‘I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be here again, and I know I start with an apology each time I come knocking.’ I lean a cautious hand on his wall, near the doorframe, trying to force some sort of connection where none exists. ‘I really don’t know what else I can do.’
‘There would be no apology needed if you stopped bothering me.’ He starts to close the door, even quicker than he did during my visit yesterday. I expected this but I still don’t know if he’s shutting me out because he knows something or if he has simply had enough of my regular visits.
I don’t have the luxury of time and can’t afford to offend him, and so I place a foot in the doorway.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asks, repeatedly pushing his door against my foot. His black eyes only give off anger, which is all directed at me; it’s like he’s the victim in all this, the one who is unfortunate enough to have me banging his door each and every day. I look at him: his belly overhanging his jeans, his hairy arms having stolen much from his thinning head. He looks tired but no more than the rest of us; his sleeves are rolled up, and his face is coated in a thick layer of dust and sweat. He’s probably been packing all night, running around and preparing, just like everyone else. Perhaps he is the genuine model citizen of these times; doing what he can with what he has left, but I just can’t be sure.
‘Carlos, I’m sorry, I have more questions that I need answered. You’re the only one who can help me and I think you know that.’
He opens the door a little more so he can come closer to me. He steps on my foot and points a stubby finger at my face. ‘Look, I’m getting real sick of you coming around here. We’ve been through this a hundred times – I don’t know where this Lucy of yours is. The police have searched my place, you came in with them. They have asked me all the questions you could think of and they told you that they have more important things to be doing right now.’
I don’t want to hear this, not again, not when I’m out of options. I push him backwards, stepping into his place, the home of a man I don’t trust and yet cannot prove why. ‘Nothing is more important than Lucy!’
He doesn’t take long to gather himself together, his deep voice growling as he pushes his hands into me. I fall out of his house and onto the floor, with only my feet still in his doorway. He starts kicking them, trying to remove me completely. I rush to get up, knowing this is my last chance. Deep down I know he won’t open this door tomorrow, and the police will only tell me again that I need to drop this and move on with what is left of my life.
He bends down and grabs my ankles before I can properly get up. He takes hold of them and pushes me along the floor, my back scraping against the cement of his porch. ‘Please, Carlos!’ I shout, as I scramble to get up and find enough dignity to be able to ask for help that he clearly isn’t going to give.
‘I don’t want to hear it!’ he shouts back, as he throws my legs onto the floor. ‘You are one weird kid. Go and play your games with someone else.’
I manage to get up and find myself level with him again. I stretch out my arms, hoping my pleading eyes will somehow get through to him. ‘The recording has been cleared up. It makes more sense now.’
He puts a hand out, stopping me from coming any closer. ‘What?’
‘Lucy’s cell phone message, you remember? I thought that if you just listened to it one more time you might be able to help me figure some stuff out.’
He takes a deep breath, his head slowly shaking. ‘Look, I’m sorry you lost her, but I don’t know anything. You keep coming around here with your accusing stare and random questions. The police told you she probably got grabbed into a van and it’s not like she would be the first. You need to stop coming around here and laying your guilt on me.’
‘My guilt?’
‘You fucking left her alone!’ he shouts. ‘I’ve got my own problems and I’m getting real tired of hearing about yours! If you come around here again I’ll take the law into my own hands, and we both know the cops won’t bother to come looking for you now.’
‘No, wait!’ I shout, but it’s too late. He slams the door shut as I hear several bolts closing and chains scraping into their holders, sealing him in and locking me out.
I don’t want to leave, can’t face going home, and so I sit down on his step and take out my cell. I turn the volume to its highest and press play. I know that he won’t hear it from inside but I hope that this enhanced version of those last few agonising moments will help me to relive it in some way, maybe help me hear something that I keep missing. There has to be a clue, something in the background that I’m not getting. Those twenty long seconds; I listen but don’t think I’m hearing them anymore – I already know each word and every scream.
I look around his street but see nothing different to the last time. The houses all look the same with their darkened windows and a scattering of open curtains – all signs of the indecision of a rushed evacuation. I don’t even need to look at the pictures I have already taken to know that they are the same as when they were abandoned. The families fled days ago, leaving only Carlos and a brave few in the homes they have built.
Her cries for help suddenly flood my senses, and as her pleas for mercy get louder and more desperate, I feel as if she is here with me. She shouts out my name: ‘Harvey!’
I press stop, unable to hear the rest. Those last few seconds are only a memory now, the recording always stopping at that point, leaving me just on the edge of knowing the true nature of the horror that found its way into my Lucy’s world.
‘Oh God, Harvey! Where are you? They’re still following me, and I couldn’t see you, and I didn’t know what to do… I ran and now I don’t know where I am… I’m knocking on doors but all the lights are off. This one has a light on but I can’t see the number. I can see them now… they’re coming! I’m on Chesterbrook Road, opposite Number 12… You need to stay back! This is my friend’s house and he’s phoning the police right – ’
I jolt upwards and I know I’m still screaming, my heart pounding quicker than I can breathe, my body drenched in sweat. I look around the room, remembering where I am and who I am. I’ve had this same dream every night since Lucy went missing. I can relive her abduction as though I was there myself; my mind does an amazing job of piecing together her recorded account and my mental memory of where it took place. Every night I feel her fear and experience her horror, but I do not know the true faces of those who approach to take her. In my version of Lucy’s nightmare it’s Carlos who advances towards her, taking short, quick strides, a determined look across his face. The other man is blank – a nobody – just a random person thrown into my nightly terrors.
I wish Lucy had described them, given me more detail to go on. If she had just told me heights, builds, features – anything that would prove it was Carlos. I picture his face now and I think of everything that would make him stand out: the thin tufts of hair that do their best to cover his scalp; the potholes in his tanned face; and his accent: he must have spoken and shown his Mexican roots. Maybe he didn’t speak and she didn’t see what I have seen and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t him. I know she did her best. I wish the police had answered her first call, come to her rescue – sent a squad car to a respectable neighbourhood where I thought we would be safe and where order still remained.
More than any of that I wish I hadn’t left her. I thought it was the right thing to do. Cars are constantly being looted or stolen and if they can’t break in quick enough they can take the gas in just a few seconds. ‘Watch it from here,’ I had said, so that she was under the light and protection of a camera. How was I to know it wasn’t working, on a long repair list that the chain’s head office said they will no longer get to? One small video would have answered so many questions, like why she didn’t run into the store and who it was that dared to take her away from me.