by Alison Moore
MISSING
by
ALISON MOORE
SYNOPSIS
Having moved from the Fens to the Midlands to the Scottish Borders, Jessie Noon finds herself struggling to leave the past behind.
Following a family tragedy, Jessie Noon moved from the Fens to the Midlands and now lives in the Scottish Borders with a cat, a dog and – she is convinced – a ghost in the spare room. Her husband walked out almost a year ago, leaving a note written in steam on the bathroom mirror, and Jessie hasn’t seen her son for years. When Jessie meets Robert, a local outreach worker, they are drawn to one another and begin a relationship; meanwhile, Jessie has begun receiving messages telling her I’m on my way home.
As a translator, Jessie worries over what seems like the terrible responsibility of choosing the right words. It isn’t exactly a matter of life and death, said her husband, but Jessie knows otherwise. This is a novel about communication and miscommunication and lives hanging in the balance (a child going missing, a boy in a coma, an unborn baby), occupying the fine line between life and death, between existing and not existing.
REVIEWS OF THIS BOOK
‘Like Moore’s other works, Missing starts out as a spare and seemingly simple psychological drama. But stay with it and dig deeper, for beneath the surface lurk immensely satisfying hidden depths.’ —Malcolm Forbes, The Sunday Herald
PRAISE FOR PREVIOUS WORK
‘She is both gifted stylist and talented creator of a new English grotesque.’ —Isabel Berwick, Financial Times
Book of the day ‘Dense, complex, thought-provoking, it manages to be at once a fairytale and a philosophical treatise, high-octane thriller and literary interrogation. Like the dreams that haunt Bonnie’s night-times, it holds its secrets close, and repays careful rereading. The end of the novel, abrupt and death-haunted, feels as neat and tight as a key in a lock, and sheds light on the mysteries that have gone before.’ —Sarah Crown, The Guardian
‘Moore is a serious talent. There’s art here. There’s care.’ —Sam Leith, Financial Times
‘He Wants will easily be one of my books of the year... He Wants left me feeling both completely uplifted and utterly devastated, all at once.’ —Simon Savidge, Savidge Reads
‘Alison Moore is very good on modern alienation... She doesn’t so much lay bare a life as shine blinding pinpricks into its darkest corners.’ —Claire Allfree, Metro
‘Death and the Seaside is a psychologically astute novel of power, control and influence which will make you wonder how real your memories are and where your fears come from. Blending layers of memory and imagination there are signposts to the end everywhere, if you only know where to look. Clever and really quite disturbing.’ —Mel Mitchell, New Books
Missing
ALISON MOORE’s first novel, The Lighthouse, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize and the National Book Awards (New Writer of the Year), winning the McKitterick Prize. Both The Lighthouse and her second novel, He Wants, were Observer Books of the Year. Her short fiction has been included in Best British Short Stories and Best British Horror anthologies, broadcast on BBC Radio 4 Extra and collected in The Pre-War House and Other Stories. Born in Manchester in 1971, she lives near Nottingham with her husband Dan and son Arthur.
Also by Alison Moore
NOVELS
The Lighthouse (2012)
He Wants (2014)
Death and the Seaside (2016)
SHORT STORIES
The Pre-War House and Other Stories (2013)
CHILDREN’S FICTION
Sunny and the Ghosts (2018)
Published by Salt Publishing Ltd
12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX
All rights reserved
Copyright © Alison Moore, 2018
The right of Alison Moore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.
Salt Publishing 2018
Created by Salt Publishing Ltd
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-78463-141-3 electronic
Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, To the Lighthouse
Conference
Jessie cut her old wedding dress down to size, hemmed it just below the knee, and dyed it blue. It made a serviceable frock.
She wore it to the translation and interpretation conference in London, where they gave her a lanyard to hang around her neck, with an oversized tag that displayed her name in black capital letters. She put it on and walked slowly through the foyer of the hotel, feeling like an Elizabethan woman wearing a sign that shamed her for her wrongdoing.
After a session on machine translation, she attended the buffet lunch and attempted to mingle. It made one sound gaseous, she thought, mingling with the other delegates. It made one sound like breath, which brought to mind the fact, as she understood it, that with each inhalation she was drawing in atoms exhaled by the long dead.
In conversation with other delegates, she had, when listening, to keep her good ear, her right ear, turned towards whoever was talking. In her left ear, she had lost all hearing. This happened, sometimes, after swimming: the water caused her to go deaf on one side or the other. Usually, after a few hours or a day, something gave or popped and everything went back to normal. Occasionally, though, this did not happen; the pressure was different and she knew that there would be no give, no pop, no going back to normal. She would have to make an appointment with the surgery, see a nurse, and then she would have to do that awkward thing with oil: her husband used to do it for her, drizzling the warmed oil into her earhole while she lay on her side, very still, anticipating the relief. Now she would have to do it herself, and most likely she would misjudge it and flood the earhole; the cooling oil would ooze down her jaw, circle her neck, stain her pillowcase.
Being deaf in even one ear made her feel disconnected, distant, not quite part of the real world. Speaking, she found herself stumbling over her words, which had become, inside her head, muffled, hazy at the edges; they seemed trickier to use. She tried to put them right but could not really see that it mattered; she began to prefer to say nothing at all. She had been this way since the end of October, since before the Halloween party that she had attended with Isla and Andy from next door. Jessie had gone as someone who had died of tuberculosis. She had fake blood trickling from her mouth, and fake blood on a handkerchief that she carried. A child had asked her what she had come as, and Jessie replied, ‘I died of tuberculosis.’ But it was noisy – there was a DJ playing ‘Devil Woman’ – and when the child came back and when other children came and spoke to her, asking questions from down there, their heads at the height of her hips, her belly, she could not really hear them, so she simply said again, ‘I died of tuberculosis.’ After a while, the children stopped coming over, stopped asking her questions.
Now, too, in the conference hall with her plate of buffet food, Jessie was unable to follow the conversation, even with her good ear: all she could he
ar was the sound of her own eating filling her head.
In the afternoon, there were more sessions, with a break for coffee, and in the evening there were pre-dinner drinks and the dinner, and finally Jessie was able to withdraw upstairs to her hotel room and close the door.
She looked for a face. It had become a habit, having to find the faces in strange rooms; she had to do it or she would not be able to settle, she would not be able to sleep. She found one in the en suite bathroom, on the back of the door, in a knot in the wood: a long face – it looked as if it were melting, howling.
The house in Hawick, which had been her home for thirteen years, had very likely revealed all of its faces now. There were dozens of them; they seemed to come out of the woodwork, or she found them in the pattern of the linoleum on the bathroom floor. One was cast on a wall when the sun shone through a certain window at a certain angle; another appeared after dark, when Jessie turned on a particular lamp which threw shadows on the wall above the mantelpiece.
The cat and the dog would be missing her, although the cat would be keeping itself busy. It was a killer, that cat; it was a demon mouser. The dog would just be waiting. Isla and Andy’s seventeen-year-old son Alasdair was coming round from next door twice a day to feed them and to walk the dog. Jessie had not been away overnight since the start of the year, and this conference had almost been upon her before she realised that she was going to have to ask someone to see to the animals. Her first thought had been Alasdair. She had gone next door and knocked and it was Alasdair who answered. ‘Mum’s not in,’ he said.
‘That’s OK,’ said Jessie. ‘It’s you I want. Can I come in?’ Alasdair looked uncertain but he let her inside and she followed him into the living room. He sat down and resumed a computer game that he had been playing. Jessie sat down next to him and watched him for a while: he went through a portal, to somewhere quite different, to another kind of world. She asked him, ‘Do you play this a lot?’ Some of them played these computer games for hours every day; it was a long time to spend in an imagined world, beyond the screen. He did not hear her: he was absorbed; he was miles away. She tried again; she said his name: ‘If you go through a portal, Alasdair, can you come back through?’
Without taking his eyes from the screen, he said, ‘Well, you can,’ and he tried to explain but she did not really understand how it worked. Sometimes, it seemed, you could not get back through, or at least you could not come back the same way you went in.
Jessie used to like stories in which you could go through a doorway into some secret and lovely place: The Secret Garden, in which, in a wakening garden, a boy believed to be crippled was brought back to health; and The Pied Piper of Hamelin, in which,
as they reached the mountain-side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
and the children were let into a beautiful land,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new.
In that story too there was a boy who was lame, and who hoped, on the far side, in the beautiful land, to be cured, only he could not get in.
When she was older, she read these same stories to Eleanor, whom Jessie had always called her favourite niece even though she was her only niece, her only sibling’s only child. Even that was going back more than thirty years now. She wondered whether they were still read, these medieval and pre-war stories. Abridged versions of children’s classics seemed to be popular now.
Jessie recalled a nightclub that she used to go to when she was a student. It was inside what looked, from the outside, like an ordinary house. It had no signage but had an old-fashioned lamp shining above the door. She had gone back recently, and found that she could no longer tell which door was the right one: there were many with lamps above them; she had never noticed that before. She would no longer have known which door to knock on; she would no longer have been able to get into the club, except perhaps by walking the length of the street knocking on all those doors. Besides, that was going back thirty years as well; the club was probably no longer there.
‘I wanted to ask you, Alasdair,’ she said, ‘if you would look after the animals for me, just for a few days: feed them, and walk the dog. I have to go to a conference in London.’ She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her; he stared at the screen, intent on his fantasy world. ‘I’ll pay you,’ she added. She watched his thumbs moving fast around the remote control; she had no idea what he was doing. She was about to ask again, to say, ‘Alasdair?’ when he said, ‘All right.’
She gave him a spare key to her house, and her mobile number, and she put his number into her phone.
She had been texting him from the hotel in London, asking him how the animals were. Worrying that the dog might think she had abandoned it, she had asked Alasdair to set up a Skype session between her and the dog, so that it could hear her voice, but when, arriving at the hotel, she had tried it, she had found that it just upset the dog because it could hear her but it could not find her.
Alasdair never saw the cat, he said, but he knew it was there because the food he put down always went; and once, when he had been out all day himself and came in late to do the supper and the dog walk, he heard something, a scratching noise, coming from one of the upstairs rooms. When he went to look, he did not see the cat, but it was not the dog, which did not leave his side.
Jessie had heard the scratching too; she had heard it even when the cat – soft and silent and dark like the night – was fast asleep on the bed.
When Jessie was a little girl, in Cambridgeshire, she had once gone for a bath and found a mouse scurrying about at the tap end. She knew very well that it was a mouse but in the playground she said that it was a rat, perhaps just for the drama of it, or perhaps because that better described how it felt, the sight of that hairy thing scuttling around the rim of the bright white bath, looking for a gap to squeeze through, while Jessie stood there in the nip.
Perhaps the scratching was the sound of a mouse that the cat had yet to kill, or perhaps it was a bird, or birds. They could get in between the walls.
In the hotel bathroom, she ran herself a deep, hot bath, hoping it would help her to sleep. She placed her open laptop in the doorway so that she could listen to music, an ambient playlist, although once she was in the bath she found that she could hardly hear it. She trimmed her softened toenails and scrubbed her softened skin. When the water cooled, she ran the hot tap again and then lay soaking, trying not to splash, straining to hear a muffled ‘Keep On Loving You’, the Cigarettes After Sex cover of the REO Speedwagon track that she remembered from her teens.
Before getting into bed, she got down on her knees, clasped her hands together and said, ‘Forgive me.’ She had done this for years, for decades, and she would not stop now, even if no one was listening.
She was plagued by sleepless nights. She read in bed until she could hardly keep her eyes open and then, night after night, she lay in the dark, waiting for sleep to come, while the hours slowly passed. She had dark circles under her eyes.
Her current reading was a biography of D. H. Lawrence. She had read two others before this one; this was her third life of Lawrence. In what she had read of his work, there was always a sense of being poised between worlds, between what Lawrence referred to as ‘the old England and the new’, between the old rural way of life and the new industrial way of life, or between being stuck working in a factory and making some kind of artistic breakthrough. The characters that Jessie supposed to be him, really, in fictional form, were always torn between staying and leaving, torn between this world, this life, and another.
Jessie was reading the Lawrence biography a chapter at a time, trying to eke it out. It would not be very long before Lawrence had to die all over again. His body would grow terribly thin, and he would not know where he was, where his hands were, and Frieda would sit by the bed, ho
lding the ankle of his wasted leg, holding his bones, while he died. The sadness that this caused in Jessie was like a weight on her lungs, like when the cat curled up on her chest in the night.
For now, though, Lawrence was still alive, still young and full of vigour, a boy living at home and in love with his mother. Jessie inserted the bookmark, placed the book on the bedside table and tried to sleep.
Before breakfast, Jessie took a hot shower and then dealt with her hair. She straightened it religiously, smoothing it until it looked – held taut between her scalp and the tongs – like a sheet of brushed copper, as if she were a statue in the process of becoming copper coated. It would still kink, though, as the day wore on; the stubborn family curls would push through, like the strands of grey she kept finding.
Putting the straighteners down on the dressing-table-cum-desk, she happened to glance at the notepad that was put out for guests to use. She could see the imprint of a previous guest’s handwriting: I AM HERE, it said. Next to the notepad was the hotel information pack, with cursive print on the cover saying, HOW CAN WE HELP? She left the straighteners to cool and went down to breakfast.
The day’s programme began at nine o’clock. After a morning session on overcoming barriers in translation, Jessie went into the lunchroom, where she alternated between struggling to get a grip on the conversation and simply saying, ‘I’m sorry but I really can’t hear you.’ She felt once again like a ghost saying to small children, ‘I died of tuberculosis.’ The programme finished before teatime, but Jessie sloped off early, skipping the afternoon sessions, as well as another evening of socialising and another night in a strange room, and instead heading for the train station.
