The Missing One (15 page)

And that was it. Her instinct had been telling her that
this was wrong – every time she passed the orca tank. The birth had confirmed it. But she still hadn't worked out what to do – how she fitted into this. One thing was clear: there was no going back. Everything she had worked for had just disintegrated. Her time at Sea Park was over.

She forgot that she was meant to meet Graham that night. Instead of going across campus to his room she turned and walked back to the condo. As she walked down the long path out of campus, crickets rasped and the antiseptic smell of the eucalyptus trees coated the insides of her nostrils, but she could still hear the sound that mother orca made as her baby was hoisted out of the water above her. This must have happened to Bella – whether at Penn Cove or somewhere else in Puget Sound. She would have been through a similar bloodbath – ripped from her distraught mother and her screaming family. And her family must still be up there – however many of them had survived the captures. Somewhere out there, in the Pacific Ocean, was Bella's mother.

Back at the condo Elena found a scrawled message on the kitchen countertop. Graham had called four times. She picked up the scrap of paper and went to her room, but she didn't phone him back. He wouldn't understand. To him they were just animals; it didn't matter if they were in a sea or a tank.

She was going to have to find the orca guy and get more information – he had talked about a project going on up in the Pacific Northwest to photo-identify all the region's remaining killer whales. They were assessing how much
damage the captures had done to the orca population. They needed to find ways to protect these animals and to rebuild the decimated pods. He said estimates, so far, put the damage from sea park whale hunters at up to 30 per cent of the region's killer whale population. She shouldn't have left so fast; she should have waited and found him, because she had so many questions.

That night, the researcher's voice seemed to play through her mind long after she was asleep – not his words, but the tone of his voice – the deep echo and rumble. The sounds wove their way through her head all night, so that when she woke up with the sun streaming through the open blinds onto her bed, she was startled to find herself alone.

I drive off the ferry at Spring Tide Island in a fog so thick that I can't see three feet in front of my face, let alone read any signposts. The gangplank clanks and a ferryman's face looms, yellowed by the headlamps, then vanishes, swallowed by fog.

*

Finn and I woke up after lunch so we missed the morning ferry. The lunchtime one left forty-five minutes early; we watched it go from the port café, unaware that it was the Spring Tide boat until I'd lugged Finn and all our baggage downstairs at the right time, only to see that the sign on the departures board had changed to ‘Departed'.

Nobody could explain what was going on. The final ferry of the day left at five, but I didn't dare leave the port in case that one left early too. So Finn spent the afternoon bombing round an empty café, climbing up and down the stairs, counting seagulls through the windows, running outside into the freezing air to watch the cargo boats come
in and out and burly men load and unload crates from the mouths of enormous ships. He was thrilled. With the chips and ketchup in the café, this was, for him, the perfect day. I tried to call the B & B to tell them I'd be late, but they weren't picking up so I left an apologetic message. I only let myself check emails once – one from Doug:
Ready?
One from my father. None from Susannah. I couldn't face Doug's, so I opened my father's.

I replied right away.

I realized as I clicked ‘send' that my relationship with my father was not really much better than my relationship with my mother. It was just a different brand of noncommunication: more civilized, but no less dysfunctional. It seemed extraordinary, really, that we were having this sort of interaction over email. But even if I had his mobile number I could not imagine picking up the phone and actually speaking to him openly about his relationship with my mother. It would be like asking to see him naked. I should never have told him where I was – it was only ever going to upset him.

In the end the last ferry to Spring Tide Island pulled out
of the harbour an hour later than scheduled. It was already dark.

And now it is a bitter, foggy night – a ridiculous time to be arriving somewhere remote and unfamiliar. Fortunately the B & B is only a few streets away from the ferry port. Everything will be fine. This is far away, but it's still civilization.

I imagine warm flannel sheets, a friendly welcome – a cup of tea for me, a snack and warm milk for Finn, a hot bath for both of us, a story, sleep. He is clearly tired now from all the fresh air and running around. Surely this time he will sleep. I imagine a flowery bedroom looking out at the port where the sun will rise in the morning.

Slowly, I drive away from the ferry and up a murky main street. The fog is so thick that it feels as if I am driving underwater.

*

Finn is yelling to get out.

I can see him through the car window, furiously kicking his legs on the car seat, his mouth wide open, eyes screwed up, his howls muffled.

There is an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I batter on the front door again. There is not a single light on in the house. The Magnolia B & B – a low, pretty, clapboard house – is quite obviously shut.

I can see the blurry halo of a porch light on the house opposite, but it is impossible to see up the road to other houses. Fog swirls around the car headlights. It freezes onto my face and my breath puffs out in front of me. I have to stay calm. There will be other places to stay.

I batter on the door again. ‘Helloooo?' Then I get out my phone – maybe they're somewhere out the back and can't hear me. Maybe because I'm arriving so late, they thought I wasn't coming and they went to bed. But it's only 7.30 p.m. Finn is yelling at full throttle now; his face is contorted and purple.

The last ferry back was the one we came on.

I go over to the car with the phone at my ear, and open the door. A blast of wailing. ‘It's OK, love. Just a minute. I'm just …just a minute, sweetheart.' His face is blotchy and big tears roll down his cheeks.

‘Up! Up!' he howls, holding out his arms.

‘Just one minute, lovie, hang on just one minute, Mummy's right here, OK? I'm not leaving you.' The B & B phone rings on. I can hear it through the windows. I go and I batter at the door again. Then I hear something over the road. A man's gruff voice, ‘Hey?'

I hesitate. Do I leave Finn yelling in the car, or go and haul him out, and take him to a stranger's doorstep in the fog?

I call out across the street, ‘Hello?'

‘You need something?'

‘I'm booked into the B & B but no one seems to be in.' I squint, but all I can see is a shadow in the fog.

‘They're on vacation.'

‘No. They can't be. I have a reservation!'

‘For a fortnight.'

‘Are you sure?'

I hear his front door slam.

I swallow. I let the phone drop down to my side. Finn carries on wailing.

*

It is bitterly cold in the street, even with the parka. I get back into the car. Finn sobs and hiccups behind me. ‘Up,' he sobs. ‘Up, up, up, up, up.' I could go and knock on the man's door. But he could be anybody.

My heart is galloping now. I feel queasy. Finn's sobbing, at least, has subsided now that I'm back in the car.

There will be other B & Bs. Surely. But my phone battery is almost drained. If I go into Google, it's going to die.

‘OK, love.' I turn and smile through the gloom at my tearful boy. ‘Everything's OK. I'll get you up in a minute. In a minute, love. OK?'

He is shattered. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. He has had no nap today at all. It's a miracle he hasn't exploded before now, after the excitement of the port and the ferry ride. I dig in my bag and find a juice box crushed at the bottom. ‘How about some juice?'

I fumble around, putting in the straw, then give him the carton. He stops crying, and squeezes it so apple juice spurts out of the straw across his red suit and the grey upholstery of the hire car. He starts to cry again. I steel myself – I can't get him out here, in the middle of this freezing street. I start the engine.

Susannah's house is about five miles west along the coast. Maybe I should try to find her now. The route would probably be quite straightforward without this fog. But there can't be more than one Isabella Point on the island. I have
a number from the gallery website. My phone will probably hold out for a short call.

The gallery phone rings and an answerphone clicks in. I hang up. Of course, she wouldn't be there at this time of night. The truth is, I never fully expected to meet Susannah Gillespie. She could be anywhere in the world right now.

I want to call Doug.

But no. I definitely can't call Doug. Doug is the very last person I can call right now.

I could call Alice, but clearly that would only worry her. I have to stop wanting to call people. I have to think for myself and sort this out. There will be a pub somewhere. Or a restaurant. I'll find that, then someone can tell me where the nearest B & Bs are. If all else fails I can always go to the police – though I can't imagine how I'd explain to a police officer how I came to be here with a toddler and nowhere to stay. They could probably arrest me for criminal incompetence.

I decide to drive through town. If all else fails, I'll circle this godforsaken island all night until it's light, and we can get the ferry back to the mainland. I glance at the petrol gauge. Half full. I have no idea how much petrol a person would use up if they drove all night.

I start the car and pull out, slowly, through the fog and back to the main street.

I crawl along, squinting through the windscreen. There are a few shops – a bakery, a drugstore, a health food store, a clothes shop, then The Fisherman's Catch – a bar – but no lights. No signs of life. The bar is shuttered up, presumably
only open in season. This is a ghost town.

Then I see the sign through the fog: Susannah Gillespie Gallery. I'm right outside it. The windows are dark. But for a moment I feel a thrill. It is real. She is real. I did not make this whole thing up.

I've looked at the map enough to know that I just have to follow the coast road west to get to Isabella Point, so I keep driving.

‘Up?' Finn says. But it's half-hearted and I can hear the sleep in his voice now.

‘In a little bit, love, soon. We just need to find … ' I hear myself waver, then clear my throat. ‘We'll be there soon, and then we can get you out, OK?'

Clearly I need to tell someone where I am. It is insane to head off into the wilderness without telling someone. I stop the car and pull out my phone, praying that the battery will last. Then I dial Alice. It goes straight to voicemail: ‘This is Alice MacKenzie … ' Of course, she is asleep. I need to text.

My phone beeps, and dies.

*

I pull out again, slowly. We're at the top of the tiny main street, and the street lamps just stop. The world shrinks to the patch of road directly in front of the car.

If I'm lucky, I'll find a B & B at any moment. If not, maybe I'll get to Isabella Point and Susannah will be there. I have a vision of myself, and Finn, knocking on doors, asking people to take us in. Doug would rightly be livid if he knew what I was doing right now.

‘Mama up?'

‘It's OK, love. Everything's just fine.' My voice has the artificial smoothness of the true lunatic. ‘Not far, now.'

*

I crawl along with my eyes on the kerb, the low beam bouncing back at me. There are no other cars, because clearly no locals are unhinged enough to drive in this soup at night. There are no houses – my headlamps show tall pine trees on both sides of the road. It is like being in a submarine, creeping through grey water.

Somehow, I am going to have to find the turning to Isabella Point. I pull over again and the fog edges eerily around the car. I try to picture Google maps. It really wasn't far. Maybe three miles? I make myself breathe. I have to stay calm.

Slowly, I pull out again.