The Missing Person's Guide to Love

by Susanna Jones

  There was Julia’s family, but her parents had moved away a few years after Julia disappeared. Maggie told me that after staying at home every day, not having a holiday in case Julia turned up looking for them, they had decided to set themselves free and start afresh in another town, I forget where.

  It was not much of a list but this did not bother me. At the funeral I would see a lot of people from the old days, friends from school, people who lived locally, worked in the shops, taught at one of the schools. It is a small community and someone would be able to help. Julia would not have been forgotten. If the older generation had never wanted to talk about it, mine would be different.

  I sat up on the bedspread, drew my knees to my chest, sipped hot tea and pulled apart a soft custard cream from a complimentary packet of two. I scraped the filling from the biscuit with my teeth and savoured the synthetic sweetness. I rocked slightly, side to side, as I often find myself doing when I’m in the foetal position. I hadn’t eaten all day. I had almost missed my flight from Istanbul and then the bus from Victoria coach station, so there was no time to change money. There would be food after the funeral, of course, if only I had the courage to attend. What would Owen’s mother say if she saw me? The last time we had met was in a crowded market-place. She was screaming at me. Her son’s funeral was hardly the occasion for reconciliation, not that I wanted to be her friend. If I could just sneak into the back of the church and not be recognized, it would be all right.

  A knock on my door. I opened it to find Doreen Fatebene with an armful of dark brown towels. ‘Not sure I remembered to put towels on your bed before.’ She gave them to me.

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Funeral at St Peter’s, is it?’

  The woman on television was still talking. I picked up the remote control and turned it off. ‘Yes, it’s later this afternoon.’ Then I realized she wanted more. ‘His name was Owen Carr. I was at school with him.’

  ‘Didn’t know him. He’ll have been young, then.’

  ‘Yeah. It was a road accident.’

  ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’ve just had one, thanks.’ Did I look upset?

  ‘You just say if you want one.’

  For a moment she reminded me of my mother.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Is there a wake as well?’

  ‘I think everyone’s invited back to his parents' house. After that I might go to the pub with old friends, depending on who I bump into.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to be late, get a taxi. Don’t walk home on your own.’

  My mother again. I picked up my sponge-bag and one of the towels to show that I was about to have a shower and perhaps encourage Ms Fatebene to go back downstairs. She took the towel from my hand and gave me the other. ‘This is the bathsheet, if you’re having a shower. That one’s just a hand towel.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘And if you wash your hair, come to me for a hair-dryer you can borrow. Don’t go out with damp hair. You’ll catch a chill.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Right, then.’ And off she went downstairs.

  The shower was an attachment in the bath that did not stretch quite high enough to reach my head unless I knelt or crouched. The bath was stained and the water pressure low. I had to rub the water over my skin with my hands to get completely wet. There was no soap and I hadn’t brought any. I dried myself on the bathsheet feeling dirtier than before and a bit cold. I wrapped the towel around me and carried my things back across the landing to my room.

  My clothes were crumpled lumps of black on the bed. I tried on each combination, watched myself change from a student to a woman dressed up for a party to something androgynous in trousers and a black polo-neck. I decided to wear the skirt and the less fussy top. I would go to the church and see. I could always turn back if it looked as though it was going to be bad. I hummed a few scales, up and down, then arpeggios. My voice was stuck somewhere under my ribs but gradually I teased it out and progressed from humming to singing. The song that came to mind was ‘Sunday Girl’. On the flight I’d been thinking about Kath and Julia and me singing along with Debbie Harry in Kath’s bedroom. As I sang, I slipped into the black clothes again, tried to conceal my green bra straps under the sleeves, and brushed my hair back into a demure knot. I checked myself in the mirror, smeared a touch of blusher on my cheeks. I looked all right. Black suits me, though I am pale. I put on the pointy-toed shoes I’d bought in a hurry from a fancy shop near Taksim Square. They pinched my feet and I wasn’t used to wearing heels but I looked better than all right. I looked quite good. I added lipstick, then changed my mind and rubbed it off again. I checked my profile from each side. Yes, yes, but it didn’t matter what I looked like.

  My handbag was empty. I filled it with pens and notebooks from my rucksack, a handkerchief. I put my black raincoat over my funeral outfit and left Lake View. I still had a couple of hours to spare and I would begin with a visit to the police station. I had painful memories of that old-fashioned little building, with its lamp on the outside wall, but there were likely to be new people now and they would help me. Was the case of Julia Smith ever solved? I would ask them, certain that it was not and tell them that, perhaps, I had the answer. A voice in my head began to pray. Lord, please help me know what to do and give me the strength to find out— No, no. It was not my voice that I could hear and this work was all down to me.

  I sat in a comfortable black chair and watched a couple of sparrows hopping on and off the low wall outside. The police station had changed since the 1980s. There was now a pleasant area with low chairs, a small table and a water-cooler. Signs on the walls gave phone numbers and helpful information on everything from drug addiction and domestic violence to bicycle theft. In the old days this area had been smaller, darker. I remembered a high, severe counter, dingy cream walls, and one or two upright chairs. I remembered a lower ceiling. It was a more relaxing place now, there was no doubt. I didn’t have to feel small here but could lean back in the soft chair and stretch out my legs. I smoothed a wrinkle in my tights. It was not so terrible to be in this room once again, after all. Indeed, I felt quite at ease, looking through the window – it seemed larger than the old one – at the birds now pecking at a small twig on the bonnet of a police car.

  The plump young female officer returned from the corridor and smiled. ‘I’ve just checked for you. The case is still open. She was never found. It was a suspected abduction but there were no key suspects and no reported witnesses to her disappearance.’

  ‘Was anyone arrested?’

  ‘A few local men were questioned and all released without charge. It doesn’t appear to have been our finest moment – the police force’s, I mean.’ She laughed.

  A panda car drew up outside. The doors opened and two male police officers unfolded themselves into the daylight. I looked to see whether I recognized either from the past. I could not see their faces but their bodies were thin and they moved with the quick fluidity of young men. I turned back to the woman behind the desk. She had a pretty round face with soft rosy skin and I liked her. She made me feel as if it would be all right to confide in her. I wished I could take her to a pub and tell her the whole story over a pint or two.

  ‘So if nothing has changed, after all these years, does that mean we’ll probably never find out what happened? I mean, as time passes people forget things, people who knew things will die off—’

  ‘Not necessarily. I’d say there’s every chance we’ll find out. The case will be reviewed at some point and, anyway, it’s very likely that new information will come to light. For one thing there’s the possibility of DNA evidence now. For another, you have to trust that people do remember things after years, even decades. Or they might keep the information secret to protect someone but then something happens to change their mind, a falling-out or bereavement, say. It seems to you and me now as though she disappeared into thin air, but the
truth is, someone out there will know something, and not just the person who abducted her, if that is what happened. I don’t think your friend will be lost for ever. I really don’t.’

  ‘Can I show you something?’

  I stood and handed Owen’s letter to her.

  She ran her eyes over it a couple of times. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Owen Carr wrote it to me. He sent me a lot of letters but this is the only one I kept.’

  ‘The young man who died last week on the motorway? The same one?’

  ‘Yes. He was Julia’s boyfriend when we were at school. Do you think it means anything?’

  She read it again and shrugged. ‘Should it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  In Istanbul I keep the letter in a painted wooden box with other treasures. The box was a birthday present from Mete a couple of years ago and it stays in a drawer next to our bed. It is decorated with pictures of Ottoman warriors and sultans, in red, blue and green. Most of the letters inside were sent by old friends before we started using email; one or two are from Maggie. Whenever I find myself wondering about Owen and Julia, I take his letter from the box and read it again. It makes my head ache but I can’t let go of it.

  Now the police officer held the letter tightly between her finger and thumb. I wanted to warn her not to tear it but I kept quiet and waited for her to speak.

  ‘If he knows – sorry, knew – anything, he’s not being very clear about it, is he? When did he write this?’

  ‘Years ago, probably when he was about twenty. He was a bit unbalanced at the time and had been in prison – not because of Julia but for something later on. I know it’s not much but—' Already the letter seemed silly and its meaning arcane.

  ‘I’m afraid that it isn’t really anything. I can’t make sense of it. He sounds rather disturbed here. What’s he on about, “made her body disappear”? That’s not really something the police have powers to help with. It sounds a bit supernatural. No, we’d need a lot more than this to justify looking into it again.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I knew him well so perhaps I’m seeing things that wouldn’t be clear to other people.’

  ‘Do you have any more information? Run it by me, if you’d like to. Might as well think about it while you’re here.’

  ‘It’s hard to put my finger on specific things. Owen used to follow Julia. She dumped him for someone else and he hung around, annoying her. Nowadays you might call it stalking but then he was just seen as a bit of a nuisance. She was his first girlfriend and I think the rejection was too much for him, too harsh. You could say he had a motive.’

  ‘How old was he at the time?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘It’s very unlikely that a sixteen-year-old—’

  ‘I know, but not impossible. He was very strong too. He could have hurt her a lot without meaning to. Do you see what I mean? It could have been some kind of argument that got out of hand and then he didn’t know what to do so he hid her body. He could easily have carried her to the reservoir. At night he could even have come back and—’

  ‘Yes. That’s quite a lot of conjecture.’

  ‘All right, but I became his friend afterwards and he talked about Julia every day. He always wanted to go back to the place where she disappeared. We used to go with him – my friend Kath and I – but it was his idea each time. I know he went there by himself sometimes. I know it.’

  ‘But at the time you didn’t think he might have done anything to harm her?’

  ‘It didn’t cross my mind. This has taken me a lot of time and distance to work out. I know it doesn’t sound like anything but I’ve thought about it often over the last few years.’ Now I was beginning to feel shy. It occurred to me that her tone was more patronizing than friendly and I was not helping myself. ‘Never mind.’

  I shouldn’t have discussed it with her, or shown her the letter. For the second time in my life I had made a fool of myself in this police station accusing someone. Last time it was Mr McCreadie, the supermarket manager, who had boasted that he knew what had happened to Julia and I took this as an admission of guilt. Owen was on my side that time – now I see that it was in his interest to agree with me – but the policeman shouted me out of the building. He was right, I had no evidence, and this woman was right too. I still had no evidence. She thought I was unhinged. I could have told her that I was a journalist and knew a few things about investigating, but I wasn’t sure that it would help, and it wasn’t strictly true since all I do is write profiles on the lives of ordinary people. I don’t know much about crime.

  ‘Can I have it back, then?’

  She passed the letter to me. She looked as though she was reaching for words of comfort or encouragement.

  I knew that she wanted to be helpful but I had nothing more to ask her. I folded the letter and put it into my pocket. ‘Thanks for your time. I just wanted to know if Julia was ever found. I realize that this letter doesn’t mean anything. It was just a silly thought. I’m sorry to have brought it up.’

  ‘Don’t keep apologizing. It’s fine. As I say, the case will get reviewed, and I’d be very surprised if we don’t resolve it one of these days. You will get closure.’ She gave me another kind smile.

  I smiled back and felt tears under my eyelids. ‘I’d better get going. It’s Owen’s funeral today.’

  She threw me a slightly odd look. I suppose it seemed strange that I had just accused him of murder and was now on my way to mourn his death, but that was the way it was. I didn’t want Owen to be guilty. I didn’t particularly want him not to be guilty. I just wanted to know what had happened.

  I thanked the policewoman again, apologized again, and left the building. I sat down on the bench in front of the police station and lit a cigarette. A police car was parked in front of me. How far I had come since I was last here. I leaned forward and touched the paintwork, ran my fingers along the car door. It felt fine, a little warm from the sun. Since it had no connection with my life any more, it was just a life-sized toy. I could have pulled it back with my whole hand, then pushed it forward down the road to see how far it would travel. I almost felt that I was the only real person in a charming toy village and, once I’d solved the mystery, I could sweep up the trees and houses, put them all back into their box and grow back to my normal height.

  I sent a text message to Mete.

  Arrived safely. All OK? Hug for Elif.

  I missed them. I had missed them all day, since before I had said goodbye. When I woke in Istanbul it was dark. Mete walked with me to the centre of Ye?ilkcöy where I would catch the airport bus. Elif was asleep in her buggy, head stretched to the side. If she had known I was about to abandon her, she would have screamed. I gave her the kiss of betrayal and stroked her hair lightly so that she wouldn’t wake. Mete and I were both groggy and half deaf with tiredness as we kissed and promised to text throughout my trip. He went to a street vendor and bought me a sesame bread ring to eat on the bus. I slept instead. Now it was the middle of the afternoon but I was no longer tired. The wind was fresh and scoured my cheeks. I looked out at the hills, pondered what I had learned in the police station. Julia was still lost, but I would find her.

  I had forgotten the beauty of the moors. I had forgotten that it feels good to rest your eyes on them, to watch and feel as they change through the day, and wait for them to disappear at night. They simmer under the town, pushing the streets up and down, and they curve away into the horizon and pull you out of this dark little place when you most need them to. I used to walk on the moors almost every weekend, sometimes with one of my parents and sometimes with my friends, or by myself with the neighbour’s Jack Russell. I knew the paths and trails well. If I walked alone there, I would usually meet someone I knew and we might go further together. Sometimes I went with schoolfriends to kick a football around or play with a Frisbee. We lost many. After Julia disappeared none of us walked on the moors alone. Most of us were not allowed to and would not have
wanted to. They had to search the crags and fells for Julia, but there was too much land and Julia was tiny. She might have been lying under the paths we trod, under the grass where we ran and jumped and babbled about how the fresh air and open land made us feel free.

  I took another drag from my cigarette and gave a gentle cough. I hadn’t smoked since before Elif was born and I wouldn’t smoke again after this trip, but at the moment it was the most natural thing to do. I used to smoke in the park with Julia, and if the cigarette now didn’t make me feel better, it took me a little closer to her.

  Occasionally, when I’ve been at a computer, I’ve put Julia’s name into a search engine and scanned pages and pages of missing people. Nothing meaningful has ever come up. I’ve tried the websites that help you trace people. I’ve become familiar with tales of missing siblings, abandoned children, lost grandmothers, ex-soldiers who never quite came home. Julia Smith must be a common name. At any given time there are bound to be a few lost or missing Julia Smiths, I expect, but in my local Internet café on an Istanbul back-street, I’ve never found any of them.

  But who was my Julia Smith? It is hardly fair, now that I am in my thirties, to judge Julia on the person she was at fourteen or fifteen, yet that is all I can do. Julia was a confident and rebellious fifteen-year-old so I tend to imagine an exciting life for her but, had she lived, she might have settled for something ordinary, have stayed in the area and married here. It is impossible to say. I always remember the same incidents, from a few months before she disappeared. The one I tend to think of first occurred in the park, just around the corner from here.

  Julia sat on one of the elm-tree stumps. Kath was beside her on the grass. Julia was slim and dark, Kath plump and fair. Both had short hair, fringes gelled, Julia’s daring and fashionable, Kath’s untidy, an unconfident and unsuccessful attempt to follow the trend. Kath’s face had zones of orange where she had used foundation to hide her spots. Julia either didn’t have spots or didn’t care about showing them. I don’t recall which but I remember her blue eyes and thin black eyebrows. People used to tell her she had beautiful long eyelashes so she fluttered them every time she laughed or smiled. Julia was reading something aloud. It was a warm day in late spring. It was 1982. We were in the park near our school. I was with a group of friends escaping from school for lunch and, as we approached, Julia called us over. She flapped a piece of paper up and down.