The Girl Who Came Back

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘If you were taken – if – whoever it was might still be out there. They would be dangerous people. Other children could be at risk.’

  He waits for me, but I wait for him. I don’t have anything to say.

  The inspector leans forward, making the crucial error of resting the elbows of his jacket on the sticky table. ‘Are there dangerous people out there?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m sure there are loads of dangerous people around.’

  ‘Are there any you’d specifically like to tell me about?’

  I shake my head. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’

  He presses back and the material of his jacket makes a soft slurp as it peels itself away from the table. He winces and twists his arms to see what he’s done.

  ‘Let me put this another way,’ he says. ‘If there’s someone out there who has snatched a child, that person might be in a position to snatch others. He or she could return here to cause problems for you, your mother, other people you know. Isn’t that something you’d like to help us with?’

  He’s not actually put it another way, he’s repeated himself. My heart is thundering and it’s so loud that I wonder whether he can hear it. I’ve not had a lot of contact with the police before, let alone stood up to an officer. There’s a large part of me that feels in the wrong.

  ‘I don’t think I can help.’

  The inspector presses his lips together hard and his eyes narrow. I wonder if there’s something I’ve missed. A law I might not know about, something I’ve done wrong. Even if a person is accused of a crime, he or she is allowed to say nothing to the police. I’m not even being accused of anything, so why shouldn’t I remain silent?

  ‘I should tell you that obtaining goods or services by deception is considered fraud. Fraud by false representation could mean anything up to eight years in prison…’

  More from the grapevine. He speaks calmly, with authority and the room feels even colder again. There’s steel but I have that, too. I make eye contact, force myself not to gulp.

  ‘Surely it’s only fraud if you’re trying to impersonate someone? If you are that person, then what’s the crime?’

  There’s a slow nod and another barely perceptible glance between the officers. ‘There isn’t a lot of precedence in cases such as this,’ the inspector says, ‘but a DNA test could put any questions to rest…’

  ‘I wasn’t aware there were any questions to put to rest.’

  It’s a long few seconds and then, without a word, both officers stand at the same time. It happens with such abruptness that it makes me jump. I shuffle out of the booth and then stand myself. DI McMichael is taller than I first thought. A good head and shoulders above me. We only shook hands a few minutes ago but he didn’t seem so imposing then. He offers me his hand once more.

  ‘In that case, I guess that’ll be all,’ he says. He digs into an inside pocket of his jacket and passes me a business card. ‘If you think of anything else, or you change your mind, you know where I am.’

  The two officers cross to the front of the pub and McMichael pulls down the heavy bolts to unlock it. He pauses for a moment and turns. ‘Welcome home, Ms Adams.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I get the sense this isn’t yet the end but he shunts the doors open with a wooden thunk. Sun bursts into the bar and I’m blinking into the sudden explosion of light. From nowhere, my mother’s silhouette appears between the officers. She rushes the doors as soon as they open, calling my name and then she’s hugging me. I’m still disorientated from the light and it’s all a bit bewildering. The officers have stopped on the pavement outside, watching Mum and me on the doorstep.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she whispers, her voice cracking.

  ‘How did you know they were here?’

  Mum releases me but keeps hold of my hand as she takes half a step away. She doesn’t need to answer because it’s clear: there are a couple of dozen people massed on both sides of the street outside. A police car is parked a little along the road and word has obviously gone around the village that the prodigal daughter has returned. There’s a hushed, collective intake of breath as I squint towards the watching crowd. There are old and young, some teenagers barely younger than me, some bloke biting into a pasty, the pastry crumbs flaking onto the ground as he goggles at me.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ Mum says.

  ‘What wasn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t tell the police you were back.’

  I squeeze her fingers. ‘I never thought for a moment that you did.’

  Eighteen

  The two officers don’t look back as they get in the marked car and then drive away. I’m not sure what the villagers were expecting but it’s like a game of statues. The music starts and they all move at the same time, apparently remembering why they were on the High Street in the first place.

  Harry is strapped into a pushchair next to the pub doors. He’s been less than a metre away the entire time and yet I hadn’t noticed him. He seems perfectly happy, amusing himself by wriggling against the restraints.

  ‘We can go to Via’s,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll close it and we’ll have the place to ourselves.’

  I quickly return inside the pub and shout up to Pete that we’re done, then Mum and I head along the High Street, side by side. For the first time since I arrived back in Stoneridge, it feels like I’m being watched. The place is hardly teeming with people and it’s still early – yet everyone on the street turns to watch as we pass.

  Or it seems like that.

  Via’s is already open when we arrive but there are no customers and the girl behind the counter isn’t Nattie. She’s a little older and barely gives me a look as we enter. Instead, she crosses the café and kneels in front of the pushchair, cooing at Harry.

  ‘How is my favourite little man?’ she asks playfully as he grabs for her. She looks up to Mum and must read something in her expression. ‘Is everything all right?’ she adds.

  ‘One of those days, Oona,’ Mum replies as the waitress stands. ‘I’m going to close up for a few hours. Perhaps reopen for lunch. If you want to hang around, that’s fine – or you can head home for a couple of hours. I’ll pay you either way.’

  Oona again asks if everything’s all right but doesn’t get much of an answer. She certainly doesn’t complain about a paid morning off as she grabs her jacket and heads out.

  Mum switches the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ and then locks the door, leaving us alone in the café.

  ‘I used to work here myself every day,’ she says breezily.

  ‘When did you open it?’

  ‘About three years ago. I wanted it to be earlier but there are permits and licences.’ She swirls a hand. ‘It’s only after Harry was born that I got someone in to run the place. The business was doing okay…’ She crosses to the large espresso machine and twiddles a few knobs. ‘I think I still remember how to use all this stuff. Do you want something?’

  ‘Full afternoon tea with a triple-shot mocha skinny latte made with soy milk.’

  She laughs: ‘Oi! Be nice to your mother.’

  ‘A cup of tea would be good. Normal tea.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage that.’

  I sit at one of the tables and wheel Harry’s pram towards me. He’s bashing a plastic dangly toy that’s hanging over his head but he grabs my finger when I offer it and tries to put it in his mouth. I tickle his chin instead and he burbles a perfect, cherubic laugh.

  ‘He likes you,’ Mum says from the other side of the counter.

  ‘I don’t think brothers and sisters are supposed to get on.’

  ‘Most are closer in age.’

  ‘True.’

  I continue making ooey, gooey noises to Harry as Mum potters behind the counter. It’s not long before she’s back at the table and we each have cups of tea in front of us.

  ‘Didn’t want to risk the cappuccino machine for yourself?’ I tease.

  ‘I could make something fancy if I wanted.’

/>   We smile to each other and then stop to watch Harry for a moment. He’s not particularly doing anything, more bouncing around, trying to latch onto my hand. Things feel a little looser between my mother and me today. There are only so many times people can look at each other and say how weird things are.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Mum asks. ‘I know you’re not thinking immediately about it – but if you want a job, I can help sort something out.’

  I sip my tea and it occurs to me that I’ve done an awful lot of this since arriving in the village. The whole place runs on gossip and hot drinks.

  Without thinking, I glance across to the counter. ‘No offence – but I don’t want to work in a shop. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with that but—’

  ‘I didn’t necessarily mean here. I know other people in the business community. Friends of friends, too. That sort of thing. There are people who’ll want to help, especially now that word’s out.’

  I’m a bit chastened by that. Anyone who starts a sentence with ‘no offence’ automatically means offence.

  At that moment, a woman walks past the café window. She stops as if about to come in and then realises the door is locked. She presses her hands to the glass, cupping her eyes from the glare and stares towards us. It’s probably innocent – someone who’s after breakfast – and yet I wonder if this is what it’s going to be like. Am I the newborn panda cub in the zoo at which everyone is desperate to gawk?

  When the woman notices the ‘closed’ sign, she turns and toodles off along the street. Mum didn’t even notice her.

  ‘I’ve not figured out what I want to do yet,’ I say. ‘I might go to college and try to get some proper qualifications. Perhaps an Open University thing? I’m not used to having choices.’

  Mum’s watching me but not saying anything and I get the sense that all she wants is confirmation that I’m staying around. Especially after the police visit, I can’t tell her what she wants to hear.

  ‘How are you fixed for money?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t want your money, Mum.’

  ‘But how are you managing? You’re not working in the village but you must be paying to stay at the Black Horse. Then there’s the cost of food and everything else. If you want to study, there’s the cost of books and the course itself.’

  ‘I’ll figure it out. I don’t want your money. That’s not why I’m here, despite what your husband or brother-in-law might think.’

  She cranes her neck back slightly and I can see that the remark stings. ‘Nobody thinks that,’ she says.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Why? Did Max say something to you?’

  I think about it, hold my breath, wonder if I should tell her about Ashley going through my bag, about him stomping into the pub or parking his taxi outside and waiting for me to emerge. He definitely thinks I’m here for money.

  ‘Olive…?’

  The change of name takes me by surprise. ‘Is that what you want to call me?’

  She blinks, apparently not realising what she’d done. ‘You used to like it when you were younger. I let you choose from Olivia, Via, Olive and O. You chose Olive.’ She stops and then adds: ‘What would you like now?’

  ‘I honestly don’t mind.’

  Mum doesn’t reply because Harry shouts at her and starts actively fighting against the straps of his pushchair. She unclips him and lifts him out but, as she’s about to place him on the floor, he clings onto her sleeve and yanks at it like a baby orangutan trying to hang from a branch. She tries to latch him free but only manages to let him pull her sleeve higher – which exposes a series of yellow, purple and black bumps at the top of her forearm, a little below the elbow.

  She acts as if nothing’s happened, calmly lowering her sleeve and then placing Harry on the floor, allowing him to toddle off towards the other side of the café. It’s only then that she turns to me, meeting my eyes momentarily and knowing that I saw the bruises.

  ‘I walked into a door,’ she says, not keeping eye contact. ‘I was trying to deal with Harry and take the washing downstairs and got all caught up. Silly me.’

  A pause and I really do feel lost. There might as well be a neon sign over her head flashing the word ‘liar’.

  ‘Do you walk into a lot of doors?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘And are all those doors shaped like someone’s fingers?’ There’s a bristling in my stomach, a flash of protective anger that’s completely unexpected.

  Mum looks off towards Harry, remaining still for a moment: ‘It’s complicated,’ she says softly.

  ‘How complicated can it be?’

  She turns back to me and it feels as if she’s my disapproving mother. I’ve brought some lad home who has a face tattoo and enough piercings to turn a magnet into a dangerous weapon.

  ‘There are things that you don’t want to talk about, Olive – and I’ve respected that. All I’m asking for is the same respect.’

  ‘If you’re being hurt—’

  Mum snaps a reply: ‘Don’t you think I have questions about everything? I’d love to know what’s been going on for the past thirteen years. I’d love you to tell the police everything and get some justice. I’d love to see people arrested, to get a day in court. I’d love to look into the eyes of the man who stole my daughter and changed my life. I lie awake at night thinking about all these things. There’s a lot of things I want – but I’ve given you space. I’ve let things go. If you can have your secrets then I can have mine.’

  She finishes with a sharp sigh and there’s nothing I can say.

  She’s right.

  I find myself staring at her sleeve, under which are her bruises. I consider whether she has more on other parts of her body, wonder if it’s something new because of me, or if this has been going on a while. The obvious assumption is that it’s been done by Max but I get the sense there’s a lot I don’t know.

  In many ways, the silences between us say more than the actual words. It’s in those that we’re lost in mutual understanding that there are things about each other we’ll never know.

  ‘I nearly walked away, y’know…’

  Mum focuses on me once more. Blinks.

  ‘When I was here,’ I add, pointing towards the table I sat at barely days ago. ‘I thought about leaving and not coming back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was scared. I didn’t know if you’d want me back, if I’d have a home here. I didn’t know if rejection was worse than taking a chance. I’d forgotten what it was like to have a real mum. I thought you might blame me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s been a long time. I’m not six years old any more.’

  Mum stands and her chair scrapes noisily on the floor. She pulls me to her feet and holds me tight. ‘I’ll always be your mother,’ she whispers. ‘Always.’

  Nineteen

  Mum and I spend more than an hour together in the café. There are a few soft toys in the staff area at the back and Harry is one of those kids who seems perfectly happy amusing himself.

  Despite the two of us avoiding a few subjects, I feel closer to my mother because of it. Our reluctance to reveal certain things is something we have in common.

  That doesn’t mean I’m going to forget those bruises on her arms, though.

  When Harry starts to get restless, Mum and I say goodbye and then I walk along the High Street back to the Black Horse. It’s perhaps no surprise that there’s a welcoming committee. There are two men sitting on a bench at the edge of the pavement and both jump up when they see me. One is fiddling with his phone and the other accidentally drops his bag.

  ‘Are you Olivia Adams?’ one of them asks.

  They don’t seem the pushy types, more haggard and rushed. The one who spoke has a hole in the collar of his shirt. The other is ridiculously young, a straight-out-of-uni-type.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  They give their names one at a time. The guy with the hole
in his shirt is from the local radio station, the other works for a newspaper. It’s not quite a bristling press pack, more a slightly sleepy duo. If they’d have walked down the road, they might have seen me through the café window, so hardly the hardcore investigative types.

  They seem surprised that I’m standing and listening, rather than telling them to do one. The radio journalist asks if I’d like to tell my story, despite the fact I’ve not confirmed my name.

  ‘This is my life,’ I tell him. ‘How would you feel?’

  The older guy tells me what is probably the truth – that people will always have questions unless I go on the record and get everything into the open.

  I’m cautious but not stupid, so I ask what sort of questions they have.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can go…?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not saying I’ll do this. I’m asking what your questions are. If I have something to say, I will.’

  He pulls a radio microphone from his bag and holds it between us, while the other journalist has his phone out and is presumably recording everything being said.

  ‘How do you feel at being back?’ the holey shirt man asks.

  That’s an easy one: ‘Stoneridge feels new to me.’

  ‘Do you remember being a child here?’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  There’s a woman on the other side of the road who’s stopped to see what’s going on. When she realises I’ve noticed, she turns and continues walking, glancing over her shoulder to see if I’m still watching.

  ‘Where have you been for the past thirteen years?’ the holey shirt man asks.

  I shake my head, saying nothing and all, and wait until he gets the message that I’m not answering that.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  If he’s frustrated, then he’s not showing it. ‘What did the police ask you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  He smirks at that: ‘I asked and they said they have no comment to make.’

  I smile and shrug.

  ‘What do your parents think?’