Where the Missing Go(3)

‘Hm. Now what night would that be?’

‘That night, Dad, when you thought you saw Sophie?’ He doesn’t like to talk about this any more, but something in me wants to push. ‘I know you’ve always said you couldn’t remember what sort of car she was in, that it was too dark, but I was thinking – I’ve got some printouts of some car models off the internet, and I could bring them over to see if any of the car shapes jog your memory. Because I don’t think the police ever bothered to do that, did they?’

He’s silent for a second.

‘Katie … I’m sorry. You know, that wasn’t very fair of me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I should never have mentioned that, and got your hopes up. I didn’t realise that was so much on your mind still.’

‘Well, of course. I’m always trying new leads.’

‘You know, Katie, it’s very common, after someone goes missing, for friends and family to think they see them around.’

‘I know that but—’

For once, he cuts me off, his voice firmer. ‘Katie, please. We’ve been over this, a lot. I’d moved house by then. There’s no reason Sophie’d know that, even if she were to come and find me. It was dark. I saw what I wanted to see. Actually, it’s not so unusual – it’s part of the process of grieving.’

Therapy-speak. ‘You’ve been at that group again.’ I try to keep my voice neutral, but it is stony.

‘We’ve found it very helpful, your sister and I. And I think you would too, if you would try again.’

‘Maybe. One of these days – oh, you know what, hang on a second. Sorry, that’s the doorbell. I’ll have to speak to you later, Dad. Have a good night, love to Charlotte and Phil and the boys.’

‘Bye, Katie.’ He sounds sad.

‘Bye.’ I hang up.

I’ve never been a very good liar.

I did try the group thing, but I only went once in the end. I couldn’t bear it. The only stories I wanted to hear were the ones with a happy ending.

I didn’t want to be sitting in a chilly church hall with a load of strangers trying to come to terms with what had happened to them. Of course they couldn’t. The whole thing was so stupid.

I do know how it works. I did read the literature they gave me. And some of it was kind of useful, in the end. ‘For a minority of families,’ one leaflet explained, ‘one way of managing the intensity and all-consuming nature of searching is not to do it at all, or to stop doing it after a period of time.’

I didn’t do that. I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to. But I suppose it did help me understand Mark, just a little bit, after Sophie left. Because that was the final thing that we couldn’t agree on, in the end.

When to give up.





2


The thing about the missing is that they don’t always want to be found. That’s what they tell new joiners here. It’s what I tell myself when another Saturday evening passes by without even a prank caller to liven us up a bit.

In her corner, Alma is knitting another vast yellow rectangle, a jumper she tells me, those evil-looking needles flashing away. I hope she doesn’t plan to give this one to me.

They don’t need two of us on, by any means, but it’s best practice, the charity says. Responsible. They’re very big on all that, making sure we volunteers feel safe and supported and cared for.

Bit late for all that, I want to say, but I don’t. They don’t all know my situation here.

New joiners tend to be surprised by how quiet this place is. They think it will be all high drama, phones shrilling and people rushing about scribbling down urgent messages.

I didn’t. I knew how rare it would be if people phoned in. It’s not the Samaritans. That doesn’t make the hours pass any faster though. Tonight, I’m getting a headache from staring at the computer screen; I’ve been flicking through my usual websites, leaving messages.

I rub around my eyes carefully, not wanting to smear my make-up, and roll my head from side to side. Through the sixth-floor window a spectacular sunset is flaring out over the Manchester cityscape.

With a sigh, Alma sets down her knitting and pushes herself away from her desk. ‘Time for my break, Kate dearie. You all right manning the fort? I won’t be long, I’ll just pop down to Marks and Sparks.’ Like clockwork – 7p.m. on the dot.

I’ll just about cope, I think, but smile brightly. ‘I’ll be fine. Take your time.’ I listen to her stately tread as she heads for the lifts of our less than glamorous office block. Regional charities don’t have the funds for slick corporate headquarters. Still, you’d think they could buy us some biscuits.

My gaze falls on the noticeboard: there’s that puff piece the paper ran last Christmas about our work. There we all are in the picture, one smiling team. I’m in the back row. They worry we feel forgotten about, up here. Head office is in London, a much bigger organisation the helpline was folded into a few years ago. But I don’t care about recognition, or team-building. I just couldn’t think of an excuse quick enough to get out of the photo shoot.

I’ve helped out here for a while now, taking the weekend late shifts when other people are busy with friends and family. I’ve let them think it is because I’m busy with work the rest of the time. I don’t want the looks.