Gone Missing

One

“Eat”

Two

“But where would we go?”

Three

Sunday was looming, with its roast and two veg. Dad…

Four

When we got to New Street, I said to Honey…

Five

It was seven o'clock when we got on the brown…

Six

It was kind of a weird evening. We started off…

Seven

There wasn't anything! Not even so much as a mention.

Eight

I really couldn't see what good it was going to…

Also by Jean Ure

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“Eat.”

“I won't!”

“You'll either do as you're told or you'll sit there for the rest of the day! Do I make myself clear?”

Crash. Bang.
Wallop.

That's Dad, striking the table. This is me, shrieking at him: “I'd sooner starve!”

Whonk.

Me again, slamming the door as I rush from the room.

“Jade Rutherford, you come back here!”

Dad thunders after me, followed by Mum. (Kirsty just sits there, carrying on eating.)

“I will not have my meal times disrupted by tantrums!”

“Alec, leave her! It's not worth all this upset!”

Mum pleads, Dad bellows, I shriek.

“You can't force me!”

“Alec,
please
.” Now she's clutching at him. I wish she wouldn't! It's so degrading. “Let her be! She'll eat when she's hungry.”

I yell that I
am
hungry. “But I'm not shovelling stinking, rotten flesh into myself! It's disgusting, it's unhygienic, it's repulsive!”

Dad bellows, again, that I will eat what I am given. “We don't have food fads in this house! We eat what the Lord has provided!”

I'm tempted to be smart and say that I thought it was Mum who'd provided. Instead I shriek, “Some weird kind of Lord, wanting us to eat dead stuff!”

I shouldn't have said it; I've gone too far. Dad's face turns slowly purple, like a big shiny aubergine. He shouts, “Right! That is enough! You get back in there and you sit yourself down and you
eat.
”

He can't force me. Nobody can force me.

We stand there, facing each other, for what seems like minutes. Dad is breathing, very heavily.

“I'm warning you, my girl! You either eat what the rest of us eat, or you eat nothing.”

“So I'll eat nothing! I'll get anorexic and I'll probably die. Then perhaps you'll be happy!”

Mum bleats, “Alec…”

“Veronica, you stay out of this!”

Dad stands firm. He's a great believer in standing firm. He will not be dictated to by a fourteen-year-old girl-especially not in his own house.

“If she feels that strongly,” says Mum.

“She doesn't,” snarls Dad. “It's all done to rile me!”

There may be a nugget of truth in what he says. Just a tiny little insy winsy nugget. At any rate, that's all I'm admitting to.

“Jade, please!” begs Mum. “Let's talk about this later. Come back, now, and eat your dinner.”

“No way!” I turn, and gallop up the stairs three at a time. “He can take his lump of flesh and guzzle it himself!”

“Jade!”

 

“You'll have to put me in a straitjacket and use a feeding tube before you get it down me!”

“I wouldn't joke about it, if I were you!” bawls Dad. “It may yet come to that.”

“In your dreams! I'd kill myself first.”

Etc., etc. Day after day, same old thing. Dad bawling, me yelling, Mum humbling herself. Jade,
please!
Alec,
please!
And all to no avail, cos neither of us ever took the least bit of notice.

This is just one example of the rows that I used to have with my dad. Well, stepdad, actually, but Mum married him when I was only four, so you'd have thought by the time I was fourteen we'd have grown used to each other. It was OK when I was little. Fairly OK. He was
always a whole lot stricter than anyone else's dad, but you accept that when you're a kid. You can't really do much else, it's just the way things are. It was when I got to be, like, twelve, thirteen, that the problems started. See, my dad is a very self-opinionated sort of person. Whatever he says is right, and if anyone says different then they are wrong, and that is all there is to it. No room for discussion. They are simply WRONG.

Unfortunately, I am somewhat that way inclined myself. Not that I automatically think everyone else is wrong, I like to believe that I have a reasonably open mind, but I do have these very strong opinions about all kinds of things. I think you have to have opinions, because, I mean, without them you are nothing but a mindless blob. The trouble is when your dad has one lot of opinions and you have another and they are just, like, at opposite ends of the spectrum, and neither of you will budge by so much as a centimetre.

Mum used to fall over backwards to keep Dad happy.
Ask your father. Listen to your father. Your father knows best.
Anything for a quiet life. My sister Kirsty, she's two years younger than me, she just used to keep her head down and say nothing. That way, she and Dad got on really well. She didn't cosy up to him, she wasn't that much of a creep, but if ever he said anything that I knew
for a fact she disagreed with, cos like we'd discussed it together, she'd just go into silent mode. I guess it's one way of coping. It's just not my way! I think it's a bit dishonest, to tell you the truth. Like somebody once said, though I cannot now remember who, we all have to stand up and be counted.

Most of the rows I had with Dad tend to dissolve into a blur, there were so many of them. But I remember the one about the dead flesh cos I wrote it up in my journal. (Which I kept for almost a month, before the effort wore me out.) I was just so angry! Nobody, but
nobody
, should try to force someone to go against their principles, especially not your own dad. It's a form of bullying. He's the one with the power, and you're just there to do his bidding, no matter how evil. I was in such a rage! I didn't
make a note of the actual date, but it was definitely a Sunday, cos that was the day we all sat down together for the ritual roast, and it was definitely during term time. The summer term, somewhere near the beginning, so it was still light outside and I wasn't about to spend the rest of the evening skulking in my bedroom while he was fuming in the kitchen, stuffing himself with murdered pig, or whatever it was. I remember that I grabbed my jacket and whizzed back downstairs and out of the front door-closing it
really
quietly behind me-and went tearing up the road, with a great huffing and puffing, to Honey's place.

It was what I always did, when I felt the need to let off steam. Honey de Vito was my best, best,
very
best friend. Best of all time, ever. I know I will have other best friends during the course of my life, but I shan't ever be as close to one as I was with Honey.

I'm aware there were some people that thought it
odd, me and Honey being friends. There was a girl in my class, Marnie Wilkinson, who was, like, my
school
friend-Honey was my
out-of-school
friend-who actually asked me once what I saw in her.

She probably wasn't the only one who wondered this. It's so unfair, cos I don't expect anyone ever asked Honey what she saw in me. Honey was a bit of a loner at school. She was a couple of years older than me, so of course we were in different classes, and people from different classes never mix. It's just not done. Even if it were, me and Honey would never have hung out at school. I was one of those horrible loud, shrieking, show-off types. The sort that always gets invited to parties, always goes round in a gang, always manages to be the centre of attention. I suppose in a way I still am.

I'm still a bit loud and shrieky, and I am quite popular, but the fact is that I have never had a
real friend.
Not like Honey. Marnie was OK, we used to giggle together about boys and read magazines in the girls' toilets and swop clothes, and once I went to a sleepover at her place with a couple of others from our class. Everyone thought me and Marnie were bosom buddies, and I suppose on the surface I had far more in common with her than I did with Honey.

But me and Honey had been friends for such ages! Years and years. Ever since we were tiny babies in our prams, banging our little plastic rattles and beaming our toothless beams. Well, I'd have been toothless; Honey was a toddler. But she always simply
adored
babies. She used to trundle me round the garden in a wheelbarrow. Really sweet! Probably if we'd been brought up in a normal, civilised part of the country like other people we wouldn't ever have become friends. As it was,
Honey was practically the only person my age within a fifty-mile radius. Steeple Norton, where we were doomed to live out our excruciatingly boring existences, is just about the back of beyond. What you might call an
armpit.
Dead as a duck pond without any ducks. Out of school, me and Honey couldn't have been closer. We did everything together. We knew each other through and through. We never had to explain ourselves; we didn't have any secrets.

The thing is, people always had the wrong idea about Honey. If you'd asked anyone at school they'd have told you she was backward, and I know that's how she came across. She was sixteen, I was fourteen, and sometimes it was like she was even younger than Kirsty. But she wasn't
backward.
I mean, not like retarded, or anything. Just a bit immature. A bit…slow. And if you ask me that was mainly cos she was so unsure of herself. Cos she'd spent all her life being humiliated. Kirsty always said I kept up with her cos I could push her around, but that wasn't true, either. I was always nagging at her, for instance, to tell someone about her mum, about the way she treated her, but she never would. Where her mum was concerned, she wouldn't budge. I know that I was the one responsible for–well, for what happened. I know I was the one that talked her
into it. But in the end she proved she had a mind of her own. Whatever people say, she wasn't just some sort of helpless glove puppet.

Anyway, that day, when Dad and I had our row about my eating habits, everything still lay in the future-though not so very far distant. Really, just a couple of weeks off. Not that I had any inkling of it, then; not for all my big talk. If someone had told me what I would set in motion, I wouldn't have believed them. Miss Harriman, our year group tutor when I was in Year 8, used to say that I was “rebellious by nature”. She once warned me that if I wasn't careful I would come to a
sticky end
. So maybe Miss Harriman would have believed them. But not me! I'm one of those people, I have this very wild imagination. I tend to go off into realms of fantasy.
I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do that. You just wait, you just see.
And then someone like Marnie will go, “Oh, yeah?” and I'll go, “Yeah!” and we'll both know that it's not really going to happen. Just a load of hot air, as my nan would say.

But being with Honey made me bold-and she was the one, when it came to the crunch, who said go for it.

It was her mum who opened the door to me when I went storming round, that Sunday afternoon. She said, “Oh, hallo, Jade!” with one of her big, bright, sugary
smiles, showing all her lipsticky teeth and breathing booze over me.

I said, “Hallo, Mrs de Vito,” but I didn't smile back. Not a proper smile. I didn't trust Honey's mum. She was always sweet as pie to me and mean as maggots to Honey. She treated Honey like dirt, and especially when she'd been “at the bottle”, as they say.

I once remarked to Mum that I thought Mrs de Vito drank too much, and Mum said, “Poor soul! She's had enough to make her.” She meant because of Mr de Vito going and walking out on her, leaving her to cope as a single mum. But not all single mums get drunk and are horrid to their daughters. I hated Honey's mum for the way she put Honey down all the time.

I asked her if Honey was there and she gave this little laugh, like she was really amused by the question. She said, “Why wouldn't she be? She never sets foot
outside the house unless it's with you. Go on, you can go up.” And then, as I headed for the stairs, “It's beyond me what she does up there.”

I could have told her what Honey did: she hid from her mum. Or at any rate, did her best to keep out of harm's way. Out of
tongue's
way. She really only came down when she had to, like at mealtimes–when there were any mealtimes, which mostly there weren't. Mostly Honey just took something out of the fridge, or opened a tin.

“Hunneee!”
I banged on the door of her room. “It's Jade, let me in!”

Sometimes she kept her door locked. She'd get home from school and help herself to some food, take it upstairs with her and stay there right round till morning. When she did this, it usually meant her mum had been drinking. The door was locked that afternoon.

“Hey!” I rattled at the handle. “Let me in, I want to talk!”

“Sorry.” She opened the door a crack and pulled me through. “I didn't hear you.”

“I've been practically battering the place down!” Apologetically she said she had been listening to music; this group called the Beany Boys, that she really loved. She used to lie on the bed, with her headphones on, and the volume turned way up. She could stay like that for hours. I'd even rung two or three times in ne evening and got no reply, even though I knew she was there.

“Honestly, I am
seething
,” I said. I had to talk, or I would burst!

“You've had another row with your dad,” said Honey.

“Yes, I have!” I hurled myself on to the bed. “He's driving me nuts! I can't take much more of it.”

“What's he done now?”

It was all the invitation I needed. I was off! Railing on about Dad being a control freak and a bully. A sadist. A monster.

“Always forcing me to do what
he
thinks is right. Never mind what
I
think. I'm old enough to make up my own mind! It's a matter of principle. Like when I told him I didn't want to go to his stupid church any more? He practically wanted to burn me at the stake!”

“Yes, I remember,” said Honey.

“Like something out of the Dark Ages! Like accusing people of being witches.”