Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  After climbing into the car, she didn’t say anything. Carefully, he drove down the bumpy road.

  “I keep looking,” he said quietly. “All the time. Everywhere I go. The villagers round here, they’re all looking, too. They want to help, did you know that?”

  Through the trees, a ray of sun caught his eye. Nothing sounded right. It was good that everyone was looking, but Angel hadn’t been found. What else would it take?

  “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to go?” he asked.

  She shook her head. He wondered how much of the countryside she recognized. He didn’t like to ask. Half a mile up the road, he turned up a dirt lane through the trees, and after a hundred yards or so, he pulled over and parked.

  “These are the same woods that your yard backs onto. Searches have combed the area closest to your house. Does this seem like a good spot for us to start out?”

  The woods had many moods. On a morning like this, they were beautiful, with the low sun filtering through the branches, dazzling in his eyes. It was hard to believe they were the same woods that had seemed so hostile the other night, when he’d seen the stag.

  It was clearly an effort for Evie, and even though they walked slowly, every so often they paused for Evie to lean against a tree.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.” The word stuck in her throat, making her cough.

  Jack shook his head, exasperated with himself. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re not. How can you be?”

  She dragged her gaze up to look at him, and her eyes appraised him; in their depths, he could see her sorrow. He felt a shock of compassion as something unspoken passed between them. A knowledge that came instinctively.

  Somehow she knew that something had happened to him, too.

  “I know how you feel.” He was compelled to reach out to her. It was impossible not to. Only when you’d been through what they both had could you know how it felt.

  As she looked at him again, he could see behind her sadness that she believed him.

  “I lost my son.”

  Here, under the trees, the connection between them was tangible as a realization came to him. In all the time her daughter had been missing, of all the people she’d spoken to, he was the first person who understood.

  As they walked, he told her about his police career, about how so much had changed when Josh was killed.

  “One of his friends was driving. He’d passed his test a month earlier. Josh was sitting in the passenger seat. They were going to a party.” His voice was level, matter of fact, as if he was talking about a stranger. “The friend pulled out in front of a truck. He died instantly. Josh was seriously injured. He was in a coma for two weeks before he died.”

  He saw the shock register on her face. He wasn’t after sympathy. He was telling her so that she knew he understood.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Three years ago. My wife never got over it. Jesus, nor have I.” Jack fell silent, not wanting to burden her when she was already dealing with so much.

  She hesitated. “Was he your only child?”

  “No.” The word was lost, as though he’d swallowed it. “No,” he said again, more clearly. “We have a daughter. Stephanie. She’s twenty-two. She moved out after. Things got difficult between us. My wife had an affair. . . .” He looked at her. “She moved out not long ago.”

  Suddenly, he was back in the hidden, unspoken world of parents who’d lost children, who didn’t talk about what had happened to them, because it was too heartbreakingly sad or because no one wanted to listen. It overlapped with Evie’s world yet was miles apart. Jack’s son would never come back, but Evie could still hope.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her words were heartfelt as the echo of his loss filtered through. She touched his arm. “So very sorry you lost him.”

  The lump in his throat prevented Jack from speaking, Instead, they continued walking, the path narrowing until their arms were touching. For the second time this morning, it was there. Hope. He wanted Evie to feel it surging through her veins, rousing her from her bleakness. It wasn’t always better to know the truth. It was better to have something to hold on to for as long as you could. To believe Angel could be found, to give up only when hope had finally gone. You had to keep going.

  As they walked, the trees became more densely spaced, and it was as though the sun had dimmed, holding the woods in a kind of half-light. Jack wasn’t familiar with this area. He could see Evie glancing around for anything out of place. The effort it was taking was obvious, but she seemed driven onward by that same flicker of hope.

  After a while, the woods become sparser again, the trees thinning out, with sprawling rhododendron bushes on either side of the path. Ahead of them was a patch of sunlight, where the trees cleared altogether, and as they got nearer, Jack could make out a lake.

  Evie stopped suddenly, her face stricken. “Will the police have searched here?”

  “As far as I know.” Jack wanted to reassure her. “But I’ll check.”

  As they got closer, he could see narrow streams leading into and out of the lake, each of them lost in a thick bank of reeds, and over them, a series of small arched stone bridges.

  There was something incongruous about the bridges, as they were set in such wild surroundings. He walked over the first, Evie close behind, then round to the other side of the lake, where there was another, steeper bridge. He paused on top of it to look for a moment into the black, oily water beneath. There were no visible signs of life, no tendrils of weeds floating on the water, no insects, no lily pads. Apart from an occasional bubble reaching the surface, there was nothing.

  There was something eerie about the place, its heavy silence, the stillness. The only life he could see was in the towering nests crawling with giant wood ants. Avoiding them, he kept walking round to the back of the lake, where there was another bridge over another, smaller stream.

  The bushes were denser here, and the path narrower, pushing them closer to the lake’s edge. Up ahead, a small derelict building blocked the path. An old workman’s shed, Jack guessed, finding himself drawn closer. Built of wood and bricks, it was in a poor state of repair: a number of tiles missing from the roof, the original door wrenched off and replaced by a rusty grill, which was held closed by a heavy chain and padlock.

  After stopping in front of it, he peered inside, but there was nothing, just what looked like years of dead leaves covering the floor, pushed up at the sides in some places, where the wind had caught them.

  “I can see something.” Evie was beside him. “There.” Her hand was trembling as she pointed.

  Jack stared more closely, trying to focus on where she was pointing. Through the gloom he made out the shape of something. He reached into his pocket for the flashlight he always carried, switched it on, pointed its beam through the grill, then felt himself recoil when he saw something that didn’t belong there.

  Beside him, he felt Evie stiffen. “What is it?” There was a note of panic in her voice.

  Holding the light steady, in the beam he saw a severed doll’s head.

  At his side, Evie gasped. On its side, seeming to stare up from the floor at them, the doll’s head was ghoulish, making the back of Jack’s neck prickle. Evie jumped back.

  “It’s okay.” Jack turned. “Just kids messing around.” Did kids really do that these days? Plant dolls’ heads in strange places?

  “Can we go?” The sight had clearly disturbed Evie.

  Jack nodded, and she turned around, started to retrace their footsteps, then broke into a shaky run.

  “Hey, Evie. Hold on. There’s no hurry.” She looked so weak, Jack was worried about her stumbling. After catching up, he grabbed her arm. “It’s okay,” he said again. But as she turned to look at him, he could see it wasn’t.

  “I can’t bear it.” Her voice was tinged with hysteria. “I keep thinking I remember a man at the door. But I can’t see his face.... Even when I’m alone, I can’t get away fro
m this voice in my head. It tells me to trust no one. . . .”

  Jack could see she was at the end of her tether. Wherever Evie turned, there was no respite for her. How could there be?

  * * *

  There were cars outside Jessamine Cottage when they got back. Jack frowned. He hadn’t been aware of another search so close to the house today. There was no sign of Abbie’s car, he noticed, suddenly worried about leaving Evie alone. Everything was too traumatic, and she wasn’t strong.

  “I thought Abbie would be here.” Jack stopped the Land Rover beside the gate. “Will you be okay?”

  Evie nodded, a slight movement that was almost lost in the poor light. “Thank you.” As she looked at him, he was surprised to see the gratitude in her eyes.

  “You’re welcome. I’m only sorry we didn’t find anything.”

  She looked away.

  “You’d better go inside.” He nodded toward the gate.

  Opening the car door, she looked at him briefly, then got out.

  “You take care,” he said softly, then put the car into gear and pulled away. As he turned round, above the sound of the engine he heard her scream.

  33

  After pulling on the hand brake, Jack leapt out of the Land Rover and ran toward the gate. On the other side, he could see Evie surrounded by a group of about half a dozen people.

  “Tell us what happened, Evie. Who do you think’s taken your daughter?”

  “Go away.” Evie stood there, swaying, her hands over her ears.

  It was the press—the last thing she needed. Jack ran into the middle of them and took her arm. “Leave her alone.” He was furious. “You’re on private property. Get out, all of you.”

  As he led her toward the house, one of the reporters overtook them and stopped in front of Evie. Turning, Jack tried to shield her from the camera’s flash. Goddamned press. They were like vultures preying on the vulnerable.

  “Are you all right?” he asked as Evie fumbled with a key and unlocked the back door.

  Hunched inside her jacket, she nodded. She looked far from all right as she went inside.

  * * *

  Jack hadn’t wanted to leave her. He’d waited until she turned on lights and closed curtains, made her promise not to open the door to anyone other than the police. Nor had he planned to go back the next morning, but the intrusion of the press, and her vulnerability, had preyed on his mind.

  As he walked the following morning, night lingered, in the dark shapes of trees and bushes, the still-bright moon, the slight crunching underfoot from the first frost, which would last only until the early sun broke through. Above, the sky was clear, a hint of palest silver in the east heralding the sunrise, as he walked across the yard toward the woods.

  He was looking for the stag under the canopy of branches that held the darkness in, blotting out the coming dawn. He knew the way with his eyes closed—the path that twisted through the brambles, then straightened between the rows of tall pines, the floor beneath them carpeted with needles. He breathed in air scented with damp earth as his feet took him to a hidden place, of soft grass and fallen leaves and empty chestnut casings, a place that in spring was carpeted with bluebells.

  The stag was a symbol of hope. Sometimes you needed a sign that you were on the right path. That you weren’t about to lose your mind. There’s a child out here, Jack was thinking. The police investigation had got nowhere—not in any sense that meant anything. If there was any kind of balance in the world, any unifying force, he needed help now.... Jack’s fists were clenched. He didn’t know why he was asking, demanding, help from an unseen, questionable source. None had been forthcoming when his son had needed it.

  The sun was edging up from the horizon as he reached the place where he’d seen the stag, the first rays reaching through the branches, casting a blinding light across his face. Listening for the giveaway sounds of hooves through leaves and fallen twigs, he knew almost straightaway that it wasn’t here. Blinking, he turned away from the sunlight; then, at his feet, he saw them, the verdant shoots poking up through last year’s fallen leaves. It never ceased to amaze Jack how they survived the elements.

  He crouched down and lifted away a few of the decaying leaves, puzzled. In spring, slender green spears like this carpeted the woods. They were wild bulbs. They thrived here because of the fallen leaves, which offered enough protection that the bulbs could start to grow underneath; and because of the trees, which kept the ground cooler and damper here, so that for a few short weeks, tens of thousands of tiny flowers would paint the floor hyacinth blue or pure white.

  It was all connected, he suddenly realized, in a way he hadn’t seen before. The flowers and the trees, their roots reaching deep into the ground, where they tangled with each other, their branches overhead outstretched toward each other until they touched.

  But as he looked down, there was something out of place. The verdant shoots emerging through the soil and poking through the leaves, they were snowdrops, he was almost certain. But it was far too early for them. Carefully, he lifted away more dead leaves and saw a single tiny white bud. They were snowdrops, by some miracle flowering early.

  The strangest feeling came over him. He’d come here to find the stag, and instead, he’d found a single fragile flower. But it didn’t matter. Suddenly, he could feel it again, not elusive and intangible, the way it usually felt, but flowing through him from the air in his lungs and on his skin, from the ground beneath him. The miracle that was hope.

  Whistling to Beamer, Jack walked toward Evie’s house. He felt energized. He just wished she could feel that way, too. This time, there were no cars parked outside. She was alone.

  Walking up the path, he was too busy watching the robin perched on the wheelbarrow, his head on one side, to notice Evie walking down toward him.

  “It’s Angel’s robin. At least, that’s how I always think of him.” She stepped closer to him. “Have you seen her?” Her voice was quiet, as she did not want to scare the bird off. “You saw, didn’t you? Did you see them take her things, too? What happened? Where did she go?”

  The robin glanced at her before darting away. As her voice faded, she looked up and into the trees. Jack saw the hooded shapes of crows there, which were also watching them.

  “You see all the birds? I imagine them watching us, watching what we do. I wonder if one of them knows where Angel is.” Falling silent, she dropped her gaze. “You must think I’m mad.”

  She was no more mad than he was, he who took strength from the sight of a flower or imagined his dead son sending a wild stag to his rescue. “I really don’t.”

  He went on. “I came to make sure you hadn’t had any more trouble from the press.” It wasn’t the real reason, but he didn’t want to freak her out.

  She shook her head. “I suppose they’ll come back.” She said it halfheartedly.

  “If they do, let us know.”

  She nodded. “Would you like to come in?”

  He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the door frame as he watched her put the kettle on, then find mugs, coffee, and milk. It was like watching someone whose mind was tuned out. That was a pretty accurate description, he reminded himself. A mind that was constantly numbed by a cocktail of drugs and fear.

  He remembered the wretched pills. They solved nothing, just lowered a short-lived veil over your senses, a veil that slowly dissolved to reveal the full horror of what had happened all over again—until you took more pills, drew another veil. An endless cycle on repeat, until you stopped it, waited for the onslaught of pain.

  There were tears rolling down Evie’s cheeks again. All that suppressed emotion had to come out somewhere. Jack imagined the robin flying after Angel, having the answer that Evie so desperately needed, but being unable to tell her. Probably the crows, too.

  One of the mugs smashed on the floor. Evie slumped down beside it, unable to stop her crying, as if her heart was breaking all over again.

  Jack helped her up. She
put him in mind of a wild animal, constantly on edge, ready for flight. But then, how could a mother rest when her child was missing? Even as she sat at the table, the tears kept coming silently, her face devoid of the pain locked inside. There was nothing he could say. Jack knew that at times like this, words made no difference. The only thing that would help was if he found Angel. As he passed Evie a mug of tea, her hands were shaking.

  The police needed a break of some kind. They’d looked everywhere obvious in the yard, but when you were surrounded by miles of countryside—rolling fields, dark woods, streams, impenetrable brambles, all leading to the rugged coast path and endless miles of ocean—where did you go next?

  “Why don’t you try to sleep? Just for a while?” She had hardly touched the tea and was just sitting there, staring blankly ahead of her. “I can hang around a bit if you like, or I could go home and come back later. . . .” He wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.

  Evie nodded, then got up, disappeared through the doorway. When she didn’t come back, Jack walked after her. When he glanced into her sitting room, she was already curled up on the sofa, asleep.

  Quietly, Jack let himself out. But he was worried about her. As he walked down the path, he called Abbie.

  34

  October 19 . . .

  Abbie had asked him to go to Evie’s the next day. When Jack got there, the DC was in the kitchen, on her phone.

  “I’ll call you later on,” she was saying. “After I’ve spoken to her. I have to go.” She turned to me.

  “Thanks for coming over, Jack. Evie’s in the yard. I wanted to get your take on things.” She looked puzzled.

  “What’s the problem?” Jack pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “It’s about Nick. I think there’s something he’s not saying. The way he and his mother describe Evie doesn’t ring true. Charlotte said that Evie was frightened of him. It’s possible he’s the one she was hiding from. But what Evie tells us hasn’t been reliable, though she’s far more lucid now. . . .”