Dark Place to Hide (6 page)

I call the police again and give them this new information; you’ve been in touch with your sister. I explain that your appointment diary isn’t by the bed, but that doesn’t mean a great deal. It could be downstairs. The same duty sergeant as before tells me to keep them informed,
but as you’ve been in touch, they won’t be taking any further action for the time being. ‘It’s not a police matter if someone chooses to leave,’ she tells me. She’s no doubt had specialist training in handling ‘relationship breakdown’ cases and is drawing her own conclusions. We must have had a terrible row, but I’m refusing to acknowledge it. You must have taken off to make some serious decisions about your future…

A new surge of energy consumes me as I start a major treasure hunt for your appointment diary, just in case it’s here. It might give some indication as to your plans and whereabouts. I scour each room, not caring about the mess I make as I fling cushions aside, pull out drawers, tip piles of magazines onto the coffee table. I can’t find it.

I still don’t understand your message to Alexa. You haven’t seemed out of sorts with me or looked like you’ve been putting on a brave face. I can always tell.

Have I misjudged a cause for concern between us? I trawl my memories trying to find a subject that might be more serious than I thought. If there’s anything, it’s the issue with my mother when I blew up at her at Christmas and fled just as she was slicing into the turkey. You assured me at first that you understood and were fine with it, but I heard the tremble of disapproval in your voice. I pressed you and it came out like poison from a wound.

‘I can’t believe you called Bruce a shabby loan shark.’

‘Well – he is,’ I said. ‘He owns a payday loan company. It’s called Loansafe, for goodness sake. He should rename it Loanscam.’

‘And I can’t believe what you did afterwards…’ you said. ‘Smashing her plant pots like a vandal. I was
really
shocked, Harper.’ Your eyelids flickered with disbelief. ‘And a bit frightened, if I’m honest. Your anger…’

‘I know. It was a one-off – I don’t usually get worked up like that.’ I didn’t look you in the eye at that point. I couldn’t. It’s because of what I did – once – something so shameful that I can never say it out loud. I can only ever refer to it with you, inside my head. I can’t bear you to know my anger isn’t as tamed as I’d like you to think. I’m still a loose cannon at times – though I’ve done my utmost to play it down with everyone who knows me.

‘They’re together now – that’s how it is. Your mum waited fourteen years after your father died. She’s allowed to be happy.’

‘Yeah, well she won’t be for long. She’s made a big mistake. I don’t know what she sees in him. It’s only because he showed an interest in her. She’s eternally grateful – that’s all.’

You tugged my sleeve. ‘Did she say that?’

‘She’s settling for him because she’s in her fifties.’

‘Did she tell you this?’ you persisted.

‘More or less. Mum said, “How many more chances am I going to get at my age?”’

You told me I had to make it up to my mother. You told me I’d regret it. You didn’t hold back. You were right, of course, but I wasn’t ready to give in so easily.

But even that disagreement wasn’t a big deal between us. Do you remember how it ended? You punched my arm and told me I was a bully – and I hauled you into a Sumo grip and put my foot on your belly, just to prove it. You dissolved into fits of laughter and I had to kiss you. Our disagreements usually end like that – we can’t stay adversaries for long and we’ve
never
slept with an argument between us.

That’s why taking off like this is so out of character. You’ve never needed to be away from me before. But then, something as big as this has never happened to us before. I come back to the conclusion that I must have failed you, not paid enough attention after the miscarriage.

I take another U-turn in my thinking. This chopping and changing is making me feel unhinged.

Maybe you came back when I was out looking for you. Or perhaps you hid a few basic items in the car so you could leave empty-handed. But that implies forward planning. That in itself is out of character, but
secret
forward planning is even harder to grasp. On those rare occasions when you
do
have a plan, you’ve always been one to involve others; to share ideas and ask advice. Your best friend. Your sister. Your colleagues. But, none of them knew a thing.

Does this mean an underhand and conscious deception? Did you lie when you said you were only going as far as the village shop? Have you, in fact, had something bigger planned all along?

13 July

‘Most kids of seven straddle the world between make-believe and reality,’ sighs Marion, ‘but Clara has both feet firmly in make-believe.’

The nurse dabs antiseptic on Clara’s left knee and presses a plaster over it. The smell catches in Marion’s throat and she freezes for a moment, gripping the blanket on the bed, wondering if she’s going to be sick.

‘Are you okay?’

‘It’s the chemo,’ she explains. ‘I’ve just had another round and it’s hit me hard.’

The nurse gives her a sympathetic nod and points to a grey cardboard vomit bowl, sitting on one of the chairs like a bowler hat. Marion nods; she may well need to reach for it any moment.

Dr Norman pulls aside the curtain and sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Now then, Miss Delderfield – a little bird tells me you’ve been climbing into places where little girls shouldn’t go.’

‘Which little bird?’ Clara asks, interested.

‘A little bird who loves her little chick very much and was very upset when the chick went missing.’ He glances up at Marion and winks. She likes him straight away; he’s young, probably in his twenties and looks like the kind of person you might see presenting a programme on CBBC. He seems totally at ease with her daughter.

‘Clara doesn’t live on the same plane as other people – she always has to be higher up or lower down than everyone else.’

‘Mum says she prefers it when I climb into books – she says I’m a lot safer there.’

Marion rolls her eyes. ‘You bet,’ she says. ‘Clara’s getting into reading more now, though – thank goodness. She goes to the storyteller at the library after school and on Saturdays.’

‘It’s really good,’ says Clara. ‘Helen knows all the stories in the world and doesn’t even need the books.’

‘That’s very impressive,’ says the doctor, taking Clara’s pulse, then pressing the stethoscope against her back. ‘What did Humpty-Dumpty have?’ he says, as he holds still.

‘A great fall.’

‘And who put him back together again?’

Clara frowns. ‘Nobody,’ she says perplexed.

‘Not all the king’s horses and all the king’s men?’

‘No – silly – they
couldn’t
put him back together again.’

‘Don’t be rude, Clara,’ Marion cuts in.

Clara looks unimpressed. ‘You should know that by now,’ she says to the doctor.

He moves the stethoscope. ‘Cough for me,’ he adds. Marion is pleased to see that Clara seems barely disturbed by her ordeal. She knows they must talk about what happened; she must give her child all the time she needs to talk through her experience, but on the surface all is well. Clara is a tough little kid and seems to be finding the whole episode exciting. Nevertheless, she’s still only seven and realising she was trapped like that – alone, in the cold and the dark – must have been scary for her. Just not as scary as it would be for normal kids.

Marion feels the room lurch dramatically to the right and grabs the end of the bed. ‘Sorry, I need fresh air…’ She turns to the nurse, ‘Could you keep her here until I get back?’

‘Sure,’ says the nurse.

‘Mummy’s very sick,’ says Clara in a matter-of-fact way, counting the badgers on the bed sheet.

Marion is longer than she wants to be. First throwing up in the toilet, then having to wait ages for the lift to get outside; she doesn’t feel strong enough to manage the stairs. She has to get out – she needs real air, uncontaminated with disinfectant and sanitisers. She finds a bench on the grassy forecourt and sits down for a few moments. She watches two ambulances arrive delivering elderly people in wheelchairs. The second one down the ramp is a woman so shrunken and fragile she looks already dead, smothered in the blanket wrapped around her.

Marion shifts her line of sight and focuses on the car park instead. A broad man in a bib is shouting at a motorist. She’s finding it hard to listen to him ranting on. These days any signs of animosity or disharmony make her want to cower and hide. It’s as if the myeloma has stripped away her skin and made her too sensitive for ordinary life. She goes inside for a cup of water from the machine by the stationers. When she gets back to the room where Clara was being checked over, there’s a young boy on the bed and a different nurse.

‘Excuse me?’ she calls out. The nurse turns and comes towards her. ‘I was in here a few minutes ago with my daughter, Clara Delderfield – she’s supposed to be waiting for me.’

The nurse grunts and presses her latex-bound fingers into her hairline. ‘Have you tried the waiting room – down there on the right?’

Marion’s heels squeal as she turns to leave.
Don’t you dare do this to me again, Clara,
she mutters under her breath. She scans the faces in the waiting room, but Clara’s isn’t one of
them. She opens the toilet door and calls out, then gets the lift down to the ground floor to the coffee shop. She isn’t there either. She can’t remember the name of either the doctor or the nurse they met first. She remembers looking at the nurse’s name badge, but her memory is like that these days – she takes hold of information and it falls through the cracks. She heads for the main reception desk and spots a familiar pink dress, flouncing along the corridor.

‘Clara! Where have you been?’ She tugs at her daughter’s wrist harder than she means to.

‘Nowhere.’

The nurse who was asked to stay with her comes scuttling behind her. ‘Ah – there she is,’ she says, breathing heavily. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She clutches her chest as if having a mild heart attack. ‘She wandered off.’

‘You can’t tell Clara to wait anywhere, she always disappears,’ Marion scolds.

‘There was an emergency,’ states the nurse whose name is – of course – Natalie, she remembers now.

‘Sorry. She’s here – that’s all that matters,’ says Marion, recognising more than anyone how hard it is to keep Clara in one place.

‘Dr Norman said she only has a few bruises. Nothing’s broken and there’s no damage done as far as he can see. Just keep an eye on her.’

Marion sighs with gratitude. ‘Thank you. Easier said than done.’

Clara doesn’t say anything on the way to the bus stop. Marion notices her daughter’s hair needs a decent trim; she’s having to use her sequined Alice band every day to keep the fringe out of her eyes. Simple tasks like this have been knocked beyond Marion’s grasp since her illness.

A red bus turns the corner, halts at the kerb and they step aboard.

They settle near the back. ‘What do you want to do when we get back? Watch
Paddington
? Read
Rainbow Magic?
Or play table tennis with Samuel?’ Samuel is eight and lives next door. Clara is more than a match for him at football, skateboarding, climbing trees – and now table tennis. As a result, she’s grown bored of him and prefers entertaining herself. While Marion is in bed, which is the only place she can be on her ‘bad’ days, Clara reads, watches TV or explores mysterious fantasy worlds and saves kingdoms on her Nintendo Wii. She’s already tackling books and playing games designed for nine year olds and whilst Marion is proud of this, she also knows it’s because she spends a lot of time alone – or with her imaginary friends. More times than she’d like to admit, when Marion is supposed to be watching her, Clara slips out. Her daughter has a bunch of local friends in Nettledon, but she gets fixated on certain stories and musicals and storms off if her friends want to move on to something new. Instead, Clara wanders off exploring places, building stepping stones across the beck, collecting flowers and dead insects, performing her own plays in the deserted fields. She’s an expert at losing track of time.

Clara shuffles in her seat and makes a little snuffling sound in reply. It’s not like her to be this quiet and Marion puts her withdrawal down to being tired after an eventful couple of days. Marion doesn’t want to make a big thing of what has happened and decides to keep everything as normal as she can. ‘Scrambled egg later? What do you think?’

Clara gives a little shrug – half yes, half no.

As they get up to leave the bus, Marion sees Clara’s fist is closed. ‘What’s that in your hand?’

After they alight, Clara tentatively opens out her palm as if she’s been hiding a diamond. It’s an apple core.

‘Where did you get the apple from, honey?’ She knows Clara had no money at the hospital.

Clara sniffs. ‘The Wizard of Oz gave it to me.’

‘The Wizard of Oz?’

‘He said he granted wishes and when I said I wanted an apple – he gave me one.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘When you were sick.’

‘You shouldn’t talk to strangers – I’ve told you that before, Clara. Remember Pinocchio? He runs into terrible trouble because he talks to strangers – even if someone seems nice, it can be
dangerous
.’

‘He just gave me an apple.’ Clara’s bottom lip shoots out.

‘Remember Snow White?’

She puts her finger against her teeth and thought about the question. ‘The apple was poisoned?’

‘Exactly.’

1 August – Second day missing

Alexa is sitting staring out of the window when I walk into the bar. She has agreed to meet me after her day’s work at the gym at Gunwharf Quays in Portsmouth. She works as a personal trainer and I imagine she relishes pushing people through the pain barrier.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I say. ‘I came on the train – I’m having to get around everywhere without the car.’

‘Poor you,’ she says. I feel drained in her presence already. Talking to Alexa is like stirring thick tar with a straw. She’s wearing dense black eyeliner and bright lipstick that is almost purple. Without make-up the two of you look remarkably similar, but inside you’re poles apart. She’s hard where you are soft; she’s full of thorns and guarded, where you allow yourself to be seen.