by D. S. Butler
I shook my head. “No, it’s fine.”
When I first moved here, I’d struggled. The water containers contained five gallons and were heavy. It was essential to position them perfectly over the water machine, so the lid punctured in the right place. Otherwise, you’d end up with water everywhere. But I’d learned how to do it now.
Usually, I would ask after Jose’s wife and daughter, who were still living in India, but today, I had no time for that.
“Thanks very much, Jose. I’ll see you later.” I practically pushed the poor man out of my apartment.
Alone again, I turned back to my phone.
I took a screenshot, preserving the evidence. Then I saved a copy of the photograph and emailed it to myself. I wasn’t sure why, but I was paranoid that this picture would disappear and nobody would believe me. Then I looked again at the phone number. It was a +44 number, which meant the number was registered in the UK. I tapped out a text message.
Who are you? Where is Jenna?
My heart was racing, but I needed to think clearly. My emotions were all over the place. One minute, I was thrilled, and then the next, I was wondering whether I was mistaken. What if it wasn’t Jenna?
Pacing the small kitchen, I clutched my phone, but there was no response to my text message. I couldn’t wait any longer. My mother and Daniel needed to know about the photograph.
Taking a deep breath, I rushed to get my laptop from the bedroom. I used video calls to keep in contact with Mum. It was nice to see her face, and it seemed more personal than a normal telephone call. Today, I had another reason for using a video call. I wanted her to see the photograph.
I pressed the call connect button and waited for her to answer. The call rang and rang, and no one picked up. I chewed the edge of my thumbnail and tapped my foot impatiently on the floor.
Was she out? I glanced at my watch. It was lunchtime in the UK. I could call her mobile, but this wasn’t the sort of news I wanted to deliver if she was out shopping or having lunch with friends. I wanted her to be at home when I told her. Maybe I would have to call Daniel first? The idea made my chest tighten, but Jenna was his daughter.
I lifted the hair off the nape of my neck and felt the sticky sweat drying on my skin. Crossing over to the side of the room, I adjusted the air-conditioning and turned up the fan speed. The cool air against my skin gave me goosebumps.
Ignoring the low hum of the air conditioning in the background, I tried to connect the call again. This time Mum answered.
Her familiar face came into view, and she pushed her glasses up on her nose and peered intently at the screen.
“Hello, Mum.”
“Hello, love. I was just thinking about you. British Airways have got a sale on, so I was thinking of booking my flight early. You can get some good deals if you shop around and –“
“Mum, I have to tell you something.”
Mum frowned, picking up on my tense and urgent tone. “What is it?”
My mouth suddenly felt dry. I wanted to tell her, but I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me. I’d run her ragged with my theories and possibilities on what could have happened to Jenna two years ago.
But I couldn’t hold back. “Someone sent me a message.” My voice sounded foreign and brittle. “Mum, they sent me a picture of Jenna. She looks older, but it’s definitely her.”
Mum didn’t reply. She didn’t even move. She was so still that for a moment I thought we’d lost the connection and her image had frozen on the computer screen.
“Mum? Are you still there?”
“Beth, it can’t be Jenna.” She sighed heavily. “I thought we were past all this. You’ve been getting on so well.”
I shook my head and held up my mobile, showing her the photograph. “I know, but it is her. I’m sure of it.”
Mum scrunched up her eyes as she squinted at the screen, trying to get a better look at the photograph.
“It looks like her, but it can’t be, Beth. Be reasonable. Jenna is gone.”
I frowned, turned the phone back to face me and stared at the screen. She was wrong. It was Jenna. I knew it.
“It’s just because you can’t see it properly,” I insisted. “Wait a minute. I’ll email it to you.”
I used my mobile phone to access my emails and attached the image of Jenna to a message. I typed Mum’s email address at the top and pressed send.
I waited for what felt like ages until I heard the tinny beep of Mum’s computer as it received the incoming email.
Mum shuffled about in front of the screen, and I tried not to be impatient as I waited for her to access her emails.
When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I asked, “Mum? Did you get it?”
The sound of her crying told me she had. She removed her glasses and bowed her head.
Tears prickled at the corner of my eyes. “It’s good news, Mum. I know it’s a shock, but don’t worry. We’ll find her. It means she is still alive. I’m coming home. I’ll get the late flight tonight if there’s room. I’m going to send you another email. This time, I’ll send you the telephone number that sent me the photograph. I’ll bring the phone back with me, but I need you to tell the police and Daniel, of course. Can you do that?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose and looked up. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she nodded. “Yes, I’ll do it.”
A warm, hopeful feeling eased the tightness in my chest, spreading through me and pushing back the terror I had been experiencing for the past half an hour. Now that someone else had seen the photograph, and agreed it was Jenna, I didn’t think I was going mad.
I glanced down at my phone again. The photograph was definitely of Jenna, and now we had a chance to get her back.
Chapter Six
I managed to get on the night flight back to Heathrow for an extortionate amount of money. Entering the airport made me feel nervous. Since arriving in Dubai, I hadn’t been back to the UK. Mum had visited me three times, but I hadn’t felt the need to return.
Truthfully, I didn’t want the whispers to start up again. After walking into a shop or a pub in Woodstock, I’d been greeted by sideways glances and whispers. What a tragedy. What a waste.
I edged forward towards the check-in counter, already exhausted even though I hadn’t started my long journey yet. The bright artificial lights in the departure zone hurt my eyes. The flight would take seven hours, and I already knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I was emotionally exhausted and wrung out, but far too busy thinking about finding Jenna to get any rest.
An Indian family in front of me shuffled forward towards the check-in counter. I eyed their luggage in disbelief. It looked like they’d brought all their worldly goods with them. I only had a small carry-on with me. I’d been in such a rush to pack, but now, I wondered whether I should have packed all my belongings. Would I be coming back to Dubai? If we found Jenna, I wouldn’t want to leave the UK again, and I had no idea how long the search would take us.
I shoved a hand through my tangled hair and then searched through my handbag to pull out my passport. I’m sure Sylvia would help me out if I needed her. She could pack up my stuff and put it in storage or even ship it over to the UK for me.
I hadn’t called her yet, and I hadn’t even let my boss know I was leaving the country. It was too late to disturb him now, so I would have to call him tomorrow morning after I’d landed.
There were murmurs of disapproval in the queue behind me as the woman behind the check-in counter tried to explain to the Indian family that they would need to pay for excess baggage.
When it was finally my turn to check-in, the woman behind the counter smiled and quickly and efficiently checked my ID and wished me a pleasant flight.
I passed through security and strode through to the departure lounge, pulling my case behind me.
Despite the late hour, a woman, wearing heavy make-up, stood at the front of the shopping area, holding a bottle of perfume to spray on passers-by. I dodged out of her way. The last thin
g I wanted was to smell of cloying, heavy perfume all the way back to London.
I rubbed a hand over my forehead, feeling my headache surface again.
Standing close to the wall to avoid the foot-traffic, I rummaged around in my bag, looking for paracetamol. I knew I had some in there somewhere. When my fingers located the foil packet, I walked towards Starbucks.
Caffeine and paracetamol would hopefully get rid of this headache before it got any worse.
It was strange seeing the airport so busy at this time of night. So many tourists crammed into coffee shops and browsed the electronics shop opposite me. A jumble of people milled about, some looking happy, some stressed and anxious.
I ordered an Americano and carried it over to a small table, wheeling my little, black case underneath the table, out of the way. Then I swallowed my tablets with a mouthful of scalding hot coffee.
I pulled out my phone and messaged Mum, letting her know I’d managed to purchase a seat on the night flight and what time I would be arriving at Heathrow.
She replied straight away to tell me she’d spoken to Daniel and the police. She asked if I needed a lift from the airport, and almost as an afterthought, added ominously that the police wanted to talk to me tomorrow morning.
I don’t know why that made my stomach churn. Of course, the police would want to speak to me. This was a new lead and could be a critical development in Jenna’s case.
I didn’t intend to pay for a hire car. They were ridiculously expensive. The transport between Oxford and Heathrow was pretty good. Perhaps not quite as convenient as having my own car, but it would do. I certainly didn’t want Mum driving at that time in the morning with this news hanging over her head. It was good news, but all the same, it would be a distraction.
I quickly tapped out another message telling her I’d get the coach to Oxford and then the bus from Oxford to Woodstock. I glanced at the screen above me, praying that my flight wouldn’t be delayed. So far, so good. Everything seemed to be running on time.
I removed the lid from my coffee and stared down into the dark liquid. I was afraid to go back. Afraid that this lead would turn into nothing. I fought against the urge to look at the photograph of Jenna again.
I bit down hard on the soft inner flesh of my cheek and tried to fight the tears. I didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not here.
Oh, Kate. Why couldn’t you have held on a little longer?
The flight was busy. When I’d flown out to Dubai, the plane had been relatively quiet, and I’d had a spare seat next to me, but today we were crammed in like sardines. If I’d had the money, I would have opted for business class.
I was in the middle of three seats. To the left of me was a large American man who sat by the window. He introduced himself as Steve, from Texas, then folded his arms and looked out of the window. To my right was a British woman, who got out her knitting as soon as she sat down and began click-clacking her needles together. It was such an old-fashioned thing to do that I couldn’t help staring at her in surprise.
She didn’t look that old. I pegged her at mid-fifties, but she had a kindly, motherly air about her.
Our take-off was smooth, and once we were in the air, the stewardess came along the aisle with drinks. I ordered a gin and tonic. I needed it.
The lady next to me ordered a glass of red wine, and the Texan gentleman ordered nothing but promptly closed his eyes and fell asleep. I wished I could do that.
I sipped my drink, trying to ignore the memories that were bombarding my brain. But it was no good. I had nothing to do on the plane except think.
Six months after Jenna disappeared, Kate had tried to take her own life. The police found her parked in a secluded country lane, slumped over the steering wheel. She had taken packets and packets of paracetamol. My sister didn’t die immediately, which was unbearably cruel. In the hospital, when she’d recovered consciousness, I’d sat beside her for hours, holding her hand and talking to her, making her promise me she wouldn’t give up hope.
I hadn’t managed to get through to her. The dull resentment in her eyes told me that. But I thought we’d have more time. I intended to stick to her like glue. Between us, Daniel, Mum and I would make sure she wasn’t left alone. Never again, I told myself, would we give her another chance to do this.
The trouble was, she didn’t need another chance. Once was enough.
A day later, her liver began to fail. One of the nurses heard me crying in the corridor and tried to explain that this often happened in paracetamol overdose cases. It may have been kindly meant, but her medical explanation didn’t help.
Her death had devastated us all. Jenna’s disappearance was horrifying, but Kate’s death sent me over the edge.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but even so, a solitary tear escaped and ran down my cheek. I wiped it away quickly, but not quickly enough. The motherly-looking lady in the seat next to me turned around.
“Are you all right? You’re not afraid of flying, are you?”
I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t, and then decided it was probably easier to go along with her assumption. That way, she wouldn’t ask any more questions.
“A little,” I said.
She let her knitting needles fall on her lap and reached over to touch my hand. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve done this journey loads of times now. I’ve just been to visit my son. He’s been living in Dubai for five years and has done ever so well for himself.”
As she chattered on in a soothing voice, I relaxed back into my seat and allowed her words to wash over me.
Chapter Seven
The coach journey from Heathrow to Oxford took longer than I’d expected due to the heavy morning traffic. During the flight, I had been buzzing with nervous energy, impatient to start looking for Jenna. Since I’d seen the photograph, dozens of questions had been floating through my mind. I needed to be back in the UK to fit the pieces of this puzzle together.
But now I was getting closer to home, the doubt was setting in. The unknown taunted me. Was the photograph genuine? Who had sent it?
Someone out there knew Jenna was alive. Someone had sent that photograph, and I had no idea who it was. Friend or foe? Were they trying to help or were they playing games?
In Dubai, I’d lived a fairly anonymous life and had found safety in that anonymity, but now I was back in the UK and heading to Woodstock, I felt vulnerable.
The grey clouds hung low in the sky and resulted in a steady drizzle. As the coach travelled along the motorway, the spray from the surface water made visibility difficult, slowing us down.
The coach was busier than I’d expected, and I’d had to put my carry-on case in the luggage compartment at the bottom of the coach.
As we got closer and closer to Oxford, my nerves increased. My foot tapped on the floor, and I wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans and hoped I wasn’t annoying the woman next to me with my constant fidgeting.
I couldn’t sit still.
I tried to calm down and think the situation through logically. What did I know so far? I knew that Jenna was alive. That was the most important thing.
In the photo, Jenna looked older than when she’d disappeared. My niece had been kept from her family for two years. She hadn’t looked malnourished, and there was no visible bruising apparent in the photograph. I wanted to believe that meant she hadn’t been mistreated, but I knew some injuries couldn’t be seen from a photograph.
I shivered.
The combined breath of all the passengers on the coach had made the windows steam up, making me feel claustrophobic.
If the police could find out who sent the photograph, then surely, they’d be able to locate Jenna quickly and bring her home. But deep down, I couldn’t help worrying it wasn’t going to be that easy.
When we finally arrived in Oxford, I was one of the first to disembark, eager to get out into the fresh air.
That proved to be a mistake.
The steady drizzle continued as we waited
for the driver to open the luggage compartment at the base of the coach, and the persistent rain soaked through my lightweight coat. I had hoped it would be warmer and stupidly hadn’t packed anything more substantial than my lightweight, cream linen jacket.
How could I have forgotten about the English weather? I waited patiently for my luggage, and as soon as the overweight driver heaved it from the base of the coach, I scrambled towards him, thanking him. I raised the handle and then quickly strode off, wheeling my small case over the uneven pavement. I wasn’t sure whether they’d changed the times of the bus, which travelled between Oxford and Chipping Norton, stopping at Woodstock on its way, but if the times were the same, I might just be able to catch the next bus with seconds to spare.
I walked briskly along the paved frontage of the bus station and saw that the bus, a double-decker, was already parked in its bay.
I even recognised the driver, which made me smile for the first time that day. I climbed on the bus and apologetically paid with a five-pound note. Bus drivers these days seemed very keen on passengers having the exact fare, but I didn’t have any change on me.
The bus driver pretended to make a fuss, rolling his eyes and tutting, but he grinned at me to show me he was only joking. “Since it’s you,” he said with a wink. “I’ll make an exception just this once.”
He handed me my change, and I ripped off the paper bus ticket, thanking him and then dumping my case in the designated area at the front of the bus before going to sit at the back.
There were only a few other passengers on the bus, and I had the whole back seat to myself. The rain hadn’t let up and was now streaming down the windows.
I licked my dry lips and tried to swallow the lump in my throat as the bus drove out of Oxford, passing all the familiar sites, Debenhams, the sandy coloured university buildings, The Randolph Hotel, The Ashmolean Museum and The Eagle and Child pub.
As I gazed out of the rain-splattered window at the buildings and shops, I tried to convince myself that Oxford was perfectly safe. Coming back to Woodstock was a good thing. I would find Jenna and bring her home. Things would never go back to the way they were before, not now that Kate was gone, but I owed it to my sister to make sure Jenna didn’t slip away from us again.
