‘How do you know?’
I heard her sigh, knew that I was clutching at straws but ploughed ahead anyway, not wanting to be alone in this. I needed to hear that somebody else was going through the same thing, suffering the way I was. Desperate to find out the truth. Desperate to bring it all to an end. I used to think of the word closure as a twee description of such scenarios but now understand the need for it, how important it is to remaining family members. I crave it like a junkie needing their next fix.
‘Look,’ she said, her voice conveying her weariness, her willingness to bring the conversation to an end. ‘I did some poking around in that case and although I can’t say too much, I can assure you it isn’t connected in any way.’
‘How do you know that?’ My voice was rising, my tolerance diminishing.
‘Have you heard of county lines, Mrs Cooper?’
I told her what I knew in the briefest of details – my knowledge of it sketchy.
‘The missing boy from last year was found. He had been groomed by local drug dealers. Nothing to do with your brother’s case, I’m afraid. I’m really sorry.’
My stomach had dropped. Once again, I was alone. Nobody to turn to. Nobody else out there, waking in the night, pining after their loved one. Nobody else in the same position as me.
I was left despondent, knowing that unless I discovered something new, then things would grind to a halt. And God knows I have tried to find something new to go on, something that was missed out during the initial enquiry, and have got nowhere. I have read every blog, every news site, every crime site I can lay my hands on. I have tried relentlessly to wrack my brain, trying to work out what happened the evening that Simon disappeared, to scrutinise and examine in fine detail the days and nights leading up to it, to the point where I am utterly exhausted by the whole thing. And every time, without fail, I have come up with nothing. There is something there, lurking in the gloom of my mind, set back in the darkest recesses, but it refuses to show itself. Instead, it hides away, taunting me, dipping in and out of my consciousness, pushing me to the brink of madness with its elusiveness.
And now I have Gavin and Gemma’s impending arrival to focus on. Something to throw myself into. I don’t want to lose sight of Simon, however. I mustn’t. It wouldn’t be fair. I lost sight of him for most of my adult life, I’m not about to do that again but I need to think about my son, be there for him, not be half a mother, half a person, the other half of me locked into another world. A world where only Simon exists.
I am putting the final touches to the spare room, making it as welcoming as I can when I hear it – a rapping at the front door. Not the gentle tap of somebody announcing their arrival but the sort of hammering that is likely to make a person think something terrible is about to occur.
Fired by a need to stop the noise, I tear downstairs, my feet twisting beneath me, and pull at the door so hard, it swings open, hitting the wall. I let out a long breath and force a smile, suppressing an eyeroll.
Janine Francis is standing there, a broad grin on her face, her chest heaving, the sinews in her neck taut as she juts out her jaw in an effort to get a good look inside the cottage. ‘Takes me right back to the old days, this does,’ she says, her attempts to disguise her curiosity practically non-existent. ‘I was just passing and thought I’d call round, see how you’re settling in and everythin’. Was thinking about you after I saw you in the shop and thought to meself, why not call and see her, have a good old chat? You know, a proper catch-up.’
I squint at her bleached hair, a halo of yellow against the backdrop of the sunlight behind her. Wiry, blonde strands dance about in the breeze, like small, broken pieces of cotton that have snapped under the strain of too much hair dye. Etiquette determines I should step aside to let her in. Common sense tells me to block the doorway, stop her from entering. The thought of being forced to entertain Janine for the remainder of the day fills me with dread.
‘Oh, you know,’ I say idly, trying to inject a modicum of humour into my voice, not enough to give her the impression we have a bond and are becoming friends, but enough to put us both at ease, to dispel the tension that for my part, is definitely present, ‘I’m muddling through. Who needs a man around the house when you can paint walls and stain fences with ten-year-old brushes?’
‘You’ve been decorating? Which room?’
And before I can stop her, Janine has slid past me and is heading into the living room, her eyes scanning every corner, every surface, her head almost swivelling as she takes it all in. ‘My word, how many years has it been since I’ve been in ’ere, eh?’ She drops onto the sofa as if she has lived here all her life, like a prodigal family member returning to the fold.
A wishful image drops into my head – me pushing Janine towards the door as she begs to be allowed to stay, my palm pressed into the small of her back as I ignore her protests, before I force her out onto the street and slam the door in her face.
‘Oh, well, I’m doing my best to decorate and modernise it while not ripping the heart and soul out of the old place. I like to think I’ve managed to get it just right, balancing the old against the new with a modern, eclectic twist.’ I stop short of asking whether she endorses my efforts. It is none of her business and I have no need for her seal of approval. This is my home. She visited a couple of times when she was a teenager. That’s where her connection with this house ends. ‘So,’ I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. Not too much enthusiasm but just enough ice to let her know that I am busy. That I don’t want her here. I’m being unkind, I know that, but something about this woman makes my skin crawl, her over-familiar manner rankling with me. We’re not friends and never will be despite what she thinks or hopes. ‘I can’t spend too long chatting. Lots of things to be getting on with.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me. White with two sugars if that’s all right, that’s all I ask, and I’ll be more than happy to just sit here and reminisce. You get back to whatever you were doing. Please,’ she says, her voice a loud rasp, ‘don’t let me stop you.’
A void fills my head where my common sense and linguistic abilities should be. I want to tell her to leave but the words won’t come. I cannot seem to formulate the sentences required to ask this woman to leave my property. My home and sanctuary.
I don’t attempt to make her the coffee she asks for but stand instead, hands curled into fists. A pulse thumps in my head, a dull, thudding sensation that beats away in my temple, solid and rhythmic. I want her to leave so badly, it is like a physical pain running through me, an ache lodged deep in the marrow of my bones. I have no idea why I feel this way. It’s rare for me to take an instant dislike to somebody but this woman has needled me with her forthright manner and lack of decorum. I don’t think I can stand her sitting here in my home, surveying it with her untrained, arrogant eye.
‘Sorry to sound brusque, Janine, but like I said, I’m really, really busy and I need to get on so if you wouldn’t mind…’ I hold out my hand, my palm angled towards the door.
Our eyes lock, an understanding taking hold in her dull, bovine brain. The sparkle in her expression darkens, her eyes clouding over as she leans back and observes me with the sort of scrutiny usually reserved for bacteria under a microscope. I refuse to back down to this woman, to be belittled in my own living room by somebody who thinks they know me when they most definitely do not. Janine is a stranger to me, an invader in my personal space and right now, I want her to leave, to take her probing gaze and flabby arms and mottled skin and just go.
Relief blooms in my chest as she stands. I have neither the energy nor the inclination for any sort of confrontation.
‘Right, well I s’pose I’d better be off then, eh? Not exactly the warm welcome I’d hoped for, but then I expect you won’t want anybody traipsing through here, what with what happened to most of your family members. This place always did give me the creeps.’
A sudden pulse of blood explodes in my head. Star burst behind my eyes. My breathing is ragged, uneven. I want to run at her, push her out of my house. I want this dreadful woman to disappear into the crowds at the market and hopefully never see her again.
‘Get out.’ My voice is sharp. Clear. I surprise myself at how calm and authoritative I sound. No preamble or anxiety eroding the anger behind my words. Just a firm instruction for her to leave.
Janine’s body language tells me everything I need to know. She stands, hands on hips, a furrow gouged between her eyes, flecks of spittle bouncing out of her mouth, erupting in the air around us as she replies. ‘Well, aren’t you the bloody charmer, eh? I call here tryin’ to be all friendly like and this is what I get for my efforts. You and Kim are just the same – a pair of stuck-up bitches who think they’re better than everybody else.’ She takes a step towards me, her cheeks reddening, eyes bulging. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothin’. You and your sister ain’t got nothing to be stuck up about, what with all your family secrets.’ She hooks her fingers in the air to accentuate the last two words. ‘And I’m not talking about your dead dad or brother. Ask your sister about her mystery illness.’ She points her finger at me and laughs, her mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. ‘Go on, I dare you. Ask her about it and then watch all those family skeletons come tumbling out.’
I don’t have time to reply. Janine Francis pulls up the hood on her sweatshirt, stalks out of the living room, heads down the hallway and out of the front door, slamming it hard behind her.
21
Three times I pick up my phone with the intention of calling Kim and three times I put it back down again. Janine Francis is nothing but a lying, manipulative horror of a woman who derives pleasure from seeing others suffer. She is an irritant and a local gossip. Nothing more, nothing less.
And yet, I am driven by a need to know. Perhaps this is the indefinable memory that lurks in my subconscious, the one that could unlock our family mystery. I also know that her words were designed to wound, to drive in that knife and twist it hard. I was rude to her. She responded aggressively and to her mind, appropriately. I wonder if I was too hard on her, too quick to eject her from the cottage. And then I remember her refusal to take my cues, her determined stance when I informed her of how busy I was. No, I did the right thing and need to stop doubting myself. Janine Francis is not the injured party here. She came seeking information with the sole intention of spreading lies afterwards, smearing my good name and I will have none of it.
I grab at the phone again, tap in Kim’s number and wait.
‘Hi, everything okay?’ She sounds relaxed and happy: free as a bird.
I wonder how she spends her days, what she does with herself as she rattles around in their large home. She no job to go to, no housework to be getting on with, no garden to tend. They have a team of cleaners and handymen helping out. I sigh and stop myself from thinking such thoughts. I am comfortably well off. My writing brings in an extra source of income that I can set to one side. I certainly don’t need it to live off as many do. I’m fortunate in that respect. So why does Kim’s light-hearted demeanour annoy me so much? For so long now I have willed her to be a happier person, to be upbeat and content with her lot in life. I should be glad she sounds chirpy, lighter than her normal self. And yet I’m not.
It occurs to me that it is possibly because Janine was Kim’s friend. She is the one who is responsible for that dreadful woman’s intrusion into my personal space. Had it not been for that connection, I wouldn’t be making this call.
I sit down, aware that I am being unfair and judgemental. What just took place isn’t Kim’s fault yet here I am, the younger sister once again being subjected to the fallout of our family’s dysfunctional history.
I stare out of the window at the clouds that are gathering, bubbling into an angry mass, turning the sky grey, working in perfect symmetry with my mood: an alignment of darkness both outside and within. ‘I suppose so,’ I say, trying to sound jovial, as if the weight of the world isn’t pressing down on me. Then, ‘Well actually, no. Everything isn’t okay.’
Silence. No questions, no probing as to what has happened. Just a prolonged and painful stillness that causes me to squirm in my seat.
