DORSET, 2011
THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER
Naomi is dancing. She is Maria dancing with Tony and you can see she is falling in love. It’s different from the real West Side Story, but that doesn’t matter in my dream. The tempo is slow to start with and they dance close together, mirroring each other’s movements. Gradually the music quickens so they have to dance faster and faster, then it gets louder and louder until it stops being music and becomes ugly noise instead. There are stirrings in the audience. The lights begin to flicker so that the dance movements look jerky and strange. Something is wrong and mutterings spread. People are leaving the theater. The drums give a great crash, jolting me awake, leaving a fading echo in my head.
The beating of my heart slows in a few minutes. The dreams are happening every night now.
I haven’t thought about that theater for months. I push the hair out of my eyes so I can stare into the darkness at the images that are racing through my mind. He was a shape, a shadow, glimpsed at the back of the auditorium by the teacher and Nikita. James had seen him leaning against a wall inside.
Thoughts start to flicker in my mind like the lights in my dream. Had he left anything behind in the theater? A hat? Hairs from his dark coat brushing the seat? Anything that touched his skin could carry DNA. The police had looked in the theater, but they may have missed something. I’ll phone Michael and ask him what they did. I can go myself and search. He’ll think I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I have. Perhaps I’ll have to look everywhere again—how else can I be sure there is nothing more? Somewhere in the world there will be something that will prove he took her. I only have to find it.
I lie awake for the rest of the night, questions turning and turning in my head. At seven I phone Michael.
His voice is guarded but gentle. “I’ve been trying to reach you, Jenny. I wanted to come and see you last night, but it got too late. I’ve been feeling terrible. I shouldn’t have said that about finding DNA.”
“You were right.”
“No, I wasn’t. There isn’t a body, of course. There never has been. So of course there is no DNA.”
He may be going to tell me again that the only place they find criminal DNA in the hunt for a missing girl is inside her body, but I already know this. I know they look in her vagina, her esophagus, on her clothes, in her hair. I don’t want to hear any more words. If he doesn’t say them, I won’t have to see the pictures that go with them.
“I mean you were right that there was nothing in the wood,” I explain, to stop him telling me anything else.
“So you went after all? Ah, Jenny.” His mouth will be turning down at the corners. It was one of the first things I noticed about him; I remember thinking it was a good sign that things could still make him sad. “I told you the police had searched it all.”
“Did they search the theater?”
“The theater.” He repeats the words slowly.
“Yes. You see, I had this dream.” But if he thinks I’ve gone mad he won’t help me, so I begin again. “She was in West Side Story, remember?” A little pause follows my words.
“Of course I remember. We did a thorough search, starting with the changing room.”
“What does that mean, exactly, a thorough search?”
A little sigh, an unzipping noise as he pulls his laptop from the case. “I’ll phone you back with all the details in a moment.”
They would have started with the changing room where she had become Maria, but, thinking about it now, she had used it only to change her clothes. Afterward, changing back into her own clothes, she used to keep the makeup on. She had always applied it at home before she left as well. Why was that? Perhaps she met him on the way there or the way back. She had looked eighteen with that eyeliner and foundation. What had that allowed him to do?
When the phone goes, I answer quickly.
“As I thought, they looked everywhere.” Michael’s voice is calmly certain. “I’ve got a list here.”
“Yes?”
“They fingerprinted everything, door handles, taps, the seats at the back of the theater, toilets. They went through every cabinet, the costume baskets, wastebaskets, and the rolling garbage cans outside.” There is a little pause. “They took up floorboards.”
I didn’t know that. So they thought she might be dead, even then.
“Jenny, this will have to stop.” He clears his throat, speaks louder. “You’ll drive yourself crazy.” He pauses, and then carries on more quietly, “Leave things to us. You can let go.”
“I can never let go.” There is silence on the phone. I continue anyway. “Michael, when you catch him, he’ll deny everything.” Yoska will shake his head with a half-hidden smile in his eyes. “He will know that without proper evidence we won’t have enough to convict him. We need something to prove he was with her.”
“You can’t look for it in the theater because of a dream.” He gives a little laugh.
And I can’t let the dream go; I can’t let her go with it.
I REDIAL. THE headmistress of Naomi’s school is in a staff meeting, but she phones me back after ten minutes.
Her tone is kindly. “How very good to hear from you again. I have so often wondered how you are getting on.”
“Fine, thanks, Miss Wenham.”
If she saw me, I’m sure that’s what she would think anyway. The months by the sea have done their work. I look much better than when she last saw me. She wouldn’t be able to tell that the wounds have been reopened; the bleeding isn’t visible from the outside.
“I was wondering about the theater,” I say carefully. “There may have been things left behind, that the police missed.” I hurry on, in case she interrupts and then I might lose my nerve. “I wanted to check. Something could still be there, even after all this time. I know it sounds stupid. Perhaps there’s a hat or a jacket . . .”
My words are tumbling out too quickly, and in the listening silence they sound absurd.
Miss Wenham is hesitant. “You can look, of course you can, my dear. But it’s unlikely you’ll find anything. It’s all very different now.”
“Different?” They might have self-locking doors now. Keypads with passwords or a guard at the door. Lessons learned because of Naomi.
“Well, it’s not finished yet,” the measured voice continues, “but we are in the home stretch. A past pupil left us money in his will, to refurbish.” There is a little pause, but I don’t reply and she carries on. “There have been many changes, a new stage and so on . . .” Her voice trails away in the silence. She realizes she is being tactless.
“Perhaps I could come and have a look, just in case.” I try to make my voice hopeful even as my heart is sinking. Too late, much too late.
“Once they’ve finished, one of the girls will take you round. Try again in a week or so. I’m so glad—”
I don’t wait to find out what she is glad about. I put the phone down. It will be too late when they’ve finished; I’ll go today. A jacket may still be hanging on a peg that they have all got used to walking by, a hat trodden underfoot, kicked into a corner somewhere. I can always look, even though I am almost fourteen months too late.
That’s how it works in medicine sometimes; the thought strikes me as I back the car out of the garage. You look again, or someone else does, and get the diagnosis just when everyone has given up. It’s sometimes the most obvious thing that no one has thought about. Jade’s face seems to float in the mirror for a second. It’s always worth looking again.
Bertie is in the front seat, nose on his paws, eyes closed, settled for the journey, but there is a knock on my window as I turn the car to face the road. Dan is standing there, taller in a new coat, collar up against the wind.
I lower the window. “Nice coat.”
“Thanks. Gran’s Christmas present. It’s always snowing in New York in films.”
“You’re really going, then?” I hadn’t realized time was passing in other lives as well.
“Leaving tomorrow. The course starts next week.” His face is guarded but his voice lifts with excitement.
“Wait, I’ll just park again.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll come back later.”
I know he won’t, and if he does I won’t be here. Switching off the engine, I get out quickly.
“Mary will miss you. I’ll miss you.”
He looks at his feet for a second and swallows.
“What’s the plan?” I ask quickly.
“I’m staying with Theo and Sam till I find somewhere.”
“Are you okay for money?” But it’s a question too far. He steps back, his face closed.
“You sound like my mum.”
“I am a mum, that’s why.”
“Not mine.” He looks at me, his flecky green eyes staring directly into mine. He continues, “I’ll let you know what happens.” He pauses. “Theo will, anyway.”
There is a second in which I might touch him, a second when he stands there, looking lost. As if he guesses my thoughts, he flushes and turns away. “See you later,” he says.
Then he’s walking away down the road and I haven’t even thanked him. I draw level with him outside the shop and lower the car window, but just at that moment two girls come out of the doorway and greet him. He steps into the road; I see him in the mirror, leaning forward a little, looking after the car. A moment later one of the girls moves toward him and takes his arm. I turn the corner in the car and they disappear. He will go to New York; he will start a new life. It’s all in front of him. A life to be lived, a whole uninterrupted life.
WE ARE IN Bristol by midday. When I was last here, it was summer. The chestnut trees on the Downs are bare and we missed the leaves falling. Naomi’s favorite time of year. I remember how surprised the searching policeman was by the collection of shriveled leaves in her room and the little heap of shrunken horse chestnuts on the dressing table.
I park outside our house. Bertie whines at the gate, tail wagging. The gatepost is rough under my fingers, the paint is peeling. The windows look dirty, and the front garden is thick with weeds. Inside will be tidy; thanks to Anya. Ted will be at work now. I look up at the tall dark windows, remembering how in my last months here all the bright warmth had leaked away, and in the dark emptiness even my own footsteps had begun to take on the quality of a dream.
I had waited here from November through to August last year, our marriage unraveling in those nine months while hope faded and friends drifted away. Frank understood when I couldn’t go back to work after the evening I had broken down. He found a temporary doctor again, but the thought of his waiting had added a sharp-edged layer of anxiety and I told him I wouldn’t return. That loss drowned in the months of nothing that followed. I had lain on her bed, or the floor of her room, motionless, watching the daylight bloom and darken as the hours passed. I had wanted to die. Then one day I went to the cottage again. Ed had needed some books he had left behind on a previous visit. He had begun to work for his final exams by then and was staying on in rehab. The light in Dorset seemed different. It was clearer, the air felt warmer. I could hear the gulls from the garden. I came home again, but as the search for Naomi slowed down and as the weeks dragged by, I thought of the cottage more and more. By the summer I had made a plan, and by the end of August I had left. I’ve lived off my inheritance. Ted would have given me what I needed if I had asked, but I’ve lived simply and haven’t needed his help.
For a moment I’m tempted to ring the bell. Anya might be here. But this house is Ted’s territory now and I pull Bertie from the gate.
There is scaffolding outside the theater. Ladders are propped against the wall and cast-iron radiators lie in a Dumpster. A couple of vans in the street outside have their doors open; there are workmen inside on their tea break, hunched over steaming mugs. The doors of the theater are propped open. I hesitate, wondering if I can take Bertie with me. His presence gives me courage.
No one stops us as we go in, treading on the plywood sheets that protect shining new floorboards that have been laid in the entrance. Did they damage the old wooden ones when they took them up, looking for her body? The bar has been painted red; it’s bigger now and there is a new mirror behind it. The air is cloudy with dust and smells of plaster. Bertie sneezes twice. I pull open the heavy wooden doors to the auditorium, the harsh scents of paint and wood dust greeting us immediately. It is larger and brighter than it used to be. There are no dream-dark shadows anywhere under the hard light that bounces off the newly smooth walls. The stage has vanished. Splintered planks lie in a heap, some broken in two, and there is a great stack of long shining ones for the new stage leaning against the wall. Bertie, pulling ahead of me, almost tumbles into the trap room, the dark pit that was under the stage and is now revealed. Below us, as we stand at the edge looking down, a gray-haired man in blue overalls is measuring the floor with a spirit level. There are a couple of wooden stools, a plastic fireplace, and a heap of dirty canvas sacks in one corner. He looks up, his forehead glinting with sweat. He nods briefly at me, then, noticing the dog, his face softens and he walks nearer, reaching up to pat him.
“You shouldn’t have brought him in, though he’s lovely. Got one a bit like him at home. Were you looking for someone?”
“My daughter was in a play last . . . before . . . She lost some things. They might have been put somewhere?”
“Lost property went out long ago.” He shakes his head. “Thrown out, back in the summer.”
My heart sinks. Stupid of me to come.
The man nods again, turning away, but in that instant Bertie jumps down into the pit, pulling the lead taut. I let go in case he is strangled. The man laughs, bends to the dog.
“Likes me, you see,” he says triumphantly, stroking Bertie’s ears.
“I’m sorry.” I sit, swing my legs over the edge, and then jump down; it’s farther than I thought and I land awkwardly, jarring my ankle. There is a stab of pain when I put my weight on that foot, and I can barely stand. “Sorry,” I say again, conscious now that I’m being a nuisance and that I want to leave.
“Watch yourself there.” The man comes close and helps me limp over to one of the bulging bags in the corner.
“Sit yourself down on one of those. Costumes. Can’t hurt. Cup of tea?”
“Costumes?” I lower myself cautiously onto the canvas.
“The police left them here. Ready for the next time, like.” He bends to fuss at Bertie, warming to gossip. “No call for plays since that young girl went missing. Terrible, that.”
I need to get away from this man before he says anything else, but as I try to stand again he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t you worry.” He grins. “Sit yourself down. She’s not in one of them bags.”
I stare at him, feeling sick; no words come.
“You look a bit peaky.” He looks into my face and then scratches his head. “Tell you what, you rest yourself right there and I’ll get you a cuppa. Back in a tick.”
He heaves himself up and disappears from view.
There are at least six bags. Something of Yoska’s might have been found and bundled up in here by mistake. I slide off the bag I am sitting on and, kneeling, pull it open. It’s a long shot and I’ve only got minutes before the man returns. Groping inside, I touch rough sacking and rope. I open another and drag out a thick black velvet jacket edged with gold binding and a felt hat with bent brim and bedraggled yellow feather. I stuff them back in. The third has army fatigues, neatly folded. What plays were they from? Naomi probably saw them. Did she tell me? Something else I missed if she did. The fourth bag has clothes that feel soft. I pull out a blue skirt and then, my heart banging, a police cap: Officer Krupke’s. Quickly heaving the bag over I manhandle it all out through the narrow opening, red and blue skirts, flouncy tops, lacy dresses, silky wraps. As I tip the bag out completely, some purple netting, a pair of ankle boots, scarves and tights fall out onto the floor. No boys’ costumes. They must have worn their own stuff for the stomping dances over the rooftops. I look at everything for a moment; I can see the dancing scenes where the skirts were swirling and Bernstein’s music filled the auditorium. But now, like the trees and the mud, this bright heap of clothes and tumbled shoes tells me nothing. Just costumes, as the man said.
I grip the boots angrily to shove them back in the bag and my fingertips brush something silky that has been rolled up and pushed deep inside. Socks? A neckerchief? Unfurled, it’s bigger than I thought, and spread on the floor it becomes a silky dress, a short red dress with a low front. Mother-of-pearl buttons. Nikita’s dress. The one Naomi borrowed for the dress rehearsal, the one she didn’t bring home again. Because it was hidden in the boot, the police must have missed it. I hold it to my face. Is there a faint scent of lemons? I mustn’t cry. I spread it out again and register with the part of my brain that is coldly functioning that there is an uneven white-yellow stain on the bodice. Lifting the hem, I see it’s inside the dress too. Footsteps approach, so I swiftly roll up the soft fabric and slip it into the pocket of my coat, bundling the rest back in the bag just as he appears. He swings himself heavily over the edge of the trap room and hands me the mug of tea.
“See you’ve been looking at the costumes.” He looks at me, amused. “Any luck?”
I shake my head; the tea is dark and very sweet, restoring.
“Told you,” he says equably. “All chucked out.”
As I limp slowly back through the streets to the car, I want to wrap the dress around my neck under my clothes, next to my skin. But I leave it in my pocket. Michael will send it to forensics.
The windows of the tall house are still dark. I settle Bertie into the car, and pull away. My heart is knocking against my teeth with hope and dread.
BRISTOL, 2009
TWENTY-ONE DAYS AFTER
I couldn’t wait to tell Ed about the missing corals. He would realize it was a good sign, and he needed to feel hope. Ed would understand that it meant she had planned to leave, and that she wanted something to connect her to home until she came back. He would be as excited as I was.
Ed’s cell phone went straight to voice mail so I phoned the main office. Mrs. Chibanda answered. She went to get him and after what seemed like a long wait I heard his slow steps approach.
“Hi, Mum.” He sounded tired, older.
“You okay, darling?”
“Why?”
“It’s been two weeks.”
Ed’s sigh came lightly down the phone, but he didn’t reply.
“I know they’d tell me if things weren’t all right . . .” I heard myself blundering in the silence. “But it would be nice to hear from you.”
“Leave it, Mum.” He spoke loudly suddenly. “Leave me alone.”
I closed my eyes. Since Naomi disappeared, everything was louder. Noises hurt, as though I was getting ill, as though I had lost a layer of skin. I’d forgotten how to talk to Ed. This conversation was already tipping the wrong way. I began to wish I hadn’t phoned him.
“We think about you all the time.” I didn’t mean to say that; he wouldn’t like that.
“Typical.” He was whispering now.
“What do you mean?” I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not why I phoned.
“I mean, you would say that now.” I had to listen hard to hear him; it was as if he was talking to himself. “Never talked to me before.”
He’s grieving for Naomi. Coming off drugs. He’s alone. He doesn’t mean any of this.
“I talked to you all the time, Ed.”
“At me.”
I left a little pause and began again. “Good news. Her coral necklace is missing.”
“What necklace?” His voice is distant.
“The one with little orange sticks?”
“So?”
“She must have taken it with her. It meant she knew she was going away.”
“Christ, Mum. She probably lost it or gave it away.”
Does he want to destroy everything?
“Gran gave it to her years ago.”
“All the more reason. You don’t know her, Mum. You don’t have a bloody clue.”
After I had said good-bye and waited for him to hang up first, I walked to and fro in the kitchen. I wanted to get rid of his words. I didn’t want to think about them now or the anger that seethed underneath them.
In the end I phoned Shan. I couldn’t think of anyone else, though we hadn’t been in touch since we sat side by side in the police station.
“Jen. I was going to call you today.”
I didn’t know how to answer that, but it didn’t matter, because she carried on brightly, “It’s been so busy.” She gave a little laugh. “God knows why. Christmas, I guess.”
Christmas? How was it Christmas? I looked out of the window, but the street was the same. I hadn’t been to the shops for weeks. Presents would be beyond me.
“How are you?” Her voice altered in the silence and she sounded more like herself.
“Coping. Something good’s happened, though. I thought I might come round.” I wanted to see her smile; when I told her about the corals, she would hug me and say that she’d always known it would be all right.
“Unless you want me to come over there?”
“No, I need to get out.” I had a shower and found clean jeans and a new shirt. I even put makeup on carefully. The foundation felt dry and the lipstick looked garish against my pale skin, so I washed it all off again. As I drove, someone on the radio intoned the news, but it was background noise, until after a few moments I caught her name: “. . . missing now for twenty-one days.” The complacent tone continued: “The search continues. All airports—” I turned it off, feeling sick. Michael had told me not to listen to the news.
Shan opened the door and immediately enfolded me.
“I’m sorry I was so awful at the police station that time. I’ve been a lousy friend.”
She drew me into her sitting room and we sat down together.
“You look a bit thin, Jen.” She sounded worried. Then she took my hand, and smiled warmly. “It’s great to see you.”
“Naomi had this necklace,” I told her quickly. “I was looking in her bedroom yesterday, in her jewelry box—” Then I paused, hearing noises from the kitchen: a kettle being switched on, someone rummaging in a cupboard for mugs. Shan turned her head and called through the open door.
“If you’re making coffee, Nik, Jenny would like a cup. So would I. A strong one, please.”
“Coming up,” Nikita called back.
Shan turned back to me. “She’s struggling,” she whispered.
“Struggling?” I repeated. An image of Naomi struggling in the grip of a man stopped me short. Nikita was in the next room, calmly making coffee. Her life was continuing. Naomi’s had been hijacked. I shouldn’t have felt angry; it wasn’t Shan’s fault.
“Yes,” Shan whispered. “She feels it’s her fault. She should have told us sooner about Naomi fancying this guy.”
I felt sick again. I shouldn’t have come. Shan smiled quickly, guiltily.
“Sorry. Stupid me. Forget what I’ve said. You were telling me about the necklace in the jewelry box.” She put her hand on my arm; the warmth went through my sleeve to the skin. She wasn’t to blame if her words sounded wrong; there were no right ones anyway. I smiled back at her.
“It was made of coral. You know, tiny little strands of orange strung together? I can’t find it anywhere.”
The noises in the kitchen had stopped completely; I could hear Nikita’s light footsteps quickly climbing the stairs that led up from their kitchen to the rooms above. I could hear the hope in my own voice.
“It was a present from my mother when Naomi was little. Naomi always kept it in a little musical box. But it’s not there now. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Shan was staring at me; I could see she was puzzled by my smile. As I leaned forward to explain, Nikita came in, a little out of breath, two cups of coffee carefully balanced on a tray. She bent over the table to clear a space and her hair fell forward in a dark sheet.
“Thanks, Nikita.” I smiled at her. After all, she was Naomi’s best friend.
“You’re welcome.” As she stood up, I saw her face was burning.
She held her hand out to me. In the center of her palm was a coiled strand of tiny orange strands, fragile and lovely.
“I heard what you said. They’re not lost,” she said hurriedly. “Naomi gave them to me, but don’t worry, it’s not like they were precious or anything. She told me she had never liked them. She was going to throw them away.”
In a minute I would be able to get up and leave.
“God, Jen. You’ve gone pale. Have them back. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Nik?” Shan looked worried.
“No. Keep them.” If I spoke slowly, my voice wouldn’t tremble. “When did she give them to you, Nikita?”
“Before her last performance. She threw them at me; she was laughing.”
I stared at her. I was trying to remember when I had last heard Naomi laugh.
“I’ll go now, I think.” A few moments later I got up and left.
WHEN I GOT home it was cold and beginning to get dark. The day had gone by somehow and I hadn’t realized.
“You don’t know her, Mum.”
I lay down and pulled the duvet over my head. From somewhere far away I heard Bertie barking for his supper, and then he stopped. I must have fallen asleep because I woke to find Ted was asleep beside me. The heat from him came in sweaty waves, and I rolled away as far as I could. I lay curled up, holding on to the edge of the bed, waiting for the hours to pass until morning.
“You don’t have a bloody clue.”