Stolen Girl

by Sarah A. Denzil

  ‘What if they hurt Gina?’

  She presses her fingers into her temples. ‘For God’s sake, Aiden, I could do without you guilt-tripping me.’

  ‘I wasn’t, Mum.’

  She reaches out for me, but I pull away. There are tears in her eyes and she bites her bottom lip so hard I think it might start to bleed.

  ‘Aiden, I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘That wasn’t me, it was . . . We’re under stress and I’m lashing out. I didn’t mean to snap.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, accepting her apology, but still feeling the sting of her words.

  She sniffs and reads the letter one more time before taking her phone out of her pocket.

  On the television, when families are stressed, they argue with each other. In Coronation Street everyone yells. I know it’s normal but I hate it. The change in someone’s voice makes my body stiffen, waiting for the blow. I push away those thoughts and read the letter one more time. Where was the envelope? Then it hits me.

  I don’t know if Mum has had this thought, which makes me not want to say it out loud, but someone probably put the letter through our letterbox. They came to our house in order to deliver it by hand. There’s a chance that Gina’s kidnapper was right outside our house, just a few feet away from where we are sitting now.

  I let out a long breath and hope that I’m wrong. I guess the police will have to check through everything to make sure. Mum’s right, we can’t keep touching the evidence, but it feels like all we do is sit around and wait.

  While she talks to Stevenson on the phone, I check my Instagram account. My heart quickens as the app loads. Every time I worry that I won’t have any new messages, but I do. Faith has been in contact again, which is a relief.

  Someone sent us a ransom note, I type, pressing send without giving it too much thought. The reply takes a moment or so. I chew the bottom of my lip waiting. Sometimes Faith doesn’t reply for a few hours and it makes me worry she’ll never reply again.

  Fuck, she says. What does it say?

  I tell her all about it and it’s a relief to let it out. Mum isn’t the easiest person to talk about. At least with Faith I can let it all go. And I trust her, too.

  At least now we know what all this is about, I type. I was worried Gina would be abused.

  Just be careful, Aiden. People send crazy things, she says. I pause with my thumbs over the screen, not sure how to reply, when I see that she’s typing another message. You know I’m for real, don’t you? That I’m here for you.

  I smile to myself. Yeah, I know.

  I’m always here. The one you can rely on. She sends me a big, grinning emoji.

  Love ya, F. I reply.

  Love you to the moon and back, A. When are we going to meet? Soon??

  I pause before I respond, tapping the edge of my phone with a fingernail. There’s so much going on right now . . .

  I know but I could comfort you.

  Do I want her to comfort me? Part of me, maybe. I reply back: I dunno . . .

  ‘What are you up to?’ Mum says as she comes back into the kitchen. ‘You’re smiling.’

  ‘I . . . I just . . . I think maybe it’s fear or something. I feel weird.’

  She places a hand on my forehead like I’m still a child. ‘Are you feeling ill?’

  ‘No. Just a bit on edge.’

  She nods. ‘Me too.’ She sits down in her seat, staring at the pile of letters on the table. She’s red in the face, possibly from fear, I don’t know. Worry? ‘He’s not coming. The police won’t come to our house in uniforms and panda cars, apparently. They have to make it seem as though we haven’t informed them.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ I suggest, still feeling naïve and like I don’t understand the world. I missed a lot of it growing up.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbles. ‘They’re sending out an officer in regular clothes to pick up the letter and take it to be tested for fingerprints. He said we shouldn’t worry because crazy people send this kind of stuff all the time. It’s probably not even real.’ She lets out a long, unsteady breath. ‘I don’t dare think it will be this easy. That we give them money and get Gina back. But I want it to be. I really want it to be.’ Her eyes are unfocussed as though she’s talking to herself. ‘This doesn’t feel like Amy, does it? She wouldn’t want money and she knows I’d take the letter straight to the police. I feel like she’d contact me with a more personal note. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know her as well as you do,’ I point out.

  She nods. ‘I guess so. I wish there was another person I could talk to and get more information from.’

  ‘I knew Hugh better than anyone.’

  ‘Hugh,’ she mutters. ‘How could he possibly be . . . He’s dead.’

  ‘Isn’t Amy the way she is because of Hugh?’

  Mum’s eyes shine and her fingers grip the tabletop.

  ‘That’s what he does. He creates monsters. Maybe we can understand Amy by understanding Hugh.’

  I leave Mum at the table and stroll through to the lounge, trying to stop my thoughts from veering out of control.

  She’s right. This would be easier. I want it to be real. I want this to be over. Especially since the conversation I had with Mum about Amy Perry. About how all of this might be linked to Hugh.

  If it’s all connected to Hugh, then it’s connected to me too.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, still finding my thoughts drifting back to the bunker. Sometimes my thoughts get all jumbled up and the bunker feels like it’s still happening. We’ve returned to the house where I grew up, but nothing about it feels familiar. Where did I become the person I am now? Here? Or in the bunker? In some ways, Hugh is the person who shaped me more than anyone else.

  Which isn’t something I like to admit.

  My psychologist says that no one is all bad or all good, that we’re a mixture of the two. Hugh was not all bad to me, and when I think that, I feel shame. He taught me to read and write. He brought me books so that I could learn. He used to tell me that one day I’d get to move to another place, one I’d be more comfortable in, but I wonder now whether it was a lie. He lied a lot.

  Much of my time in the bunker is crystal clear in my mind, and a lot of it is so fuzzy that I feel it just out of reach. Beyond my fingertips. That’s the part I don’t want to reach, anyway. Like my broken leg, a punishment for trying to escape. The event is blurred around the edges, but the pain is as tangible as ever. Our conversations about the outside world. Some I recall completely, like the one about Mum’s wedding day. Others I feel on the periphery of what I know.

  Am I trying to remember something specific? My mind is as jumbled as always but part of me wonders if I’m trying to connect an old memory from the bunker with Gina’s disappearance.

  I wander back into the dining room and ask mum, ‘Do you think Amy cares about money?’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  If Amy Perry really has taken Gina – and like Mum I think she has – then Hugh’s legacy is all over this abduction. I can feel it. Amy was his pet project, aside from me. He liked to control her. What if she’s following a plan that he concocted before he died? And what if he mentioned that plan to me while I was in the bunker?

  If he did, it’s inside me, but I can’t find it.

  But if this ransom note is real, I feel like Mum, I don’t know what to think anymore.

  The police officer stops by an hour later to collect the ransom note and take it away. As part of the ruse, he brings us food with him. Neither of us are hungry anymore, allowing most of it to go cold, but we manage to pick at a few samosas before putting the rest in the fridge.

  We spend the night on tenterhooks, waiting for a sign that this is real. Mum sleeps on the sofa again. I don’t know why she won’t go to her room. She’s constantly prowling the downstairs area like a guard dog. She’s forever physically between me and the door.

  Next morning, I wake from a
restless sleep, with the echo of the bunker on my mind. The bright sun filters in through the curtains and birdsong chitters away. My stomach feels unsettled. Every now and then I wake and the air feels wrong. This isn’t the right smell. The smell I know no longer exists, because they’ve blown up my home.

  No. No that’s all wrong. I can’t help it, I hit myself, hard, on one temple. Stupid. That’s wrong, stupid. The bunker isn’t your home. Mum and Gina are your home.

  And there are times, like now, when I’d like nothing more than to kill the chattering bird outside the window and staple the curtains together until it blocks out every millimetre of escaping sunlight. I want silence and I want dark. I want the smell of must and the spiders that somehow make it through the tiniest of cracks in the concrete. I want the familiar sound of the door clanking open and the smell of fresh food when Hugh arrives with dinner.

  And I hate myself for it.

  I see him stepping into the bunker. A plastic bag in one hand, a bottle of fizzy pop in the other.

  ‘I got you a new toothbrush today, mate.’

  I say thank you.

  What else does he tell me? Hugh liked the sound of his own voice. He was one of those people who could convince you within thirty seconds that he was a decent bloke, just by making chit-chat. That was something Mum said a few months ago and it struck me as true.

  But this morning, one throwaway remark keeps playing on a loop in my mind. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about it, only that Hugh said it once and when I woke up this morning, I remembered it. ‘Long journey up from London today. Sometimes I wish there was somewhere in between there and here. Halfway.’

  Why is that important to me?

  Mum’s face appears at the doorway, ghostly pale and sickly. ‘Good, you’re awake. We should head down to the police station and speak to DCI Stevenson. I’m hoping they’ll have some ideas about how to deal with this ransom.’

  ‘Can you let me get dressed, please?’ I say through gritted teeth. I can’t meet her eyes. I don’t want to be stared at.

  She slips away silently.

  I’m finally alone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  EMMA

  Gina has been missing for six days. I haven’t seen her face or heard her voice for nearly one hundred and fifty hours. I don’t know that she’s safe, well, properly fed and hydrated. She could be dirty, injured or starving. What if she’s afraid? I keep picturing her crying herself to sleep or calling for me or Aiden.

  But despite all of those things, I haven’t lost hope that she will come back to us safe and sound, because Aiden came back to me once.

  Six days is a long time, but it isn’t ten years. We can find her. We can bring her home.

  This ransom note throws everything I suspected into doubt and changes the way the police approach this case. It means we have to maintain a ruse, while also preparing ourselves for the ominous promise of further communication. We must live our lives as though we aren’t in contact with the police.

  Because we couldn’t match an envelope to the letter, Stevenson suggests that we install security cameras around the outside of the house. If this person did hand deliver the note, we’ll be able to pick them up on camera next time they come. He also assures me that there will be discreet surveillance around the house and on me and Aiden even if we don’t see their physical presence.

  ‘Are you ready, kid?’

  Aiden raises his soulful eyes and nods.

  ‘You won’t need that jumper, it’s boiling outside.’

  He peels away the jumper and puts on a pair of glasses to protect his eyes from the sun. We had them made by a specialist. I press my own sunglasses onto my face, avoiding the mirror in the hallway. My roots are full of greys, my skin is blotchy. I can’t bring myself to do anything for myself while she’s gone. I can’t apply moisturiser or condition my hair. Existence has halted again. I know this feeling well.

  Rob meets us at the car. It’s just another family day out, except that we’re buying security cameras for the house.

  ‘All set?’

  I nod. ‘Have you seen any photographers?’

  ‘A couple,’ he admits. ‘But I think the media is starting to move on.’

  I swear under my breath and lean against the car.

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ he asks.

  ‘Not for Gina. She needs everyone in the country looking for her.’ I wipe sweat from the back of my neck. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Rob. Maybe it is a good thing. They were just printing lies about me anyway.’ I open the door and climb in. Aiden is already in the back, with his hands on his lap. He reminds me of the boy he was four years ago.

  Rob presses the ignition switch. He has a specially modified car to help him drive with hand controls. Seeing him brake without a pedal jolts me every time.

  ‘You’re going to get her back,’ he says. ‘You have the money, right?’

  ‘Someone from the police is going to help me withdraw it all in marked notes so that they can’t use it. They’ll put a tracker in the bag if it comes to an exchange. We don’t even know if the letter is real yet. The police aren’t convinced. They keep telling me not to get my hopes up.’

  We make our way out of the drive towards the village. I decided to bring Rob with me while we buy the security cameras. He’s more into this kind of technology than I am.

  ‘And you still think this is Amy?’ he asks.

  I glance at Aiden in the rear-view mirror. ‘If this is about money, then no.’

  ‘If it isn’t?’

  ‘Then Hugh made his monster to be very cunning.’

  It doesn’t take long to buy doorbell security cameras, install them, and stock the house with food. Rob stays with us for all of that, often cursing that he isn’t as physical as he used to be and can’t help us with the heavy bags.

  ‘I hate this,’ he admits. ‘At least I helped when we found out about Jake. I didn’t do a good job of it, but at least I was physically able to. Now I’m just a useless lump.’ He limps along with his cane, the strain visible on his face, a red flush creeping up from his neck.

  The heatwave continues and we open up all the windows. I need to bring the fan up from the cellar, but I haven’t had a chance yet.

  I pull Rob to one side while Aiden is making us both a cup of tea. ‘Listen, I know what you’re going through, but I don’t think it’s good for Aiden to hear you talking like that.’

  He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s twenty now. He’s an adult and he wants to be the one to help. It makes it sound dismissive, as though what he’s doing isn’t helping or protecting us. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Sorry, Em. I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  The words aren’t completely true, but I understand that this is what Rob needs to hear right now. He needs to be absolved of the instinct to take charge and be the man. But even though I care for him, it’s a drain on my energy and Aiden’s, when we need to be strong. I hate to even think it, but his insecurities are a burden right now. I place a hand on his arm. He pulls me into a hug. I rest my head against his chest for a while, just listening to his heartbeat. I still need him, no matter what. And then I pull away, remembering how I almost lost him.

  We head into the living room with the mugs of tea, and for the rest of the day, we wait.

  Stevenson calls me a few times during the afternoon and his advice is always the same. Waiting is the hardest thing to do in this situation. But it’s what you have to do. Give them the grieving mother. It implies that my daughter is already dead.

  Rob stays with us, and then Josie joins later to cook for us. We made the decision to tell them about the letter and no one else, because being stuck in this house on our own would be even worse. As it is, Aiden paces the floor, his hands balled by his side.

  Today isn’t a good day for him, I can tell. He withdraws into himself, retracting into that protective shell he created to block ou
t the world. I hope he isn’t going back there, to the bunker. He’s told me before about how he allowed the memories to blur in order to distance himself, but they must be in his sub-conscious, forever lurking.

  Finally, he settles on the sofa with the laptop. I drift into the kitchen, making more tea, because extra caffeine is exactly what we need to relax. Josie follows me.

  ‘I hate this,’ she says, pulling mugs out of the cupboards. ‘I want to help you but I don’t know how.’

  I flick the switch on the kettle and sigh. ‘You are helping, Jo.’

  She flashes me a sad smile. ‘Are you all right? God, sorry, I know you’re not.’

  ‘My head is a complete mess and I can’t stop thinking of her.’ I press my palm against the kitchen counter, pushing down as hard as I dare. And then I release. ‘I keep trying to figure everything out but I know I shouldn’t. I should leave it to the police.’

  ‘No,’ Josie says firmly. ‘Your opinion is important, too. You know Amy really well.’

  ‘I thought so. But this all feels wrong. The ransom. The impersonal note. What if it isn’t her after all?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you think that Hugh had another plan? For another child?’

  I watch the way her fingers fumble as she places a mug down on the kitchen surface. I see the tension running along her jaw and the grey tinge to her skin.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She closes the cupboard a little louder than she intended and her body jolts with the shock of noise. ‘Sorry, I . . . I couldn’t possibly know.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, soothingly. ‘I’m trying to figure everything out, but nothing makes sense. To be honest, I’m not sure the ransom note is even real.’ I snatch a few tea bags from the tin. ‘But what could make sense is if Amy had the structure of a plan to follow before she took Gina. If Hugh had another place set up for another child. It was something that came up in the investigation after Aiden left the bunker. They asked him about it in case there were other children trapped elsewhere.’