Something in the Water(59)

“Do you know where she might have gone?” I ask.

She looks down at her mug and tuts.

“No, not for certain. There’s a theory. The police are looking into it and to be honest I’m not sure how much they’re telling me about it all. Andy’s part of SO15, so it’s a bit tricky finding out anything from them really. I don’t know if you both know about all that sort of thing? Counterterrorism stuff.”

It comes so out of the blue that I almost laugh. Almost. Phil looks over. SO15. Fucking hell. I check Michelle’s face but it’s blank—drawn and tired. She’s not joking. I shake my head. No. I know nothing about counterterrorism, obviously.

“I just…I find it very hard to believe my Holli’d be involved in any of this. She’s never been involved in anything like that, never ever mentioned God or any sort of religion. Andy’s lovely but he’s wrong about this. I do trust him but—I don’t know, he’ll get her back and that’s the most important thing. That’s all that matters.”

Michelle grabs a crumpled cigarette packet from her robe pocket and fumbles one out. I think fleetingly of the pregnancy test, the blue cross, as her lighter flashes and a fresh wave of smoke fills the tiny room. Michelle looks across the table at us both now, leans forward on her elbows. “Holli’s not the brightest, you know. She’s all mouth for sure but she’s very easily led. Always has been. It’s competitive, you know. Just a competitive streak. ‘I’m tougher than you. I can do it better than you.’ You know? But the ‘it’ could be anything. It could be dares or setting that bus on fire or whatever. She likes the drama of it. Just showing off. That’s all it is. She’s always been that way. It’s just more extreme these days. The older she gets, the further she goes. I know, it’s probably my fault. Her dad wasn’t a great example and then she fell in with Ash—sorry, Ashar—and that lot. It’s strange; Ash was such a good boy at school. Nice Turkish family. I met his mum once. I just don’t understand it. Maybe I should have been around more. But someone had to work; her dad certainly wasn’t going to.” She stops herself. She’s gone down the wrong track. She’s gotten lost in her own tunnels and dragged us with her. She needs to head back to daylight.

“Did Holli go alone?” I ask. “Or with someone?” It’s the next logical question. But I think I already know the answer.

“With Ash—Ashar,” she corrects herself.

I nod. It’s coming together now. Ash was Holli’s friend from the bus video. It’s not guilt in Michelle’s tone but self-absolution. None of this is her fault. What could she have done to stop them? It’s Holli and Ash. In her mind, the blame is halved. It’s just the kids messing around. The threat’s not real, in her eyes. Just two kids who may have gone a little bit too far this time.

Of course, it’s impossible not to infer what’s happened here. The pieces fall into place like the first level of Tetris. I’m sure SO15 Andy will enlighten us further once he arrives. But beyond a doubt he will not allow us to film him. We need to get as much footage as I can before he arrives, that’s clear. Before we’re asked to stop.

I stand up and take charge, changing the energy in the cramped flat. “Michelle. We need to take a look at her room now. Film in there.” It’s not a question. I am not asking her. My directing brain has kicked in and we need more for the film, as much as I can smash and grab. Look, I don’t want to take advantage of her, but it’s clear Michelle trusts and responds well to authority. If she feels it’s for the best, then we’ll get what we need. I want that footage of the room for the film and we’re getting it. I hold her gaze slightly too long, deliberately. She looks away.

And it works. She rises, cowed.

“Yes, yes, of course. The police searched it already and took all their own pictures, so I’m sure it’s fine to do what you need to do in there.” She stares back up at me, searching for approval, reassurance. She wants us to know she’s helping. That she’s not going to be a problem like Holli.

She leads us out of the kitchen and down the hall. Phil throws me what I assume is meant to be an accusing glance. He didn’t like that. What I just did. It wasn’t like me. It was cruel.

Fuck it. I’m not sure I care today. I’m not feeling myself. Whatever that means. I’m not even sure who I am anymore. Maybe I died in the South Pacific with Sally Sharpe.

Holli’s room is small. Teenaged. Basic. Phil scans it slowly with the camera. Magazine pictures Blu-Tacked to the walls. Hard-eyed fashion models clutching perfume bottles. Sexuality. Money. Glitter stickers. Dead flies on the windowsill. A doe-eyed Harry Styles foldout. Kanye posters. Wu-Tang Clan posters. Grandiose. Dangerous. A far cry from overcast Croydon: all pre-prison interior design, the faces on the posters sun-bleached after almost five years of staring back into an empty room.

But I’m looking for other things. I sense Phil is too. Even if he disapproves of my methods, I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking: Is there anything religious in this room? Anything at all? I look but I don’t see it. A stack of books by the bed. A Victoria Beckham fashion book, a dog-eared Garfield book, The Power of Now, The Little Book of Calm. The last thing I’d expect Holli to read. But then maybe not. A stab at self-knowledge? Or a gift from a well-meaning mum? Either way, neither of the self-help books looks read. But then, who am I to judge? I haven’t read them either. And anyway, they definitely aren’t the cause of what’s happening now. They are not exactly terrorist textbooks.