They had not spoken of it, as a family. Even when her mother was alive it was avoided, brushed over. What had happened to Margaret had sculpted the space between each of them, the way grief sculpts the soul, so that the unspoken took on a tangible shape, defining their family.
She pulled herself up and found the light. She was aware of him standing below, looking up expectantly at the hatch, listening to the creak of the boards as she moved around.
The attic was filled with boxes that were still labeled from the move. Her parents had moved houses in the mid-nineties when her father changed jobs. It had been shortly before her mother’s diagnosis. Margaret had helped them move into the house and she remembered seeing the box that she was now searching for.
She shifted two or three packing crates labeled “bedding,” “sleeping bags,” “dinner service,” then glanced down the hatch to see if her father was still there. He was gone and she was relieved.
It was a large green-cardboard shoebox, she remembered, unlabeled, unlike all the other containers, which her mother had obsessively inventoried. Margaret had only glanced at the box. She had found it during the move and had just opened the lid before her mother took it from her.
“Don’t, love,” her mother had said, her eyes desperate and misting with tears. “You don’t want to dredge all that up.”
At the time, she had been confused by her mother’s words but had agreed.
Margaret recalled a happy childhood, but she could not remember much from her lower primary school years. As an adult, she had decided she simply had a poor memory, but there had always been hints of what she had forgotten. She remembered being in the hospital but could not remember why. She had asked about it when she was a teenager, but sensed that her parents didn’t want to discuss it. Margaret had not pushed for more information. She knew that a portion of her childhood was missing, but there was a sense that she had chosen to forget.
The loft space smelled of the unsanded wood of the beams. The floor was covered in plywood, but it was uneven in places. There were toys from her childhood, which her own children had rejected: dolls that her daughter had considered ugly. An old-fashioned kettle sat beside an electric heater. Near a box of old books were her mother’s jam jars, which she would retrieve every summer before she became ill and fill with fresh batches of gooseberry, redcurrant, and raspberry jams.
Margaret recalled the day after her mother’s funeral, watching John sit by the fire and thinking how her tall, strong father seemed smaller now. Only a few days since her death yet he seemed shrunken, as if grief had caused part of him to dissipate, like air from a tire.
She had been young and in love and heartbroken all at once, yet she had said to her father: “You know when I was little, did something happen to me? Did I nearly die?”
Her father had looked at her, his eyes shining.
Margaret had pressed her lips together, not sure why she had spoken out. “I was in the hospital, wasn’t I?” The long service watching her mother’s coffin had made her recall all the things she had wanted to ask her mother, which would now go unanswered.
“You had a … fever,” her father had said, but then his face crumpled and he hid it in his hands.
Now she could hear muffled screams of laughter as her children played outside on the swing. As Margaret grieved for her mother and then got married, became a teacher, and had children, the fever had seemed a good enough explanation.
In the warm loft space she smoothed the palms of her hands on her thighs, aware again of the smell of fire: thick black smoke. The fire seemed to have reached further into her mind than she herself had ever been willing to go. She could remember no more than she had before, but for the first time in her life she was fixated on those missing years from her childhood. It felt as if her present self was crumbling and she would discover why only if she could find out what she had forgotten.
It took her some time, but she finally spotted the box she was looking for hidden under a pile of suitcases, wedged in the eaves. The suitcases were filled with sheets and old clothes and were heavy when she shifted them, but she managed to restack them and free the box beneath. Despite the weight that had been stacked above it, the cardboard box had kept its shape because it was packed tight.
She carried it to a space underneath the bare lightbulb that hung from the eaves, then sat down on a crate of bedding as she lifted the lid. The box was filled with yellowing newspaper articles, some of which had been carefully cut out, while others had been roughly torn. The box smelled of old books: intimate as skin. She riffled through the papers quickly and saw that there were also several sheets of typed paper and envelopes stuffed with photographs.
She had to work out some way to get the box to the car without anyone seeing what she was taking. She didn’t want to discuss it with Ben or her father. It was a box that her mother had always kept private, but Margaret had known that it was somehow related to her.
She touched the rough, yellowed pages at the top of the box. Memories: clean, unearthed as a bone from the ground, came to her, but they did not make any sense on their own.
Margaret picked up the newspaper clipping that sat on top of the pile and read the headline: YOUNG GIRL ABDUCTED BY SUSPECTED PEDOPHILE.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.
The suitcase tower she had created on the far side of the loft toppled and fell suddenly, making her gasp.
“Are you all right up there?” her father called from below.
CHAPTER 8
Kathleen Henderson
Wednesday, October 2, 1985
KATHLEEN HUMMED A SONG AS SHE STOOD BEFORE THE hall mirror and pinned up her hair. She put on some pale pink lipstick, then went into the kitchen and leaned over the counter to write her list. She had messages to get eggs, cheese and bananas, steak for dinner; the beds needed changing, and she was meeting a friend for lunch.
She skipped up two flights of stairs and stripped the beds, then carried the sheets downstairs and put in a wash. She moved quickly: not rushed but with energy. The radio was on and she sang along in places as she washed the breakfast dishes.
The day was changeable, at once sunny and bright—warm shafts of sunshine catching the soap bubbles in the sink—but then the light would vanish and Kathleen would feel a chill and look up to watch the wind shaking the leaves of the oak tree, as if to remind her that it was autumn after all.
She dried the dishes and put them away, opening cupboards that were covered in Moll’s artwork: macaroni collages, self-portraits, still lifes, and family paintings. Kathleen’s favorite was a large colorful picture that was Blu-tacked to the fridge. It was a painting of a house with a smoking chimney and green hills in the background and in the foreground were John and Kathleen, with Moll in the middle, holding hands. They all had circle faces and rectangle bodies and stick arms and hands, and Moll was the largest figure. Her mother was smaller than she was, and John smaller still, which Kathleen found interesting, as he was such a tall, thin man. Below the picture, Moll had painted the words my family, choosing a different color of paint for each letter.
Moll had always been bright. Kathleen had been criticized by the school for it, but she had taught her daughter to read and write before she started primary. Her teachers had worried that she would be bored and cause trouble, but Moll had never needed attention like that. Even at home, she was content to play by herself. She liked to take John’s thick hardback books from the bookcase and pretend that she could read them.
Kathleen dried her hands and glanced outside to see if it was raining, just as the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
It was John. He stopped for a tea break at ten and would often call her.
“You’re lucky you caught me.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve always known I’m a lucky man.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, elbows on the bunker, raising her eyes and smiling as if she were talking to him face-to-face.
There was a paperweight by the telephone, which Moll had also crafted: a smooth, heavy stone that she had found on the beach. She had painted MUMY in green across it and often told Kathleen that she hated it because it was spelled incorrectly. Her daughter frequently asked for the gift to be returned so that she could paint over it, but Kathleen wouldn’t allow it.
“You can find another stone and paint it with the correct spelling if you want, but I like this one.”
“I won’t ever find another stone that flat.”
Kathleen and John talked for a few minutes, low murmurs into the telephone. They had nothing new to say, but simply enjoyed the sound of each other’s voices.
“I’m meeting Fiona for lunch.”
“Well, you enjoy your day.”
“When will you be home?”
John sighed. “After six, I should think. We’ll see.” She could hear the stress returning to his voice.
“See you later, then.”
“Tatty-bye.”
Kathleen put on her jacket and was counting the money in her purse when the phone rang again.
“Are you bored today or something?” she said, laughing, expecting it to be John again.
It was not her husband, but the head teacher of Ravenshill Primary.
“Mrs. Henderson, is that you? It’s Barbara Wainwright.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kathleen, tossing her bag onto the kitchen bunker. “I thought it was … How can I help you? Is everything OK?”
“I don’t want to alarm you at all, but I’m just checking that you didn’t ask for Molly to be collected from school this morning by a friend or family member?”
Kathleen’s lip stiffened. “Moll? Collected by whom? I saw her off this morning.”
There were a few seconds of silence on the line and Kathleen’s thighs began to tremble.
“Moll didn’t make it to school today, and some classmates witnessed her talking to a strange man and getting into his car. We’re going to call the police …”
Kathleen hung up the telephone. She had tried so hard to listen as Mrs. Wainwright spoke of the next steps, but the only thing she could think about was finding Moll. A notepad hanging on the wall next to the telephone listed important numbers. Kathleen’s forefinger shook as she found the one for John’s work. She misdialed twice because she was trembling so badly, but finally got through.
His secretary answered.
“I need to speak to John right now.”
“Kathleen, is that you?”
“I need to speak to John.”
“He’s at the plant. I can try to get a message passed but it might take some time.”
“I need to speak to him now. Right now.”
“Kathleen, love, is everything all right?”
She hung up, her hand over her mouth. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t happen to her. She’d read about little girls being taken, but it couldn’t happen to Moll. No one would hurt Moll.
She felt as if her skin had fallen off; raw, she ran out into the street and toward the school, following the steps her daughter had taken when she waved her off this morning. Kathleen could remember her small wet lips against hers and the uneven strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail, which Kathleen had tried to straighten on the doorstep. She could imagine every last pore of her—bone, skin, hair, and smell. Tears blinded her as she mentally hugged her, squeezing her tightly, tighter than she ever had, as if she could push her back inside her own body and protect her forever.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t happen. Moll was never to come to any harm. She was too loved.
The streets were a blur of faces and cars and trees. She bumped into one woman and another called after her to watch where she was going.
It was less than a ten-minute walk from the house to the primary school, but Kathleen had been running too hard. By the time she reached the school gates she could hardly breathe. She bent over and had put a hand over her mouth to stop herself from vomiting. Her hair, which she had carefully pinned earlier, was now wild and loose. She ran a hand over her face and hair as she prepared to enter the school.
They had made a mistake, she decided. Moll was inside, in her classroom, stretching up her hand to answer the teacher’s question.
In the school parking lot, she saw two police cars.
CHAPTER 9
Big George
Wednesday, October 2, 1985
GEORGE PUT HIS FOOT DOWN AND CROSSED THE RIVER Thurso, and was about to accelerate out of town on the A9 southbound when an old lady stepped out onto a zebra crossing. George drummed his fingers on the wheel impatiently, glancing to the park on his left and noticing that it was named after him: Sir George’s Park.
Moll was turned away from him, still crying, and he was about to speak to her again in an attempt to calm her when she released the lock, threw open the door, and fell out right onto the road, such was her rush. She was on her feet before he could reach for her and sprinting back along the road toward the bridge and the town.
“Christ,” said George.
He drove through the zebra crossing, startling the old lady, and parked the car by the side of the road, half on the pavement, before he leaped out and gave chase. Running full pelt, he made up the distance between them in seconds. He caught her by the collar of her jacket and spun her around. She started screaming and twisting away from him and George panicked again. His hand closed around her wrist and he began to drag her back to the car. Up ahead he saw a man and a woman, walking arm in arm, and wondered if he should just let Moll go and make a run for it. The couple both glanced in his direction, but instead of looking alarmed they smiled at him with understanding. Realizing that they assumed Moll was just a young child having a tantrum, George dared to smile at them and shake his head. The couple nodded and walked on.
At the car, George threw open the passenger door and tried to drag her inside, but she leaned over and bit the hand that held her wrist. It wasn’t a playful bite; George felt her small teeth break the skin.
He shook her, just to get her off him, but then realized that he had been too rough. She was suddenly very pale, either from shock or terror.
When he pulled his hand away, he saw that she had drawn blood. He lifted her up, put her in the passenger seat and closed the door.
After pushing down the lock and pulling her seat belt over to secure her, he drove away with a skid, glancing into the mirror to see if the couple was turning back to look in their direction. The speedometer twitched well above the speed limit as they drove out of town on the A9, before George left the main road to take the smaller mountain roads, where he considered he would be less visible.
He needed a cigarette suddenly, but was driving too fast. The chase and the fight with her had shaken him. Two hands on the steering wheel, he glanced at her and noticed that she was crying soundlessly; the tears already breaking through the patch that covered her left eye.
Blood was trickling from the wound on his hand where she had bitten him, curling around his wrist. He brought his hand to his lips and instinctively sucked at the wound, tasting the familiar salt of his own blood.
George was seven years old. He was laughing and joking with his sister while they ate their tea of mince and tatties. George liked to mash the tatties into the mince so that it was a huge brown mess, while Patricia liked to keep the mince completely separate from the potatoes, and would complain to her mother if they were touching. She would then eat the mince first and then all of the tatties, leaving stray onions on the plate, which she said were slimy as worms, and which their mother would then cajole her to finish. George never needed cajoling to eat his food. Every time he finished, his mother would tousle his hair and tell him that he was a good boy and he had a good appetite.
“IS NOT.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Is sot.”
“Not, not, not!”
“Sot, sot, sot, sot!”
The key turned in the lock. G
eorge and his sister stopped their chatter and their mother turned off the wireless. His mother focused on the dirty mince pot in the sink, and George and his sister looked down at their plates.
Brendan McLaughlin sighed as he closed the front door. George and his sister didn’t move, but their mother turned to their father.
“Run a bath,” said their father, without a word of hello. They both knew he was speaking to their mother. She had been washing the mince pot, but she put it down immediately and went to run the bath, wiping her hands on her pinny. She stopped dead at the sight of her husband in the hall. George and his sister followed the direction of their mother’s gaze.
They were used to seeing their father roughed up. Often his knuckles would be bloodied and their mother would set a bowl of Dettol on the kitchen table for him to steep his hands. The smell of antiseptic would fill the room, thick as shame, as he made bloody fists into the milky liquid.
But tonight, it was not just his hands: Brendan McLaughlin was covered in blood. His clothes were dark and wet with it; his face was smeared with it and his hair was slick with it. Blood pooled around his black shoes and when he walked to the bathroom, he left dark red footprints on the floorboards.
“Mother of Jesus, a bath? You need the hospital.”
“Run the bath,” said Brendan, his voice slow and menacing. Not a single person in the household would counter him when he spoke like that, not even Peter. George’s mother ran the bath and poured Dettol into it, so that the familiar stink eased through the house like enmity. Patricia brought towels and, with two hands, George put the kettle on the range to top up the bathwater in case it went cold. The children and their mother were like soldiers rushing to their posts.
George hid behind the door, watching his father and mother in the bathroom. He didn’t like it when they spoke to each other directly because often it would turn sour, and George would want to protect his mother but be afraid for himself. His father’s temper was often sparked by physical pain. If he had been stabbed or beaten badly, it made him angrier. But tonight they stayed calm and his mother passed his father the yellow bar of carbolic soap, so that he could wash himself.
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