“It’s called being professional.”
Ruiz laughs and ends the call. My mobile rings almost immediately. It’s Julianne. She’s in the car and I can hear Emma, my youngest, singing along to a nursery rhyme CD. Whenever I hear Julianne’s voice I get a sort of aching bliss and I wish I could think of something to say to her, something that would fill her with excitement or wonder.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“I’m good.”
“I wanted to know what time you’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Christmas Eve, silly. You’re coming to spend it with us.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“The girls want to hang their stockings when you get here-well, Emma does. Charlie still isn’t talking to me. I’m going to cook something nice. We’ll let them open one present before they go to bed.”
“Just like old times.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.”
“So what time?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, try to miss the holiday traffic and don’t buy me a present.”
“OK.”
She hangs up and I suddenly wonder what present I can get her. She’ll have bought something for me. She’ll have thought about it, planned ahead and whatever I do won’t match her efforts.
We near the pharmacy. Grievous pulls over and parks, pointing across the road.
“That’s the place. I’m going to get something to eat.” He pats his stomach. “I have the caveman gene-always hungry. My girlfriend has me on this diet until the wedding. She’s filled my fridge with healthy crap-celery, lettuce, cottage cheese… No beer. No pizzas. Right now I’d kill for a burger and a bowl of chips.”
“Killing is a bit extreme.”
“You’re right. I’d beat someone up very badly so they couldn’t move.”
He pulls down the sun visor, displaying a THAMES VALLEY POLICE notice. “I’ll wait for you here,” he says, locking the car.
Emily is unpacking boxes of shampoo and conditioner and lining them up on the shelves, labels facing outwards. A price gun rests on top of the stepladder. Something shivers in her eyes at the sight of me.
“I’m working-I can’t talk,” she says.
“It’s important.”
She glances over her shoulder. Chews her bottom lip. “Maybe I can take my break.”
We go to a cafe across the road. She orders a skinny hot chocolate and ponders the muffins, making her choice seem like an act of rebellion. I doubt if her father would approve of an oversized blueberry muffin.
She’s wearing a black skirt and white blouse with a nametag on the breast pocket. Taking a seat, she hunches over her drink, as though she’s embarrassed to be seen with me.
“I need to talk to you about that night again.”
“What night?”
“You were with Piper and Natasha at the Summer Festival. When was the last time you saw them?”
“They were opposite the dodgems. There was a shoot-the-basket type game and Tash was trying to win a panda. I remember her arguing with the guy, saying the game was rigged because the balls were extra bouncy and they wouldn’t go through the hoop or kept bouncing off the rim.”
“What time was that?”
“Just after nine.”
“Who were the girls with?”
“Nobody really.”
“Was anyone hanging around?”
“They were talking to some boys.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know their names. They were Hayden’s friends.”
“Was Hayden there?”
“No.”
“Who else?”
“Everyone from town-kids and grown-ups-it was a big deal in Bingham.”
I try to get names and to plot where the girls drifted to during the course of the evening. Emily talks, large-eyed, nodding faintly now and then.
“Was there anyone who made you feel uncomfortable,” I ask. “Someone who looked odd or stood out in some way?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Tash’s uncle?”
“He was running the tombola. He was quite funny-some of the things he was saying. Getting people to buy more tickets.”
“Who else did you see?”
“Some girls from school… the vicar and his wife… Callum Loach was there with his family. People felt sorry for him. It’s not as though he could go on the rides.”
“Did he talk to Tash or Piper?”
“I don’t think so. I heard his father say something about Tash.”
“What did he say?”
She picks at her muffin, pulling out the blueberries. “It was pretty awful. He called her a prick-tease and a slag. Everybody knows he hates her.”
“When Piper came to your house that night, where was Tash?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Piper say anything?”
“I knew something was wrong. Her clothes were dirty. She had mud on the knees of her jeans and on her elbows. I thought she must have fallen over. She sat on my bed and left dirt on the bedspread.”
“Was she hurt?”
“No.”
“Had she been crying?”
“Piper never cries.” Emily runs her fingers through her hair, hooking it over her ears.
“You left the funfair at nine o’clock. Why was that?”
“Mum had gone to hospital.”
“Who called you?”
“My dad.”
“You said your mum lives in London now.”
“Yeah.”
“How often do you see her?”
“When Dad lets me.”
“How often would you like to see her?”
A hurt helplessness ghosts over her face. Only crumbs remain on her plate. “I have to go. I only get fifteen minutes.”
“Just one last thing,” I say. “Was there a special place where you girls used to hang out?”
“You mean like a clubhouse?”
“A favorite place.”
“You make us sound like we’re eight and still using secret passwords.”
I laugh. “It’s just that Piper and Tash took so little with them. No clothes were missing. I thought maybe they could have hidden bags. You said you were planning this.”
“We were.” She peers out into the street. “That summer we hung out a lot at the leisure center. The pool. We used the lockers. Tash used to hide stuff there.”
Emily pushes her empty cup away. She’s said too much. “I have to go.”
Without waiting, she grabs her coat and I watch her skip across the road, looking both ways. A sense of disquiet has been growing within me like the beating of a war drum, repetitive, dull, getting stronger every day.
She stops on the far side of the road and looks over her shoulder, holding my gaze for a fraction of a second as though worried about what she’s left behind, but determined to go on without it.
My dad once told me that people can sometimes do amazing things when they’re in life-and-death situations. Mothers can lift cars off their trapped babies and people have survived falls from airplanes.
When the time comes, maybe I can do something amazing. Every time I contemplate stabbing George, my throat starts closing. It feels like a heart attack, although I don’t know how a heart attack is supposed to feel. I imagine like heartburn only a million times worse because you don’t die of heartburn.
I know it’s a panic attack. I’ve had them before. Tash used to help me get through them. She would hold a bag over my mouth and get me to breathe slowly or she’d rub my back, telling me to picture something that made me happy, a place or a person.
That’s what I do now. I imagine I’m lying on the grass on a beautiful sunny day in our garden beside the pond. Phoebe is next to me and I’ve made her a clover crown and a matching bracelet and necklace. Mum is in the kitchen cooking chicken Kiev, which is my favorite.
I know it sounds corny, like a scene from a washing powder advert, but it takes my mind off my panic attack. After a few minutes I start to breathe normally again. I go to the sink and wash my face. Boiling water in a saucepan, I cook pasta and mix it with a teaspoon of oil. I can only swallow a few mouthfuls. My nerves are too bad for eating.
I look at the trapdoor and listen. If not today, maybe he’ll be here tomorrow.
I’ve washed out an empty can of baked beans, which I’m using as a hearing device. I hold it against the wall and put my ear to the base, hoping to hear Tash on the other side. I even imagine that she’s doing the same thing, listening for me. Our heads might almost be touching.