26th November 2019
Night
It had been over twenty-four hours since Georgia failed to show at the hut, and still no one knew where she was. Rumours had started to spread around the village – another missing. Georgia, like Jamie, had disappeared without a trace. We had been out, searching half the night for her, and all I managed to find was a chill that crept into my bones and the niggling tingle in the back of my throat which threatened to become a cold. Baz called the police late last night to report her missing, and because of Jamie, they took it seriously and began to widen their search, starting by asking us what we knew about her last movements. It was good that they were being proactive in finding both Jamie and now Georgia. But bad news travels fast, and just after dawn, more people descended onto the village. I hadn’t seen it myself, but there were whisperings of the BBC being here. This wasn’t local news anymore. This was beginning to capture the nation.
Baz understandably seemed to struggle more than the rest with Georgia going missing. He hadn’t slept and refused to, because he’d been the last to see her as she had been to his house the evening before, where they had dinner together. It meant that the police asked a few more questions of him than the rest of us. I wasn’t sure if they were trying to get a picture of her mental state or seeking to establish if he was someone they should be watching. The police also asked Georgia’s dad to come in. It was likely he’d confirm she was home the time Baz stated, and then got up for work as per usual yesterday morning. They would probably ascertain his mental wellbeing as well as hers. I could only imagine how it must have felt to be speaking with the police again. When she hadn’t come home for lunch, Georgia’s dad hadn’t thought much of it, and it wasn’t until just before six that he began to wonder where she was – and in that time that none of us had seen her, Georgia had vanished.
Just like Jamie.
Just like Chloe.
I’d only come back to help find Jamie, but the combination of seeing the Drifter, the stuff with Dad and now this, made me unsure if I would ever get out. I knew how selfish I was being. I had become that person who was stuck in a traffic jam, complaining about the accident ahead rather than being grateful that I wasn’t involved in it. I couldn’t stop myself feeling frustrated.
The problem was, with the place being so small, so claustrophobic, I wasn’t just figuratively a prisoner. When dawn arrived and people began to discover what was going on, I became effectively housebound, as I had no intention of talking to anyone about what was going on, locals or media alike. Even if I did want to leave my dad’s house – go to the shop to get a bottle of wine or escape to the pub for a few much-needed drinks – I couldn’t. Gossip was ripe, sweet and sticky, a fruit that was falling apart, making an awful mess, and we were all in the middle of it.
So I stayed inside, chatting to the group intermittently on WhatsApp through the day, and waited for something. Esther rang around 3 p.m. waking me from a fitful sleep, as I’d not called the night before. She told me she had just seen the village on the mid-afternoon report on Sky News. She begged me again to leave, come back, but I couldn’t.
From the safety of my dad’s living room, I watched the streets outside get busier with the quiet ramblings of people, nipping to the village centre. They came back with pints of milk, loaves of bread, but really, I knew most were just being nosy, finding an excuse to go out so they could pass the pub to see what was happening. I didn’t judge them for their curious nature, or wanting their fifteen minutes of fame, but did wonder if anyone would care if the same thing happened in London. Probably not; definitely not.
Besides curtain-twitching, and speaking to Esther, the day dragged endlessly as we waited for something. Even the group chat with the others, which seemed fervent earlier in the day, had silenced. We were all holding our breath.
As evening descended, I made Dad and me a pasta bake for tea. Thankfully, he seemed less tense than I felt, and making sure he was comfortable, and the doors were locked, I told him that if anyone knocked, he shouldn’t answer. He agreed, but didn’t question why. I took myself to bed, just after nine. I wasn’t tired, just anxious, and I needed time to process the past few days quietly, alone. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my phone pinged. My first thought, even with everything that was happening, was that it might be Oliver. He knew very little about my childhood, but he knew I was from here. I quickly dismissed it and then wished I’d told him more when I’d had the chance. Knowing it would be from the group chat, or, possibly Esther who wanted to make sure I was still all right, I reached for it. To my surprise, I saw it was a text message from Michael, sent directly to me.
I looked at the message, confused. I couldn’t help but feel a little guarded. I’m OK. The waiting is tough.
Already, three dots appeared as he wrote another. I waited to see what he had to say before offering anymore.
I hesitated; what if we were needed here? What if Georgia was found? What if Jamie turned up? More importantly – what did Michael want from me? Even though I wanted nothing more than to get out of the village, I wasn’t sure I should. Michael, perhaps sensing my hesitation, messaged again.
He was right, of course. We wouldn’t be disappearing; we were easy to reach. Besides, having time to ask questions and fill in the gaps of the past twenty years I’d not pieced together would probably help, and I knew a few drinks would definitely help.
Rolling out of bed I opened my bag and pulled out the last clean top I had packed. Dressing, I didn’t give myself a second look before heading downstairs. Dad was in his chair, dozing. When I gently touched his shoulder, he stirred.
‘You all right?’ he asked, concern on his face. The man who was cold and uninterested when I first arrived had been transformed.
‘Yes, Dad, I’m just popping out for a bit.’
‘OK, love. I’ll be here,’ he smiled, and in that moment, I felt the need to kiss my father again, the urge was too strong. Leaning in, I kissed him on the cheek, and as I pulled back, I could see something soft in the way he looked at me. The man who was once so tender, so kind, was coming back.
‘See you later, Dad.’
‘Don’t get into any trouble.’
Outside I heard a car pull up, and looking through the curtain, I could see Michael in the driver’s seat. Putting on my shoes and coat, I stepped into the freezing cold air and climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi. God, it’s cold.’
‘Miserable.’
‘So, where are we going?’
‘I thought we’d head to a pub I like on the outskirts of Nottingham. No one will care about what’s going on here.’
‘But it’s all over the news.’
‘It is, and those who care are here.’
He smiled; he was likely right. ‘Sounds perfect, I need a drink.’
‘Me too, but only one, obviously.’
Michael pulled away and as we drove, we chatted aimlessly. We didn’t talk of the village, the mine, of Jamie or Georgia. They were all there, hidden behind our words and the pauses between breaths. I spoke of the café, of Esther. Told him about where I lived in London, and my flat, for which I was beginning to feel homesick, and he told me about his car garage on the outskirts of the village. I didn’t realise quite how well he was doing. He had taken over his uncle’s dilapidated old shed and turned it into the best car mechanic’s in the area. I could tell it was something he loved; just like my little café with Esther, before everything went wrong.
We arrived and Michael pulled into a large pub car park besides a grand old Tudor building. As I climbed out, I looked at the sign. A picture of Robin Hood stood under its name, The Archer’s Inn. Once inside, heat warmed my cheeks from the fire blazing away. I felt the tension in my shoulders melt like butter on freshly made toast. Finding a small table, nestled between two high-backed chairs I told Michael to sit as I went to the bar to buy the first round. I went for a JD and Diet Coke, something to warm me, and Michael asked for a pint. Returning, I handed him his drink, which he took, then turned his phone over, so the screen was face down. For a moment, sitting opposite each other, neither of us spoke. I guess we had to make sure his theory was correct, and no one cared about us – no eyes cast our way, asking questions.
It didn’t take long for me to ask the one thing I wanted to know above all others. ‘Michael, do people hate me?’
He considered my question for a moment, which told me what came out of his mouth would be the truth. One I so desperately needed.
‘Not now,’ he said. ‘Yes, when Holly told us you were coming back, it wasn’t well received, and if I’m honest I said I didn’t want to know. But you did come back, and you’re different.’
‘We’re all different,’ I added.
‘We are, but you seem to understand what you did back then. I don’t hate you anymore.’
‘I shouldn’t have run away from it all.’
‘No, you shouldn’t have.’
‘I’ve regretted it ever since.’
‘Have you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course. I was scared, Michael.’
‘Well, the rest of us, we couldn’t run away, we stuck together. We helped each other through it.’
‘How was it, after I went?’
‘Baz cried for weeks. Georgia barely spoke. Even though her dad was never charged, it ruined them both. Holly tried to keep our spirits up, she obsessed over it, every detail. It really affected her.’
‘I didn’t know…’
‘No, you didn’t. I developed a little drug problem, and Jamie… well, Jamie was never the same.’
‘I’m so sorry. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but I struggled too.’
‘Did you?’ he said sceptically.
‘Yes, I had bad dreams, night terrors really. I still get them now. Not every day, like when I was young, a few times a month, maybe?’
‘Dreams, that’s hardly—’
I cut him off, I don’t know why, but I needed him to know that I suffered with the group.
‘I tried uni, I studied business management. I wanted to be a CEO of a big firm, you know. But in second year I had what they called an “episode”. It came from nothing really, I don’t even remember most of it…’ I hesitated as I was transported back to the busy university bar: the screaming, kicking, biting. My friends trying to hold me down. The roof was coming in, or so I thought. And then hospital.
‘A brief psychotic episode, they called it,’ I said quietly, before looking to Michael who smiled back sympathetically.
‘Sounds rough.’
‘We’ve all had it rough, haven’t we? And now two of us are missing.’
‘And the Drifter is back,’ he said, but I wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question.
‘I’m so sure I’ve seen him again, but I’m also aware I might just be imagining it as way of coping being back here. Or perhaps I’m having another episode. I don’t know. I didn’t heal from it; I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. It doesn’t excuse leaving, but I suffered too, Michael. I still do.’
Standing up, I went to the bar and got myself another drink. Looking back to gesture to Michael to join me, he shook his head, telling me he was fine. He and I watched each other from across the bar, as they poured me a double shot this time, our looks conveying all of the things unsaid over the past two decades. When I rejoined him, he held my eye and we both took a large mouthful of our drinks.
From there, the conversation moved on to more positive things. Michael spoke of both Georgia and Jamie turning up, saying there had to be a rational explanation for what was going on – and for a while, I bought into it. The Drifter was a manifestation of my own guilt, Georgia was still pissed off that I was back and had left the village to clear her head, and Jamie would return, ashamed of his absence and worrying people. And I let myself imagine it would all happen soon, and then life would go back to normal.
As Michael got up to order my third JD and his second pint, I looked around the room. I watched the people who looked calm, happy, oblivious to what was going on. At the bar was a couple, probably a few years younger than me. I watched as the man leant in and whispered something in his partner’s ear. She giggled at his comment and swept her long, dark hair out of the way so she could feel his touch as he leant in to say more. She laughed again, louder this time and lifted her head up, exposing a small tattoo near her shoulder, three small waves. I wondered what they meant, if anything at all. Then, she looked at me and it was like she knew. Her expression became serious, penetrating. She gave me a smile that was full of empathy. One that told me she was like me somehow. I thought that maybe she recognised me, but it wasn’t that. It was something else, something that connected us. I smiled back, and she turned her attention to her partner beside her once more. I considered the couple a little while longer. Had they experienced trauma, grief, loss? It was hard to believe; they looked content in one another’s world. They looked happy. And then I thought of Oliver.
Michael came back with our drinks and I drank mine a little too quickly, the alcohol beginning to make my head swim.
‘I missed you after you left,’ he said, snapping me from my thoughts.
‘Did you? I missed you too.’
‘Bullshit,’ he said, smiling a sad smile. ‘I used to have such a thing for you.’
His comment caught me off guard. ‘What?’
‘Don’t make me say it again,’ he said, his cheeks reddening.
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Because I was shy I guess; besides, you and Jamie were…’
He stopped himself and took three big sips of his pint. The silence that hung between us wasn’t a comfortable one, but I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, before I had a chance to speak, he moved on from his revelation.
‘It was a shit time back then,’ he eventually said, his eyes focusing on the space just above the top of his pint glass. ‘It brought out the worst in everyone. The village was a community, and despite the differences, people got on, people helped each other. But that place died when Chloe did.’
I took a breath to say something but stopped myself.
He continued, ‘Everyone was so angry.’
‘At who?’
‘At us.’
‘Why?’
‘Once it was clear Georgia’s dad wasn’t a killer, and when they couldn’t find out who the Drifter really was, they needed someone to blame, and as they started to think we were lying they blamed us. We made up a killer, we gave hope when it wasn’t there to give.’
‘But the Drifter was real.’
‘I know that, we all know that. But no one saw him but us, did they?’
I couldn’t help but feel he was accusing me of something.
‘You know the rest, the media lost interest, moved on to other stories in other places. But we couldn’t move on, we had nowhere to go. You know how weird it was to watch Chloe’s coffin be carried towards the cemetery, knowing there was no body inside?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I said quietly, ashamed I wasn’t there.
He held my eye for a little longer than perhaps he should. ‘Jamie really struggled with that aspect of it all. The empty coffin. It haunted him more than the Drifter ever could. More than that night down the mine ever could.’
There it was again: the darkness, the banging, blind panic separating us. The Drifter separating us. I fidgeted in my chair; Michael was talking of things we promised never to say out loud. I was about to open my mouth and stop him talking when his phone rang, breaking his stare. He turned over his phone, looked at the caller ID, and then back to me. ‘It’s Baz.’
I watched his face, reading the fine lines and micro expressions as Baz said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t need to. The colour drained from Michael’s face.
‘We’ve got to go back.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘They’ve found something.’
Getting up he put on his coat as he walked quickly to the exit and the car. I struggled to keep up and, stepping outside, I was stunned to see it had started raining. Dashing across the car park, using my coat as an umbrella, I climbed in beside Michael who had fired up the engine before I had even closed the door. Shifting it into reverse he aggressively navigated the car into the middle of the car park, before wheel spinning in the gravel to get his car moving forward.
‘Michael, what did Baz say? What’s going on?’
Focusing on the road ahead, the window wipers barely making any difference in the deluge, he replied, his voice shaking, afraid.
‘Georgia’s top… they found Georgia’s top, and it’s covered in blood.’