The Missing (23 page)

I folded my arms. He might have reached his breaking point at long last. I was happy for him to feel he’d had the last word as long as it was the last word I had to hear on the subject.

‘I suppose you think I’ve behaved like a twat. Well, that’s fine. I’m not surprised.’ Geoff paced up and down for a few seconds. ‘I knew you were upset about that girl’s death, and I thought I could help you get through this, Sarah. If you’d just let me help–’

‘I don’t need your help, Geoff,’ I said quietly.

He pointed at me through the gap in the door. ‘No, you don’t
know
that you need it, but I do. I’m not going to abandon you to get through this on your own, even if you want me to.’

I sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and put my head in my hands. ‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’

‘Because I care about you, Sarah.’

He didn’t care about me. He cared about crossing me off his little list. He was competitive and he couldn’t stand to fail, and that was all there was to it. I couldn’t bear to look at him.

He patted the door. ‘You couldn’t open this, could you? I’d rather talk to you properly.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m really tired, Geoff. Maybe you should go home.’

‘Oh come on, let me in. What do I have to say to persuade you?’

‘It’s not that,’ I said, wishing that he would just leave. ‘I just need some time to myself. You’ve – er – given me a lot to think about.’

He nodded. ‘OK. OK, that’s fair.’

‘So you’re going to go home?’

‘Yeah. In a while.’

‘In a while?’

He waved behind him. ‘I’m just going to hang around here for a bit. Make sure everything is secure. I feel like you need someone to keep an eye on you. I’m glad you’ve got a good solid chain on this door. There are a lot of weird characters about. You’re very vulnerable, Sarah, do you realise that? Living here on your own with your mum?’

I frowned, trying to read his change of mood, wondering if Geoff was trying to frighten me. Even if I didn’t show it, I was scared. He was excited by the argument, not put off. I didn’t like it and I didn’t trust him and once again I had a strong feeling that it could have been him in the driveway two nights earlier. I forced a short laugh. ‘I don’t feel vulnerable. What I feel is tired. I’m going to go to bed, Geoff. Please don’t stay out here for long.’

‘Just for a while. I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe.’

‘OK,’ I said, inwardly cursing.

He stepped off the porch and waved at me cheerfully, back to being Mr Nice Guy, before heading back down the path. I shut the door then locked every lock and shot every bolt. He was sitting on the wall at the end of the
garden
, lighting a cigarette, when I peered out. He looked as if he owned the place.

A noise from behind me made me jump, and I turned to find Mum standing in the living-room doorway.

‘Who was that?’

‘No one.’

‘You talked to him for long enough.’ She took a slug from her glass. Her eyes were glittering dangerously. ‘Why didn’t you ask him in? Are you ashamed of me? Were you afraid your friend would judge you because of me?’

‘He’s not a friend, Mum,’ I said, feeling desperately tired. ‘I didn’t want him in the house. It had nothing to do with you.’ An idea occurred to me, an idea that sharpened into fear. ‘Don’t talk to him, if you see him. Don’t answer the door, OK?’

‘I’ll answer the door in my own house if I like,’ Mum said tightly. ‘You don’t tell me what to do.’

‘Fine.’ I held my hands up. ‘Let him in if you like. Who cares?’

Seeing the chance of a fight slip away, she lost interest and turned to go upstairs. I watched her slow, staggery progress and felt like crying. I didn’t know what to do about Geoff, and there was no one I could talk to. I couldn’t tell if I’d overreacted or not. All I had were suspicions. All the evidence was that he liked me, nothing more. The fact that he made my skin crawl would mean nothing to the police.

Well, there was one policeman who might care. If I dared, I could ask Blake to get rid of him. He hadn’t liked Geoff when he met him at the church. The two men had
circled
one another like stiff-legged dogs sizing up their prospects in a fight, and I would have put my money on Blake to win every time.

I wandered into the living room and sat down on the sofa, stifling a yawn. I would decide what to do after a good night’s sleep. Geoff was safely outside the house, and we were safely inside it. And in the morning, everything would probably be a lot clearer.

‘You’re walking on a beautiful beach and the sun is high in the sky,’ says the voice behind me, the syllables long and sing-song.

Waaaaaalking. Beee-yooootiful. I am bored. I have to be very quiet and very still and not open my eyes and I have to listen to the lady, who is still talking about the beach.

‘And the sand is pure white fine sand, lovely and warm on your bare feet.’

I think about the last time I was on a beach. I want to tell the lady, Olivia, about it. It was in Cornwall. Charlie made me stand near the sea and dug a moat around me. It was deep and wide, and when the channel he had made reached the surf, the water rushed in and filled it, rising higher with every wave. I wasn’t frightened until the island of sand started to wash away from beneath me. Dad had to rescue me. He rolled up his trousers and waded into the water to pick me up and carry me to where
Mummy
was waiting. He called Charlie a dangerous idiot.

‘Idiot,’ I say now, very quietly, not even as loud as a whisper.

Olivia’s voice is even slower now. She is listening to herself, concentrating. She doesn’t hear me.

‘So now I’m going to take you back, Sarah.’ I suddenly want to fidget, or laugh, or stamp my feet. ‘You’re absolutely safe here, Sarah.’

I know I’m safe. I open my eyes a tiny bit and peek at the room. The curtains are drawn, even though it’s the middle of the day. The walls are pink. There are books on shelves behind a desk that’s covered in papers. It’s not very interesting. I close my eyes again.

‘So let’s go back to the day your brother disappeared,’ Olivia coos. ‘It’s a summer’s day. What do you see?’

I know I’m supposed to be remembering Charlie. ‘My brother,’ I suggest.

‘Good, Sarah. And what is he doing?’

‘He’s playing a game.’

‘What sort of game?’

I have told everyone about Charlie playing tennis. She expects me to say tennis. ‘Tennis,’ I say.

‘Is he on his own?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Who else is there, Sarah?’

‘Me.’

‘And what are you doing?’

‘Lying on the grass,’ I say confidently.

‘And what happens then?’

‘I go to sleep.’

There’s a little pause. ‘OK, Sarah, you’re doing really well. What I want you to do is think back to before you fell asleep. What’s happening?’

‘Charlie is playing tennis.’ I am starting to get irritated. It’s hot in the room. The chair I’m sitting on has a shiny plastic seat and my legs are sticking to it.

‘And what else happens?’

I don’t know what she wants me to say.

‘Does someone come, Sarah? Does someone speak to Charlie?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ I say eventually.

‘Think, Sarah!’ I can hear excitement in Olivia’s voice. She’s forgetting to be calm.

I have thought. I remember what I remember. There isn’t anything else.

‘I’m hungry,’ I say. ‘Can I go?’

From behind me, there is a sigh and the sound of a notebook snapping shut. ‘You weren’t under at all, were you?’ she says, getting up and walking around to face at me. Her face is pink and her lips look dry.

I shrug.

She runs her hands through her hair and sighs again.

In the hallway, Mum and Dad jump up when we come out.

‘How was it?’ Dad asks, but he’s talking to Olivia. She has her hand on the back of my neck.

‘Fine. I really think we’re making progress,’ Olivia says, and I look up at her, surprised. She smiles at my parents. ‘Bring her back next week and we’ll try another session.’

I can tell they are disappointed. Mum turns away and Dad starts patting his pockets. ‘I should pay …’ he starts.

‘Don’t worry,’ Olivia says quickly, ‘you can settle up after the final session.’

He nods and tries to smile at her. ‘Come on, Sarah,’ he says then, and holds out his hand. Olivia gives me a little shake before she lets go of my neck. It feels like a warning. Released, I run to Dad’s side. Mum is halfway down the corridor already.

On the way home in the car, rain running down the windows and tapping on the roof, I tell my parents I don’t want to go back.

‘I’m not listening to this,’ Mum says. ‘You’re going back, whether you like it or not.’

‘But–’

‘If she doesn’t want to go back, Laura …’

‘Why do you always take her side?’ Mum’s voice is high-pitched, angry. ‘You spoil her. You don’t care about how much this means to me. You don’t even care about your son.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dad says.

‘It’s not ridiculous to want to try everything we can to find him.’ She points her thumb into the back of the car, in my direction. ‘She is the only link we have with what happened to Charlie. And she can’t – or won’t – tell us what happened. This is to help her, too.’

It isn’t. I know that very well.

‘It’s been months,’ Dad is saying. ‘If she’d seen or heard anything useful, we would know by now. You’ve got to give up on this, Laura. You’ve got to let us get on with living.’

‘How the hell are we supposed to do that?’ Mum’s voice breaks; she is shaking. She leans around her seat to look at me. ‘Sarah, I don’t want to hear another word of complaint from you. You will go back and you will talk to Olivia and tell her what happened – tell her what you saw – because if you don’t … if you don’t …’

The window beside me has steamed up. I use my sleeve to wipe a patch clear so that I can look out at the world sliding by. I watch the cars and the people and I try not to listen to my mother crying. It’s the saddest sound in the world.

MORNING CAME A
lot earlier than I had been expecting. Light pulsed through the curtains and it took a second for me to realise it was a brighter light than the cool blue of dawn – not that dawn was on a regular twice-a-second cycle anyway.

I sat up, leaning on one elbow, and like a shaken kaleidoscope, the diffuse noise outside suddenly resolved into distinguishable elements. In the trees near my window, birds were uttering sharp, staccato alarm calls and peevish chirps at being disturbed. As if in answer, radios crackled and bleeped, and low voices murmured, edged with urgency. Engines were running – more than one car. Even as I listened, another came into the cul-de-sac, high on revs before the brakes bit down and the engine cut out.
Someone in a hurry
, I thought, sitting up properly and pushing my hair back off my face. Then footsteps, even-paced and purposeful, too close to the house for comfort. Kicked gravel skittered along the road and I shivered, suddenly reluctant to find out what was happening. The urge to turn over and draw the duvet over my head was almost irresistible.

I couldn’t do it. I was out of bed the next second; two steps took me to the window and I tweaked the curtain to one side to peek out. It was still night, or nearing the
end
of it. Two police cars were parked on the other side of the road, lights flashing in the syncopated rhythm that had disturbed my sleep. Directly in front of the house was an ambulance. The back doors were open and I could see movement through the semi-opaque windows set along the sides. A small group of policemen stood around at the back of the ambulance, and with a start I recognised one of them as Blake. It was his car I had heard driving into the cul-de-sac; he had abandoned it at an angle to the kerb a few yards down the street and left the door hanging open in his hurry to get out. Vickers was sitting in the passenger seat, eyes hooded against the overhead light. The trenches in his face were darker and deeper, I thought, but whether the change in his appearance was caused by a trick of the light or the early hour or gnawing worry I couldn’t tell. Maybe all three.

I let go of the curtain and leaned against the wall. I couldn’t make sense of what I had just seen. I couldn’t quite believe it, either – if I had pulled back the curtain again and found that the street was completely deserted, I almost wouldn’t have been surprised. There was something surreal about finding all of these people on my doorstep – quite literally, I discovered, looking out again and down at the head of a man who was walking out towards the road from our porch. What had he been doing? What was going on? Why were the police there in such force?

The electric milk float from the local dairy was parked up at the end of the road. And there indeed was the milkman, all muffled up against the night air,
wearing
a high-visibility jacket and talking earnestly to one of the policemen. The uniformed officer was listening patiently, nodding but not taking notes, and had turned his radio towards his mouth as if he was just waiting for the chance to speak. I hoped the milkman wasn’t in trouble. He was a nice man who operated in the small hours, between the return of the last night owls and the first early risers, pattering silently through his shadowy world. I couldn’t think what he could have done that would arouse the interest of so many police. And there was the ambulance, too.

The window in front of me was fogging up; impatiently, I moved to the other side, and that movement was enough to attract Vickers’ attention. He had got out of the car and was leaning on the open door, talking to Blake. As I moved, his eyes met mine. Without appearing to react, he carried on speaking, but didn’t look away. Blake flicked a look up at me over his shoulder, so quickly and casually that it felt like an insult, then turned back, nodding. I could tell I wasn’t going to be left to watch the scene undisturbed. With an effort, I wrenched myself away from Vickers’ pale blue scrutiny and headed to my wardrobe for clothes. I wanted to get downstairs before anyone rang the doorbell and woke Mum up – they had enough problems without her having hysterics about all the police in front of the house.