Where the Missing Go(72)

I check around with care, anyway, my last hope dwindling.

The wooden roses run around the wall panels, below the sloping eaves. Behind a door in the corner is a small loo and sink; old-fashioned black and white with a hanging flush. Maybe they put it in when this was a place to send the kids – a den, or games room. But that’s it.

And that’s the house done.

There’s nothing here.

Fantasist, my mind whispers. Paranoid.

She’s not here.

I’ve looked everywhere now. This house gives me the creeps. And no wonder, with its sad history. I suppose Nancy and her sister could have played in this room. But Sophie’s not here.

I go over to the window, and look up: fat drops starting to hit the glass, one by one. Rain, finally. Of course she’s not here. What did I think; she’d just be cowering behind some door? So I thought she was telling me it’s all to do with Nancy. Or Nancy’s house. That didn’t mean she’d actually be in here. She meant something else, maybe, that I’ve misunderstood.

And now it’s time to go home. Face the reality. Sophie left. I’ll talk to my family then, maybe Dad – if I can get the police to … Exhaustion overwhelms me. I don’t know what to do now. I’m failing her. Again. She’s leaving me these messages, and I’m failing. Wearily, I walk to the doorway.

I start to pull the door closed behind me, just as I left it.

The pain’s like a bite. I snatch my hand away – a splinter. ‘Ow!’

In the dim light the bead of liquid swells up on my fingertip. I suck it automatically, and wanting to see what I cut it on, swing the door round.

Someone’s forgotten to take these down. That’s my first thought, when I see the drawings pinned to the back of the door.

There must be dozens of sheets of paper tacked to the wood, stuck on with Sellotape, and they’re all covered in crayon scribbles – blue, green, purple, yellow. On one sheet, there’s a wobbly red spiral – a snail? Or perhaps it’s just a shape that’s fun to draw, if you’ve little fingers and a bright red crayon. On another, a rainbow splodge. Whoever did them can’t manage stick people yet – and there are no trees or flowers or farmyard animals. But someone’s bothered to keep them, all the same. Just like I did, with Sophie’s first drawings.

Another drawing catches my eye now, and I step closer to look at the big buck teeth and cartoon eyes – it’s a bunny character to colour in, drawn in pencil by a skilled adult hand. Colourful scrawls burst out of the lines. The artist’s initialled her character – SH for Sophie Harlow, just like she always did – but I’ve already recognised her confident, easy style.

And I almost missed seeing them. It’d be easy, with the door open like that. You might forget the drawings were there, if you were clearing a room, say. Taking everything out, removing any sign that someone was ever here. Perhaps rushing a little, for whatever reason. You might not remember to check behind the open door, flat against the wall. You might walk straight out, if you had other things to think about.

Like he did. He missed them. He’s forgotten to take these down.

I’m on the floor now. My legs gave way, I register in a corner of my brain, as both my hands reach out to the door. This is it. Sophie. I know it, I can touch it. Here she is.

My beautiful girl. And her baby.





41


SOPHIE


It wasn’t a lie, what I wrote in my leaving letter. Runaway note. I don’t like the sound of that. Runaway sounds cowardly, like you couldn’t face the music. I thought what I was doing was brave. But who am I kidding.

I got Holly to do the test with me. And at the last minute, some instinct told me to go into the bathroom alone. I don’t know why, not really. She would walk around without a top on, would chat away with the toilet door open, but I’d never been like that. And he’d always warned me that we needed to be careful, to keep this just between us.

So she believed me. Somehow, I’d walked out of there with a smile. ‘Negative,’ I’d said, then taken a deep breath. I’d wrapped the wand in tissue, quietly slipped it into my bag to get rid of later. I wouldn’t leave it in the house.

I don’t know how I forgot about the packaging; I was flustered, I suppose. Holly took the blame. She was a good friend to me. I wish I could talk to her now. But I felt like he would know what to do. He was always so reassuring, always so capable.

I remember when I told him. I said to Mum and Dad that I was taking the dog for a walk, then slipped out to the end of the road. They always believed me. I ran to his car, the rain pelting down, pushed King into the back seat and climbed in the front, my heart racing.

Afterwards, he was so quiet.

‘Because they’re not always reliable,’ I said. ‘They can tear, I read, and you might not notice …’ I trailed off. Of course he knew that. But I needed to fill the silence.

‘I know. Don’t worry. It’s OK.’

I was so relieved. He didn’t even seem that surprised.

And I told him I wanted to keep it. I didn’t even say the word – abortion. It might make the idea more real, the only way forward.

‘I’m sixteen soon,’ I kept saying, as he stared ahead, over the steering wheel. ‘It’s OK. We’ll be OK.’ We spent so much time in that car. There weren’t many places that were safe for us.