by Tanith Morse
Within a couple of minutes, I reached my street. Our apartment was a rental in the basement of one of those innocuous, run-down Victorian conversions you can find on any London street. The entrance was straight off the sidewalk and you had to climb down a few steps to reach the front door. We had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. The apartment was pretty well-hidden, which I Iiked, but it also meant there wasn’t a whole lot of light in the place, even with the curtains open.
I ambled down the grimy stone steps, barely noticing the pools of filth and litter strewn across paving slabs. When I got to the front door, I glanced through the frosted glass and saw the hallway light was off. Mum wasn’t home from work yet.
I let myself in, hung up my coat, and headed straight for my bedroom, which was at the back of the house. It hadn’t changed much since we’d moved in; there was nothing in it but a wardrobe, a bed, and a cross-trainer. I didn’t own a computer, and most of my belongings—weights, books, CDs—were kept in a suitcase by the window, because I couldn’t be bothered to unpack. What was the point, when we’d probably be moving again?
I threw down my soggy bag, stripped off my wet clothes, and slipped into a Reebok tracksuit. Then I went to the bathroom, bathed my face at the sink, and took a long drink of water. For a moment, I gazed in the mirror and ran a critical eye over my reflection. Staring back at me was a pretty but tired-looking girl with large, hazel eyes and a dimpled chin. My short, black hair had lost most of its bounce from the rain, and my bangs hung loosely over one eye. I look like a shaggy dog. I need a haircut!
Since the age of fifteen, I’d been dying my hair and keeping it short in an effort to erase the memory of the little redhead whose photo had been splashed about by the media. When I was a little redhead girl, everyone had pointed at me and felt sorry for me. Not anymore. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. I just wanted to be a normal teenager and forget that horrible Halloween night had ever happened.
I walked back to my room to start my workout. I did an hour or so of exercise every day: forty minutes of cardio, twenty minutes of abdominal crunches, and thirty minutes with my weights. I’d started working out religiously about a year earlier, after my doctor recommended it was a better cure for depression than medication. She was right. During the time I spent sweating it out on the cross-trainer, I never thought once about my problems. That was the only time I felt free and completely in control of myself.
When I’d finished my work out, I rested the chrome dumbbells on the floor and dried off with a towel. Then I decided to grab something to eat. I padded over to the kitchen cupboard, took down a mug, and switched on the kettle to make some coffee. Just as the water reached a boil, I heard keys rattling in the front door. Mum was home.
“My god, that weather is abysmal!” She shook out her umbrella, showering the linoleum with raindrops. “The commute to work was an absolute nightmare. I never want to see another human-being for as long as I live.”
I muffled a snicker. “Fancy a coffee? I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“Love one, thanks.”
I took down another mug from the cupboard and spooned in some instant coffee. Then I poured in the hot water, stirred it a little, and handed her the cup.
“Thanks, darling.” For a moment, she stood in the doorway with a vacant expression, sipping her black, sugarless coffee. Her long brown hair clung loosely to her face in soft, fuzzy curls, and her usually immaculate make-up was smeared. But even a hailstorm couldn’t have diminished her beauty.
My mother was slim and delicately put together, with eyes as large and as hazel as mine. Sadly, that was the only feature I’d inherited from her. Everything else I got from my dad: my pale complexion, my freckles, and even my dimpled chin. I’d always wished I looked more like Mum. Next to her, I always felt so short and stumpy, but she consoled me by saying she wished she had my “strong, athletic legs.” I had another word for them: chunky.
“How was school?” Mum’s question snapped me from my reverie.
“Okay,” I said with a shrug.
“Make any new friends?”
“Nope, but a girl recognized me today,” I replied sullenly. “A girl named Becky, from my English class. She started asking all sorts of questions.”
Mum sipped her drink in silent reflection. “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. It always does. Let me know if she keeps bothering you and I’ll tell someone at the school to have a word with her.”
“No need for that,” I said hastily. “I probably just need to develop a thicker skin. But sometimes I get so sick of everything, you know? I’m tired of all the questions … tired of people dragging up the past.”
“Tell me about it.” Mum placed the mug on the sideboard and took out a packet of Pall Malls. She was seized by a sudden coughing fit, but a puff of the cigarette seemed to quiet it. “So, what do you have planned for the weekend? Anything exciting?”
I shook my head. “I’ll probably go down by Anne and Neil. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them and I keep meaning to go.”
Mum looked uncomfortable. Anne and Neil were Elliot’s parents. Despite everything, I’d managed to remain close to them. They regularly sent me Christmas and birthday cards, and twice a year, I traveled back to my old neighborhood to visit them. A couple of years earlier, Mum had severed all contact with Neil. I didn’t know all the ins and outs of their quarrel, but from what I gathered, it had something to do with money.
When Elliot was abducted, Dad and Neil had set up an appeal fund, and thousands of pounds of public donations had poured in. Then, when some of the accounts didn’t tally, Neil had accused my father of stealing. In the end, the matter was resolved, with Neil admitting he’d been wrong about Dad, but Mum still hadn’t forgiven him.
I hadn’t let my parents’ quarrel affect my opinion of Anne and Neil, who had always been so lovely to me. I felt it my duty to stay in touch. I owed it to Elliot. His parents were alone and childless now, and they saw me as a sort of surrogate daughter. How could I deny them my friendship?
Mum chose her next words carefully. “Darling, I’m worried about you. Shouldn’t you be spending more time with people your own age? I mean, Neil and Anne are great, but shouldn’t you, well . . .” She paused to take a drag on her cigarette. “You hardly ever go out anymore. When you’re not at school, you spend all day sleeping or on that blasted cross-trainer. I’m telling you, it isn’t healthy. A girl your age should be going out, having fun, doing things other teenagers do.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re just saying that because you don’t like Neil.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that,” she countered. “I just don’t want you throwing your life away when there’s so much you could be doing. I mean, when was the last time you went on a date?”
“Oh god, not that old chestnut,” I groaned.
“I’m serious, Sam. When was the last time?”
“When was the last time you had a date?” I retorted.
She stubbed out her cigarette in frustration. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. And I say it’s time you started acting your age. Do what other seventeen-year-olds do! Go out and get wild for once.”
I drained the last of my coffee. “I feel a headache coming. I’m going to lie down for a while.”
***
The next day, I took the overland train from Elmfield to King’s Cross, where I transferred to a fast train to Lansbury. The journey usually took an hour, so I brought Nineteen Eighty-Four along to keep me company. Hard, wet rain against the windows blurred the outlines of the emerald hills we passed, and the rhythm of the wheels and the rocking of the carriage soon lulled me to sleep.
When the train finally pulled into Lansbury station, I shivered as I alighted on the platform. A fog of gloom hung over the place, a dark sense of abandonment. It was like a fairground out of season. At least the rain had stopped, so I avoided getting another soaking.
Anne and Neil’s home was a five-minute w
alk from the station. They still lived on the quiet, tree-lined street with rows of identical houses made of dark sandstone. Number forty-seven was the only one with a purple door—but I would have known the way blindfolded.
For a few long moments, I stood by the front gate, deliberating over whether or not to go in. Then, with an odd sense of nostalgia, I glanced up at the house next door—my old house. My parents had sold it after the divorce. A light shone in my bedroom window. Someone was in there, but I couldn’t see through the blinds. It must be the new owners.
It was always weird coming back to my old neighborhood. It felt like a century had passed since Elliot and I had played here so happily as kids, unaware of the terrible nightmares ahead. It gave me an odd, wistful feeling. I wish I could turn back time.
Cautiously, I unlatched the gate and made my way up the gravel drive, taking care to walk quietly. I rang the bell and waited.
A minute passed.
Two.
Just as I was turning to leave, I heard the thump of approaching footsteps from inside. Then the door opened and Anne appeared.
“Sam!” she said happily, flinging her arms around me. “So lovely to see you again! Come in, come in, you must be absolutely freezing, poor thing.”
She helped me off with my coat and hung it on the rack. Then she took me through to the living room. The place was decorated with a scattering of cozy Turkish rugs, a green corduroy sofa, and shelves stacked with books lining the walls. In the middle of the room, a silver tea set and a box of Twinning’s tea sat on a table. The heavenly aroma of something baking wafted out of the kitchen.
As she joined me on the sofa, Anne asked, “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Two sugars?”
“Ha! You remembered,” I said with a laugh.
“I hope you’ll be staying for dinner?” she asked earnestly. “I’m making lamb chops with parsnips and carrots followed by tiramisu.”
“You bet!” I replied enthusiastically. “I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, my dear,” Anne said, patting my hand gently. “It’s not every day we get the pleasure of your company. Neil’s just popped upstairs, but he’ll be down in a bit.”
She poured the tea and handed me a cup. Then she went to the kitchen and came back with a tray of freshly baked cupcakes—my favorite treats, ever since I was five.
I stared at the floor a while, munching my cupcake and sipping tea, listening to a barrage of questions about my personal life. I tried my best to appear upbeat, but inside I was crying. Anne had aged so much since I’d last seen her. She’d lost weight; through her blue summer dress I could see how painfully thin her arms were. Streaks of silver tainted her once-auburn hair, and dark circles had formed under her eyes. She was wasting away.
“Hello, poppet,” said a gravelly voice from the doorway. “Come and give your old Uncle Neil a hug.” I looked up and saw a tall man with wavy, iron-gray hair.
“Hello, Neil,” I smiled, getting up.
He pulled me into a bear-hug and spun me round a couple times, making me shriek with laughter. As he put me down, I could detect the scent of alcohol on his breath.
“How’s your mother?” he asked brightly.
“She’s fine,” I replied. “She just started a new job at a charity.”
“Great, send her my regards.”
“I will.”
We went to the dining room where a table was set for three. Forcing a smile, I sat at the head of the table, with Neil and Anne on either side. From the way they kept fussing over me, I decided that they probably didn’t entertain guests very often, which wasn’t really surprising. The house had a deep melancholy feeling. On the other hand, the food was delicious. Anne was the best cook I knew—certainly better than my mother, whose signature dish was beans on toast.
After a while, we ran out of things to say and the three of us drifted into uncomfortable silence. Neil concentrated on his lamb chops, taking his time to cut the meat into tiny pieces. He rested his elbows on the table, chewing the meat methodically. He pushed a plate of carrots toward Anne. She pushed them back and shot a look of disgust at him. Something is definitely wrong here.
“These parsnips are delicious Anne,” I said, breaking the tension.
“Glad you like them,” she replied, picking half-heartedly at her plate. “Oh, by the way, did Neil mention we’ve hired a private detective to review Elliot’s case?”
“No, he didn’t.” I wiped my mouth on a napkin. “Wow. That’s great.”
“It’s costing us a small fortune,” Neil enthused. “But I reckon it’ll be worth it. Harry’s only been on the case a few weeks and already he’s found some promising leads. He says there were loads of things the police missed the first time around. For example, did you know there was a sighting of a boy fitting Elliot’s description in Liverpool, just a week after he was went missing? A motorist said he saw him at a petrol garage, but nobody’s bothered to follow it up till now.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “Why on earth didn’t the police investigate it at the time?”
Neil’s face darkened. “Because the motorist said the boy had brown hair, and Elliot’s is blond. So the police dismissed it.”
“But his abductors could have easily colored his hair as a disguise,” Anne put in excitedly. “What do you think, Sam? It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Anything’s possible,” I murmured.
Her face was filled with hope. I could tell she desperately wanted to believe in this “breakthrough” and needed my reassurance.
Gently, I reached across and patted her hand. “This is the best news I’ve heard all week! Seriously, guys. I’m so pleased.”
I meant every word.
Their tenaciousness was astounding. After all this time, Anne and Neil still believed their little boy would be found. They still believed Elliot would one day be returned to them, unharmed. That was the reason they’d never sold this house. They’d kept Elliot’s bedroom exactly as he’d left it, because they wanted their baby to know where to find them—if he ever found his way home.
It was sweet—and heartbreaking.
As Anne chatted away, I didn’t have the heart to tell her what I really thought—what everyone thought.
Elliot was dead.
How could a child go missing for this long and still be alive?
Sure, there was a slim chance that maybe, just maybe, someone was holding him captive somewhere, living under an alias. Perhaps he’d been taken out of the country or given to adoptive parents.
But my gut instinct told me this was unlikely. Anne and Neil hadn’t been there that night. They hadn’t seen the evil on the faces of those two creatures or their cruel, hungry eyes. Only bad people snatched children. Wherever the Gruesome Twosome had taken Elliot, you can bet it wasn’t Disneyland.
After dinner, we went back to the living room, where Neil presented me with two gifts wrapped in shiny gold paper.
“What’s this?” I asked with a frown.
“Belated birthday presents,” Anne replied, smiling.
“Oh guys, you shouldn’t have.”
Anne and Neil exchanged knowing glances. “Why don’t you open them?”
I selected the biggest and tore the paper off. “A new hair dryer! It’s just what I needed. Thanks so much, guys.”
Their beams intensified. “Go on, dear. Open the other one.” Anne was bursting with anticipation.
I stuck my finger under the paper and carefully un-wrapped the box. Inside was a beautiful, framed picture of me and Elliot, aged about six. We looked like two cherubs, smiling happily for the camera without a care in the world. I’d forgotten how cute Elliot’s face had been, how striking his blue eyes were. I’d also forgotten how chubby he was. Anne was constantly feeding him.
Then I glanced at my younger self and felt a twinge of sadness. My face looked so innocent, so hopeful and alive. It was a face that ha
dn’t yet been stained by the evils of the world.
“Thanks, guys. I’ll treasure this forever.” I felt tears rising in my chest. “Um . . .” I paused. “Is it all right if I go up to Elliot’s room now? I’d just like to sit there for a while to—you know, reflect and stuff.”
Anne and Neil looked at each other, then nodded in unison.
I followed Anne up the stairs and into Elliot’s room, surrounded by a haze of bittersweet memories. There were so many little reminders of him everywhere. His Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. His Thomas the Tank Engine train set. Polaroid snapshots of us in happier days. On the far wall beside the window was one of his many helicopter paintings. Elliot had liked drawing helicopters and his artwork showed surprising maturity for his age. Had things turned out differently, I was certain he’d have grown up to be a great artist.
A lump formed in my throat.
I thought of all the times Elliot had stuck up for me at school, all the times he’d picked me up when I was down, all the jokes he’d told that made me laugh. And then, of course, there was his ultimate sacrifice: he had saved my life. For a seven-year-old kid, he had been pretty damned special.
Anne sat on the bed and gazed vacantly round the room. For a long while, she remained motionless, her eyes narrow and unreadable. Then her face lit up, as if she’d just remembered something pleasant. “In the beginning, I used to sleep up here every night. I’d hold onto that teddy bear of his, thinking about how beautiful he was as a baby. How soft his skin was . . .” She frowned and shook her head. “That was the only way I could feel close to him. Sleeping in his bed.”
I nodded in sympathy. I knew exactly what she meant. Just being up here made me feel like Elliot was with us—in spirit, at least.
After a few moments, Anne left me alone. I went over to the bed and hugged the pillow. It felt soft and fluffy in my arms. “I’m so sorry, Elliot. Please forgive me,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to do this to you.”
The truth was, deep down, I blamed myself for what had happened that night. If only I hadn’t been so pig-headed and greedy. If I hadn’t insisted on disobeying our parents, Elliot might still be alive. He’d be all grown up and going to college, making Anne and Neil happy, and all would have been right with the world.
