Where the Missing Go(47)

I push down the wobble of uncertainty, like my world’s twisting around me. It couldn’t have been me, could it? Fear clutches at my gut. Of course it wasn’t me. I know that.

But if my family hear about this, what the police think. Mark. They’ll think it’s happening again, that I’m losing it …

I go back into the kitchen and pour myself a large glass of water, then drink it down. I look at the computer and the closed jotter beside it. I need to face the facts.

I’m back where I started. No closer to finding my daughter. The police are not investigating.

No. I correct myself. It’s worse. They don’t trust me.

The email from the helpline is inevitable, I suppose. That’s what I tell myself, when I read it that night.

‘Dear Kate,’ it begins. ‘We’d like to take the opportunity to thank you for all you’ve done for Message in a Bottle.’

That’s the nice bit, obviously. The rest is not so pleasant.

My services will no longer be required. They phrase it differently of course, stressing that the work of the charity can put high demands on its volunteers, and suggest that I might like to take some time out to reflect on how I might best put my skills to use.

I don’t bother replying.





22


I don’t really know what to do with myself any more. I made myself get up today, though I couldn’t really see why, eating breakfast in front of the TV, losing hours there, my bad habit. I feel so tired and defeated. Then I started to tidy the living room uselessly, picking at dust that’s barely there. After that I went into the kitchen and picked up the phone, twice, wondering.

Should I call Dad? Charlotte? For once, I just want some human contact. But what can I tell them that won’t just make it worse? That won’t make them think that I’m losing my grip?

Then I think: the one person who won’t judge me.

I grab my keys and head out of the door.

Lily’s in her usual spot, dozing in her armchair in a shaft of sunlight. Her head’s lolled forward, that can’t be comfortable.

‘Lily,’ I say. ‘Lily.’ Her eyes open, blink into waking.

‘Oh hello, dear,’ she says, lifting her face to mine slowly. ‘Has he gone then?’ She must mean her care worker. I wonder if he’s actually been though, or she’s getting confused again.

‘Yes, it’s just me, Lil. Shall we have a cup of tea?’

‘Lovely. Yes, please.’ I head to the kitchen, check the milk and make us a cup each. It all looks tidy and clean, I’m reassured to see.

I’ve two china mugs of tea in my hands, pretty things with violets splashed over them, when I see the scrap of newspaper on the sideboard, neatly folded on top of her telephone directory.

RAN AWAY?

Send a message to let them know you’re safe

NO QUESTIONS ASKED

Just phone and give your message

We will pass it on

Send a MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

I manage not to spill anything.

‘Lily,’ I say, walking back into the sitting room, urgency in my voice. ‘Why’ve you got that bit of paper – the advert for the helpline?’ I hear the sharp note and try to soften my tone. ‘You know I work there, don’t you. That I volunteer there?’

She doesn’t reply.

I put our teas down on the little side table and try again. ‘Have you maybe tried to call me where I work? Maybe a few times?’

I’m not sure she’s listening, but then she starts talking, surprisingly brisk.

‘You said always to call, you know. You said: Lily, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. Well, you know I told you I was perfectly fine, but you insisted. Well, I said, I don’t need—’

‘No, no, that’s totally fine. I’m sorry. I just – I didn’t know you knew I worked at the charity.’ My heart’s sinking.

‘Of course I do, I remember things.’ She’s getting cross. A sign she’s feeling vulnerable, I know now. Is she feeling a little guilty?

‘Oh, Lily. I’m only next door. And you’ve got my phone numbers if there’s anything.’ She must have been calling the charity number, trying to get hold of me. And then what – hanging up? Asking for me? But from the phone box? I didn’t realise she was in so bad a state, that she was so confused. What is going on in her head?

I have an idea now: I pull up the footstool in front of her. ‘Lily, how’s your little boy?’

‘My little boy …’ Her brow creases.

‘Yes,’ I say encouragingly. ‘Your little boy, you’ve told me all about him.’

‘I don’t have a little boy,’ she says flatly.

‘Oh. I thought—’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m sorry, Lily, I thought you liked talking about your little friend. You said he had blond curls like you had. Does he look like Bob, your husband, too?’

That’s a mistake. ‘We didn’t have any children.’ She looks upset. ‘You’re a cruel girl.’

I draw back, shocked. Lily’s never angry with me. But then I’ve read that, on top of confusion and forgetfulness, mood changes can be a symptom of what I’ve feared: dementia.