While My Eyes Were Closed: The #1 Bestseller

by Linda Green

  Mum gets up to put the kettle on; she makes the most of the opportunity to be useful when Claire isn’t here. I say that like Claire is part of the family. In reality we have only known her for twenty-four hours, but real time doesn’t exist any more. It is like we are living in an alternative universe where one earth day equates to about a year of our lives. If we do get Ella back, I wonder if it will turn out that she was only actually missing for a few minutes in real time, if maybe this has only stretched into days in my head. It is a big if, though. There are lots of big ifs.

  ‘We’ve done pretty much every lamp post within about a two-mile radius of the park,’ says Dad. ‘We’re going to go further out today, do the main roads out of Halifax and that.’

  I look at him, his eyes dull and heavy, sitting there thumbing through the pile of MISSING posters one of Tony’s mates had printed yesterday. His face wasn’t the best-preserved thing before the start of all of this; I dread to think what it’s going to look like by the end. If there is an end, that is. Sometimes they don’t find missing children. I know that. I can’t imagine what kind of hell that must be, having this be the state in which you exist for the rest of your life. I wonder if the parents of those kids ever sleep again or if they simply run on anxiety.

  I’ve been thinking about them a lot, the other parents. The ones I remember from the news. I wonder if I’ll end up as one of them, if people will say, ‘Ahhh, poor cow,’ whenever someone mentions my name or they see my face on the television. Or whether they will say, ‘I think she did it, you know. I think it was her, the hard-faced cow.’ Someone said that on Twitter after the press conference – that I was a hard-faced cow. I don’t know why I looked. It was stupid of me. I don’t even like Twitter; I’m only on it for work. But Ella’s name was trending and I clicked on it to see what people were saying. And that was one of the things they said. It seems I’m the wrong sort of mother. Apparently I should have been bawling my eyes out, and not doing so was ‘not human’ according to some people. Like someone has written a book about how mothers of missing children should behave and I forgot to read it. I haven’t told Alex. It would only wind him up. Maybe he looked too and decided not to tell me. Maybe people all over the country are having conversations about whether they think we are guilty or not. Whether the cops are going to end up digging up our patio. I want to scream at everybody to piss off. That it is none of their fucking business. It is though. We are everyone’s business now.

  It was the main headline on the news last night. Mum told me – we couldn’t bear to watch it. I mean, why would you choose to watch yourself going through hell when you’re doing it anyway? There’s no point, is there? The weirdest thing was thinking about other people watching it, people who know us, not close friends like, but the other mums at school, clients from the gym. I can’t help wondering what they were thinking. It doesn’t matter, of course, I don’t give a toss really. But I still can’t help wondering.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, remembering what Dad has just said. To be honest, I can’t help feeling that lamp posts should be reserved for posters of missing dogs, not children. I think of all the dogs which will piss up those lamp posts while their owners look at the photo of Ella. I can’t say anything though. Dad is trying his best, and doing this is his way of coping. I am not going to discourage him.

  ‘I was thinking maybe we should set up a Facebook page too,’ says Tony. ‘Call it Find Ella and get people to like it. I mean more people probably use Facebook than buy newspapers, and they can share it to people all across country, across world even.’

  Mum puts the tray of mugs down heavily on the table and gives Tony a look. She doesn’t think he should have said ‘world’. I can see this from her face. She doesn’t want to think that Ella might not even be in this country any more. To be honest, I am not that bothered. I don’t care if they find her in Mablethorpe or Marrakesh; I just want her back.

  I look at Alex, who is always allowed a veto when it comes to my family. It’s only fair because he does the same for me with his family. The sign is a nose scratch, although they don’t know this of course. Alex’s hands stay firmly around his mug of coffee.

  ‘Yeah, thanks. It’s worth a try,’ I say. ‘Anything’s got to be worth a try.’

  Mum squeezes my hand. She has been doing that a lot since Friday. That and looking as if someone has taken hold of all her internal organs and is squeezing them incredibly tightly.

  ‘What time is Otis coming back?’ she asks. Otis has gone to play with Ben, his best friend from school. His mum texted me to offer. I asked him before I replied but he said yes pretty much straight away. I think he was just grateful for the chance to escape the house for a bit.

  ‘Four o’clock. He wants to be here when Chloe gets home.’

  ‘Ahh, that’s nice. And what time are your parents getting here, Alex?’

  ‘About two. Depending what the traffic’s like on the M1.’

  She nods and smiles. Sylvia and Graham do not come up very often, maybe two or three times a year, if that. It is, as they always say, a long way from Surrey.

  ‘Ah, well it’ll be lovely to see them.’

  It won’t, of course. They’re only coming because Ella is missing and they told Alex they feel they should offer their ‘emotional support’. It feels like everyone is gathering for a family funeral: Chloe returning from abroad, the in-laws up from Surrey. I’ll have some long-lost second cousin from Aberystwyth turning up next. I want to tell them all to piss off – not Chloe, obviously, but pretty much everyone else. I want to shout at them that Ella isn’t dead and they should stop gathering around her graveside waiting for her body to appear. But I can’t do that because actually I don’t know if it’s true.

  There is a knock at the front door. Claire texted me to say she was on her way but it still turns my stomach. Mum gets up to answer it.

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ I say. She sits back down again. I go into the lounge and peek through a crack in the curtains first to see if there are any photographers outside. The road is empty, as it was when Mum and Dad and Tony arrived earlier and when we got back from the press conference yesterday. Maybe it’s done the trick, maybe they won’t bother us again. Surely there are only so many photos of me looking like shit that people will want to look at.

  When I open the door I look at Claire’s face. I made her promise to tell me straight away if it is ever bad news. She does that little sympathetic half-smile thing so that I know it isn’t.

  ‘Manage any sleep?’ she asks.

  I shake my head. ‘I think Alex might have got an hour or two.’ She nods and follows me through to the kitchen. She met my family last night after the press conference. Mum greets her like an old friend.

  ‘Hello, Claire, love. This is an early start for you, and on a Sunday too.’

  Claire glances at me. I shrug. Mum makes it sound like she is doing us a favour. Maybe she doesn’t want to admit to herself that Claire is a police officer, sent to deal with a possible child abduction, not some Avon lady who has popped by on the weekend with her order.

  ‘We’ve had a lot of calls following the press conference,’ Claire says. ‘More than a thousand so far. Nothing in the way of major leads at the moment, I’m afraid, but the detectives are sifting through all of them, identifying possible leads to chase up.’

  ‘Anyone who saw her in the park after I did?’ I ask.

  ‘Not yet but, like I say, they’ve got a lot of information still to sift through.’

  I nod. Maybe it will be the last call they come to, like it’s always the last place you look that you find the thing you’ve lost. Maybe it will all be over in a few hours. I brighten for a moment but then realise I might not want it to be over. Not if over is my worst nightmare.

  Claire is still standing looking at us. She fiddles with her glasses.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m afraid they need to interview all family members today,’ she says.

  ‘Why?’ I ask
.

  ‘It’s standard procedure in these cases. They want to double-check every single detail and piece of information. Make sure there’s nothing they’ve missed.’

  Dad slams his mug down on the table and looks up at her. ‘And if you think we believe that crap you’re a damn sight dafter than I had you down for.’

  ‘Dad, don’t.’

  ‘Well, it’s bloody obvious, isn’t it? They’re trying to pin it on someone in our family. They think one of us did it.’

  ‘I can assure you that isn’t the case,’ says Claire. ‘On an investigation like this we have to do things systematically to make sure nothing gets missed.’

  ‘So you do think we did it,’ says Dad. ‘Who’s in the frame then? Well it’s not him, is it,’ Dad says, pointing at Alex, ‘because he wasn’t anywhere near here, and if you think Tina’s capable of hurting so much as a fly, you want your head seeing to, so that only leaves me and our Tony. Why don’t you just admit that and leave the others out of it?’

  ‘Dad, stop it!’ I shout.

  Claire looks at me. ‘It’s OK, Lisa. I understand. I’d be pretty racked off if it was my family, to tell you the truth. I know this is the last thing any of you need right now, but we wouldn’t be doing our job properly if we didn’t do it, and it might be that if we take detailed statements from all of you, one of you might just think of something that you’ve forgotten or we haven’t thought of, and suddenly we’ve got a new line of enquiry which could just lead us to Ella.’

  Everyone is quiet for a moment before Alex stands up.

  ‘Do me first then,’ he says.

  Claire looks at him.

  ‘You might be too nice to say it,’ he continues, ‘but I know how people think and how they point the finger, and that’s the last thing we need right now, so the sooner we can all clear our names, the sooner you can concentrate on looking for whoever took Ella.’

  I stare at him. I think he probably has read the same stuff I have on Twitter. And maybe other stuff too. He looks across at me. I give him a little smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Claire. ‘If you’re sure, I’ll run you down the station now.’

  Alex nods. Tony stands up too. ‘Come on, Dad,’ he says. ‘We’ve got nowt to hide. We’ll get this out of the way and then go and do leaflets and Facebook and that.’

  ‘Great,’ says Claire. ‘What are you going to do on Facebook?’

  ‘Tony’s setting up a Find Ella page,’ says Dad. ‘Unless we’re not allowed to do that now.’

  ‘Course you are. It’s just important to keep me informed, that’s all. I can get our press office to link to it from their page, you see.’

  Dad looks at her. It is his grudging-respect look, though I’m not sure Claire realises that. Dad stands and picks up his mug of tea. ‘Right you are then. Let me finish this and we’ll be off.’

  *

  Mum lets out a long sigh when they are gone. It is like the war, just the womenfolk left at home to wring their hands. I know full well what she’s thinking.

  ‘Try not to worry. Tony’ll be fine,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t like them knowing, that’s all. People make judgements. He’ll be a bad apple in their eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, well. It was a long time ago. And it wasn’t exactly crime of the century, was it?’

  ‘He’s my son, though, Lis. I don’t like people thinking badly of him.’

  ‘I really don’t think they’ll be bothered, Mum. All they want to do is find Ella. They’re not going to be interested in trawling up his past, are they?’

  Mum nods. I think she is about to squeeze my hand again. I’m not sure I can cope with that right now.

  ‘I’d better cancel my clients for tomorrow,’ I say, standing up and reaching for my phone.

  *

  I am on my own when Alex comes back. Mum has gone home to start on Sunday lunch. If a nuclear bomb went off, when the dust cleared, you would still see Mum doing Sunday lunch for anyone who had survived.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask as he comes in and sits down at the table. It is a stupid question. I must get it from Mum.

  He simply shrugs.

  ‘What did they ask you?’

  He runs his hands through his hair and looks up at the ceiling.

  ‘I had to give them the name and contact number of the client I was meeting. They wanted my car park ticket to prove I was there and everything.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  We are silent for a moment. ‘You’ve seen what they’re saying, haven’t you?’ I ask. ‘On Twitter and Facebook and that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Alex. ‘I didn’t say anything in case you hadn’t seen it. I didn’t want to upset you.’

  I look at him and raise my eyebrows. He looks down at his hands.

  ‘Maybe they’re right,’ I say. ‘Maybe I am a crap mother.’

  He looks up straight away. ‘Come on, you mustn’t let them get to you. They’re sad bastards with nothing better to do than take a pop at other people. It doesn’t matter what they say. None of this is your fault.’

  ‘I bet your mum and dad don’t think that. Did they say anything on the phone?’

  ‘Of course they didn’t. All they care about is finding Ella. They’re not blaming anyone.’

  I make a noise and look away. The look of disappointment on Sylvia’s face at our wedding still haunts me. Alex tried to claim her discomfort was due to the prawn cocktail disagreeing with her, but it was pretty obvious to me the only thing she had a disagreement with was his choice of bride.

  ‘Did they ask why I didn’t cry? Yesterday, at the press conference.’

  ‘No. They asked how you were, that’s all.’

  ‘Only because they didn’t want to rock the boat by saying anything to you. I bet it’s what they wondered when they watched it, though – why their daughter-in-law is some lowlife cold-hearted bitch who doesn’t even cry when her own daughter goes missing.’

  Alex gets up and comes to me, kneeling down and hugging me as my tears start to fall. Because I am crying now. Away from the lights and the cameras I’m bawling my fucking eyes out.

  ‘Stop it,’ he says, brushing away the tears. ‘Stop it right there, because I am not going to let you do this to yourself. I know how much you love her and I know what a brilliant mum you are, and I really don’t give a toss what anyone else says or thinks.’

  ‘So why didn’t I cry at the press conference? That’s what I was supposed to do. That’s what everyone wanted.’

  ‘And that’s probably why you didn’t cry. Because I’ve never known anyone who’s less of a victim than you are. And I’ve never known you do anything simply because it’s expected of you. You’re your own person, it’s one of the things I love about you. And I also love the fact that you don’t normally give a toss what anyone else thinks.’

  I sniff loudly. ‘I didn’t want him to think I’m weak,’ I say. ‘Whoever’s got Ella. I didn’t want him to think that I’m going to crack.’

  I feel Alex’s tears mix with my own on my cheek and run down my neck. We stay like that for a long time, huddled together against the world.

  ‘Do you think we’ll get her back?’ I whisper as he strokes my arm.

  ‘I don’t know. I keep wishing I’d told you to ring the police when you first called. I can’t believe I took the piss out of you. I feel so stupid. I mean that ten or fifteen minutes could have been crucial.’

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Don’t you start beating yourself up – you’ll probably be better at it than me for a start.’

  He manages a hint of an upturn at the corner of his mouth. His stubble is rough against my face. I actually like him with stubble, although it feels stupid even to be thinking that right now. I wonder if he won’t shave until Ella is found, whether her absence will be recorded unofficially in the length of his facial hair. I am reminded of one of Ella’s favourite books, Mr Follycule’s Wonderful Beard, in which the previously clean-shaven Mr Follycule wish
es for a beard and by the next morning has one which grows at such an alarming rate it stretches halfway across town. She once asked Alex if he could wish for a beard to see if his would do that. Maybe that is what he is doing, trying to grow a Mr Follycule beard for Ella. Maybe I will have to stop him when it gets to a foot long. Gently sit him down and tell him that it’s no good, it won’t make her come back.

  ‘I can’t bear to think about what might have happened to her,’ he says, closing his eyes for a second.

  ‘I know. Me neither. I think I’d know, though. If it were the worst, like.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m not sure how. Maybe it’s a stupid mum thing, but I think I’d know.’

  He pulls me in and buries his face in my hair.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right then,’ he says. ‘Because I’m not sure I could bear it otherwise.’

  *

  Sylvia and Graham arrive dead on two. Normally this would irritate the hell out of me. Today I do not give a shit. Sylvia glides in, her silver hair looking immaculate as ever, the scent of lilies impregnated in her skin. She holds my shoulders (possibly the first time she’s ever done this in my entire life) and says quietly, ‘Hello, Lisa. How are you bearing up, dear?’

  I slap her across the face and tell her to take her composed compassion and stick it up her arse. At least I do in my head. In real life I manage to say, ‘Oh, you know,’ and smile weakly at her.

  Sylvia turns to Alex and kisses him on both cheeks. ‘This must be so awful for you. I still can’t quite believe it.’

  Alex nods in acknowledgement and goes to help Graham, who is struggling up the path with their overnight bag. He walks with a slight limp. Did something to his knee years ago while playing golf; nothing they can do, apparently. We go through the same excruciating greeting routine. Now I wish I’d said no when Alex asked if it was OK for them to come. I couldn’t though, not really. They are trying to be nice, to say and do the right things. That is the problem though, that is what I am sick of already. Everybody being so bloody nice, behaving so damn reasonably.