They come in groups as though they’ve been divided up according to their ages, or perhaps their classes. They’re partnered together, holding hands, smiling, laughing, trying to be quiet. Heather is right; these are older children. The first ones that come in seem to be the oldest ones. They’re like younger versions of young women and men. The girls have the beginnings of makeup on their faces, and the boys have the beginnings of teenage acne. The next group is younger. This is the group that Emily should be in. They’re smaller and don’t have the sullen look that’s already developing in some of the older kids. They hold each other’s hands tightly as though they’ll be lost if they separated.
I settle in my chair, moving a stack of books, trying to see their faces as they spread in different directions. There are two young female teachers, and thankfully no familiar school monitors who might recognize me from my schoolyard mishap. The teachers seem to be spread too thin, trying to look after too many children. They follow after them, showing them where to find their books, all the while trying to make sure they respect the quietness of the library. I watch Heather. She puts her book down, and looks at their faces too, studying them, trying to find a resemblance. All of a sudden her eyes grow wide and she looks over at me as we make the same discovery simultaneously. The children are wearing nametags.
There are different coloured tags and in large black letters their first names are spelled out. The writing seems to be child’s writing, and the colours must group them together, presumably by age or classroom. I can see Heather as she props her book up against a stack of others as though she’s reading. I can see her head move as the children walk by, carrying books, looking amongst the shelves. She’s reading their tags.
I do the same and place my alcoholics book open, facing me, and look in the opposite direction, trying to read their names. I see ‘Justins’ and ‘Jacquies’ and ‘Williams’ and ‘Lynns’. I move in my chair as they walk within reading distance of me, and keep looking at the tags on their chests. I sit up suddenly as I see an ‘E’ on a young girl’s nametag. She has a book in front of her, holding it as though it’s a treasure, hiding the rest of the tag. She smiles shyly at another girl, who sits at a table across from me. They exchange glances for a moment, as though they’re sharing a secret. I keep my eyes on the ‘E’, trying to get a better look. I look at the face of the girl, hoping to see something that will help me to recognize her. Her hair is dark and curly, cut short. Her skin is rich and dark too. I wonder if Michael is of Mediterranean descent. I can’t see a resemblance to Heather. The little girl keeps holding the book over the rest of the tag. I look back at the other girl. She’s a ‘Hannah’. She looks at the first girl with the same cheeky but shy expression as though she’s waiting for her to say something.
As the girl with the ‘E’ passes me by, I whisper to her, trying not to attract any attention, “What are you reading? Is that a good book?”
I just need her to lower the book, let it drop so that I can see the rest of her tag, but instead she holds it firmly against her body, even tighter, and whispers back. “I can’t talk to you. I don’t know you.”
I quickly look around at the teachers, who both have their backs to me, helping other children. There are kids everywhere now, and I’ve lost sight of Heather. I want the little girl to drop the book so that I can see her tag, but she won’t. I try smiling. I try to do the same cheeky smile that she exchanged with her friend. I forget for a moment my visit to the police station, my time in the school grounds. I sit back in my chair, giving her space and try a harmless question. “What’s the name of the book? That’s all I want to know.”
She steps away from me, and lets out a small shriek, still holding the book close to her, “I told you. I’m not allowed to talk to people that I don’t know.”
To my surprise, the shouting actually starts away from me, at the front desk, and it all happens very quickly. The librarian is standing now, on tiptoes, looking around the library and yelling at the teachers. “We have a problem here. Miss Thompson, quickly, we have a problem.”
The teachers are scanning the children, looking around, mentally doing a head count. The librarian keeps talking, quickly, as though she can’t believe what has happened. “We have a problem. She’s gone. The girl-she’s gone. They just walked out. I didn’t notice. It looked so natural. They’re gone.” She’s pointing outside now, panicking, but is still rooted to her position behind the desk, waiting for the teachers to take control.
My girl with the ‘E’ retreats to her friends table, still clutching the book over her tag, watching me carefully. The other children seem to automatically find each other, while the teachers’ panicked voices tell them to ‘partner up, stay with your partners and don’t move.’ I try to find Heather, but there’s too much movement, too much confusion. The other librarian is talking into the phone now, asking someone to come quickly, and saying what I don’t want to hear, “A little girl, she’s been taken.”
One of the teachers runs out the front door, as the other one walks from table to table, looking at faces and nametags, trying to see who’s missing. I still don’t understand. I still don’t know what happened. I sit for a moment before realizing that the phone call was probably to the police, and that this is the last place that I probably should be. I get up and take a last glance at the little girl in the table behind me, as she clings to her friend, still hiding her tag. I walk past the tables filled with children, trying to look normal, trying not to look suspicious, as they sit firmly holding the hands of their partners.
Heather’s table is empty except for a stack of books where she’s been sitting. I quickly walk from small room to small room, then back to the main area, before I realize that she isn’t here. I have to get out of the library. I pass the teacher who’s still inside, as she frantically holds a little boy who’s crying and I say to her, “I’ll go look. I’ll help you.”
The teacher nods, thanking me for my help. I’m almost at the main door when the first little girl comes running forward. “He tried to touch me. He tried to talk to me.”
She has left the book on the table, and her name tag is in plain view. ‘Ella’ stands behind her teacher, pointing accusingly at me.
I make my way past the main desk to the door, as the librarian puts her arm on mine, trying to restrain me. “The police are coming. You should wait here. They’ll have questions for you.”
I can see the teacher’s lips moving, but I can’t hear her words. I panic now too. The children are talking, some of them are crying, some shouting. It all sounds like one big noise. I shake loose from the librarian’s grip and get to the door. I swing it open and make my way through. As the door closes behind me, there is a little voice from one of the children saying, “Where’s Emily? Is it Emily who’s gone?”
The cold, blustery air hits me hard and I remember that my jacket is hanging on the back of the chair, inside the library. I quickly look up and down the street, but the rental car is gone. The other teacher is coming towards me, her arms open, desperation in her eyes. “I can’t see anybody. There’s nobody here. Who would do this?”
I start to tell her that I’ll look farther down the street just as the first teacher comes running out. “Don’t let him leave. He touched Ella. Try to stop him.”
I turn away from them, and start running, before realizing that I’m running in the direction of the sound of sirens. Quickly, I cross the street and run the other way, without looking back. My breathing is short and panicked as I try to think and run at the same time. I need to get somewhere that I can regroup, to try and figure out what just happened. I run to the end of a street and duck down an alley, all the while thinking that Heather will be just around the corner. I know that there’s an explanation. There has to be. I want to see her sitting there, waiting. There has to be something that will make sense of it all.
I’m in a parking lot and keep running. I run until the sounds of the sirens get fainter, and the buildings become fewer. I run
until the shops and offices of the town became houses, and I run until the houses became fields and farms. I hear dogs barking, but don’t look to see if they’re close. I just run until I can’t hear the sirens anymore.
There’s a broken-down section of a fence, and I try to jump over it but my tired legs trip and I fall. I can’t move any farther. I see an old barn and make my way over to it. The fields around me are empty. I collapse behind the barn and try to breathe. My shirt is covered in sweat. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and realize how wet it is. I shiver as the cold air hit my warm skin. I try to stand up and realize that I’ve ripped my pants on the fence and cut my leg. I reach down to touch it, wiping at the blood on my knee with the back of my hand. I put my weight on my leg, thankful that I’m not limping and look around, trying to get my bearings.
All I can see are fields past the barn, and a farmhouse, off in the distance. Some of the fields have dilapidated old fences around them and look like they’re in need of repair. My wet shirt clings to me, and the cold wind makes my whole body shiver. I hold my sides to stop the shivering, as I make my way to the front of the barn, and squeeze through an old door that’s jammed halfway open. Inside there are several empty sacks from the feed and bales of hay. I pick one up and then, finding a nail sticking out of the wall I rip a slit in it. Removing my wet shirt, I put the sack over my head, holding the dry material against my cold skin. I marvel at how ingenious I’m being, standing there, in the freezing cold.
There’s a ladder leading to a loft upstairs in the barn. I climb up, testing my footing on the old planks of the loft, making sure I don’t fall. My breathing is starting to return to normal. It’s as though some kind of survival mode kicked in and all I knew to do was run. I throw my wet shirt over a rafter on the roof, and settle in a corner of the loft, wrapping the remaining material from the sack around me, trying to warm up.
I reach in my pocket and pull out Michael’s business card. I think of the library, all the faces of all the little girls. Emily was there. She was in the library, and now she’s gone, and so is Heather. I think of possibilities, some far-fetched and some almost plausible. Nothing makes sense anymore. Heather must have seen Emily, must have spoken to her, and somehow she left with her. I try to think of anything that she might have said that would tell me why or where she would have taken her, and why she would have left without me.
The wind hits the old boards of the barn, and makes them rattle, and with every sound, I shiver more. I rub my legs, trying to keep them warm, trying not to cramp up in the cold loft. I hug the material against me, holding it, trying to will it to warm me up. I think I hear sirens in the distance, but then realize that it’s just the rattling of the barn. I hear a dog, barking, coming closer, but as I strain to hear I realize the sounds of my own heavy breathing and the howling wind outside is playing tricks on me.
I stand up and gingerly put weight on my leg again, testing the resolve of the loft with every step I take. I try to think about what’s happened. I need to get to Heather, and more importantly, I need to get myself some help. If I can get to a phone, I’ll call Terry. I’ll ask him to contact his lawyer. I’ll tell him everything. A missing child is big news, and if they haven’t found Emily and Heather yet, and cleared up whatever misunderstanding has happened, there will be people searching everywhere. I wonder what they think my part in all of it is. What do they think I was doing, talking to a different little girl? Do they think I was a diversion?
I think of warm nights in my bed, back in Vancouver with Heather. I think of our view of the water from my bedroom, the safeness, the comfort. I can’t stop shivering. I lie back down in the corner of the loft, holding myself again, trying to warm up.
When you stop making sense, and start to go into a state of shock, a strange sensation comes over you. You absolutely know that your thoughts aren’t making sense, but you also know that there’s nothing that you can do to stop them. If you try to stop your mind from going sideways, it actually starts to go there faster. So, you give up, and just carry on with the ride. I keep holding myself in the corner, trying to imagine that I’m lying in bed with my Heather again, and not in the cold loft of a barn. I listen to the almost rhythmic slamming of the boards of the old barn as the wind hits them. I listen to the way the wind whistles through the half-open door. I can hear them in the distance, coming, getting closer. I touch my knee, and feel how the blood has dried over already. The wind keeps slapping the sides of the barn, and the partial light that shines through the slats in the wood gets fainter and fainter, and in the distance, I hear them coming. I hear them getting closer.
I close my eyes tighter and can actually feel Heather’s body, sidling up to mine, joining it as though we’re one, the way we like to do. I can feel her settling into me, pushing the covers under her chin, and then pulling her chin back down to cling to me even tighter, and I still hear them getting closer. I’m shivering, but Heather is pulling her arms around me now, trying to warm me up. I try to stop my teeth from chattering; try to sigh, the way she likes me sighing when we’re locked in our bedtime embrace. I open my eyes and close them again, and I can see her in our bedroom. I’m lying back, watching her as she places all her little glass figurines of mothers holding their children, all around the room. The noises are closer now, they’re almost here. I try to get my mind to stop, to get it to listen to the other noises. I strain and strain, and still they’re getting louder, closer.
I hear dogs now as though they’re right outside the barn. I push myself up and kick the ladder down from the loft, then crouch back down in my corner. I hear vehicles, but no sirens, just dogs, lots of dogs barking. It’s some time before I hear the voices along with the barking. I huddle in my corner, back in survival mode. I try not to breathe, as I listen to the muffled sounds of men talking, giving orders, asking for advice. I hear a word here and there, but the wind carries most of them away, until I hear the door being pushed open, and the dogs sniffing in the barn.
There are heavy footsteps, and men giving encouraging words to the dogs. The dogs bark and keep sniffing, not giving up. One of the men tries to get the dogs to leave, but they won’t. They keep sniffing and yelping and barking. Finally, one of the men speaks, “He’s here. They smell something.”
The man and I probably look up at the roof of the barn at the same time, and see my wet shirt hanging in the rafters. “Get a light in here. Now. If he’s not here, he’s been here. Get a light, and make sure your weapons are drawn, gentlemen. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, remember.”
I draw my breath in, realizing that I’ve been found. I wait. It seems like an age, until the strong light shines on the back walls of the loft, and the man’s voice reaches me. “Show yourself very slowly, Mr Wilson.”
I raise my hand, and hear a loud, simultaneous, clicking noise. “Hands down, asshole. Get on the floor, and crawl towards the edge of the loft. And if you raise your hand again, I’ll blow your fucking head off.” His voice is confident, commanding.
I crawl in inches, slowly and carefully towards the edge of the loft. I keep my hands on my head, and my face down. I can’t see them. All I can see is the battered floor of the old loft, but I can feel the anticipation of the men down below. I can hear their breathing, and it feels as if everything is happening in slow motion. Nothing matters other than getting to the edge of the loft, without making any sudden moves that might cause one of them to shoot me.
Suddenly, I don’t feel anything below my hands, as I reach the edge of the loft. I stop, waiting for their instructions. “I should just let you keep crawling, you prick.”
I lie there on the cold floor of the loft, shaking, shivering, waiting, for the man’s instructions when I hear the ladder being placed against the side, and the sound of a dog trying to get up the ladder. “Hold onto that ladder and come down backwards.” His commands are more measured now that he can see me, see my fear.
I slowly make my way down the ladder, and as I reach closer to t
he bottom, several sets of strong hands, pull me to the ground roughly. They keep me on my stomach, emptying my pockets, searching me, patting me everywhere. Then, they turn me to face them. I open my eyes, and see a crowd of police officers, two of them holding dogs on leashes. The dogs are yelping, trying to get at me. My face is covered in sweat again, and the drops are falling into my eyes. I blink the sweat away, not wanting to move my hands.
They pick me up and tighten the handcuffs roughly around my wrists. One of the dogs is allowed to jump up on me, growl at me. I pull away in panic, as the officer gives the dog some leash, and lets it intimidate me. Another man pushes me from behind to the door of the barn, and back outside.
I’m shoved towards a police car, but before the door is opened, one of them turns me around. I don’t recognize any of them from my trip to the police station the other day. They all look the same. They all look like angry, young policemen. The officer who told me what to do, takes off his hat, and slowly, looks at me. He clenches his fists as though he’s about to strike. His eyes are menacing and he leans into me, “I’ve only got one question for you. Just one, where is she? Where’s the girl, asshole?”
My Temporary Life Page 18
