‘You on it?’ he asks, holding the spliff out towards me along with a lighter.
Zoe and Joe take that moment to pick themselves up from dry-humping on the floor and come to sit on the roundabout with us. Zoe saves me the job, taking the roll-up and lighting it far too casually for it to be her first time. She sucks on it deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs and closing her eyes before passing it on. I’m next – but there’s no way I’m saying I’ve never done it before. I try to copy what Zoe did, spluttering slightly but managing to avoid any full-on coughing.
Not that anyone’s paying much attention. Now the spliff has come out, everyone’s gone quiet. It makes a couple of laps of the circle before Lincoln finishes it off, mashing the remains into the edge of the roundabout and dropping what’s left on the grass.
Joe is on top of Zoe now, grinding against her until his brother tells them to knock it off.
Zoe asks what time it is and when Lincoln says it’s after ten, she says we can go back to her house because her mum will have left for work. The four of us do just that, traipsing through the back alleys and narrow lanes that only locals know as we make our way around a couple of housing estates until we emerge at Zoe’s back gate. She reaches through a gap in the fence to unlatch it and then we move into the backyard. Zoe unlocks the house and goes in by herself, calling after her mum. When it’s clear she’s definitely out, she waves us in with a wicked smile.
We’ve only been inside for a few seconds when she disappears up the stairs with Joe. There’s the sound of a bedroom door closing and then a bump on the floor.
Lincoln and I are alone in the kitchen and he opens the fridge door. ‘You drink beer?’ he asks.
‘Not really.’
There’s been enough beer-drinking at home, without me getting involved.
He takes out a bottle of Bud and snaps off the lid with the bottle opener that’s attached to the cupboard door. There’s another bump from upstairs and some muffled giggling. Lincoln ignores it, opening and closing the cupboards until he finds a multipack of crisps. He picks through the selection, asking if I fancy anything and then, when I say I’m fine, settling on salt ’n’ vinegar for himself.
I’ve been to the house a few times before and lead him through to the living room. Lincoln instantly switches on the television, flopping into the lounger chair. He kicks his feet up and starts to flip through the channels.
He has a mouthful of crisps when he next speaks. ‘You got a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘You a carpet muncher?’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
I’m on the sofa and he turns to wink at me before putting down the remote control. ‘Whatchu wanna do?’
‘I don’t know.’
It’s true – I really don’t. There’s a really big part of me that wants to dig my uniform out of my bag and head back to school.
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen.’
He chews on his lip, mulling over what to say next, then turns back to the TV. ‘You ever done it?’
It’s only four words. A completely throwaway sentence. None of the words have more than four letters and yet there’s so much meaning to the question. I bet everyone gets asked it at some point in their lives.
I answer before I’ve even thought about the consequences. It’s like a reflex: ‘Yeah’. All casual and grown-up, as if it’s nothing. Course I have. Who hasn’t? Pfft, why even ask?
The TV is showing some sort of kids’ show – all dayglo puppets and bright green background – and Lincoln doesn’t bother to change the channel as he puts down the remote. He takes a few steps across the living room and then puts a hand on my thigh.
‘Lily,’ he says. ‘I kinda dig that.’
2013: Lily, 16
Zoe holds her envelope up in the air as I clasp onto mine. ‘Want to swap?’ she asks. ‘You open mine, I open yours?’
‘No…’
‘Suit yourself.’
She rips across the top of her envelope and pulls out the slip of paper from inside. Zoe blinks at the contents reeling back slightly. ‘Wow. I did not expect that.’
‘What?’ I reply.
She nods to my envelope. ‘You go.’
This isn’t how I wanted things to work out. I would far rather open my envelope by myself. I know what’s inside anyway but once I’ve seen the words, it’s final. Like the tree falling in the woods. As long as it remains in the envelope, it could say anything.
There’s a shriek from over my shoulder and I turn to where a photographer from the paper is busy lining up the triplets. They’re all blonde and summery; shirts too tight, tits half on show. Sixteen years old now, so it’s fair game, I suppose. Nothing like a bit of flesh when you’re officially legal. The triplets are holding up the papers that show their exam results and I bet it’s a string of As for each of them. The photographer is telling them to smile – and the budding models do as they’re told, pouting and waving as he snaps away.
I can’t avoid Zoe any longer so I carefully slice underneath the envelope flap and pull out the square of paper from within.
‘Five Cs,’ Zoe says, looking at her own slip. ‘Can you believe that? I got a C in maths. How did that happen? Double-C in science, C in drama, C in religious studies. Ridiculous. My mum owes me fifty quid.’
She leaves it hanging there, waiting for me to spill my own results.
‘B in English,’ I reply.
‘You got a B?! Did you blow Mr Garland or something?’
Zoe laughs but I don’t.
‘What else?’ she asks.
‘Fs.’
There’s a short pause in which she’s wondering if I’m joking. ‘Oh,’ Zoe says. ‘I got two Es, some Fs and a couple of Us.’
I turn the page so Zoe can see – and there it is in all its humiliating glory. One B and a row of Fs.
F for fail.
She passes me her results slip and laughs it off. ‘Ah, well – there’s some cider under the stairs at my mum’s house. She’s at work if you want to come over…?’
I give her back the slip and shake my head. ‘I have to get home,’ I say.
Zoe’s staring at me and she must know I’m lying. There’s a moment of awkwardness and then she shrugs. ‘If you change your mind…’
There’s nothing else to say, so she turns and walks along the long school driveway. No need to sneak through hedges any longer – we’re done with this place. Neither of us will ever be back and there’s a part of me that knows I’ll probably not see much of Zoe any longer either.
I wait until Zoe is out of sight and then make my own way along the drive. There are small groups of people from my year celebrating on the grass verges. It’s a chorus of laughter and joy. An alphabet that consists entirely of As, Bs and Cs. They’re talking of A-levels and colleges; the rest of the summer of fun followed by the future.
Nobody calls after me but it’s not as if I’ve spent much time among them over the past year or so. Some of them have probably forgotten my name and, as for the others, why would they care?
I could take the direct route home. It would only take me twenty minutes or so and it’s a nice enough day – but that’ll mean I have to tell Dad even sooner how much of a failure I am. How he should be ashamed of me.
Without any sort of plan, I find myself drifting through the housing estates that surround the school. It’s a summer’s day, so there are people everywhere – mums with prams, couples on a late-morning stroll, blokes in combat shorts. There are students from Joe’s school drifting around in twos, threes and fours; full of smiles and happiness.
I’ve almost passed the van when I realise what’s on the side. I stop and stare at it, wondering if it’s some sort of optical illusion or my mind playing tricks. I touch the side and it takes the warmth of the van’s panel to convince me it’s actually there.
‘JOIN WITH AL’.
I look up and down the street but it’s empty and there is no one s
taring out from any of the house windows. I do a lap of the van and it’s when I get to the back that it feels like my eyes really are deceiving me. I knew ‘Uncle’ Alan was a joiner but here he is: full name and phone number.
I’m standing in the road when I hear the sound of a front door opening. I risk a glance through the driver’s side window, all the way through to the other side where Alan is walking down the path of the adjacent house with a plank of wood in his hand. He’s whistling absent-mindedly to himself, not paying attention. There’s a moment where I think he can’t miss me – except he does. He goes to the back of the van, opens the doors and then rummages inside. While he does that, I wait at the front of the van. As soon as he closes the doors, I edge back round to the driver’s side as Alan returns to the house.
It feels like some sort of miracle that he’s not seen me. A calling, as if this was how things were supposed to happen. I wait until I hear the front door of the house sounding again and then it’s hard to stop myself from laughing as I notice what’s on the drive directly opposite the van. Instead of being tarmacked or paved, it’s covered with a selection of pebbles. I don’t bother to check along the street to see if I’m being watched because I somehow know I’m not.
I’m supposed to be doing this.
I take my time, kicking through the mass of rocks until I find one that’s close to the size of my fist. It’s perfectly smooth, almost spherical. Even though it’s heavy, I toss it from one hand to the other and then cross the road once more.
The windscreen doesn’t simply shatter, the rock sails straight through the glass, sending a perfect crinkle out to the corners and leaving a circular hole in the middle of the driver’s side. I take a moment to enjoy the handiwork – but only that. Then I turn and run.
Seventeen
Friday
I’m dreaming of someone else – another time, another place – when the bang of hand on wood invades my consciousness. There’s a moment where they’re part of my dreams and then I’m in the room above the Black Horse again and someone’s knocking on the door.
It’s a man’s voice: ‘Hello?’
I grumble that I’m on my way and then roll out of bed, grabbing a loose T-shirt from under the bed and putting it on over my flimsy top.
Pete is waiting on the landing – and it looks like he’s not long out of bed himself. He’s in tracksuit bottoms and a scraggy sweater, his hair wet from the shower.
‘Sorry,’ he says, stepping backwards. ‘It’s, um… the police are downstairs.’
‘Oh…’
I knew this was going to happen sooner or later and I suppose it’s been three days. The village isn’t big enough for newcomers to stay unnoticed for long, especially not when they’ve been missing for thirteen years.
‘You’re her, aren’t you?’ Pete says.
‘I’m sorry. I should’ve said, it’s just—’
He shakes his head. ‘You don’t have to explain, but I don’t know what to call you now.’
‘Olivia, I guess. That’s what everyone else is calling me.’
He stares at me for a moment and it’s the same look I’ve seen so often recently, as if I’m a ghost of Christmas past. What is there to say?
‘Why are the police here?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t ask. They’re in the bar when you’re ready. The doors are locked and I’ll wait up here. You won’t be disturbed. Take your time.’
I thank him and he waits for a moment too long before realising he’s staring. There’s a moment where I think he might reach out and touch my arm – check I’m for real like my mother – but he doesn’t. He steps back, smiles apologetically and then heads upstairs.
Back in my room, I’m running seriously short of clean clothes. Pete said something about a washer I could use on the ground floor and I’m going to have to take him up on that later. It looks warm outside, so I settle for a skirt from two days ago that looks clean and a fresh fitted T-shirt. I’ve got some exercise gear but going out for a run always feels like a good idea the night before, never by the time I wake up.
I think about spending a few minutes making myself more presentable but figure the bemused just-out-of-bed-look will probably be more appropriate. I ruffle my hair a little more and then head downstairs, into the bar.
It’s eerily empty. Chairs are still scattered randomly, from where drinkers left them the night before; there are beer mats on the floor and empty packets of nuts and crisps scattered into corners. That’s not to mention the glasses that are strewn throughout, some on tables, many stacked on the bar. Pete evidently leaves the cleaning until morning, which probably explains the slightly sticky tables everywhere.
It takes me a moment to realise there are two people in a booth around the corner from the door. They’re sitting in silence and stand when they realise I’ve entered.
Classic cliché police, I suppose. There are two officers: an older man and a younger woman, like some sort of buddy movie. Throw in a talking dog and we’ve got a summer holiday kids’ film.
‘Olivia, is it…?’
The man has his hand outstretched. He’s got grey hair and a matching neat moustache. His suit looks itchy, a light grey almost cream summer job. Something out of a catalogue, perhaps – but a crime against fashion either way.
I shake his hand and then the woman’s. She’s early thirties at most, over-straightened dark hair and a smart, dark suit, with an officious by-the-book kind of look about her. Either that, or I’ve watched too many movies.
The first officer tells me he’s Detective Inspector McMichael and he’s the one who does the talking. The woman does introduce herself but I instantly forget her name. Those are the only words she says anyway, taking notes as her partner talks.
We sit in the booth and then the inspector repeats himself: ‘So, it’s Olivia, I understand…?’
‘Right.’
He nods stoically. ‘For the record, could you say your full name out loud?’
‘Olivia Elizabeth Adams.’
Another nod from the inspector while the other officer’s pen scratches away. I wonder what she’s writing.
‘I was on the original case,’ he says. ‘The missing persons search from thirteen years ago. It was one of our biggest failures.’
I’m not sure what he wants me to say, so I sit and wait for him to continue.
He clears his throat and then he’s off again: ‘The case is technically still open,’ he says. ‘I suppose it can be closed now but we’d need some details from you, obviously...’
This is a moment I’ve been thinking about a lot. There was always going to be a time where I needed to talk to someone who wasn’t my family about what happened. I’ve only told the story twice – to Mum and then Nattie and Rhys. I probably phrased things differently on the two occasions I spoke of it.
I ask if I need a lawyer and the two officers exchange a glance that doesn’t tell me much.
‘It’s up to you,’ the inspector says. ‘If you think you need one…’
There’s a definite edge to that and I wonder what he’s heard. It occurs to me that it’s not only my story that’s out there. There’ll be whispered versions around. Nattie will have told her mum and Georgie will have told any number of people. Details will change, specifics will blur. Chinese whispers are one, probably racist, thing – but Stoneridge whispers will be another thing entirely. Ashley and perhaps Max will have their versions too – and I doubt I’m painted as the loving, long-lost daughter.
‘Is there a law about walking away and then coming home?’
The look between the officers lasts longer this time; a good second or three. That’s really confused them. It feels like the temperature of the room has dropped.
DI McMichael turns back to me and his eyebrows are like thick caterpillars that are butting heads as they angle down over his nose. ‘Is that what happened?’ he asks.
‘I don’t really want to talk about it any more. I told my mum what happened and tha
t was hard enough. What’s done is done. I don’t want to keep repeating it.’
Another pause. The inspector licks his lips. ‘I’m only asking you to tell me. You don’t have to repeat anything after today.’
‘I know… but I still don’t want to talk about it.’
I’m not sure I can explain why I feel so confident about this particular encounter. I shouldn’t. These people are the police. Not some rent-a-cop shopping centre fat bloke in a uniform. It’s not like giving lip to an old lady who’s offended by a teenager’s swearing or smoking. This is important, I know it is, and yet nothing will be harder than telling the story to Mum. I guess it’s that which has given me this assurance in what I’m saying. If I don’t want to talk, I won’t talk. What are they going to do? I’m not trying to do anything that breaks the law.
The inspector presses back in the chair. His mouth is open and his tongue runs along his top row of teeth. Whatever he was expecting from this morning, it wasn’t this.
‘Obviously, I understand that things might be a little raw for you,’ he says, ‘it’s just I’ve never heard of a case where a young child might voluntarily walk away from home and not return for thirteen years…’
I leave it there for a moment, thinking about what to say.
‘I’m not saying that’s what happened,’ I reply. ‘I’m saying I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve not done anything wrong.’
‘But if someone else has, if there’s been any sort of criminal activity, then there could be dangerous people out there who need to be prosecuted.’
There’s that village grapevine…
A yawn pushes its way up from my stomach and it’s almost through me before I can cover my mouth with my hand. I apologise but my eyes are watering and this isn’t exactly the impression I wanted to give. I apologise and gulp back a second yawn before wiping my eyes clear.
‘I’d rather forget about it all and get on with my life,’ I reply.
The Girl Who Came Back Page 13
