Local Gone Missing(2)

She’s used the C word. She’s properly furious.

“I’ll get on with the kitchen,” I say. She pulls a face and nods.

I should say something straightaway. That I saw Charlie last night. But there’d be questions.

Don’t get involved, I tell myself. It’s none of your business. And you’ve got enough going on.

I fill the bucket with soapy warm water while I try not to think about my own problems: about the rent that needs paying next week, Liam’s lack of work. And my family creeping back into my life after all these years. Making me remember.

The bucket overflows and splashes onto my feet. Come on, Dee. It’ll all be okay, I tell myself.

And Charlie’ll turn up in a minute, won’t he?





BEFORE





Two


WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2019



Seventeen days earlier





Charlie


He could see his daughter through the window. Head cocked so that her hair fell over her face. Listening for the beep of his key locking the car door. She’d know he was there already, would have heard the car pull up, but he didn’t rush. He watched as she moved slowly from the window to the door, steadying herself on surfaces, ready to welcome him. Charlie Perry levered himself out of the car and pressed the key fob. His daughter smiled and raised her hand. He went to wave—still an automatic gesture after all these years—and let his hand drop. Instead, he tapped his greeting on her window and marched up the steps.

“Good morning, Mr. Perry,” the new woman on the desk cooed at him. He’d asked them all to call him Charlie at the beginning but they’d just smiled. It wasn’t that kind of place. The staff at Wadham Manor didn’t wear those awful carer tunics—all pink polyester. Here, it was crisp white shirts and smart trousers. And disposable aprons only when the need arose.

There were yellow roses on a central table in reception, replacing last week’s fat pink peonies. Charlie breathed in the purified air overlaid with wood polish and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. It was a fa?ade—he knew that; of course he did. Wadham Manor was still an institution but he’d let five-star reviews—“more like a country house hotel than a residential home”—and fresh flowers sell it to him. And it was what his girl deserved. What he owed her.

“Good morning!” he sang back. He couldn’t remember her name but he’d make sure he asked someone. Always important to get names right. “How are you? And how is Birdie today?”

“Good—she did brilliantly with the new physio yesterday. She’ll be so happy to see you.”

Except she can’t, Charlie wanted to say. Birdie hadn’t seen him for almost twenty years.

“I’ll go through,” he said.

“Of course. And I’ll tell Mrs. Lyons you are here. There’s a note that she needs to speak to you afterward.”



* * *



—

Birdie hugged him close when she opened the door to her apartment. “Wow! Did you fall in a vat of aftershave, Dad?” She laughed and held her nose.

“What do you mean! Don’t you like it? It’s very expensive.”

“I bet it is. Did Pauline pick it?”

“She said she was sick of my old stuff. I needed updating.”

“I liked the old stuff. You smell like an airport duty-free now.”

“Ha! Shut up and make me a coffee. There’s a good girl.”

He watched as she organized cups and milk in her kitchen area, tucking her beautiful dark hair behind her ear as she chatted. You’d never know she can’t see, he found himself thinking. But he knew.

I’m lucky to still have her, he told himself. His mantra.

“So how was the new physio yesterday?”

His daughter’s sunny smile clouded over.

“Physio?” she muttered.

“You had a session in the morning.” Gently, gently. Let her cover if she wants to.

“Oh, yeah. Nice. I think.” They both knew that her unreliable brain had let go of the information.

Charlie reached for the folder that recorded all the things her memory couldn’t. “Says here, you were working on balance and strength—and that he had to tell you off for swearing.”

“Dad! It does not say that,” she giggled.

“It does,” he teased. He loved making her laugh. “There’s a list of words used. Some I haven’t heard since I was last in the East End.”

“Shut up! Here’s your coffee. What’s the therapist called? I can’t quite . . .”

Charlie skipped to the end of the report. “It’s, er, it’s Stu.” And his hand seemed to lose its grip on the handle of his mug. Coffee dripped onto the page, obliterating the name.

“That’s it. Stu,” she said.

Charlie held his breath and watched for a memory to flicker across her face but there was nothing. It meant nothing to her. It’d been wiped, like every detail of that night. The razor-sharp brain that had earned her a place at Oxford to study law had been catastrophically blunted in a matter of minutes. Fifteen minutes, the ambulance crew had calculated. She’d stopped breathing for the time it took him to drink a gin and tonic and her whole life had changed. When she emerged from her coma, she remembered nothing.