Stolen Girl

by Sarah A. Denzil

  I strip, throwing the stiff, sweat-stained clothes onto the floor. My body feels both thinner and puffier. I’m losing weight, but at the same time retaining water from eating too much salt. I carry baggage beneath my eyes, across my abdomen. I trace the stretch marks with my fingers. Gina had been a small baby and I’d carried a tidy bump, but pregnancy always leaves its mark. I close my eyes and think back to the night in the woods when I was chasing Aiden. Stumbling through the trees as fast as my body would allow. Feeling the contractions tearing through me. My palm reaching out to a tree for support. I can almost feel its roughness against my skin.

  I step beneath the water and wash it all away.

  Because it’s a Sunday, Aiden wants to go to Rob’s, but I can’t face it. I ask him if he’d like to go without me, and his jaw drops slightly. He pulls his eyebrows together. I can imagine him wondering who this woman is. A far cry from the mother who never allows him to do anything of his own.

  ‘I’ll drop you off and pick you up,’ I add.

  He nods.

  What he doesn’t know is that I’m considering keeping him away from me. He’ll be safe at Rob’s while I try to find Amy. She has to be in the village. And if she is, then it means Gina is with her. Gina is somewhere near. While we’re driving to the B&B I inhale, and I swear I can smell the baby shampoo I use on her hair. The one with the elephant on the packaging.

  ‘I’ll come by about four, OK?’ I say as I drop Aiden off at the bottom of the drive.

  ‘You’re not calling in to say hello?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  His brow furrows in confusion, and I can see him trying to work out what’s going on. I know that Aiden missed a lot while he was in the bunker, like learning to read facial expressions and body language for instance. Right now, I can tell he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking.

  ‘Everything is OK,’ I reassure him, opening my face and smiling. ‘I promise. The last week has been so hard on all of us. I just need a little time to myself. Is that OK?’

  ‘I guess so.’ There’s no way for Aiden to hide his feelings. Though he’s not the most emotive person, at the same time he struggles to lie or deceive others. He’s both open and closed at the same time.

  ‘I love you.’

  Aiden’s throat works. ‘Love you too.’

  He climbs out and I watch him make his way up to the front door of the B&B. I watch Rob open the door and immediately smile at the sight of his son. I watch Rob lift his head and frown at me. He waves, and I wave back. Before he can limp down the drive, I put the car in gear and leave, tears flooding my eyes. The road blurs and I hastily wipe them away. They are my family, but it will never be complete until Gina is home.

  Now that I know Amy is close by, I need to figure out where she’s staying. Being in or around Bishoptown would be risky. This is where the people know me the most. They pay attention to the news here. They will have examined Amy’s face from the newspapers. Some know her anyway and would recognise her easily. So, she can’t be staying in Bishoptown, but perhaps she’s in one of the towns a little further away. Can I track her down somehow?

  On the way home, I notice a car hanging back, but clearly visible. It’s a dark grey Toyota, but I’m unsure of the model. I take a left, close to the local park, and then turn onto my road, deciding that it’s probably a photographer. I’m alone, which I’m sure they’ve deciphered. They know which car is mine. They know the cars used by Josie, and by Rob’s parents, too. They know everything about us, every little detail.

  As I get out of the car, I’m vaguely aware of movement on the other side of the road. I was right, there is a photographer following me. A man, over six feet, broad across the chest, with thinning hair. I imagine that he uses his intimidating size to get the photographs he wants. I push my sunglasses onto my head to get a better view.

  ‘Nice hair,’ he calls out.

  I ignore him and head into the house, already picturing the kind of criticism I’ll endure once the world realises I had a haircut while my daughter is missing. Sympathy for me is already thin, now it will be non-existent. Perhaps it’ll turn into suspicion. Someone somewhere will write a comment about how I had my own daughter kidnapped to get attention, or make money, or promote a book I’m about to write. I don’t care. The words bounce off me now.

  I throw my keys on the counter, grab my laptop and get to work researching all of the holiday cottages, B&Bs, small hotels that I can find within ten miles. I assume Amy has a car and some money to be able to fund this. Obviously, she has some money, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to keep a child out of sight. My stomach lurches, but I concentrate and the nausea ebbs away. That’s who I need to be. A woman capable of facing the realities head-on, without blinking. That’s how I catch her.

  After making a list of possible locations, I quickly call back some of the private investigators. Things are now moving faster than I expected and I’ll need to examine these locations myself, but I’ll also need help. Then I scroll through my contacts and allow my finger to hover over DCI Stevenson’s number. No police. I’ll know. The words are ominous. It brings to mind a great eye following me around as I live my life. Watching, constantly watching. But one police officer could slip by, couldn’t they? The problem is, I don’t know if I can do this alone. Should I call him? If I knew he could work independently from the rest of the police, then I wouldn’t hesitate.

  Closing my eyes, leaning against the hard chair, I wonder whether I’m making the right decision. Is this what Amy wants? Me isolated, away from the police? If it is, she’s clever. Even when I moved back to Bishoptown she managed to pull my strings. How is she doing all of this and keeping Gina away from the world? My stomach flips over when a tiny part of my brain whispers: what if she’s already dead? No, I won’t think it.

  Instead, I glance down at the list. Twenty potential places. That’s a lot of work, and I worry that confidentiality policies will mean I won’t manage to wrangle much information out of the businesses. But then I have another thought. There is one place, now empty, connected to Amy. Perhaps there’s a way for me to do my own investigation.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  AIDEN

  Silence is what I know, and what soothes me. But there’s hardly ever any actual silence. Even if I’m in my room alone, I hear the sounds of the house. Someone in another room, shuffling around, making the floorboards creak. Or the faint sound of a television. The clunking of pipes or the sound of a car on the road. The bunker was the purest silence I knew. I could turn off my thoughts and bask in it. Silence meant I was safe. It was when I heard a key in the lock that I began to feel afraid.

  Grandma bustles around the kitchen, clattering plates. She hums along to the music on the radio, a song I don’t know. It sounds old. Grandad and Dad both stare at the television. Cricket. Occasionally one of them will shake their head and mutter angrily.

  The house is alive with noise and I should be happy to be here, in this safe place, but part of me won’t stop craving the silence.

  ‘So, your mum got a haircut?’ Dad leans back on the sofa, his feet resting on the patterned pouffe.

  ‘She was too hot with it long.’ I feel the need to justify it. But whether it’s to him or myself, I’m not sure.

  He nods, but I can see the surprise on his face. ‘Pretty odd priority to have at the moment.’

  ‘She’s entitled to a bloody haircut,’ Grandad mumbles.

  ‘All right, Dad. I just meant that it’s not like Em, that’s all. Not that it means she doesn’t love Gina or isn’t trying her hardest to get her back.’ He frowns. ‘Did she seem OK to you, Aiden? It was weird her not coming to say hello at least.’

  It takes a moment to get my mouth to work. ‘She wanted to be alone for a while.’

  Dad nods slowly, returning his attention to the cricket as my phone vibrates again. Another message from Faith to add to the others. They’ve turned to pleading: I’m so sorry for what I said. I know you said
you weren’t mad, but you haven’t been in contact and I think you are mad at me. Please forgive me. Please reply. Let me know you’re OK. Scrolling through her messages produces a number of conflicting feelings. Sadness for her, and for me, and for the change in our relationship. A strange, queasy sensation in the pit of my stomach. Shame? Fear? An ache. Missing her. Missing the way she made me feel with her words.

  ‘The food’s ready.’ Grandma sweeps into the room. ‘Come on.’

  Life goes on, I think. I give my phone one last glance before we walk through to the dining table. Shifting chairs, adjusting knives and forks. Moving on; living.

  A thought hits me. Will Gina blame me when she comes home? She was most likely targeted because of me. She was taken at the TV studios because I insisted on giving the interview. When we get her back, will she resent me for the rest of her life?

  ‘Roast potatoes?’ Grandma holds out a serving spoon. Her eyebrows are raised high up on her face. I think she’s showing extra concern for me because I’m being quiet again.

  ‘Two please.’

  She relaxes and drops two onto my plate.

  After everyone starts to eat, I send a quick message to Faith.

  I forgive you.

  ‘What do you think she’s doing?’ Dad asks, as he spins his spoon around his bowl, collecting every molecule of melted ice cream. We had tinned fruit and a scoop of ice cream for dessert. ‘Did she tell you, Aiden?’

  I stir my melted ice cream into the slimy peaches. My stomach keeps cramping every time Dad mentions Mum. ‘She didn’t say what she’s doing. Going home probably.’

  ‘That’s understandable, isn’t it?’ Grandad replies.

  ‘I guess so,’ Dad says, his voice almost sarcastic. Even I can tell he doesn’t believe it. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird, though? Have you ever known Emma, in the four years since Aiden came home, to let her kids out of her sight?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Grandma says.

  My head snaps up from the bowl of peaches.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ Dad asks. He drops his spoon and reaches for the phone Grandma is holding aloft. After reading for a few moments he rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, here we go. I knew this would happen. Bunker Mum gets a haircut. Jesus Christ, they’ve given her the title Bunker Mum as well.’ He shakes his head. ‘Fuck –’

  ‘Rob!’ Grandma glares at him. ‘Not in front of your son.’

  ‘Sorry, pal.’ He reaches out and pats the back of my hand. ‘I’m just so mad at this “journalist”.’ He waggles his fingers to create air quotes. ‘This whole article insinuates Emma is a bad mother. They’ve even posted a picture of some model with the same hair style, as though Em walked into the hairdressers with a photo to get the same cut.’

  Grandma nods sadly. ‘They don’t understand, these people. They don’t realise how you have to do the small things to keep yourself sane.’ She sighs and throws her napkin down on the table.

  I stare down at my peaches, stirring the mixture together until the syrup and the ice cream merge. ‘It’s my fault Gina was taken, not Mum’s. I insisted on going to that stupid TV interview.’

  Grandad sighs. ‘None of this is your fault, Aiden.’

  ‘What if Gina hates me when she comes back?’

  ‘She could never hate you,’ says Dad. You’re her big brother!’

  ‘That’s right, love,’ Grandma adds. ‘You’re her Denny.’ She sniffs and wipes away a few tears. ‘Come on now. Let’s have a nice cup of tea and calm down. Come on, love.’

  She practically shoos us back into the lounge. I take out my phone and find the article for myself. It’s exactly as Dad described it, calling Mum’s hair ‘on trend’ and ‘glamorous’. The photograph of Mum is one of her stepping out of the car, wearing the same sunglasses, jeans and red top she wore to drop me off at the B&B. The sunglasses are the ones she uses when she’s driving and it’s sunny. But in this photograph, it makes her appear as though she’s wearing them to look cool. Even I can see that. I’ve read a lot of clickbait articles over the past four years and I can identify the style of them now. Mum explained to me that this wasn’t proper journalism, that it was a way to get people to click on the article, and then click through to a product to buy. They make their money that way. I see various highlighted words, such as the make of Mum’s car. I click on it, and it takes me to the car’s website.

  People are making money from our misery, which means there are moments when I truly believe that the world can be more painful outside the bunker than in it. The world outside is messier, more complicated and often more ruthless. Seeing that article gives me an idea. I open my Instagram account, scroll through photos of Mum and Gina, find a nice one, and then I began typing.

  My mum has fought hard for our protection ever since I went missing fourteen years ago. She saved my life. She’s a fighter. She loves us more than anything and she’s doing everything she can to find my little sister Gina. Leave my family alone.

  Someone will find a way to take my words out of context, to make me seem as unhinged as they make Mum seem. After all I’m the boy from the bunker and most people think I’m going to go on a killing spree one day. They think I’m damaged beyond repair. Who could survive it? That’s what they all think. Who could live in that place for ten years and come out a normal person?

  ‘You OK, mate?’ Dad smiles at me. Smiles mean happiness. They don’t, though; smiles cover up what you’re really feeling. He’s scared for me. Scared for Gina and Mum and everyone else. We’re all scared beneath our smiles.

  I tell him I’m fine, and then I write another message to Faith. I’m scared.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  EMMA

  The car thrums to silence as I hit the ignition switch. New technology can jar against old memories. I used to come here driving my mum’s Volvo with the dodgy handbrake. It’s not as though I came here often, but the recognition is strong. This is where Amy lives. This is the house on the way to the one pub in Bishoptown that served underage teenagers. Those bricks, this piece of land, are part of my history.

  It was after the camping trip that I first came here. She’d reinvented herself as someone else. From a prudish, strange girl, to the one with a number of lads on the go. Her reputation spread as an easy lay, apparently. I didn’t pay much attention to these rumours because I fell pregnant around the same time. Amy got to have a proper career and I resented her for that at times. She was the promiscuous one, but I ended up pregnant before anyone else at school.

  It all seems pointless now. A typical way in which women drag each other down. That you made different choices than me and I resent you for it philosophy. I later learned she was jealous of me.

  I get out of the car and peer into the house. According to Stevenson, the police have already been here and found nothing. But what have they missed? What could I see that they didn’t? I need to search this place for myself.

  It looks like they secured the building with a new lock after the police search. I head around to the back of the property, not particularly caring about any repercussions from trespassing. The urgency of this situation has gone beyond an arrest for a petty crime.

  At the back of the house there’s a window into the tiny dining room. I’ve brought my hammer with me again. I pull it out from my bag, angle my face away from the window and smash as hard as I can. I researched this before I came out of the house. Double-glazed windows are most vulnerable in the lower corners. The outer pane smashes first, so loudly that I imagine most elderly neighbours will be twitching their curtains to find out where the noise came from. With the second and third blows, I get through the second pane and widen the hole to so I can climb through. I brought a thick picnic blanket to lay over the window to make sure I don’t cut myself.

  With an ungainly heave, I push myself over the windowsill and into the house. My Doc Martens boots grind the shards of glass into the carpet. They were worn specifically for this purpose, too. I can’t say what will come next, because I don’t kn
ow, but I’m certain I’ll need to be physically strong and injury free.

  The room is eerily quiet and empty enough that my footsteps create a faint echo. All the dining furniture is gone. Whether Amy moved her belongings out or sold them, I couldn’t say. But there is clearly nothing in this room. I move to the kitchen.

  I work my way through the cupboards, finding nothing but crumbs and dust. A large house spider sits in the sink.

  Next, the lounge. The place where I backed Amy into a corner and put a knife to her throat. The second time I’ve drawn blood from a person. I still remember the taste of Jake’s blood, and the surprise of how easily my teeth tore into him. Tooth and claw. Just as any mother would fight.

  I take my hammer, turn it over and use the claw to pull up the carpet. Perhaps she has secrets hidden in the floorboards. Anything would help. But there’s nothing. No loose floorboards. No hiding holes. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and move up the stairs.

  At this point I’m concerned that someone could have seen the broken window and called the police, so I go quickly through the upstairs rooms. It seems that Amy has left some belongings behind. There are a few bin bags filled with clothes. Old books. Magazines. Some CDs of Nineties bands. Nothing particularly personal, like a photo album or framed pictures. She must have taken them with her, which suggests that she does care about other people, unless she threw them away. But then wouldn’t she have thrown these old things away, too?

  I do the same here, ripping up the carpet, sweating through my top and blinking away dust. There are no loose floorboards. There’s nothing here. No dastardly plan with a map. Nothing.

  My last hope is the attic. I reach high above my head and pull down the steps. My hands shake as the metal bars unfold. I don’t know if it will be any sort of room, or whether it’ll be nothing but insulation and beams. One wrong move and I could fall straight through the ceiling. I could break an ankle or give myself a concussion.