by Linda Green
‘What shall we do about Otis?’ asks Alex.
I feel a stab of guilt for not having thought about that myself.
‘I’ll go and get him.’
‘You don’t have to. He could stay at your mum’s tonight. I could nip his stuff round.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I want him home. I want at least one of my children with me.’
Alex nods slowly and looks down. I realise too late that I said ‘my’ instead of ‘our’. He knows it’s because I was referring to Chloe as well. And I know how much that still hurts him.
‘What are you going to tell Otis?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think we should lie to him though.’
‘Maybe just be economical with the truth.’
‘He’d see straight through that.’
Alex sighs. He knows I am right. Otis is way too sharp for that. ‘Well, just say she’s got lost or something. Let’s try and make out it’s not a big deal. At least till the morning.’
‘OK. I’ll ring Mum. Let her know I’m on my way.’
Alex hesitates. ‘Are you going to be all right driving?’
‘Course I am. You get straight on home. Just in case, like.’
He nods and gives me a hug. ‘She’ll be fine. They’ll find her.’
I do one of those little mouth-closed smiles you do when someone has said something nice to make you feel better and turn and head off in the direction of the car park. All I can hear as I walk is the sound of people calling out Ella’s name and me screaming it over the top of them. Followed by the silence.
*
Mum opens the door before I even knock. Her usual smiling face is trying hard to put in an appearance but it is her eyes which give her away. She grabs me and gives me a hug. I am transported back to being sixteen again. Standing in the kitchen telling her I’m pregnant, desperate for her to be able to take all the fear away.
‘Your dad and our Tony are still out looking,’ she says. ‘They won’t come home till they find her.’
I shake my head. ‘She’s gone,’ I say. ‘Someone’s taken her.’
‘You mustn’t say that.’
‘Why? Because it’s true?’
Mum bites her bottom lip and looks up at the ceiling.
‘He’s very quiet,’ she says softly, nodding towards the front room, where I can hear what sounds like a Dalek.
‘What have you told him?’
‘Just that his sister’s hid in such a good place that no one can find her.’
‘And has he bought that?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says with a shrug. ‘He’s not said much. I’ve let him watch Doctor Who DVDs to try to take his mind off it, like.’
I go through to the front room, fighting like mad with myself to find a voice which doesn’t sound worried.
‘Hey, how did football camp go?’ Otis is sitting on the sofa staring at the screen, his knees pulled up to his chest. He has ridiculously long legs, courtesy of Alex’s side of the family.
He looks up at me. He knows, I can see it in his eyes straight away. He knows that this is a big deal and that I am only doing this bright and breezy crap because that’s what grown-ups do.
‘Where’s Ella?’ he asks.
‘We don’t know,’ I say, sitting down next to him on the sofa. ‘Grandad and Uncle Tony are out there looking now.’
‘Can I come and help?’
‘Not now, love, it’s too late. We need to get you home to bed.’
‘But Ella goes to bed before me.’
‘I know, but it’s different tonight.’
‘You can’t just leave her out on her own, can you?’
I swallow hard and take a moment to reply while I try to steady my voice.
‘The police are looking too. They say there’s nothing more we can do tonight. They want us at home so they can bring her home when they find her.’
‘What if they don’t find her?’
‘Well, let’s hope they do.’
‘Yeah, but it they don’t, where will she sleep?’
‘Let’s not worry about that, eh?’
‘Will she have to sleep on a park bench like tramps do? Will someone give her a blanket to keep her warm?’
I swallow hard again. For a boy who has spent most of the summer holidays arguing with his sister, he is doing a very good job of tearing me apart with his love for her.
I lean over and pull him in towards me. ‘I’m sure she’ll be OK. Try not to worry.’
‘But she needs to come in now. It’s started raining.’
Otis points to the window, where the first drops of rain are splattering the glass. They are big drops, the type you get when the weather breaks suddenly.
‘I expect she’ll be keeping dry somewhere. She’ll be fine.’
‘But we can’t just leave her outside, she’ll go rusty.’
It is the one which breaks me, which starts my own tears falling. I hug Otis tighter as he sobs into my shoulder. When I look up, I see Mum standing watching in the hall, her puffy red eyes mirroring my own. And this time she can’t tell me that it’ll all turn out fine. No one can.
*
Otis is quiet on the journey home. What I miss most of all is the sound of the two of them bickering in the back. I pull in to our cul-de-sac. I see curtains twitching, faces peering out of windows. It will have been on the telly by now. They’ll all know. And they’ll have seen the coppers here earlier. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in a nice village like this. It puts everyone on edge, makes them realise that winning a silver award in the Britain in Bloom competition does not guarantee a crime-free existence. I wonder if they think we’re under suspicion. Maybe people have been talking, saying it is someone in our family. Mixenden may only be a few miles away but it may as well be on a different planet as far as they are concerned.
I park badly on the kerb but for once don’t care. I get out and hurry to open Otis’s car door but all I can see is Ella’s empty car seat on the other side. He gets out, his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, and I follow him up the front path, wishing I hadn’t noticed that the wheelie bin has been moved from its usual place at the end of the drive. The police must have looked in that as well.
I usher Otis indoors and shut the front door behind us. Alex comes straight out from the kitchen. He shakes his head slightly at me as a way of letting me know there is no news without saying anything in front of Otis.
‘Hey, Otis, let’s see this medal of yours, then.’ He smiles. Otis looks at him as if he has lost the plot.
‘Why aren’t you looking for Ella?’
The forced smile disappears from Alex’s face. ‘Because the police are looking for her,’ he says, crouching down to him. ‘They’re the experts in things like this. We’d only get in the way.’
‘Grandad and Uncle Tony are still looking.’
‘I know, but we wanted to be here with you. Ella wouldn’t be very happy if we weren’t all here when she came back, would she?’
‘Is she still in the park?’
Alex glances at me but I can only manage a shrug.
‘We don’t know, son. They’ve done a big search but they haven’t found her there.’
‘Only I know the best hiding places. I could go and show them.’
Alex pulls Otis to him. I look up at the ceiling, desperately trying to hold it together for Otis’s sake.
‘Thank you,’ Alex says to Otis. ‘Tell you what, how about you draw a map of the park and put a cross at all the places to look?’ Otis appears to brighten a little.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Like a treasure map. Only Ella will be the treasure.’
He disappears upstairs to his bedroom where his pens and paper are. Alex looks at me blinking back the tears.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to let him think he’s helping.’
‘I know. Thank you.’
He comes up to me and hugs me. ‘It was on the radio news,’ he says, ‘when I was driving ho
me. Just so you know.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Just that a major hunt has been launched for a four-year-old girl who had gone missing from the park. I kept thinking it was going to be someone else until they said her name. It just doesn’t seem real.’
‘I know.’
‘And it’s on the BBC News website, her photo and everything.’
I nod again before I realise. ‘Shit,’ I say, closing my eyes for a second.
‘What?’
‘I’d better let Chloe know. Someone might text her or post on Facebook. I don’t want her hearing from anyone else.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ He shakes his head slowly, understanding how much I do not want to do this to Chloe.
‘I’ll do it now,’ I say. ‘Can you go up with Otis? Keep him occupied with the map.’
‘Sure. Tell her not to worry, OK?’
I nod, although I know full well that will be impossible for Chloe.
I dial the number, wondering whether they are still an hour ahead of us in France and trying to prepare the right tone of voice for when she answers.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I was going to text you later. We’re just on our way back to the hostel.’
She thinks I’m checking up on her. She has no fucking idea, poor kid.
‘Chloe, it’s about Ella.’ My voice doesn’t come out how I want it to at all.
‘What?’ She is listening now, not trying to get rid of me.
‘She went missing in the park today. We haven’t found her yet.’
There is a pause on the other end of the line. I imagine her standing there, trying to take it all in.
‘What do you mean missing?’
‘We were playing hide-and-seek. When I looked for her I couldn’t find her anywhere. I had to call the cops in the end.’
‘Well, where did she go?’
‘We don’t know. The police are still looking. I just wanted to let you know because it’s been on the news here and they’ve put her photo out and that.’
‘Has someone taken her?’ Her voice is wobbling. I imagine her brushing away the tears.
‘We don’t know, love. We don’t know what’s happened to her, but she’s not in the park any more.’
I can hear her crying now. I shut my eyes and screw them up tight. I hate this. I hate having to do this to her.
‘I’ll come home,’ she says.
‘No, you don’t need to do that. I just didn’t want you finding out from anyone else, that’s all.’
‘Well I can’t stay now, can I? I can’t stay here when my little sister’s gone missing.’
‘What about Robyn?’
‘She won’t mind. Anyway, I haven’t got any choice, have I?’
I sigh. I suppose she’s right. Maybe I should have thought of this before I phoned. Maybe I’ve done the wrong thing again.
‘Well, it’s too late for you to come home tonight. Let’s wait till morning. She’ll probably be back by then, eh?’
‘OK. Phone me though, won’t you? If you hear anything, like?’
‘Course I will. I’ll let you know straight away.’
I hear her whimper slightly at the other end.
‘Love you,’ I say.
She ends the call. I imagine her standing there in the street, telling Robyn what has happened. The two of them hugging, crying. I don’t even know where they are. They were heading towards Nantes last I knew, but I’m not really sure.
I open my eyes to find Alex looking at me from the top of the stairs.
‘It’s Otis,’ he says. ‘He wants you to see his map. And he’s upset because the police have moved some of the stuff in his bedroom.’
I nod and slowly make my way up the stairs, counting each step as I go to try to stop myself crying.
*
Later, much later, when the house is quiet, I lie in bed listening to the rain drumming against the window. Alex is lying next to me. I do not think for a moment that he is asleep but it is too dark to see. It was his idea to go to bed. He said rest was important, even if we couldn’t sleep. I went along with it mainly because it was a change of scenery from the kitchen and would at least stop me drinking coffee for the entire night. I haven’t slept a wink, of course. I haven’t even shut my eyes. All I can do is cling desperately to the hope that Ella is lying injured or stuck somewhere and getting drenched in the rain. Because the alternative is far too scary to even contemplate.
8
Muriel
Matthew is poking my legs. I do not know what the time is but the air is heavy with the scent of early. I pretend to be asleep at first. It often works. He will prod and poke for a bit, but if I do not stir he will eventually give a deep sigh and pad back to his room to look at a book or play with his toys. He knows better than to jump on my bed, of course. I hear other parents tell me that happens in their house and I look at them and shake my head. They may think it is sympathy but it is not. It is pity. Imagine allowing that to happen. And then, when their child turns thirteen, they’ll complain that they don’t take a blind bit of notice of a word they say. At which point I will sigh and shake my head again. And they still won’t have the nous to work out why.
He is still poking me. Gradually working his way up my body. He gets to my shoulders and stops. We don’t poke people in the face, he knows that. But he shakes my shoulders a little. There is even a hint of a whimper. Followed by a very distinct one.
I open my eyes. The face of a child with pale skin and red-rimmed eyes framed by short fair hair stares back at me. The child is wearing Matthew’s pyjamas. The ones with the red cuffs – which strangely mirror the red eyes. The child’s bottom lip trembles before it opens its mouth to speak.
‘Can I go home now?’
It takes a minute for me to be able to formulate a response.
‘Let’s have breakfast. I promised you crumpets if I remember.’
The child looks at me solemnly. For a moment I think I might have done enough to stop any further tears. But it is only a moment.
‘I want my mummy. I want to go home.’ The tears run freely. I sit up in bed, glancing at the alarm clock as I do so. It is only six thirty but clearly there is no chance of any further sleep.
‘Let’s not get into a state,’ I say. ‘We’ll go downstairs and I’ll get your crumpet. Some warm milk too, if you like. You’ll feel much better after that.’
The child looks at me doubtfully but there is a momentary lull in proceedings.
‘Where’s Mr Boo?’ I ask. A hand emerges from the sleeve of the pyjamas, which are a little too long, and points back towards Matthew’s bedroom. ‘You go and get him, then, while I pop to the bathroom. Just wait in there and I’ll dig you out some slippers.’
The child leaves the room. I stand up and hurriedly make my way to the bathroom. I have to heed nature’s call straight away in the mornings. Often it is the thing which actually wakes me. If Melody’s miaowing hasn’t already accomplished it. I do remember the days, pre-pregnancy, when I could go and make a cup of tea first if I wanted. And I remember being able to hold it for ages during a lecture when I was at university too. It is one of the things they never tell you at antenatal classes. That you will lose all dignity in that department. I read an article once in one of the women’s magazines they have in the dentist’s waiting room. It was about someone who’d gone to have it seen to. She’d visited a physiotherapist who specialised in such things, after having unsuccessfully tried some kind of weights you had to insert in yourself in order to try to rebuild the pelvic floor muscles. Quite why someone would tell anyone this, let alone a journalist, I have no idea. The very thought of people reading about my private parts in dentists’ waiting rooms up and down the country turns me cold.
I make it to the toilet just in time. On numerous occasions, particularly in the early days after having Matthew, I didn’t. Once Malcolm complained about the wet patch on the toilet mat where I’d tried to mop up my accident. I told him the stiff tap i
n the basin had gushed out water when I’d finally managed to turn it on. He said he’d take a look at it. I knew he wouldn’t though, which is why I didn’t feel bad about lying to him. It’s amazing what you can conceal from a husband. All those years and he never knew about my little accidents. Mind you, it’s amazing what a husband can conceal too. Or at least try to.
I wash my hands and apply hand cream – my skin is like paper without it – and go through to Matthew’s bedroom.
The child is sitting on the bed cuddling Mr Boo. She has stopped crying at least, though her face still looks as though it may break into a fresh wave of tears at any moment. I wonder how much sleep she actually got. She cried for a long time after I switched the light out. And once during the night her crying woke me and I had to go in to her. Maybe it was twice, actually – it is difficult to recall now.
‘Let’s find you something to wear on your feet then.’
‘Slippers,’ she says. ‘You said you would find me slippers.’
‘So I did. Now, let me see which cupboard they will be in.’
I never moved Matthew’s shoes to the guest room. They tended to stay at the bottom of the wardrobes when Matthew outgrew them, and he never complained about having them there. I didn’t keep all of them. Certainly not anything with scuffs on or which had worn through the sole. But Matthew’s slippers were generally in good condition when he grew out of them. Plenty of wear left. Certainly worth saving for another pair of tiny feet.
‘Ah, here we are,’ I say, rummaging among the plastic bags at the back of the furthest wardrobe on the left. ‘Do you know what size you are?’
‘I’m four but I’m five next month,’ she says.
‘No, shoe size. You could be a size 10 or 11. Or you might know it as twenty-something, the European way they do it now. Unless your mother gets you measured in Clarks. They still do the traditional sizes. Do you go to Clarks?’
The child’s face is resolutely blank. She has probably never even had her feet measured, poor mite. I remember her Crocs on the shoe rack by the front door.
‘I’ll nip downstairs and find out,’ I say. I recoil as I see the bright splat of green on the shoe rack. They are fine for the beach but that is about it. I turn them over. They put both the UK and European sizes on them. I brush the dirt off one of the soles to be able to read it properly before going back upstairs.
