Authors: A J Waines
I’d been holding my breath. I let it out in one grateful
sigh.
Thank God
.
Still – our job was far from finished. Karen snapped off
branches and fronds of ferns and we swished at all our footprints and, more
particularly, the line the wheel of the barrow had made in the snow.
We carried the barrow between us, so it wouldn’t leave a
trail, using the branches to brush snow over our footsteps. Our tracks wouldn’t
be fully covered, but they’d be transformed into smudges by the time we got
back to the cottage.
It was snowing more heavily now. I looked up at the sky and
thanked it for aiding and abetting us.
I kept a lookout while Karen built a fire in the
metal cage near the byre. She dropped in all the contents of Charlie’s backpack
– his passport, the woolly hat, the book, maps – the wallet from his pockets,
then the rucksack itself. We watched it shrivel and buck in the heat, like it
was alive.
‘Get the rug from the lean-to,’ Karen instructed. ‘It’s evidence,
even though you’ve washed it.’ It smoked with the damp at first, but gradually
disintegrated.
She used a garden fork to shift the remains around so the
flames ate up every inch, turning every bit to grey cinders. The fire died down
and there was nothing left, apart from the charred buckle of a belt. Karen
raked it out, tossed it into the snow to cool it down and put it in a plastic
bag. She raked out all the ash too and tipped it in a bag. She always wore
gloves and seemed a real expert when it came to covering our tracks.
We were just about to set off back, when my phone rang. It
was a shock as we’d all been having such difficulty with the signal. Karen
headed off to the back door and left me outside on the track, where I could
keep the connection.
It was Stuart. ‘Hi – I’m outside – you were lucky to catch
me.’ I tried to sound light and airy.
‘Sorry I had to rush off yesterday. Glad I caught you. Are
you free this evening for a drink?’
I hesitated, thinking about what Mark and Jodie had said
about spotting him in the pub. He spoke again, his tone conspiratorial.
‘Listen…are you alone?’
I looked up and saw Karen entering the cottage. ‘Yes, why?’
‘I don’t want to worry you, but how well do you know Karen?’
‘Karen? Like I told you – we were friends at Leeds about six
years ago, we lost touch but this holiday is a kind of reunion.’
‘It’s just – I’ll come straight to the point – I’ve been
thinking about it and her description of her time in Hollywood doesn’t ring
true.’
‘Stuart – what is this? Are you a private detective?’
He laughed. ‘No. I’m not…’ He laughed again. He seemed to
find the idea extremely amusing.
‘What’s going on?’ I said, wishing he was there in front of
me so I could read his face.
‘I think you should be careful. I’m not sure she’s been
telling you the truth.’
‘Just because she was a bit vague about LA? It’s over a year
since she was there.’
‘But she said she was there for nearly five years. She must
have got to know the area – the road names, the Metro lines – pretty well in
that time.’
‘Yeah – I suppose.’
‘And yet – she got something totally wrong.’
‘What?’
‘The Hollywood-Highland Metro line – the closest one to
where she was living – on all the maps it’s coloured red, not orange.’
‘You were trying to catch her out?’
‘She agreed it was orange. It’s a big mistake to make –
that’s all. It’s like living in London for five years and calling the Central
Line the blue one.’
‘Maybe she didn’t use the Metro that much.’
‘In five years?’ He expelled a loud breath. ‘It’s the only line
that serves that district – you can’t confuse it with any other.’
‘You know the area better than you let me believe.’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to make trouble.’
‘No. You’re right. It’s odd. The whole thing is odd –Karen
being an au pair for five years… it doesn’t fit with her at all.’
‘You think she’s making it up?’
‘Why would she?’
I thought about the handful of photographs we’d looked at
earlier. ‘Actually there was something else…’ I said. He waited and I started
walking around to keep warm. ‘There was a photo of her with the youngest child
she was looking after and she said the girl was four, but the picture was only
taken two years ago. That must have been towards the end of her stay…’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Well – she said the child was there when she got arrived –
but the dates don’t add up, if she was only four, she wouldn’t have been born
when Karen started with them.’
‘Ah…’ he said. ‘You see?’
‘Mmm…’ I murmured. ‘It could explain why she’s been so
unforthcoming about it all.’
‘Can you get hold of those photos so I can have a look at
them? I’ll collect you later.’
I was taken aback. ‘Why? Why are you so interested in her?’
His voice dropped to a hush. ‘I can’t say right now. I don’t
want to frighten you – but I think you should be very careful.’
‘Around Karen?’
‘Yes,’ he said emphatically. ‘She’s not what she seems.’
Major panic about Charlie has taken over
everything, but I think I’ve managed to get it under control. Still…snags seem
to be cropping up all over the place. I’m going to struggle to hold it all
together. It’s awful having no one here I can talk to about it – I’ve got so
much bottled up inside.
It’s Alice I’m worried about now. I’ve changed my mind
about her, but it’s too bloody late! She’s more sure of herself, more
independent in her thinking – so different. I can’t afford for her to be like
this. She needs to be my acolyte, to back up everything I say and do. My plan
depends on it. Why else would I have asked her?!
Alice used to be simple, straightforward and naïve –
everyone trusted her. She wasn’t practised at spotting lies, either, she used
to go along with everything. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t want her thinking too
much, putting the pieces together and complicating things.
I can’t believe I might actually be the cause of this
– it’s probably my fault that she’s punching above her weight! I taught her to
come out of herself, to spread her wings and cherish her strengths. Now, she’s
read self-help books, been to assertiveness classes, even had life-coaching,
The result is she’s not as pliable as she once was. I’m worried now. I’m not
sure I can trust her to keep in line anymore.
Karen was in the bath when I got back indoors. I,
too, wanted nothing more than to scrub away the thick layers of shame after
what we’d done, but I knew no matter how hard I scoured my body, I’d never
scrub out the disgust buried beneath my skin.
Now I had something else to worry about. More and more,
Karen seemed to be turning into the enemy, snapping and being short with me. I
didn’t dare imagine what was going on inside her head, but an increasingly
terrified part of me wanted to be anywhere, but here.
I made myself a coffee while I waited to use the bathroom
and Jodie joined me by the stove, unexpectedly. She was huddled over in her
bathrobe, her long hair screwed up as if the contents of a mangled knitting
basket had been tipped over her head.
‘It’s early for you,’ I remarked.
‘Tell me about it – Mark wants a coffee,’ she groaned,
reaching for the kettle.
‘It’s just boiled,’ I said.
She held onto the edge of the draining board as if she might
collapse without its support. I stood behind her, wondering if she knew anything
about the ten thousand pounds I’d found in Mark’s bag. I cringed at the thought
of it.
She shuffled out without another word.
I rinsed my mug and went upstairs. Karen was still
in the bath; I could hear more running water. Jodie had disappeared and Mel was
whining in Karen’s room.
If I was quick, I might be able to do it in time.
I slipped inside; the curtains were still drawn so I flicked
on the bedside light, hoping not to startle Mel. She looked over. She was
standing in her cot, holding on to the side, looking rather lost.
‘Hello, sweetheart…’ I said. I went over to her and stroked
her hair. She was in shadow, but nevertheless I was able to see the purple
patches under her eyes. Her cheeks were puffy like she’d had no sleep at all
and there was a rash near her ears.
‘Mama,’ she said and her face crumpled.
‘Mummy won’t be long, darling – she’ll be here in a minute.’
Mel banged the side of the cot with her fist and, losing her
balance, flopped down on her backside. That set off a new round of blubbing.
‘Shush, now,’ I said. I was torn about picking her up. I
wanted to soothe her, but I didn’t want to get caught in Karen’s room.
I scanned the surfaces, looking for the yellow envelope with
the photos from LA. I couldn’t see it, so I checked the suitcase on the floor
and a plastic bag near the bed. It was full of dirty washing. I opened the
bedside cabinet, looked on the floor. Then her handbag. Yes – I found them.
‘What are you doing?’ said Karen.
I had my back to the door and hurriedly shoved the
photographs up my jumper.
‘Mel was upset,’ I said. ‘I wanted to give her a cuddle.’
She pushed past me, her hair sopping wet and reached down
for the child. Mel clawed at her face. ‘Mama…’ she cried, again, babbling other
sounds that weren’t real words. ‘Gaba…nada…waah…’
‘Did you know she’s got a rash? I wasn’t sure if—’
‘Thank you, Alice. She’s fine,’ Karen said abruptly, and I
backed out of the door.
Later that morning, I went along the lane to find a
signal and rang Nina.
‘I hoped you’d call,’ she said. ‘Malcolm is out painting as
usual. It’s a fabulous day. D’you fancy a stroll?’
I’d barely registered that following the misty start, the
sun had finally broken through and blessed the day with light, a vestige of
warmth and, best of all, the promise of a thaw.
‘I’d love to,’ I replied.
‘I’ll pick you up,’ she said. ‘Malcolm went off on foot
today.’
She collected me from the end of the track shortly
afterwards, a map on her knees.
‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked. ‘Mountains, valleys,
lochs?’
‘Anywhere away from here,’ I said, before I’d been able to
filter my response. I qualified it. ‘With the boy – and everything.’
‘Let’s head for Stonaton,’ she said. ‘There’s a lovely pub that
overlooks the river. We can get lunch there.’
We wound along narrow country lanes, leaving the cursed
cottage, the byre, the loch far behind.
The sun was bright and it was wonderful to be forced to
half-close my eyes as we drove into it. We stopped in a car park on the edge of
a hamlet and set off towards the river, passing a small Norman church and
adjoining graveyard. We skirted a tiny village green surrounded by a white
picket fence with an old red telephone box on the corner. It felt idyllic; peaceful
and untouched, with chocolate-box charm.
We followed the path down to the river, clambering over
rocks and through sheets of ice and slushy mud until we arrived at a
magnificent waterfall. It was around ten metres high, hollering with a great
thudding noise as tons of water came tumbling over the top.
Nina had to shout so I could hear her. ‘Isn’t it
spectacular?’ she said, beckoning me closer. I nodded, but stayed where I was,
not wanting her to see the tears in my eyes. I felt unable to move, transfixed
by the turbulent power of it, wanting to be consumed by it; to let the thunder
deafen me so I’d no longer have to listen to the perpetual round of questions
and fears that batted around inside my head.
For a moment, I wished I could die right there and then,
swept up inside the cleansing command of the water, pummelled by the crushing
weight of it. Then I’d be washed away like a broken twig. I took half a step
forward.
Suddenly Nina’s arm was around me. She didn’t say anything;
she just wanted me to know she was there.
A couple of boys ran screaming on to the bank at the far
side, throwing stones at chunks of ice and broke the spell.
We walked on, her arm linked into mine until the narrowing
path forced us into single file. I followed behind until we reached the Old
Forge Inn. Painted white, with black window frames, it stood next to a humpback
bridge.
We settled near the fire, with two halves of real ale and a
plate each of fish and chips. I asked how Malcolm was getting on with his
pictures.
‘Three finished and one on its way,’ she said. ‘A guest in
one of the holiday cottages wants to buy one of them.’
‘Already?’
‘It happens every time. It’s such a novel idea to take an
original watercolour home with you, instead of a few snaps on your smartphone –
if
you had a jolly time, that is.’ We
shared a knowing look. ‘You heard any more about the missing boy?’ she asked,
collecting the empty sachets of sauce and salt we’d used and leaving them on
her empty plate.
‘Not a thing – you?’
‘The police think he’s either a long way away by now – or
that he’s…you know…’
I let out a prolonged sigh.
On the way back, we stopped off at a small lake, set in a
ring of pine trees. The thaw had continued; it was a relief to see the solid
earth pushing through, restoring itself again. Walking back to the car we took
a detour and found ourselves in a group of abandoned farm buildings. Nina had
to refer to her map.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I think we should have stayed on the
track back there.’ She traced a line across the page. ‘If we turn right, here,
we should be okay.’
We followed a tumbling wall along the edge of a path and
threaded our way through a pile of old railway sleepers. A trailing rope caught
my eye; swinging from the branch of a tree with a thick piece of wood on the end
and several knots above it.
‘The boys at my school used to call them “Tarzies” when I
was growing up, after Tarzan,’ I told Nina, pointing it out.
‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing to a cream coloured shape
behind a clump of trees. We walked towards it. It was a caravan right in the
middle of nowhere.
‘It looks really old,’ I said. ‘Abandoned by the looks of
it.’
‘The door’s slightly open – shall we have a quick look?’
I stood still. I wasn’t sure I was in an intrepid mood; all
I wanted was for everything to be ordinary, safe and straightforward. But she’d
already eased open the door.
‘There’s no one here,’ she called brightly.
I stood on the metal step outside while she looked around.
From the doorway, it looked like kids might have been using it, with no one to
clear up after them.
‘Someone’s been here recently,’ she called out. I stood on
the mat inside the door. There was an empty carton of milk on a counter amongst
a pile of crisp packets, empty foil containers from take-aways, cans of lager
and a newspaper. She read out the date. ‘December 2nd, this year – the milk
says sell-by December 4th.’
‘The second of December? Wasn’t that the day the boy was
taken?’
‘I’m calling the police,’ she said. ‘They need to know about
this.’ She pulled out her phone, but couldn’t get a signal. She stepped outside
to get a connection.
I found myself giving the place a visual once-over, being
careful not to touch anything. It smelt like my dad’s damp shed with an
additional rising current of stale urine.
All the surfaces were covered in unopened packets of food
and tins, as if someone had tipped out a bag full of provisions instead of
putting them away in the cupboards. Unwashed dishes and two pans caked in sauce
from a tin of baked beans were stacked in the sink.
One bunk had been used; there was a sleeping bag and blanket
on it, tossed aside. There were no clothes, no other belongings. It looked like
only one person had been there, but going by the remaining provisions, they’d
had every intention of coming back.
I could hear Nina taking instructions over the phone.
‘Right, okay…no…I understand…of course.’
She came inside. ‘They already know about it,’ she said,
sounding disappointed. ‘Forensics have been over it and they think the boy was
here at some stage.’
‘Really…?’
She tentatively opened the cupboards under the sink; the
drawers between the bunks. She saw my disapproving look. ‘So – it doesn’t
matter if we touch things,’ she said.
‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Anything.’
We were about to go, when Nina jumped. ‘Argh – there’s a
mouse!’ she cried. She stuck out her tongue and patted her chest.
I gave a light-hearted laugh, but my mind was on something
else. I’d sent my eyes instinctively down to the point on the floor where she’d
seen the movement and spotted a small loop. A thick black rubber band. I
wouldn’t have thought anything of it, had I not seen one just like it on
Charlie’s wrist. Had Charlie been here with the missing boy?
The police couldn’t have seen it or maybe they’d overlooked
it – it wasn’t anything personal, after all. They wouldn’t have known it had
any significance.
I didn’t tell Nina and we turned to go. As she referred
again to the map, I spotted scraps of torn blue police tape discarded in the
bushes, flapping in the wind like trapped birds.
Nina’s phone rang as soon as we found the car. ‘When? Is he
okay? Of course. Where was he? Oh. Thanks. I’ll see you soon.’
‘That was Malcolm,’ she said, pulling on to the road again.
‘He’s been speaking to one of the police officers and they’ve had a sighting of
the missing boy.’
‘Really? When?’
‘Someone’s only just contacted them to say they saw him
being put into a car on Monday evening. Malcolm knows more – he’s got quite
chummy with the local bobby. Do you want to come back to the cottage and get
all the details?’