It had been easy to get him alone. He’d played right into her hands and all she’d had to do was flash a smile at him. Laugh at his jokes. Pretend to be interested in his words.
But now they were in his flat, in a part of town she barely knew, and if she wasn’t careful, her control would slip away.
‘This is your home?’ she asked, glancing around, taking in the sparse furnishings and bare white walls. This place was a show home, with no sign that anybody lived here.
He nodded, pulling her towards him, his hand sliding down the back of her skirt. His skin was cold and she smelt whisky on his breath as he leaned towards her, his mouth fumbling for hers.
For a moment she let him kiss her; it was a small sacrifice to make in return for finding out the truth. And the truth was what she would get tonight, no matter what it took. She had vowed to herself that before this day was over she would have an answer.
‘Tell me what you meant the other day,’ she said, pressing her body against his, feeling how hard he was under his jeans.
‘Huh? What?’ He was distracted. And drunk. Not a good combination.
‘You started to tell me something. Remember?’
He took his hand from her skirt and placed it under her shirt, rubbing her breast. She tried not to flinch. She had deliberately worn a low cut denim shirt, too many buttons undone, flashing just a small section of her bra. But her effort had been unnecessary; he wouldn’t have cared if she was dressed in a bin liner.
‘Forget that,’ he slurred. ‘Come in the bedroom.’
She would have to do as he asked. Following him, she prayed things would not have to go too far. She couldn’t bear the thought of his naked body on top of her. No, she couldn’t let that happen.
The curtains were drawn in the bedroom, only a sliver of soft street lighting shining through a tiny slit in the middle. He was digging in his pocket for something, finally pulling out his mobile and tapping on it.
‘Damn it. Battery’s dead. Fuck. Can you give me your phone?’
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘Nobody. Just let me check something.’
Reluctantly she handed her mobile to him, waiting to see what he’d do.
‘I want to film you,’ he said, pointing her phone at her.
She stepped back towards the door. ‘What? No. Why? Stop it. Give my phone back.’ She lunged forward, trying to make a grab for it, but he whipped his arm back.
His smile dropped. ‘Take off your clothes.’
Sitting on the bed now, he kept the phone pointed at her. ‘It won’t be the same as using my camera, but you look so good I need to capture you. I can send it to my phone after.’
The thought of him having any piece of her, even just on film, filled her with horror. ‘Wait. Tell me first. Tell me what you meant. And stop filming.’ At least it was her phone; she would just make sure she deleted the video the second she got it back in her possession.
He let out a heavy sigh, proving he knew exactly what she was asking. ‘Anyone would think you’re using me. That’s not nice, is it? I want something in return. Come on, play fair.’
His words were jovial but there was something in his expression, the deep lines etched on his forehead. He would not take rejection well. Perhaps she could play along for a few moments longer, let him think he was having his way.
Slowly, she undid the last few buttons on her shirt, trying to ignore the fact that he was still filming, rubbing his crotch. His eyes remained fixed on the phone screen; he was clearly more interested in watching her that way than in the flesh.
‘That’s it,’ she said, removing her shirt and placing her hands on her hips, trying to show she was still in control. ‘That’s all you get until you talk.’
Ignoring her, he lowered his arm. ‘Take everything off. And stay there. Come on, you’re wasting time. I’m losing my patience.’ He shook his head and his stare became cold, hard and unfamiliar.
That was when she realised she had made a terrible mistake. She had underestimated him. There was no way he was letting her leave until he’d done what he wanted to do.
‘That’s it, I’m out of here,’ she said. There had to be a better way to get the truth from him. Clearly this was not going to work. She began to pull her shirt back on but within seconds he had sprung up and was forcing her onto the bed, tugging at her skirt.
‘I’ve wanted you for ages,’ he said, his body weighing down on her, stopping her moving.
She struggled underneath him, but it was futile. Turning away, she wanted to scream but it died in her mouth. And then she noticed the heavy glass lamp on the bedside table. She couldn’t give up now she had come this far. ‘Just tell me what you meant the other day.’
A smug grin spread across his face, but he didn’t answer.
Trying to produce a flirtatious smile, she was unsure she was pulling it off. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this. Wouldn’t you prefer it if I enjoyed myself too? Let you do whatever you want to me? Isn’t that better?’ It was a risk. He clearly got off on the idea of using force.
But he barely moved. ‘Come on then, what are you waiting for?’
She swallowed the lump in her throat and reached for his penis, stroking it, fighting nausea. ‘You like this, don’t you?’
His eyes glazed over and he raised his head, staring at the ceiling. ‘Yeah, that’s good.’
‘Will you tell me now?’
He looked down and laughed, and she realised she probably wasn’t going to get anything out of him after all. She would have to think of a new strategy, one that started closer to home.
But then he opened his mouth and spoke, an unfamiliar name falling from his lips, seconds before he yanked up her skirt and lunged towards her.
And that was when she reached for the lamp and smashed it into his skull, repeating the action until his grip finally loosened.
Eighteen Years Ago
I stare at my baby as I hold her in my arms and can’t believe we’ve produced something so beautiful. She may have arrived years too early but I wouldn’t change a thing. I only hope Matt feels the same. He seems out of his comfort zone, but then so am I. Sometimes I watch him holding her nervously, as if she is china that will break in his hand, but the smile on his face speaks louder than any of his doubts. They have all gone now, vanquished by our beautiful Helena.
As soon as I put her back in her cot she resumes crying, but I have to leave her, that’s what the midwife said. I can’t keep rushing to her with every shriek. So I leave the room and close the door, carrying the baby monitor with me, Helena’s cries following me out.
Matt is on the sofa, surrounded by a pile of textbooks, his brow creased in concentration. I watch him for a moment and my heart swells with pride. He will be a doctor one day and we will live somewhere with more than three rooms. Helena will have her own bedroom and he will have somewhere to work in peace.
He looks up and smiles. ‘Hey.’ His eyes flick towards the screeching monitor.
I look around but there’s nowhere to put it. The kitchen and living room are one open plan area and Helena is in our bedroom, the only other room apart from our cramped bathroom.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sure she’ll stop soon.’
He must sense my panic because he puts his books aside and stands up, crossing over to me and pulling me close. ‘Hey, it’s okay, she’s just settling in. Getting used to us. This must be strange for her. I mean, one minute she’s comfortable in here,’ he rubs my stomach, still swollen from pregnancy, ‘and the next she has all this to deal with. Us. Two parents who don’t know what the hell they’re doing!’ He looks around the flat. ‘And look at our surroundings. I mean, this place is bad enough for us, let alone a baby.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ I say, gazing at the tiny room. The yellowing wallpaper is peeling from the walls and the carpet is threadbare, but at least it’s our home. Most of our friends still live with their parents, so we’re lucky to have our own space. And South Ealing’s not a bad place to live.
Matt sighs. ‘I just wish I could afford something better for us. I will, soon, I promise. Once I’ve finished medical school and got a job, we’ll be fine. We’ll laugh about this.’
‘Well, it’s better than living separately with our parents,’ I remind him. ‘At least we’re together. A family.’
Matt chews his bottom lip. It’s a habit I’ve noticed him doing a lot lately. ‘How weird does that sound, eh? A family! At our ages.’
He doesn’t need to tell me how strange this is. I am nineteen and he is twenty-two, much too young to be calling ourselves a family. But Helena has changed everything.
I pull back. ‘You don’t regret it, do you?’
He takes both my hands and gently squeezes them. ‘No, never. I mean, I know I freaked out at first, but … I was just … I don’t know. Scared? But now she’s here, I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘Even if she makes it difficult to study?’ I say, holding up the baby monitor. Helena is still crying but somehow I have become used to it, it is only harmless and reassuring background noise, nothing to worry about.
Matt puts his book aside and leans forward. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I call Mum? Ask her to take Helena to the park for a bit? Some fresh air might help settle her.’
‘Do you think she’d mind?’ Even as I ask this, I know the answer. As much as she had reservations about us having Helena, Miriam dotes on her granddaughter and we’d be lost without her support.
Matt gives me a look that says, What do you think? then reaches for the phone.
Less than an hour later, Helena is in her pram, cuddled up to her toy rabbit, ready for her visit to the park. She is already calmer, as if she knows she has a treat in store.
‘I’m so glad you called,’ Miriam says, her eyes fixed on the baby. ‘You know, I might be busy with work but I could help more often. Don’t be afraid to ask. You’re both young, you’ll need time on your own. And a baby shouldn’t come between a couple, it should only make you stronger.’
‘Actually, Mum, I just need to study,’ Matt says, but his mother ignores him, disappearing through the door with a sing-song goodbye.
‘Did you mean it about studying?’ I say, as soon as the door clicks shut.
‘Why, what did you have in mind?’ Matt flashes that smile, the sexy one I haven’t seen for a while now, and I feel myself melt. For the first time since our baby was born I need him, right now, there is no time to get to the bedroom.
We lie together, naked on the sofa, our clothes scattered over the floor. I listen to the sound of Matt breathing and realise I don’t want to move. Ever. I want to draw out this moment, stretch it as far as it can go like a rubber band, even though I know eventually it will ping back.
I kiss his chest. ‘That didn’t feel different, did it?’ I have to ask, I have heard stories about things changing down there after childbirth.
‘No, no. ‘Course not. Everything’s great. Everything’s fine.’
And it is.
Until the phone rings and our world is shattered forever.
‘What? Slow down. Tell me again. I can’t understand you.’
I grip Matt’s arm as he speaks into the phone. I don’t need to ask who the caller is, I already know. And I also know something is very wrong.
‘Oh, shit, oh fuck. Have you looked everywhere? Are you sure? Call the police. Now. I’m coming down there.’
He slams down the phone and grabs his jeans. ‘Don’t panic, Simone, but that was Mum. She’s saying she can’t find Helena. I’m going to the park now but stay here in case the police come. She’s calling them now but they might need someone here, I don’t know. Fuck! Shit!’
‘What … what do you mean she can’t find her? What’s happened?’ I am still naked, and freezing cold now, but can’t seem to move.
Matt’s words blend into each other and sound like a foreign language. The only thing I catch is that Helena is missing. Something about the toilets in the park. And Miriam getting sick. None of it makes sense. It is all wrong. She can’t be missing. It’s impossible.
But slowly it starts to sink in and I fall to the floor, my knees cracking against the carpet. I can’t feel any physical pain; it is masked too deeply by my inability to breathe. Clutching at my chest, all I can focus on is how I’ve let Helena down. I’m supposed to be her mother, to protect her, even when she’s out of my sight.
I scream these thoughts to Matt and he pulls me up, cupping my face in his hands.
‘We’ll find her,” he says. ‘You’ve got to stay calm.’
I’m too numb to respond and all I can do is listen as he yells instructions at me and rushes from the flat.
And that’s when I know this is real.
Now
It is a strange sensation, being certain that someone is following you. Until now I don’t think I’ve experienced it, but it’s unmistakeable; feeling eyes on you, but the heaviness lifting the minute you turn around. Knowing nonetheless that someone is watching.
Five minutes ago I slipped into John Lewis, even though I don’t need to buy anything. I just want to be sure. It’s lunchtime and I’m due back at work in half an hour and still need to eat, but now I am unnerved. I only came out for some fresh air, to escape the stuffy studio, but now I wish I’d stayed there.
I turn around and there she is. The same young woman I spotted as I left work. The same woman I noticed behind me at the top of Oxford Street. This could be coincidence but I also noticed her this morning by Tottenham Court Road station.
She is following me.
Do I know her? In my job I come across a vast amount of people, but I’m not one to forget a face. Or much else. Matt says my memory astounds him; that my brain somehow stores up even the most trivial of details. He says I should have his job, that it would be a godsend for a GP to have my gift. But I’ll leave that up to him; I’d be no good delivering bad prognoses to people. I don’t have his ability to remain detached.
I am calling her a woman but she is barely that. I cannot guess at her exact age but she can’t be much more than twenty. This should make her less threatening, but it doesn’t.
I steal secret glances at her and see she is studying the box of a coffee maker. She is tall and thin, dressed in leggings and a short leather jacket, a turquoise scarf wrapped around her neck. The edge of a long grey t-shirt hangs underneath her jacket but it can’t be keeping her warm. On her feet she wears black Converse boot trainers, the bottoms bright white.
Thoughts of Helena try to invade my head. Would she dress this way? But I have to push these destructive contemplations away. I can’t let myself think of her now, not here, in the middle of John Lewis, in front of my newly acquired stalker.
Picking up a set of brushed silver cutlery I have no interest in, I try and work out what to do. I could approach her and ask if I can help her. Show her I’m not disturbed by the huge coincidence of seeing her here as well as outside my work. Or I could ignore her, make a speedy exit out of this shop, get back to work and forget this silliness. Sometimes my imagination runs away with me: it is a hazard of the job. And of my past.
Before I have a chance to choose an option, she appears next to me and taps my arm. It is not a gentle tap, but a fast and urgent demand for attention.
‘Excuse me?’ Her voice is surprisingly soft.
Now that she is barely centimetres away, I realise how pretty she is. Her dark brown eyes are huge and shiny and her long hair is almost black, straightened to within an inch of its life.
‘Yes?’ It’s all I can think of to say, despite my earlier plan.
Her eyes dart to the left then right before she focuses on me again. ‘You’re Simone Porter, aren’t you?’
So I was right. She must know me from a story we’ve covered. But whatever she wants can’t be good, otherwise why would she follow me away from work when she could have asked to see me there? She could have emailed me, like other people needing my help do.
‘Yes.’ My voice is wary now. ‘Can I help you?’ I glance at my watch, hoping she’ll take the hint that I’m pressed for time.
She checks behind her, reinforcing my belief that whatever she wants to tell me won’t be something I’ll want to hear. ‘Can we talk? Away from here?’
‘What’s this about? Who exactly are you?’
She places her hand on my arm and I flinch. She must notice because she apologises and immediately steps back, almost knocking into a row of neatly stacked boxes of kettles. ‘I just … really need to talk to you. But not here.’
‘You’ll have to come and see me at work, I’m afraid. The network gets funny about things like this.’
The young woman sighs and shakes her head. ‘No, no, it’s nothing to do with your work.’
I am not expecting this and am thrown off guard. ‘Then … how do you know me?’
‘I don’t … not really … ’ She stares at her trainers.
‘Look, I’m sorry but I have to get back. If it’s important, call me there, okay?’ I turn away but feel her eyes boring into me.
‘Simone?’
I know I shouldn’t turn back. I should keep walking as if I haven’t heard her; she won’t know and it doesn’t matter anyway. This obviously wasn’t important. Perhaps she does know of me from my work and wants to ask if I can get her in the door. That’s what happens when you work in TV. But despite this, I look around and her eyes have grown even larger, imploring me to listen to her, to take her seriously.
‘I need to talk to you. It’s about your daughter.’
The air is sucked from me and I clutch the nearest shelving unit to stop myself falling. ‘What?’ I say this, even though I have heard every word as if it’s been delivered through a loudspeaker.
‘Now can we go somewhere else? Please?’
We sit in a coffee shop located on one of the back roads behind John Lewis, away from the bustle of Oxford Street. I simply let her lead me here, storing my questions for when we are away from the crowds, out of the cold January air. There aren’t many people in here, and just the right amount of noise to stop us being overheard.
‘Tell me what you know,’ I say, unable to stop my voice shaking. I reach for my coffee – black with an extra shot – but my hand trembles so I place my cup down again.
‘I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’ Her lip curls at the side, but I can’t tell whether she’s being apologetic or enjoying my confusion. Whichever it is, she seems more relaxed now.
‘What do you know? And who are you?’ My words are sharp, but I am on edge. What is she about to tell me?
With the straw that’s protruding from her glass of Coke, she stirs her drink, the ice clanking against the sides, her eyes fixed on me. ‘I just need to be sure it’s you first. Please, just humour me and I promise I’ll tell you everything.’
I dig in my bag and find my purse, pulling out my driving license. I hesitate for a moment, unsure what I’m doing. I usually think carefully about things, weighing up the pros and cons of every situation I find myself in, but today there is no time. I hand her my license and she stares at the picture. It’s almost ten years old and my hair is different now – shorter and wavier than it was – but it’s unmistakably me. Hair can change, even skin tone, but eyes always remain the same, despite the passing of time. So why is she taking so long to give it back to me?
‘Thanks,’ she says eventually, sliding it across the table. I grab it quickly and stuff it in my bag, not bothering to slot it into its place in my purse. ‘So you work in TV?’
Trying to hide my frustration, I answer her. ‘Yes, I’m a field producer for News 24. I’ve been there for twelve years. But you know this already, don’t you?’
The girl – for that’s what I’ve realised she is – shuffles in her chair, at least showing me the courtesy of looking uncomfortable. ‘Yeah. Sorry. I just need to be sure it’s you.’
The door is thrown open and she jerks her head up, her eyes following the new customer as he heads to the till.
‘Surely you saw me on the channel website? That picture’s fairly recent, so you can’t still have doubts. Now tell me. What do you know about … my daughter?’ The words almost choke me. It’s been too long since I’ve said them out loud. ‘And who are you?’
She puts her glass aside and stares at me with her dark, wide eyes. ‘My name is Grace Rhodes. And I, um, have information about your daughter.’ Her voice is hesitant, and for the first time I feel her confidence slip.
‘You’ve said that already. What information? What do you know? And why should I believe you?’ My guard is up. I have been fooled before by people claiming to have information about Helena. Not for a long time, not since she was a baby, but that doesn’t mean this girl isn’t playing a nasty trick, or just wanting attention. In my line of work I have come across all kinds of disturbed people. There is no limit to what humans are capable of.
‘I know that eighteen years ago your daughter was abducted in a park. She was only six months old.’
I grow cold, even though I am seated next to a warm radiator. ‘That doesn’t prove anything. You could have found that out online. It’s public information.’ Even to me my voice sounds frail.
She nods. Is she giving up so easily? ‘You’re right, I don’t have anything concrete yet. Not really. I wish I did.’
I can’t work her out. I know this is a game, but what does she want? ‘If you don’t have proof then you’re wasting my time.’ I stand up, determined to reach the door even though I doubt my unsteady legs will get me there.
‘Please, wait.’ She rises from her chair and grabs my hand. Her skin feels warm. ‘I know this is hard for you, but please, you have to listen to me. Just hear me out. And then you can decide whether or not to walk away.’
They say mothers have strong instincts; something innate that will help them protect their children. Well, I am no longer a mother, but looking at this young girl now, something compels me to give her a chance.
‘What do you know about my daughter other than what’s already public knowledge?’
‘Mrs Porter. Simone. I just need you to know I’m not some crazy person spinning you a line.’ She sits down again and I do the same.
‘Show me some ID at least. You’ve seen mine, haven’t you? Now I want to see yours.’
She reaches into her pocket. ‘All I have is my student ID. Here.’ She slides it across the table.
Picking up the card, I stare at the picture. It is definitely the girl I’m talking to, and it says her name is Grace Rhodes. But how do I know the ID is real? The black font stating City University London looks authentic enough, as does the red coat of arms, but it is probably a form of ID that’s easy to fake.
‘Don’t you have anything else? A driver’s licence?’
She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t started driving yet. I keep meaning to have lessons but I’m always so busy studying. I’ll get to it, though.’
This seems like a reasonable excuse. However, I am still unsure whether this girl is genuine, so I need to keep listening. Keep letting her talk until she spits out what it is she wants. Because there is always something, isn’t there?
‘Go on,’ I say, keeping my eyes on her, searching for proof of deception. ‘You’re telling me Helena’s alive? What do you know about her? Where is she?’
She looks me directly in the eye. ‘She’s alive, I swear to you.’
I am numb as she says this. I’ve had psychics and palm-readers and all sorts of supposed clairvoyants telling me these words before, but nothing has ever come of it. We have never found Helena. I remain quiet and let her finish.
‘I … I can’t say what happened. I don’t know … she doesn’t know. But she’s fine. She’s okay. She’s been okay, I mean.’
Now I feel the air being sucked from my lungs once again. I can’t hear any more of this. I need to get away from this girl. For years after Helena went missing I got my hopes up every time someone said they had information, but all it ever turned out to be was false leads or lies. And with each occasion, I was ripped even further apart. ‘I have to go now. Back to work. My lunch hour’s nearly over.’ I stand up, ready to bolt.
She stares up at me and her mouth gapes open. I realise she was not expecting me to react this way. Perhaps she thought I’d fall to my knees and beg her to take me to Helena.
‘But … I … ’
‘Listen, do you think you’re the first person to do this? Come up with some crazy story claiming to know where my daughter is? I mean, what do you want anyway? Money? Is that it?’ I thrust my hand in my purse and pull out a twenty-pound note, throwing it towards her. It flutters slowly to the table and she ignores it, staring at me with her huge eyes. Other people turn to us; I have spoken too loudly, piqued their curiosity.
I leave the money on the table and pull my bag onto my shoulder. Glancing at her as I turn to leave, I notice her cheeks glisten with tears.
‘Just let me show you something,’ she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She reaches into her pocket and for a second I am certain I can see the blad. . .
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