Local Girl Missing

by Claire Douglas

  I throw open the door. ‘How did you get up here? I didn’t let you in.’

  He shrugs, unconcerned. ‘The woman downstairs let me in. She was going out and saw me standing on the step. Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I don’t like the thought that she’s just letting random men in the front door without checking first. How does she know that you’re my friend? You could’ve been anybody.’

  ‘Jeez, Franks. Paranoid much?’

  How can I begin to tell him about the letter and the person following me yesterday without divulging more information, about Jason and the past? I suddenly feel very much alone.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ I say, opening the door wider. ‘I haven’t finished my breakfast yet.’ He follows me down the narrow hallway into the kitchen. ‘Do you want some porridge?’

  He shakes his head, the front of his fringe bouncing as he does so. ‘No thanks. Had my breakfast.’

  I stand at the counter, spooning the porridge into my mouth, feeling self-conscious that Daniel is watching me. After a few mouthfuls I place the bowl, still half full, into the sink.

  ‘Don’t let me put you off your breakfast.’ The space between us feels close, almost claustrophobic in the small kitchen. Then his gaze falls on the empty wine bottles. ‘Blimey, Franks, you’ve sunk a lot of wine since you’ve been here.’

  ‘I’ve been here two nights, two lonely nights where there was nothing to do apart from get slowly pissed. I tried to call you last night. It went straight to voicemail.’

  He stares at me, shock altering his features for a second. ‘I didn’t get any missed calls. But the reception here is sometimes a bit shit.’ His face softens. ‘I’m sorry.’ He moves closer to me and takes my hand. ‘I was the one who asked you to come back here –’ he hesitates, searching my face ‘– and you came. I’m so grateful to you for that. I’m sorry for not being a better friend. I should have spent some evenings with you, but it’s difficult. You see –’ he clears his throat, his face reddening ‘– I have someone living with me, a woman. It’s a recent thing …’ He tails off.

  So he does have a girlfriend. I swallow my disappointment but it lodges in my chest, giving me heartburn.

  ‘I see.’ I can’t meet his eyes, worried he’ll be able to read what’s going on in my mind.

  His next words are low and husky. ‘She knows how I used to feel, about you.’

  I glance up and our eyes lock. He’s never admitted to me how he felt, although I’ve always known. You used to tease me about it all the time, and even though I never reciprocated his feelings I liked that he fancied me. Would things have turned out differently had I allowed myself to feel the same? Deep down I know I would never have looked at him that way back then. He was just your annoying older brother. I’m ashamed to admit it, Soph, but I never felt he was good enough for me when we were younger. He wasn’t ambitious or dynamic, preferring to loaf about during the day and playing at being a rock star at night. Now I realise what I’ve been missing all these years; someone who makes me laugh, who’s kind and loyal, who’s a friend. I know what you’re going to say – that Mike is all those things. And it’s true, he is. But he doesn’t make me feel the way Daniel does.

  I move closer and touch his cheek. It feels cold and rough under my fingers. ‘Daniel …’ I murmur. Our eyes are still locked and I inch my face towards his, wanting, needing to feel his lips against mine. Just as my mouth lightly touches his he moves away as though I’ve stung him.

  ‘Frankie … I can’t. I’m sorry.’ He turns away from me and runs his hand through his hair. ‘You’re not … I’m not … Fuck.’ He kicks the kitchen cupboard with the toe of his boot. I stand and helplessly watch the internal struggle he is having.

  ‘Daniel – it’s OK. I know you’re with someone. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you. I’m sorry.’

  He swivels around so that he’s looking at me again, his eyes accusing. ‘I really loved you once,’ he says, shaking his head sadly. ‘I’ll go and wait in the car.’

  I wince as the door slams shut behind him.

  I spend the next ten minutes composing myself, putting on make-up, tidying the kitchen. Then I’m ready to go. I dread going downstairs, half expecting another letter to have fallen on the doormat. When I reach the bottom step the mat is empty, but wedged in the letterbox, like a tongue hanging out of a mouth, is another brown envelope. Steeling myself, I whip it from the letterbox’s metal grasp, not surprised when I see it’s addressed to me. I rip it open, my stomach in knots. This time there is just the one word typed in the middle of the page in black, bold letters:

  MURDERER

  SUNDAY

  * * *

  11

  Sophie

  Sunday, 13 July 1997

  I’ve seen Leon three times since Frankie’s revelation and each time I couldn’t bring myself to finish with him.

  Last night, our fourth date, I contemplated ending things. How could I not, after what we did?

  I still have nightmares about it. Flashes of memory from that hot August night. We were kids, just sixteen. I was wasted, drunk for the first time in my life thanks to Frankie stealing those spirits from behind her father’s bar. The three of us had gone to the old pier to get hammered and listen to music where nobody would catch us. Both of us were convinced that we were the one he was in love with. Now I look back and cringe at the way I acted, the way we flaunted ourselves at him. As if he’d ever have fancied me. Now I know how ridiculous we both were to hope for a romantic relationship with Jason. Maybe if I hadn’t been so delusional it would never have happened. He would still be alive.

  I already know I’ll never be able to tell Leon.

  Guilt. It turns you into a liar.

  Anyway, I’m digressing. Back to last night.

  I arranged to meet Leon at the old pier. As we sat there on the rotten floorboards, bleached by the sun and hot to the touch, all I could think about was that this was the last place Jason was seen alive. Eventually, after a couple of cans of Red Stripe, I felt brave enough to broach the subject.

  Leon stared at me when I asked about Jason. ‘Did you know him?’ he said, his brow deepening into a frown. He listened intently, his piercing eyes boring into me as I explained that Jason had had a summer job at Frankie’s parents’ hotel, that the three of us were friends.

  As I talked he took my hand, rubbing his thumb across my palm. ‘His death was a huge shock to us all,’ he said when I’d finished. He didn’t look at me as he spoke, instead concentrating on a splintered piece of wood by his knee. ‘We were close growing up, he was only six months older than me. He wasn’t just my cousin, he was my friend. He was found in the sea. He’d drowned. The toxicology report said there was a lot of alcohol in his blood, which contributed to his death. But I often wondered if he did it on purpose, you know? If he took his own life.’

  I was horrified and in that moment almost spewed out the whole ugly truth; the guilt of it was inching its way up my throat. I had to bite my lip to stop the words tumbling out.

  ‘Why …’ My mouth was so dry I could barely speak. I swallowed and started again. ‘Why would you think he’d kill himself?’

  ‘Jason was always a piss-head. And he took too many drugs. His mum, my dad’s sister, was an alcoholic. She kicked him out when he was seventeen, that was why he came here. A new start, apparently. But he was troubled, Soph.’

  I remembered Jason telling me about his parents, especially his father, who he’d described as a ‘waster’. We had a lot in common, that’s probably why I’d liked him so much. He was my first love. Frankie felt the same way too, that was the problem.

  Frankie was the one he liked, I’ve always been sure of that. Yes, we had a lot in common, coming from similar backgrounds. We would often sit and chat together – in a quiet spot on the beach or on the old pier. Sometimes I sensed that Frankie felt left out when we got into one of our philosophising sessions. I could tell by the way she’d try and distract
us whenever she saw us deep in conversation. (Although she never admitted it, that’s not her style. Frankie never has liked to admit to any weaknesses!) But I always knew that Jason saw me as a friend, nothing more.

  ‘What about his kid sister?’ I asked. ‘He always spoke of her so fondly.’ I only ever saw her once, at Jason’s funeral, standing forlornly next to an older woman. She would only have been about twelve, pretty with huge blue eyes, like Jason’s.

  Leon lifted his head to look at me, his eyes softening. ‘She came to live with us for a while. She’s OK. Happy. She’s sixteen now. My parents dote on her, the daughter they never had.’ His smile vanished. ‘Hey, why so sad?’

  I blinked back tears. ‘It’s just … it’s tragic, what happened to Jason.’

  He squeezed my hand and then pulled me to him so that I was sitting on his lap. I felt safe wrapped up in his strong arms. ‘He had his problems, it wasn’t easy for him,’ he murmurs into my neck. ‘He was a teenager who was struggling with his sexuality. Trying to understand himself.’

  I sat up straighter and pulled away from him so that I could see his face, my arms still around his neck. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He was gay. Didn’t you know?’

  The shock must have been apparent in my expression. ‘Gay? But he fancied Frankie. I was sure of it … I …’

  Leon shook his head, his wavy hair flopping in his face. ‘No, he didn’t. He had a lot of girls as friends, but he wasn’t interested in them in that way. He came out to me when he was fourteen. He’d always known, that’s what he said.’

  I had no clue. All those times we sat and put the world to rights. I wish he could have confided in me about it.

  Today at work (I’ve now jacked in my job with Stan and I’m working at the hotel every morning except Tuesdays!) I told Frankie what Leon had said. I was helping her change the bedding in a double room and she stopped, duvet cover in hand, the colour draining from her face. It was most peculiar. I wondered if she was going to throw up. It took her a few moments to compose herself and I felt sad for her. It’s obvious that she’d thought the same as me – that Jason had loved her. Maybe that’s what kept her going, what helped assuage her guilt. And I had taken that away from her. When she recovered, she snapped at me that I’d better not ever tell Leon what we did. And then she waltzed out the room, leaving me to change the bed by myself.

  She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day, as though it was my fault that Jason had been gay. Either that or she was cross that I hadn’t finished with Leon like she hoped. The thing is, I don’t know how long my relationship with Leon is going to last. I know it can’t be for ever, not with this huge secret between us.

  12

  Frankie

  The hand that’s holding the letter begins to shake uncontrollably, and I watch it, shocked, as though it’s taken on a life of its own. I feel trapped, like a defenceless animal, with no choice but to wait for my predator’s next move.

  I’ve tried to bury the memory of Jason and what we did all those years ago, Soph. I’ve gone to great pains to turn my life around, to reinvent myself. A new start in London, the growth of the hotels, which was down to me more than my parents. My mother had always been the driving force behind the business – Dad preferred the social side of things – but since their semi-retirement I’ve thrown myself into making sure the business is a success. And it’s worked – we’re just a few months away from opening our third hotel. Not the tacky hotels of our youth either; these are boutique hotels with opulent furnishings and Wi-Fi, with white, fluffy robes in the bedrooms and upmarket toiletries in the en suites. The type of hotels that run twenty-four hours a day, with demanding guests and a high turnover of staff, that seem constantly busy – unlike my parents’ place, which only ever seemed to get full in the summer months.

  I’ve been running from my past. Now the past has caught up with me and I feel wrong-footed, out of control.

  I tried to convince you that dating Leon – Jason’s cousin – was a mistake. I was terrified that you would be unable to keep the secret from him. You were always so kind, loyal, a soft touch. You trusted people more than I did, believed in them, assumed that they would live up to your expectations. But what if you did tell Leon? Does he know that we were involved in his cousin’s death and is seeking revenge?

  I take a deep breath and open the front door. I dart through the rain and slip into the passenger seat of Daniel’s car, still clutching the envelope. I can’t stop trembling.

  His mouth is set in a straight line. I might have been embarrassed by our near kiss if I wasn’t so worried about the letter. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says without looking at me. ‘Seeing you again …’ He reddens.

  When I don’t answer he turns to look at me. His eyes shift to the letter in my hand. ‘What is it?’

  Wordlessly I thrust the letter at him and he scans it quickly. ‘Where did you get this?’

  I explain everything, about the letters, the person who followed me last night.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say, or whether I could trust you.’ I fumble in my bag for a tissue.

  His eyes are hard. ‘Trust me? You’ve known me since you were seven years old. What, you think I sent you these?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, of course not … but …’ I stare at him, watching for signs that he might have had something to do with it. His right eyelid twitches.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were there, this morning,’ I say. ‘Did you notice the envelope in the letter box then?’

  His eyebrows knit together in concentration. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So someone obviously posted it while you were in the apartment with me.’

  He runs his hand over his chin. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. It could have been in the letter box, I doubt I would have noticed, to be honest …’

  I sigh. ‘Someone knows, Daniel. Someone knows what Sophie and I did …’

  There is a stunned silence as I realise what I’ve said. The only sound to be heard is the drumming of the rain on the roof of the car and the swish of the windscreen wipers. Daniel turns the ignition off and swivels in his seat to stare at me.

  ‘What did you do, Frankie?’

  In that moment, I know I can trust him. If I tell him what happened he’s hardly likely to go to the police; it would implicate you too and he wouldn’t want your name dragged through the mud.

  ‘It was our fault,’ I whisper, shredding the tissue in my lap. ‘The night Jason died. It was an accident, it’s true. But we were there. We were with him.’

  And carefully I tell him what I think he needs to know.

  As soon as we met Jason that day in my parents’ dining room we were smitten with him, although I don’t tell Daniel this part. I don’t think I’d even admitted to you how much I’d fancied Jason – although you could probably tell by the way I flirted when I was with him. He was the reason I turned Daniel’s advances down that summer. How was I to know he was gay? He never told us, and my sixteen-year-old self wasn’t worldly wise or sophisticated enough to realise. He was just a hot, sexy, older boy who was nice to us. To both of us. Equally.

  As the weeks progressed we became friends and the three of us would hang around together. He didn’t seem to mind being seen with a couple of giggly girls. He preferred that to hanging out with Daniel and his friends. I knew he’d had a troubled upbringing – he preferred to tell you most of this. I think he saw you as a kindred spirt, somebody with a similar background to his own. I never really thought he fancied you though; no offence, Soph, but you were an ugly duckling back then, only later turning into a swan. But you had that fierce intelligence, that analytical brain, and could discuss things with him – philosophical things that I wasn’t interested in. You were naive in so many ways, yet you were also mature beyond your years. You and Daniel were left, most of the time, to fend for yourselves while your mum worked all hours. Not that it was her fault, she
had a lot on her plate, both financially and emotionally. You hardly spoke of your father except to say he was a violent bully. Your mum was doing her best to make a life for the three of you away from him.

  It was a humid evening in late August when the three of us made a plan to meet on the old pier to get drunk. We were under age and the downside of living in a small town is that everybody knew how old we were so wouldn’t serve or sell us alcohol. Jason liked a drink – I wonder now, looking back, if he had a problem with alcohol. So, partly to impress Jason, I decided to steal a couple of bottles of spirits from my parents – vodka and rum.

  You got drunk the quickest, probably due to your toothpick frame. The alcohol gave you the confidence to act in a way that was totally out of character. I was quite shocked how you began flirting with Jason in the most embarrassing way, sitting on his lap and flinging your arms around his neck. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact I thought that he liked the attention. I even experienced a throb of jealousy at the two of you. We were mixing the spirits with Coke, but that wasn’t enough to dilute the effects. As the evening wore on we became more and more drunk.

  I don’t really remember who started the argument – if it was me because Jason was paying too much attention to you, or the other way around. I suppose we were competitive in the way that best friends are. Except I was usually the winner when it came to boys. And I liked to win. After all, you always beat me in class. It was only fair that I came first in something.

  Now I twist the tissue in my hands. ‘We were squabbling,’ I say. ‘Me and Sophie. Jason tried to stop us. Sophie pushed him away – not hard, she didn’t mean to, but it was enough to make him lose his balance. He was so drunk. He crashed through the rotten wooden barrier and fell twenty-five feet into the sea below.