The Family Game(55)

These boxes can be opened with a paperclip, nothing more technical than that. It’s a wonder that the companies that make them are still in business given the – I’d imagine – widespread knowledge of that fact.

I slip a small metal paperclip off one of the documents on Edward’s desk and take the box into the sitting room, placing it on the couch while I straighten out one side of the clip, leaving the other end still hooked. Then I crick my neck, lift the box onto my knees, and set about revisiting the magic touch I had at age eleven.

There is the satisfying slide of the simple wafer lock and, just like that, the small catch releases. The people who buy these things must know they offer no protection. I think of Edward and I can only assume he must be aware of the box’s flimsy nature. I suppose they offer more of an honesty system than anything else; the person who uses one is telling other people that they’d prefer you not to look inside.

I flip the lid. Inside is a thick stack of photographs. Jackpot.

The first is a shot of the Holbeck children, arm in arm, grinning broadly. Bobby and Edward in their teens; Matilda, Oliver and Stuart younger. They look so happy and it occurs to me that in spite of having an incredibly strange upbringing, at least they had each other. For a while, anyway.

The photo beneath is of a girl I do not know, her dark, wild curly hair as showstopping as her unselfconscious smile. I’ve never seen her before, but she’s beautiful. One of Edward’s undocumented ex-girlfriends no doubt, or a crush. I feel a sharp twang of jealousy at the idea of him keeping this photo under lock and key. But I know I have similar pictures hidden in my still unpacked boxes.

I shuffle quickly through these special, chosen photos trying not to dwell too long on each. I know what I’m looking for and halfway through the pack I find it, my hands stuttering to a halt as I catch sight of his Columbia sweatshirt.

Bobby beams out at me standing in front of a lush green football field. It must be after a game; smiling spectators and players mill and beside him, his arm encircling her, pulling her close, an equally happy blonde girl. Her sweatshirt is a carbon copy of his, a cheerleader’s skirt beneath it, her soft pale hair pulled back from her face in a shining ponytail.

My breath catches. I found her. She went to Columbia too. I turn the image and find, written on the back:


’01

Bobby ’n Lucy



Lucy. Her name was Lucy. She looks the same age as Bobby, which means she would be forty this year. She could be alive somewhere out there right now – or she could be out there in the woods, two hours outside New York City, as Robert described on the tape.

I shiver looking at the blurry noughties photo, the happiness of it, the promise.

I have a first name; now all I need is a last.





27 Lucy




Tuesday 20 December

That night I dream I am on East 88th street again.

It’s 2002 and the sun is low in the sky, giving the evening a warm glow. On the other side of the road a small cluster of people mill. Something terrible has happened down there, and I realize it is the Holbeck building. And an understanding of what I am witnessing hits me like a punch to the gut.

With sickening dread, I head towards the crowd, drawn inexorably to what they are staring at. The noises of the street are muffled as if heard through a wall, or through water, everything caught in a kind of slow motion.

I cross the street, in a daze, picking my way through stopped traffic as drivers, like sleepwalkers, slowly rise from their cars, having witnessed something fall. The weathervane high above us glints and swings in the evening breeze. There is an open window in the eaves, a net drape caught in the wind. And below, on the sidewalk, between the legs of strangers, I make out a huddled shape on the ground, blackness all around it.

I feel Robert’s presence before I see him, his strong, angular frame, from behind. Over his shoulder, a woman is just blocked from view, a wisp of her pale hair visible, fluttering in the wind.

Suddenly I am kneeling in front of Bobby, his sweatshirt thick with blood, his hair matted wet. I look down and I am wearing a Columbia sweatshirt too. I am Lucy. I am Bobby’s girl.

I feel a gentle hand touching my shoulder and I turn as if drugged, as if trapped in resin, my movements heavy and slow. It is Robert Holbeck, but younger than I have ever known him.

He recognizes me for who I am and looks surprised to see me here. He knows I am not Bobby’s girl; he knows I come from a different time and should not be here, in this scene, in this memory. He seems to understand the problem and slowly lifts a finger to his lips. Behind us a car horn blares and I gasp awake.

I bolt up in the darkness of the bedroom, my heart pounding, sweat-soaked. I wriggle free of the heavy duvet and lurch to the edge of the bed, my feet gratefully finding solid ground. I try to reorient myself. I am safe, I am here; it was a dream. I am not Lucy. My eyes adjust to the darkness of the bedroom and I look down at my chest. The Columbia sweatshirt is gone; instead my pyjamas stick to my skin with perspiration.

As my mind focuses, a thought clarifies itself. I grab my bedside water, drain it, and head straight for my office.

I click on the desk light, drag my chair up to the computer and open Google. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.

I type Lucy, Columbia University, 2002, missing person into the search box.

Lucy must have been a freshman at Columbia too; if she went missing, people would have noticed.