by C. J. Cooke
I turn the pages more carefully, one at a time. They are filled with scribbles in a handwriting I don’t recognise. Hasty, spiky writing all over the page, clusters of text at an angle, in the margins, running around the borders of the page.
It was her fault even Peter said so it was her fault she should have been nice and she could have stopped it at any time NO!!
The writing continues for many pages, barely any space left, and then it changes. A handful of pages contain a different handwriting altogether, still in black ink, but in lighter, looped writing that seems more feminine than the one before, the vowels like balloons. I see a title, Sorrow Man, of what appears to be a short story, but I don’t read it, too intent on working out why other people would have written in Eloïse’s notebook. Perhaps she lost it and then found it again, after it had been written in? Was it something to do with the writing group? Why would they write nonsense in her notebook? Nothing seems to make sense any more.
And then another handful of pages in which the spiky handwriting reappears, and a poem that I can make out:
It’s signed ‘Joe’. Joe? Who is Joe?
My heart racing, I sit back down on the floor amongst El’s clothes, holding the notebook close to my eyes in case they’re playing tricks on me. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I need a second opinion. The handwriting keeps changing, and there are strange drawings, childlike sketches of scenes I don’t understand. A man holding a child’s hand, then the child curled up in a foetal position surrounded by black clouds. Over the page, El’s handwriting returns, the familiar steady line of it, school-teacher neat.
No date. What flashbacks? Memories of the abuse?
The next page and the handful of pages after that are scored out with heavy lines, leaving their imprint on the rest of the pages thereafter. It’s as though someone else has got hold of the notebook and tried to censor what was written, though I can still make out some of the words: my fault … Orhan … Peter said to run … stop STOP!
None of this makes any sense.
I take the notebook with me and head downstairs to the kitchen, where Magnus is sitting, looking blankly out the kitchen window. It’s a sight I’ve grown used to, as though he’s lost in thought. He jerks when he sees me, clearing his throat and visibly striving to re-enter the present.
‘Lochlan, there you are. I was— What are you up to? What time is it?’
I slide on to the bar stool next to him and set the notebook on the bench.
‘I found this in Eloïse’s closet.’
‘What is it? A diary?’
‘Kind of.’
He lifts it and holds it at a distance as he flicks through the pages, dispossessed of his reading glasses. ‘Can’t see it. What’s it say?’
I tell him it’s a bunch of scribbles that Eloïse seems to have written, referring to things I know nothing about.
‘I thought the police took all of Eloïse’s belongings,’ he says.
‘They must have missed this.’ A brief pause while I summon my words. ‘Did Eloïse ever smoke?’
‘Smoke?’ He shakes his head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Not that anything I know means much any more.’
I don’t quite know how to ask about the other things. About abuse. Eloïse never said anything like this to me. I try to tell myself that perhaps she was writing about someone else, but when I flick to the page myself I see it there in black in white:
‘I have to ask you,’ I say to Magnus. ‘Was Eloïse … was she ever abused?’
He is silent for such a long time that I search for an alternative word instead of ‘abused’, but I can’t think of one.
‘I don’t know,’ he says finally, his grey eyes on the window. ‘Her mother left us at a young age … she took Eloïse, she was only a toddler, Max’s age … we never really knew what happened in between Eloïse moving with her mother to London and coming to live with us. Except, of course, that our daughter …’
His lips tremble, as if he’s on the brink of tears, and I realise for the first time that Jude went missing, too. Magnus and Gerda experienced their daughter, their only child, running away and never speaking to them again. This must be doubly hard for them to face.
I put a hand on Magnus’ shoulder. Instead of flinching he takes a deeper breath and pats my hand, grateful for the show of support.
‘Our daughter died,’ he continues, a tremor in his voice. ‘We had never spoken to her once during that time. I still try to think of what I might have done to make her feel that she didn’t want to speak to her own parents. Parenthood is so difficult. You think that, you know, if you do A plus B you’ll get C, but sometimes that is simply not the case. You get XYZ instead.’ He laughs, grimly. ‘Anyway, you asked whether or not Eloïse was abused.’ He contemplates, biting his lip, searching his memory.
‘There was a discussion,’ he says slowly. ‘Between Eloïse and Gerda. When we went to London we found Eloïse with a social worker. She was twelve, you understand, and very much in shock after the death of her mother. We were astonished, truly astonished, to learn that they’d been living in utter squalor. And unfortunately, Eloïse relayed certain things to Gerda and we were led to believe that she experienced some things that I wish, with all my heart, she had not. But we never talked about anything after that.’ He looks at me again carefully. ‘Do you think that has anything to do with her disappearance?’
I tell him I have no idea. It’s illogical that it would have anything to do with her disappearance, because sense dictates that if something was bothering her she would have mentioned it. But then, as I flick through the diary, I notice a word written in the corner of a page in large, childish handwriting.
CHANIA.
24 April 1990
Harlesden, London
She was so hungry that she felt she might pass out. There had been many times when she had gone to bed with that terrible gnawing pain of an empty belly, but this was so much worse. It had been weeks since they last had proper food. The cupboards were stripped bare. A couple of matchsticks, empty bottles of vodka, mice droppings. She had stopped going to school. No one knocked on the door this time, threatening her mother with jail. Their new flat was in the roughest part of the city. In fact, she had a suspicion that they were no longer in London. No one spoke to you on the streets around here, and no kids played outdoors. Police vans were regularly parked outside. There were always groups on street corners, always loud voices sounding panicked. Her mother’s boyfriends stopped coming, too, though there was still one man who made a visit every week or so. Eloïse knew who he was. He wasn’t her mother’s boyfriend, though he spent the night every now and then. He was the one who delivered little packages that got burned up and injected into her mother’s arm.
She stood at the window, looking out at the street. Surely she could go and ask someone for food? A slice of bread, even. Her mouth watered at the thought of it. No, she couldn’t. It was too dangerous out there.
A bang on the door. Her heart leapt. She jumped down and ran to answer it.
She didn’t recognise the man in the doorway. A stocky man with a tattoo of a spider on his neck, lots of pimples on his face even though he looked too old for acne.
‘Big Gee wants his money,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Money. Now.’ He held out his hand
She could see a car parked a little way behind him, the engine running. Two men watching her from the front.
‘I don’t have any money.’
He grinned as if she’d said something funny. Then, when she didn’t reply, he turned on his heel and walked to the car. She watched as he leaned over and spoke to the men inside, then turned and started walking back to her.
She was steeling herself to ask him if he had any food when he grabbed her and started pulling her out of the house. She screamed and kicked, but she was easy to lift and haul towards the car. A woman across the road stared. The man opened the boot of the car and threw Eloïse in, locking it.
They d
rove for about a half hour, then stopped and pulled her out. She was so scared she couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, could barely see where they were taking her. Hands clapped on to her arms and dragged her inside a house. The last thing she saw was a group of men and women in a living room and a well-formed cumulus hanging above them.
‘Out you get.’
A man’s face looking down at her. She was groggy. Her legs felt like someone had filled them with concrete. A hand took her arm and hauled her roughly to her feet. The hard night wind slapped against her bare shins.
‘Drink water, yeah?’ the man said.
She nodded and gave him a wave, and he laughed to himself before getting in the car and driving off.
Her front door. She recognised the brass numbers and the cracked glass panel. She felt distanced from her body, as though she was slightly outside it. She had marks on her arm and blood running down her leg.
Inside was quiet. She took the stairs very slowly, thought to check on her mother. She found her sitting at the side of her bed, yawning and wiping her eyes. She looked up and gave Eloïse a weak smile.
‘Where did you go last night?’ she said.
‘Nowhere.’
Jude nodded. ‘Is there any food in the house?’
She shook her head.
‘I think I’ve some money downstairs. I’ll go out in a while, get some milk and cereal.’
Eloïse tried to respond but found she couldn’t. She was like a puppeteer trying to master the strings attached to her limbs. With an awkward spin she turned and made for the bathroom, ran the taps until the water turned hot, hot enough to burn the night off her flesh, before climbing in.
2 April 2015
Potter’s Lane, Twickenham
Lochlan: My phone buzzes after eight o’clock in the morning. I’m still in bed, surprised when I wake up. I was still awake at five but I must have drifted off. I thrash around for my phone, hoping it’s a call from one of Magnus’ contacts. We never located her Swiss passport, and somewhere along the course of the search, amidst the babycams and ex-girlfriends, this detail got lost. Magnus and I spent most of last night drafting yet another list of people to contact. Given that El’s notebook contains the word ‘Chania’, a city in northern Crete. We got married on her grandparents’ island near Crete. It’s a long shot, however. The island is completely deserted.
‘RAMONA’ appears on my screen. My secretary. I’d almost forgotten I had a job.
‘Lochlan?’
It’s so good to hear her voice. ‘Ramona. How have you been? How are things at the office? Am I sacked yet?’
‘Not yet, but … look, I feel awful for calling you when all of this is going on, but …’
‘What’s wrong?’
She goes on to explain that the company had a cyber security breach last night, with data stolen during a merger- and-acquisition deal between a FTSE 350 company based in London and another in Tokyo. As she explains it, the gravity of the situation unfolds in my head – one and a half million customers’ private information is likely being traded around the world as we speak. Bank account numbers, pensions, child trust funds – all compromised. And that’s before we know how much money was leached from the M&A.
‘Dean Wyatt will be sending out a press release in the next half hour,’ Ramona says. ‘But before that the security company wants all key holders to log on to the central system. Will that be possible for you?’
‘Lockie boy!’ a voice calls as soon as I walk out of the lift. A few yards down the corridor I see Paddy Smyth, sharply turned out in a new slate-grey suit, a perplexed expression on his face that reminds me, somewhat embarrassingly, that I probably look like I’ve emerged from a hole in the ground. Metaphorically, I have, and a glance in one of the glass partitions confirms it: I’m wearing a creased polo shirt with the collar flicked up, jeans with paint stains, I haven’t shaved in two weeks and my hair is wild and uncombed. I’m sure the dark circles under my eyes add a hint of madman to my appearance, too. I stride past Paddy and he skips to keep apace.
‘How’s your wife?’ he says. ‘Have they found her yet?’
I can’t bring myself to say no.
‘The hell d’you do to your precious Merc, by the way?’
‘I got drunk and crashed it into the garden gate.’
‘Oof. Didn’t that thing set you back fifty grand?’
I fought with Eloïse over that car. I can hear myself saying, For heaven’s sake, El, I work in corporate finance! It’s expected that I drive a good car! She thought it was too expensive. It was a constant source of tension between us.
‘She still driving OK?’ Paddy asks.
‘Good enough to get me here.’
‘Don’t tell your insurers you were drunk. Unless you were breathalysed. Were you breathalysed?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you go. Get her fixed. Can’t be roadworthy. Good of you to come in, though. I’ll take you to meet with the tech security team.’
He makes to take a left when my office is to the right. ‘I thought I had to log-in.’
‘You do, but we also have to reset all the passcodes around the place and update all the software. Eye scanners, that kind of thing. You should see the conference room. The cyber-tech crew got all these new gadgets laid out. It’s like Star Trek.’ He takes a step closer. ‘There was another thing I wanted to ask you about.’
‘Oh?’
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives a shake of his head as if he’s thought better of it.
‘What is it?’ I say.
He looks briefly around to check that no one else can hear. ‘Look, I know this is a truly terrible time for you and your family. I shouldn’t even mention it.’ He bites his lip. ‘It’s only that … Well, you know that nobody here ever takes holidays. Not during the busy season. And right now, we’re in the busy season. We’re wondering if we need to replace you, or if you’re thinking of coming back, you know?’
He holds me with a congenial smile and boyish blue eyes. It’s the same face that he’s worn in meetings with clients going bust, businesses he’s taken over, with his ex-wives. I swallow back a torrent of expletives and desperate pleas for him not to let me go and say, ‘Yeah. Right.’
‘Glad you understand, Lockie. I know I can always count on you.’
I follow him reluctantly to the conference room. The heavy double doors swing inward to reveal all the heads of the company sitting around the shining oval table, their jackets slung on the backs of their chairs, laptops open in front of them, a variety of gadgets strewn across the table. Paddy gestures towards a seat and I sit down.
‘Is that everybody?’ the guy at the top of the table asks.
A clink of wheels and cups announces the arrival of two catering ladies with silver trolleys. They shuffle to a table at the side of the room. I lean to the woman at my right – Jane Silverman, head of transaction services – and say, ‘How long is this meeting going to be?’
‘I heard three hours,’ she whispers back, and I swallow hard.
‘OK, everyone. I’m Bryan Maxwell from Fortress. Right now we all have a big emergency on our hands, so while the rest of my team attempt to get intel into who exactly has stolen all your data, I’m going to guide you through a reset of the company’s malware and security passcodes, and we’ll also have a training session on how to prevent future attacks, what to look for during future M&As, and so on. In a few moments, we’re going to link up to your sister company in New York so they can go through the same process. Get yourselves comfortable.’
I am too distracted to hear anything that’s being said, and several times Jane leans over and taps something on my laptop that I’m meant to have done. A month ago I would have been alert, every bit as worried as Paddy looks. I would have been taking notes and joining in the banter. But I no longer care. The only reason I stay is so Paddy might consider keeping me on.
An hour passes, two. Suddenly through the glass partition I see a man st
riding up the corridor, flanked by two police officers. DS Canavan. I jump to my feet, and Ramona follows. I pull open the door to meet him, my knees suddenly weak. They must have found Eloïse, that’s why they’ve come here. DS Canavan looks grim. They’ve found a body.
‘What’s happened?’ Ramona says when I can’t find my voice.
DS Canavan ignores her and addresses me.
‘Mr Shelley, I’d like you to come with us, please.’
His tone is different: taut with anger. I hear myself say, ‘Have you found Eloïse?’ but he glances away, and one of the uniforms steps forward, repeating the instruction.
Paddy appears at my elbow, horrified at the sight of police officers in his building.
‘What’s all this about?’
‘We’ve been trying to reach Mr Shelley by phone,’ Canavan says firmly. ‘We need to ask him a few questions. Can you come with me, please?’
Paddy pulls out his phone and asks for security.
‘I’m afraid this is a police matter,’ Canavan tells him.
‘Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you not to interfere with police business,’ the uniform tells Paddy when he begins to argue, but from the far end of the corridor I can see two security guards approaching. Canavan eyes me darkly.
‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’ I ask him, incredulous. ‘This is my wife we’re talking about!’ He doesn’t answer. I look to Paddy, who stares back at me, bewildered.
‘Come with us to the station,’ Canavan says sternly. ‘We can have our chat there.’
2 April 2015
Children of War Headquarters, Tufnell Park, North London
Gerda: I brought the children home with me yesterday afternoon, leaving Magnus in London. I was in high spirits the whole way back to Ledbury. I even stopped in Cheltenham and bought the children some new outfits and toys, a beautiful changing table and sleigh cot for Cressida, which will be delivered tomorrow. I arranged for Mrs Sloan, our housekeeper, to put some balloons in the drawing room for us coming home and to fill the refrigerator. Max was excited when we got back and for the first time in weeks I was able to forget the terrible mystery that is my beloved granddaughter. I watched Max leap out of the car and tear into the house, and it was only when I managed to bring the car seat and all the bags in from the car that I realised why he was running through the rooms upstairs. He thought his mother was here. He thought that was the reason we had come to Ledbury. When I told him otherwise, he threw a huge tantrum and begged to go back to his father.
