Then She Vanishes(101)

‘I know. I understand.’

‘Don’t forget about us, will you?’ she says suddenly. ‘Heather would love to see you again. She’s allowed to come home at the weekend.’

I open my eyes, blinking away the tears. ‘You’re both stuck with me now,’ I say, as I gaze across the river. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ And I realize that this is what I want. To grow some roots. To enjoy my life with Rory here in Bristol. Maybe to have children one day. To be a mum. I’ll learn from my parents’ mistakes, not become like them. Because I have Margot as a role model.

‘I’m glad.’ Her voice sounds lighter. ‘Thank you for being there for me. For being a friend to me and Heather, above being a journalist.’

I’m surprised. I never consciously understood that that’s what I’ve done. But it’s true. I’ve held back much more than I would if another family had been in the same situation. I kept Margot’s confidence, when asked, not writing about finding Flora having overdosed on heroin, or going after Leo and revealing what I knew about his dalliance with the underage Deborah Price. I’d needed Margot and she’d needed me. We were there for each other.

I’m smiling as I end the call, promising Margot that I’ll visit Heather at the weekend. And then I stand up, pocketing my phone as I make my way home, to Rory and our future.





Epilogue




Heather


Three months later

My sister is propped up in bed, her head resting on a layer of pillows when I visit, her dark hair sleek and shiny and cut to her shoulders. She’s no longer in a hospital but a rehabilitation centre for stroke victims. It has a view of Tilby Bay from her window and sometimes, when it’s quiet, you can hear the waves crashing against the rocks below. It’s therapeutic, and Flora has always loved the sound of the sea.

I take out the book I’ve been reading to her every day for the last week. Rebecca. She never got the chance to finish it before she went missing, and even though she occasionally reads to herself, her eyes get tired. I take her hand, her good hand, and she squeezes mine, a sign for me to continue. The signet ring on her little finger glints in the late-morning sun. She’d been delighted when I returned it to her. Before the stroke, Flora told me Deirdre had stolen it when she’d snatched her.

It’s been a long road to recovery for Flora. She’s only now starting to regain a little speech; before she’d communicate with me by blinking, once for no and twice for yes. I take her out when it’s a nice day, wheeling her chair along the seafront, and she closes her eyes and takes deep breaths, cleansing her lungs. She’s no longer dependent on the heroin that ravaged her body over the last two decades. She has put on some weight and looks healthy, younger now that her face has filled out. She has defied all the odds, but I knew she would. She’s strong, my sister.

I visit her every day without fail. Making up for lost time, I suppose. I often bring Ethan with me, although today he’s at nursery. When he first met Aunty Flora he’d been scared, running to me and hiding behind my back. But eventually he’d warmed to her, no longer noticing that one side of her face droops and that she finds speech difficult. I think the fact we’re so alike helps. He knows this is Mummy’s sister. Sometimes Jess comes, too, and the three of us sit together and listen to 1990s music in companionable silence, born out of our shared history and a bond that growing up together can sometimes bring.

Flora has never been charged. She was too ill to be formally interviewed under caution, and then she had the stroke. The drugs have done so much damage to her nervous system. But I haven’t given up hope. I have no doubt she’ll make a full recovery. It might take a while, but she’s determined. Even though the stroke isn’t what any of us would have wished upon Flora, I still thank my lucky stars every day that she’s here. And I know Mum does too.

Mum, as always, has been amazing. The caravan park has been sold and she’s put in an offer on a large bungalow with sea views where she’ll live with Flora. They are due to complete any day now. Adam and I have bought a smallholding not far away, just big enough for a few horses. Adam has taken a job at the shooting range, and starts there next month. We’ve had to work on our marriage. He feels guilty that he never believed me about the Wilsons having something to do with Flora’s disappearance, and it’s taken me a while to forgive him for that. But life is too short: the last few months have taught me that much. And I love Adam. I want it to work between us.

Mum and the police officer, Gary Ruthgow, have grown closer, going on dates and enjoying each other’s company. I always suspected she had a thing for him. But it’s wonderful to see her truly happy at last.

Watching how Mum tends Flora so patiently and with such love has made me want to be a better mum. A better person. Everything I did – have done – was for love.

I wish I could say the same for the other members of my family.

Two weeks ago I had a phone call from Deborah Price. She’d been in Flora’s year at school and, once, Jess and I caught her getting off with Uncle Leo in the sand dunes when she was barely fifteen. I was surprised to hear from her after all these years. She wasn’t friends with Flora and had never really spoken to me, even when we caught Uncle Leo’s hand in her bikini top.

‘I know it’s a bit weird to be calling you,’ she’d said, her voice husky, while I wondered who had given her my number, ‘when we don’t really know each other.’ A baby cried in the background. I’d heard through the grapevine that she had five children and I occasionally spotted her around Tilby, looking stressed, her hair scraped back into a greasy bun, as she pushed a double buggy and pulled on a dog’s lead, a fag hanging from her mouth. ‘How is Flora?’