Finally Erin dropped her hood. Her eyes darted about the room as she took in all of the different faces. I wasn’t sure whether she recognised any of them, but they certainly didn’t notice her.
“Are your family here?” Erin asked.
I shook my head. “They don’t come.”
“My mum goes sometimes but mostly they make her very upset. I’m glad she’s not around tonight. Let’s sit at the back.”
Something about Erin’s expression made me sad. How hard must it have been for them over the years? Especially after Erin’s father died. There didn’t seem to be much softness between her and her mother, the space tinged with sadness, but I could tell from Erin’s tone that she loved her more than she’d admit.
* * *
Afterwards, the crowd spilled out into the night. Some of the candles had already burned down. We’d lingered for a good five minutes afterwards, watching people leave. A few of the parents saw me, and came to chat. Morgan and Paul Bailey’s mother gave my arm a squeeze and promised to be in touch. Nobody noticed the silent Erin, who hung back near the door, her phone still and black in her hands.
“Are you okay?” I asked again when we were alone.
She didn’t answer.
The air was so cold it made my lungs ache. We stood under the trees, watching as the final parents drifted across towards the road or the town centre. People spoke very little, but the smiles that passed between most of them were warm.
There were a few people who looked official. Police, probably. I’d noticed them during the service, and now they stood out among the mourners. One, a young woman in a dark suit, with pale brown skin and curls, came to stand beside us.
“Hello.” Erin knew her. “Harriet, this is Wendy. Uh, she’s a liaison officer.”
“Harriet – Harriet Murphy, right? You’re the one who called in and spoke to Godfrey about Operation Moray recently.” Wendy gave me a once-over. “Journalist?”
“Harriet is writing a book,” Erin said. Then she turned fully to the officer. “Have you heard anything about the break-in?”
Wendy shook her head. “Not yet,” she admitted. “But they’ll only get in touch with me if they find something. They’ll touch base with you as often as you asked them to.”
“Can you tell us anything about what I told Godfrey?” I asked. “About the boys I—”
“Not at this moment in time,” Wendy said. I wasn’t sure whether she meant because of where we were, or because she didn’t have anything to tell me. “Is there anything else you’ve noticed since, anything missing?”
“No.” Erin shook her head emphatically. “Nothing was taken. At least I still haven’t noticed anything.”
Wendy turned back to me, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a card, which she handed over.
“Erin, give me a call if you need to. And, Miss Murphy, it might be useful if we could have a chat sometime soon.”
She left us, then, catching sight of somebody else she wanted to talk to – I thought it might be the Davies’ mother, but it was now too dim for me to tell.
“I wish they’d tell me more,” I said.
“I don’t.” Erin rolled her eyes. “Wendy’s a nut but she’s nice enough. Just very – pushy. Do you want a cigarette?” She pulled a packet from her pocket, along with the plastic lighter. I took one gratefully and we stood smoking for a moment in silence.
Suddenly footsteps sounded behind us. Erin spun a fraction faster than me, her body tensed to run, but she didn’t move. It was Molly Evans, her big coat buttoned up tight and a woolly hat pulled down low. Erin dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out.
“I’m glad you came,” Molly said. It was directed at both of us. She turned to Erin, then, and I shifted my attention elsewhere, pretending to stare at the gathering night as the candles melted down. “Hi,” she said uncertainly.
“Hello. Thanks for inviting me. Harriet told me.”
“I thought it was time. Your mother’s said before she’d like you to come to these things, but you weren’t ready…”
Erin shrugged but didn’t deny it. They spoke for a while longer, awkward pleasantries that I didn’t feel I should intrude on. Molly wasn’t her usual bubbly self, though, and the eventual lull in the conversation made me pay attention.
“Anyway. I wanted to… I, uh…” Molly made a wet noise in her throat. She looked nervous.
“Yes?” Erin breathed.
“This might sound odd, but I just thought I’d ask… Do you ever feel like somebody is watching you? I know it’s all in my head, but I just wondered if either of you ever feel like that? I wonder if it’s because I’m a bit emotional. You know, as if my brain is inventing a reason to feel anxious. Andy tells me I’m being silly.”
“It’s not silly,” Erin said. She tried to smile but it didn’t work. “It’s probably just – the long nights.” She looked at me, an expression I couldn’t read. “But if you’re worried you could talk to Wendy about it. You know her too, don’t you?”
Erin pointed her out and Molly nodded, visibly relaxing. “You’re right, love,” she said. She flashed a smile that seemed more confident. “Probably just time to touch base. Anyway, I’m glad to have seen you. You can keep in touch, if you’d like. Harriet has my number.”
We watched Molly go. Erin started to walk back to the car, head down and shoulders hunched. I ran to catch up with her.
“Hey. Aren’t you going to tell me what that was about?”
Erin lifted her head. “What what was about?”
“Not telling Molly about your break-in?”
“That’s not got anything to do with this,” Erin said. “She just wanted reassurance. It’s like that, sometimes, I think. You just get a bit overwhelmed and need somebody to talk you down. God knows I’ve done the same for Mum enough times. She’ll be fine now. She can talk to Wendy. Anyway, I don’t think what happened to me is very serious. It just shook me up a bit. Can you take me home now, please?”
“You don’t have to pretend it’s not a big deal to you, Jillian.”
I realised the slip as soon as the name left my mouth, but I couldn’t catch it in time. Erin froze. I felt heat flood my face. She’d been Jillian to me for so long that sometimes it was hard to remember.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Erin. I didn’t mean to use that name again. Can I buy you a drink to make it up to you? I’m really sorry…”
“Yes,” Erin blurted, then smiled as though she’d surprised herself. “God, yeah. I could do with something to take the edge off. Where?”
“I actually don’t live too far away from you,” I said. “We could go local.”
ELEVEN
Harriet
I CHOSE A BAR I’d been to a couple of times before, right on the outskirts of Arkney. The area around it had a sort of measured old-time feel to it, nice stone buildings and cottages with thatched roofs. The bar was close enough to both our houses that I could park up and we could get taxis home if it came to it. It was the sort of place I’d call a ‘nice clothes’ bar, classy and small, with a food menu and a big window strung with industrial-looking lightbulbs. We ordered something each, small meals that came on wooden boards, and Erin made a comment about the choice of desserts. When the food came, Erin devoured it with gusto, guzzling down her rum and Coke like she’d not been fed or watered in days.
I laughed.
“What?” Erin demanded. “Never seen a girl eat?”
“Never like that.” I realised I was still grinning. “But there’s definitely something quite amazing about it.”
“Shut up.” Erin rolled her eyes.
She polished off the last of her drink and ordered another. I sipped at my wine, letting the alcohol numb some of the questions in my mind. What was I doing? It wasn’t a good idea to be here, especially not with alcohol involved. If I wanted to help Erin then I had to keep a clear head. Yet when the second glass of wine Erin had ordered for me turned up I drank that too, wanting to relax.
Erin’s phone was on the table, and she checked it several times during the meal. After the second glass of wine I felt brave enough to ask her about it.
“Are you waiting to hear from somebody?” I asked.
“Huh?” Erin glanced at her phone and then back at me. “Oh, it’s not important. Just – a friend.”
Jazz music played in the background; it should have been soothing but it was too loud. The room was dimly lit, too, small candles on all of the tables, and it all felt a bit much. Erin didn’t seem to care, though. She ordered another drink for both of us, and then scooted around to my side of the booth so we could talk over the music.
“Why did you come and see my mum the other day?” she asked, her glass halfway to her mouth. “I mean – why now?”
“It was the article,” I said, slowly. I was suddenly very aware of how close she was. I could smell her cigarettes and her perfume, musky and warm. Some of her eyeliner had rubbed off, and I realised how pale she was under her war paint.
“Because you just found out about those boys?”
“Yes. I’ve wanted to write this book for… for years. I started it when I was at university. And I kept adding to it. I interviewed the families when I was in my first and second years, in between my English classes. And then I did a Masters in journalism. I had all these ideas about how I was going to change the world. You know?” I shook my head. Drank more wine. “I showed some of the book, as it was then, to my tutor, just transcripts and notes to myself and stuff. It was a mistake. He told me I’d never get anywhere by navel-gazing.”
Erin snorted in surprise. “What? He said that?”
“I know. I was young. I took it to heart. He must have meant that it was too much about me. The book, I mean. What I’d written. And he was probably right. But there are plenty of books out there that do the same, combine autobiography with other things. And like…” I felt my throat begin to swell as I thought of how much my brother had shielded me over the years. “I just feel like in some small way it’s my story too?”
Erin was silent. I watched as she rattled the ice cubes in her glass and I worried I’d upset her. I’d made it about myself again. I hadn’t meant to. I—
Then she lifted her chin and I realised she wasn’t mad. Her blue eyes were glossy with unshed tears and she gave me a small smile.
“I read some of the stuff you wrote on your blog,” she said. I swallowed my surprise. “Yeah, I found it. I saw the one you wrote about that girl who went missing during the solar eclipse last year. And that journalist who found her. It was… sensitive. That was you, right?”
I felt my cheeks flush.
“But you’re not a journalist any more,” Erin went on. “Right? You stopped?”
“Yeah. I – I did it for a while. Did the Masters, graduated, got a job with an online news outlet. Did some small pieces. Mostly fluff. But it was… it was so exhausting. It’s so competitive and I couldn’t write what I wanted and…” I sighed. “I guess I gave up.”
“Why do you have to do this?” Erin asked. “Why now? Why not just leave it alone?”
“I tried, but I can’t let it go. I’m not… I’m not as strong as I want to be, but I’m trying. I’m not pushy enough to make it as a professional journalist, but this isn’t about that. I tried to get in touch with – the foster brothers’ mother…”
“It’s okay,” Erin said. “You can tell me their names.”
I blinked. This was an offering. A gesture of trust.
“Oscar Tyrrell,” I said. “And Isaac Higgins.”
She nodded slowly. “Go on.”
“I tried to call their foster mother and she shut me down. I thought about giving up then, but I just can’t. The children… Growing up, I didn’t feel like I could escape from them. And it wasn’t just Jem and Mikey. It was all of them, like I was connected to all of them. And my brother used to help me deal with it. But we grew up, and I guess we started to let our guard down, and I realised how much it had impacted everything. He moved away recently, and when I found that article – I was pulling Mum’s floors up, of all bloody things, and I found the newspaper underneath, padding the floor – I wanted to tell my brother about this hunch because it seemed important. And then I thought, well, other people should know, too. About all of the children. Do you… understand?”
“Yes,” Erin said softly. “I get it. But not everybody is like you. Not everybody wants to talk all the time. I always just wanted everybody to let me forget it in peace.”
She finished her drink, checked her phone as if to signal that the conversation was over, and then looked back at me. Her eyes were glittering again, but this time it was different. Mischief was written all over her elfin features.
“What?” I asked.
“This is getting very maudlin,” she said. “And I demand that we get over ourselves. You promised to make it up to me.”
“And what exactly do you suggest?”
“We should do what I always do when I want to relax. Two words.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and, just for a brief, golden, confusing second, I wondered what it might be like to kiss her. I swallowed.
“Two words?”
“Live. Music.”
* * *
This time Erin chose. We left my car and walked to a small pub with an even smaller back room. Erin buzzed with her characteristic nervous energy, but something else hummed between us as well. I tried to forget the memorial, the book. Just for tonight. Erin looked at me expectantly as we found our way into the back of the building, a band already on stage. The music was loud, filling everything. My heart, my lungs, my ears. It reverberated in my chest.
As soon as we got settled I saw Erin relax. Like the person she’d been in the bar – my place of choice – was only a shadow of her real self. Here, I stood tensely, arms by my sides, but she melted into the space in the room, swaying in time with the music. This was her element.
The music was something I didn’t recognise, coarse and grungy-sounding, guitars and drums and low voices. It wasn’t my sort of thing but it appeared to be Erin’s. I watched the fluid way she moved her body, limbs like water, and found myself smiling.
The song changed, this one with a faster beat. I let myself get swept up in the music, pushing all thoughts aside. I closed my eyes, felt the sound inside my head. Felt my own pulse, the alcohol buzz under my skin.
When I opened my eyes, Erin was watching me.
“You’re staring,” I said.
“I’m not. I’m drunk.” She smirked, that one corner of her mouth lifting.
“Slow down then,” I said.
The music was loud, and Erin leaned in when she said, “I don’t want to.”
I swallowed, brushed my hair back off my forehead. It was warm in here and I felt the heat flushing in my face, my chest. I drank a swallow from my glass of water, and Erin tipped her head back, exposing her throat.
“You’re not a journalist any more,” she said, changing track. “But you’ve got a blog. So what do you do?”
“I’m an underwriter. Insurance, like I said before. It sounds boring but it’s not that bad. I’m quite good at it, which I’m sure is the only reason they put up with my shit.” I shrugged. Until recently I’d been writing on the side, freelance stuff, but lately I’d let even that tail off. “It pays the bills.”
“I love my job,” Erin said. This was quieter, and I had to lean in again to hear her. My pulse jumped even as I did. “It’s just an office thing. You know. But I get to mess with websites. Photoshop, some social media. All sorts. It’s creative. I like how I can start the day with one thing and end with something entirely different. Or how, sometimes, you can fiddle with the same thing for hours and hours and it looks like you’ve done nothing – but you know you’ve made it better.”
I realised that she was offering me something. Something personal.
“I make candles, too.” She laughed at herself, as though she’d said something funny. “God. I
’m such a nerd. But I love the smells, the whole process. It’s like – alchemy? Or something magical. So yeah. I make candles.”
“I – I knit.”
It felt like bonding.
“Jumpers?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sometimes. Blankets mostly. I love baby blankets. I sell them on Etsy.”
I waited for Erin to laugh, although I wasn’t sure why she would. But considering the way she’d laughed at herself, I was surprised when she just nodded.
“Cool. I like blankets.” Then she sighed. “I need a smoke. You coming?”
I downed the rest of my water and left the glass on the edge of the crowded bar. The place was heaving for a Sunday night. But it was still early, really. We stumbled out into the night. There was a small patio to the side, just next to the road and the car park, tinged with silver lamplight. It had been raining again, on and off, and the concrete was slick. We were the only two people out here, cushioned from the wind by a wall, Erin humming to the faint pulse of the music as she patted her pockets for her cigarettes.
“Let me.”
I grabbed my own packet and handed one to her. She lit it before saying, “I didn’t think you had any, the way you were so eager to smoke mine.” But her smirk was real.
Something had shifted, tonight. I felt it in the way she stood closer to me, the way she didn’t flinch when I spoke now, like she had done sometimes before. It was as if she had always expected a question she couldn’t answer, and now she didn’t care about saying that she simply didn’t know.
I didn’t want to ruin the mood, but I had to ask, “Erin, do you really, honestly, not remember anything about what happened to you?”
She didn’t react, just smoked a bit longer. Eventually she sighed. “No,” she said. “And you can write about that if you want. I don’t have a fucking clue. Alex and me… we had a great childhood. He really looked after me. I remember these nights where we’d get home from school and Alex would say we should go hunt for berries or make homes for the field mice that he said lived in the park. He wouldn’t even ask Dad sometimes; he knew when we could get away with it without trouble. My memories are happy, you know? And then, some bastard took us both, and he – he kept me for nearly three weeks. Something happened in those woods. Something that meant I made it and Alex didn’t. I don’t know why we weren’t together. I wouldn’t have left without – I don’t know if I was dumped there, if he decided he didn’t want me after all… I don’t know.
The Final Child Page 8
