Where the Missing Go(31)

Then I caught myself. What on earth was I doing? I’d have been furious if my own mother read my diary, however innocuous. Embarrassed, I put it back.

She noticed, of course – I should have known. I replaced it in not quite the right way, displaced something balanced in the drawer. Or perhaps she’d just guessed: she’d always found it easy to read me. She’d stood at the door of the kitchen that evening, her face serious.

‘Mum. Did you read my diary?’

I’d actually blushed.

She’d moved it after that. I hadn’t checked where – I’d felt so guilty – but I’d never seen it again. After she left, we looked, of course we did – the police too, after we mentioned it – but there was so much that was missing. She could be ruthless in throwing things away.

‘I haven’t seen it for a long time,’ I say now. ‘Where on earth did you find this?’

‘Amberton Grammar called in. There’s a common behind the school, behind its own grounds?’

‘Yes, I know it. The kids play sport on it sometimes, and there’s cross-country.’ I’d gone to watch Sophie run a couple of times. It’s a huge grassy field, far too uneven to mark a pitch, fringed by scrubby trees.

He nods. ‘The school secretary rang us. Apparently a dog walker saw it and handed it in – he thought it must belong to one of their pupils. Of course the woman in the office knew who Sophie was, and so it came to our attention.’

‘Can I have a look at it?’

‘Let me.’ I notice now that he’s wearing those plastic gloves. He opens it at the front page. ‘Do you recognise this as Sophie’s handwriting?’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘She’s filled in all her details.’

It’s one of those old-fashioned diaries asking you for your name, address and the rest. I don’t remember her having filled it in when I’d seen it before. I follow the script with my eyes, relishing the familiarity of those shapes, her letters all fat round bubbles and short spiky stems.

Name: Sophie Harlow

Age: 15

Address: Oakhurst, Park Road, Vale Dean, Cheshire.

Contact details: [email protected]

He holds the paper down. She’s used blue biro, pressing down hard. She always wrote like she’d punch through the paper, her teachers gave up trying to get her to use a fountain pen – too many bent nibs.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s definitely her writing.’ I frown: there’s something about it … but he’s already turning the pages, then he stops.

12 November, 2015

Hockey today. Freezing cold rain. Mrs Wilson – that was her PE teacher – was on at me again. Can you try harder, what’s wrong with your attitude. I wasn’t in the mood. It was too cold. Holly had skipped it. She said I should too. Took the dog for a walk. So much homework.

I nod. You’d never guess it from reading these entries what was to come.

He keeps flicking through the pages, slowly. But the words stop meaning anything. How can this have happened to us, I think, yet again. How can this be my life? Disassociation, my counsellor called it – I’ve refused to accept my reality. She told me so, in the months straight after.

‘Mrs Harlow?’ I’ve almost forgotten he’s here.

He raises his eyebrows, letting the pages flutter back round.

‘It’s hers. Can I look myself, now?’ I reach out again, wanting just to touch something of Sophie’s.

‘Just a moment, please.’ His gloved hand hovers over the diary. ‘You see, there’s some detail in it that surprised us.’ He pauses. ‘Did Sophie tell you she was pregnant?’

‘No, she didn’t,’ I reply automatically. ‘I mean— No, she wasn’t pregnant.’

‘She thought she was, according to this,’ he says. ‘So you didn’t know then?’

‘That – that’s never been a line of inquiry.’ The phrase, out of officialdom, sounds somehow false in my mouth. ‘I mean, her friend – Holly Dixon from school – I told you I spoke to her the other day. She said that Sophie took a pregnancy test, yes. But that it was negative.’

‘I see.’ Carefully, he starts to leaf through the pages again and I crane to see Sophie’s handwriting. But soon they go blank – charting the months after she caught me, I realise. The new year’s empty.

But only for a while, I realise. Nicholls stops, then turns the diary around so it’s facing me, and pushes it closer. In thick blue biro, the words are almost etched into the pages.

10 April, 2016

I haven’t written in this for a bit. She found it. I didn’t feel the same afterwards. But now I just need to tell someone, even if it’s just this stupid diary.

Mum found the test, too. She’s such a nosy bitch. Holly took the blame. But I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I don’t really want to tell Danny. He won’t react well, but he’s got a right to know, I suppose. I wish I could just get away – I just need to have some time to think. I’ve had enough of all this.

He turns the page. She’s left a few days left blank, then just one line:

I was right. I saw another side to him this time. He scared me, a bit, that’s all. It’s silly, really.

‘Is this Sophie’s handwriting, Mrs Harlow?’ His tone is neutral.