Everything She Forgot (19 page)

CHAPTER 18

I
N THE MORNING, THEY SET OFF AGAIN.
T
HERE
WAS ONLY AN
inch of Irn-Bru left in the bottle, and George let Moll finish it. He looked down at her as they left the Cheviot Hills. With her newly cut hair, there was a chance that she might not be recognized, but she was still a little girl in a crumpled school uniform with spots of blood on her collar and skinned knees scabbed over.

They left Northumberland National Park and headed south. There were farms on either side of the road and signs for deer and cattle. The car was running low on fuel, but George thought he could make it to Newcastle, which was only an hour away. They drove through towns like Longframlington and as they neared residential areas, an idea came to George.

At Morpeth, he veered off the road and drove into the town, rolling his window down and weaving through the housing developments.

“Where are we?” said Moll. “Are we going to visit someone?” He didn't answer her. It was a quiet group of redbrick council houses with small fenced gardens. George hunched over the steering wheel as he peered out on either side, scanning the
yards. It was another clear day—dry and bright, although there was a chill in the air. He turned into another street and sure enough there were three different yards strung with washing. He crawled along the curb inspecting the clothes on offer until he saw what looked like a boy's green tracksuit.

“Wait here,” said George.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm gonna borrow something.”

He narrowed his eyes and scanned the street but there was no one around. It was after nine and people would be at work and at school. He vaulted over a wall into the garden and was startled by the sound of a dog barking inside the house. He yanked the tracksuit off the line, sending the pegs flying, jumped the wall again, and slipped back into the car, throwing the tracksuit into the back seat. He drove out of Morpeth slowly, looking into the rearview mirror until he was sure that they had not been seen.

“I'm hungry,” said Moll, as he turned on the radio.

“As soon as I see a shop, we'll stop and we'll go and get something hot for lunch, I promise. Can you hold on?”

He turned to her, and she nodded, and he winked at her.

I
t was late morning when they arrived in Newcastle and George parked in a multistory parking garage near the main street.

“Take your shoes off,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because we need to get this on you.”

“Why? I don't like it.”

“We'll get you something you like. It's just . . . so you'll be warm when we're walking on the street. It'll do for now.” He
bit his lip, watching her, but she kicked off her shoes and so he leaned over and fed one foot and then the other into the tracksuit bottoms.

“Pull them up and take off your skirt.”

She did as he asked. The skirt was a pleated kilt and he helped her undo the second button.

“They're all wet.” Her face was peaked.

“It's only for a wee while, till we get you something better.” He held out the tracksuit top and she fed her arm through.

“It doesn't smell nice.”

“I promise we'll get rid of this as soon as we can.”

“I'm hungry,” said Moll again, when they got out of the car. The tracksuit was oversized and he could see patches of dark green where the fabric was wet. The white of her school blouse was still visible and so he zipped her up and pushed the collar inside.

“Where will we go to eat?”

“I'll find someplace. Maybe we should get you some proper clothes first, then we'll go get something to eat.”

The parking garage smelled of dank, wet concrete. It was half full of cars, but there were no people around and George was relieved. He offered Moll his hand as they descended the stairs to the street and she took it and kept hold of it all the way to the main street, where he took her into C&A.

As soon as they walked into the department store, it seemed as if every shop assistant turned to stare at them. George realized what a sight Moll was, with her shorn hair and damp, oversized tracksuit. He was nervous and almost left the store, but instead he pulled Moll in the direction of the escalator and they ascended toward Men and Boys.

“Your hand's all sweaty,” she said, pulling away from him.

“Well, stay close to me,” he said. “We need to be in and out of here, quick smart. You're hungry, aren't you? We need to get out of here and get you something to eat.”

She was quiet but sullen, following him around, looking at the clothes.

He picked out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, several T-shirts, socks, and pants for boys aged seven to eight, and then they went for shoes. She chose a pair of Batman trainers.

“Do they fit you?” he asked.

“Yes,” jumping up and down. “They're bouncy.”

As an afterthought, he bought her an anorak and Wellington boots and a pair of thick gloves, a baseball cap, and a scarf.

Moll curled her fingers over the checkout desk and put her lips to them. The man folding and bagging her clothes winked at her. George risked tapping Moll on the shoulder. “Stand up properly,” he whispered.

He didn't know how to predict her, had no idea what she would do. She looked up at him and he held his breath, but then she did as he asked. He smiled at her, and touched her head. She blinked slowly and shrugged at his appreciation.

He wondered if she knew that he had kidnapped her. All she had to do was tell the shop assistant that he had taken her, and it would all be over. He couldn't remember being a child. He had only snatches of memories, mostly bad. He couldn't remember how children thought and processed things.

“I'm
hungry
,” she said, whining now, when they got outside.

He hunkered down beside her and straightened the tracksuit on her shoulders. She was pale and wearying and he knew she needed to eat, but even though she looked almost like a boy now, she was still attracting glances in her damp, oversized clothes.

“Let's go back to the car and change and then we can get lunch,” he said.

“No, now,” she whined.

There was a little shop off the main street and he bought her a packet of crisps and a can of Coke. She walked slowly, crunching the crisps and spilling little dribbles of Coke down the green tracksuit. By the time they got back to the car, the Coke and the crisps were finished.

The parking garage was still deserted. George pulled the tags off the jeans and T-shirt and asked her to change.

“Can you manage by yourself?” he asked.

She nodded, and so he walked ten feet away and smoked at the edge of the parking garage, looking down at the city. He was finished with his cigarette before she was done struggling into the new clothes. Finally, he went to help her, shaking her into the jeans and buttoning them up and wrestling the sweatshirt onto her. She put on her Batman trainers and he knelt to lace them.

“I can tie my own laces,” she said.

He stood back to let her, but she took an age, and his own stomach rumbled as he waited. She made a big loop and a small loop, whispering instructions to herself.

“You sure you don't need me to help you?”

“No!”

He sighed, looking over his shoulder. He put her school uniform into one of the shopping bags and put it in the boot. Finally, she stood up, her laces tied.

“You look good.” He placed the baseball cap on her head and led her to the wing mirror so that she could look at herself.

“I look like a boy.”

“You look cool.”

“I look like a boy.”

“Let's go get something to eat.”

T
he streets were busy and he held her wrist as they navigated people on the pavement. She stopped and dug her heels in and pulled against him until he released her.

“What is it?”

“I don't like getting my wrist held.”

“It's busy. You could get lost.”

She had her hands pushed into her anorak pockets and was glaring up at him, fixing him with her good eye. The pavement was dirty with litter, and the street smelled of car exhaust. The sharp scent of vinegar and the sweet smell of potato wafted from a chip shop across the street, and George felt hunger again cramp his stomach.

She pushed past him, hands still in her pockets, so that she seemed to shimmy as she walked. He didn't want to argue, so he let her walk a pace in front of him, tugging at her jacket when he needed her to turn a corner. At the main road, George took a pinch of her jacket and tried to take her across when the traffic had stopped.

“No,” she said, scowling at him again. “You can't just walk across. You have to wait for the green man.” She reached up to press the pedestrian button.

George sighed deeply and put his hands in his pockets, then found that she slid her hand through his arm as they waited, as she had when he took her from school.

“If you'd gone when I said, we'd be across by now.”

“But it's not allowed,” she said, pressing her lips together as she looked up at him.

Across the road there were shops and department stores and
she was distracted by a busker with a guitar, cymbals between his knees and a drum on his back, singing out of tune, and then by a street vendor selling small battery-powered dogs that yelped and wagged their tails. She crouched down to look at them, pointing and smiling up at George. He asked her if she wanted one, but she shook her head. When they left the toys, she continued to walk slowly, her head turned by Goths with flowing purple skirts, an old man asking for spare change, and a sheik with a long black beard.

“Have you ever been to a big city before?” he asked her.

“I've been to Inverness.”

“I told you I'd take you on an adventure.”

“Where are we now?”

“We're in Newcastle. I've not been here before, either.”

“Why did we come, then?”

“We're just passing through.”

T
HEY ATE AT
a café off Northumberland Street, in a booth in the back corner. George and Moll both had fish and chips with tomato sauce and vinegar. The waitress was Italian, wearing a pink apron and a lipsticked smile.

“Can I get you boys anything else?” she said, wiping their table with a dirty cloth.

Moll's eyes opened wide when she heard, but her mouth was still full of chips, and George was grateful.

“Just the bill.”

“Just the bill?” she said, her accent blended with Geordie.

“The little man doesn't want some ice cream?”

“OK,” said George, “the bill and . . . strawberry ice cream,” so pleased that Moll had passed for a boy.

“Chocolate,” Moll corrected him.

“He'll have a chocolate ice cream, then,” said George, nodding.

“SHE will have an ice cream,” Moll said, almost shouting. “I'm a girl, not a boy, even though you want me to be.”

The waitress smiled and nodded, pulling crumbs to the edge of the table with her cloth.

George gave the waitress one of his special smiles, but as soon as her back was turned he placed a ten-pound note on the table.

“Get up right now,” he hissed at Moll. “You just blew your chance of a chocolate ice cream.”

Moll got up with him, but he didn't touch her until they were outside the restaurant. As soon as they were around the corner, George lifted her into his arms. He felt her pulling against him and broke into a run. The movement and his own urgency meant that she couried into him and he held her close, but as soon as he stopped running and they neared the street where the car was parked, Moll began to fight him.

“Let me
down
,” she said, and he felt her kicking him, her small fists pushing back against his chest. Her face was once more full of the anger and fear he had seen when he tried to drag her to the car in Thurso.

He could feel his heart beating and sweat on his upper lip. Not for the first time he wondered how it was all going to end. At the entrance to the multistory parking garage, he set her down. She pulled away from him, and leaned against one of the metallic, graffitied walls—her arms folded and her chin down. Despite the large brim of her cap, George could tell that she was glaring at him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, squatting down in front of her. “We had to get out of there. I didn't mean to grab you like that. Come on—let's go back to the car.”

He got up and took a couple of steps from her, and found that she followed, arms still folded and chin down. There were one or two people walking to their cars, and so George walked slightly in front of her, not daring to speak in case she made a fuss. He kept her just in sight and returned to the car, unlocking her door first and holding it open for her.

He was still learning about her, and did not yet know how to behave around her. He remembered how she had allowed him to rock her to sleep the night before, and thought that if he were to win her trust he would have to woo her. Confrontation only seemed to harden her to him, and he could understand why.

He stood, waiting beside the open door, watching her dark face and folded arms and the crisscross steps she made, willing her to come to him. To his great relief she got inside the car, but awkwardly, refusing to unfold her arms.

He got into the driver's seat, put the key in the ignition, then turned to her, both hands pressed between his knees.

“I'll get you another ice cream when we get to the hotel,” he tried.

“I don't want any ice cream. I want to go home.” She wasn't looking at him, but rather speaking down into her folded arms.

George ran his hands through his hair. Bribery wasn't working and he didn't want to frighten her again. His only option was to talk to her, although he didn't know if she would understand. He took her cap off, so that he could see her face properly. He saw that she was on the verge of crying again. She was turned away from him, her arms still folded, looking out of the window with her lower lip quivering.