by Paula Daly
‘What?’ I yell. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘They didn’t ask me! They didn’t ask about it, and I didn’t want to come out and say it, because her mum doesn’t know, and what if she blames me when—’
‘What if she blames you? Sally, she’s probably dead. Dead. Do you understand that? Nobody is going to give a shit about blaming you. But they might now.’
‘Enough,’ says Joe, and I glare at him.
‘Don’t protect her, Joe. She should’ve said something sooner.’
‘What difference would it make?’ he asks me.
‘Well, there wouldn’t have been three separate search parties for a start. You,’ I say, pointing a finger at him, ‘wouldn’t be wasting time searching through the scrub and the woodland in minus-God-knows-what temperatures when she’s obviously not going to be found anywhere near here.’ I close my eyes. ‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘Fuck.’
Sally is crying pitifully and I know I should stop, but I just can’t believe she’s been so stupid as to keep this to herself.
I look at her sharply. ‘Pass me the phone. I’m ringing Kate.’
Joe puts the wood down. ‘Hang on,’ he says.
‘Why? She needs to know.’
‘Ring the police first. Ring that detective, speak to her first. Then ring Kate.’
I dial DC Aspinall and get her voicemail. ‘It’s Lisa Kallisto. Please call me as soon as you get this.’
Then I take a breath and I look at Sally. She can’t meet my eye. ‘Why did you not tell us this, Sal?’
Her shoulders heave up and down twice. ‘Because it’s not always the way you think it is,’ she sobs. ‘You think everyone’s like us, you think they’re all like me … and they’re not.’
‘I don’t know what you mean … tell me what you mean.’
She glances across at Joe, and bites her lip.
‘Would you prefer to tell me this without Dad in here?’
She nods.
I throw Joe a quick look and he shrugs, because he doesn’t have a choice.
He leaves, and I say, ‘Okay, go on. You can tell me, I won’t be mad, I’m sorry I got mad. It was frustration, that’s all. And I’m scared, too, Sally. That’s why I lost my temper.’
‘You think that because I don’t have a boyfriend, and none of my friends have boyfriends, you think that everyone at school is so innocent. And they’re not. They’re really not, Mum.’
‘Honey, I know. There’s a world of difference between some thirteen-year-old girls and others. Same back when I was at school. Some were having sex, but most weren’t.’
She cringes when I say the word ‘sex’. I’ve tried over the past year to think of a different way to say it, but it all sounds ridiculous, so that’s what we’re stuck with.
Sally blows her nose. ‘There’s pressure on us,’ she sniffles. ‘The boys are laughing at us if we’ve not done anything, they’re saying we’re—’ She stops here. Instead she says, ‘It’s hard, Mum. It’s really hard sometimes. They can make it unbearable.’
The plight of the teenager. No one can possibly know how hard it is. Especially your mother.
‘They don’t stop hassling us. They’ve been calling Lucinda frigid and posh, and she hates it.’
I can see why the lads have seized upon Lucinda. She can come across as a little haughty and holier-than-thou sometimes. And she speaks differently to the other kids. It’s partly because Kate used to have her in the private prep school and it’s partly down to Guy. Guy’s not from around here, he’s from the south, so Lucinda and Fergus lengthen their vowels and mimic his speech patterns, something Kate has always encouraged.
I explain to Sally that these boys, these relentlessly nasty, awful boys – the chavvy boys, as she calls them – are the ones who’ll want to sleep with her in around a year’s time, and this is just their way of getting her attention. But she dismisses this totally, looks at me as if to say, Are you insane? So we drop it.
I get the phone and ring Kate.
I punch the numbers in. Sally’s standing forlornly next to me. ‘Tell her I’m sorry,’ she whispers, and I nod. ’Course I will, I say.
But the phone rings and rings.
I shout out to Joe, ‘How can no one be answering the phone at Kate’s?’, and he comes back through from the lounge, the petroleum smell of firelighters and woodsmoke wafting into the kitchen along with him.
‘Leave it ringing,’ he says. ‘They’ll be dealing with the search party or the police.’
So I do. I let it ring thirty times. And then I ring her mobile. She doesn’t answer that either.
He’s been watching for long enough now to pick out what excites him without having to study them for too long. It’s almost immediate.
The difference between them is astounding, as if they’re not even members of the same species. Like breeds of dog, he supposes. All different. Tall, short, fat, thin, and coming in almost every shade.
Funny how you don’t know what turns you on before you’ve tried it. He’d had an idea, but it wasn’t until he’d sampled it that he really honed his preference. And who knows? Maybe he’ll change it after a while. Try one of those leggy, pale girls instead. See how it feels to lower himself in between the soft, white gooseflesh of her thighs. See if it’s as cold as it looks.
But that’s later. For now, he’s made his choice and, he’s got to be honest, it’s been so incredibly easy. It was as if she’d been waiting for him. As if she wanted to talk to him, to get to know him. She was a little reticent at first, but he preferred that. He’d never really gone for loud girls; he found their gaucheness unappealing, their language repugnant. They gave him an ugly, fetid feeling that made him want to escape, made him want to get home, get straight in the shower.
He came across a lot of women like that at work. Casual workers from further south who thought their filthy Kerry Katona mouths would talk him straight into their knickers. They sickened him. They’d stand around talking, leaning on radiators, while he checked their work. ‘Let the heat warm up my arse!’ they’d laugh, and he’d have to look away.
One had been coming on to him this past week. Chelseigh from Crewe. And, yes, it really was spelt like that. She’d come and find him, start chewing on her nails when he was trying to read something, and he’d catch sight of the scuddy nail beds, the swollen skin of her fingertips which she’d picked to bleeding, and he’d want to slam his fist into her. But he didn’t because, one, he’d have had to touch her (something he couldn’t bear to do), and two, it was beneath him to lose control like that unless absolutely necessary. She’d asked him to come and check a damp patch in her room in the staff house, and when she got him there, she sat on her single bed asking him questions, running her tongue along her lower lip as she spoke. It was as if she thought he was just going to jump on top of her then and there. And the more he ignored her, the more suggestive, the more crude and shameless she became.
Chelseigh said she liked him because he was shy. When she said the word ‘shy’ she parted her mouth, holding her lower lip open in a pout. And he thought of all the idiotic famous women wearing that same ridiculous pout whenever they were photographed. What was the purpose of it? To show they were never more than a few short seconds away from giving a free blow job? Pathetic.
Chelseigh mistook his shyness for avoidance. Because, when he was where he wanted to be, and with who he wanted to be, he wasn’t shy, he was charming.
All he had to do was wind down his car window and get their attention and …
15
I TUCK THE CHILDREN into bed. The boys share a room and as I go in I have to pick my way through the debris. The floor is littered with Wii remotes, Lego, Simpsons DVDs (not in their boxes), crisp packets. A wet towel lies across the end of James’s bunk. ‘Night, honey,’ I say to him. I’m not allowed a kiss.
‘Night, Mum.’
I bend down and adjust Sam’s covers on the lower bunk. He’s lying there, eyes screwed shut, smiling his gummy s
mile. He hasn’t lost any teeth yet. His baby set are worn down to tiny nubs. ‘Mummy,’ he says, without opening his eyes, ‘do you know any times tables?’
‘A few,’ I tell him, and give him a squeeze and a kiss on his cheek. He still has the juicy cheeks of a toddler; he tries to pull away as I kiss him too fiercely, too hard.
When I go to Sally’s room I find her lying on her side, still fully dressed. Her face is tear-stained and she has a look of complete hopelessness.
‘C’mon, Sal, you need to get into bed.’
She nods but doesn’t move.
‘I’m scared, Mum,’ she says, and I tell her I know. And I hold her.
When she’s settled, I go downstairs and try Kate’s number again, but there’s still no answer. I think back through our conversation earlier that afternoon, trying to recall her mentioning being away tonight. And once again I’m flooded with admiration at the person she is.
How is it possible not to apportion blame under these circumstances? Where does she draw the strength from, not only to have me in her house but to reassure me that Lucinda’s disappearance is not my fault?
It’s not the first time Kate has opened up and shown me the depths of her understanding. Not the first time she’s made the rest of us appear primordial by comparison.
We had never discussed that night, Kate and I. We’d never discussed the fact that she saw me with her sister’s husband, Adam, on the floor of her bathroom after the dinner party.
She’d never raised the subject and asked me to explain.
And, at first, I’d really wanted to explain.
At first, I thought it would kill me not to get the words out. I needed to say something to her, to give her a sense of what happened, of how we ended up in that situation. But each time I’d get her alone, I would go to talk and she would evade. There’s no other word for it: she’d evade every single attempt I made to explain my actions.
So, with time, I stopped. As the months passed I realized that neither she nor Adam had any intention of bringing up that night again, and I learned to bury it along with them. I took the cues from Kate, the cues which seemed to say: Leave well alone.
But, unlike them, I couldn’t do it. The guilt and the shame would surge up in me.
Joe knew something was off but put it down to my being tired. I came within inches of telling him so many times. But just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer and I had to confess, at the last second I wouldn’t.
I like to think it’s because the thought of wrecking our marriage was too painful, and I suppose that’s true to an extent. But really it’s because I’m a coward – a coward who’d been let off the hook by her friend, because, for whatever reason, she’d decided not to tell on me.
Eventually, though, I found I had to talk to Kate about it. It was around a year ago and Kate and I were at the swimming gala, and I don’t know what prompted it but suddenly I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
The noise in the stand was cacophonous. Kate and I were surrounded by parents, all of us shouting encouragement at our six-year-olds. The kids at the poolside were bug-eyed in their goggles, skinny, white limbs turning a faint blue in the chilly, damp air.
I turned to Kate. ‘Why did you never tell Alexa about what happened?’
‘About what?’
‘You know,’ I said shiftily. ‘That night Joe and I came for dinner, you came in and saw me and Adam in your bathroom.’ Kate’s face became serious but she continued to keep her eyes focused on the pool. ‘Every time I tried to talk to you about it, you wouldn’t let me.’ I dropped my voice then and leaned into her ear. ‘What did you think of me, Kate?’
Above the shouting, she said simply, ‘I thought you were lonely.’
‘That’s it?’
She tilted her head.
‘That’s it? That’s all you thought?’
Reluctantly, she said, ‘I thought my sister had bullied you. I thought she’d bullied you for almost the entire evening, making you feel insecure, and I thought she’d done the same to her husband … and so, inevitably, you found some comfort in each other.’
I stared at her, surprised at the matter-of-fact way she was speaking about what had occurred that night.
‘Why didn’t you out us?’
‘Because I couldn’t stand to see either of you destroy what you’ve got – just for one moment’s bad judgement. It would be wrong to decimate two families for one indiscretion, and it certainly wasn’t my place to do it … If you or Adam decided that you wanted to out yourselves, then that would be up to you. But I didn’t want either of you thinking that you had to on account of me.’
She turned back towards the swimmers. ‘Thanks,’ I found myself saying, lamely. And we never spoke of the episode again.
I glance at the clock now and see that it’s after nine. Picking up the phone, I try Kate once more. Eventually, she answers and tells me she had to go to Booths to get something for supper.
‘Booths?’ I say to her. ‘You went to the supermarket? Tonight?’
‘Yes, Lisa. We still have to eat.’
‘Of course,’ I mutter in response. ‘I should have brought you something over,’ I say, and it comes out sounding like the pathetic gesture that it is. Kate brushes it off as if I’m not letting her down on every possible level. Anyway, when I think about it, what would I have given her? Chicken nuggets? Kate wouldn’t feed her family on crap like that, whatever the circumstances.
I exhale. ‘Kate, you need to prepare yourself,’ I say carefully, and when she doesn’t speak, I plough on, get it over with. ‘Sally told us earlier that she thinks Lucinda might have gone off with someone. Somebody older. A man.’
Still she doesn’t speak.
‘Kate, are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ she says, and I can hear the fear clear in her voice.
‘I’ve called DC Aspinall, left her a message telling her what Sally said. I imagine she’s been trying to get hold of you as well.’
‘Yes’ is all she says.
I imagine Kate standing in her lovely hallway by the telephone table. The family photos, the ones of Lucinda and Fergus rising in age as the stairs ascend. I see her staring at the pictures, hearing my words, feeling as if her guts have been ripped out of her.
‘I’m so sorry, Kate. God, as a family, we’ve let you down so badly. I can’t describe to you how I feel about this and how I wish I could do something.’
I hear Kate take a breath in. ‘Why did Sally not tell us this sooner?’
‘She was scared. She was scared that if you found out it would make things worse. Lucinda had made her promise not to tell anyone. She’s so sorry, Kate. I’ve really blasted her for this, as you can imagine, but it’s a bit late now.’
‘Don’t be too hard on her … I … I … think I might have already known.’
My voice is soft: ‘Yeah? How?’
‘I’m not sure. You know how sometimes you just do? You sense something isn’t right, you can tell they’re up to no good. I asked her a couple of times if she was okay, but I didn’t force it out of her—’
‘You can’t with girls … the more you push, the more they close up.’
She agrees. ‘I suppose I was waiting for her to tell me what was going on and’ – her voice quivers now as she re-lives it – ‘God … Lucinda and I are best friends, Lisa. I shouldn’t have waited, should I? If it had been Fergus I would have sat him down and forced it out of him. God!’ she says again, crying.
‘Kate? Are you alone there? Do you want me to come round?’
‘No,’ she answers. ‘Guy’s here. He’s not gone on the search again. It’s too hard on him. He’s frightened he’ll find her. I know that’s what he’s thinking. And anyway, Alexa’s coming back shortly. She’s just gone to make supper for Adam and put the children to bed. She’ll be back to spend the night here. She’s been a godsend with Fergus. I couldn’t have dealt with him today, not like this.’
Kate goes quiet and I he
ar her take a raggedy breath in.
‘Lisa?’ she says.
‘I’m here.’
‘I’m going to hang up now. I really need to cry, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I tell her, and the line goes dead.
I rub my face with my hands and look around the room. Two dogs are asleep on the opposite sofa. There’s a cat nestled in Joe’s lumberjack shirt on the armchair. I turn on the TV, trying to distract myself from my thoughts and flick on to Sky Plus.
I see Joe has recorded Kes again. Twice. There’s Bladerunner: The Final Cut – something he watches almost monthly. Two episodes of Nazis: A Warning from History. And a selection of old football matches on ESPN.
For a second this makes me smile.
I’m remembering Kate coming over to ours one time and, on seeing Joe watching something like Manchester United versus Liverpool from 1977, Kate, totally perplexed, said, ‘Is this old sport?’ and looked at Joe as if there was something wrong with him. ‘Why would you watch old sport?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you already know who wins?’
Joe simply smiled.
I flick channels and my heart stops when I see Kate and Guy on the news. I hit the standby button automatically because I can’t watch it. I just can’t.
I get up, unable even to stare at the blank screen knowing that the two of them are really there inside the TV, and go to the kitchen. Hanging my head over the sink, I start to pray. Pray to God that I won’t be spending the rest of my life saying sorry to Kate because her daughter never came home.
Then I do the only thing I can do. I drink.
DAY TWO
Wednesday
16
YESTERDAY I WOKE up feeling sorry for myself because I was tired.
That’s it. Nothing at all wrong in my world except I was tired. ‘Jesus,’ I whisper into the pillow.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. The clink of crockery. Joe appears, carrying my breakfast.
‘It’s toast,’ he says, ‘on a bed of plate.’
I manage half a smile.
Joe hates all the cookery programmes we’re bombarded with, the hoity-toity food that we’re never going to cook.
