‘They told us at reception we could find you here. Could we have a word?’
The woman flashes a badge as she introduces herself as Detective Sergeant Bray, but with the dark suits and sensible shoes they’re wearing along with the dour serious expressions, it wasn’t necessary. It’s obvious they’re police.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Let’s go to a meeting room.’ I don’t bother to ask what it’s about. It’ll be Lisa. What else could it be? Lisa, Lisa, Lisa. I’m so sick of Lisa.
It’s not about Lisa. Not directly, anyway. It’s about Ava, and I’m not steeled for that. As they ask their questions – Have you seen her since her mother’s identity was exposed? Have you heard from her last night or today? – alarm bells ring in my head and they say nothing to reassure me when I point out they must know where Ava is better than me. She’s with Lisa, surely?
Their polite smiles and expressionless eyes meet my concerned ones. I ask if she’s run away and they don’t answer, but instead parry with questions of their own. Are there any other adults, other than those at her school, she might be close to? Anyone she might contact? I rack my brains but I can only think of that swimming club of hers. Their coach maybe? Lisa didn’t have any close friends other than me, and therefore, by default, Richard. But Ava doesn’t really know him other than to say hello to.
They thank me, though it’s clear I’ve given them nothing, and it’s only when they’re about to leave I remember the one thing I know about Ava maybe no one else does. The thing I spent the whole of the last evening wondering if I should tell Lisa about.
‘If she’s missing,’ I say, hoping to get a reaction out of them that may give me some snippet of information, ‘you may want to try any local abortion clinics. I saw a bit of wrapping in the bathroom bin at their house. Only the corner, but it was from a pregnancy test, I’m sure of it.’ I should know, I’ve done enough of them in the past. ‘I think Ava might have been pregnant.’
They thank me again – this time with more sincerity, their visit here no longer wasted time – and DS Bray gives me her card. Her name is unfortunate, I think, as she walks away, feet heavy in her solid shoes, no elegance in her gait. She’s like a donkey.
It’s a mean thought and I realise what a bitch being under so much stress is making me. If Lisa were here we’d probably laugh at it, but alone it’s just bitter and mean. But if Lisa were here none of this would be happening at all.
Ava’s run away. The thought hits me as I turn back to the office to face the pack’s curious, hungry looks. My worry ties itself in knots. Little Ava out there somewhere in the world, angry and alone. I hope she’s not alone. I hope one of her friends knows where she is and will crack under police pressure. She’s sixteen, I tell myself. She’s not stupid. She’ll be somewhere safe. The thought is hollow. The world is full of bright but angry sixteen-year-olds who run off and end up on the streets or worse. Dragged out of rivers. Never heard of again. Ava’s stubborn and she always has been. She wouldn’t go back, however bad it got.
Maybe she has gone to get an abortion. Maybe she’ll turn up afterwards. I never thought Ava getting knocked up would be a comfort, but now it’s like an emotional anchor. She’s gone to get an abortion somewhere. The police will find her.
I go straight to the kitchen to make a coffee – the one Emily left on my desk now too cold for my taste – and it’s Stacey who joins me like a skittish cat, and asks what they wanted. She at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed and I wonder who pushed her in here, Julia or Toby or a combination of the two.
Fuck you, Lisa, I think for the millionth time since she ceased to exist. Fuck you very much for all this.
34
AFTER
2003
There are no fairy tales, no happily ever afters, no matter how many cheap Disney videos she plays in the afternoons to keep her daughter settled while she cleans and tidies and tries to make their lives look normal and under control. Not for her at any rate. She was stupid to ever think there could be.
She aches as she gathers up the empty beer cans and cheap vodka bottles and throws them away. What is the point, she wonders. There will only be more to throw away later. Later. She can’t face any more later.
Upstairs, in her cot, Crystal starts crying. Crystal. She hates their daughter’s name. One of their many, many big arguments was about that name. Ava was what she’d wanted to call her. A name which spoke of elegance and charm and better things. Crystal sounds cheap for trying so hard not to. Crystal is breakable. Crystals can be smashed into a thousand pieces. The thought of any harm coming to her baby terrifies her. It fills her every waking thought, humming in her blood. Someone taking some terrible crazy revenge. She should never have told Jon who she really is. She should probably have never got involved with him, never have dared to think she could have a love that survived her past, but without him she wouldn’t have her daughter so she can’t wish for that.
Little Crystal is two now. Her turning three can’t come quickly enough. To be three would mean she was past Daniel’s age. Maybe her dreams of him will then fade. Maybe this sense of terrible dread will go. She doesn’t believe it. The dreams and the dread will be with her forever, and they’re so much worse since Crystal was born. At first she thought the dreams were Daniel’s ghost wanting to punish her more from beyond the grave, but in her heart she knows that’s not true. Daniel was a good boy. And he was only two and a half.
She goes upstairs and cradles Crystal to her thin chest, soothing her. The little girl’s clothes need washing, as do most of her nappies, and the whole of their small house smells vaguely of shit and warm milk, but Jon hasn’t left her any money again and she’s out of washing powder. This cannot go on. She needs to call Joanne. She has to. She may deserve this awful life with a man who drinks too much and calls her a killer and says she revolts him whenever she tries to appease him, but her Crystal, her Ava, doesn’t. If they stay here, who knows how it will end? What he’ll do?
Last night was a wake-up call and she needs to act. To finally show some spine. Every time she closes her eyes she sees it: the bottle smashing against the wall to the right above her head. Little Crystal, sitting on the floor, shocked into stopping crying at her parents’ fight for a moment, covered in broken glass and alcohol.
It killed his anger in its tracks. He loves their daughter, she knows that, but she knows violence and what he did was enough to chill her to the bone. To make her realise how he blames her for everything through his alcoholic haze. She’s grown up a lot in the past three years, the long years since the perfect night when she told him her secret. She’s learned a lot about people. She knows he loves her, but she knows he hates himself for it. He can’t look at her most of the time and when they have sex she can feel his disgust. It’s worse since Crystal came along. Her sweet innocence is a constant reminder of what Charlotte did.
You’re a monster. That’s what he said last night. How can I love a monster? His words are worse than blows, but the blows can’t be far off. She’s had to gauge these things before. It’s all building to some awful conclusion, and she’s terrified he’ll take it out on Crystal, however much he says he loves her, because she knows how easy it is for things to go horribly wrong.