by Paula Daly
‘No. No, I’ll go. I don’t know what I expected coming around here but, well, I have to say, Joe, you’re dealing with this better than I am. I’ll leave you to talk.’ She turns to me. ‘Do you have any diseases?’ she asks, and I shake my head. ‘Good. I suppose I’ll have to take your word, won’t I?’
‘Sorry, Alexa,’ I say weakly. ‘If I could undo it, I would. All I can say is I never meant to hurt anyone. It’s just something that … happened.’
She fixes me with a glare.
‘These things never just happen. There’s always some underlying pathology, as they say. You’ve been harbouring resentment towards me from the start. And I know Kate puts up with you. I know you’re like her personal project or something. She has this ridiculous notion that she can save people, she thinks she can talk to the little people and make them feel important. And I warned her about it, I really did. I said to her, “Kate, we can’t mix. There will be problems.” But she didn’t listen. And now look at us. Not only have you been fucking my husband but, because of you, Kate has lost her only daughter.’
25
WE ARE LYING IN BED, the clock says 23.40, and we’re both staring at the ceiling.
Joe’s not spoken so far. I’ve tried to push him to talk, I want to talk, but he won’t. And it’s not that he’s punishing me; it’s worse than that. It’s that he’s physically unable to speak, as though if he lets himself acknowledge the enormity of what’s happened to us, it will all be true.
I lie there, waiting. The heavy stone I’ve been carrying around in my gut since Lucinda disappeared has been replaced by molten metal. It’s burning, corroding my insides. I hate myself. I hate what I’ve done.
I start thinking about Christmas and I worry now what a disaster it will be. Ridiculous to think about it, but will I even be here? Will Joe be here, or will he go, move out and live with his mother?
I can’t believe this is happening to us.
All that love, all that love and work we’ve put in. Wasted. All the energy and commitment it takes to keep a family of five on the road, to keep our family running smoothly. And I threw it all away in the space of about – what? Three minutes? Three, short, disgusting minutes.
The bed between me and Joe is cold. I reach my hand across the old sheets, bobbled with wear. The space feels wider than ever before. I touch Joe’s hand; he doesn’t pull away.
‘Just tell me this,’ he says emptily, ‘have I been kidding myself with what I thought we had together? Have I been living with you, all these years, thinking it’s something it’s not?’
‘Never,’ I cry softly.
‘Then why? Why do it to me? You used to say it was the one thing you couldn’t forgive. You said that there would be no way back for us if it ever happened, because it would make a mockery of us.’
‘You won’t want to hear this, but I still think that if you ever cheated on me, Joe, I’d leave. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t bear the thought of you inside another woman.’
‘But it’s okay for you?’
‘It’s not okay. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. And to do it to you, the person I love the most.’ I try to touch his face, but he flinches. ‘I’ve felt sick with myself since it happened, I went to the doctor with irritable-bowel—’
‘I remember that,’ he says, and I don’t know why this sets me off, but I begin to cry fully. Perhaps it’s because I can remember the concern he showed at the time. He was worried there was something really wrong with me. And there was: I was falling apart. But I couldn’t tell him.
We’re silent.
After what seems like hours, he turns to me. ‘Did you stop loving me, was that it?’ he asks.
‘Have you ever felt I stopped loving you? Because I never did.’
‘No. I thought we were unbreakable. I thought we were more than those idiots.’ He’s meaning Kate and Guy, Alexa and Adam. ‘When we went over there and they put on that stupid charade, each of them pretending to have what we have, I sat there and I actually felt smug watching you. Smug, because we were the real deal.’
‘If you felt like that, then why did you drink so much?’
‘Free beer,’ he answers, and I can’t help but smile a little.
‘I thought you were as insecure as me. That stuff she said, Alexa, about us being the little people – that’s how I felt. I know it sounded ridiculous when she said it downstairs, it made her seem like a total snob, but there is some truth in it. That’s how I feel a lot of the time.’
‘That they’re better than you?’
‘They are better than me.’
Joe sighs. ‘Lisa, you’re confusing the way they treat you with the truth. You think they’re better than you because that’s how they act. You think that because they’ve got more money—’
‘It’s not the money,’ I cut in, ‘it’s everything. I can’t manage things the way they can, I’m not as capable with the kids, and with—’
‘They don’t have fucking jobs, Lise. Can we just stick to the facts? Is that why you did what you did?’ He touches my face, wipes the tears away. ‘Is that why you shagged that dickhead?’
‘I don’t know, maybe. I think I was flattered by him. I was flattered he wanted me.’
‘Of course he’d want you instead of her. Of course he’d want you, baby. How could he not want you?’
DAY THREE
Thursday
26
SLEEP.
One of the only things you can’t buy.
Joe and I used to play the Who’s-had-the-least-sleep? game.
Back when the kids were tiny and I’d go off to work unable to face another day, and Joe would start counting up the hours on his fingers. Invariably, he’d declare that I’d had at least two hours’ sleep more than him.
We even had a tally chart going on the fridge at one point.
Then, I’d be driving to a pick-up, on my way to retrieve a load of wild cats from a stinking shed somewhere, and I’d see him: seat back, cap pulled down, snoozing happily in a layby. ‘Waiting for a job to come in,’ he’d say. It’s the only time I can ever remember truly hating him.
Now I lie next to him as he snores softly, so grateful.
We’d clung to each other last night, me, wretched and emotional, overwrought, and him, tired and drained with it all. I’d all but put the phone call with Guy Riverty out of my head, but as we drifted into slumber it came back to me and I’d sat bolt upright, telling Joe how he’d told me to get off the fucking phone.
I know I don’t deserve any real kindness from Guy right now, but the vehemence of his words really shook me. Joe, naturally, was the voice of reason, even in his depleted state. Said how Kate and Guy were under such unfathomable pressure, and we couldn’t possibly understand how they were feeling. And, realistically, Guy was allowed to speak to me any way he liked. If he wanted to blame me and tell me to fuck off, then, okay, he could.
I feel better now I’ve slept and can see I need to stop being precious about it and take the shit. Their daughter is missing and however they behave is of course more than understandable.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and peer closely at my face. The skin of my eyelids and around my temples is covered in tiny red dots, like raspberry-coloured freckles. Immediately I panic I’ve got the meningitis rash and septicaemia, so lift my pyjama top expecting to see my white belly covered in the nasty-looking things, but it’s unblemished. Nothing.
What is it then?
Trying not to wake Sally, I take her laptop from her room, climb back into bed with a still-asleep Joe.
Search: red-spots + eyelids.
I’m directed to a pregnancy forum and for a second I’m seized by a blind panic because I think this is some weird, little-reported symptom of pregnancy, a symptom I’ve never come across, and, Oh God, if I was pregnant now that would be just the very worst thing. I love my children more than anything … but I cannot go through it again. Please … no more babies.
Trying t
o stop from shaking, I read directly from the discussion forum: These tiny red dots are a symptom of forceful puking. If you are fair-skinned, these burst blood vessels show up easily. Hopefully, you won’t get them any more when the sickness subsides in the second trimester.
I exhale.
I am not pregnant. Yesterday’s hangover and subsequent hard vomiting has meant I burst the capillaries all over my eyelids. Thank God. I thought it was something serious.
Joe stirs. ‘Morning, baby.’ His voice is sad, strained.
‘Joe, I’ve got these spots on my eyelids. Check there’s nothing on my back, will you?’
I lift up my T-shirt and he gasps like I’m totally covered. ‘Shit,’ he says, ‘I can see … I can see Jesus’s face!’
‘Very funny,’ I say, lowering it. Then I turn towards him and look at him levelly. ‘Will we be okay?’
‘You mean, am I leaving you?’
I nod.
‘No. It hurts like fuck, though, Lise. Feels like you’ve ripped my guts out and you’re twisting them around. But no, I can’t leave you. You can’t leave me either. What would we do? It’d kill me to see you with someone else.’
‘I’m sorry I ruined it.’
‘You’ve not ruined it. You almost ruined it. Maybe if you’d done it last week, or last month or, I don’t know, last year. But we’ve had a long time being happy since you did it. You just did a fucking stupid thing, a really fucking brainless thing. But can this be end of them now? Kate, Guy, Alexa, all of them.’
‘Not exactly a great time for me to break away from them, though, is it?’
‘No,’ he admits, ‘but you’re doing all you can to fix this thing. And it’s possible you might have to come to terms with the fact that you can’t fix it. It might not be fixable. She might never come back. Lucinda might never come home.’
‘And what if they blame me for ever?’
‘They will. And you won’t be able to do anything about it.’ He pauses. ‘It might be better if you start backing off them a bit, just in case.’
‘But how can that be the right thing to do?’
He shrugs. ‘Just a thought. Let’s see what today brings.’
I look down at Joe, and my whole being aches with how much I need him. How I can’t get through anything without him. ‘Have another five minutes in bed,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll bring the coffee up.’
He manages a smile of thanks. He still looks exhausted. Looks worse, if it’s possible, than he did last night. When all this is done with, we’ll go away. Find a cheap package to the Canaries and get a bit of winter sun.
I go downstairs and busy myself with the dogs’ kibble and the children’s Weetabix. I flick on Radio 2 and hear the pips signalling the start of the seven o’clock news. The lead item is the missing girls of Cumbria.
I stop what I’m doing and listen.
And that’s when Guy’s behaviour of last night makes more sense. Because another girl has gone. This one is from the private school in Windermere. Not far from here.
He must have known. Guy must have already known about it when I called.
Again, the girl is thirteen and, again, she’s young-looking for her age.
An eyewitness claims she saw this girl speaking to a man before walking away with him; they’re advising us to be extra vigilant. They think he may have lured her away with a dog.
A tall man with an old, grey dog.
I hold on to the kitchen worktop to steady myself. My hands start to shake. It’s difficult to breathe.
Bluey.
I phone DC Joanne Aspinall and get directed straight to her voicemail, so I leave a frantic message. ‘Please call me,’ I tell her. ‘As soon as you can. I think I know who the man is, I think I met him yesterday … please ring me … please.’
I’m breathing hard as I hear Joe come down the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’ He’s standing in just his boxers and is rubbing the back of his head where he whacked it when he slipped on the ice yesterday.
My words pour out in a gush. ‘Another girl is missing. They think she went off with a man with a dog. A dog like Bluey. It’s him, Joe. I told you there was something odd about him. I told you. It’s him, it’s definitely him. It’s got to be.’
‘It might not be,’ is all he says, and turns to let the dogs out.
‘Joe—?’
‘What?’ he replies. ‘Don’t get in a state, is all I’m saying. The chance of it being the same guy is slim.’
I stare at him. ‘You’re wrong.’
I leap up the stairs, thinking I know what I have to do. I’m going to get dressed and get round to Kate’s and tell her. I don’t care if Guy yells at me, I don’t care. Kate needs to know this. I can tell her what the man looks like. Jesus, she might even know him! She might be familiar with him, and that’s why Lucinda went off with him so readily, that’s why she was able to take off without anyone suspecting anything.
I look at my watch.
I send Kate a text: Need to see you, be round at 8 xx
The bedroom door opens. Joe. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
‘Getting dressed.’
‘Why the hurry?’
‘I’m going to Kate’s.’
‘Now? At this hour?’
‘This is important. It doesn’t matter what time it is.’
His face goes sullen; he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He spreads his palms wide in a gesture of ‘Oh, what’s the point?’
‘Lisa, did you hear nothing of what I just said? You can’t go tearing round there at this time. And what about your own children? You’re getting to the stage where you’re neglecting them. This is still all about—’
‘I’m not neglecting my own kids.’
‘No?’
‘Why are you saying that? You’re the one who’s always telling me to stop feeling guilty about them, to chill out and leave them alone.’
‘Lisa, stop. Look at yourself. It’s still all about them. It’s still all about Kate. You can’t stand the fact that she’s disappointed in you, so you—’
‘Disappointed? Her daughter is gone, Joe! And it’s my fault. I’m not worried that she’s disappointed in me, I’m scared to fucking death. What the hell am I supposed to do? I need to tell her about this guy from yesterday, it could be the missing link to finding—’
‘You’d better be careful then,’ he cuts in, his tone self-righteous.
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Careful about what?’
‘You take your eye off the ball again, Lise, and it might be your daughter next time.’
Forty minutes later and after scraping my car clean of ice I’m driving along Kate’s side of the valley.
My tyres crunch on the gravel as I make my way up the hill. I skid twice but recover and, to be honest, I’m in so much of a hurry I don’t care if my bumper slams into somebody’s carefully built wall or takes out their hedge. I’m feeling skittish and desperate to get to Kate’s to tell her what I know. I have a strong feeling that she is going to recognize the description of the guy who took Bluey and, not trying to get my hopes up or anything, I think there is more than a good chance of bringing Lucinda home.
I don’t let myself consider the option of her not being alive. For now, I truly believe she is, and Kate is going to need me to be strong. I have to be positive for her sake.
I get to the top of the hill where the road splits and, as I turn slowly left, I think that I might just be able to right my wrong. If I could be the one to lead the police to Lucinda, then perhaps, in time, Kate and Guy will be able to forgive me, and—
I’m driving past the spot where the Rivertys park their cars. Guy’s Audi is not there.
Just a little along the road from the house itself is their detached double garage. Like most families’, it’s so full of junk there is no room for the cars, so Guy and Kate park their 4×4s in front of it. Kate’s Mitsubishi is there, but Guy’s car isn’t.
Where is he at this hour? Why is he not at home?
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I dip the clutch and press the brake simultaneously, slowly, slowly, bringing my car to a stop on the roadside by Kate’s front pathway. She didn’t reply to my earlier text but I know she’s awake because all the downstairs windows are illuminated.
Anyway, of course she’s up.
What mother sleeps in when her kid is missing?
I stay where I am for a moment and watch. There’s no movement from within the house, but I notice Kate has taken to switching her Christmas lights on again now – probably trying to keep things as normal as possible for Fergus.
The tree looks pretty in the front bay. They do that thing families do at the beginning of December and go and choose it together. Make a day out of it and stop at a country pub for lunch on the way home.
Our artificial one is still in the high cupboard above my wardrobe.
Throughout the year the cupboard has a habit of bursting open by itself, and I’ll glance up to see a lone branch dangling down, taunting me, filling me with a sense of foreboding about Christmas – even if it’s only June.
My whole childhood seemed to be spent waiting for Christmas to come around, and now I spend half the year dreading its arrival. Too much to do and not enough time to do it in. I’m always left feeling like a Christmas failure.
I look back again at Kate’s car. Perhaps Guy has managed to park his in the garage after all, so he doesn’t have to defrost it this morning. It took me for ever to do mine.
I get out and take tentative steps up the path. I remember reading once that the cartilage in human joints is three times more slippery than ice. But not this ice. This ice is like nothing I have ever experienced. I’m wearing some old ski pants I bought to go to Andorra with before I realized I was pregnant with Sally. We never did get there; so they’ve been used as winter dog-walking trousers ever since, and I’m grateful for them now. If I slip, at least my backside will have a little padding.
I press the doorbell and wait.
There’s no sound. Usually, you hear someone thundering down the stairs or you hear Kate’s quick, short steps along the hallway.
I press again, then start slapping my hands together to keep the blood flowing.
