Finding Milly

by Nathan Burrows

  He pressed his thumb on the button of the iPad and navigated his way to the photos section. For the next few minutes, he scrolled through the pictures. They were almost all of Milly, which was hardly surprising as Jimmy didn’t have anything else that he wanted to take photographs of. Milly was like almost every other young woman these days in front of a camera—Jimmy had seen enough photos of them on the internet or on the telly—the minute she saw a camera lens, she pouted at it.

  Jimmy flipped through the pictures until he found the one he wanted. It was, he thought, the last photo he had of the two of them together. It had been taken a couple of weeks before on the coast at Sheringham. He and Milly had driven up there after going to Cromer after abandoning their crabbing efforts, knowing that the weather would be wild. They timed their arrival with the high tide, hoping to see some spectacular waves crashing over the sea defences. The North Sea hadn’t disappointed them on that front.

  Despite their best efforts to take a selfie with the raging sea behind them, a passing dog walker had taken the picture Jimmy was looking at now. Jimmy had been reluctant to hand the phone over to the young man with the dog, figuring that there was no reason he wouldn’t just run off with it, until he realised that while the man might be a fast runner, his dog wouldn’t be.

  In the photograph, both Jimmy and Milly had rosy cheeks, courtesy of the biting wind. Milly had her arms wrapped around Jimmy’s midriff, her jacket pulled down over her hands to protect them. The last thing Jimmy had said before they had left home that morning was, ‘Have you got your gloves?’ Milly had tutted as she always did when Jimmy said anything like that, but he had the last laugh. Jimmy smiled as he looked at her expression. The stand-in photographer had caught Milly mid-laugh, as just before he’d pressed the button on the phone to take the picture, Jimmy had grabbed Milly’s side to make her stop pouting.

  While he scrolled through the rest of the pictures, sipping his tea, something that the policewoman had said to Jimmy the day before came back to him. She’d mentioned social media, asking if Milly used Twitter or Facebook. Jimmy had answered no, saying that as far as he knew she didn’t. It wasn’t something that she’d ever talked about.

  Jimmy pressed the home button and started up Safari, typing ‘www.facebook.co.uk’ into the browser address bar. To his surprise, he got an error page from Google telling him it couldn’t be found.

  ‘What do you mean, it can’t be found?’ Jimmy muttered. ‘Have they bloody closed it down or something?’ A few seconds later, having just typed ‘facebook’ into the browser, he was looking at the Facebook login page. With a sigh, he went to the Google page and tried ‘Milly Tucker Facebook’ instead. One tap of the screen later, he was looking at a list of people called Milly Tucker. There were more of them that he’d thought there would be.

  Half-way down the page, he found his Milly. So she used Facebook then, even though she’d never mentioned it? Then again, Jimmy thought, she wouldn’t want her old man to be invading her personal space on the internet. On the screen was a small round circle with a photograph in it—obviously Milly even though the picture was tiny—with her name and the word ‘Norwich’ in small grey letters underneath it. Jimmy tapped on her photo and took a sip of tea as the next page loaded.

  Milly’s picture was in the middle of the screen, larger than before, with a black box behind it. Jimmy tried tapping on the various areas, but kept getting taken to a login page. There were tabs for ‘Friends’ and ‘Photos’, but the only place they went was to a nag screen to log in or create a new account. The only way he could see what was on her profile was to create an account. Jimmy put in his name, date of birth, and e-mail address. He chose the picture of him and Milly on the seafront as his profile picture, cropping it so that Milly’s face was half-in, half-out of the picture. There was enough of her visible so someone who knew her could recognise her, but not enough to be useful to anyone else. A few moments later, he was looking at a screen telling him to check his e-mail address in a couple of minutes time. By the time the confirmation e-mail turned up, he was back in bed with a fresh cup of tea.

  This time, when he searched for Milly after he’d logged in, he could see her profile page. Or at least, what he assumed was her profile page. From what he knew about Facebook, there didn’t seem to be much on it. Tapping on her photograph enlarged it, and he studied the picture. Looking at it now, even though it was obviously his Milly, it was very different to how she normally looked in photographs.

  Milly was facing the camera, unsmiling. The photo was cropped, but as far as he could see, her hair was straight. Dark eyes stared back at him, inscrutable. Even though this was his daughter, the woman he’d seen grow from a new-born into an adult, Jimmy had no idea what Milly was thinking when the picture was taken. It was as if she had emptied herself of any emotion when the shutter was pressed. Jimmy swiped at the picture to zoom in on it, and realised that the photograph was ever so slightly off kilter.

  Even though it was unmistakably Milly, the faint scar on her forehead from when she fell off a swing in the front garden when she was five or six was gone. All that remained above her perfectly plucked eyebrow was a faint light smudge where the scar had been. On the left-hand side of her neck, Milly had a tiny mole that she hated. Gone. Even to Jimmy’s untrained eye, it was obvious that someone had tidied the photograph up. Milly’s face was smooth, with none of the usual small blemishes on her face that everyone had, no matter their age.

  Jimmy saved the photo to his iPad, thinking it might be useful to send a copy to the police, before returning his attention to her profile. As he scrolled down, he came to a section marked ‘Friends’. According to Facebook, Milly had thirty-nine friends. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that number. Was it too few for someone her age? Or was it too many? The impression that Jimmy had was that most youngsters on Facebook had hundreds of friends, with the barrier to what constituted a friend pretty low. Perhaps Milly only made Facebook friends with people she was proper friends with? Knowing her, that made more sense to Jimmy. The only problem was, he didn’t think he knew a single one of them.

  He scrolled through Milly’s friends, looking hard to see if any of them looked familiar. His earlier hunch had been right, though. Jimmy looked at some of the profiles, enlarging the photographs, but he didn’t know any of them. They were all about Milly’s age, and from what little information they provided on their profiles, most of them were local.

  Jimmy opened up the note taking software on his iPad and starting composing a message. If he understood the Facebook page properly, he could send a message to all of Milly’s friends. Perhaps one of them knew where she was, or at least reassure him she was okay? It took him ages to write the note because he kept writing a sentence, deleting it, and then re-writing it with a couple of changed words. He didn’t want to concern any of them, but he wanted them to take him seriously.

  Hi.

  I’m Jimmy Tucker—Milly’s dad—and I’m hoping that you can help me. I’ve not seen Milly for a couple of days, and just want to make sure she’s okay. We’ve not fallen out or nothing like that. I think maybe her phone might be broken or something.

  Have you seen her? If you have, and are in touch with her, could you do me a massive favour and let me know that she’s all right or maybe ask her to get in touch?

  Thanks, Jimmy Tucker.

  He added his mobile number below the message and copied it to his clipboard. It took him a couple of minutes, but he pasted the text into a message to all thirty-nine of Milly’s friends. Surely, one of them would know something?

  Chapter 12

  ‘Hey, Hannah,’ Jimmy said, his breath forming a cloud in front of his face. ‘How’s tricks?’ The greeting was a private joke between them, and when he used to say it to her, it would always make her smile. One evening, back when they’d not long started going out together, they’d met in a hotel bar in the middle of Norwich. Hannah had been waiting for him—Jimmy couldn’t remember why he was late, but it wa
s probably because he was fretting over how he looked—and when he’d turned up, she was being pestered by a middle-aged bloke in a suit. Jimmy had given him a look, and the businessman got the message pretty quickly.

  Later on that evening, after a few glasses of wine, Hannah had told Jimmy that the man in the suit thought she was a high-end hooker looking for business in the hotel and had been trying to hire her for a couple of hours. It had mortified Jimmy when she’d told him, and he'd said if he knew that when they were still at the hotel bar, he would have gone after the businessman to offer him some advice with his fists. Which, as Hannah had told him, was exactly why she had waited to tell Jimmy. Later that evening, when they were lying in bed both exhausted, hot, and satisfied Hannah had laughingly demanded two hundred quid from Jimmy for the privilege. Hence the joke about tricks.

  Jimmy leaned forward and brushed some moss off from the top of Hannah’s slate grey headstone. Next Saturday, he would have to remember to bring a brush and some water with him to give it a proper clean. Even though Hannah’s grave was in the middle of the cemetery, it still needed cleaning every couple of months. Jimmy could have understood it if the headstone had been underneath a tree, or something like that, but how it got so dirty in the middle of the cemetery was beyond him.

  ‘I’ve got some news, mate,’ he said as he unfolded his small canvas chair and put it on the empty plot next to Hannah. Jimmy sat in the chair, just as he had done almost every Saturday morning since he’d buried her here, and sighed. ‘Turns out I’m going to be joining you sooner than I’d thought.’ Jimmy glanced at the patch of grass he was sitting on. ‘Good job we planned ahead, hey?’

  When Hannah’s funeral was being organised, the undertaker he’d used had sat down with Jimmy to go through the finances. Their original quote—which was pretty much every penny that Jimmy had in savings—turned out to be far too high, and there was some money left over. They could, the undertaker had explained, buy the plot next to Hannah to reserve it. ‘For when the time comes,’ the undertaker had explained. Jimmy hadn’t thought twice about buying the small patch of land, seven foot by three foot, even though it was nearly a grand for the privilege. It turned out that Norwich was one of the most expensive places in the country to be buried, and while Jimmy would have loved to have had that thousand pounds back in his bank account at the time, it would not get any cheaper.

  For the next thirty minutes, Jimmy told Hannah about his week. About going to the hospital. About being told that he was going to die, and soon. He tried not to cry when he told her how scared he was, about his fear of not being in control. At the back of his mind was the fact that Hannah had chosen the exact time, place, and method of her own death. That wasn’t really an option for Jimmy, but the thought it might be was something that he would not share with Hannah.

  ‘Norwich are at home to Burnley this afternoon,’ Jimmy said. ’Should be a good game. I think I’m on the away end again, which is an arse, but I’m not complaining. I should get to watch most of the game. Not as if Burnley’s got a reputation, is it?’ Hannah had little interest in football, other than the free time she had when Jimmy was stewarding at a home game, but she always seemed interested in how their home team was getting on. Or not, as the case may be.

  ‘Anyway, Hannah,’ Jimmy said with a sigh. ‘Long story short, it looks like we might be spending Christmas together.’ He flicked a couple of stray leaves from the bordered area that marked his wife’s final resting place and got to his feet. As he folded his chair away, his eyes ran across the grass rectangle next to Hannah. What would it look like when he was buried there? He could plan everything—his headstone, a grave border, even what songs would be played at his funeral—but he would never know what his own grave looked like.

  Tears welled in his eyes as he imagined Milly standing on the path next to the plots, perhaps with a pushchair and a grandchild that he would never know. He saw her reaching down and touching two headstones, Hannah’s and then his. Would she be crying? Would she be talking to them both the way that he had just been talking to Hannah? Or would she move away from Norfolk and not visit them at all, with or without a grandchild?

  Jimmy got to his feet, hefted the thin canvas chair over his shoulder, and made his way back to the bus stop outside the cemetery. As he walked along the gravel path, the stones as dark as the sky overhead, he tried not to look at the graves on either side of him. Many of them were dulled, overgrown, obviously not visited despite being fairly recent. Even though he and Milly had come to Hannah’s grave most Saturday mornings, there was no guarantee that the tradition would continue when he was gone. Jimmy didn’t know if the money he had paid for the plots also covered maintenance. Even if it did, he thought, that would run out at some point.

  A light drizzle was just starting to fall as Jimmy left the cemetery. His bus stop was a couple of hundred yards down the road from the cemetery entrance, and he trudged his way towards it. Walking in the opposite direction were a couple of teenagers, all hoodies and languid movements. Jimmy moved to the side of the pavement as he approached the pair to give them room to pass, but as their paths crossed, the youngster nearest him lurched into him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy saw the movement a split second before the young man barged into him, but he was able to adjust his weight and brace himself. The other man just bounced off his shoulder. Jimmy started to apologise out of instinct, but stopped himself and stared at the youngster.

  ‘Watch yourself, Grandad.’ Underneath the hoodie, Jimmy could see a set of dark eyes, pimpled skin, and rat-like face. He glanced at the other boy who was stockier than his companion, but about the same age. Late teens? Early twenties at most, but no older than that. ‘Yeah?’ They stood, regarding each other in silence for a few seconds. ‘What you looking at, old boy?’ The younger man’s face was full of bravado, and a nasty smile played across his mouth.

  ‘Nothing important,’ Jimmy replied, wiping the smile away with his words. ‘I think you knocked into me,’ Jimmy continued in a quiet voice. ‘Maybe you should apologise?’

  The two men in hoodies looked at each other and laughed. The stockier one looked over his shoulder, up the road towards the cemetery, and then nodded at the other man. Sensing what might be about to happen, Jimmy let the strap of the canvas chair slip over his shoulder.

  ‘See, I’m thinking a spot of compensation might be in order, bruv.’ Jimmy saw the man’s right arm move, and a glint of steel appeared in his hands. The canvas chair wouldn’t be much of a weapon, but he could use it as a block if he had to.

  ‘Bruv?’ Jimmy replied, rolling his shoulders underneath his jacket. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Come on, old boy,’ the first youth replied, ignoring Jimmy’s question. ‘Watcha got? What’s in your wallet?’

  ‘A bus ticket back to Norwich,’ Jimmy said. ‘Why are you asking?’ He saw the knife shifting in the young man’s hand.

  ‘Stop messing about and hand it over.’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Come on, now. Don’t make me use this.’ He jiggled the knife in his hand. From what he could see of it, it looked like a standard kitchen knife.

  ‘Does your mum know you’ve got that?’ Jimmy nodded at the weapon. ‘She might be looking for it to cut up your school lunch.’ A flash of anger crossed the youngster’s face, and Jimmy thought for a second he was going to make his move when the other man made a tutting sound with his teeth and nodded over Jimmy’s shoulder.

  Behind him, Jimmy could hear a car approaching, and he saw the knife disappear back into its hiding place underneath the youngster’s sleeve. The three of them stood in silence as an old Honda made its way past them, its elderly male driver oblivious to the drama that was unfolding on the pavement. No chance of any help from him, then, Jimmy thought. It wasn’t a problem. He didn’t think he would need it. Jimmy rolled his shoulders again. It had been a while since he’d done this.

  As the small car passed them, the youth with th
e knife followed it, his head turning to watch as it slowed to turn into the cemetery entrance. When he snapped his head back round, Jimmy’s fist was already coming towards him like a sledgehammer.

  Jimmy didn’t even wince as his fist impacted the young man’s nose, but felt the welcoming crunch of cartilage under his knuckles. The knife dropped to the pavement as the young man crumpled to his knees and raised his hands to his face, covering his nose as blood started to stream from it. Other than the soft crump as Jimmy hit the lad, the whole episode took place in complete silence. Fair play to the boy for not screaming, Jimmy thought as he kicked the knife as far into the road as he could. Having your nose broken was bloody painful. Not only that, but Jimmy knew from bitter experience that your eyes instantly filled with tears, and there was nothing you could do about it.

  He turned to the other young man whose eyes were flashing between his wounded friend and Jimmy. His hoodie had slipped back from his head, and Jimmy got a good look at his face. He was much younger than Jimmy had first thought. Perhaps his comment about school lunches wasn’t that far off the mark after all? Jimmy had seen people freeze before when confronted with violence. That was why his mantra had always been hit them first and hit them hard.

  ‘If you want my wallet, matey boy,’ Jimmy said under his breath, ‘why don’t you come and get it? No knives, no nonsense.’ Jimmy dropped the canvas chair and balled his fists. ‘Just you and me, man to man. Like back in the old days. First man on the ground loses.’

  Even though he was stockier than his companion, this young lad was perhaps not as full of bravado. Or, Jimmy reckoned, perhaps he was more sensible. But if that was the case, why was he hanging around with the loser who was blowing blood puddles out of his nose on the pavement?

  The second youngster took a step backwards as Jimmy leaned forwards a couple of inches. As Jimmy pulled back one of his fists as if he was going to hit him, the youngster back-pedalled and started running up the road. Leaning over the youth on the ground, Jimmy whispered.