August 1998
Three weeks after…
Onward they trudged. Step by step. Deeper into the woodlands, trying as best they could to maintain the straight line they had been instructed to hold. They didn’t speak, they could barely look one another in the eye. They all knew just one look would confirm their worst fears, that the searching was in vain. They weaved around bushes and climbed unsteadily over fallen trees. The mud, thick and heavy, made progress even slower, and on a few occasions the sludge underfoot dragged wellington boots clean off tired feet. The summer had burnt bright and long, one of the hottest on record. But the woods were dark, cold. The air didn’t move there, but hung heavily, its damp breath ancient, a thousand whispered secrets over a thousand years, clinging to everything within. And somewhere within, she might be alive. Hoping to be found. It had been three weeks since she had vanished, three long weeks. It didn’t ring the bell of hope. Regardless, they didn’t stop moving, they didn’t stop looking.
In the middle the group walked Neve. She moved silently, helped those who were stuck and in return was helped when she became stuck herself. They had walked for long enough that the snapping of twigs and rustle of animals moving in the undergrowth no longer startled them. Upon reaching a clearing, they were told by the search leader, a policeman called Thompson who had led the investigation, to stop and rest. Finding a felled tree, Neve sat and took a moment to look up through the thick canopy of summer leaves to see the sky beyond. It was beginning to morph in colour as day changed into night, a beautiful pink hue wrapped around a cloud. It looked contented, peaceful, oblivious. She assumed it would be another hour until it was too dark to continue, and that would mean another night passed with no sign of her, the twenty-second long night in the scared village. Neve caught her father watching from the small group stood in a circle, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, discussing the next step. He smiled, trying to be reassuring, but she could see the worry in his eyes. He looked tired, older somehow. But then again, everyone in the village now looked tired and old, and afraid.
After a few minutes of rest and foot rubbing, boots were back on and they were moving again, quietly scanning the patch of ground in front of each step. Punctuating the sound of snapped twigs, heavy breathing of those less fit, wind through the treetops and bird call was one word spoken every now and then. A single name, her name.
Chloe.
Neve could hear the way that it had changed in the past few days. They used to call for Chloe as a question. As if to say, Chloe, can you hear us? Chloe, where are you? Now, the question mark had gone, the tone had deepened. Her name was now called because it was something they needed to do. If they fell silent the search would be over. With each day, each night, the hope dwindled. A few nights out alone, a person could survive. A week would be tough, but not impossible, but after three, without a sign or sound, it didn’t look good. And it placed them all in the awful position of wanting to find her, but not being the one to find her. No one said it, but as Neve looked at those around her, she could see fear in their eyes – a fear of being the one to stumble across a 16-year-old girl, face down in a bog, bloated and blue. The village was used to accidents, death even. The mine that the village was built around had been a dangerous place to work, and men and women were often injured, sometimes horrifically. Pain and loss were a part of who they all were, it was part of their DNA. But no one was prepared to find Chloe. ‘This sort of thing doesn’t happen here,’ they said to one another after she had gone missing. ‘We look after our own.’
Despite the seriousness of Chloe’s disappearance, gossip was rife. And being a small, ex-mining village, gossip quickly became political. The ‘scabs’ who’d crossed the picket line in 1984 blamed the strikers, while they in turn insisted it was one of the ‘scabs’. When on the rare occasion the gossip didn’t thrive on the bitter feud that ran like ice though the vein of the village, the adults whispered, in agreement, about Chloe’s mother, Brenda, who everyone knew had been vile and cruel to Chloe since the day she was born. It had been noted that Brenda hadn’t been on one single search, but instead holed herself up at home, curtains drawn, refusing to speak to anyone until the police banged on her door. It was widely discussed that if anyone had harmed Chloe, it would have been Brenda. There was also another name that they should have been discussing, a name that Neve and her friends had spoken to the police about, a name that was only ever mentioned by the adults in the village after a few drinks in The Miners’ Arms or social club. A name that when brought up, sent a shiver down the spine of the highly superstitious community.
The Drifter.
They didn’t know who he was, and apart from Neve and the rest of her friends, no one else had seen him. He had been spotted hanging around the closed mine, always at night. And, most worryingly, Chloe herself had told Neve he had been hanging around outside her house just before she vanished.
The police were looking for him, stating he was a person of interest. They speculated that whoever he was, he was indeed connected to the mine. Which meant he more than likely lived in the village itself. But so far, no one had been spoken to, no one arrested. It was as if he were a ghost.
The line of people searching came to a clearing that looked towards the mine. The small part of woodland they needed to search showed no signs of Chloe. It was time to return to The Miners’ Arms, where they would either go home, or learn the next quadrants they intended to search before heading out again, light permitting. Neve was tired, and although she wanted to continue to look, as she landed on familiar territory of tarmac underfoot, her legs wobbled and failed her. Her father instinctively caught her before she hit the ground.
‘Neve, you need to sleep.’
‘I need to help.’
‘You can’t like this. You need to sleep, come back fresh.’
‘Dad, I’m fine.’
‘Neve, please. I know…’
‘Dad, you don’t know anything. Just leave me alone.’
Neve pulled herself away from her father and bounded towards the pub, her unsteadiness resolved by her defiance. As she entered, the noise of a thousand conversations swept over her. The energy inside was electric; the village determined to find the missing girl. The pub tables had maps rolled out, the corners held flat with pints of bitter. People were beginning to tie the laces on hiking boots and check torch batteries, ready to head out on the next wave. But, as the door closed behind her, the energy dipped as people noticed her entrance. Some sympathetic smiles were offered, as well as gentle nods of recognition. She knew they wanted to ask her about the Drifter, whether he was real or supernatural. She was glad they didn’t. Because, although she didn’t believe in ghosts, what other explanation was there?
After the brief dip with her entrance, the electricity increased as the next wave of searchers readied themselves to step into the woods, until the landlord held a radio to his ear and shouted:
‘Everyone, shut up! Something’s going on.’
Silence swept through the pub, everyone looking towards the landlord who turned up the radio and asked whoever was on the other end to repeat what they had said.
‘We’ve found something, over by the old mine entrance,’ a male voice returned, his desperation and sadness clear for everyone to hear.
‘What – what have you found?’ the landlord asked.
‘A top. We’ve found a top. It’s covered in blood.’