The Girl Who Never Came Back (7 page)

Twenty years ago

In the dream, or vision, or whatever it was...

She was sinking through ice-cold water, her arms outstretched as if she was flying through the frozen darkness, her eyes wide open. Although she was aware on one level that she was in danger, on another level she thought nothing of it. She couldn't see a thing, but everything still seemed beautiful.

It was as if she didn't need to breathe at all. Not ever again, not even as she bumped against the muddy bottom of the pool.

Today

Sleep was impossible that night, so after a while Charlotte didn't even try.

Balancing on a small foot-stall, she stood in the middle of the guest bedroom and carefully unscrewed the smoke detector from the ceiling. It was a delicate job, and she was more than a little worried that her sister might have booby-trapped the device in anticipation of such a move. Many had been the argument, over the years, about Charlotte's inability (or unwillingness, according to Ruth) to quit "that filthy habit", but such concerns didn't seem to matter so much on that long, terrified night following Sophie's disappearance. Finally - with the dexterity and calm concentration of Indiana Jones in some far-off temple - Charlotte was able to slip the detector out of its mounting and slide the back open to reveal the battery. She paused for a moment, before pulling the slip of fabric that brought the battery out of its slot, and the evil flashing red light was defeated.

Two minutes later, Charlotte was sitting by the open window, smoking the best cigarette of her life. She knew smoking was bad for her, of course, but then so were lots of other things: crossing the road, eating junk food, coloring her hair, living in London, staying up late at night browsing the internet, having sex with strangers, not having sex with anyone, drinking alone... She'd once tried to cut out all the damaging behavior in her life, and the result had been utter tedium. Some people went through life on rails, but Charlotte simply couldn't help barreling along, collecting cuts and dents along the way; she was the kind of person who just figured she'd be okay, that her body would accept a little rough and tumble, and that consequences were things that happened to other people.

Beyond the window, and beyond the lawn, and perhaps even beyond life itself, there were still lights down by the river. Police divers, Charlotte figured, were out there in the cold water, searching for something macabre and horrific: the dead body of a young girl, just eight years old, who might have tumbled beneath the surface and been unable to keep herself from sinking. For a fraction of a second, Charlotte imagined Sophie's body down there, picked out by the granular searchlights of the diving team, her dead eyes reflecting the sad but hardened faces of the divers as they realized their search was over. Charlotte kept telling herself that Sophie would be okay, of course; like a good aunt, like a good person, she repeated that phrase over and over in her mind like a mantra.

Still, in the back of her mind, there was a voice...

She took a long, deep puff on her cigarette and tried to make her thoughts fall silent for a moment. Unfortunately, when the thoughts went away, their place was taken by gruesome images of a dead Sophie. Blinking a couple of times, Charlotte decided to embrace the thoughts instead of the images.

Hearing a noise below the window, she leaned out and saw a figure shuffling out of the back door. She frowned for a moment as she recognized the unmistakeable gait of her mother, who seemed to have decided to take a post-midnight stroll. For a couple of seconds, Charlotte tried to work out what the old bat was doing outside at almost two in the morning, but finally she got to her feet and headed out of the guest room. She knew she should stub the cigarette out, and that her sister would undoubtedly be able to trace its lingering scent in the morning, but at this particular moment Charlotte didn't give a damn. When she got down into the hallway, she held the cigarette between her teeth as she put her coat on over the thin t-shirt she'd worn to bed, and then she headed out the front door into the ice-cold night.

"What are you doing out here?" she whispered as she came up behind her mother, her breath visible in the cold night air. "It's fucking freezing!"

Looking shocked that she'd been spotted, the old woman turned to her daughter.

"You been sleep-walking or something?" Charlotte asked.

Slowly, her mother shook her head.

"Just thought you'd come out and freeze to death, did you?" As soon as she'd said the words, Charlotte regretted being so harsh. She usually enjoyed finding inventive ways to harangue her mother, but tonight seemed different. "It's kinda nippy, don't you think?"

"I just..."

There was an awkward silence, and the old woman seemed a little confused.

"Come inside," Charlotte continued, taking her by the arm. "I'll pour you a sherry." She waited for a reply, and for the first time in many years, she actually felt a little sorry for her mother. She knew the feeling wouldn't last, of course, but she also knew there was no point fighting it for now.

"Is she really missing?" her mother asked suddenly, resisting the attempt to lead her back inside and, instead, staring at the lights down by the river. "I thought maybe it had been a bad dream."

"Sure," Charlotte replied. "Everything's been a bad dream, ever since I was born. Go back to sleep, and when you wake up in the morning, it'll be the mid-eighties again. Whoop-de-doo."

"Sophie's missing," her mother replied. "That's right, isn't it?"

"I'm sure they'll find her soon," Charlotte replied wearily. "Come on, Mum. We need to get you back inside before you drop dead of pneumonia."

The old woman still resisted, as if the lights of the police search crews were mesmerizing her. "Or is it Charlotte?" she asked after a moment. "I don't remember. Which of them is out there?"

Charlotte paused. This wasn't the first time she'd suspected her mother of losing her marbles, and she doubted it'd be the last. Whether it was Parkinson's or Alzheimer's or just old age, something was riddling the old woman's mind.

"Mum," Charlotte added. "Please. Don't make me leave you out here. I will, you know. I'm that much of a bitch." She took a puff on her cigarette, and the warmth felt good in her chest. "Mum, please," she added, desperate to get back into the relative warmth of the darkened kitchen.

"It was like this when Charlotte went missing, you know," her mother replied, as if she hadn't heard her. "Lights, just like this. They were in the water, trying to find her. They said they thought she'd be okay, but they still looked in all the places where a dead child might be found. I could see it in their eyes, you know. Before they even walked in the door, they thought she was gone." She paused, and a look of utter confusion crossed her face. "It's Sophie, isn't it? It's Sophie who's missing now?"

Charlotte nodded.

"She's Ruth's child. Not Charlotte's. Charlotte doesn't have any children. I think she may be barren."

"Thanks a lot," Charlotte muttered.

"It's like a replay," her mother said. "It's like..." Her voice trailed off, and she seemed utterly lost in her thoughts. "Poor Charlotte. I hope they find her eventually."

"It's Sophie," Charlotte replied, a little spooked by her mother's words. "Sophie's the one who's missing.
I'm
Charlotte, remember? I'm right here, see?"

Her mother stared at her for a moment, as if her thoughts were slowly congealing.

"I'm freezing my tits off," Charlotte continued, taking another puff on her cigarette. "Can we
please
just get inside? I'll stay up and talk to you, whatever the fuck you want, but for God's sake, can we get out of the cold?"

"You go," her mother replied. "I'll be okay out here."

"Fine," Charlotte said, letting go of her mother's arm and turning back toward the door, before suddenly realizing that no matter how much she hated the old woman, and no matter how cold she was, something was preventing her from leaving her outside alone. It wasn't affection or pity, and she was damn sure it wasn't love or human compassion, but for some damn reason, she sighed and turned back to her mother. "You're lucky I'm so kind," she said after a moment. "You are so damn fucking lucky that I'm a decent fucking human being."

"It's my fault," her mother replied quietly, all the fight and confidence gone from her voice. "That poor girl. Such a horrible way to die."

"She's not dead," Charlotte replied wearily. "Please don't say things like that, especially not around Ruth. You'll do her head in, Mum."

"It's so sad, and it's all my fault."

"It's really not," Charlotte told her, before pausing for a moment. "Wait, do you mean this thing with Sophie, or the broader dysfunctional mess of the family? 'Cause if you mean the thing with Sophie, then it's really not your fault at all. The other thing? Maybe there are a few issues..." She waited for a reply, before finally realizing that she needed to do or say something to catch her mother's attention and break her out of this reverie. "I meant what I said," she continued eventually, surprising herself. "What happened to me, it wasn't your fault."

"What are you talking about?" her mother asked, turning to her with a sharp, shocked look in her eyes. "Nothing happened to you."

"You're really not okay, are you?" Charlotte asked with a heavy heart. "Jesus, you're out of it."

"I hope they find her body soon."

"For Sophie's sake -"

"Why would it help Sophie?" her mother replied, seemingly annoyed. "What good would rummaging around in anyone's head do for that poor little girl, eh? Sophie's... Sophie's a lovely child. Warm and happy and playful, not like that poor little..." Her voice trailed off, and for a moment she looked utterly horrified.

"Sophie could still be okay," Charlotte said eventually.

"This isn't about you, Charlotte," her mother said, suddenly seeming much more energized as she shuffled back past her and into the kitchen. "Everything that happened to you is in the past, Charlotte, and Sophie is very much in the present. It's Sophie who must be the focus of our attention, and there's no point going rooting around in events that were put to bed a long time ago. The past is the past, and the present is the present. Please, child, for the sake of all that's holy in the world, don't go talking nonsense."

Sighing, Charlotte followed her inside and pushed the door shut. "Sorry," she muttered, figuring that at least the old woman seemed to have drifted into a moment of lucidity. "Didn't mean to put a jolt up your ass."

"This isn't a game," her mother continued, making her way painfully slowly toward the hallway. "It's not a puzzle. It's just a coincidence, that's all. Whatever has happened to that poor, sweet little girl, it's nothing to do with what happened to you. Please, dear, don't muddy the waters." She paused, before turning back to Charlotte. "You don't understand, Charlotte. You never did, and you never will."

Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, but something made her hold back. The transformation in her mother was surprising: in just a couple of seconds, the old woman had gone from seeming sad, confused and melancholy to seeming angry and defensive, and Charlotte couldn't help but feel that she'd accidentally touched a nerve. She felt bad for thinking such a thing, but she actually preferred her mother when the dementia was in full force.

"You want a glass of sherry?" she asked, hoping to calm the waters.

No reply.

"Mum?"

Without saying anything, her mother turned and started to make her way upstairs.

"Don't offer to help," she called back. "I can manage. I'd hate for you to break a sweat and help an old lady up the stairs."

"Cool," Charlotte replied.

She stood in silence for a few minutes, listening to her mother's pained journey up to her room. Sighing, she took another puff on her cigarette and tried to decide whether or not to down the entire bottle of sherry herself. She wasn't tired, and she knew the following day was going to be exhausting and draining. Walking over to the sink, she looked out the window and watched as the now-familiar lights continued to blaze down by the river, signaling the continued work of the police as they searched for Sophie. All that comforting talk of the first twenty-four hours was now starting to seem somewhat doom-laden, and when she tried to think of reasons why Sophie would have gone away and stayed out all night, she came up with nothing comforting. Taking another puff on the cigarette, she tried to imagine the little girl out there somewhere, still alive but cold and frightened, maybe hurt, maybe in danger, maybe crying.

"Please," she whispered eventually, hoping that someone - maybe God, maybe someone else - might be able to hear her. "Please, let Sophie be alright. Bring her home. I don't care what else you take, but bring Sophie home to -"

Before she could finish, an ear-piercing alarm began to scream almost directly above her head, shattering the quiet of the night and causing Charlotte to drop her cigarette into the sink as she clamped her hands over her ears. Looking up, she saw the tell-tale flashing red light of a smoke detector in the middle of the kitchen ceiling, and seconds later she heard the sound of her sister and brother-in-law bounding from their beds and hurrying down to see what was wrong.

"Balls," Charlotte muttered bitterly.