Stolen Girl

by Sarah A. Denzil

  The others were all standing around one tree. It was a vast oak tree with low branches spreading out into the field. In June it was a lush green, verdant with life.

  Dan was with them, holding a tent peg and a pole. He was hammering something into the bark. The laughter echoed around me, coupling with the sound of my own blood pumping. I staggered up to the tree, wiping snot from my nose.

  There was my plait. Pegged to the tree.

  He laughed and began to chant. ‘Amy Perry has no hair. Has no hair. Has no hair.’ The others joined in.

  No, stop crying. You have to hear this. You have to understand what happened and why I have to do this.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  EMMA

  There’s nothing but the night air and the faint sound of a car. I run down the drive and up the road, trying to chase them down, but I’m merely enveloped by the deep blue of night. I pull my hand up to my neck, heart pounding, scalp prickling, nerves shredded.

  The letter.

  My steps back to the house are much slower. Now that I know the kidnapper is gone – was it Amy? Did I miss her by a hair’s breadth? – I don’t want to face what waits for me. I don’t want to see.

  Gently, I close the door behind me and listen intently to the sounds within the house. From the lounge there’s the faint sound of a laugh track coming from the television. The rest of the house is quiet. Aiden is still in bed.

  I make my way to the table, noticing that the sound of my breathing is louder than the sound of the television in the next room. A hammering heart punctuates my breaths. The white envelope sits askew on the tabletop. Waiting.

  It says Emma on the front of the envelope in block capitals. The last letter didn’t have an envelope, but it had been addressed to us both at the top of the letter. This one is, notably, just for me.

  Amy. I can feel her, smell her, sense her presence. Sense the games she’s been playing. What if the hoax letter was all about isolation? Forcing paranoia into our ranks, breaking us apart. What if Amy has been playing mind games with me all alone?

  I know that she isn’t physically here, but the mere thought of her occupies a space. Makes me want to wrinkle my nose in disgust or turn up a lip. Now I know that the hatred for her has seeped its way into my core. This is a personal hate that only two women can harbour. Long ago I tried to help her, and this is how she repays me.

  Even though I’m desperate to rip the letter apart, I don’t. Instead I put on clean rubber gloves and take a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer. Holding one corner with my gloved fingers, I slice open the envelope. It takes all of my concentration to ensure the knife doesn’t slip and catch my finger because I’m trembling all over.

  While I slide the piece of paper out of the envelope, I wonder what she has to say to me. We go back years. Back to when she first started school here. I’d felt sorry for her then, because she never had any fashionable clothes or a nice haircut. She was picked on and left out. None of that pity remains. I believe people can overcome their circumstances. I have to believe it, otherwise I would be condemning Aiden to a life I don’t want to imagine.

  I unfold the note, pulling in a deep breath to steady my heart. The handwriting is exactly the same as the ransom note. After reading the latest correspondence, I know, for certain this time, that Amy Perry has my daughter.

  Emma, Emma. Pretty Emma.

  I like your hair that length. It suits you long.

  Do you remember, Emma?

  We were young, but not that young,

  I had hair like yours, once. Braided, though.

  They took me to the tree. Sliced me open.

  Do you remember, Emma?

  Show me that you remember.

  Come alone.

  No police. I’ll know.

  I place the note back inside the envelope. I know what she wants from me.

  I don’t go to sleep, but I can’t stumble out there in the dark, so I sit up and wait for morning. Just before sunrise, I slip quietly out of the house, leaving Aiden a ‘back soon’ note with the vagueness of a person avoiding the details of where they’re going. I hope it doesn’t worry him, but I can’t think of a valid reason for me to leave without him. Hopefully I’ll be home before he wakes.

  The morning is muggy. I’m wearing the same clothes as the day before, stale sweat beneath my arms. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow. I have a duffelbag with me that I place on the backseat of the car before setting off.

  My company for the journey is birds. Lines of them huddled on telephone wires and tree branches. Flocks swooping through the air. Outside of the car I imagine them singing the morning chorus, blissfully ignorant of the human world living around them, all the pain, emotional and physical, but also the love. I think about Amy’s letter, which is folded and placed in my jeans pocket, and the bag on the backseat. There’s a sliver of doubt worming its way through my insides. What if I don’t remember the exact place? That’s clearly what she wants me to do – remember what happened to her. She wants me to acknowledge her pain.

  I felt sorry for her after it happened. For a long time, I half-heartedly tried to make up for my part in it by attempting to talk to her in the corridors at school. Most of the time she would walk away from me, eyes down, shuffling along like an anxious penguin. Then she began to come out of her shell, and I remember thinking, good for you, Amy. You’re turning it around.

  It was in year twelve that she started hanging around with me and Rob. There was a group of about ten of us who would hang out in the pub or Rough Valley Forest. Amy would be there. She seemed to have a different boyfriend every week. And then I fell pregnant with Aiden and I wasn’t part of the group anymore.

  I park in a small gravelled car park near to the campsite. It isn’t actually a campsite, it’s a field on the outskirts of the estate owned by the Duke of Hardwick. Or rather, the Duchess, now that the Duke is in prison for the child pornography on his laptop. I think of Maeve as I climb over the stile between fence posts. There’s a chance that I’m trespassing on her land. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Even at 6am, the air is warm enough that sweat forms on my upper lip from the effort of pulling my tired body over the stile with the bag. The material sags, pulled down by the weight of the hammer.

  I stop and scan the field. Creamy clouds of sheep graze in packs, their bodies now growing plump with wool. There’s a small group collected under a tall oak tree, sheltering from the warm morning sun beneath the canopy of the leaves. The sight of it reminds me of the sound of laughter along with the sound of tears. You’re seriously going to . . . You’re mad! Holy shit. By the time I went to see what the commotion was, it was too late. I remember Amy pinned to the ground. I remember the gathering around the trunk of the tree. I even remember the position of the bright coloured tents. Only Amy had brought a green, heavy canvas tent that seemed cheerless against the pinks and blues and reds.

  I’d invited her here. A familiar stab of guilt hits me, but I push it away. She doesn’t deserve it, not anymore. As I stride off towards the tree, Gina’s laugh swirls around my mind. You took my daughter. You will pay for that.

  But she isn’t here. I wasn’t sure from the letter whether she would be or not, but I had a feeling about what would catch her attention if she failed to meet me. I pull in a deep breath and concentrate.

  Sheep skitter away from the tree as I stand there, facing the place Amy was bullied all those years ago. The orange glow of the rising sun partly hidden by the great boughs of the oak. I touch the bark, feel it rough beneath my fingertips. The camera stands out immediately. It’s strapped to a low branch, the camouflage exterior fooling only the animals it’s designed to record. Amy has set up a trail cam used by hunters and wildlife photographers. I don’t know much about them. I’ve only ever seen them used in American horror movies when the gloomy green-black images show the monster or ghost hiding in the woods. My eyes flick up to the camera. Will these images be sent to her?

  I drop the bag to t
he grass and pull my gaze away from the camera long enough to kneel down and take the scissors out of the bag. I knew what she wanted as soon as I read that note. With the scissors in my right hand, I stand up and stare straight into the camera. Is she watching me now? Does she have Gina with her? An ache forms in my belly.

  Before I came here, I plaited my hair, surprised by how long it is now. Not as long as Amy’s was when we came camping that night, though. I grasp it with my left hand, raise the scissors to show the camera, and then I reach behind my head, fumbling a little to get the blades of the scissors around the plait, and I begin to cut.

  The thickness of my hair and the bluntness of the scissors – my regular household scissors rather than the sharp kind hairdressers use – means that it takes a while to get through it. Strand by strand, the braid comes loose, the gnawing of the metal shivering through my ears. I’m not gentle with it, pulling at the nape of my neck until it hurts. The blades struggle on, the pain radiates from the sore pores at the root of each hair, and I let out a frustrated scream halfway through. She wants this, I remind myself. She wants me to remember, to suffer what she suffered. But it won’t be enough, because I’m not humiliated by it.

  When the hair comes loose, finally, I pinch the top of the plait, throw the scissors to the ground, and pull a hair elastic from my wrist. Once the hair is sealed at the top and the bottom, I retrieve the heavy hammer from the bag, along with a nail, and I line it up on the tree.

  Past and present collide as I knock the nail into the wood. Rob wasn’t laughing that day, but everyone else was. Fuck you, Amy. It doesn’t justify anything that came after. Fuck you, Amy. I will get my daughter back.

  There. This is what you want. It’s done. The braid is attached to the tree. I’m tempted to pull down the camera and turn it around so that she can see my hair hammered onto the bark. I imagine her watching and laughing, amused by her own power. Instead, I stare up at the lens. I think of what I could say to her. Does the camera have sound? I’m not sure. Anything I say could provoke her into hurting Gina and I don’t want that. I could beg her not to hurt my daughter, but that would be pointless.

  Instead I gather my things back into the bag and sling it over my shoulder. The swing of the hammer hits me through the fabric. I hardly feel it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  AMY

  You have beautiful hair. Soft, honey-hued, that falls over your creamy skin. There, let me tuck a lock of it behind your ear as you sleep. I’ll be gentle. Sleep tight, little one. We have a long journey ahead of us.

  Red sunlight filters through the tent. I’m stripped to a vest top and shorts but am still feeling the effects of the muggy atmosphere.

  I haven’t slept. Delivering the letter was a close call. I thought both Emma and Aiden would be asleep, but I was wrong. As I was walking away from the door, I heard movement within the house and I had to make a quick escape, driving a little faster than I should have.

  Emma will know the letter is from me – all the letters have been from me – but I took precautions anyway. I parked the car further up the street, I wore a hood obscuring my features. There’s a chance that my car will be identified on CCTV somewhere near the house, but Bishoptown is a small village, there won’t be as many cameras as in a city. They won’t be able to track my whereabouts with as much ease.

  It was a stroke of luck that Emma decided to come back to the village, but I had my suspicions that she would even before I put this plan into action. I knew the press wouldn’t be on her side for long, that London would be intense, and that she would need to escape from the attention. It all happened sooner than I expected.

  The cheap smartphone begins to buzz. I snatch it from where it lays on the sleeping bag. For my plan to work, I had to set up a new SIM card and pay as you go system. Luckily, this is one of the many interesting things I learned from Hugh when he was alive. He would sometimes set up cameras in the bunker to keep an eye on Aiden when he was away.

  When I receive a notification, it means there’s been movement near the tree. The camera sends me recordings from that movement. Most of the time it’s bleating sheep, and I expect this to be the same.

  It isn’t.

  I don’t know why this image of Emma is so much more evocative to me than any of the ones in the newspapers, but it is. She stands beneath the tree, eyes focused on the camera. She knows I can see her. Because it’s daytime, I get the footage in colour, and her brown eyes are like two hard pebbles inside her eye sockets. My stomach flips over with anticipation that the plan is progressing, but also some fear, too. I would be an idiot if I didn’t consider Emma to be a dangerous enemy. She murdered Jake.

  And yet everything I’ve done so far has worked – and not only that, it’s controlled her from start to finish. The hoax letters worked especially well. As the information leaked to the press, her paranoia grew. I forced her to watch her precious, murdering son walk alone into the woods with a bag full of money. It’s a shame there were too many officers around to do some damage to the bunker boy. Part of me had hoped I might get the chance there, but that’s OK. I have other tricks up my sleeve.

  Even though most of my plan has gone without a hitch, I can’t get complacent. The most dangerous trait Emma possesses is her ability to keep fighting, even when she’s losing. I remember the cold blade she pressed against my neck. The warmth of the blood that trickled down to my collarbone.

  Emma’s hands lift to the back of her neck and I bring the screen closer to me, watching her move as my heart quickens. She does remember. She remembers everything. I knew you would, Emma. I knew it. I see her grimace as she attempts to cut through her thick hair with a pair of household scissors. I lick my lips and lean in. Emma always had beautiful hair. She tends to wear it long, past her shoulders. Brown, like Aiden’s. Like Rob’s. It never frizzed like mine did.

  This isn’t the same as what happened to me. She doesn’t have hands holding her down into the dirt, or the laughter of bullies in her ears. She didn’t grow up the way I did, unwanted by my parents, passed on like old clothes.

  It isn’t going to stop here. There’s much more to do yet. I haven’t even begun.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  EMMA

  As I step away from the tree, it occurs to me that the trail cam might have a limited range. Being close to the Wetherington Estate, signal generally isn’t too bad around here, but could she be in a different part of the country and still receive the signal? She had to be in Bishoptown in order to post the note. She had to come and set up the camera. She must still be here.

  I spend the next couple of hours hiking around the fields, checking in the woods, almost getting lost on several occasions. The nakedness of my neck is alien, but at least it helps to keep me cool as the sun rises. I’m all too aware of the fact that my shirt is sticking to my back.

  Eventually, I traipse back to the car, with bits of grass stuck to my shoes, my legs aching from navigating the sloping countryside; thighs chafing against the denim of my jeans. I get into the car and pull down the visor to look in the mirror.

  My hair is lopsided. On the right it’s sheared close to my ear, and on the left it’s an inch below. What am I going to say to Aiden? It’s 8:30. My shoes are covered in soil and sticky grass. My shirt is stained with sweat. I’ve cut my own hair in an uneven, haphazard way. If any photographers take my picture now, I’ll never be taken seriously again. I can’t go home like this.

  I put the car in gear and head into the village instead. My old hairdresser opens at 9am. I’m waiting outside the salon when she arrives to open. She doesn’t ask questions; she just does what I ask.

  Back at the house, I walk in, somewhat sheepishly, to find Aiden on his feet. There are shadows beneath his eyes.

  ‘Have you been up a long time?’

  ‘You went to get your hair cut?’ He stares at me in disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you say? That note, it was . . .’ He drifts off as though searching for the right word.

&nb
sp; ‘I didn’t intend to,’ I admit. ‘I went for some air and it was so hot.’ I gesture to my stained shirt. ‘I needed to get rid of the length. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.’

  He shrugs, and his body relaxes slightly as though he’s shedding away his tension. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all.’

  I know what he’s thinking: what kind of woman has her hair cut while her daughter is missing? Who could be so tone deaf that they wouldn’t think about how it might come across? That’s something I will just have to accept as a consequence. They don’t know the truth and I’m fine with that.

  ‘Do you want me to make you some breakfast?’ I offer.

  ‘I had toast,’ he says.

  ‘OK, well, I’m going to shower and change then.’

  His eyes follow me as I leave the room. I bow my head, wishing I could explain. But if I involved him, it could be dangerous for him. What if he becomes one of Amy’s targets? What if he is already? I realise for the first time that I’ve been dealing with this very same anxiety ever since Aiden came back from the bunker. Sometimes it’s a low-level hum in the back of my mind, not the muscle gripping, chest tightening panic that I feel now. But now I’m in the midst of these games with the person who kidnapped my baby daughter. I’m dealing with evil, pure evil. Anything could happen to us. Anything could happen to him. What if he’d been attacked in the woods?

  After I turn on the shower, I can’t help but examine my new hair in the bathroom mirror. It’s a nice cut, no longer wonky, with the ends tucked neatly below my ears. It’s actually quite a trendy cut that I’ve seen a few young girls wearing. But I look at it and see all of my failures to keep my children safe. Not killing Amy or figuring a way to have her arrested when I had the chance. Allowing one of the assistants at the studio to take my daughter out of my sight, even for a moment.