by Paul Clayton
Her time spent locked in that room in Dubai made it difficult for her to approach other people but now there was a crowd of school mothers. As her child grew and went from school to school, she found it easier to become part of their world. She helped out at garden parties, made costumes for school plays and served tea on the sponsored walk. She bought raffle tickets for the Christmas fayre and cheered at sports day. Always well-dressed but never ostentatiously, she succeeded in her desire not to stand out. She became invisible by choice. Hers was a supporting role to prepare a child for the world who would be proud of her as their mother. She could hide her memories for a while in another life.
Little Girl remembered how hard her own teenage years had been. Taking that journey once more, but this time as a parent, proved no easier. She learned to step back, not to interfere, to offer gentle guidance when asked and to endure the fact that, most of the time, she was alone. But birthdays brought special joy. On her child’s seventeenth birthday, she arranged a trip into the city: shopping for presents, lunch at what would be a trendy, if not necessarily good, restaurant and the best seats for a hit show.
The pavements of the city were a teeming river of humanity. At times the tide carried them along and on other occasions they battled against it. Teenagers don’t hold hands so Little Girl carried the packages, trying to keep an eye on her child while not being overprotective. At the top of Bond Street, they paused because crowds were waiting to cross the road. Little Girl placed her bags on the floor to adjust the strap of her shoe. When she picked them up again, she found she was alone. A shard of panic pierced her gut. She craned her neck, looking around and trying to see a familiar face. There, through the windows of a nearby computer store, was her child. She turned and fought her way against the crush of people, credit card at the ready to show her love.
Across the road, standing by the traffic lights waiting to cross in her direction, was a woman with a small child. Little Girl’s breathing quickened. It had been a long time, but she knew who they were.
Chapter Sixty-Two
‘I’m not sure there’s anything we can do this time,’ said Daisy. Her smile fell at the edges. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? You made such a success of moving here and the children are doing well. Gary does just want to help, you know.’
The sharp breeze on the clifftop caught in Lottie’s eye, causing it to weep. She wiped it dry with her sleeve. ‘It’s my job. They’re my children. I’m going to be their mother. I’m going to bring them up and nobody is having a say in it. If he can’t stop interfering, then I’m going somewhere he can’t find me.’
She bent down to smooth the blanket covering the small baby in the pushchair. ‘I know what you’re saying. Last time it was for my safety, this time it’s because of my foolishness. But I can’t have him around. I have to do this. I have to bring up these kids.’
Daisy nodded. ‘I can’t pretend I agree, but I think I understand. Have you had any thoughts about where you want to go?’
‘I need to lose myself. I need to be some place where it’s easy to be anonymous. Somewhere I can lose myself and the kids.’
‘Let me see what we can do. I’m not making any promises.’ Daisy fell into step beside her and they walked back into town. They stopped outside the refuge and Daisy kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Lottie nodded. There had been little goodness in her life, but Daisy was a massive part of what there was. She tugged at the blanket on the sleeping child once more and set off home.
Daisy proved as good as her word. Although she hadn’t been able to get any joy out of a local authority in the city where Lottie wanted to base herself, she’d used her contacts to find a charitable trust that was able to help.
‘I might never see you again, but you know I’ll always be grateful.’ Lottie pulled Daisy forward, engulfing her in an enormous hug.
‘Last time we did this at the station, you just had a couple of bags. Now you’ve got an extra little person, more baggage, and a van full of stuff heading to your new home.’ Daisy’s smile was on full beam. ‘I know why you’re doing this, Lottie. Looking after the three of them means so much to you. But if that right person comes along, promise me. Let them in.’ Daisy didn’t wait for the train to pull away. She didn’t do goodbyes.
Lottie missed the sea. While in Queenscliffe, she’d come to love her walks along the clifftop, which brought her calm and peace. Taking the children to the beach on summer days filled her with joy.
The local park near where they’d moved had an enormous lake. It was no substitute for the crashing waves of the English Channel, but a peaceable place nevertheless. Signs in the park told her it was a river widening out, but Lottie didn’t care about that. She just knew that walking by water brought her tranquillity. She took the children to the park as often as she could. As they grew up, the older ones asked if they could go there on their own with friends. She knew she had to say yes, but she would sit in the flat with the youngest child regretting her decision, unable to relax until they returned.
The flat wasn’t big enough for the four of them and she had to try various combinations of shared rooms and an uncomfortable sofa bed for them all to sleep. Once the children were at school, she’d been able to take some part-time jobs to supplement the money she claimed in benefits. Sometimes these jobs were on-the-fly, cash in hand. She knew it was wrong but, if it meant better meals on the table, fresh clothes at the beginning of each term and more treats for the kids, she was happy to risk it.
In the evenings. when all three children were safely in bed, she would switch on the television and fall asleep in front of it before eventually crawling into bed ready for another day of being a wonderful mum. She fought, she struggled, but she survived; as a result, the children grew and laughed and played and fought and loved life. Of that she was most proud. They were happy kids.
She searched newspapers and magazines and snipped out vouchers for discounts on attractions and places to visit, anything to make them feel special. If a birthday fell during school time, they celebrated it on the Saturday afterwards with a small party of school friends or a trip into the city.
This year, the youngest’s birthday was on a Wednesday in half term. Having arranged for someone to look after the other two, Lottie planned a trip to what purported to be the world’s largest toy shop. Burgers and milkshakes and then toy shopping. She added to this the excitement of the train journey and it was a perfect day out.
After the fast-food lunch, they made their way towards the toyshop for what Lottie hoped would be as much looking and as little spending as possible. Things were tight at the moment and she’d had to set herself a budget. Perhaps coming to a shop offering so many treats was not the right thing to do. Her mind wrapped itself in thought as to just how much she should spend while they stood at the curb waiting for the lights to change.
It was if someone punched her in the stomach. A face – unmoving in the crowd on the other side of the road, staring out of the hustling mass and looking straight at her. A ghost. A memory.
She wasn’t sure what to do. Little Girl obviously recognised her. Lottie raised a hand and started to make her way across the road. She felt sick. Reaching out to grab the child’s hand, she pulled him away. The streets were school-holiday busy and she lost sight of the other woman. She sensed her child’s confusion.
Suddenly she heard her name. ‘Lottie? Lottie?’
Don’t look back, she thought. Never go back. She’d moved on, that was what she did best. She’d moved on and things had got better. Little Girl was the past; Little Girl wasn’t the best of times.
Reaching the next side street, she darted into the nearest shop pulling a bemused child with her. They worked their way to the back of the sales floor, hiding behind racks of expensive jackets. An assistant stepped forward. ‘Can I help madam?’
‘No. I’m fine. Just looking.�
�� Lottie feigned interest in a rack of skirts, clothes that she would never wear and could not afford. She watched Little Girl pass the window and stand for a moment on the street corner, confused. She ducked down behind the clothes rack.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?’
One look at the assistant’s face told Lottie she had marked her down as not the right sort for this shop. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She took one more glance at the pavement outside. Little Girl had disappeared. Lottie grabbed her child’s hand and strode out of the shop. She turned left and disappeared into the tight network of small shopping streets.
Little Girl knew it was Lottie. She was plumper than she had been, but it was definitely her. Little Girl had raised her hand in the hope of a smile and friendly recognition. She’d received nothing.
When someone hurts you once, it’s not your fault. If you let them do it a second time, then maybe it is.
Chapter Sixty-Three
No matter how she tossed and turned, Frankie couldn’t find the right position. A dull haze of sleep lodged somewhere at the back of her mind but was too far away for her to reach. She lay there taking deep breaths in and slow breaths out, though her mind was racing like an icy wind. It was going to be an interminable night.
Shannon lay motionless in the other bed, no doubt tired by their adventure earlier in the evening. When they’d returned to the flat, Frankie had called PC Ashley’s number only to get his voicemail again. She hadn’t said anything about what they’d been up to and asked if she could speak to him the following morning.
Lying there now, she knew she had to get up as early as possible and head down to the station. Were they even looking for Henry? There’d been no word from anyone since Oliver had turned up on their doorstep and said Henry was missing. She should have gone straight to the police station and not taken part in Jonny’s crazy schemes.
So they’d found an empty flat. What did that prove? And yet something lingered, like a faint trace of perfume after the wearer has left the room, holding itself in the air to evoke a distant memory of someone who was absent. The postcard bothered her. She’d never seen the picture before but somehow she was sure she knew the place. Two little white cottages with green window frames and the tall white lighthouse between them; it had a disconcerting familiarity. Had Frankie been more spiritual, the thought might have crossed her mind that she’d lived there in a previous life but that was a waste of time. The place was in this world.
Frankie had been on edge all the time in the empty flat. They’d no right to be there, and whatever Jonny had done with the lock to gain entry was illegal. She’d have words with him. She almost hadn’t taken the postcard with her but, as she was telling Shannon and Jonny that it was time to leave, she slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans.
In spite of his burgeoning a career as a burglar, she couldn’t help but feel proud of Jonny. She was pleased that his first thought had been to do something about finding his brother. He was growing up, becoming a man – something she’d always dreaded. It was the first sign she’d have to surrender her children to the world.
Two thirty-nine morphed into two-forty and time trickled by, marked by the glowing numerals on the clock. Thoughts of the previous day pushed their way through heavy blackness. The curtains were making a vain attempt to filter the orange glow of the street lights outside. Frankie sighed wearily.
She gave up the unequal struggle with sleep and sat upright on the bed with her legs outstretched, covered with the duvet. She could hear the pitter-patter of rain. The tapping of rain against the glass of the window made her feel alone, as if someone were outside wanting to come in.
She unhooked her dressing gown from the door and slipped into the kitchen for a warming cup of tea. She was surprised to find the laptop booted up on the kitchen table, left there by Shannon, no doubt. She turned on the kettle and began to make tea. As she reached over to flip the laptop closed, there was a sharp ping and a message alert appeared in the corner of the black screen. Clicking on it, she recognised the email address straight away: it was one of the addresses used during her job application process: victoria.adams@ Langleycc.com.
Why would someone be emailing her at three in the morning? She clicked on the notification. In the subject box were three words: Looking for Henry?
Her throat constricted as if she were trying to swallow something indigestible. She clicked on the full screen. The lighthouse from the postcard filled the screen. A different angle, but definitely the same building. Suddenly there was a picture of Henry that looked as if it had been taken on a phone camera. It was impossible to determine from the background where he was, but there was a semblance of a smile on his face. Yet the smile did not reach his eyes; Henry was being told what to do, he wasn’t smiling because he wanted to. He had an odd-coloured green cloth wrapped just under his face, rather like he was at a barber’s.
Frankie stepped back from the computer in shock and her hand knocked the mug of hot tea to the floor. The scalding liquid splashed onto her skin. Trying her hardest not to yell in pain, she ran the cold tap and held her hand underneath it. A thousand needles stabbed her, yet she couldn’t remove her eyes from the picture of Henry. ‘He hasn’t run away. He’s being held somewhere.’
She soaked a kitchen towel in icy water to wrap around her hand. Then, reaching over to the computer, she clicked on the corner of the photograph to enlarge it. The message faded from the screen. She could no longer see the mail in the inbox. She clicked furiously through her emails. Then, without any warning, the mail program closed itself down. She clicked on the icon to open it up again, but the screen started to flash. All she could see were lines ripping across the screen, alternating between neon tears and blackness.
Frankie hated these machines. Heart beating inside her chest like someone hammering on a door, she followed the IT support advice she’d so often given out at the Tech Factory: turn the computer off and turn it on again. Nothing happened. She was staring at a blank screen. There had been a message about Henry. She knew that. She’d seen it. The pain in her hand was proof of it. But where was it now?
She glanced at the clock. 3.25am. She ran back into the bedroom, opening the door as loudly as she could. Leaning over the bed, she shook Shannon and turned on the bedside light.
Shannon awoke abruptly. She blinked and, after a second or two, turned her head towards Frankie. ‘What’s happened? Mum, what’s going on?’
‘Get up, love. Come and look at this computer for me.’
‘What time is it?’ Shannon didn’t move.
‘It’s time to do what I ask. Now!’
The two of them stood side by side staring at the black screen.
‘I don’t know what happened. It’s totally dead.’ Shannon could barely hold her eyes open.
‘Yeah, I can see that, but I know what I saw.’ Frankie took a deep breath. ‘And someone mailed me a picture of your brother.’
***
‘A picture postcard of a mystery lighthouse found in an empty flat that you shouldn’t have been in, and mysterious disappearing email messages arriving in the middle of the night on a computer that’s blown up. Are we doing Midsomer Murders or something?’ Sergeant Chescoe laughed. His voice had the merriment of Father Christmas while his face was as welcoming as Scrooge’s. ‘Let’s try and get things straight, Frankie, shall we?’
Frankie, Shannon and Jonny had been outside the front door waiting for the police station to open at half past seven that morning. Frankie had dragged both kids out of bed to accompany her. Arriving for work, Sergeant Chescoe barely managed to get his key in the door when the trio erupted before him. Now, safely behind his desk, he felt more in a position to investigate the stream of recollection that was pouring from the three of them.
‘We’ve told you everything. Henry went to have a look at the flats with PC Ashley, and PC Ashley came back and s
aid Henry had disappeared and he’d lost him. So we went for a look around and we found the picture of the lighthouse and the cottages, and I don’t know how or where but I know that place, and that’s what stopped me sleeping, and I woke up to make a cup of tea and an email came in and showed a picture of Henry, and he was smiling only he wasn’t, and then the computer flashed and crashed and now it doesn’t work.’
‘Okay. Take a deep breath and let’s go over it one step at a time.’ Sergeant Chescoe turned to the keyboard on his desk and started some slow, two-finger typing. ‘You say Henry went off with PC Ashley last night and disappeared?’
Frankie was about to launch into another outburst when Jonny leant forward. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And PC Ashley came back to the house to tell you this and said he’d report it?’
Jonny nodded. Chescoe’s hand wobbled the computer mouse and he looked at the screen of his desktop. ‘The thing is, PC Ashley wasn’t working yesterday. He didn’t report it here. There’s no report of any missing child from yesterday evening – there are no reports from PC Ashley at all.’
‘I think he was helping us out on an informal basis, but he definitely said that he was going to make a report. He’s really fond of Henry.’ Frankie didn’t want to get Oliver into any trouble.
‘Has he gone missing before by any chance? It’s Henry Baxter, isn’t it?’ Sergeant Chescoe started scanning the screen.
‘Can’t you ring him up and ask what’s going on?’ Frankie asked.
‘We can if we need to. Let me check something out.’
The three of them held their breath while Sergeant Chescoe continued to click and consider various screens.
