by S. J. Watson
“This is probably nothing. But the night you arrived? He asked me to tell you he was on his way from seeing me, when he bumped into you.”
Despite the fire, I go suddenly cold.
“And?”
He shakes his head. “He wasn’t. I hadn’t seen him that day. Not at all.”
18
Zoe’s parents live on the outskirts of Malby, in the same house from which their daughter disappeared. I leave after breakfast, telling no one where I’m going, happy to be driving once more, though anxious about where I’m headed. The morning sun shines weakly through thin cloud and I’m startled by a memory; a morning, it must’ve been not long before Daisy died. We were sitting on a bench on the cliffs, not far from Bluff House. It was pre-dawn, we’d been up all night, messing around, talking and smoking and staring out to sea. And then the sun appeared, a glow at first, then a sliver of golden light over the horizon. A new day, but back then it’d felt as important as a new year, a new millennium. A new beginning, but what had we done with it? Look where we’d ended up.
I push the thought away then drive on toward Malby. As I reach the town the road curves round to cross the river. Behind me, way in the distance, sits the ruined abbey, blackly illuminated in the morning light. A minute or two later the GPS tells me I’ve reached my destination.
The house is small, 1930s I’d guess, with a pebble-dash front and a tiny overgrown garden sloping up toward the door. There’s a light on in the hall, and as I watch one comes on in the front room, too. A woman opens the curtains, glancing out with curiosity to where I’ve parked. Zoe’s mother, I suppose. I get out of the car, walk to the door, and ring the bell.
The house is quiet, but after a moment the door is opened. A man stands there, dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie. He’s balding, his hair is cropped short, his skull craggy and pitted. I hold out my hand.
“Hi.”
He makes no move to return the gesture.
“We’re fine, thanks.”
“I’m not selling anything—”
He goes to shut the door. Maybe he thinks I’m with a religious group, a Jehovah’s Witness, or perhaps some politician canvassing for votes.
From somewhere in the house I hear his wife. “Who is it, love?”
“Mrs. Pearson?” I say, before he can shut the door in my face.
His wife appears. “How do you know my name?” she asks. She’s younger than her husband, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and tight jeans. She resembles her daughter. “What is it you want?”
“My name’s Alex,” I say quickly. “I’m staying in Blackwood Bay.”
“That right? And what’s that got to do wi’ us?”
“I’m wondering if I can talk to you about Zoe.”
A wave of pain rolls over her face, but she extinguishes it before it can take hold.
“That so?” she says, regarding me now with undisguised hostility. “Well, you can fuck off.”
“I’m not a journalist,” I say. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. If you could just give me ten minutes.” She begins to react, but I interrupt her. “Please? I’m worried that something’s going on with the girls—”
“What?”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll explain.”
She hesitates. “You can have five.”
I thank her. “Can I come inside?”
“No. Here’s fine.”
Zoe’s father breathes deeply. “Love,” he says. “It’s freezing. Let’s let the lass in.”
Again she stares at me, but then relents. I follow them through and into the living room.
“Sit down.”
She indicates a chair. The room is comfortable; there’s an old-fashioned TV, a sideboard, china figurines. The two of them sit on the sofa. I feel like I’m being interviewed. Or judged.
“Say what you’ve got to say, then.”
I open my mouth to begin but am interrupted.
“I’m Sean,” says Zoe’s father. “This is Jody.”
I nod in acknowledgment, but Zoe’s mother makes no sign she even heard what her husband said.
“You must be sick of people asking questions,” I say.
“That we are,” says Jody.
I look over at Sean. He’s chewing his lip. I realize what I’d thought was defiance might just as well be fear. But of whom? It can’t be me, surely?
He turns to his wife. “Let her speak, love.”
Not her either, then. She fixes me with a glare.
“I came up here to make a film,” I begin. “But it’s not about Zoe. I promise you.”
“So what is it about?”
I explain it to them briefly, aware of the five minutes I’ve been granted.
“An’ what’s any of that got to do wi’ us?” says Jody when I’ve finished.
“Well,” I reply, “I keep hearing about Daisy’s suicide, and then Zoe running away—”
“Ha!” She laughs, a mordant, hollow laugh, then quotes me, her voice rich with sarcasm. “‘Suicide’ . . .”
Sean shoots her a look of admonishment. “Love.”
She falls silent.
“What?” I say. “You don’t think Daisy took her own life?”
She pushes the hair from her face. “Who knows? Plenty of people had doubts. Until Zoe ran away.”
Again, the sarcasm.
“You don’t think that’s what happened?”
Jody pins me with her gaze but says nothing. She looks like a still photograph; I can almost see her in black and white, half in shadow, half in the bright light from the window, a harsh chiaroscuro. She seems desperately sad, yet defiant, too.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Sean takes her hand. “We talked about this,” he says softly. “Remember?” He turns to me. “Of course she ran away. What else?”
Jody snatches her hand away. “Or was driven.”
“What?”
Sean jumps in before she can answer. “That’s enough!” he says, but she won’t be deterred.
“No,” she says. “Why would she run? Away from us? Away from me?”
Sean looks at me. “I’m sorry,” he says, but I ignore him.
“There was that other girl, too,” I say. “What was her name?”
“Sadie.”
“Yes. She ran.”
“So they say. They reckon she turned up, too. But I’m not the only one who has their doubts.”
“No? Who else have you spoken to about it?”
Another warning glance from Sean, but again she ignores it.
“Liz, for one. In the café?”
I remember her. She’d seemed unfriendly, suspicious. Of me. I wonder how I could get her to talk.
Something to worry about later, perhaps.
“Okay,” I say. “Well, as I said, I’m concerned, too.” I hesitate. “And whatever drove Sadie to run away and Daisy to . . . do what she did . . . and then Zoe . . . well, I’m worried it’s still going on.”
Neither of them looks surprised.
“Jody,” I say. “What d’you think happened?”
Sean shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but she doesn’t look at him. She sighs heavily.
“I don’t know,” she begins. “But for starters, back then there were folk who said Daisy wouldn’t have jumped like that. Reckoned something else was going on. And as for our Zoe? She changed. She weren’t our girl anymore.”
Sean cuts in. “It were just typical teenage stuff,” he says. “Started staying out, booze and cigarettes, y’know?”
Jody turns on him, venomous. “Just tell the fucking truth.”
“What?”
“It was worse than that. She were such a good girl, ’til she met him.”
“Who?”
“Some boyfriend. She wouldn’t tell us. But she was skipping school. Staying out ’til all hours. Hanging around Blackwood Bay. Coming home drunk. Stinking.”
“Stinking?”
“Cigarettes. Weed. She even got a tattoo.”
�
�So she was taking drugs. Where was she getting them?”
“Him, of course. He was older than she was.”
I think of David.
“How much older?”
“No idea. We never saw him. She’d sneak off to meet him. We just know he wasn’t from school. One of the neighbors said she saw ’er with an older boy, but—”
“Boy? Not man?”
“That’s what she said. On’y I’m not sure I believe her.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what to believe, anymore.”
She’s almost whispering now. I want to reach out, to take her hand, though I stop myself. Sean does instead, and she lets him, though without any obvious signs of reciprocation. All the defiance I saw earlier has vanished, leaving behind a shell, a vessel holding nothing but pain.
I did this to my mother, I think. This exact same thing. But then I remember her boyfriend. I see his relief that I’m no longer around, and for a moment I’m sure that, secretly, my mother was glad when I went, too.
Still, guilt knots my stomach, a hard lump. Jody lowers her gaze. “She were fourteen. Fourteen.”
I hesitate. “Was she having sex?”
Jody laughs, but again Sean tries to silence her.
“Enough—” he says.
“I’d say so. She were pregnant.”
The room falls silent.
“Pregnant?”
My voice sounds hollow. At first, I’m not even sure I’ve spoken out loud, but then Jody speaks.
“She didn’t want to tell us. But it were obvious.”
“Did she tell you who the father was?”
“That were obvious, too.”
“Him.”
“Who else?”
I hesitate. “Was she . . . promiscuous, d’you think?”
“Promiscuous? You sound like the police.” She leans forward. “She were fourteen, love. It were rape, whichever way you cut it.”
I grip the edge of my chair.
“I’m sorry.”
“We told ’er we’d look after ’er. There were no need to run,” says Sean.
“And she were just a girl,” says Jody. “A child. It were his fault. Whoever he is. And now we’ll never know.”
“Did she ever mention a guy called David?”
She considers for a moment, then says, “I don’t think so. Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But . . . well, he’s an older man. Lives in Blackwood Bay. There’re rumors . . .”
“Rumors?”
“You haven’t heard of him?”
“I’ve heard of him,” she says, “but . . .”
“We don’t go there,” says Sean. “Not now.”
“No,” says Jody. “We’re stuck here.”
Her husband lowers his voice. “We’re not stuck. We could move.”
She laughs but doesn’t answer, and I know what she’s thinking. What if she comes back? What if she comes home and we’ve gone?
“Can I look in her room? Maybe there’s something there that might be a clue as to who got her pregnant, or why she ran away.”
“I’m sorry—”
But Jody stands up. “Come on.” She faces her husband. “I like this one. It can’t do any harm.”
This one. I should be flattered, I suppose. We climb the stairs together, her in front. Sadness follows her in a cloud; I can almost smell it, the lingering grief.
“We kept everything the same,” she says. She opens the door at the top of the stairs. There’s a stale smell, like old perfume. The room is small, the walls painted mauve, a pinboard over the desk. Just a single bed with a bedside table, a chest of drawers next to it, a wardrobe in the far corner, all mismatched. Clothes spill out of the drawers and are strewn on the bed, an explosion of pink and white and purple and black. An acoustic guitar rests against the foot of the bed. It’s as if Zoe left this morning, as if she’s at school right now, will be home any second demanding a snack and to be left alone in her room.
“I haven’t tidied,” says Jody, as if apologizing. “Well, not much. There were bottles. Cigarette packets . . . I cleared those out.”
“It’s okay. You mind if I film?”
She says that she doesn’t, and I go in. I look at the bedside table first. There’s a phone charger plugged in behind it, a lamp with a broken base, a glass, a box of tissues, makeup remover. The drawer is open but empty. I take my camera and film it all.
“Was there anything in here?”
Jody shakes her head, but I can tell she’s lying. I wonder what she found. Love letters? Condoms? I wonder what else, what might be too shameful for her to tell me. Wraps of coke? Lubricant?
Part of me wants to tell her there’s nothing left that would shock me. I’ve seen it all, things that she can’t even imagine. I go over to the desk. It’s littered with detritus. Scissors and tape, some old headphones, pens and books and scraps of paper.
“She had a computer?”
“She used the ones at school. And her phone, I think.”
I examine the pinboard. Her school timetable, and postcards, mostly. Among the photos there are pages cut from magazines and a few pictures of Zoe with her friends. Carefully posed selfies, the odd candid picture of her laughing with a mate. She seems happy, carefree, just like Daisy was at that age, I suppose, just like I was. If only she’d been aware of what was in store. If only she’d known how to avoid it.
“There’s nothing there,” says Jody sadly. “I went through it. The police, too.”
I lean closer and study the pictures. In one she’s standing in the sun, dressed in a vest-top, looking much older than her years. The edge of her tattoo is just visible on her shoulder, under the strap of her bra. It looks like a circle, a tiny “O.” I film it, then lift a couple more of the photos, looking at what’s underneath. As I do, I see a familiar pattern. A series of dots, joined together with lines, sketched in felt-tip on a piece of card. I unpin it.
“What’s that?” says Jody.
“It’s Orion,” I say. “A constellation. The hunter. Was she into astronomy?”
“No,” says Jody. “Not that I know of.”
I replace the card and search through the rest.
“What about this?”
I show the photograph to Jody. It’s of Zoe; she’s dressed in her school uniform and has her back to the camera. She’s leaning forward, looking into a short, fat telescope. Jody tells me doesn’t recognize it.
Suddenly I don’t want to tell her what I know. That her daughter isn’t the only one with a perfect circle tattooed on her flesh. That Daisy had scratched her own constellation on the wall behind her bed. That she and Zoe and myself are linked, we all have this one thing in common: astronomy, staring at the stars.
“You’re sure?”
“Let me ask Sean.”
She takes it from me and goes to the top of the stairs and calls. A minute later Sean joins us, and she shows him the photograph.
“No idea,” he says. “I never saw that before. Maybe when she was out on one of her trips.”
“With her boyfriend, you mean?” I try to swallow but my throat is dry.
Jody glances back at me. “No. He means her uncle. My brother. She used to see him sometimes, after school and whatnot. They were close.”
“Where is he now? You don’t think he might’ve had something to do with what happened? With her running away?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe once. Not now. The police talked to him, any road.” She examines the photo in my hand. “He were never interested in telescopes, though. Whoever got her into that, I don’t think it were him.”
Then
19
Chapman Sexual Health Clinic, Malby
Chapman Sexual Health Clinic, Malby
Notes
Date: Tuesday, 10 April 2017 (6.15 p.m.)
Zoe in again today (still won’t give me her surname). Arrived at about 4.20, again with the older girl (Hannah? Laura? The same girl has been in
with others, and I’ve heard her called both. Again refuses to tell me her name. Quite aggressive. I’m certain it’s the same girl, as she has a distinctive circular tattoo on her upper arm). Zoe asked for condoms and, after some persuading from the older girl, also asked about STI testing. I asked her about her partner and she refused to answer; the other girl said she had a boyfriend and asked why I wanted to know. Zoe seemed very quiet and withdrawn. I wondered whether she’d taken something and asked her. She refused to answer, instead telling me it was “none of my business” and she just wanted to “get sorted and then get out as she had to be somewhere.” When I asked her where, she didn’t want refused to tell me. I told her I was concerned and asked whether there was anything Zoe wanted to tell me. She said no, but again I got the distinct impression that she was scared of the other girl, even that Hannah/Laura was there to keep her quiet in some way. I asked directly whether all the sex she was having was consensual, and she nodded, but said nothing. I gave her the condoms she’d requested and suggested Zoe come with me into one of the consulting rooms in order to discuss her concerns over STIs. She agreed, but when I suggested that Hannah/Laura stay in the waiting room the older girl once again became aggressive and said she wanted to look after her friend. I felt it best not to push the issue as I don’t want to scare the girls away completely, but I am concerned that something is going on with Zoe that she is reluctant scared to talk about.
I went into the consulting room to get the leaflets, however, and when I returned to the waiting area the girls had left.
Plan: When (if?) Zoe returns, attempt to get her to divulge her surname, and if possible talk to her alone about drugs and/or the possibility of sexual abuse. She needs to be handled with care, though. Consider a referral to social services and/or the police if appropriate.
Shreya Divekar, Sexual Health Nurse Specialist
Now
20
I wake, wet and shivering. My mouth is dry, I can’t breathe, and for a moment it’s like I’m drowning, my lungs full. But then I remember. I’m here in Hope Cottage. I’m Alex, I’m making a documentary. Everything is going to be okay.
I throw back the duvet. Soaked with sweat, but also too cold. My breath plumes in the moonlight. I reach out and check the radiator. It’s not even lukewarm.
