by G H Mockford
Cliff reached over the table and placed his hand on Stephen’s arm. ‘If you’re thinking of giving up, perhaps the time has come. You’re still young. Plenty of time to find a girl, settle down, if you want, you can marry.’
Stephen smiled. ‘Are you quoting Cat Stevens at me?’
‘No. Ronan Keating. Look, the point is, son, you have plenty of time to get your life back.’
‘Who would want me?’
‘Don’t give me that sorry for myself bullshit, that’s not you. You’re smart, caring. What else could a woman ask for? Sure, you’re a fucking beanpole who’s gonna give any girl a trapped nerve every time she wants to look into your baby blues, but…’
Stephen looked across at his boss and friend. ‘Sometimes I feel you’re more like a fath–’
‘Don’t even finish that sentence,’ Cliff said, removing his hand from Stephen’s arm and holding up his finger.
‘Did you think I was going to say—’
‘I said, don’t.’ Cliff smiled. ‘Let Felicity go if you want, but you need to let this soldier go. He’s not your problem. Helping others is what you’re about. It’s a good quality, but not at the expense of your own happiness.’ Cliff got up, downed the last of his Sheriff’s Tipple and muttered a contented, ‘delicious.’
‘Is that a subtle hint?’
‘Yes, go home. I’ve got business to attend to.’
Eight
Stephen pedaled hard.
It wasn’t that late compared to when he left work on some other nights, but he had urgent business at home and he needed to get up early to meet Michael.
He rolled up outside the three-story townhouse he rented a room in and opened the door. It was likely that David, who rented a room on the ground floor, was still awake, but Stephen tried his best not to disturb him as he carried the bike inside the hallway.
The stairs creaked as he climbed them, his head torch lighting the way. As soon as he reached his bedroom, he closed the door and turned on the room light. He looked around his surroundings. This was the place he called his. And what did he have to call his life’s work?
None of the furniture was his. The bedding was from a charity shop. The few books were either a reminder of his life before it happened, or from charity shops. The odd clothes that filled one drawer and the three coat hangers in the wardrobe were either gifted to him or also from the same charity shop. The only true possession of any value, real or sentimental, was a canvas print of a bridge in Cambridge. It was a gift from an ex-girlfriend. She’d found it hilarious. Stephen had found it thoughtful.
Was Cliff right? Had he thrown his life away? Where would he be now if Felicity hadn’t run away? Where would he be if he’d not given up on everything to search for her?
Ten years was long enough. He’d been thinking it for some time and now Cliff had reflected those thoughts back at him. And Cliff was right about one thing: Edward wasn’t any of his business.
Except Stephen was a decent human being.
A decent human being who had ignored his parents for almost nine years. What had he become?
Stephen sat on the floor and stared under his bed. He counted to ten, took a deep breath and slid out the cardboard box he was looking at.
What looked like random junk to most people were Stephen’s most treasured memories. Inside was a photo of Felicity, a Christening mug, a newspaper yellowed with age, some old school photographs, his grandfather’s medals, and an envelope.
Stephen rummaged through the box. He knew what he was looking for were in there somewhere. The actual board had broken years ago but he’d kept one part. A smile tugged at his lips as the happy memories begun to dispel his melancholy.
She’d loved the skateboard.
Felicity had come to live with Stephen and his parents when she was seven years old. Stephen had been fourteen at the time and he remembered how one particular social worker and been concerned about the age gap between them.
The skateboard and been a major part of their friendship. When he’d gone to university four years after she’d come to join them, Felicity had been heartbroken. He’d become the centre of her world. He’d given her the board and a teddy bear in a crash helmet and pads to try and soften the blow.
It didn’t work.
When he came back at the end of his second year, his mum had sat him down, worried that Felicity was developing a crush. Even though he’d been twenty when she’d spoken to him, his mother had refused to tell him anything specific about Felicity’s past. All she told him was that she’d come from a terrible place and that her experiences might lead her to be ‘confused’ about boys. Stephen presumed it was why the social worker had been so concerned all those years ago.
Having already spent ten years as a brother to foster children, Stephen knew it was best not to ask about their past, besides, when he was younger the previous kids usually told him everything in the end anyway. Felicity, however, never spoke about hers.
Stephen never let on to his parents about the others. They would have freaked if they’d known, and probably given up the role they loved so much. Life was about looking out for those less fortunate than yourself, especially to mum. It was all part of her faith. Her way of serving God.
‘If we can help heal these children with love and kindness then we can leave this earth a better place than we entered it,’ his mother always said. She was a fabulous parent, both to him and the seven or eight foster children they had looked after over the years. Felicity was the last, of course.
As far as he knew.
His father, well, he was great with the foster kids, but Stephen was never good enough for him.
And now Stephen didn’t speak to either of them anymore. Or they didn’t talk to him.
Stephen sighed. Did it really matter which way round anymore?
Stephen dug out his Nokia and navigated through his contacts. He found ‘Home’ and stared at the number. He didn’t even know if they still lived there.
There was only one way to find out.
But it was too late to ring now.
Maybe tomorrow.
Stephen placed the phone on the top of the bed and dived into the box. He pushed the envelope to one side and lifted the Gullwing HPG split axle trucks out of the box. He found the other half of the pair and put them both on the bed with the phone.
Stephen was about to push the box back under, when he noticed the envelope he’d earlier pushed to one side. He picked up the dusty letter and shook it clean. The postage mark across the first class stamp brought back sad memories, but no regrets.
He opened the envelope just as he’d done ten and a bit years ago – his stomach filled with a sense of dread, his soul filled with hope. He slid the single sheet of paper out and opened it up.
Dear Mr Stephen Bridges, he read, we are pleased to confirm your place whereupon you will study for your Masters of Philosophy in Early Modern History.
He’d taken the fifteen-year-old Felicity to the Goose Fair to tell her the exciting news. He never got the chance to tell her. Just as well, he mused, as he never went. He didn’t catch the train to Cambridge on that Monday afternoon.
He’d stayed for her.
He’d searched for her.
Stephen never grieved her loss, for that would mean he’d given up and that she was truly dead. Felicity was out there and someone, somewhere, knew where.
Drops fell onto the open letter and, for the first time in ten years, Stephen cried, not for Felicity, but for himself and the dreams he’d let go.
Nine
SUNDAY, time unknown
Georgia’s eyes flickered open and slowly came into focus. It was dark. And something was wrong. Very wrong. She could feel it deep inside her, and it wasn’t just the urge to be sick.
Or the dull headache.
Or her dry throat.
Her head hung down upon her chest and in the weak light all she could see were her filthy, white trainers on the ends of her out-stretched legs. She went to
stand up but found her legs wouldn’t move. It was as if an invisible vice were holding them in place. No, it was worse than that. She couldn’t even feel them.
Or her arms.
Or her bottom.
Georgia took a hand full of deep breaths and waited for her heartbeat to calm down. There wasn’t anything to worry about.
Really.
The last time she’d felt like this she’d slept against a wall two weeks ago. It was her first night living on the street. The sleeping bag she’d brought with her just wasn’t thick enough to keep her warm.
It was then that she realized it was missing. Some bastard had nicked it. She was willing to bet they had snatched her backpack of clothes too. She used it as a pillow, but not tonight.
But she didn’t remember sitting against a wall.
There was still something else that was amiss, but it wasn’t to do with her body. She went to tip her head back to see more of her surroundings, though she knew the absence of light wouldn’t make it easy. Just like her limbs, her neck wouldn’t move. The cold had made her muscles seize up. She would need to get new covers before the next evening or she would be in the same predicament again. If there was one thing she’d learned over the last two weeks, it was that being cold was worse than being hungry. Much worse.
Georgia had no choice but to force her neck to move if she was going to find out more. She took a few deep breaths in preparation for the pain that would lance through her stiff muscles in terrible, intense stabs, and lifted her chin from her chest.
It took her a while to get full movement, but the pain wasn’t as bad as she’d expected.
Now she could see. A little more, anyway. The light was too weak to make out where she was, despite the narrow, brilliant strip of light that cleaved the area in front of her in two. It wasn’t the familiar wall of the bridge arch. She could tell that much. Was she inside a room?
She didn’t recall setting up camp for the night in an abandoned house, but she’d woken disorientated and confused in the past. She tried to remember where she’d been last. She was... yes, she was with Edward under the arches. He’d been a life-saver. If she’d not met him a week ago, she didn’t know what she would’ve done. She couldn’t go back home. There was no way.
Georgia tried to focus her mind, but the headache and nausea made it too foggy. There had been another man with her and Edward. They had never seen him before, but Edward was a trusting soul and invited him to join them. Safety in numbers, he’d said.
‘Eddie?’ she called out into the darkness.
No answer came.
‘Hello…’ She wanted to call out the stranger’s name, but she couldn’t remember it.
No reply came from him either.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said to herself, trying to calm her rising heartbeat. There had to be a logical explanation.
She looked at the beam of light on the wall again. No, it wasn’t a wall, it was a door. The end of a sweeping brass handle was visible. Its swirling scrollwork a fitting compliment to the paneled, white painted wood, even if the brass was all covered in a green patina.
And that was when reality started to sink in, and no matter what she told herself, Georgia couldn’t ignore the fact she was in a strange place with no explanation for how she got there.
Whatever the truth, she knew she needed to get out. But could she get her legs to work? She reasoned that if her neck were stiff from having hung down for hours and her legs asleep from lack of movement, perhaps she could rub some life back into them with her hands.
She moved her right arm, preparing to carry out her plan. It was leaden like her neck, but it was moving. If she just kept moving it a little at a time it would become easier just as her neck had.
But no, it didn’t get any easier. It felt like her arm was heavy.
She turned her aching neck and looked at her wrist.
Then, as if all her fear was fighting to get out of some dark space in the pit of her stomach and out through her mouth all at once, she screamed.
Georgia had a manacle around her wrist.
She was chained to a wall like an animal.
Ten
MONDAY 7:30 A.M.
The Black Eyed Peas woke Stephen up. He must have still been tired from the other night’s misadventures because he always awoke before his alarm went off.
He didn’t waste any time. He showered, dressed, had a quick cup of coffee with David, during which he confessed to the previous things he’d borrowed and promised to do his ironing for him.
Then he was out the door.
Stephen was beginning to feel that he was spending more time in Lady Bay than Manor Park. The two boroughs of Nottingham couldn’t be more worlds apart. On one side of the river, the wealthy and privileged lived in Lady Bay and West Bridgford. On the other was Manor Park, an ethnically diverse community of broadly low-income families.
The traffic got heavier as Stephen made his way through the main streets of Lady Bay. Once he was in the residential areas it got easier and he soon arrived at Lady Bay Academy. Stephen waited across the street from the main entrance of the secondary school. Its sign proudly declared its status as ‘an outstanding arts provider’. Stephen felt awkward as he stood there, lingering far longer than anyone should. A teacher with a walkie-talkie was watching him carefully.
‘Morning.’ It was Michael, approaching from behind. He’d brought a friend with him. ‘This is Zak.’
‘Do you have the pictures?’ Stephen asked.
‘That depends. Do you have the trucks?’
‘What’s up with you? Been watching gangster movies while you were drawing, or something?’ Stephen answered as he reached into his pannier and withdrew the pillowcase he’d put the trucks into.
Michael smiled. ‘I spent several hours on these bad boys — I need to know it wasn’t for nothing.’
Stephen handed over the pillowcase. ‘Check them out. Genuine Gullwing. Saw a pair if these going for two-fifty on eBay once.’
‘That’s not much,’ Zak said as he tucked into a McMuffin.
‘I think he means two-hundred and fifty,’ Michael clarified for his friend.
Stephen nodded. ‘So, have you got the pictures?’ Stephen asked, glancing over at the teacher.
Michael removed his backpack and unzipped it. He pulled out a homemade folder constructed out of two pieces of card from the side of a breakfast cereal box.
‘These aren’t the originals. I’ve kept them to put in my GCSE portfolio. I scanned them. These are some copies.’
Michael seemed pretty pleased with himself. Stephen hoped they were as good as he thought they were. He separated the two pieces of card, slipped his fingers in and pulled out a picture.
A man’s face stared back at him. He was in his mid to late twenties and handsome, in a pretty boy kind of way. The work was stupendous. If it had been done in colour, there was no doubt in Stephen’s mind it would have looked almost like flesh and blood.
‘This is incredible. What color were his eyes?’
‘I didn’t see,’ Michael said. ‘And thanks. Mr Rafter thinks I’ve got real talent. He’s already lining me up for an ‘A’ level.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ Stephen pulled out the next drawing. It was Edward. It looked exactly like him, even down to the split lip. If the other two were as accurate as this, he should have no trouble recognizing them.
‘And the girl?’ Stephen asked. ‘It was the girl I was really interested in.’ The two boys looked at him and, too late, Stephen realized it did sound a bit weird. Trying to justify it would only make it worse.
‘There should be another one in there,’ Michael said, snatching the homemade protector from Stephen. ‘There, look.’
Stephen smiled, finding it impossible to hide his excitement, and waited for Michael to return the card to him. He withdrew the picture.
Staring back at him was a girl. She was attractive, just as Michael had said. Her dark hair was cut in a chopp
y style bob. Her nose was long and slender, her mouth maybe a bit too large.
If the picture were accurate.
‘Nice doing business with you,’ Michael said, and then he and Zak ran across the road as if their lives depended on it, disappearing through the gates. The teacher raised the walkie-talkie to his lips and Stephen decided it was time to move on.
He started to head home to begin work on David’s shirts, but at a T-junction he turned left and decided to head for Manor Park library first.
Once his bike was secure outside the Victorian building, Stephen entered. The woman behind the counter gave him a big smile and a wave as he headed for the bank of computers in the far corner.
Stephen took his phone from his pocket and navigated the menu until he got to the timer. He was granted sixty minutes of free internet access each month thanks to his Citycard. He always timed himself. He came down to use the facilities every other day and needed to make sure he didn’t over-run his allotted daily time. Sometimes he would come across something interesting and spend too long, but he would always take note and adjust his remaining slots accordingly.
Setting the timer for ten minutes, Stephen logged into his account, opened Google Chrome and accessed Facebook. He had no friends – just groups and like pages. Stephen looked at his news feed. It was full of faces. Most belonged to teenagers. Some were pictures from as far back as the seventies. They all had one thing in common — all these people were missing, be it for forty years or forty hours.
Stephen scanned through the smiling faces and looked for anyone who looked familiar. He’d been using Facebook groups to help him find Felicity for almost five years, but he’d not seen her yet or had anyone reply to his posts. In the early days there had been a few times when he’d seen similar looking women and got excited for a moment, but it was never her. He soon learned to look at the faces dispassionately, and that in itself started to worry him.
