by G H Mockford
Stephen tore himself away from his thoughts and focused on the screen before him. There were no messages and nothing in his notifications. A red flag urgently informed him he had ninety-nine plus friend requests. He wasn’t interested in making friends. He was only interested in reuniting families.
He re-posted the meme of Felicity he’d made on Cliff’s laptop in three Nottingham missing persons groups, and one based in Derbyshire. Sometimes he would post on London pages, Manchester or other large cities, but not today.
Felicity would be twenty-six now. Stephen’s biggest fear was that he walked straight past her every week - unrecognized and undiscovered. Life on the streets was hard. As he’d told Edward, most homeless people didn’t live past forty-eight.
Was Cliff right? Did she have her own life now? It had always been an assumption that she was living on the streets. In the end, Felicity had chosen to leave. There were times when Stephen tried to convince himself that she’d only done what she wanted and that he should give up the search. Other times he’d tried to tell himself that she’d treated him and his parents cruelly and didn’t deserve his time and attention.
Stephen stopped scrolling through the Notts/Derby Missing Persons group. He wasn’t sure if he’d been truly looking while he was lost in his thoughts. Then he noticed who was staring at him from the centre of the screen.
A sixteen-year-old girl’s face stared back at him.
A girl called Georgia. A girl with a choppy bob.
Eleven
It was Monday night and The Manor was packed, which while unusual, wasn’t unheard of. In fact, Stephen couldn’t remember the last time they were kept so busy by thirsty and hungry punters. If food orders were not in such demand, they would have brought Trev out to work behind the bar, but he was always a last resort.
Cliff’s forehead was bathed in sweat and he was forced to take off his bow-tie and waistcoat.
‘It’s not even this hot back home in Jamaica,’ Cliff said.
‘What is it with you? You’re always complaining about the heat,’ Stephen said.
‘Well, I’m not complaining,’ Annie said. ‘What I wouldn’t give to be lying on a beach sipping a pina colada right now.’
‘One day, love, one day,’ Cliff replied. Stephen thought he’d given her a wink, but he couldn’t be sure. ‘Stephen, open the windows will you.’
Nodding his head, Stephen made his way around the pub disturbing the people who sat in the booths as he opened the windows. Or at least the ones that hadn’t been painted shut years ago. The cold October atmosphere poured in, freezing the people nearest the open ones but giving all the other patrons a much-needed breath of fresh air.
Stephen headed back to the bar only to be accosted by Old John as he passed the flashing fruit machine. ‘What you playin’ at, lad?’
‘What’s up, John?’
‘You bluddy woke me up, what with them windows.’
‘Sorry, John, but it’s boiling in here.’
‘What does that matter? Folks’ll just drink more.’
‘I never thought of it that way,’ Stephen said. ‘I’ll pass it on to Cliff.’
‘You being cheeky?’ John said, head tipped to one side, his eyes like slits.
‘Perish forbid, John.’
‘I wunt mind, but I were just restin’ me eyelids. Now I’ve gotta put up with all this jibber jabber. I can’t even hear the blasted fruit machine it’s so damn noisy.’
‘It’s a pub, John. I can’t ask people to be quiet.’
‘It’s not the noise; it’s all the bluddy foreigners.’ John started to point at people in the crowd as he listed what he could hear. ‘Poles, Romanians, Russians. It were bluddy bad enough the first time round when the coloureds moved in. At least you could tell they were different before you spoke to them and made a fool of yourself.’
Stephen closed his eyes. ‘I think you’ll find they’re Latvians, not Russians. And don’t call them that, they hate the Russians more than you do. And, not to put too finer point on it, your favorite landlord and his family moved here from Jamaica back in the sixties.’
‘That’s different. Cliff’s always been here, and he’s a Christian at least. Well, I’m gonna need the loo now, aren’t I.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Stephen said and waded through the crowd back to the bar.
He was barely through the gate when an angry looking customer placed an order. Stephen repeated it back and moved down the bar to get it for him.
‘O.J. woken up grumpy?’ Cliff asked as he finished pulling a pint of Sheriff’s Tipple.
‘I’m amazed he can even sleep with all the noise in here,’ Stephen replied before, putting an empty glass under the tap.
‘Old people are like babies and cats. They’ll sleep anywhere,’ Cliff replied before moving on to the next customer.
‘Well, you’d know,’ Stephen replied, placing the pint on the bar and glancing up at his customer before preparing the short to go with it. Stephen was sure he’d seen the man before. His hair was different and he had a beard, but there was something familiar about him.
‘Cheeky git.’ Cliff took the money from the woman he was serving and wandered to the other end of the bar to help Annie, who was swamped with customers.
Stephen picked up the glasses and took them back to the bar gate where the familiar man was waiting.
‘I should get a discount, been waiting so fucking long,’ he said. Before Stephen could reply, he slapped the money on the bar, turned around, and walked straight into John.
The frail old man cried out and fell to the floor from the impact. Then the glasses joined him and shattered.
There were groans, shouts, and some clapping as people moved out of the way. Then the lounge seemed to go quiet for a few seconds. Someone went to help O.J. up but the clumsy customer held up his hand and pushed against the Good Samaritan’s chest, stopping him.
Then Stephen remembered who he was. It was the eyes. Cliff had barred him a few months earlier after he’d started a fight. Stephen was about to say something when a terrible roar filled the bar.
The young lad, soaked in the contents of the glasses he’d just paid for, shoved the Good Samaritan out of the way and leapt upon the stricken pensioner. He grabbed O.J. by the front of his shirt and delivered a devastating punch to his face. John’s nose must have broken because blood showered the young thug’s face. It mixed with the drinks down his shirt and the smooth, dark wood floorboards.
Stephen didn’t bother to use the gate. He vaulted over the bar, his long legs making it a simple task. The gathered drinkers dived out the way as Stephen and the thug crashed to the ground and slid across the polished floorboards, the shards of glass scraping at the wood and biting into their clothes as they went.
They came to an abrupt halt when they struck the gathered patrons’ legs. Stephen was pinned to the floor, his assailant on top of him. The crowd shifted back again, eager to keep out of the way but close enough to enjoy the entertainment.
The last orders bell clanged over and over and Stephen hoped that Cliff or Annie would call the police.
The thug took a swipe at Stephen’s face. The barman threw his head to the left and his attacker’s fist ploughed into the floorboards. His scream of pain was brought to an abrupt halt when Stephen brought his head up and butted him under his chin. If he’d been poking his tongue out, the customer would have bitten it off as his jaw slammed shut. The thug rolled free, face in hands.
The pub went eerily silent except for the old man’s sobs. Stephen crawled over to him. ‘John, can you hear me?’ he asked. The memory of finding Edward came flooding back.
Stephen heard someone yell for him to look out, but it was too late. He felt a kick in the ribs. The blow wasn’t hard and Stephen was about to lash out when he heard a woman scream in his ear, ‘You leave my boyfriend alone, you fucking bastard.’
Stephen paused and paid for his chivalry. She grabbed his hair and brought her knee up into the side o
f his face. Stephen allowed his head to roll with the impact and concentrated on staying where he was – protecting John. Stephen looked down at the man he was defending. His eyes were closed and his breath rattled through what few teeth he had left.
The woman’s blows stopped and Stephen felt the grip of her hand release his hair. He turned and saw two of the Latvians, whom John had been complaining about, dragging her away. She spat and kicked at them with her four-inch heels. The men, who looked very similar to each other, laughed as they pulled her clear.
‘You belong on Jeremy Kyle show,’ one of them said.
Now it was the boyfriend’s turn to attack again. He came in with a roar. His teeth red with blood. Bending his knees, he came in low with an uppercut aimed at Stephen’s head. The barman blocked the blow, rotated his wrist and grabbed the man’s arm. Then lifting and turning, he used his attacker’s momentum to throw him over his back. The sound of shattering was muffled by the attacker’s back as he slammed onto the floor on top of the glasses he’d dropped.
‘All right, that’s enough.’
It was Annie, her voice deep and rough from the years of cigarettes. Her tone commanding from years of being a landlady.
Stephen got to his feet and staggered, still shocked by the sudden and unexpected violence that he’d played a vital part in. The pub was all but deserted. The sounds of a police siren grew louder through the black double doors as they flapped shut behind the exodus of people.
Twelve
Georgia awoke.
It was dark and she had no idea how much time had passed since the last time she’d been awake. She’d regained the feeling in her body but the cause of its return was a little disconcerting to say the least. Through a quick process of feeling around her, she worked out that someone had given her a deep, comfortable armchair to sit in.
At first she’d been grateful. Then fear replaced it. Whoever had given it to her intended her to be here some time. It also meant that someone had touched her. Someone had picked her up and placed her in it while she’d been asleep.
It was almost too much to bear.
When Georgia had discovered the chain she’d screamed and screamed. She’d hoped that someone would hear her, but when it occurred to her that the wrong person might be drawn to the sound, she quietly wept instead.
And now there was this new revelation.
She was sixteen. She’d run away from home expecting a big adventure, and now she was here. Trapped by some psycho who had God knows what planned for her. If only Annalise had been waiting where they had agreed.
Georgia allowed herself a few more tears and pulled herself together. Something was sitting on her lap. She moved her hand and the weight of the chain brought the frightful situation straight back to her.
The tears came again.
Once she’d emotionally exhausted herself, Georgia decided to explore what sat on her lap. She closed her eyes, despite it being dark, and reached for whatever it was.
It was a plate loaded with sandwiches. She felt them in the dark, trying to find out more. The crusts had been cut off. They’d been removed precisely and neatly, almost as if someone had used a scalpel to ensure a crisp, clean incision. Georgia’s stomach rumbled as if calling out to the food. When had she last eaten? How long had she been here?
Her arm still felt sluggish but she managed to pick one from the top of the pile. Despite the slight impairment of her sense of touch, she could feel their stale surface. She threw the sandwich to one side and chose one from deeper in the pile. As she anticipated, it was fresher.
She’d expected to find the bread dry, except perhaps for a tiny layer of spread, but was surprised to find the sandwich laden with chocolate spread. Georgia was about to spit it out – she was allergic to hazelnuts – but she reconsidered. She was too hungry to care. She was lonely and afraid. Perhaps going into anaphylactic shock, while painful and terrifying, would be a way of getting out of the hell hole she’d found herself in.
As soon as she’d munched through the pile, even the stale ones in the end, Georgia questioned her wisdom. Was it really worth dying, slowly and unable to breath, just to have something to eat?
Clearing her mind of all morbid thoughts, Georgia turned her focus to more pressing matters. Why would her captor give her a comfortable chair to sit in and yet still keep one arm chained and, presumably, lock the door?
‘Let’s find out what’s out there,’ Georgia said. It felt strange to hear her own voice. There was a slight echo to it, making her wonder if the room was large and empty.
Georgia took a deep breath and braced herself. She put her hands on the arms of the chair and shuffled her bottom closer to the edge of the seat. It was difficult to move. The pain had gone and she could feel all her extremities, but she was still stiff from the cold.
Her lips clamped shut and her breath whistled through them as she forced herself to stand. Her arms trembled and took most of the strain, but she did manage to stand. Her muscles screamed in protest. They were cold and being forced into activity. But to Georgia it felt good. With this one small act, she was defying her captor.
Georgia’s legs wobbled beneath her and she instinctively spread her fingers ready to grab the armchair if she fell back down. How long had it been since she stood up? A day? More? She really had no idea.
Georgia lifted her arms up in front of her, the weight of the chain on her right wrist pulling it back down. Her tiny, shuffling steps seemed as loud as soldiers marching across a parade ground as she moved into the darkness ahead. Thankfully she’d never been afraid of the dark.
Until now.
Georgia could feel her right arm being pulled away from her as the weight of the chain tugged against her. She continued walking. Then her arm hurt, and she realized that she’d come to the limits of her restraint.
She searched the darkness before her, but it was impossible to see. She lifted her left hand in front of her face. She thought she could just make it out, but it was probably just wishful thinking.
‘Why am I here?’ she called out.
She waited.
No answer came.
‘Why me?’ she shouted, not really expecting an answer. A reason came to her pretty quickly. Who would miss her?
Georgia thought she was going to cry again, but she surprised herself. From deep inside a voice was telling her not to give in. She’d survived on the streets for two weeks, even though it had never been her intention to end up there. She was tough. She was independent. She was a survivor. It was part of the reason why she’d not gone home when the plan had gone horribly wrong. How could she go back? She would look a fool. That’s if they even cared. And she doubted they did.
Her feet started to move again and soon the smooth surface of the wall greeted her swaying fingertips. It was cold to the touch, not like the wood of the door she’d been expecting. Georgia had walked straight ahead, so where was the door? She’d been facing it when she was sat on the floor, but that didn’t mean her captor had put the chair in the same position.
First Georgia moved to the left, counting her steps, and then the right, brushing her fingers over the paintwork. There was no door. Had she gone the wrong way? Or was her captor playing games with her?
Afraid she would get lost in the darkness, Georgia walked back the way she’d come, taking the same number of steps. She kept going, each step feeling smaller and more cautious than the one before.
‘Shit!’ she hissed.
The bloody chair wasn’t there. She would have to get down on her hands and knees and go scrambling around to try and find it.
The heel of her foot bumped into something as she prepared to get down on her knees. At first her heart leapt into her throat, but then she realized it was her salvation. Checking its location with her hands, she toppled backwards into the comfort of the chair. The chain clattered to the floor and the unexpected noise, which seemed so loud in the dark space, forced a scream from Georgia’s lips.
Now she was b
ack in the relative safety of the chair, she realized how fast her heart was beating. It felt like her chest was going to rip open. Then she noticed her deep, panicked breathing.
‘Calm down, silly girl,’ Georgia told herself. She took several deep, full breaths. A few minutes later her heartbeat returned to normal and she was left with the silence of her lonely surroundings.
Georgia closed her eyes and enjoyed the quiet for a moment. It was welcoming and calm. She was upsetting herself. Perhaps she was better off just staying sat in the chair and accepting her fate.
A click to her left made Georgia jump. Her heart began to race again. She turned to face the sound but was blinded as the door opened and her room was flooded with light. Georgia shielded her eyes as best she could, but the manacle around her right wrist was cumbersome. She would have to learn to use her other hand.
Georgia blinked and her eyes slowly became accustomed to the bright light. A silhouetted figure stood in the door for a moment, a syringe held in his hand, and then shut the door.
Thirteen
TUESDAY 8:42 A.M.
Stephen awoke. His head was banging. Was it bruising from the fight or did he have a hangover? He rolled over to see what the time was but the clock radio wasn’t there. And neither was his bedside cabinet with the draws that fell off their runners when you opened them in the wrong order.
Stephen wasn’t at home. He was in someone else’s bed. He rolled over and checked the other side. It was empty. He was alone. That was a relief at least.
Stephen looked around the room and listened. He couldn’t hear a shower, but he could smell the instantly recognizable aroma of frying bacon.
The walls were powder pink. The curtains white, with pink roses. At the foot of the bed, there were wall to wall mirrored wardrobes. The bedding was white linen and smelled clean and fresh.
Stephen threw back the covers.
He had just enough time to register he was only wearing his underpants when there came a soft knock at the door. Stephen pulled the duvet back over himself. ‘Hello,’ he called.
