The Daughter (10 page)

 

Chapter 15

DORSET, 2010

ONE YEAR LATER

T
he wind gets up again later. I wake suddenly as the window rattles, catching as I do the edge of a dream. Harsh knocking. The sound of water. I'm dreaming the memory of another dream. Then a blast, shocking the night. Shaking everything, it has the quality of splintering. I listen, frozen still. Something has been broken out there. Despite the noise and my fear, I float and drift on the surface of sleep, aware that my hands are open and moving on the sheet, searching.

There is a difference to the morning: the absence of sound, the unusually brilliant light. I look through the window and the garden has disappeared. Unseasonably bright sunshine lies over wreckage. There are shards of bark and broken pieces of tree trunk everywhere. The apple tree has gone, carved up and scattered by the storm. Large wooden splinters have fallen on the garden walls and blackcurrant bushes. The gate has been crushed.

There is an old saw in the garage. Oiled and still sharp, immaculate as my father kept all his things, it hangs on a nail next to the chopping ax. A robin is pecking around the torn disk of turf at the base of the tree, whose rough twisted roots now point toward the sky. Bertie noses the glistening boughs of wood, cocks his leg by the wall, and settles by the broken gate. Sawing into the great sections of trunk, I throw off the coat, and then my sweater. My hand slips with sweat as I work the saw back and forth. The peaty smell of the fresh wet wood reminds me of bonfires before they are lit, and of hiding in the bushes as a child before bed. The dark curved branches of the crown stir another memory, which I can't quite reach. I work on through the changing light of the morning. At my feet is the little hopping, whirring bird, looking and pecking. At midday I drink water and keep going until my fingers can't bend around the handle anymore and the skin on the palms is bleeding.

I kick off my mud-­clogged boots outside the open back door, and walk into the cottage. The rooms feel washed with fresh air after the storm. A smudge of yellow shows through the glass of the front door. There is a small bunch of yellow chrysanthemums on the step, with four eggs in a plastic ice-­cream container. Mary must have left them. As I put the flowers in a milk bottle; my hands are so tired they tremble. I hold one of the eggs; the very shape feels kind. I can't remember when I last ate an egg—­a year ago? It is freckled; there is a tiny soft feather stuck to its smoothness, a faint brushstroke of mud. I boil it quickly and eat it, then boil another, then another. I have no butter and no egg cups, so I peel the eggs and fold them into slices of bread, into which I have pushed a knifeful of Marmite stiffened with age. I found the pot at the back of the cupboard. I scrape the egg shell and bread crumbs into the bin, a sudden burning image as I do of Naomi's freckled baby face at two, of Marmite soldiers.

Mary is better or she wouldn't have been able to leave presents here. I walk out quickly before I can change my mind. Her cottage door is open and voices come from inside. I back away, but Mary has heard me.

“Don't go running away,” she calls.

There are bunches of bright flowers in cellophane wrappers on the table, heaped packets of cake. Villagers have heard she wasn't well. Mary is sitting by the table in an apron; her cheeks are pink-­brown, unlike the papery white of yesterday. A bird-­thin man stands in the middle of the room, eating cake and dropping crumbs. A dark-­haired boy is smoking a hand-­rolled cigarette at the table, texting rapidly with both thumbs. He is introduced as Mary's grandson, Dan. He nods at me, looking up with eyes half shut against the smoke. The bird man steps forward, eagerly offering his hand.

“Derek Woolley. Neighbor. Retired solicitor and chief bell ringer.” He laughs self-­consciously.

“Jenny.”

His handshake is flabby; his eyes on mine move quickly from side to side as if to catch escaping secrets. I know his questions will be intrusive. I am tired of the ugliness of curiosity.

“So, Jenny, how long have you been here? Of course, I've seen you and the family in the past, weekending as it were . . .”

I don't remember this man from then; since I've been here, I've turned my head away when anyone passes me in the street.

“Since the summer.” I glance at the door. How soon can I escape?

“Jenny was the one who helped me yesterday, Derek. She picked me up.” Mary speaks quickly into the silence.

“Aha. So you're our Good Samaritan. I've always wanted to ask—­”

“That's the bell. They've started already. You'll need to hurry now.” Mary holds the door open. “Perhaps you could tell them I'll be along for choir practice on Tuesday as usual—­they'll be wondering.”

Derek Woolley shrugs, empties his cup, and picks up another piece of cake as he leaves, nodding briefly at me.

“Sit down, dear,” Mary says to me, shutting the door behind him.

Dan, on the way home from Sixth Form College in Bridport, has come by to help in her garden. Mary asks me if I want help too. She heard the tree fall last night. When I get up to go, Dan, still texting, holds the door for me. Something in his face, unformed and restless, reminds me of Ed.

Back in my cottage, the play of light and shadow is different; looking outside again I notice that the curving bars of the crown of branches make a pattern. Then I see that, for a second, Naomi's face has slipped among them. Of course, that's what the curved and fallen branches reminded me of; Naomi's naked body within twigs. Theo's pictures.

BRISTOL, 2009

TWO DAYS AFTER

Michael Kopje and two colleagues stood in the kitchen early on Saturday, November 21. Ted was sitting down, still tired from his trip to the cottage the day before. His skin was pale and his eyes bloodshot. Neither of us had slept more than an hour. I had made breakfast, cleared up, brushed my hair. My mind was empty, which was good; I needed an empty slate on which to write a plan, uncontaminated by fear. There was a drill for medical emergencies, simple letters to remember. Don't waste time on emotion, we had been told as students, just follow the drill: A for airways, B for breathing, C for circulation. Think, don't feel. I reached for the cups and made tea. Think in a list.

Michael watched us closely. He spoke slowly; he might have thought we wouldn't understand. They were following all the clues in the cottage, and collecting information from neighbors. The old lady opposite thought there might have been a car parked outside the cottage for a while, though she wasn't sure. No one so far had seen Naomi or anyone else. DNA samples from the sheets and towels and CCTV evidence from local garages had been collected. Michael was here today because they needed to go through Naomi's room, then all the rooms in the house again. He wanted to speak to Theo and Ed separately, at the station, in the presence of a support worker. This part was routine. He introduced two colleagues, Ian, a heavy man in his mid-­thirties, and Pete, a young Jamaican. They would be helping with the search, which could take all day.

Ted said he had to go to the hospital. There was a little silence after his words. They sounded normal to me, he had said them so often, but Michael nodded respectfully. Pete looked impressed.

I followed him outside, shutting the door behind us.

“Do you have to go now?”

He looked down at me, but his mind was already at the hospital. I realized this would be his way of coping.

“Of course I do,” he replied. “I'm on call.”

“Christ, Ted. Hand it on.” My grip tightened on the door handle.

His gaze didn't flicker. “If I go now, it will only take an hour. I don't want to use up too many favors of my colleagues at this stage.”

I understood what he meant. But I had always understood. It didn't make it right.

I woke Theo and Ed and explained what was happening. Ed turned back into sleep; Theo was awake quickly and sat up, worry crumpling his forehead.

I took Michael to Naomi's room. I had left it untouched, as he had asked me to, but I wouldn't have put away anything anyway. I couldn't bear to change how she had left it. Now, seeing it through Michael's eyes, I wanted to hide the clutter of unfamiliar underwear and clear away the scattered makeup. I could feel his eyes taking it in, red lipstick protruding in a domed stalk, lying on its side in the small pool of foundation, the lacy bras, the thong, the unmade bed. But that wasn't the real Naomi. Naomi was here, I wanted to say, in the cello against the wall, the photos of Christmas and Corfu in the shell frames that she made, in the friendship bracelets in the bowl. The dried autumn leaves behind her mirror. She loves autumn, I wanted to tell him. She collects leaves, like a child does. She is just a child. That bra must belong to a friend, the thong as well. They can't be hers. I've never seen them before. But then, I hadn't seen the shoes before either, the high-­heeled ones with straps. There was that smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the way she had turned away when I spoke to her. What have I missed? What clues do I need to understand now, quickly, before it's too late?

Michael reached up and was looking through her books, glancing at me. I nodded. He picked out every book and shook the pages. On the second shelf down, a third of the way along, he pulled out a slim book which I hadn't noticed. The shiny cover was patterned with flowers. Inside, as he flicked the pages, I could see her rounded handwriting. It looked like a diary. I wanted to snatch it back. Naomi's thoughts, if that was what she had written there, didn't belong to Michael. They were hers, mine to look after for her. I put out my hand.

“I need to go through this,” he said quietly.

“So do I.”

“I'm sorry. But . . .”

“Please can I have it?” My hand was stretched out, the fingers trembling.

“I know how you feel—­” he said.

“No, you don't.” Don't say that, I continued silently. You've never lost a child of your own. I looked at him. Perhaps he hadn't had a child; he had the unscathed look of a childless man.

“You're right.” He sounded contrite. “Of course I don't know exactly what you are feeling. But there could be vital clues in here.”

Perhaps Naomi's things didn't belong to her anymore; perhaps it was right to let strangers plunder her secrets, if it helped to find her. In her absence she had forfeited her right for privacy. Think. Don't feel. ABC.

“Please look through it first.” He handed the little book to me then. “But I will need to take it away afterward. It's evidence. I'm sorry.”

Did he think I would alter things, or tear out pages? Would I have done?

I sat on the bed to read Naomi's words. I flicked through the pages. Her writing was smaller and tighter than I remembered. My eyes skimmed the lines. The first entry was dated nearly two years ago. January 2008. Something about Christmas presents. I opened it at another place. August 2009. Three months ago. I saw the words Dad and hospital. I turned to the last page for a name, a place, anything to go on. The last words:

Cottage tomorrow. J. 10 weeks.

She must have written this just a week ago. J? Ten weeks until what?

Back a page. A scatter of penciled hearts overlying three letters. XYZ. The X and Z had been written in black, the middle letter in red, a little heart just touching the forked top. No names anywhere. No dates.

Hockey first away. Cut science, bring cigs.

Naomi cutting science? She loved science. Smoking? I put the diary down for a second, feeling giddy. These notes could have been written by a stranger. I looked rapidly around the room, my glance stopping at the little mirror. She had looked at her face in the glass just two days ago. Who was she becoming as she put on her makeup?

Further back:

Theo got commendation
.
Thanks to me
.

His photos of her in the tree. That bit made sense.

XYZ. After school.
Tell N.

Those letters again. After school . . . the play? Words or scenes to learn for the play, maybe? N for Nikita? Nikita had been so silent, so awkward when we saw her that night. What else did she know?

Michael was looking in the closet now, pushing the hanging clothes apart and picking up her shoes, turning them over. He went across to the chest of drawers, opened them one by one, felt under the clothes. I had to be quick. I jumped further back in the diary, seeing just a list of dates and times that started back in August, the school holidays. The same initials. And a new one, K.

XYZ. K nearly finished.

If it was in August it couldn't have been the play. She'd done some coursework over the holidays, was that what she meant?

Michael sat beside me on the bed.

“I can't find anything I understand, though N could stand for Nikita,” I told him. “The only thing that's clear is she was smoking and missed science.” Michael looked at me, then away. He was sorry for me but didn't want to show it. I pointed to the page. “There are groups of letters that keep reappearing, XYZ. Some sort of a code? Letters at the end of the alphabet might have a special significance. ‘K nearly finished'—­schoolwork nearly finished?”

Michael looked carefully at the words. “Initials of friends or a place?”

I shook my head. I didn't know. He took the book gently from me and put it in a plastic folder.

“I'll photocopy this and give it back to you. In the meantime, see if you can think of anything.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door; Ian came in. He looked excited.

“Something you should see,” he said breathlessly. We followed him downstairs.

Ian had found Theo's photos of Naomi's naked body hidden within branches. Michael looked at them, frowning slightly.

At that moment Theo walked out of the bathroom. His face, wet from the shower and disarmed by sleep, darkened with incredulity as he realized his pictures had pushed him into the nightmare. He explained the theme of his project and how Naomi had wanted to take part. Ian, eyes narrowed, asked Theo to repeat what he'd just said. I could tell he didn't believe him.