Night Falls, Still Missing

by Helen Callaghan

  You never knew if Madison might ring, after all.

  Seduced by the louring iron-grey skies outside, the ubiquitous hushing of the sea, she stretched out on the couch, and shut her eyes. Before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  When she awoke all was darkness outside, and she was in a momentary panic of being completely lost, of utterly forgetting where she was. She had the sense that some noise had woken her, but no idea what it was, or even whether she had just dreamt it.

  She sat up, scanning the room by the flickering light of the television.

  Nobody was there.

  Groping for her phone, she realised it was only just after five. The days were short this far north. It did nothing to cheer her anxious, restless mood.

  Memory came crashing in, in a series of waves – she was on an island off the coast of Scotland. Madison was missing, and perhaps had been taken from the very house Fiona had been enjoying this unguarded nap in.

  Anyone could have passed by the windows and seen her lying here, vulnerable.

  She scrambled upright, rubbing her eyes, and cast an anxious glance into the glass.

  She saw only the front garden wall, lit in a yellow glow from the lamp by the front door. The rest was utter blackness, but she knew that on the far side of the house, out of eyesight, lay the little pier where the archaeologists tied up their boat so they would not be wholly dependent on the tides to access Helly Holm.

  Perhaps they had returned, and this was what she had heard.

  There was a single text – she must have slept through its arrival. It was from Judy and merely said, We’re arriving tomorrow at 12:15. Flight No. LM434. See you at the airport.

  Fiona ground her teeth. The thought of playing taxi to the ghastly Hugo filled her with revulsion, but what could she do? Under the circumstances, with all that was going on, she could hardly refuse.

  She shivered, as though she had stepped in something slimy.

  Grin and bear it, she thought. You have no choice.

  But there was no word from Madison. No other phone calls or messages, and her emails were all marketing scurf or exclusively work-related. She didn’t have the heart to read them, never mind reply.

  Once more she crushed down her disappointment. Whatever had happened to Madison, Fiona was going to have to make peace with the idea that she was not going to reappear suddenly at this point, larger than life and pretending not to know what all the fuss was about.

  This was going to have to be lived through; one long, grey, anxious hour at a time.

  Perhaps forever.

  The solitude was crushing, suddenly, and it occurred to her to go out to the little pier, and if it was the return of the archaeologists that had woken her, to say hello to them. Perhaps something had changed in the last couple of hours – perhaps there had been some news.

  It would be good simply to make contact with other humans.

  In the porch, she pulled on her coat, forced her socked feet into her damp boots, and reached for the door to let herself out.

  It opened easily, letting in the first few flicks of cold sea breeze.

  She paused, surprised.

  She was sure she had locked it.

  Had someone come in here? The Fletts, perhaps? But surely they would have knocked?

  She hurried back into the living room, her heart knocking against her chest, and scanned her surroundings.

  Nothing appeared to be missing in the cottage. Her purse still rested in her handbag, lying on its side on the armchair, and her laptop was poised on the bed, now fully charged.

  She must have forgotten, despite the fact that she could have sworn she’d locked the front door, tested it once she was inside.

  For a long moment she stood, staring at the door handle, feeling her breathing slow to normal.

  Do not do that again, she told herself sternly.

  The pier was only a minute or two away, but the darkness and starlessness made it hard to find without turning on the flashlight on her phone.

  The boat was there, she saw, a fishing boat, perhaps thirty feet long, with the name SAMARKAND printed along the stern. It bobbed slowly up and down, making the ropes tying it creak, gently scuffing up against the tyres nailed to the pier. The fittings jingled together, moved by the waves, the wind.

  But there was no sign of a light on it, nor any soul nearby. The white van was gone. Could that have been what she heard, the van driving away?

  She found her way back into the house and drew the curtains shut. The television was still on, some show featuring young, good-looking people that she did not recognise, but who the presenters clearly thought she should. These people were having stagey, intense conversations about one another and their feelings in places pretending to be intimate settings – coffee houses and living rooms and a nightclub with all of the atmosphere of a morgue.

  She had a fleeting regret that she’d put her studies and her seriousness first and never kept up with popular culture after her dad died – otherwise she too could be watching this, laughing at/with these people as the presenters did, and feeling less lonely.

  Madison had always told her, You know, Fiona, not everything has to have a point.

  She missed Madison then, spontaneously and with a yawning ache. It was not Adi but Madison she wanted to call right now, to ask her what it was she was seeing on the TV, because Madison would have known.

  She wiped at her eyes with an impatient hand.

  Her phone burst into melodic life, startling her. She snatched at it, not recognising the number, and this gave her a second of wild, unwarranted hope.

  ‘Hello?’ Her fingers clenched around the case.

  ‘Oh, hiya, is this Fiona?’

  It took her a second to recognise the voice, then she placed it: Jack, the site supervisor from the dig.

  ‘Yeah, this is me. Has there been any news?’

  Silence, then: ‘Um, no, … it’s not about Madison. Not directly. Listen, a bunch of us are going out to sample the bright lights of Kirkwall. Do you want to come?’

  His voice was loose, rolling, as she switched the TV to mute, and she wondered if he’d been sampling the bright lights already.

  ‘I … sorry,’ she could feel the disappointment running through her again like a thin cold stream. ‘I don’t think so. I think I have to stay here and, you know …’

  ‘I know you’re waiting for news. You have your phone, right?’ His voice was kind.

  ‘Yeah, but I need to pick up Mads’ mum from the airport tomorrow and …’

  ‘You’ll still be able to do that. And well, we think you should come out.’ He paused, and Fiona could hear people rustling, muttering good-naturedly to one another, a peal of laughter. It made her homesick, as though for a country she’d been exiled from. ‘A change is as good as a rest, they say.’

  Fiona wanted to get out like she’d wanted nothing else recently. But still, she felt like a truant, or traitor. Who was she to have a good time while Madison was missing?

  ‘I’m not …’ she began. But increasingly she realised that she didn’t want to be in this house alone tonight, being startled out of her dreams by real or imaginary noises.

  And the sly thought also occurred to her – if you go, perhaps you’ll learn something. Something that will help explain all this.

  ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I think I will.’

  ‘You will? Great! Becky’s on antibiotics and is off the sauce for the nonce, she tells us, so she can swing by in the van and get you from there. You’re good for that, right, Becks?’

  His voice faded out. He must have been turning to Becky.

  ‘Yeah, right, I suppose.’ She didn’t sound very happy about it.

  But at that point Fiona was past caring about whether Becky was happy. She was already on her feet, heading to the bedroom to switch on the light, to throw together something to wear.

  ‘All right then,’ she said. ‘I’m getting ready now.’
/>   ‘Brilliant. Becky should be there in about half an hour.’

  ‘Great … and, well, thanks …’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet, Dr Grey,’ he said, laughing. ‘The night is still young. See you in a bit.’

  Then he was gone.

  She needed her suitcase, she realised, if she was going to change – she’d put a top in there, something soft and woolly that would not need ironing.

  This was the first time she had seen the broken mirror in full light.

  All at once that jagged crack was before her, cutting a line down the wardrobe door, bisecting her reflection into two unequal parts. And her face had vanished, almost as if it were pixilated, because about two-thirds of the way up, the crack broke into a circular crystal burst, wider than a fist, as if somebody’s head had smashed into it.

  And in between these tiny glass scales, as though a little brush had painted it in, the sharp edges were very lightly touched with the maroon dark of dried blood.

  Pull yourself together. I know it looks bad. But remember, Douggie and Maggie said that Mads had broken the mirror.

  She raised a hand to the glass, with its tiny but telling bloody traces, then stopped, just before touching it.

  It was time to get ready.

  Time to see what she could learn from Madison’s comrades.

  15

  Stromness, Orkney, January 2020

  It was, in fact, fifty minutes later when the van pulled up outside the house. Its headlamps flashed spookily over the furniture through the window, like the searchlight from a guard tower.

  Sat alone in the dark in front of the television, Fiona had been writing texts to Madison:

  Heading out with the guys from your dig for a drink. Becky Ackland is coming to pick me up. xx

  Is she the one you thought was an oddball? xx

  Your mum and Hugo are coming over tomorrow. xx

  Please get in touch – even if just to say you don’t want to talk. We’re all so worried. Fxx

  Snatching up her bag, Fiona headed out the door.

  The van, a white Ford Transit, was idling in the little drive, its sides pelted with dark brown flecks of mud. She squinted at it – the headlights were on full beam and she couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel.

  Gesturing quickly with a raised hand, she turned and locked the front door, struggling with the unfamiliar mechanism.

  After waking to find it open earlier, she had been unable to resist checking it once, then twice, then three times.

  She gave it a final hard pull and push, and then turned towards the van. As Fiona approached the driver’s side of the van there was Becky; she recognised her dark fizzy curls.

  Becky didn’t look pleased.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ said Fiona. ‘Just wanted to check it. I’m a bit paranoid about the door. It was giving me trouble earlier …’

  ‘Are you ready to go, or what?’

  Becky’s voice was flat, bored, but there was no mistaking her hostility.

  Fiona, taken aback, fell silent, not knowing how to respond.

  ‘Yeah, I’m ready,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Get in then.’

  The passenger door of the van clicked unlocked. Becky made no further move towards it.

  Clearly this was a difficult person, or someone with something on their mind.

  I just have to treat her gently, be nice, thought Fiona. Be friendly.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said brightly to Becky as she swung the door open. ‘Thanks so much for doing this …’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ said Becky, her eyes half-closed. She didn’t look at Fiona. ‘This was Jack’s idea.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, yeah.’ She offered a self-effacing smile, though blushing with embarrassment at Becky’s brush-off. ‘But thank you anyway …’

  Becky rolled her eyes theatrically, and Fiona fell silent, as though she’d been slapped.

  She never knew what to do about rude people. Between the two of them, this had always been Madison’s particular area of expertise.

  Fiona realised, as she climbed up into the seat with its smell of earth and spilled coffee, Becky wordlessly gunning the engine, that she was already composing this strange journey into a story, a story she would tell Madison and they would laugh about, and then with a sick sense of recall remembered that Madison was missing and she couldn’t tell her anything.

  Instead she snapped on the seat belt and pulled the pale blue handbag that Mads had bought her for her birthday on to her lap.

  The memory of receiving the bag stirred something in her then.

  She was here to find out about Madison. Nobody had said it was going to be easy.

  What would Mads do?

  She squeezed the handbag, this gift from Madison, as though hoping it might lend her inspiration.

  And suddenly it did.

  If Madison was here, she would persist. She was not of a nature to take no for an answer.

  Fiona glanced sideways at Becky, racking her brains – what had she been told about Becky, in those too brief phone calls before she had set off? Not much, as she guessed Madison hadn’t been that interested in her.

  She had been one of Iris’s postgraduate students. She was an oddball. She was needy.

  Fiona wasn’t finding the last one, but perhaps she was looking in the wrong places.

  ‘So, how long have you been with Iris and the team here?’ she continued, as though they were chatting away like old friends.

  Becky didn’t look away from the windshield and the road in front of her, but her expression hardened.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘A while.’

  It was clearly meant to be a conversation closer.

  Persist.

  ‘Nine months, isn’t it?’ asked Fiona. ‘Mads mentioned you’d been with the team for a while before her.’ She pretended to be busy in the handbag, looking for her lipstick.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You were Iris’s PhD student, weren’t you? That must have been awesome. Would have opened a lot of doors.’

  No answer.

  Fiona pulled the lipstick out, slicked it over her mouth, guided by her faint reflection in the windscreen. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Becky, her expression still hostile, but this time it was tinged with discomfort.

  ‘You know, I wondered why Mads was out in Langmire on her own. It’s a lovely house – great views. And two bedrooms. Seems a shame. Do you know why?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Becky. ‘You would have to ask Iris about that.’

  Her voice, which had been curt and unfriendly, was now icy, and Fiona could not help stealing another glance at her.

  Her cheeks were red, as though at some remembered slight, and Fiona realised that she was not the only person Becky seemed to resent.

  For the first time she felt a flicker of alarm at this unearned ill-feeling.

  ‘Mads said you found something nice at the dig.’

  ‘We’re not allowed to talk about it,’ Becky ground out.

  ‘Ah,’ said Fiona, after an uncomfortable period of silent driving. ‘So, how’s the dig itself going?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Becky.

  She did not speak to Fiona again until they drew up to Helgi’s bar in Kirkwall, some twenty-five minutes later.

  16

  Helgi’s, Harbour Street, Kirkwall

  ‘Ah! You’re here!’ cried Jack from his seat at the table.

  Helgi’s was a little bar-restaurant on Harbour Street, narrow and warm inside, full of talking, laughing people despite the cold weather and searing wind outside, and sporting a glittering collection of whiskies on optics behind the bar.

  Jack and Callum were sitting at a table peering through laminated menus, which they put down as Fiona approached, giving her a little wave of welcome. Jack rose to his feet.

  Something flickered in Callum’s eyes – not exactly enmity, but not exactly welcoming. More watchful.

  Fiona didn’t know what she’
d been expecting after the extreme sense of awkwardness that had been the van journey up, but clearly there was a status quo here that she might be in danger of upsetting. She looked over her shoulder and noticed with relief that Becky had vanished on the way through the restaurant.

  ‘There you are!’

  To her surprise Iris stepped out, away from the bar. She looked pink and slightly tousled, with crimson lips and ruddy cheeks and big hooped earrings, and Fiona’s suspicion that the party had started earlier for them all seemed to be confirmed.

  Around them, Fiona could see the locals, some peering at Iris, trying to work out where they recognised her from, others steadfastly ignoring her, having recognised her and not wishing to seem too starstruck.

  It must be stressful, Fiona realised, being famous – to have to forgo one’s native anonymity, to have things expected of you by people who don’t know you; to never really be able to relax.

  But then, Iris was flown all over the world on her television show, appearing on her vintage Harley-Davidson in places as diverse as Machu Picchu and the Valley of the Kings, and was very well paid to do it.

  If fame was a problem, Iris seemed to wear it lightly.

  ‘What are you having?’ she asked Fiona, only slightly slurred, her arm drifting up around Fiona’s shoulders. Her light sweater was of the open-necked, loose kind, sliding off her shoulder, and she sported an ornate black tattoo that Fiona had seen somewhere before but could not, just at that moment, recognise.

  ‘I dunno …’ said Fiona. She had given the matter no thought.

  ‘When in Rome, try the beer,’ Iris said, with a knowing look.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Iris, what does she want?’ shouted Jack from the table. He was pulling off his fleeced hoodie and was now clad in a black T-shirt with tour dates for some band she’d never heard of before. His biceps were well-muscled and tawny, also webbed with tattoos.

  She felt her breath catch a little, treacherously.

  ‘I’ll try the beer,’ said Fiona tentatively. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Get her a Dark Island!’ bellowed Iris to Jack, who nodded in response. She slipped a companionable arm through Fiona’s, her voice dropping to a murmur. ‘I’m glad you came. Jack’s right, it’s not good for you to be cooped up all alone. How are things?’