Submersion (32 page)

‘Please, please,’ I begged the screen, hoping it would give me
something.
But it didn’t. Instead, the words
access denied
appeared. Maybe I had mis-keyed the letters? I tried again, entering each digit slowly –
A g n e s.
Again –
access denied.
Suddenly, my chest was beating with panic instead of anticipation. What if this had been a trap? What if Jerry… No, no, not Jerry, but maybe Tony? I had only his word that Jerry had left me
something by the computer
. Or maybe it was Shirley, jealous of… No, this was all nonsense. I
knew
these people. Had worked alongside them for years, safely shared opinions and voiced gripes against the authorities. Then what? Why wasn’t the
something
I’d assumed was the password working? Hadn’t it been waiting by the computer for me?
Agnes
written on a piece of paper, weighted down by a-. I stopped; an idea struck me. I tried a different password:
p a p e r w e i g h t.
Nothing. Then, glancing at the creature frozen in the glass, I made a final attempt:
s t a r f i s h.
And I was in.

‘Agnes, you vain fool,’ I chided myself, suddenly feeling foolish about my assumptions that
Agnes
would be the password, rather than a note attracting me to the item that would lead me to the answer.

The link took a few minutes to open – the line connecting me to
St Patrick’s
library was slow, its fire-power limited. There were many documents to look through, all of which were simply labelled with a combination of numbers and letters, so I had to open each one individually to see if anything of significance was held within.

After half an hour, Tony returned and gave me a nod, and I knew it was a signal – shutdown and start work. So, I did just this and after another five minutes, Jerry and Shirley joined us.

‘Good morning, Agnes,’ Jerry chorused and, if he knew what I’d been up to, if he knew that his password was exactly what I needed, he gave no indication. ‘Sorry we’re late in. Meeting with the directors. Right, let’s see what I need you to do today…’

This is how we carried on. Nothing was said directly to me. No one acknowledged that I had returned to the office solely to exploit its resources. No one acknowledged that they were aiding this activity, either. Not in a word or a look. Each morning, Tony would greet me and disappear for half an hour or so, then he would return, signal with a nod, and I would return to permitted duties.

Yet, on the third morning, something different happened – I found something. Not a lot – but something, at last.

Most of the articles in the archives related to budgets or policy. There were invoices going back decades, spreadsheets detailing termly costs, budgets and donations covering a similar period, too. Names known to me appeared in a
Benefactors Log,
local government officers, high-ranking police officials, and another name, well known for less legal activities – Monty Harrison.

‘That old crook,’ I mused, distracted by his mention, finding his name and donation again and again in the ledgers. Often, it was his monetary donation keeping
St Patrick’s
afloat. ‘That and a steep hill.’

But the references to Monty Harrison revealed nothing further than the extent of his generosity, and there was nothing in those ledgers that helped me on my quest to find my daughter. As I was closing the last of these files, two final names did catch my attention. The first puzzled me –
Augustus Riley.
A first name that was grand and unusual, the second more common, but known to me. A relative of Xavier’s? Maybe, but unlikely. But it was enough to pique my interest. The other name that drew my attention was very familiar – Ronan Newton. His contribution wasn’t large – he wasn’t a wealthy name – but it was touching to think he had made a contribution to Elinor and Billy’s school. I knew he considered them grandchildren, even if Esther did her best to push him out.
He never married our mother,
she would remind me, but all those years together, nursing her through her final days, that was as good as.

The majority of the policy files - while of interest had time been of no consequence - gave up very little information of use. There were ancient articles on staff expenditure, educational trips, technological upgrade plans – all of which became mere fantasy, legends, following the floods. Some were still relevant – absence and truancy policy, child and staff disciplinary regulation, examination standards. It was here that I found the one item of relevance to my quest – an item dated just three months before Elinor vanished. Entitled
Classroom Restructure Proposal,
it detailed the school’s plan to measure the intelligence of every single child and reorganise the classes according to ability, rather than age. I read the item thoroughly, seeking understanding, and suspecting corruption and ulterior motives throughout. But I found none. I was neither disappointed nor relieved – maybe a little dumbfounded by the arrogance and superiority it emitted. The motive was pure and simple – focus on the best, improve the school results and increase the funds allocated as a consequence. There was even a proposal –
under further consideration
– to expel any children below a certain level, using a points system. Yet, nothing in the piece suggested any underlying sinister reasons for applying this policy. If anything, it appeared ignorant of what such a policy might suggest, given how children deemed super-intelligent had been exploited and abused in the past.

Caught up in my shock, I hadn’t noticed I’d been joined. A sudden cough eventually alerted me to the fact. Tony was at my shoulder – it was later than I realised.

‘It’s really time to close it down,’ he said, in a low whisper. There was a slight scold in his voice, as if I’d broken a rule, putting him at risk. ‘We want to help,’ he added, as if to reassure me whose side he was on, ‘but we can’t be involved. We can’t see anything. You understand?’

I nodded, and that was the last we spoke of it.

The day then continued on its regular pattern – Jerry and Shirley arrived, supposedly holed up in a meeting till then, and I was given paper files to review, until it was time for my short day to end.

That night, Tristan left on his trip east with Jessie and the first of Esther’s regular welfare calls began.

The next day produced very little progress. The files were not as organised as the ones we kept in the food administration department. There was no date order, for instance, so it wasn’t just a case of skipping to the end of folders and scrolling to the very bottom. Policy documents from five, ten years ago adjacent to even older items, including those from my childhood years. I declined to open these; I knew enough already about the atrocities it would document, I didn’t wish to know more. At the end of computer time that day, I did stumble across one folder that intrigued me, entitled
correspondence.
But my time was up by then. I could hear Tony shuffling about in the room next door, making an unnecessary amount of noise. Any minute now, he would be coming in and giving me his customary nod.

After work that day, I rowed by the Cadley residence on my way home. I hadn’t heard from
Old Merlin
for a while and wondered if he had made further progress on that tape. I’d played that previous snippet of Elinor and Tristan so many times on the small cassette player he’d given me, I feared it would break. It appeared so thin and fragile. The phrase brought to mind the physical state my missing daughter might be in.
Oh, Elinor, where are you?
My internal ache must have been present in my face, as opening the door, the old man said:

‘Now there’s someone that needs a bit of hope.’ He said it softly, welcoming enough that it suggested he had some. ‘I do,’ he answered, when I posed that question to him.

He led me back up some metal spiral steps to his room on the second floor that housed the equipment for listening to music and invited me to sink into the luxury of one of the stout chairs therein. I did with pleasure and I realised just how tired my bones were, as they were enveloped in comfort.

‘Okay, it’s just a bit more. Not much.’

With that, he pressed a button and voices fell from hidden speakers in the ceiling.

‘Door-to-door salesmen were still in high supply and medium demand. Cars were a familiar sight on the road: being driven, parked, washed or some abandoned – just not all
abandoned. Children could play in the street too – kicking balls, skipping with ropes, throwing off their coats and jumpers when they got too warm. It wasn’t the better days; the money times were over and the riches were with the few, the remaining scraps with the many. But the floods were yet to come; a river was still an isolated, controlled area and small rowing boats were not common place. Indeed, it was rare or considered quite unnecessary to own one.’

‘Tristan,’ I confirmed to the old man, who put a finger to his lips, expressing a silent
listen.

Next came what I was really hoping for.

‘Why have you stopped?’

Elinor, her voice booming down upon me, distorting the sound a little. The old man adjusted the sound. ‘Should be better now,’ he said, very quietly.

I listened out for more of her, my heart breaking at every sound. Was this the closest I’d ever get to her again?

‘Thought I heard something. A noise. A whirring sound. You not hear it?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. I’ll continue. Now where was I? Oh yes. But the floods were yet to come. A river was still a river, and a road was still a road…’

He stopped the tape.

‘Do you have anything else?’ I asked, no attempt to mask my desperation.

‘Yes, there’s a little bit more I’ve managed to retrieve, but nothing that really tells us anything. No more of her,’ he concluded, adding
yet
when he saw my face fall. ‘There’s a conversation between you and Tristan, voicing concerns about Elinor’s gallivanting.’

‘Can I hear it?’

‘Yes, of course.’

And so listened to myself and Tristan and was reminded of another absence.

‘Nothing is going to happen to her. She’s a good girl. And it’s safe.’

‘How do you know?’

‘There’s nothing out there but water.’

‘What if she drowns?’

As soon as I began to cry, the old man stopped the tape and sat beside me. He reached out for my hands and I let him take them. They were surprisingly soft and warm, without being damp, which I had somehow expected.

‘I’ll keep trying and I’ll keep looking for clues, just like the rest of us.’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘You know, I think there’s something on this.’

I looked up, wondering what he meant.

‘It’s clear she’s recording people in secret. You, herself and Tristan and his dark tales.’ He smiled at that, lightly, and I joined him. ‘So, maybe she recorded something that will give us a way forward. A clue to where she went, why she left.’

‘Left?’

‘Why not? We’re all assuming Elinor was taken, but what if something made her leave. It’s possible.’

It hadn’t occurred to me before that Elinor would
want
to leave, but it was possible, even if I suspected that the old man was simply trying to give me hope.

‘What about you – how is your search going?’

I didn’t think for a minute that
Old Merlin
had any insight into my clandestine activities at the
Food Administration Board,
but it amused me that he might. He did look a bit like a wizard and his towering house was built like a modern day castle.

‘Is that amusing?’ he asked, as a grin crawled across my face.

I dropped it quickly and decided to share what I’d been up to. Not having Tristan to share my progress with meant I was carrying the stress myself. It also meant I had no one to help me reflect; no other view to consider. So, I took a deep breath, decided I could trust the old man and gave him a reduced version of the last four days.

Once I had finished, he took a minute or two think it all over, before he spoke.

‘So, you’re getting about an hour a day?’ he said and I nodded. ‘Um,’ he hummed, giving nothing away. Then he stood, indicated that I should stay where I was and left the room, calling back as he descended the spiral steps. ‘Won’t be a minute!’

After much crashing about and a little cursing, he returned after five, looking a little flustered, but pleased with himself.

‘Here.’

He was holding out his palm to me and in it he held a flat, white oblong, with a small lead dangling off it.

‘What is it?’ I asked, puzzled, taking it from him, turning it over in my hands. It was thin, smooth and solid. To me, it was just a lump of plastic; there were no buttons, no suggestion of its function.

‘Storage,’ he announced, a beam in his tone. ‘In simple terms, you can use this to copy and store that entire archive you have access to.’