Then She Vanishes(87)

‘Come on, Rory,’ I mutter to myself, stamping my feet impatiently as though trying to dispel some of my nervous energy. ‘Give me some sign you’re okay.’

And then I see it, an arc of torchlight. Is it him? I don’t know what to do. I’m paralysed by indecision. Rory’s put himself in danger for me and now I’m letting him down by being a flake. Perhaps he’s just searching the area and has found nothing.

I can’t bear the not-knowing.

Before I change my mind I race out of the flat and down the stairs to the entrance. The street is empty, the door of the building opposite slightly ajar where Rory broke in. I falter. I don’t think of myself as brave. I’m not one of those journalists who constantly puts themselves in danger on the frontline, or who goes undercover to investigate some criminal gang. No. I might be headstrong, reckless at times. I make wrong decisions, like the part I played in the phone-hacking scandal. But I’m not brave. Yet, as I stand here dithering, I can’t stop thinking about Rory, playing the hero for me. Without allowing myself to think any more about it, I dart across the road, slam my shoulder against the heavy door and step inside the building.

It’s dark and dusty and I instantly sneeze. It was once a warehouse and it still has those large, square windows that are murky with dirt. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the dark. The room is immense: open plan with stairs in the far corner. A large dust sheet is draped over something near the stairs. I turn slowly. Where is Rory? And then I see him in the opposite corner, underneath the window, the moonlight bleaching his dark curls. He’s leaning over what looks like a body.

‘Rory?’ I hiss, stepping towards him.

His head swivels towards me, his eyes wide. ‘I’ve just called an ambulance. There’s a woman here, unconscious.’ He gets to his feet, and that’s when I see her. The woman. She’s sprawled on top of a dirty old sleeping-bag and there are used needles littering the concrete floor, as well as empty crisp packets and a cereal box. A drug addict.

Rory kneels beside her and takes her hand. He looks visibly upset and I’m suddenly struck by the horror of it. ‘She’s so thin,’ he says sadly. ‘What makes somebody end up like this?’

I go to him and put my hand on his shoulder, wanting to comfort him. I know this will affect Rory greatly. He’s the first person to put his hand into his pocket, or donate by mobile when an advert for Unicef or the RSPCC comes on the TV. He can’t walk past a homeless person without stopping to give money, or a Big Issue seller even if he already has that particular copy. I kneel down beside him. The woman looks older than me, her skin sallow and sunken, her long dark hair matted and greasy. She’s wearing a colourful maxi-dress and only a cardigan for warmth. Her fingernails are bitten down and dirty. But there’s something familiar about the shape of her face and the dimple next to her full, chapped lips.

Rory still has hold of her hand. ‘It’s okay,’ he says to her, in a soothing voice. ‘The ambulance is on its way. We’ll stay with you. My name is Rory and this is my girlfriend, Jess.’

At the mention of my name her eyelids twitch and her mouth moves.

‘Rory,’ I whisper, ‘she’s not unconscious. She’s trying to say something.’

Her eyes open slowly. Cat’s eyes. For a second I stop breathing. ‘Jess …’ Her voice is raspy, as though she’s not used to speaking out loud.

Rory turns to me in shock. ‘Do you know this woman?’

Her eyes close again and her hand goes limp in Rory’s.

I sit back on my heels in horror, thinking I might be sick as the sirens sound in the distance. It can’t be. It can’t be her. But even in her current state the resemblance to Heather is striking. ‘I think … I think it’s Flora.’





47




Margot


‘I need to tell you the truth,’ Heather says, staring at Margot intently. ‘Flora’s still alive.’

Margot stares at her daughter, speechless. The damage to her brain must have been greater than any of them had understood. She’s spouting rubbish. She’s confused, bless her.

She takes her hand. ‘Sweetheart, we have to accept that Flora is dead.’

Heather snatches her hand away and adjusts her position on the bed so that she’s facing her mother. ‘No. Listen. Please listen. It’s important, Mum. I know I sound deluded. Mad, even. But … I don’t know if it was seeing Jess again or just my brain healing but I’ve remembered. Ask Adam if you don’t believe me. Ask him what we’d been fighting about that last night.’

Margot puts a hand to her head. ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.’

‘I found out about Flora when Deirdre came to stay at the caravan park. She had a dog with her. Big and fluffy. You know, one of those Chow Chows. And I remembered Flora telling me about them when she was going out with Dylan. She said the mother of the guy his mum was seeing bred them. And the guy’s brother, Clive, had come to the fair and brought it with him. And then there was the ring …’

Margot gets up from the bed and begins pacing the room, her mind racing. Flora’s alive? ‘Where is she?’ she snaps, suddenly not caring about the logistics, only that she wants to see her daughter again, her baby. She burns with it, the desire to hold her elder daughter in her arms again. ‘Where is she, Heather?’