The girl shrugs, sucks again on her vape. ‘There was a Year 10 girl here when we first arrived,’ she says, as though just remembering.
‘That wasn’t her daughter,’ one of the other girls says. A hiccup escapes from her throat and she stifles a giggle. ‘Sorry. That was the druggie girl. And I think she’s in Year Nine.’
‘Shit, really?’ the girl on the swing murmurs. ‘The foster kid? She looks older.’
She must be talking about Amber. Panic scratches at my skin. Has Lucy seen her? Have they done something to her? ‘What time was this?’ I push.
‘We got here about eight fifteen, didn’t we?’ Swing girl looks to the others, and they nod in response. Another hiccup slips out. ‘And she left maybe fifteen minutes after that.’
So 8.30 p.m. Lucy was with Matt then. I feel a wave of relief.
The girl’s eyes are glazed, unfocused. I should tell them to go home. They think they’re grown up, these kids. Because they’re 16 or 17, old enough to have sex, to fight for their country or whatever. But they’re just babies really. Vulnerable.
But I have other priorities tonight.
I mumble my thanks and turn back towards the gate. The easiest way out of the recreation ground from here is via Station Road, but it’s been fifteen minutes since I left home, and I need to go back. Check if Lucy’s there. The more I imagine it – Lucy letting herself in, calling our names, wondering where we are – the more it feels real, so when I push open our front door and the house is empty, I feel her loss all over again.
I have no idea where to try next. I think about messaging Matt and Milla, but what would be the point? If either of them find her, they’ll let me know. So I look at the contacts in my phone instead. I’ve collected various parents’ phone numbers over the years, but none of their children feature in Lucy’s life anymore. There’s always the chance she’s rekindled old friendships without me knowing, but it’s nearly half eleven. Is it really worth waking these people up when I know deep down that they won’t have a clue where Lucy is?
I can’t wait here though. I scribble a quick note – Lucy, we’re out looking for you. CALL ME – then lock up again and head back onto the high street. It’s been getting warmer – spring finally arriving – but it rained when I was in the restaurant and it’s cold now. As I zip my parka up to my chin, I pray that Lucy took a coat, and scold myself for not checking that at home.
Just to go somewhere different, I head up the road instead of down, towards the parade of shops. As I round the corner, I can see The Crown in the distance. Muffled noises spill out as people make their way home from the pub. I don’t think Lucy is in there – she doesn’t look 18 for a start, plus the owners Steve and Jade know exactly how old she is – but maybe someone has seen her?
I start walking towards it but pause halfway there, outside St Andrew’s Church. I look at the sign. All welcome. We rarely go to church, but both girls were christened here. And it’s a place associated with salvation. I push open the gate and take a few tentative steps down the path. The church entrance is around the back, which means walking through the graveyard. There are no lights, and as I walk further away from the road, it feels eerie, the gravestones casting sinister shadows either side of me. I turn my phone torch on and direct it towards the path. It has the dual effect of lighting up my route and plunging the wider landscape into darkness. It’s frightening, but I shake the feeling away and keep walking.
The church has a deep porch with an ornate iron gate, flagstone tiles on the floor and hard stone benches running along each side.
And in the corner, perched on a bench, is Lucy.
No coat, but a thick, oversized jumper at least. And she’s safe.
I burst into tears. She whips her head around at the noise.
‘Mum?’ she calls out, her voice shaky. ‘Is that you?’
‘Oh Lucy,’ I exhale. ‘Thank God I’ve found you.’ I drop down next to her and reach out, but she shuffles away, beyond my grasp. I want her to cry too, to fold into my open arms with relief. But she seems almost scared of me. Like an animal caught in a trap. My eyes pull away in disappointment, and it’s only then I notice the blood on her hands and the cuffs of her jumper. ‘You’re hurt,’ I say. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she says, pulling her arms away and curling them into her lap. I hesitate, not sure whether to ask again or let it go for now – the important thing is that I’ve found her – when the light from my phone catches the glass bottle next to her. It’s a bottle of Smirnoff vodka, empty. The red screwcap is missing, and the neck is broken, shards of glass still hanging from it.
‘Did you cut them on this?’ I demand. Then my voice rises with alarm. ‘Did you drink from the bottle after it smashed?’
She lifts her hands reluctantly, and then inspects them as though it’s only just occurred to her that she might have injured them that way. ‘I didn’t drink any,’ she says softly. Even at low volume, each word is enunciated perfectly, and I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘I dropped it on the pavement,’ she goes on. ‘But I didn’t want to leave it there. Sorry for stealing it,’ she adds dully. She must have taken it from our drinks cabinet.
I lean against the cold stone of the church, and despite everything, a smile of relief forms on my face. Lucy is upset enough to steal alcohol late at the night, then hide in a dark churchyard all by herself. But she’s also sensible enough not to drink from a broken bottle. She hasn’t been lured outside by those bullies, or injured by them, physically or mentally.
Things aren’t good, but they could have been so much worse.
I pull out my phone and tap into WhatsApp.
I’ve got her.
THE NIGHT SHE DIES
Friday 3rd May
Rachel
I warm milk on the hob. I could use the microwave, but it feels more wholesome this way, the method my mum used when I was little. I watch for the tell-tale bubbling at the edge of the pan, then pour it into two mugs – my hands still shaking even though the danger has gone – and stir until the hot chocolate powder turns the milk a purply brown.
I hear Lucy pad down the stairs, and a moment later, she appears in the kitchen doorway dressed in her pyjamas, the blood gone, and her hands now littered with plasters. On the walk back from the churchyard, I’d offered to clean and dress her wounds myself, like I did when she was small, but she turned down my offer, and disappeared upstairs as soon as we got home. The bloodstained jumper hasn’t made it downstairs. I consider asking if she’s put it in to soak or left it on her bedroom floor, then decide it doesn’t matter. Unlike Milla, Lucy has inherited her father’s neatness genes, so I’m not going to start hassling her now.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers, reaching for the mug. Her arms are shaking too, I notice, but that could be down to the cold temperature as much as the after-effects of adrenalin. She walks over to our kitchen table, a solid structure made from reclaimed pine that carries the scars of seventeen years of family meals, and drops onto the bench that runs along one side. I sink into the chair opposite her and nurse my own drink. Silence reigns for a while as I try to figure out what to say. There are a dozen questions circulating my head, but I can’t work out which one to ask first. Or whether I should be asking anything at all. Maybe getting her home in one piece is enough.
‘I’m sorry to run out like that,’ she says eventually.
I sigh. ‘We’re not cross with you. We know what a difficult day it’s been for you. But you did scare us. Dad said you’d gone to bed, so it was a shock, seeing your room empty.’
She takes a sip of her drink, then drops her chin into cupped hands, and raises her eyes to mine. ‘Where is Dad anyway?’ she asks.
I look at my watch and feel my forehead crinkle. Because it is strange that Matt isn’t home yet. It’s been nearly half an hour since I messaged the family WhatsApp group, and neither Matt nor Milla has shown up yet. Milla is on foot, so she might take a while longer, but surely Matt should be home by now? A lurch of fear makes my chest tighten for a moment, but I breathe it out. Nothing has happened to him – this instinct is just a hangover from the terror I’ve already felt tonight.
I pick up my phone, but I don’t even get chance to click on his name before I hear the low rumble of a car arriving in the drive. A moment later, the side door swings open and Matt walks into the kitchen.
‘Lucy,’ he breathes. ‘Where the—’ The words catch in his throat and he stops abruptly. ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘But please don’t do that again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says meekly. ‘I won’t, I promise.’
‘Do you want a hot chocolate?’ I ask, gesturing towards my mug.
‘No, I’m fine.’ He scratches his neck, looks at Lucy, then back at me. He seems anxious, as though, even with her sitting in front of him, he can’t believe she’s safe. ‘Actually, maybe I will,’ he continues, nodding his head. ‘I’m feeling pretty wired to be honest; it might help me sleep.’
‘I suppose it’s morning in Thailand,’ I say. ‘Your body clock must be all over the place. Sit down and I’ll make it for you.’
‘Thanks, yes.’ He keeps nodding but doesn’t move towards the table. ‘You know, I’ll just use the toilet,’ he spurts out. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ He disappears out of the kitchen, and as I grab the milk from the fridge, I hear him walking upstairs. We have a toilet off the kitchen, and I wonder why he doesn’t use that.
I check my watch again. Maybe I should warm enough milk for Milla; she’ll be back any moment and is bound to be freezing cold. I can’t actually remember what she was wearing when we headed out – I was too panicked to notice details like that – but I doubt it’s anything sensible. As I wait for the milk to bubble for the second time, I become aware of a new sound against the window and realise that it’s started to rain again.
‘Come on, Milla,’ I mumble to myself, tapping my foot against the flagstone flooring. Milla comes across so capable that I don’t worry much about her being out late anymore. She’s an adult after all, and our village is hardly crime central. But after everything that’s happened tonight, I want all of my family under one roof.
Lucy yawns behind me and I turn to face her. ‘Do you mind if I go to bed?’ she asks. ‘I’m so tired.’
I fight the urge to remind her that we’re all tired, and if she’d gone to bed when she claimed tiredness the first time, we’d all be fast asleep by now. Including Milla. ‘Of course you can,’ I say instead. ‘And try to have a lie-in tomorrow.’ I know I’ll be up – I’m already looking forward to my early morning trail run after the stresses of tonight – but Lucy needs the rest. She shrugs, gives me a half-nod, and pushes away from the table.
I feel a sense of loss when she’s gone – not for her leaving, but for the goodnight hug that never comes anymore – but then the milk starts to froth dangerously high, and my focus returns to the task at hand. Matt walks back into the room just as I drop the pan into the sink. He’s changed too, I notice. Fleece pyjama bottoms and his favourite Rapha hoodie.
‘Thanks,’ he says, taking the mug from my hand. Matt hates being out of control of things, and he must be exhausted after his long day, but he’s been a rock tonight, and I feel a swell of love for him. Our marriage has been through some difficult patches – when the allegation of assault was made against him, and also around the time Milla was born – but our commitment to each other has never broken. I can see him eyeing the pan in the sink and I instinctively turn around to wash it up. ‘Is Milla here?’ he asks my back.
‘Not yet. But she can’t be long. It’s been ages since I messaged you both.’
