The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  Chloe picked up her school rucksack. ‘And I hate this shit-hole of a town. What hope have I of ever getting away?’ She banged the front door on her way out.

  ‘Want a lift?’ Lottie shouted to a shadow.

  No keys. Shit! Now she’d have to walk to work. Swiping her hand across the table, she knocked the contents of her handbag to the floor.

  The doorbell rang. She jumped up and ran into the hall.

  ‘What did you forget?’ she asked, opening the door.

  It wasn’t Chloe.

  THREE

  The girl was dressed in a navy sweater despite the morning warmth.

  Stepping into her footsteps, a good fifteen strides behind her, he assessed her long legs. Not muscular, but beautifully slender. Blonde hair lolling on top of her head in an untidy bun made her appear taller and leaner. She had large breasts for a teenager, beneath her loose school uniform. He knew this because he’d seen her wearing a tight long-sleeved T-shirt in Danny’s Bar at the weekend. Unnoticed in the heave of hot bodies spilling pints in the beer garden, he had been close enough to touch the V of her back, just above her buttocks. He had removed his hand quickly though he’d wanted it to linger, to trace the vertebrae beneath the light cotton, to let it wander lower. Her hair was hanging loose that night, long and voluminous, with a few strands nestling in the curve of her breasts. Every detail registered, stored in his mind, for him to return to whenever he wanted.

  Now she walked slowly and he had to keep several paces behind. She strolled up Gaol Street and onto Main Street. The school was another ten-minute walk from there.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the end target. She needed saving. Because he knew why she wore long sleeves. Soon she would search the depths of his eyes, begging for a happy release from her pain.

  He smiled contentedly, following her along the street, watching her swing her rucksack from one shoulder to the other. She must be very hot by now; too hot. Lost in his thoughts, he almost missed her stopping and turning around.

  Dipping his head, he overtook her.

  He kept walking. Normal pace. Had she noticed him? A glance over his shoulder to see why she had suddenly halted. Perhaps she had sensed him. Would she recognise him as a dangerous Lucifer or a guardian angel? He would know soon enough.

  At the old harbour he crossed the road, avoiding the few girls chattering at the school gates. He walked along the canal bank and idly watched a swarm of flies hover above the stagnant waters. A sleek brown shadow lurked in the depths – a predator searching for prey? He was aware that menacing pike swam in these waters with their large gaping mouths, fangs gnashing and snaring unsuspecting trout and bream.

  His excitement had been tempered. For now.

  His little fish had escaped him. For now.

  But he would continue to prowl the shadows, waiting to snatch his chance. Like the pike with its open mouth, he could be patient.

  FOUR

  Lottie stepped back from the front door.

  The young woman standing on the step was a stranger. A white silk scarf wrapped around her head, a hijab framing a gaunt face. A small boy was clutching her hand tightly. He stared up at Lottie with scared brown eyes. A cracked-plastic cream-coloured jacket over a cotton blouse and jeans did little to hide the woman’s thinness. Lottie noticed that despite the oppressive heat she was wearing heavy brown boots.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Lottie asked wearily.

  ‘Zonje.’

  ‘Sonja?’

  The young woman shook her head. ‘Zonje… madam…’ A shrug of her shoulders.

  ‘Oh. Zonje means madam. Got you now.’ Lottie stepped forward, closing the front door behind her. ‘Look, I can’t stop. I’m in a hurry, I need to get to work.’

  The woman didn’t move. Lottie sighed. This was all she needed. Next she’d have Superintendent Corrigan shouting down the phone to hike her arse into work. Was the woman begging? She thought of the coins she’d tipped out of her bag. Maybe they would do the trick.

  ‘Ju lutem… please.’ The woman looked at her imploringly, her broken English soft and accented.

  ‘I’ve no money,’ Lottie said. Almost true. ‘Maybe later.’ Not true.

  With a shake of her head, the young woman lifted the little boy into her arms. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘help.’

  Sighing, Lottie said, ‘Wait here.’

  Back inside, she picked up a coin from the floor. When she turned round, the woman was standing behind her. In her kitchen.

  ‘Jesus! What are you doing?’ Lottie held out the two euros. ‘Here, take this.’ She waved her hand toward the front door.

  Declining the money, the young woman tugged a crumpled envelope from her jeans pocket and offered it to Lottie. She shook her head without taking it.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. Was it one of those notes begging for money? The morning was going from bad to worse.

  The woman shrugged and the little boy whimpered.

  Feeling the stirring of an instinct within, Lottie pulled out a chair and gestured for the woman to sit. The boy climbed on to her knee and nestled his head into the silk scarf.

  ‘What do you want?’ Lottie asked, picking up her stuff from the floor and dumping it all back in her bag. She hurriedly tapped out a text to Detective Sergeant Boyd telling him she was going to be late, asking him to cover for her. A streak of guilt itched beneath her skin. She hadn’t had time for her daughter earlier and here she was entertaining a stranger. But something was telling her to listen to what she had to say.

  The girl spoke rapidly in a language Lottie couldn’t understand.

  ‘Hey, slow down,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

  A head shake, shrug of shoulders. It reminded Lottie of Chloe. What age was this woman? Looking at her more closely, she thought she might be anywhere between sixteen and her early twenties. No more than a girl.

  ‘I’m Lottie. You?’

  Deep brown orbs appeared to question her for a moment before their flecks of hazel brightened, lighting up the face.

  ‘Mimoza.’ The girl smiled, white teeth glinting in the morning sun beaming through the window.

  Getting somewhere at last, Lottie thought.

  ‘Milot.’ The girl pointed to the boy.

  ‘So, Mimoza and Milot,’ Lottie said. ‘What do you want?’

  Maybe she should offer tea. No. She needed to get rid of them as quickly as possible. Her phone beeped. Boyd. She glanced at the text. You are dead late. Corrigan’s on the warpath. Nothing new there.

  Sean, her fourteen-year-old son, sauntered into the kitchen. ‘Who owns this?’ he asked, holding up a raggedy stuffed rabbit with long chewed ears.

  Milot held out a hand and grasped the toy.

  Sean mussed the boy’s hair. ‘What’s wrong, bud?’ He crouched down. ‘Why you crying?’

  Shrinking into Mimoza’s chest, the child pursed his bottom lip over his top one while his little fingers slid up and down the rabbit’s worn label.

  ‘Can you play with him for a few minutes?’ Lottie asked. ‘Before you leave for school? Chloe’s already gone ahead.’

  Sean nodded and bounced a hurling ball from one hand to the other. ‘Wanna play ball?’

  The child sought his mother’s approval with his eyes and the girl nodded. Sliding from her knee, Milot followed Sean through the back door out into the garden. Lottie stared after them. It was the most she’d heard her son say in a month. She smiled across the table at the girl. Maybe allowing her into her home had had some use after all.

  ‘Son?’ Mimoza asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Milot my son,’ Mimoza said.

  She looked too young to have a child, Lottie thought.

  ‘I have little English. Is hard to explain to you. Easy for me to write in my language.’ She passed over the envelope.

  Lottie glanced down. It was sealed, with foreign words written on the outside.

  ‘How am I supposed to know what this means?’ />
  The girl said, ‘Find Kaltrina. Help me and Milot escape. Please, you help?’

  ‘Kaltrina? Who’s she? Escape what?’

  ‘I cannot tell much. I write down a little. You read?’

  ‘Of course. Is someone threatening you? Where do you live? What’s happened to this Kaltrina?’

  The girl pointed to the envelope. ‘All there. Sorry it not English. I afraid.’

  ‘How do you know who I am? Why did you not call in to the garda … the police station?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘It not safe. You help?’

  Lottie sighed. ‘I’ll see if I can get someone to translate it for me. That’s all I can do at the moment.’ She glanced at the clock. She was going to be dead late for her first day back to work after almost four months off.

  The girl caught her eye, stood up quickly and called the boy. Sean ushered him into the kitchen. The little fellow’s cheeks were flushed. Mimoza smiled up at Sean, took her son by the hand and went to the front door. It closed behind her with a soft click.

  ‘Did you find out anything from him?’ Lottie asked.

  Sean shrugged. ‘He’s a great little hurler.’ He sauntered up the stairs towards the cavernous security of his room.

  ‘Hurry up, Sean. You’re going to be late for school. And don’t wake Katie.’

  Picking up her bag with an exasperated shake of her head, Lottie stuffed Mimoza’s envelope inside and stepped out into the morning sunshine.

  Reversing her car out of the drive, she noticed Mimoza and her son walking to the end of the road. Before they turned the corner, a smaller girl joined them, linking her arm into Mimoza’s.

  When she arrived at the junction with the main road, Lottie glanced around and noticed a black car pulling away from the kerb at great speed. It drove along the outside of the line of traffic, squeezed in and disappeared. Had someone been waiting for her mysterious visitors?

  As a break in the traffic appeared, she manoeuvred her car into the line of early-morning commuters, still thinking about Mimoza and her son. How did the other girl fit into the picture? Maybe the letter would explain it all.

  FIVE

  It was too hot for a jumper, but Chloe had been in such a state she hadn’t been able to find her long-sleeved uniform shirt. She resigned herself to sweating her way through the day in the heavy wool garment.

  Pausing opposite Dunne’s Stores car park, she wiped away the perspiration bubbling on her forehead and debated skipping school. A man brushed past her and she was aware of him looking at her sideways, but she took no notice of him. The knot of anxiety in her chest was threatening to explode. Taking a few deep breaths, she continued up the hill, greeting other girls on the way, a smile plastered firmly in place.

  At the bridge over the old harbour, she glanced down, almost casually, into the dark green canal water and realised she couldn’t face school. With exams a month away, she knew she needed to be in class, but she couldn’t do it. Not today.

  The knot in her chest slowly untied itself as she hurried along the towpath, away from the ceaseless carefree chatter of the gaggle hanging around the school gate. She walked with unseeing eyes until she reached the small bridge where the canal linked up with the supply. Her dad had once told her the river was called the supply because it supplied fresh water from Lough Cullion to replenish the canal. God, she missed her dad.

  Turning left, she walked along the riverbank for a few minutes before sitting down on the long grass, losing herself in the depth and height of the reeds. Opening her rucksack, she extracted from her pencil case a razor blade wrapped in soft white tissue.

  She knew life was cruel. They’d lost their father, and then a few months ago Sean had almost died too. Her younger brother would never be the same again, tarnished with the memories of what had happened in that cursed chapel to him and Jason, Katie’s boyfriend. Katie was damaged too; even though she tried to act normal, Chloe knew her scars ran deep.

  Did Katie blame their mother? Chloe hoped not, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that Lottie was somehow at fault; she hadn’t acted fast enough at the time to save the boys, and Jason had died.

  Chloe was a fixer and now she felt helpless. She couldn’t fix her family. She couldn’t fix herself. She couldn’t fix anything. She turned the blade over and over in her hand.

  Lifting her face to the rising sun, she allowed the rays to burn her face before rolling up her sleeve. Selecting an unblemished patch, she brought the sharp piece of steel down into her young skin. One slow slash. Not too deep. Not too shallow.

  The sight of the bright red blood, bubbling at first then flowing over the paleness, soothed her. Digging in a little deeper, she felt the pain, fought tears and slumped back into the arid grass.

  The reeds rustled. She sat upright, looking around, but there was silence. She felt like someone was watching her but she couldn’t see anybody. Pulling down her sleeve, she gathered her belongings and shoved them into her bag. Was she imagining things? Was the noise just water rats foraging among the reeds? Ugh! She shivered in the heat and set out along the gravel path, wondering where she could hide out for the day.

  Checking her phone, she posted to the Twitter hashtag #cutforlife. The feeling that someone had been watching her refused to disappear. She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and began to run.

  SIX

  The narrow roadway made the job difficult, but at least it was a one-way street. The three-storey apartments on the right-hand side cast a thin shadow, averting the rays of the morning sun.

  He had been late for work so he had to make up time before the boss arrived. New water pipes had been laid on Friday, and as the work moved along the street they’d filled in parts of the road with temporary tarmac, while other parts took a light dusting of clay covered with iron sheeting. Quick and simple, the boss had said. No one would know the difference. Now they had returned to take up the temporary material, pour permanent filling over the pipes and lay tarmac on the road.

  He drilled the jackhammer into the clay, working as quickly as he could, even though the machine generated so much heat. As dirt rose and settled, a flash of blue a little further down the trench caught his eye. He stopped to wipe away a solitary bead of sweat from inside his safety goggles, then switched off the machine altogether. Dropping it to one side, he lifted up his plastic eye protection and stared. Was it an animal of some sort? He hadn’t time for this.

  That was when he noticed a glimpse of pale skin and a wisp of black hair. Falling to one knee, his safety boots securing him to the sliding soil, he tore at the clay. The crown of a skull emerged from the dark earth. He had no thought for forensics or police or anyone who would want to preserve the ground. Feverishly he wiped away more earth.

  Andri Petrovci was not a fearful man. He had seen many bodies: people starved, butchered and burned in his homeland. He shouldn’t have been shocked by this one, but something about the alabaster skin, spotted slightly green with decomposition, and the jet-black hair, sent shivers up and down his spine. And triggered a moment he had tried to forget.

  With the final trace of soil cleared from the head, Petrovci sat back into the mound of dirt, oblivious to the honking horns, incessant shouts and increasing frustration of drivers held up with the stop/go sign thirty metres away.

  The victim’s eyes were closed, mouth shut tight in a tiny pout. Her slender neck rose from the stained blue cotton material that had first alerted him.

  Angry yelling bored sharp shards into his consciousness.

  ‘Dumb Polack!’ a man shouted, leaning out of his car window. ‘Go back to where you came from.’

  Stupid ignorant Irish. He wasn’t Polish. Tightening his solid fingers into balled-up fists, he thumped them against his forehead.

  Car doors slammed and footsteps squelched in the bubbling tar. It was too hot for May. A heatwave, the forecasters were saying. He was used to heat. He was used to bodies. He was used to violence. But this girl, lying here in unconsecrat
ed ground, abandoned below the busy street, reminded him of another girl, now long dead. This girl was not long dead. Despite the beginnings of decomposition, he imagined her as fresh as the cherry blossom petals floating from the trees to the pavement, into the melting tarmac. He thought he’d left all this behind. But he knew death didn’t recognise boundaries. It followed you like your own shadow.

  He looked down again at the still face of the girl and briefly wondered if her eyes were blue.

  SEVEN

  It was hotter inside the garda station than outside. Detective Inspector Lottie Parker stretched her tall, lean frame and smoothed down her white cotton blouse. Still no sign of the builders being anywhere near finishing her office. She’d have to slum it for a while longer in the general office.

  Opening the door, she stepped into the familiar setting, dropped her bag on the ground beside her desk and glanced at the clock. Just gone nine. An hour late. Not the start she wanted. There was no sign of Superintendent Corrigan. That was a relief.

  ‘I could’ve sworn I left a mess,’ she said, turning up her nose at the tidy desktop. A new ceramic mug with hand-painted red poppies held her pens.

  She looked over at Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd and arched her mouth in an unasked question.

  ‘You could at least thank me,’ Boyd said, turning round in his chair, brown eyes sparkling with welcome. His shirt hugged his lean body tightly. Not a bead of sweat anywhere; he always looked impeccable.

  ‘How am I supposed to find my password?’ She put her mobile phone on the desk and tipped over the keyboard where she usually kept the Post-it.

  ‘You’ll have to remember it.’

  ‘Ah, lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Boyd, for all your help.’

  Boyd’s dark hair, flecked with steel grey, was shorter now. His face was still thin and hungry-looking, his ears sticking out slightly. Lottie pulled open a drawer. Files lined up and colour-coded. She had only been away a few months and already his neatness had run amok.