On Saturday 6 February, a fortnight after you had been found, your fourteenth birthday dawned. To treat the day like any other would have felt like a betrayal to you, Beans. It would have felt as though we were forgetting about you and weren’t bothered enough to make an effort. So instead, the whole family gathered around your bed. We wore party hats, and opened presents in some twisted pass the parcel where no one wanted to rip off the paper because it should have been you doing it, Beth.
What do you buy the girl who can’t move? New clothes; the latest iPad, to replace your old one; tickets to a wildlife exhibition? Jacob’s present broke my heart. Using pale lime wood, he had carved your favourite bird, a little egret. You loved the way their brilliant white plumage made them appear almost ghostlike as they flew across the marsh. Dad had perfectly captured the bird’s long-lined elegance, so like a heron’s, and the ‘s’ shape of its lithe neck as it lifted its wings ready to take flight. You would have adored it. But you weren’t there to see it. Not really. Looking at you lying on the hospital bed, I felt a horrible disconnect, as if everything that made you my daughter had gone. All that was left was the shell.
The police still had no idea who had done this to you. Jacob’s mate, Stuart (aka Stinky Stu, because he smoked so much dope he was permanently impregnated with the smell) had confirmed they had watched a marathon run of Family Guy and smoked a joint before Jacob walked the ten minutes home at just after midnight. The problem was, your dad hadn’t arrived home until gone 1 a.m. He claimed he’d spent that time looking up at the stars – a distinct possibility given that he was mashed – but it meant there was an hour or more of that night for which he didn’t have an alibi.
Officially it meant that Jacob still wasn’t eliminated from the police’s enquiries. We didn’t see much of the investigating team, including the cool DS Devonport; all our information came through Flo, our Family Liaison Officer. And although they didn’t seem to be investigating your dad further, no one else was in their crosshairs either. All Flo ever said when we asked was that the team were pursuing several lines of enquiry, but that it was too soon to tell us anything. Sounded like a load of excuses to me. Your dad was far more tolerant of Flo than I. Her constant visits grated, when she never had any news. I suspected she was keeping an eye on us, waiting for evidence to trip us up in a lie about your dad’s missing hour. As my annoyance showed more and more, Jacob took over dealing with her, to spare my blood pressure.
Nothing was happening, Beth. Everything was in stasis. I wanted to smash down the walls I could feel closing in on me.
Twenty-Six
Jacob’s leg twitched then stilled. He lay slumped on the sofa, mouth slightly open, a gentle snore escaping every now and again. Zonked out in front of the television, bless him, despite it only being 6.30 p.m.
Hardly surprising. That morning, we’d had to get up ridiculously early to set off for home from the hospital, then poor Jacob had had to go straight to work.
Lack of sleep had become a way of life for me in the sixteen days since you were found. I’d gone through the stage where insanity felt likely because of it, and come out the other side. There was no point complaining about feeling permanently shattered, because no one could fix it.
Loath to wake Jacob, but unsure what to do with myself, I thought perhaps a walk was the solution. Wiggins stood at my movement, tail wagging hopefully. I beckoned him over and he let me pop his lead on.
A biting wind froze my cheeks the second we stepped outside. It flew gleefully over the rooftops, using the height to launch itself at me and stab through my clothing. Walking wouldn’t be such a good idea after all. Besides, the tiny sliver of new moon hid behind banks of clouds, so the night seemed even darker than usual. I decided to nip over the road to The Poacher instead.
Inside the pub were only a handful of locals; typical for a Monday night. They looked at me briefly, nodded, then looked away. That had been happening to me a lot; since your attack, Beth, no one seemed able to look me directly in the eye. Perhaps they thought bad luck was catching. Perhaps they knew more than they were letting on.
Dale, the owner, scribbled answers on The Sun’s crossword. He was so engrossed that I had to clear my throat to get noticed, then realised I hadn’t decided what I wanted.
‘Umm, a glass of cabernet sauvignon, please.’
That would do.
To distract myself, I gazed around the pub I knew off by heart. Read the poster on the wall telling me to Keep Calm & Carry On. Scanned the old photographs of Fenmere from 1852, 1912, 1950… They all looked pretty much the same, except that the quality of shot improved and the angle changed slightly. There was a slight jump in the number of buildings in the 1984 photograph, when Joe Skendelby had built his place on the land between what was now our house and the general store. It was after his death, four years ago, that Ursula Clarke turned it into her café, the Seagull’s Outlook.
My eyes followed the hairline crack that ran across the ceiling, down the wall and, ah, over to something different. A person tucked behind the table in the far corner, well away from the fire. A stranger. Interest flared in me, then disappeared like the glow of a cigarette end. It was probably a birdwatcher.
The stranger looked up.
‘Melanie Ludlow?’ A deep, quiet voice. ‘It is, isn’t it. Melanie Ludlow. You’ve not changed a bit. Don’t you recognise me?’
He grinned, which transformed him from a slightly menacing hulk into a face I’d first seen at the village school when we were both four years old. The cheeks were as chubby as ever. He came over.
‘Glenn Baker! You haven’t changed much, either.’ Apart from the tight curls of his hair dulling down from almost white blond to the colour of corn. They had thinned a bit, too.
‘You do remember me, then?’
‘Well, there weren’t many people in the whole school, Glenn. ’Course I remember you. You always used to choose me to play on your football team.’
‘Oh, yeah. You were nippy, that’s why. Your ball skills were a bit lacking, mind.’
‘Can’t have been that bad. Seem to remember scoring a few times when I was against you.’ Smiling. I was smiling. The second I realised, it slunk away, ashamed.
‘Bet you couldn’t do it now, though.’
‘Probably not.’
If I said nothing else, the conversation would die. But… chatting felt good. Odd, but good. Talking about nonsense with someone who clearly knew nothing about my recent past. He looked me in the eye; no pity, no judgement, or fear that I may be contagious with bad luck. I didn’t want to let that go yet.
‘What are you doing back here? Visiting someone?’
‘Nah. I’m back for good – to quote Gary Barlow.’
‘He a hero of yours?’ Get that: banter. My first attempt at it since… Best not to think about that.
‘Oh yeah, Gary’s my idol.’ Glenn’s blue eyes twinkled.