Grace Is Gone

by Emily Elgar

  “You look pretty, Gracie,” Mum said on the morning of the interview, kissing my nose like she always does when she’s excited. “Hat looks fab.”

  I wheeled after her as she went through the house straightening straight pictures and plumping already plump cushions.

  “Did Maggie say what questions he’s going to ask?”

  “Not really, just that it’s about single-parent families and living with disabilities. He’ll probably want to know about your meds, daily life, the usual sort of—”

  She didn’t get a chance to finish because the doorbell rang. Mum jumped upright like she was on a spring.

  “Oh God, Mouse. He’s here!”

  Jon Katrin is tall with curlyish brown hair and some stubble with bits of gray in it. He was dressed a bit like a teenager—jeans and a raincoat. He pulled off his Converse sneakers at the door and I felt Mum raise an eyebrow behind me. She doesn’t really like it when men wear sneakers.

  “Cool hat,” he said to me.

  I don’t get to meet new people much, especially not dad-aged men, so I asked loads of questions. He told us his wife grew up just outside Ashford, that they moved down from London for a better quality of life, amongst other reasons. I didn’t believe him when he said he loved it. He teased me, said he thought he was supposed to be the interviewer. Mum laughed and squeezed my hand once so I knew it was OK, he was only joking.

  It was all going fine until Jon asked about Dad. He’s off-limits, him and Danny. We don’t use their names—it upsets Mum too much. And me. We never talk about Dad but I know Mum worries about him. Especially since he started calling. Last week I even unplugged the phone. I wanted Mum to have some peace.

  I tried to distract Jon, showing him the photos from hospital again, talking him through my meds and my feeding tube. He said it was amazing I could remember them all. I felt a glow of pride at that, but later Mum said he shouldn’t have been so flippant.

  “Only someone who doesn’t understand how one pill can mean the difference between life and death would say something so silly.”

  Mum liked Ben better than Jon but secretly Jon was my favorite because he liked my hat.

  But that was then. We hate him now, since he wrote that stupid article. It was in the newspaper today—Mum went out specially to buy it and has been crying for hours. She keeps asking me if she’s a good mum. I hate it when she asks me that because no matter how much I tell her she’s the best mum in the world I know it’s not enough. I hate Jon Katrin for making her feel like that. He says in the article Dad should be allowed to see me but he doesn’t know anything about us. I don’t need Dad, I just need Mum.

  I read the article quickly when Susie came over to comfort Mum. I was so pink in the photo I looked like a strawberry and the hat didn’t look cool, it looked stupid. There were just little slits where my eyes should be, I couldn’t see any bones in my face at all. This is why I don’t look in mirrors. I threw the newspaper across the room when I saw it.

  Susie’s been over a lot, she swears she’s going to put things right, says her and Zara and Sylvia have already got a plan. Mum kept crying and crying. I just sat by her side and held her hand. It was horrible. Then Cara came round and smiled at me carefully, like her smile could hurt me. This is how she is with me now. Her hair’s growing, it’s really dark and thick and shiny. I tried to picture how it would feel, soft like melting chocolate around her shoulders.

  “All right, Grace?”

  I nodded and shrugged.

  “What about that article, eh? My mum’s fuming.”

  “I shouldn’t have worn that stupid hat,” I said, and she grinned at me, like she was relieved I said what she’d been thinking. We don’t see each other as much as we used to, but when she comes over I try to talk about normal stuff like TV and shopping. I wish I could ask her more about Chris, about boys in general. But I don’t because I think it’ll only make me seem weird.

  “Fancy getting some chips?” Cara asked. I tried not to look too excited as I nodded.

  “Better just go check with your mum,” Cara said, and I sank a little in my chair as I followed her into the kitchen. I know Mum needs me close when she’s sad.

  Mum wiped her eyes and stood to give Cara a hug.

  “You get more and more gorgeous, Cara.” Cara smiled in thanks, as though it was nothing.

  “Grace and I are just going to go and get us all some chips.” I saw the worry move across Mum’s face like a shadow. Susie put an arm around her.

  “I’m not sure that’s the best plan just now, girls. How about Cara runs out and brings us four portions back? What do you think, Cara?”

  Cara looked at me. I shrugged and she said, “Fine by me.”

  Susie gave her money to get the chips, and Cara headed out the door. And now I’m back in my room, alone, trying to block out the sound of Mum crying.

  Lots of love, Grace xxx

  10

  Jon

  I’m sweating and over forty minutes late for our session. Dr. Bunce opens the door agonizingly slowly.

  “Thank you,” I say, pushing past her, coughing on the incense smoke in the hall.

  “Shoes,” she says.

  I go back and kick my Converse off next to Ruth’s sandals. Ruth is sitting quietly in the therapy room. She doesn’t shout at me when she sees me—not a good sign. She shakes her head, and turns away when I try to kiss her cheek.

  “Ruth, don’t be like that. I was working. I’m sorry, I really am, you know how important you are to me.”

  But Ruth waits for Dr. Bunce to sit in her chair before she says in a calm, well-trained voice, “Jon, I’ve decided I want us to formally separate.”

  I look from Dr. Bunce to Ruth and back again.

  “Ruth, don’t be like that. I’m late, that’s all!”

  But she shakes her head slowly, as though what is going on inside is physically weighing her down.

  “No. I told you how important these sessions are to me, and therefore to our marriage. You chose to completely ignore me, which is symptomatic of our entire relationship. You’ve placed me in a horrible position. I have a choice: either I stay with someone I don’t trust, or I hope I’ll find something better. I’ve chosen the latter.”

  “No, no, I think you’re the most important—”

  Dr. Bunce’s alarm rings and she says, “That’s time.”

  “Oh come on!” I appeal to Dr. Bunce, but she just raises a sharp eyebrow at me, playing the headmistress.

  Ruth stands. “Thank you for helping,” she says to Dr. Bunce.

  They smile at each other, like the two of them share an understanding. Her composure is aggravating. This whole fucking thing—the incense, the lotus poster in a frame—it’s all so fucking aggravating.

  “This is absolute bullshit,” I say, in the wild hope that one of them might come to their senses and agree. But they both carefully ignore me and Ruth follows Dr. Bunce in her slippered feet out of the therapy room. My shoes are still warm as I try to squirm my feet inside, not pausing to put them on properly. I’ll talk to Ruth once we’re outside, on our own, but Ruth’s out of the door too quickly. I kick my sneakers off again so they don’t slow me down and, holding them, ignoring Dr. Bunce’s requests to let Ruth leave, I go after her.

  “Ruth! Ruth, wait!” I shout.

  She’s not quite running. Instead she’s walking at a frantically fast pace that is somehow more dramatic than running. I’m a good few feet behind her. Tiny pebbles on the pavement sting and nip at my feet, making me tiptoe. I gain on her as she searches for her keys and, finding them, clicks her car unlocked. I fall on the passenger seat door and then throw myself in, next to her. She doesn’t look at me. She’s one of those people who sometimes finds drama funny, Jakey can always make her laugh when she’s trying to tell him off, but this gravity is new. She seems too weary, too worn out to laugh. The muscle in her neck pulses.

  “Ruth, look, I’m so sorry. I was held up at work—”

  “I
listened to the news on the way here, Jon. I know that poor girl’s clothes were found. I know you’ve been to the Point. I know that’s why you were late. You’re choosing them, even though they’re probably both dead now. You’re still choosing them over us.”

  “I’m not choosing them, I’m just finding out some stuff that suggests things weren’t quite as they made out . . . They’d been lying, Ruth, they’d all been lying and I need to find out why. Today is the fourth day Grace will go without her medication—”

  “She’s probably dead, Jon! They’re probably all dead, they don’t have to worry about their problems anymore, they don’t exist! But your son and I do, our problems are real, very real, but you still, you still choose them.”

  It’s almost a relief to hear her shout at me. She’ll start crying in a moment.

  “Ruth, look, I think I might be able to find out what happened to Meg and Grace that night—”

  “You’re calling her Meg now? Like she was your friend? Get out,” Ruth says, still pointedly not looking at me. “Get out now or I’ll call the police.”

  “Ruth, don’t be nuts . . .”

  She rummages in her bag, pulls out her phone, makes me watch as she dials the police.

  “Shit, OK. I’ll go.” I open the passenger door a couple of inches and Ruth turns the key in the ignition. She always leaves the radio on when she drives, and a news reporter is reading the headlines: Breaking news this afternoon: South West Police have confirmed that after an extensive manhunt, Simon Davis has been taken in for questioning in connection with the murder of Megan Nichols and the disappearance of their daughter, Grace Nichols . . .

  Ruth clicks the radio off and, turning to me with a sad smile, says, “Look at you. You can’t wait to get out of here now, can you? To find out what happened from your buddies in the police. What is it that makes you so obsessed with them, Jon? They’re a family, that’s all. A family who couldn’t survive the terrible tragedy of their son’s death and it fucked them all up. It happens every day—families falling apart. Strange how clear it is when it happens to someone else’s family and how hard it is to see when it happens to your own.”

  “What are you saying? Ruth, we’re nothing like them.”

  “Just go, Jon. Please. Just go.”

  I’m too tired to fight anymore. I get out of the car and stand in the middle of the quiet cul-de-sac, staring as Ruth drives away. Simon’s been found at last, which means Grace—or Zoe—is closer to being rescued and Ruth wants to leave me for good: seismic change squeezed into a few short moments. I’m aware Dr. Bunce will be watching, but I don’t care. I hate to think how she’s probably been leading Ruth, encouraging her to leave me when she doesn’t even fucking know me, doesn’t know us, not really. Suddenly I remember the satisfying weight of my dad’s old golf club in my hands as I swung at Meg’s windows, how the sound of breaking glass was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. It was a stupid thing to do but, Jesus, it felt good.

  I glance back at Dr. Bunce’s front room before I make myself breathe out, sit on the curb to put my sneakers on, and calm the fuck down. I don’t want to go to my car, not yet. I want to stay here for a little while longer, as though by being here what happened will start to make some sense. Above me, a group of screaming swifts duck and dive for invisible insects. I see Ruth’s point more than I let on. I think she knows I get it, that’s what drives her so insane. Our marriage is hanging by a thread and the one thing she asks of me to help save it, I fuck up. But when I think about stopping, like Ruth wants me to, I realize my reasons for wanting to help run too deep. At first, I only wanted Grace’s safe return and, if I’m totally honest with myself, my redemption. But now I’m starting to understand the power Meg and Grace have over the whole town. I think about Mr. Leeson, Zara, and Maggie at the night search. These people, brought together by Meg and Grace. Meg and Grace were protected and cared for like broken children by the whole community. They were a common cause, a tiny family everyone could fight for, everyone could love. I didn’t know it at the time, but I understand more now. My article did more than bruise Meg and Grace, it insulted everyone in Summervale, and they retaliated with a smear campaign, baiting me with the one thing they knew I couldn’t ignore: my son. I don’t think their response was justified, but perhaps my article wasn’t either. This isn’t about Simon, Meg, and Grace, it’s about the bigger family, it’s about people fighting for their lost community, for their lost identity. That’s why all this is so important. That’s what I can’t explain to Ruth, because she wouldn’t understand. She was raised just outside Summervale, she’s one of them. When I defended Simon, I was attacking her hometown for supporting Meg and Grace, and deep down I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me.

  I’m shaken from my thoughts by my phone buzzing in my pocket. I’ve missed three calls and have a text message, all from Cara.

  Call me.

  She’ll want to talk about Simon’s arrest, maybe seek reassurance that his arrest means we’re about to find Grace, or Zoe. But I can’t offer her any until I speak to Dave and find out more. Why is Cara different from everyone else in Summervale? I can see her vulnerability, the way she looks at me like I’m a baffling but longed-for rescuer. She’s smart, and her instincts are sharp. I wasn’t lying when I said she’d make a good journalist. She grew up next to Grace, she saw more than anyone. I think we both know that Grace is Zoe, and that this is the first of many secrets. I think she wants to find out the others as much as I do.

  I stand up from the curb, slow and weary. My joints creak like they need a good oiling; the last few days feel like a decade in my bones. Not knowing where to go, I walk slowly back to my car. I’ll go home, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll go home and see if Dave wants a pint this evening. I glance at Dr. Bunce’s house, resist the urge to wave as her curtains twitch. The sun is high now, but on the horizon there are dark, angry clouds gathering in the west, towards the Point.

  On the drive, my head is thick with exhaustion. I need some rest before I can think clearly about Ruth, about Grace, Zoe, about any of it. I’ll read the diary again once I’ve had some sleep.

  I’m waiting at a red light, straining to not let my eyes close, when my phone starts ringing. I glance at it, expecting to see Cara’s name on the screen. But it’s not Cara. It’s a withheld number, which always means one of two things: it’s either a trash call or it’s important.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Katrin?” The woman’s voice is clear, the voice of someone who has been expertly trained.

  “Speaking,” I say, trying to match her professionalism.

  “Mr. Katrin, my name is DCI Upton, I’m calling from Ashford police station.”

  “OK. Can you hold the line for a moment please?” The lights have turned green. I need to get off the road to concentrate. The car behind beeps as I pull up at the side of the road, forgetting to signal. I turn the engine off and say, “Thank you for waiting.”

  But Upton doesn’t respond, she’s not calling to be thanked.

  “Mr. Katrin, you might be aware that I’m leading the investigation into the murder of Megan Nichols and also into the disappearance of her daughter, Grace.” She pauses.

  “Yes, I’ve seen you on television.” I cringe as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

  “Right. Well, you might have seen we arrested Simon Davis today.”

  “I just heard on the radio. Where was—”

  But she answers before I can ask my question.

  “As you probably know, he got a train to London the day after the murder. We’ve been working with the Met, trying to locate him, when today a member of the public identified him on a train to Plymouth, where he was detained. Two of my officers are currently questioning Mr. Davis but I’m afraid he isn’t being cooperative. He’s made an . . . unusual request.”

  “Right.”

  “He says he wants to talk with you.”

  I bang my head back against the headrest. Is this a joke? “With me?�
��

  “In any other circumstances, I’d dismiss his demands. But, you see, it’s rather delicate. I can explain everything when you get here.”

  I remember meeting Simon in that café, how he moved slowly, like it pained him to be alive at all. Talking to him, I felt the full horror of the fragility of life, how it could have been me sitting where he sat, how close my own son was to death, how my own neck had been in the noose. It was like meeting a nightmare version of myself. I felt a sort of tragic kinship with him then. How would I feel about him now, knowing what he might have done to Meg, to his own daughter?

  “When do you want me to come in?” I ask.

  “Immediately, if possible. I can send a car if you want.”

  “No need. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I put my foot down hard on the accelerator, all the exhaustion I felt just moments ago replaced by adrenaline. What if the dress wasn’t Grace’s, what if she is still alive? If I don’t fuck up, I could help save her. And, in the back of my mind, I think how this could be the interview of my career, a story that could be reprinted for years to come, translated into many languages.

  Simon wants to see me, will only talk to me. He must think I have some kind of authority. Perhaps he wants me to tell the world what he’s done. Perhaps I’m the only journalist he knows. Or perhaps he wants to talk to me because I’m the only person who’s ever listened to him. I don’t know, but it feels like my chance, possibly my only real chance, to help Grace, and there’s no way I’m going to let her down.

  I swerve into the fast lane, feeling the world open up before me because Grace might still be alive and I feel like I’m driving away from the wreckage of my old life and towards a brighter, better future.