Mrs. Nigel Russell announce the engagement between Nicolas Abraham and their daughter Genevieve. . . .”

  Genevieve. Jen. Evie.

  “It explains the name you chose.” Abbie Rose is thinking the same thing.

  But tears are streaming down Jen’s face. “My parents?” she whispers, her eyes searching the policewoman’s.

  “Sara’s trying to find out more, but your father’s dead, Evie. We’re trying to locate your mother,” Abbie Rose tells her gently. “But at least now we should be able to find Nick.”

  9

  “It’s not particularly relevant right now,” Abbie Rose tells me as we go outside, when I ask her why she hasn’t mentioned Leah Danning. “There’s a balance between pushing Evie just enough but not too much. The Leah Danning case was years ago. Until Evie’s stronger, I’m not sure reminding her is going to help.”