I pick up my pace, and I’m almost running by the time I reach the entrance to the recreation ground. I don’t know if it’s exertion or fear, but my heart is racing, and I pause for a moment to take a few deep breaths. The sports pavilion on the left is just a black mass, no lights on, and the pitches in front of it appear empty too. But I can see people in the playground in the far right-hand corner, eerie silhouettes against the dim glow of streetlamps from Station Road. From this distance it’s impossible to tell if one of them is Lucy, so I up my pace again and jog across the field.
But when I push open the gate to the playground, I realise, with crushing disappointment, that she’s not there. There are about eight people in total, all teenagers, a mix of boys and girls, but none that I recognise. They stare at me with a mix of surprise and horror.
‘Sorry,’ I say instinctively, as though I need to apologise for trespassing on their domain. ‘I’m looking for my daughter.’
The crack in my voice gives me away instantly. Desperation. And with it, any authority my adulthood might have evoked disintegrates. Most of them back away, uncomfortable with the drama I’m bringing to their evening. But three girls don’t move, curious expressions settling on their faces. The one who’s sitting on the swing sucks on a vape, then blows out a huge cloud of fake smoke. A sickly sweet smell permeates the air.
‘Who is she?’ she finally asks. Even in those three words I can tell that she’s drunk. I dip my eyeline and notice the empty wine bottles and crushed cider cans on the asphalt. Not that I’m going to judge them. I’ve held Milla’s hair back too many times for that.
‘She’s called Lucy Rose,’ I say. ‘You might know her, she’s in Year 10 at Lord Fred’s.’
The girl squints for a moment, in thought, then relaxes her features. ‘Oh yeah, Lucy Rose,’ she slurs. ‘Milla’s little sister.’
‘You’ve seen her? Tonight? Do you know where she is now?’ I shoot out the questions like bullets.
‘Huh? Nah, I just mean that I know who she is. Never spoken to her. We’re older,’ she adds, as though that explains it. The regimental nature of school. Friendships across age groups firmly banned.
‘And she hasn’t been here tonight?’ I press. ‘You’re sure?’
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.
