The Invisible Ones

by Stef Penney

  We have a form, in duplicate—yellow and white—that Andrea gets people to complete when they come in for the first time. All the usual details, plus the reason why they’re here, where they heard about us, how much money they’re prepared to spend . . . all that sort of thing. Some people say you shouldn’t do this stuffformally, but I’ve tried it this way and that way, and believe me, it’s better to get it down in writing. Some people have no idea how much an investigation costs, and when they find out they run a mile. But with this man, I don’t even reach for the drawer. There’ll be no point. I’m not saying that because he might be illiterate but for other reasons.

  “Lovell,” he goes on. “Thought, He’s one of us.”

  He looks at me: a challenge.

  “How can I help you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Leon Wood, Mr. Lovell.”

  Leon Wood is short, slightly overweight in a top-heavy way, with a ruddy, tanned face. People don’t say weather-beaten anymore, do they?— but that’s what he is. His clothes look expensive, especially the sheepskin coat that must add a good six inches to his shoulders.

  “My family come from the West Country; you probably know that.”

  I incline my head.

  “Know some Lovells—Harry Lovell from Basingstoke . . . Jed Lovell, round Newbury . . .”

  He watches for my reaction. I have learned not to react—I don’t want to give anything away—but the Jed Lovell he’s referring to is a cousin of mine—my father’s cousin, to be precise, who always disapproved of him, and therefore of us. It occurs to me that he hasn’t just seen my name— he’s made inquiries; knows exactly who I am and who I’m related to. To whom. Whatever.

  “There are a lot of us around. But what brings you here, Mr. Wood?”

  “Well, Mr. Lovell, it’s a tricky business.”

  “That’s what we do here.”

  He clears his throat. I have a feeling this could take some time. Gypsies rarely get straight to the point.

  “Family business. That’s why I’ve come to you. ’Cos you’ll understand. It’s my daughter. She’s . . . missing.”

  “If I can stop you there, Mr. Wood—”

  “Call me Leon.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t take on missing-persons cases. I can pass you on to my colleague, though—he’s very good.”

  “Mr. Lovell . . . Ray . . . I need someone like you. An outsider can’t help. Can you imagine a gorjio going in, annoying people, asking questions?”

  “Mr. Wood, I was brought up in a house. My mother was a gorjio. So I’m a gorjio, really. It’s just a name.”

  “No . . .”

  He jabs a finger at me and leans forward. If there wasn’t a desk between us, I am sure he would take my arm.

  “It’s never just a name. You’re always who you are, even sitting here in your office behind your fancy desk. You’re one of us. Where are your family from?”

  I am sure he already knows about as much as there is to know. Jed would have told him.

  “Kent, Sussex.”

  “Ah. Yes. Know Lovells from there, too . . .”

  He reels off more names.

  “Yes, but as I said, my father settled in a house and left off the traveling

  life. I’ve never known it. So I don’t know that I would be of much help. And missing persons are really not my speciality . . .”

  “I don’t know what’s your speciality or not. But what happened to my daughter happened with us, and a gorjio won’t have the first clue about how to talk to people. They’d get nowhere. You know that. I can tell by looking at you that you can talk to people. They’ll listen to you. They’ll talk to you. A gorjio won’t stand a chance!”

  He speaks with such vehemence, I have to stop myself from leaning back in my chair. Flattery, and poverty, are on his side. And maybe there’s a touch of curiosity on my part. I’ve never seen a Gypsy in here before. I can’t imagine any circumstances in which someone like him would go outside the family. I idly wonder how many other half-Gypsy private investigators there are in the southeast for him to choose from. Not many, I imagine.

  “Have you reported her disappearance to the police?”

  Under the circumstances, this might sound like a stupid question, but you have to ask.

  Leon Wood just shrugs, which I take for the no it’s meant to be.

  “To be honest, I’m worried that something’s happened to her. Something bad.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It’s been more than seven years. We’ve heard nothing. No one’s seen her. No one’s spoken to her. Not a phone call . . . not a word . . . nothing. Now . . . my dear wife recently passed, and we’ve been trying to find Rose. She ought to know about her mum, at least. And nothing. Can’t find a thing. ’S not natural, is it? I always wondered, I did, but now . . .”

  He trails off.

  “I’m very sorry to hear about your wife, Mr. Wood, but let me get this straight—did you say that you haven’t seen your daughter for over seven years?”

  “’Bout that, yeah. Leastways, she got married back then, and I never seen her since. They say she ran off, but . . . now I don’t believe it.”

  “Who says she ran off?”

  “Her husband said so, and his father. Said she ran off with a gorjio. But I had my suspicions then, and I have more suspicions now.”

  “Suspicions of what?”

  “Well . . .” Leon Wood glances over his shoulder, in case we’re being overheard, and then, despite the fact that we’re alone and it’s after hours, leans even nearer. “. . . That they done away with her.”

  He doesn’t look as though he’s joking.

  “You think they—you mean her husband—did away with her, seven years ago?”

  Leon Wood glances upward.

  “Well, more like six, I suppose. After she had the kid. Six and a half, maybe.”

  “Right. You’re saying that you suspect your daughter was murdered six years ago—and you’ve never said anything, to anyone, until now?”

  Leon Wood spreads his hands, turns his eyes back to me, and shrugs.

  I don’t often think about my—my what? Race? Culture? Whatever word the sociologists are using these days. The fact that my father was born in a field in Kent as his parents picked hops during the Great War. His parents stayed on the road; traveling and working around the southeast with his brothers. My one remaining uncle is now on a permanent site near the south coast, but only because his health deteriorated and made life on the road too arduous. But after the second war—during which my father met a gorjio girl named Dorothy, and when he drove ambulances in Italy, where he was interned and learned to read—after that he deliberately drew back from his family, and we didn’t see that much of them. My brother and I grew up in a house; we went to school. We weren’t Travelers. Dorothy—our mother—was a brisk Land Girl from Tonbridge who was never going to be seduced by the romance of the road. She was a fanatical believer in universal education—and my father was quite an autodidact, in his dour, humorless way. He even went so far—much too far, for most of our relatives—as to become a postman.

  But despite them, we knew things. I (especially me, as the dark one) knew what it meant to be called a dirty gyppo; I know, too, about the long, petty battles over caravan sites, and the evictions and petitions and squabbles over education. I know about the mutual distrust that stopped Leon from going to the police about his daughter—or to any other private investigator. I have some inkling of what made him come to me, and I realize that he must be desperate to do so.

  3.

  JJ

  I suppose my family isn’t like most people’s. For a start, we’re Gypsies or Romanies or whatever. Our name is Janko. Our ancestors came from Eastern Europe, although they’ve been here for a long time, but my gran married my granddad, who’s an English Gypsy, so my mum is half Roma and half Gypsy, and then she went offwith my dad, who she says was a gorjio. I’ve never met him, so I don’t know. They didn’t get marr
ied, so my name is Smith, like hers and Gran and Granddad’s. JJ Smith. Mum called me after her dad, Jimmy, but I don’t like being called Jimmy, and now she calls me JJ. To be honest I’d rather not be called after my granddad, I’d rather be called after someone else—like James Hunt. Or James Brown. But that’s not the truth.

  We have five trailers on our site. First of all, there’s our trailer— that’s where Mum and I live. Mum’s name is Sandra Smith. She’s quite young—she was seventeen when she got into trouble and had me. Her parents were furious and chucked her out, and she had to go and live in Basingstoke, but after a couple of years they relented and let her travel with them again. They had to, really, as she is their only child, which is quite unusual. And I’m their only grandchild. Our trailer is a Lunedale— it’s not that big, or that new, but it has oak-veneer walls and has a nice old-fashioned look. It’s not flash, but I like it. Because it’s just the two of us, I suppose, we’re quite good friends. I think she’s a pretty good mum, on the whole. Sometimes she drives me mad, of course, and, well, sometimes I drive her mad, too, but generally we get on pretty well.

  Mum works as a delivery woman when we stop anywhere for a while. She’s good at picking up work wherever we are. She works really hard, and apart from that sort of work, she helps look after my great-uncle, who’s in a wheelchair. We all do that—Mum and me, Gran and Granddad, and my uncle. They are the other people we travel with. Gran and Granddad have two trailers between them—both Vickers, and both really flash with chrome trim and cut-glass windows. They live and sleep in the biggest and newest one, and then Gran cooks and does washing up and so on in the other one. And it’s their spare room, if they need it. Great-uncle has a Westmorland Star that has been specially adapted for him, although it’s the same one that he lived in when Great-aunt Marta was alive. It’s got a ramp so that he can wheel himself in and out, and it’s also got something that most people would think is a bit disgusting: an internal Elsan. He has to; life would be too difficult otherwise. The nurses said it was either that or live in a bungalow. So it’s that.

  The last trailer, a Jubilee, is where my uncle and cousin live. My uncle is Great-uncle’s son—his name is Ivo, and his son, my cousin, is called Christo, who is six. Ivo’s wife is gone—she ran offa long time ago. Gran’s name is Kath, which is short for Katarina.

  You may have noticed a few foreign-sounding names in our family, although the strangest name is Great-uncle’s—his name is Tene, pronounced Ten-er. He and Kath are brother and sister. The Jankos came over from the Balkans in the last century, before any of the countries there were fixed or named. Great-uncle just says “the Balkans.” He and Gran say we’re Machwaya, which are the aristocrats of the Gypsy world, and we can look down our noses at Lees and Ingrams and Woods. Who knows if it’s true? No one at my school knows anything about the Balkans. I’m the only one.

  Gran and Granddad’s number-one trailer is the biggest, nicest one—or at least the flashest—and Ivo’s is the smallest and least flash. He has the least money, but that’s because Christo is disabled, and Ivo has to look after him. Everyone helps out with money and stuff. That’s just the way it is. When I say he’s disabled, it’s totally different from the way Great-uncle is disabled: it’s because he’s ill. He’s got the family disease. I’m lucky ’cos I haven’t got it, even though I’m a boy, and generally only boys get it. The boys don’t usually pass it on, as if they have it, they don’t live long enough. The only exception to this is Uncle Ivo, who had it when he was younger but got better. No one knows how. He went to Lourdes, and afterward he got better. It was a miracle.

  I’m not religious, personally, but I suppose you can’t just rule things out. Look at Ivo. Officially we’re Catholics, although no one goes to church much, apart from Gran. Mum goes now and again, and so does Granddad. But sometimes, even though people who go to church are supposed to be full of Christian kindness and charity, they’ve been cursed at in church, and Granddad says that once he was going into a church and someone spat at him. I think that’s awful. Gran said that they didn’t spit on him, they spat near him, but still, it’s pretty rude. I last went to church with Mum and Gran at Easter, just a couple of weeks ago. We were all dressed up and smart as anything, but some of the people recognized us, and there was a bit of muttering and shuffling as people tried not to sit next to us. I saw Helen Davies, a girl from my class, with her family, and she glared at me and whispered to her mum, and then they all stared. Not everyone was like that, but then not everyone knew who we were. I sat there in the pew, getting really tense, just because I was imagining what I would do if someone did spit at me. My fists were clenched and my jaw, too, until it hurt. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end—I was just waiting for some spit to land on it. I saw myself turning around and giving that filthy gorjio a good leathering, even though I’m not really into violence. Granddad was a bare-knuckle boxer when he was younger, so maybe he passed it on.

  I didn’t hear a word of the sermon because I was so worried that someone was going to spit on my neck. No one did, though.

  Anyway, the religion thing is important because that’s why I am where I am now—that is, on the ferry going to France. I’m really excited, as I’ve never been abroad before, even though I’m fourteen. We’re taking Christo to Lourdes, to see if he can get cured like Ivo did. “We” is everyone except Mum and Granddad, which seems a bit unfair, but someone has to stay behind and keep an eye on the site. It’s a good place, and they need to make sure no one else moves onto it while we’re away. Gran is here because she’s the one who really wanted us to go. In fact, she pretty much made us go. Great-uncle is here because he’s in a wheelchair and gets to do what he wants. I got to come because I do French at school, so I can interpret. No one else speaks a word, so I’m vital. I’m glad because I really wanted to come. And then Ivo, and Christo, of course, who is the reason for the whole thing.

  I said Christo is ill with the family disease, didn’t I? I can’t tell you what it’s called because no one knows. He’s been to see doctors but they can’t decide what it is, and because of that, they can’t make him better. I don’t think doctors are much use if they can’t even help a little kid like Christo. He’s not in pain mostly, but he’s very small for his age, and weak, and he learned to walk only about a year ago—but he gets so tired he can’t do it much, so he mostly just lies there. He doesn’t talk much, either. That’s the illness: it’s like he’s just so tired, he can’t do anything. Often he pants like he can’t breathe properly. And he gets infections a lot, so we have to keep him away from other kids, and generally keep things clean around him. If he gets a cold or something, it’s really serious. His bones break easily, too—he broke his arm last year, just from hitting his hand on a table. Ivo used to be the same—when he was Christo’s age, someone broke his wrist just by shaking his hand. But despite all that, Christo never complains. He’s incredibly brave. In a way it’s good that he’s so small and light, because Uncle Ivo has to carry him everywhere. I carry him, too, sometimes—he barely weighs more than a feather. We get on really, really well. I’d do anything for Christo. He’s like my little brother, although technically we’re first cousins once removed. Or is it twice? I can never remember. It doesn’t really matter.

  Anyway, I really hope this works. Ivo doesn’t like to talk about what happened to him, but I know that he was ill all through his childhood— although not as ill as Christo. After his trip to Lourdes, he slowly, gradually got better. I suppose you could say it was just a coincidence, but then, maybe it wasn’t. And anyway, it can’t hurt, can it? I’ve been trying to make myself believe in God ever since we decided to go on this trip, so that my prayers will make a difference. I’m not sure that I do, but I’m really making an effort; I hope that counts for something. And if God doesn’t take pity on Christo, who’s so sweet and brave, and has never hurt anyone, then I don’t think much of him.

  For the first half of the ferry crossing I stared out the window at th
e Newhaven docks getting smaller and fainter. The crossing to Dieppe takes ages, but it means less driving. This is the first time I’ve seen England from the outside. It doesn’t look that great, to be honest. Flattish and grayish. When the coastline disappears and I’ve stared at the rather dirty-looking wake in the dark gray sea, I go and stand at the front, looking out for my first-ever glimpse of another country. It starts to rain on me. It’s strange: I’ve never thought that rain falls on the sea as well as the land. Obvious, really. “Il pleut,” I tell myself. “Il pleut sur la mer. Nous allons à Lourdes, pour chercher un miracle.”

  It’s important to be able to say what you’re doing, even if it’s only to yourself.

  Then Ivo and Christo come and stand beside me. Ivo lights a cigarette without offering me one.

  “Bonjour, mon oncle, bonjour, mon petit cousin,” I say. Ivo just looks at me. He doesn’t say an awful lot, my uncle Ivo. I’m the talker in the family.

  “C’est un jour formidable, n’est-ce pas? Nous sommes debout sur la mer!”

  Christo smiles at me. He’s got this brilliant, sweet, happy smile that makes you happy, too. You want to make him smile all the time. Ivo hardly ever smiles. He narrows his eyes and blows smoke toward France, but the wind snatches it away and carries it back to where we came from.

  4.

  Ray

  I have my very own ghost. You might remember the name—Georgia Millington. Went missing on her way to school, age fifteen, in 1978. There was a small hue and cry when she disappeared—after all the goings-on up in Yorkshire, missing girls were news. But then, perhaps missing girls have always been news. They haunt us—those blurry, blown-up photographs in the paper: eager, coy smiles from school photos, or optimistic grins from snaps taken down the pub. Missing girls are always described as pretty, aren’t they? Bubbly, popular. Who is going to disagree?