But that won’t bring her home. I catch Aiden’s eye and see him stooped over, his jaw tense.
We begin tidying the house as something to do, because moving around is better than sitting and wallowing. He wipes down the kitchen and I vacuum the living room carpet. I catch two spiders from the cobwebs in the corners and throw them out of the window.
A couple of hours in, Aiden says goodnight before going straight to bed in the room that has barely changed since he was six years old. There were new owners for a short while, after I married Jake, but luckily they didn’t do much with the place except for painting the living room and updating the kitchen. Aiden’s bedroom had been largely unused. I flop down on the sofa and pull the small cardboard box out of my bag. On the way up to Bishoptown we stopped at a shopping centre and each bought a new smartphone. Seeing as Aiden has gone to bed, I stay up fiddling with it. Learning the new tech and installing the SIM card.
It’s while browsing the news that my eyes drift and darkness takes over. An old claustrophobia nightmare of being stuck in a small space filters into my subconscious mind. I’ve had this same recurring dream since I was a little girl, which occasionally comes back to me even now. It’s the same nightmare that haunted me once I realised what had happened to my son.
My eyes fly open, expecting to be trapped in that tiny space, my chest heaving up and down. It takes me a moment to remember where I am.
‘Mum?’ Aiden leans forward in the armchair across from the sofa. ‘Are you OK?’
I pull myself upright and wipe sleep from my eyes, seeing the cup of hot tea on the coffee table.
‘Did you buy milk?’ I ask him, the thought immediately making me panic. It’s stupid, but Aiden going out on his own still makes me uneasy, even if it is to fetch a pint of milk.
‘No. I did.’ Josie waves to me from the hallway. ‘There’ll be toast and jam for you, too.’
‘How did you know we were back?’ I grasp the tea, grateful for the caffeine.
‘Aiden called at the crack of dawn,’ she says. There’s a springing sound from the kitchen and a metallic pop. ‘That’ll be the toast. I’ll be right back.’
‘I thought she might help,’ he says. ‘Was it the wrong thing to do?’
My muscles unclench, just a tiny bit. ‘No. I’m glad you called her. How are you doing this morning?’
He shrugs. ‘Everything seems quieter.’
I know exactly what he means. There are no constant questions or sassy comments. No giggles or little feet thundering across the carpet. Yes, it is quiet without her, and not the guilty relief of taking a break, more like the suffocating silence that signals an absence.
‘Do you want some toast?’ I ask Aiden. ‘I can ask Josie for you.’
He nods.
‘Actually, I’m not that hungry. But you have whatever Josie put in the toaster.’ I remember this well, the chattering of my own voice, trying desperately to compensate for his silence. ‘Listen, we’re going to get her back. I know Amy and she isn’t like Hugh. She never hurt you and I don’t think she’ll hurt Gina.’ I pause. ‘I’m sorry if that was insensitive.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ he replies. ‘I want to help so you should tell me what you think.’
I’m surprised by that. Aiden isn’t usually so forthright about his feelings. ‘I’m glad Stevenson suggested that we come here because this is where Amy and I grew up. She’s connected to this place as much as I am, and I think she’ll want to contact me if I’m here. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that taking Gina was a way to hurt us. A way to get my attention in particular.’ I shake my head, feeling almost as though the idea is ridiculous now that I’ve said it out loud. ‘What I mean is . . . I think this is personal.’
Aiden nods. ‘But what’s the point? Why not just attack you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘Maybe she’s trying to lure me out.’
Aiden sucks in his breath and tenses. ‘Then you need protection.’
‘I can handle myself, kiddo,’ I say.
‘Hi, sorry.’ Josie stands at the doorway holding out a plate of toast and jam. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt but the toast is going cold.’
‘Aiden can have this round,’ I say, passing the plate across. ‘Do you mind if I give Rob a quick call?’
‘Sure.’
On my way out of the room I pull her into a hug. ‘Thank you for being here.’
‘Anytime,’ she says. ‘You know that.’
We spend the morning eating toast while filling Josie in on everything that happened in London, and it serves to remind me I have a support system here that I’d forgotten all about. For the first time since Gina’s abduction, I allow myself to be emotional around other people. I can’t stop the tears from falling. Aiden sits quietly, his face full of sorrow. After lunch, we walk across the village to Rob’s house. That’s when we realise that some of the photographers have followed us here.
Perhaps they were with us the entire journey, a few cars behind on the motorway, waiting for their perfect photo opportunity. Got to get the exclusive of us napping while stuck in traffic.
Their presence is ever in the background, lurking in the shadow of the pub, or wandering the banks of the Ouse.
‘Shall I say something to them?’ Aiden suggests. The idea of Amy using Gina to inflict physical hurt has awoken some kind of protective instinct in my son. He stands up tall, trying to puff out that pigeon chest of his. The sight makes me want to cry again, but I just take his hand.
‘Leave them be. We’re going to see your dad. There’s nothing wrong with that, and whatever they report is a waste of time for them.’
For the rest of the short walk, I even notice dogwalkers watching us with interest. I wish our faces could be anonymous. I wish we’d been allowed a normal life.
Rob opens the door, ditches his cane and pulls me into a hug. ‘I wanted to come to London but . . . Well, I didn’t want to be in the way.’ His face is red, his cheeks puffy. One thing I can’t help but notice about Rob these days is how quickly he’s put on weight since he came out of hospital. Not only do I notice, but I feel responsible.
‘You would never be in the way,’ I say, and I mean it.
As he leads us in, I tell him that the photo of us hugging will probably be in the newspapers tomorrow.
He shrugs. ‘Who cares. Nothing they say is true, is it?’
I don’t know. Late at night when my mind is spiralling out of control, when I want to do nothing else but numb the pain with alcohol, I begin to wonder if they’re right about one thing – about me being a bad mother. There was a comment on one of the news articles. Some anonymous poster: once is unfortunate. Twice is a pattern.
The pattern is me and the people I love. I harm everyone around me.
‘Oh, Emma.’ Sonya rushes over to hug me. ‘How are you holding up? I’ve done nothing but hope and pray for the police to find little Ginny. I can’t stop thinking about her. And you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You look absolutely dead on your feet. Sit down for a bit.’
I sink into the sofa as she’s planting a sloppy kiss on Aiden’s cheek.
‘Now, have you thought about hiring a private detective?’ she asks, pulling a chair over to the sofa. ‘I’m not saying that the police are incompetent, but Peter and I were talking about it, and we don’t think they did a good job of finding Aiden. Well, they didn’t, did they?’
‘I . . . I hadn’t thought of it,’ I admit.
‘Think on it, love,’ she says.
I smile gratefully at Sonya. Since she’s realised that I won’t keep Aiden from her, the frostiness between us has thawed. It’s nice to have them in my life; even though they aren’t technically in-laws, they feel like it.
‘Has Sonya told you about the private detective idea?’ Peter asks as he walks into the room. ‘Wouldn’t be a bad thing to have another pair of eyes on the case.’
‘Give her time to breathe,’ Rob says.
Peter insists on driving us home, though I would have preferred to get a taxi. I suspect that he’s been fantasising about dodging the paparazzi with impressive motoring skills in the five-minute drive from their house to ours. The reality is that there’s no one around anymore. The photographers are probably watching from afar. Still, it saves us from walking.
I listen to my voicemail on the way home. Stevenson has left mail for me and Aiden at the house. A lot of letters were sent to the police, who have been through it for any clues and sent it on. Another reminder from the first time around. Kind letters from sympathetic members of the public, but also nutty ones, and cruel ones.
I hope they’ve filtered out the cruellest.
The stack of envelopes waits for us on the doormat. I bend down and scoop them up.
‘Do you want to read these now or eat first?’
‘Eat,’ Aiden says.
We’d already agreed on the way home that we were phoning for a pizza. And we’d decided on ham and pineapple because it’s Gina’s favourite. I dump the envelopes on the kitchen table and quickly phone the local takeaway place. I barely know the owner, though of course we’ve ordered many times before. Still, I’m surprised to hear him insist that our food is on the house.
‘I couldn’t possibly . . .’
‘I mean it,’ he says again.
Aiden and I sit at the table and find ourselves drawn to the mail while we wait. I start to sift through it, putting all letters addressed to Aiden in one pile, cards in another, and those for me in a separate pile.
‘Remember not to take anything to heart,’ I remind him. ‘This kind of thing whips people into a frenzy.’
‘I know,’ he says, sounding more like a twenty-year-old man sick of his mother than ever. Whenever he surprises me with some normality, I want to grab him and hug him tight, but I know he wouldn’t like that.
‘Mum.’ His voice sounds thin, an urgent whisper across the table.
‘What is it?’ I lift my head to find him staring at a piece of paper in his hands.
‘This.’ Aiden passes the letter across the table.
It’s addressed to ‘Emma and Aiden Price’.
YOU MUST PAY ME 50,000 IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE HER AGAIN.
ANOTHER LETTER WILL BE DELIVERED.
WAIT.
DON’T GO TO POLICE OR SHE WILL BE KILLED.
Chapter Fourteen
THE CHAPEL
It rained for the first time in a week last night, but you already know that, don’t you? I’m so sorry about the leaks. You must excuse this home; it isn’t what I wanted for you. My bucket was a quarter full of rainwater. If I put it to one side to use with purification tablets, we’ll have drinkable water. You see, there are many ways to live without relying on anyone else. This is how you survive.
Uncle Gregory used to show me how to do these things because I was his favourite niece. I was his only niece, but he liked to say that to me anyway. They didn’t have children of their own and they welcomed it when I visited them. They would even tell me how special I was. Aunty Kim would plait my long hair and pin it to the top of my head like I was wearing a crown. She’d call me a princess.
But I was stupid enough to think I’d still be a princess once my visit became permanent. For a while everything was better, until it wasn’t.
This is hard work, digging out veggies. You need a canvas sack, like this one, which helps to stop the potatoes from growing roots. There was a squirrel in the trap today, good thing there was, I’ve been craving the taste of meat. Perhaps you are too. I’ll skin it and cook it for you. Uncle Gregory showed me how to do that too.
It was a thrill at first, receiving compliments from other people, and being taught a different way to live. I’m still grateful for my uncle, even though there were bad times. Whenever I think of them, I tend to think about the good times more than the bad. The excitement of knowing that a visit was coming up. But at that time in my life, anything was better than being with my mother. She wasn’t good with compliments. She wasn’t good at being a mother either.
You have to scrub the dirt from the root vegetables. First the potatoes. A good diet is a necessity. We must keep our strength up for what is to come. For the plan that will be put into action. And if I’m honest, I enjoy the manual work that comes with this life. It keeps my hands busy and allows my mind to wander. I have so many ideas going round and round in my mind all the time, like a washing machine on the spin cycle.
Right now, it’s more important than ever to focus on the tasks ahead, but it’s going to take a little while to filter through everything. Talking to you helps me figure it all out. Thank you for that. Thank you for being here.
You know, I hate to admit it, but I must: Emma is a good mother. She fought harder than my mother ever did. If I’d gone missing when I was a child, she probably wouldn’t have noticed for days. In fact, it was my mother who would disappear for days on end. Every time, I convinced myself that this was it. She was never coming back this time and I would have to learn to fend for myself. In those dark times I’d jump on a bus, a young kid, about eleven, travelling all alone, and on the other end Aunty Kim would open her arms and say princess.
I made a decision long ago that I would rather be special than ignored. You can forgive a girl for that, can’t you? Forgive me, please, for wanting to be special.
There was a boy I liked once. He was the boy all the girls liked. Good at rugby. Tall. Dark-haired. Brown eyes lined with long eyelashes. But he never thought I was special, not at first, anyway. He didn’t even notice me. He was one of the boys at my new school after I went to live with Uncle Gregory and Aunty Kim.
I was right, you see. One day Mum didn’t come back, and I was finally removed from her care. That was when I started a new school, a better school. The kind where the other kids judge what you wear and how you speak. None of them would accept me at that school. None of my clothes were fashionable, I didn’t watch television and I’d clam up every time someone tried to talk to me. The teachers hated me because I rarely spoke. I sat in class completely silent. When it came to oral presentations, I stumbled through them with a face like a tomato. I had no friends or allies among the students or teachers.
It wasn’t until I was in the final year of school that I discovered I could turn it all off: the embarrassment and anger. The loneliness. I stopped caring about any of it.
Shush now, hush little one. Don’t cry, not for me. I won’t have it. Do you hear me? I won’t have it.
There, now you made me snap. Will you let me go on with my story? I have a lot more to say.
There was bullying at school and it was exactly what you’d expect. The most common insult was ‘weirdo’, but I came to accept it. I took in that word and decided it would mean something to be proud of. There were worse words, too. Along with the name-calling there was pushing and hair-pulling as well. Sometimes a few of them would wait by the entrance, grab my bag from my shoulder and toss it between them while I flailed around grasping at air. Or they’d lob it onto the highest locker so that I’d have to ask a teacher to get it down for me.
Once someone tipped my pencil case out of the second storey of the school. I ended up falling down the stairs trying to get to my pens before someone stole them. I broke my wrist and I didn’t get the pens back.
That was the day that first changed me. After I fell, the nurse phoned my uncle and I went to hospital to have my wrist bandaged up. The drive home was so quiet, though I did let out a few sobs. I’m afraid to say I was a cry baby, a little bit like you. Neither my aunt nor uncle would look at me, the entire journey home.
That night I was told I would be paying for the pens I lost. It was the night I realised I was no longer Uncle Gregory’s spec
ial niece. I was punished for losing my belongings. But looking back, that moment made me the person I am today. It made me realise that the world would never be kind to me, so why should I be kind to anyone else?
Now, please be quiet, I have an important letter to write.
Chapter Fifteen
AIDEN
‘There’s no envelope for this,’ she says, putting it back down. ‘Do you remember it being in an envelope?’
We’re sitting at the kitchen table with the mail spread out around us. The ransom note lies on top of the mess, the block capital letters facing upwards. Scribbled in a biro.
EMMA AND AIDEN PRICE
YOU MUST PAY ME 50,000 IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE HER AGAIN.
ANOTHER LETTER WILL BE DELIVERED.
WAIT.
DON’T GO TO POLICE OR SHE WILL BE KILLED.
While Mum was sorting them into piles, I’d been opening them. Most of the letters had already been unsealed by the police, and I’d been putting the envelopes together for the recycling.
‘I can’t remember,’ I admit. ‘But this is the stack it came from. Maybe it’s in here somewhere.’
Mum begins to thumb through the envelopes, but it isn’t clear which one might have contained the letter.
‘We should stop touching things,’ I say. ‘They’ll need to look for DNA evidence.’ I remember the police talking about DNA during the trial.
Mum nods. ‘OK. You’re right.’ She sounds breathless. Her fingers are trembling. ‘I should call Stevenson. How could the police miss this?’
‘It says not to go to the police,’ I say.
She stares at the note, transfixed, as though trying to make up her mind about something. ‘No. We can’t do this without them. We have to go to the police about this.’
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