‘Who attacked him?’
Pete shakes his head a little. ‘The other person thought it’d be funny. When the police got involved, he said Chris had touched his girlfriend somewhere intimately, but it was an excuse to get off the assault charge. Chris never touched anyone.’
He turns away a little, breaking eye contact: ‘I don’t say this to be mean but I don’t think he’d know what he was doing if he was alone with a woman, let alone touch her somewhere like that. He ended up with a double insult. Not only did he get a kicking, everyone in the village then thought he was some kind of sex pest.’
‘Why did the police believe whoever beat him up?’
‘Because there were apparent witnesses. Two or three people all had the same story – and you can see what Chris is like. He can barely speak up for himself as it is, let alone when there are police there.’
‘Who were the witnesses?’
Pete doesn’t speak for a while. He looks to me and then clamps his lips closed before standing. He paces to the window and back again, before pushing the door fully closed and lowering his voice.
‘I shouldn’t really say.’
‘It was Ashley Pitman, wasn’t it? That’s why he’s barred from here. He beat up Chris.’
Pete bites his lip and nods. ‘Look, I know he’s your family now. Uncle, or whatever, so I don’t want to say much more. I’m not trying to stir up trouble. It was a while ago.’
‘You can say whatever. Ashley basically told me to leave the village and not come back.’
Pete paces again and then stops by the bed. He looks to me as if trying to decide whether that’s true. He doesn’t seem completely surprised that my uncle wants me gone.
‘Max was one of the witnesses, too, wasn’t he?’ I ask.
A slow nod: ‘Right.’
‘Who else?’
‘You wouldn’t know her. One of Ashley’s ex-girlfriends. She moved away not long after that.’
‘But you’re saying Ashley beat up Chris for no reason…?’
Pete nods.
‘Were you there?’
‘I didn’t need to be. I believe him and I’ve known Ashley Pitman for a long time. We were at school together. You could say we’ve got history.’
‘What sort of history?’
There’s a creak from the landing and Pete glances back over his shoulder towards the closed door.
‘Is someone out there?’ I ask.
‘It’s an old building. The pipes hiss and clunk, the stairs and floorboards squeak even when there’s no one anywhere near them. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night convinced there’s someone downstairs but there never has been. It’s like the pub itself is talking. Used to scare the crap out of me. It takes a while to get used to.’
He goes for another pace to the window and back, then he stops and rolls up his top, turning side on for me to see the area around his left kidney. A purply-brown scar that laces from his lower back around his side.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It was a long time ago but that’s how I know the type of man Ashley Pitman is.’
He lets his top drop back into place and then rounds the bed.
‘I don’t want to get involved in family stuff and, in fairness, it’s not like any of this happened recently. You’re talking a few years back. All I’m trying to say is that Chris is all right. He’s got a lazy eye and isn’t very confident at talking to people but it’s a self-fulfilling thing. He hears people saying mean things about him, so he doesn’t want to engage – but, because he’s not engaging, people say more mean things. Just know that you don’t need to be wary of him. If you say “hi”, you’ll get that back. If you catch him staring, smile back and he’ll move on. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.’
I feel like a playground bully.
‘What if I want to know about the family stuff?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You said you didn’t want to get involved in the family stuff – but what if I want to know about the Pitmans? This is supposed to be my family but I don’t know anything about them.’
He turns to the door and then back again. It’s hard not to wonder where the scar came from. Deliberately provoking Ashley feels like a silly thing to have done.
‘I’ll give you a name,’ Pete says. ‘Someone you can talk to who’ll have a story or two to tell.’
‘Thank you.’
He sighs and shakes his head. ‘If anyone asks, you didn’t get the details from me.’
Twenty-Four
‘Did you fall in?’
Nattie laughs as I slip back into the booth and it’s only then that I realise I completely forgot to do the one thing I left the bar to do – use the toilet. A full pint of Guinness is waiting for me but Rhys and Nattie’s are already a third empty. I’ve been away for the best part of twenty minutes and, now I think about it, my bladder feels like an overinflated balloon ready to pop.
I mumble something about getting a phone call that distracted me and then apologise, saying I need to go again. They probably think I have some sort of urinary tract infection but I really need to go.
It’s not long later that I’m at the sink in the ladies’ washing my hands, bladder finally empty. Another trip upstairs felt like too far.
Every time I look at myself in the mirror, I feel the need to say my name. It’s like a reflex: ‘Olivia Elizabeth Adams.’
A pause as I curve my lips into various forms, watching how it affects the shape of my face.
‘Oh-live-ee-ah.’
My face fits the name but I still can’t quite react to when someone else says ‘Olivia’. I’m so used to a different name and it doesn’t feel like my own.
As well as that, my darker roots are starting to show and I wonder if it’s worth getting them bleached again. Mum’s hair is dyed and I didn’t realise until recently that most kids have hair that darkens over time. Being blonde at six doesn’t mean the child will have the same colour hair at sixteen.
‘Olivia,’ I say. ‘Oh-liv-eee-ah.’
I like the ‘oh’ part at the beginning. It sounds like the word is being announced, as if ‘Livia’ is the actual name. ‘Oh, Livia...’
The door clunks open and I jump back to where I actually am at the sink. The woman who’s entered is somewhere in her fifties and totters in with small steps as if she’s a cartoon criminal trying to sneak around. She heads for the stalls but then stops and does a double take when she notices me.
‘Oh,’ she says and I almost expect her to continue, ‘Livia’. Instead, she hums under her breath and adds: ‘It’s you.’
I smile weakly as I dry my hands on a paper towel. I’ve read about celebrities being accosted by fans in toilets – men who’ve stood next to footballers at a urinal and asked for a selfie; women who’ve asked actresses about their boyfriends through the wall that separates toilet stalls. It’s all a bit strange and I never thought I’d be the one getting recognised.
‘Olivia Adams,’ she adds. ‘You’re Olivia Adams.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m Pamela.’
She stands and stares as if that’s a name I should know. I drop the paper towel in the bin and am ready to leave but she continues talking.
‘I was part of the search,’ she adds. ‘We all were on my road. Some of us were out all night on the Saturday, then we slept for a couple of hours and got up to do it all again. I remember it like it was yesterday.’
I know I should leave but it’s hard to ignore the tug of having information so easily available. The articles in the box upstairs is one thing – but they’re written by outsiders observing what was going on, not insiders who lived it. This is what Ashley and Max were worried about: bits and pieces of a story can be used to create a whole that isn’t real.
People like to tell their stories – and what’s wrong with that? Everyone is the hero of their own tale.
Pamela leans against the edge of the toilet stall and, though she’s not
particularly large, the thin frame wobbles.
‘Are you back for good?’ she asks.
‘People keep asking that but I don’t know.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s a long story.’
She stares at me as if trying to will the information out before relaxing, allowing her knees to bend slightly.
‘I’ve got a daughter,’ she says. ‘She was in the year above you at school. Joanie. Do you remember her? One of a kind.’
I shake my head. ‘There’s a lot I don’t know.’
‘I guess you were only five…or was it six…?’
She tails off and we stand in silence for a moment or two. I don’t confirm or deny. It’s all a bit awkward. Having this sort of conversation in any public toilet would be odd but the Black Horse’s smell as if someone or something might have died here at some point in the not too distant past. There is mould in the corners of the ceiling and, though it’s warm outside, it’s cold in here. Some sort of microclimate.
For a moment, I wonder if the conversation is over. Pamela pushes open one of the toilet stall doors but then she turns back to me. ‘They arrested my husband. Did you know that?’
‘Arrested him for what?’
‘They thought he took you.’
It takes me a while to realise what she’s talking about but there was always a line in the original article that I failed to follow up on.
… a 27-year-old man was helping them with their inquiries…
The mysterious stranger was only mentioned in the first couple of days of reports and then he disappeared from the coverage. There was never a name that I found, no further article to say what he was helping the police with.
‘I didn’t know…’
Pamela nods slowly and then stands up straighter. ‘I’m not annoyed or anything like that. It’s not like I tried to corner you. I don’t want to argue or shout, but seeing as you’re here, I thought you should know.’
‘Do you mind if I ask what happened? Nobody’s told me any of this.’
There’s a moment where I can see that she wishes she never started the conversation. If everyone’s the hero of their own story, that means there has to be a villain – and I wonder if I’m the villain of hers.
‘It wasn’t just him,’ Pamela says. ‘The police talked to a few people at the time. I don’t think it all got reported but my husband was the first and so everyone knew.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Mark. His car was parked along the road from your house.’ She stops. ‘Your old house. Mark told me he was working and that’s where all the problems started. He’d left the car on your road and then walked into the village to watch the football. As soon as everything happened with you, the police were checking anyone who’d been seen in the area. His was a strange car that shouldn’t have been there. He didn’t want to tell the police he’d been in the pub in case it got back to me, so he said he was working. Meanwhile, I thought he had been working. He was trying to avoid an argument with me and ended up talking himself into getting arrested for kidnapping.’
We look at each other for a moment and I know she wants me to apologise. I can’t, though… not yet, at least. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘We both told the police he was working but his office said he wasn’t. If he’d only said he was on the piss, someone in the pub would’ve vouched for him. By the time he did, news had already gone round the village that he’d been arrested. Then you had a ridiculous situation where half a dozen of his friends knew he was definitely in the pub with them at the time you went missing – and yet loads more thought he must’ve been involved. Mud sticks and all that.’
I’ve heard that a lot about this place.
‘That all happened because his car was parked along the street from the old house?’
Pamela snorts a sad laugh. ‘Precisely. If he’d parked a few streets over or caught the bus, none of it would’ve happened. It was like that, though. Everyone was paranoid their kids would be next.’
I’m suddenly feeling very exposed, not wanting to hear the story after all. I’ve got a horrible feeling of where it’s going.
‘He couldn’t leave the house,’ Pamela adds. ‘Neither of us could. We were in the supermarket and this woman dragged her kid away from me. She didn’t say a word, just grabbed her son’s collar and hauled him away as if I was going to stick him under my arm and run away or something.’
She sighs.
‘Mark and I broke up and he moved away. Last I heard, he was in Wales. Knocked up some girl and they moved to the middle of nowhere. Can’t say I blame him.’
I wonder if I should apologise. It feels like I should but that’s probably British guilt. If there’s anything we do well as a people, it’s say sorry. That and queue, I guess. And talk about the weather.
Before I can say anything, Pamela spins and bounds for the door. She bangs through and her footsteps echo back from the corridor that leads to the bar. Then she’s gone.
There’s a moment where I’m stuck staring at the bouncing door, not quite able to believe what’s happened. It’s not like I thought the village would have forgotten what happened thirteen years ago but I had no idea the legacy of one event would stretch so far. The disappearance has changed so many lives. That Saturday afternoon was the stone being dropped in a pond. My parents were the thick, steep immediate ripples, but the waves continued all the way to the edge of the water.
I turn back to the mirror and tug my hair straighter, stare into my own eyes.
‘Olivia Elizabeth Adams.’
It doesn’t sound any more real.
2016: Lily, 19
Willy Loman has just been fired when the knock comes on our classroom door. Everybody stops as our teacher cranes her neck up like a meerkat and turns, ready to scowl at the interruption. We are all left hanging as she crosses the room purposefully and opens the door before poking her head into the corridor. After a second, she steps outside and closes the door with a solid click. That causes a ripple of muttering from around the class and everyone is suddenly on their phones, checking to see what’s happened on Instagram or wherever else in the past twenty minutes.
I’m a couple of years older than most of the class but it’s not that which stops me from checking my own phone. The hairs on the back of my neck are tingling and when the door reopens, our teacher takes only a second to focus on me.
She smiles sadly and says my name. Everyone turns to look and somehow I know. I pick up my bag and bang my hip on the desk, weaving between the tables as every set of eyes follow me. My teacher places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes ever so gently. She says nothing as I head into the hall. It’s when the door closes behind that I know I’m not returning anytime soon.
There’s a police officer sitting on the wooden bench that runs along the wall. I’ve never been quite sure why it’s there. This is a purpose-built further education college and yet, if there were coat pegs on the wall above, it would be like something from a primary school.
‘Lily Armitage?’
I don’t actually think I reply but there’s an understanding that goes beyond words. I find myself on the bench next to him. My knees are hugged to my chest as I lean on the wall. It feels as if the world is caving in.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Lily, but your father was in a car accident a short while ago.’
He continues speaking after that but I only hear individual words: ‘hospital’, ‘ambulance’, ‘did all they could’, ‘sorry’, ‘sorry’, ‘sorry’, ‘sorry’.
After that, nothing matters. Nothing will ever matter again.
Twenty-Five
Sunday
Harry is a little too young for the swings but he’s happy enough on the roundabout. He’s wedged himself into a small alcove in the central pillar and is giggling away as Mum gives it a gentle push. Each rotation is slow but whenever he sees us, he shouts ‘Boo!’ at the
top of his voice.
‘You didn’t have to do all that yesterday,’ Mum says.
‘I know.’
There’s a constant sense that she wants to add something. To ask if I know what the result will be, if she can really believe in me. To ask if she can have faith.
‘I saw Dad yesterday.’
Mum pats the roundabout to set Harry off on another rotation. ‘How is he?’
‘Better. He says he’s getting clean. He’s had a shave and a shower and it’s not a bad start. We went to the old house.’
Her raised eyebrows give away the shock. ‘Why?’
‘Jog a few memories, tell a few stories. Dad said the whole of the inside has been remodelled.’
She laughs. ‘It needed it. It was outdated when we lived there but we couldn’t afford to upgrade much at the time. You should’ve said you were going. We could’ve…’
The sentence tails off, unfinished, but I’m pretty sure she was going to say she’d have come too. I can only imagine the storm a family reunion would have caused around the village. Whispers and all that.
‘I don’t know what last name I should have.’
She rests a hand on my knee. ‘Adams is your father’s name.’
‘I know – but it isn’t yours.’
‘I’m a Pitman now. Used to be Hanham. That was my maiden name. I don’t know if any of that helps.’
Harry shrieks ‘boo!’ once more but this time Mum doesn’t push the rails. The roundabout clicks around and takes him out of sight but it’s moving ever more slowly.
‘I don’t know a lot about my grandparents,’ I say. ‘Dad talked about his father. He said he died about the same time as your mum and that she didn’t come to your wedding but that’s it.’
As Harry comes past this time, the roundabout is almost at a stop and Mum grabs the bars to halt it. Harry grumbles but Mum picks him up and we head over to what is, essentially, an oversized metal chicken on a giant spring. Harry is apparently familiar with it and clambers on top, screeching ‘boo!’ over and over as he bobs back and forth.
The Girl Who Came Back Page 18
