Just My Luck(89)

‘Do you think this might be connected to those desperate people who broke in and stole your laptop?’

I didn’t tell her about the laptop, so I assume Jake has filled her in on that. Clearly they are still seeing each other. That doesn’t necessarily mean they are still sleeping together, but it might. It probably does. I find I don’t care. I don’t care where my husband is shoving his dick; I can’t imagine why I thought that him sleeping with someone else was a tragedy. It doesn’t matter to me now. I just want my daughter home. I glance at Ridley; I keep forgetting he is here with us. He probably shouldn’t be. He should be in bed. Sleeping off the party excess or excitedly messaging friends about how much fun he had at the out-of-this-world party, like a normal teenager. Nothing about this is as it is supposed to be. I notice he is sobbing, silently. Tears roll down his face, leaving a snail’s trail of sadness.

I almost reach across the table and squeeze his hand, he’s just a kid, but can’t bring myself to. This boy crushed my daughter and now my daughter is gone. He is here. Normal things like decency have been wrung out of me. I almost hate him and everyone around the table for being safe and here. I would change places with her in an instant. But he is sobbing, and Emily would want me to comfort him. I make myself behave like a proper person – I lean across the table and pat his arm. However, my gesture doesn’t help. Ridley flinches. Withdraws from me. ‘You should try to get some sleep, Ridley. You can take a bed in one of the spare rooms. I think they are all made up.’

He shakes his head. ‘I won’t be able to sleep. I’d rather be here.’

I nod, respecting his decision. I keep checking the wall clock and my watch; they agree. Time is passing. The last time any of us saw Emily was at about eight thirty. It’s now three in the morning. I don’t want them to, but my thoughts start to traverse down dark and disturbing paths.

You are a winner.

Four words and the whole world shifts.

I can’t find her.

Just four more words. But they are the ones that shove me from fortunate to damned. She was there in front of me. All hopeful and sulky and glorious and angry and then she was gone. It’s strange that the good news – the winning – took time to sink in. This horror I accept instantly. I’ve been waiting for it. I wish more than anything that she was here by my side being annoyed by my clinginess and what she calls righteousness. Resenting me for being her buzzkill.

I should have known that we’d pay. I did know. I would have paid in any other way. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I want to be doing something, to bring her home. I want to be out there looking for her. It’s not enough to just sit and wait; wait and see what happens. I go and dig out Logan’s laptop, start to google the procedure and statistics around kidnapping. It’s a mistake. Like most things on the internet, facts are drowned by hysteria and cruelty, worst-case scenarios. I try not to click and wander down the rabbit warrens of despair and dread, but I can’t help myself. I feel sick faced with videos of men in hoodies, men on CCTV cameras, men driving vans into the distance. I am immobilised by the fuzzy, faded pictures of smiley young girls never recovered, but destined to stay forever in school uniforms, not allowed to grow up, grow old, to live. I see pictures of heartbroken parents at press conferences, at tombstones. My eyes slide from one article to the next, but I am too much of a coward to read anything properly. Words morph on and off the screen; like ants at a picnic, they won’t stay still. Often the word ‘kidnapper’ is linked with the words ‘teen’ and ‘murder’. The Wikipedia definition – the unlawful carrying away and confinement of a person against their will – punches me in the gut. Carrying away where? Confined where?

I read that the police consider the first few hours to often be the most vital in offering up clues in a missing person case. Again, I am swamped with doubt that Jake’s decision not to involve the police is the right one, but I don’t challenge him. I don’t trust myself – or anyone come to that. If the kidnappers hurt her because they somehow find out I’ve contacted the police, I’d never forgive myself. How would I live with that? Soon they will send a message. They will ask for money. We can give money. That, we can do. I google the word ‘ransom’. It’s a silly habit of our time. Something is wrong – a rash, weening problems, sleeping patterns – we google it. Something is unknown – school catchment areas, inoculation guidelines, dates for the Topshop sale – google it.

Someone is lost – what then?

I google it. I am hoping for some advice on how to handle this impossible, unimaginable situation because I’m clueless, alone. Maybe we all are, trapped in a terrible space where there are only digital responses, digital solutions. Pixels on a screen, placed there by strangers. I want to talk to my husband, but I don’t have the words. I want to talk to my friends, but I don’t have any of those.

In a way, the search does help. I am stunned that the first thing that comes up is adverts for companies that insure people against ransom. I feel a peculiar, uncomfortable relief that we are not alone and yet a profound, distinct terror that this is a business. Hostage situations, kidnapping and extortion occur often enough for people to insure themselves against it. I have insurance for accidents in the home, for luggage lost on holiday. I should have known things were bigger now. I should have protected her more.