by Tammy Cohen
Phil did not sound terribly happy when he realized it was me at his door, but he buzzed me up anyway. I’d forgotten how steep those stairs were and the claustrophobic proportions of the rooms – the studio with all his equipment and an old three-seater sofa taking up the bigger space, with a tiny kitchen and bathroom off it.
He made me a cup of tea in a Star Wars mug that I knew for a fact he’d had for more than two decades, making a big thing of having to hunt around for a ‘normal’ tea bag, as he only ever drank green these days. If I’d wanted to, I could have traced the line of memory back to whichever distant birthday or Father’s Day that mug originated from but for once I decided to spare myself the hurt of going back to that other life, that other time.
‘I just don’t understand why she’d want to screw up her future like this,’ I said. ‘And please don’t tell me this is almond milk?’
He made a face.
‘Joy and I are off dairy now. And believe me, we tried to talk Rosie out of it, but you know how she is when she’s decided on something.’
‘Have you met this boyfriend?’
‘Not yet. And she swears it has no bearing on her dropping out. And to be fair, she has been talking about it for a few weeks now. Look, I’m no happier about it than you are, Tess. But she’s nineteen now. Old enough to know her own mind.’
I took a deep breath then, trying to think of the words to broach what I had to say next.
‘About that photograph you got sent in the post, the one of me in the pub.’
Phil glanced over, wary now.
‘I honestly wasn’t drinking. I just called into the pub to try to settle my thoughts. I’d had a really stressful day.’
For a moment I considered telling Phil my suspicions about Dotty, and about going to confront Stephens and the encounter with his grandmother. It would have been such a relief to share with someone the horror of that audio recording. Dotty’s high-pitched whimper that spooled through my mind when I lay in bed, trying to sleep. But I stopped myself.
‘You know I would never do anything to hurt my children, don’t you?’
‘Oh, come on, Tess. Have you really forgotten what happened with Rosie?’
‘No, of course I haven’t forgotten. But you know what state I was in at that time, Phil. You’d just left us. I wasn’t myself.’
‘So it was my fault.’
‘I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is I’m in a different place now. I won’t let Em down. I’d do anything for those girls. You know that, don’t you?’
Phil sat up straight, holding my gaze as if he were about to argue, but then he exhaled heavily, the fight going out of him.
‘Yes. I know that, Tess.’
On the way back from Phil’s studio I felt stirrings of optimism. The conversation with Phil hadn’t been easy, but at least it had been honest, and on the way out he’d given me a proper hug and said, ‘I know at heart we both want the same thing, Tess. For our kids to be happy.’ I turned the memory of that hug over and over in my head like a precious stone I’d picked up on the beach.
Back home, I spoke to my dad on the phone while watching both parents on the webcam.
I could see from my mum’s disapproving frown as my dad spoke that she was having a bad day.
‘Tell them we don’t want any,’ she instructed him.
‘It’s Tessa, love.’
‘I don’t care who it is. Just tell them we’re not interested. You always were too soft for your own good.’
‘How are you managing, Dad?’ I asked him. ‘Honestly?’
On the screen my dad put a hand to his head and rubbed and the gesture made me want to climb through the computer and put my arms around him and comfort him the way he so often comforted me as a child.
‘I do my best, Tessa,’ he said. As if I needed convincing of that. ‘But I have to admit I’m finding it hard.’
‘Perhaps it’s time to get that list from Dr Ali,’ I said, trying to keep my voice down, even though my mother couldn’t have heard above the sound of the television. ‘The recommended nursing homes?’
My father closed his eyes.
‘Maybe give it a little longer,’ he said eventually. ‘We can struggle on here for a while.’
After I’d hung up I carried on watching them, the elastic membrane of my heart stretched first this way and then that by pity, love and frustration.
A message pinged into my inbox from the dating site to notify me I had mail. Clicking off my parents, I logged in to find two more messages from Nick, one from earlier in the day asking what I had planned, and the next from just now. Where are you? He’d written. I miss you.
I stared at the last three words for a long time, a smile bubbling up and twitching on my lips.
Everything had been so shit for so long. Since Phil left it had seemed like that side of my life was over. The side where I existed physically for anyone apart from myself. And I’d convinced myself I was glad of that, glad that I could walk the streets draped in the invisibility cloak of middle age. Glad that when I met a stranger on the near-deserted river bank while walking the dog I could smile and say, ‘Hi,’ without worrying he might see it as an invitation. It was a relief, I told myself, not to bother with the tiresome banalities of a physical relationship – caring if I’d shaved under my arms, wearing clothes based on aesthetics rather than comfort, seeing myself always through two pairs of eyes, mine and his.
But Nick’s I miss you made me realize I wasn’t quite done with all that yet.
And it came as a shock how happy that made me.
I was off dancing with wolves – I mean, negotiating with my ex.
The reply came back almost instantly.
And? You survived?
Bloody but unbowed.
There was a pause then, and I found myself glancing impatiently at my screen, irrationally irritated that he might have been called away, or just found something more pressing to do. But then:
OK. Deep breath. How do you feel about meeting up next weekend IN REAL LIFE?
My initial response was too soon, but I knew that Mari would say it was my fear talking. So instead I took a deep breath, just as instructed, and wrote back:
Why not? (On second thoughts, don’t answer that.)
Emma came home, buzzing because her last class of the day had been cancelled. The weather had turned warmer, the sun finally pushing aside the last of the persistent cloud of earlier. I remembered we still had half a box of mini-ice-creams in the freezer, left over from last summer, so we ate them sitting on the back doorstep, our faces lifted towards the sun.
For a moment I forgot and looked around for Dotty, expecting her to be hovering, tongue-lolling, eyes fixed on the ice-creams, before remembering about her collar and that awful recording. There was a split second where I teetered on the knife edge between the here and now – this sun-flooded doorstep – and the dark abyss of Dotty’s unknown fate.
Deliberately, I pulled myself back into the present. The warmth of the sun on my skin. Emma next to me.
If only this moment could be frozen, I thought. So I could pop it into the freezer like those ice-creams and bring it out when things were going badly.
A ring on the doorbell shattered our peaceful slurping. Instantly, the feeling of wellbeing disintegrated, my throat closing up, thinking of all the people it could be. Phil, Stephens, the police again. None of the options was good.
Couldn’t I have just this one perfect, intact moment?
‘I’ll get it,’ said Em, jumping to her feet before I could stop her.
‘Hang on—’ But she had already disappeared through the back door.
I steeled myself for whatever was coming. Even before I heard Em cry out, ‘Mum!’ I’d got up and was running through the kitchen. But now I could hear her exclaiming. And another sound. It couldn’t be. Surely …
A small black-and-white shape came barrelling in through the hallway, making high-pitched squeals of delight.
I drop
ped to my knees, speechless. While Dotty licked my face, I inspected her. She was thinner, and her fur was matted in places. I sucked my breath in through my teeth when I saw the deep cut to her abdomen, its length traced by a bumpy seam of dried, black blood.
Em appeared in the doorway, followed by a thin woman in an anorak that seemed excessive for this mild weather.
‘I see poster and I bring back,’ said the woman.
‘Her name’s Magda,’ said Em, and a tear snaked down her cheek.
‘She says she found Dotty in her garden this afternoon and recognized her from the posters. Isn’t that amazing?’
I nodded and buried my face in Dotty’s neck, realizing to my surprise that I too was crying.
After Magda had left, reluctantly accepting the twenty-pound note I pressed into her hand, Em and I stayed on the kitchen floor for a long time, taking it in turns to hug Dotty.
Apart from the cut, she seemed unharmed, though subdued, following us from room to room as if worried we might abandon her.
‘But where’s she been?’ Em kept asking. ‘And who’s done this to her?’
I didn’t tell her that I had a fair notion of exactly who’d taken her. And why.
‘We should definitely tell the police,’ Emma said, as we carefully washed off the dried blood to reveal the ugly pink cut. ‘People shouldn’t be allowed to get away with hurting animals.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ I promised.
But even as I said it I was wavering. If I went back to the police with my suspicions, and they in turn went back to Stephens, where would it stop? He’d proved now how ruthless he was, as if there was ever any doubt.
The thought of being involved with someone like this skewered me with fear. That life, the life that Stephens represented – moving in the shadows where violence was normalized – was a life I didn’t want any part of. If he could hurt our dog, what was he capable of doing to us?
I imagined the kind of knife he might have used to make that cut.
Then I imagined that same knife held against Em’s throat.
What happened to Dotty was clearly some kind of warning to back off. Why didn’t I do just that? I was just so tired of it all by that stage, you see. The lack of sleep, the constant anxiety over what would happen next. I just wanted it to be over.
In every other aspect of my life I felt I was making headway, for the first time in months. Reconnecting with Rosie. Being able to have a civilized conversation with Phil, recognizing that we both shared the same basic goal – to see our daughters happy. The gentle, warm flame that came from my interactions with Nick, my physical self unfurling as if from a long hibernation.
Now Dotty was back, Em might be able to put what happened behind her and move on. She needed to focus on getting her grades back up, without worrying about me or about any repercussions from all this. And I also needed to focus on my own life. Whatever Stephens was, whatever he’d done, it wasn’t my concern. My job was only to keep my girls safe.
Looking back now, I can’t believe my own naivety. To believe I was in control and that the choice to engage or switch off was mine to make.
Such hubris.
That evening, Em brought her laptop downstairs so she could work on the sofa with Dotty curled up on her legs.
I was sitting in the armchair opposite, writing up the feature on second chances and breaking off every few minutes to check on social media, as I always did these days. The news was full of the effect on young people’s brains of constantly flitting from one internet site to another, but in my experience the women my age were just as bad. All of us watching telly with our laptops on our knees, jumping between tabs, grazing on social media like junk food, constantly dissatisfied but not understanding why, instead trying the next site and then the next, sure we would find it, that elusive thing we were searching for that opened up the door into the life we were meant to have.
On Twitter I followed several local accounts that broadcast headlines pertinent to our neighbourhood or those around it. Announcements of upcoming events or news about bin removals or road closures. That sort of thing. One of those accounts had just tweeted.
As I read the headline my heart froze in my chest.
I stared at the words for a long time, trying to will them into a different meaning, before conceding a sickening defeat.
Schoolgirl attacked in Bounds Green, the tweet read. 15-year-old dragged off the main road and sexually assaulted.
He’d done it again.
24
‘There’s not much I can tell you, Mrs Hopwood.’
There was an open pack of Tesco chicken-salad sandwiches on Detective Byrne’s desk, the plastic film ripped off. Inside was one whole triangular sandwich and a second that had been half eaten. A packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps lay beside it, also open. I got the definite impression I’d disturbed him mid-lunch.
‘The girl was walking home from the Tube just before midnight down Bounds Green Road and a man came out of nowhere and pulled her off the main road and assaulted her. But apart from that, we know nothing more at this stage.’
‘But there’ll be CCTV on the street, won’t there?’
I was trying to keep my voice steady, but I could hear how it cracked with excitement. This might be a breakthrough. If Stephens had attacked again and been picked up on CCTV, they’d have to charge him this time, wouldn’t they?
Especially if this girl was able to positively identify him.
‘The camera wasn’t working.’
‘What?’
‘The CCTV camera for that part of the road wasn’t recording.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
Detective Byrne’s eyebrows lifted a fraction at my reaction, but he didn’t say anything.
‘At least you’ll be able to pull him back in, won’t you? St—’ I stopped myself, before I said his name. ‘I mean, the guy you picked up from the CCTV footage after Em was attacked? You can recall him and then the girl can ID him, right?’
‘At this stage the girl is unsure if she wants to take things any further.’
‘Pardon?’ I stared at him, totally taken aback. ‘But that’s ridiculous. She has to take it further. She owes it to the other girls out there. You must persuade her.’
‘Mrs Hopwood.’ Detective Byrne’s voice had a new, hard edge I hadn’t heard him use before. ‘Please remember this young girl is just fifteen years old and has been through a traumatic experience. How would you feel if it was your daughter?’
I felt ugly with shame then, seeing myself through his eyes. This vengeful mother so bent on getting back at the man who hurt her daughter she lacked the imagination to see what it might cost someone else’s child.
Or worse, she could imagine, but just didn’t care enough.
‘Well, you can bring your own prosecution, can’t you? Without the girl’s assistance?’
‘Only if the evidence is there, Mrs Hopwood. Look, I know you’re concerned, but rest assured, finding this creep is a priority for us. We are taking all the steps we possibly can and that might well include bringing our initial suspect in your daughter’s case back in for questioning. But you must also understand that this isn’t the only serious case we’re investigating. Do you know how many stabbings we’ve handled over the last six weeks alone? Last week, a sixteen-year-old kid was shot dead, just a few hundred yards away from here, standing on the pavement minding his own business. We had his mother collapse right where you’re sitting now. Had to rush her to hospital. Suspected cardiac arrest. So yes, this case is a priority, but it’s not the only priority. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
I’d intended to tell Detective Byrne about the cut on Dotty’s stomach, but his demeanour made me change my mind. I could see he was stressed. The patch of psoriasis I’d noticed on his arm before had definitely got bigger, the livid pink crusted with white. I still had no evidence Stephens was involved in Dotty’s disappearance and I guessed the policeman wouldn’t welcome the extra paperwork
for a complaint that had little chance of coming to anything.
Detective Byrne showed me out through the cramped waiting area. There was a woman sitting texting on her phone and, next to her, a heavy-set girl with hair pulled back from her head in pigtails that looked too young for her. Both of them had puffy pink skin around their eyes, as if they’d had a few long, difficult nights. The girl was dressed in a school uniform which stretched uncomfortably over her large frame. There was a school exercise book open on her lap and she held a biro in her hand with which she was absently doodling a heart on the skin of her inner wrist.
A heart. The sweet hopefulness of it made me want to weep.
‘Is that …’ I began as we reached the door, but the look on the detective’s face silenced me.
I was outside and about to turn away when Detective Byrne stopped me.
‘Mrs Hopwood? Please believe I mean this in the kindest way when I suggest that you do your job, which is to look after your daughter as best you can, and leave us to do ours.’ As I began walking home, Detective Byrne’s rebuke rang in my ears. Of course I should leave him to get on with the investigation in his own way. Everyone knew police budgets were being cut; obviously, they couldn’t allocate all their resources to this one case.
But then I started thinking of the girl in the waiting room, the one with the pigtails and the biro’d heart. Of course, there was nothing to say for sure that she was the girl who’d been attacked the previous week, but the fact was, if it wasn’t her, it was another girl just like her. Young and not yet fully formed, still doodling and dreaming. I remembered the girl’s puffy eyes. How long would it take to recover from whatever it was Stephens had done? Could she ever truly recover? Could Emma?
The soft, pale, exposed skin under that biro heart.
Afterwards, I’d rack my brains, trying to work out whether I consciously decided to make the detour I did then or whether my feet genuinely took me there without my telling them to, acting on some subliminal impulse. Whatever the truth, I found myself, some ten minutes later, standing outside the sports field just off the high road where all the local teams played.
