Finding Grace(3)

‘She had it in her pocket, Lucie,’ Mike confirms. ‘I handed it to her myself before she set off.’

That’s something. It’s something at least.

Bev reaches us, breathless from running.

‘Sue from next door is watching Livvy for an hour or two,’ she tells Mike. Then, ‘Where’s Blake?’

‘He’s twisted his ankle really badly,’ Mike says grimly. ‘It’s swelled up to twice its normal size. I’ve told him to just stay put, but he’s insisting on limping down here now.’

‘He was on his fucking phone again.’ I squeeze my fists tight and grit my teeth. ‘He should’ve been watching out for Grace.’

I see Mike and Bev glance at each other, but I don’t care. Blake is virtually surgically attached to the damn thing.

‘Your front path is really slippery with moss,’ Mike offers limply.

‘We have to ring the police,’ Bev says.

‘Blake agrees we should check the whole street first, knock on a few doors,’ Mike says. ‘It won’t take us long.’

‘But what if she’s already in a car?’ I cry out, stepping away from them. ‘We have to ring the police now, so they can put a roadblock up or—’

‘I’ll do it now.’ Bev pulls her phone out of her jeans, jabs at the screen and holds it to her ear.

Blake appears at the bend, his face twisted with pain. He leans on the park fence to get his breath.

Mike goes to him, and I stand there, staring at the street that now seems a hundred miles long with a million places Grace might be. What were we thinking of, letting her walk up alone?

Mike scales the small park fence and disappears. Blake looks at me and says something, holds out his arms, but my feet are rooted to the floor.

Bev is speaking rapidly on the phone. Giving facts, times, places, although I can’t seem to process any of it. My head is full of static, my body uselessly shaking and cold. I feel so cold.

‘Grace! Grace!’

A terrified voice screams in my ears, seeming to flood through my entire body. I see Bev’s concerned expression and I look around frantically.

But there is no one else to see because the person who is screaming, is me.





Three





People emerge from their front doors. Cautiously at first, peering out enquiringly before walking slowly, arms folded, to their gates.

They discreetly murmur the dreadful news between them, like a Chinese whisper.

But as we pass by, I hear the disjointed phrases, see the incredulous expressions and their disbelief that something like this could actually happen here, in our middle-class leafy bubble.

On our very own street.

A little girl is missing.

Walking home alone.

Everyone must search their gardens.

People spill out on to the street, spread out over the other side of the road.

All eyes seem to be on me as I move frantically with Bev, knocking on doors, searching. Looking. Trying to find Grace.

Blake and Mike are over the other side of the road. Blake isn’t much use, but Mike scoots ahead, dashing up and down paths.

‘Where are the police?’ I whisper to Bev.

‘They’re on their way. Keep focusing, Lucie; we’ll find her, we will. You’re doing brilliantly.’

But I know she’s just saying it, because with every ‘no’ we get, from resident after resident, I watch my friend’s face grow a little more pale. With each shake of the head when we ask if they’ve seen a nine-year-old girl dressed in jeans and a pink coat with a red bobble hat and yellow gloves, I feel her conviction that Grace is nearby wane just a touch.

I beat back the bile rising in my throat.

We get to the park and I think about my dad and Oscar, both oblivious to what has happened to Grace.

A group of residents behind us fan out and walk in a line across the park, calling out, kicking areas of undergrowth, wet leaves. I don’t want to think about why they’re doing that.

I stand at the fence, my wild eyes scanning the sparse trees that edge the grassed area for a pink coat, a red hat.

We came here last August, in the final few days of the school summer break, when I was about six months pregnant: me and Grace, Bev and Livvy. We packed up a simple picnic, which made us all laugh as we were still effectively on our own road.

We spread out a tartan blanket, and we had the best afternoon sitting in the sun putting the world to rights: debating whether Mike would get his long-awaited promotion to national sales manager of the high-end kitchen manufacturer he works for; whether the community would get behind new councillor Blake; and most importantly, what sex the new baby might be.

The girls played happily around us, weaving in and out of the trees and hiding from both us and each other.

That was barely six months ago, and I hadn’t a care in the world.

All I had to fret about was a dinner Blake wanted to host at home for the people who had helped run his campaign. And I can remember worrying whether, having left a shopping trip a bit late, I was going to get Grace her new school uniform in time.

I’m aware of the noise level increasing behind me, a flurry of movement responding to authoritative voices. But I can’t break the spell.

I stand and stare at the spot where we picnicked, and something writhes up from the bottom of my stomach. I retch and vomit at the side of the fence.