I turn the page.
Oh, I remember this, too. I took this one. Sophie had fallen asleep on the sofa, one little fist still clutching Teddy, the far-too-expensive stuffed bear Mark had insisted on buying her one Christmas. They’re collector’s items, not for kids to actually play with, I’d laughed. But she’d loved her new toy, dragging him around the house by one leg and insisting on him sharing her pillow at night. I’d had to sneak him away once she fell asleep to wash him in unscented powder, so that he wouldn’t smell different. Even when she was older, Teddy would somehow end up tucked under her pillow every night.
I don’t know where Teddy ended up. It didn’t matter so much, keeping tabs on that kind of thing, when we still had her …
The phone shrills from the kitchen and I start a little, the sound too loud in the quiet house. I pad in, wiping at my eyes with my sleeve – I’ve no hanky, as usual – ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, love?’ It’s Dad, his voice scratchier than it used to be.
‘Dad, how are you?’ I’m pleased I sound so steady.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Now, we were just wondering, your sister and I, if you’d like to drive over here this afternoon. We thought we could go for a meal at this new Italian that’s opened. They’ve got’ – he pauses thoughtfully – ‘sushi.’
‘Italian sushi? Are you sure?’
‘Oh, something like that. Tapas maybe, I can’t remember all these things. But it should be very nice. Would you like to come? Charlotte says you can stay over in her spare room.’
‘Oh. Thanks, but I can’t.’
‘Or you could stay at mine, if you think it would be a bit noisy with her boys running around, I could make up the sofa.’ Dad’s downsized to a little terrace, a cottage really, even nearer my younger sister Charlotte and her family. He’s been hinting that I should do the same – he keeps telling me that it’s ‘so easy to look after, a small place’. I think they both want me closer to them, where I grew up.
‘Thanks, Dad. But I really can’t. I’m going out.’
‘Oh!’ He sounds pleased. ‘And where are you off to on a Saturday night?’ he asks jovially.
‘The helpline,’ I say crisply. ‘You know it’s my night.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I just thought by now you might … do you think they’d mind if you didn’t go tonight?’
‘I wish I could … but I can’t let them down. It wouldn’t be right.’ I bite my lip. Actually, I’m sure they’d be fine. I’ve done more than my share of shifts, and I’m always ready to pick up others when a message goes round asking to swap. I’ve got more than a few favours I could call in. ‘Next time maybe.’
‘Next time, yes.’
Suddenly I can see him, neat in the checked shirt he always wears for gardening, alone in his tidy little kitchen, stooping slightly these days. It scares me to think about how much he’s aged in these last few years. They’re sweet to keep trying, I know that. ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to come over some time,’ I say. ‘I had an idea, the other day. You know that night when you were outside the cottage?’
‘Hm. Now what night would that be?’
‘That night, Dad, when you thought you saw Sophie?’ He doesn’t like to talk about this any more, but something in me wants to push. ‘I know you’ve always said you couldn’t remember what sort of car she was in, that it was too dark, but I was thinking – I’ve got some printouts of some car models off the internet, and I could bring them over to see if any of the car shapes jog your memory. Because I don’t think the police ever bothered to do that, did they?’
He’s silent for a second.
‘Katie … I’m sorry. You know, that wasn’t very fair of me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should never have mentioned that, and got your hopes up. I didn’t realise that was so much on your mind still.’
‘Well, of course. I’m always trying new leads.’
‘You know, Katie, it’s very common, after someone goes missing, for friends and family to think they see them around.’
‘I know that but—’
For once, he cuts me off, his voice firmer. ‘Katie, please. We’ve been over this, a lot. I’d moved house by then. There’s no reason Sophie’d know that, even if she were to come and find me. It was dark. I saw what I wanted to see. Actually, it’s not so unusual – it’s part of the process of grieving.’
Therapy-speak. ‘You’ve been at that group again.’ I try to keep my voice neutral, but it is stony.
‘We’ve found it very helpful, your sister and I. And I think you would too, if you would try again.’
‘Maybe. One of these days – oh, you know what, hang on a second. Sorry, that’s the doorbell. I’ll have to speak to you later, Dad. Have a good night, love to Charlotte and Phil and the boys.’
‘Bye, Katie.’ He sounds sad.
‘Bye.’ I hang up.
I’ve never been a very good liar.
I did try the group thing, but I only went once in the end. I couldn’t bear it. The only stories I wanted to hear were the ones with a happy ending.
I didn’t want to be sitting in a chilly church hall with a load of strangers trying to come to terms with what had happened to them. Of course they couldn’t. The whole thing was so stupid.
I do know how it works. I did read the literature they gave me. And some of it was kind of useful, in the end. ‘For a minority of families,’ one leaflet explained, ‘one way of managing the intensity and all-consuming nature of searching is not to do it at all, or to stop doing it after a period of time.’
I didn’t do that. I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to. But I suppose it did help me understand Mark, just a little bit, after Sophie left. Because that was the final thing that we couldn’t agree on, in the end.
When to give up.
2
The thing about the missing is that they don’t always want to be found. That’s what they tell new joiners here. It’s what I tell myself when another Saturday evening passes by without even a prank caller to liven us up a bit.
In her corner, Alma is knitting another vast yellow rectangle, a jumper she tells me, those evil-looking needles flashing away. I hope she doesn’t plan to give this one to me.
They don’t need two of us on, by any means, but it’s best practice, the charity says. Responsible. They’re very big on all that, making sure we volunteers feel safe and supported and cared for.
Bit late for all that, I want to say, but I don’t. They don’t all know my situation here.
New joiners tend to be surprised by how quiet this place is. They think it will be all high drama, phones shrilling and people rushing about scribbling down urgent messages.
I didn’t. I knew how rare it would be if people phoned in. It’s not the Samaritans. That doesn’t make the hours pass any faster though. Tonight, I’m getting a headache from staring at the computer screen; I’ve been flicking through my usual websites, leaving messages.
I rub around my eyes carefully, not wanting to smear my make-up, and roll my head from side to side. Through the sixth-floor window a spectacular sunset is flaring out over the Manchester cityscape.
With a sigh, Alma sets down her knitting and pushes herself away from her desk. ‘Time for my break, Kate dearie. You all right manning the fort? I won’t be long, I’ll just pop down to Marks and Sparks.’ Like clockwork – 7p.m. on the dot.
I’ll just about cope, I think, but smile brightly. ‘I’ll be fine. Take your time.’ I listen to her stately tread as she heads for the lifts of our less than glamorous office block. Regional charities don’t have the funds for slick corporate headquarters. Still, you’d think they could buy us some biscuits.