Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  But as I drive home, too late I remember my promise to Jen that I’d go walking in the woods with her. Not that she’s up to it yet. I can imagine Abbie Rose voicing her disapproval. But I know also that my escape is no more than a brief respite. Later this afternoon, I’ll have to drive all the way back, a fly in a spider’s web—needing answers as much as Jen does. Trapped.

  * * *

  Living where Jen does, someone could have watched her house for weeks. She would never have known. Late that afternoon, as I drive back there, I imagine a child abductor surveying their next victim—victims, because Jen’s one, too. I wonder about the thoughts that must torment Jen, about whether she was lured away and beaten almost to death before they came back here for Angel. Or if they somehow got in and took Angel first, so that Jen went upstairs, tiptoed across the bedroom, bent down to kiss that little pink cheek, and her heart stopped as she found an empty bed, her child gone. Pitched into every parent’s worst nightmare, she would have run outside, screaming her daughter’s name, gone through the woods and across fields. Maybe she heard her, followed her voice like a seagull’s cry on the wind across the dark landscape, desperate to find Angel.

  26

  October 14 . . .

  As I turn off the main thoroughfare, I notice Abbie Rose driving down the rough road to Jessamine Cottage toward me. As I pull over to let her pass, she slows down and lowers her car window. “I’m glad you’re here. I have to get back to the police station. Evie’s distracted. She wanted to go walking in the woods, but I managed to persuade her to stay at the house, but tomorrow I think it might be more difficult.”

  I nod. “Okay. I’ll talk to her. I was going to stay overnight again.”

  “Thank you, Charlotte. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When I park alongside the hedge outside Jen’s house, I get a sense of what Jen must feel, of how she must always be wondering if she’s being watched by an unknown presence, never sure. There are no neighbors here, no one to call out to. I’m aware of fear, too—Jen’s fear, surrounding me, so tangible, I can almost touch it.

  When I get inside, she’s rummaging through one of the large kitchen cupboards.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t find it.” Her voice is agitated. She opens another cupboard, pulls out the contents.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “My gun.”

  I’m taken aback. “What kind of gun?”

  “An air rifle. It’s usually in the cupboard under the stairs. I remembered it only this morning. I went to get it, but it’s not there.”

  Another memory unlocked or her imagination? I go along with what she’s saying. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? “Are you sure it was there? Perhaps you moved it.”

  “I’ve checked all the cupboards. Do you think forensics has taken it?”

  “Why don’t you ask? Why do you need it?” Why is she worried about her gun now, of all times? Maybe there’s another reason. Maybe she’s frightened, and having her gun at hand makes her feel safer.

  “I don’t.” Then she stops looking and turns to face me. “It’s just that it should be there, but it’s not.”

  “When did you last see it?”

  A noise comes from her—exasperation, tinged with impatience. “I can’t remember. I probably used it to shoot a rabbit.”

  “You shoot?” The picture I have of Jen doesn’t fit with the image of a woman who kills for sport.

  “I learned. Have you seen the rabbits, Charlotte? Crawling around, disfigured and blind, with myxomatosis? They’re the walking dead. It’s kinder to shoot them.” She’s matter of fact, and I’m reminded of the way she killed the sick chicken. Her eyes are expressionless. “I wanted Angel to understand how a quick death from a gun is kinder than a long drawn-out one.” Her voice wobbles. “I wanted her to see . . . that death can be a release.”

  It seems a lot for a small child to take in. As she speaks, it’s not hard to see that it isn’t rabbits she’s thinking about; it’s her daughter. I try to distract her. “Is there anywhere else we should look?”

  “I’ve looked everywhere.” Her eyes are filled with panic. “It’s gone.”

  “Come on. I’ll help you tidy up.”

  She doesn’t protest. When everything’s put away, I put the kettle on, and she goes through to the sitting room. After another day in which nothing’s been achieved, she’s exhausted.

  The rain starts. I can hear it on the windows, light at first, steadily growing heavier. Obviously, we won’t be going out in the woods now, and I say so. As it grows darker, Jen starts pacing from room to room like a caged animal. I realize then that she’s teetering on a cliff edge. Waiting for the worst to happen, for the ax to fall.

  “You need to remember there’s a huge investigation going on,” I tell her. “You do realize, don’t you? Officers have been drafted in from neighboring stations, and members of the public are helping with the search. Photos are being circulated. Everything’s being done that can be done.”

  She nods, her face devoid of color. “Outside . . . when the police first came here, there would have been footprints. Mine, Angel’s, the person who took her . . .” She seems distracted. “Would forensics have checked?”

  I nod. “I’m sure they would have. Talk to Abbie about it. She’ll be able to tell you exactly what they’ve done.”

  “She would have told me, wouldn’t she, if they’d found anything?” Her voice is dull.

  I’m silent. I suppose she would have.

  She goes on. “After she didn’t tell me about Tamsyn, I’m not sure what to think. What else do you think she’s hiding?”

  I shake my head. “She hasn’t said anything to me. Look, about Tamsyn . . . I wanted to tell you, Evie. I really did. Abbie Rose asked me not to.”

  Jen’s silent for a moment. When she looks up, her voice is ferocious. “If there’s anything else, will you tell me? Charlotte? Will you promise?”

  Jesus. I promise, just to keep her quiet, even though it’s a promise I may not keep. “If I were in your shoes, I’d want to know, too.”

  Too early, it’s half dark outside, the sky heavy with more rain that’s been swept in off the Atlantic. It’s battering against the side of the house.

  Jen brings her tray out to the kitchen. She’s barely eaten anything. As I wash up, she just stands there, not saying anything. After the frenzied restlessness of earlier, there’s something disturbing about her blankness.

  I turn round suddenly. “Are you taking the pills the doctor prescribed?”

  She nods. Then a strange look comes over her face, as though she can hear something I can’t. She whispers, “He left me.”

  I look up sharply. “You mean Nick? Are you sure?”

  She’s nodding. “It’s what happens,” she whispers. “People leave me.” Then her eyes start to close.

  I take her arm and lead her toward the table. After what Nick told me, what Jen herself has remembered, it makes no sense. “Tell me.”

  Very slowly, she pulls out one of the chairs and sits, a look of confusion on her face. “After Nick had gone, I remember staring blankly at the windows as the daylight faded, as the trees turned into silhouettes, until all I could see was myself reflected in the glass. I had this thought—” She breaks off, then shakes her head. “It was like I was on the outside, staring in. Why do I remember that?” She falls silent. “There’s something else I remember, too. This picture of Nick, laughing, taking my hand, pulling me outside, where the rain has stopped and the sun’s so bright, it’s blinding me. I can hear giggling. It’s Angel, wearing a pink tutu over her jeans, dancing across the grass toward me, her small, plump hand reaching for my own.”

  Outside, a crack of thunder makes us both jump. I get up and close the window.

  “That’s some storm out there,” I say.

  But she doesn’t reply, instead leans forward, holding her head in her hands. Then she looks up again. “I remember Nick and Angel, the
three of us together.” I watch the blood drain from her face. “It doesn’t make sense,” she whispers.

  She’s right. It’s completely impossible. Then another explanation occurs to me. Unless Nick was lying . . . But why would he do that?

  “Me and Nick with Angel.” She’s whispering again. “That’s the memory . . . our happy little family. Except we weren’t, were we? He didn’t know about her.”

  I watch her. She’s torn between the few facts she has and the drift of ghostly images from her past.

  “What I remember didn’t happen. It couldn’t have. . . .” She whispers it, clearly terrified. Then she’s sobbing. “I feel like I’m going mad. . . . What’s happening to me?”

  27

  “Evie . . . ,” I say, trying to calm her. “You mustn’t worry. . . . It’s your mind playing tricks. I don’t understand why, but it’s connecting the wrong things together.”

  “But I saw us, Charlotte.” She’s still sobbing. “Me and Nick and Angel . . .”

  “You couldn’t have,” I tell her firmly. “Nick said he didn’t know about Angel. Maybe it was your dream, what you wished for, when you had your miscarriage.”

  “You think so?” She raises tear-filled eyes to meet mine. “Can you imagine what it’s like? Having all these memories that aren’t real?”

  “No,” I say truthfully. I’m way out of my depth with all this. “But listen. When Abbie Rose gets here tomorrow, she needs to get that doctor to come back, or to refer you or something. This must happen all the time after head injuries. Or maybe you just need more rest—and time. But whatever, you need someone to reassure you.”

  “You think?” She desperately wants to believe me.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her quietly. “It’ll all be okay.”

  It seems to calm her. She stares blankly ahead. “That memory of the three of us, it seemed so real.”

  “I know. But you know how dreams can be so vivid that when you wake up, you’re sure they’re real? Maybe it’s like that.”

  It seems to satisfy her—for now. She gets up, her arms tightly wrapped around herself, as if otherwise she’d fall apart, and then she walks over to the window, stares outside, unseeing.

  That she’s trying to make sense of things—and failing—is knocking what little confidence she has. Even the weather seems to reflect the turmoil she’s feeling. There’s another crash of thunder, and the intensity of the rain picks up, hammering on the window, for a moment drowning everything else out. If I were Evie alone in that house, after everything that’s happened, I’d be terrified.

  I go upstairs to draw the curtains, then head into the bathroom, where the rain is blowing through an open window, soaking the curtains. I close it, leaving the curtain dripping on the windowsill. When I go downstairs again, Jen’s gone.

  As I start checking all the rooms, the lights go out. It’s the storm. After feeling my way into the kitchen, I fumble around and find my cell, looking for the flashlight on it as a bolt of lightning briefly illuminates the room.

  “Evie?” While I try to think if I’ve seen a fuse box anywhere, there’s no reply. Using my light, I finish searching the rooms, aware that the front door has been blown open in the wind. As I slam it shut behind me, I try the lights again, but they’re dead.

  My heart is thumping. “Evie?” There’s no reply. I go through to the hallway, and then I call upstairs. “Evie? It’s Charlotte. Are you there?”

  There’s no sign of her. Were we being watched? Did someone open the front door, or has Evie gone outside?

  My hands are shaking as I fumble with my phone to call Abbie Rose, but there’s no signal. I can tell from the wind howling through the house that the front door has blown open again. This time, when I go to close it, I see a light outside. There’s someone out there, coming up the path. Suddenly, in the dark, in the heart of this storm, I’m completely terrified.

  The figure walks up the steps and stands in the doorway. A light shines in my face, and I realize with relief who it is.

  “Jeez, you gave me a fright. What’s going on here?” PC Miller closes the door behind him.

  “I’m worried about Evie. I can’t find her anywhere.”

  “I’ll see if I can get the lights on.” He walks off, shines his flashlight around. “Do you know where the fuse box is?”

  “No. I’ll search the bedrooms.”

  I leave him looking as I shine my light up the stairs. Halfway up, a flash of lightning illuminates the staircase and I call out again. “Evie? Are you there?”

  Upon finding the first two bedrooms empty, I hurry to the third, shine my light around. Then I hear a whimper just as the lights come on. She’s crouched in the corner, a look of terror on her face. I wonder if hearing the door fly open and people walking around has brought back the memory of being attacked.

  Very slowly, I go over and sit down beside her, then take her hand.

  28

  When we go downstairs, Miller’s still there.

  “Up to you, but if you’d like me to, I could sit down here tonight, rather than in my car. Only if you don’t mind. Just till this storm has passed.”

  Jen’s relief is palpable. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  The storm leaves a clear blue sky and a still landscape of rain-washed gray stubble fields and, beyond the hills, the smallest sliver of sea, the colors clearer, brighter after last night’s deluge.

  The ground is still damp when I go outside to feed Jen’s chickens. That so much rain has fallen is a nightmare for the police. Any remaining evidence will have been washed away. As I go back in, I see Abbie Rose walking up the path, and I wait.

  “She’s not great,” I tell her. “Last night, when I got here, she was looking for her air rifle. She said she used to shoot rabbits with myxomatosis.” I look at Abbie Rose. “She couldn’t find the gun. Later, she had all these memories that didn’t make sense. It really upset her. Then there was the storm, and the lights went out.... Nightmare.”

  “Forensics found an air rifle.” Abbie Rose is frowning. “What did she remember?”

  “In a nutshell?” I pause. “Her and Nick and Angel, the happy little family—her words, by the way. Of course, she knows they weren’t. Her mind had created an image that felt completely real to her. She’ll tell you about it. Right now I’m not sure she trusts herself.”

  Abbie Rose shakes her head. “You’re sure that’s what she said?”

  I nod. “She described it vividly. But at the same time, she knows it couldn’t have happened. I wondered if it could have been a kind of wish fulfillment thing after her miscarriage. Of course, the other explanation is that Nick’s lying.” But I don’t think he was. He was too emotional. Liars are cold and calculating. Nor am I sure he’s smart enough to tell a convincing lie, and certainly not twice, to both me and the police.

  Abbie Rose shakes her head. “He didn’t lie. He has an alibi—at least for the night that the attack took place. We’re interviewing his mother, so hopefully, that will shed more light on their relationship.”

  I shrug. “Do you think Evie should see someone? A shrink? Because after last night, it’s hard to tell if anything she’s saying is real.”

  “I know. I’ll talk to the doctor. Thanks, Charlotte. Have you checked on her this morning?”

  “I thought I’d leave her to sleep. After last night, I didn’t want to disturb her.”

  Maybe it’s because she knows Abbie Rose is here, but as we go into the kitchen, there’s the sound of someone moving around upstairs. Then, a few minutes later, Jen appears in the kitchen doorway.

  “Evie. How are you? Charlotte was just telling me about the storm and the lights going out. Did you sleep okay?”

  Jen looks tired. She nods; then she looks at the photos Abbie Rose has placed on the table.

  “You’ve seen them before. They’re the ones from school.” They’re the photos of a group of girls in uniform, wielding hockey sticks. “I thought we should look at them again l
ater. Why don’t you have some breakfast?”

  It’s another attempt to remove one of the layers of doubt that have settled over Jen’s life. But after last night, I wonder if she’s up to it. I watch as she looks at the photos, homing in on the girl with fair hair and laughing eyes, which so clearly is her. Spreading the photos on the table, she studies the faces of the other girls, saying nothing. It’s the same in all of them—the same girl, a teenage Jen, stands out from the others.

  For ages, she stares at the table. “I wish I could remember,” she says at last. Even though Abbie Rose is trying to help her, it’s as though she’s creating an identity Jen doesn’t relate to. Suddenly tearful, she pushes the photos across the table. “I’ve still been attacked, and my child is still missing.... Nothing else matters, don’t you see?”

  * * *

  When I get home, I’m astonished to find Rick’s Jeep parked outside. When I go in, he’s sprawled on the sofa, his large feet hanging over the end of it, the silence of the empty house punctuated by his snores. I go through to the kitchen, put on the kettle and open the fridge to look for some breakfast, then change my mind. Rick’s presence has unsettled me. After days without any communication, I’ve no way of knowing if he’s still angry with me.

  Maybe it’s the remains of last night’s hangover—I drank a bottle of wine once Jen had gone to bed. But now I’m home, and the house, which usually fills me with a sense of security, suddenly feels claustrophobic. In the mudroom, I pull on my running shoes.

  The early morning chill has long gone, giving way to a glorious autumn day, as I walk across the grass toward the coast path, then turn west toward the distant outline of the Rumps, trying to tune out the noise in my head; breathing in the pure sea air, then exhaling; feeling the pressure of everything that’s going on; needing life to be simplified.

  It’s an hour later when I get back. I close the door quietly so as not to disturb Rick. It doesn’t work. His body twitches; then his eyes open and he yawns.

  “Hey, babe. You just got back?”