Heather, the police liaison woman, is very nice, but I wish she’d fuck off. I haven’t slept for days and I’m really not in the mood for a stranger in the house. She keeps offering to make me cups of tea, and encouraging me to talk about Amy, but I know what she’s doing, she’s trying to find out if I know any more than I’m letting on. Yes, there are things I’m not telling her, there’s stuff that goes back years, but none of that matters now.
As I said to Richard, it’s too little too late, Amy could be anywhere by now. If Tony’s taken her, who knows where he’s sailed off on his yacht, they could be anywhere in the Med now or anywhere else for that matter.
Richard says I’m being paranoid because I’m stressed and sleep-deprived, and I just need to let the police to do their job. But what I really need is for Heather to stop playing the female lead in a detective drama. There’s nothing to see here, Heather. She turned up yesterday, which was Tuesday, but the day doesn’t really concern me at the moment, each one bleeds into the next and all I know is that today, Wednesday, Amy has been missing for four days.
I hate the waiting, the hanging around, the endless cups of fucking tea. I don’t drink tea! Sometimes I have this urge to go back to Aberystwyth again, see if I can find Amy, walking along the wintery pebble beach, mustard jumper, red scarf, her hair flying behind her. I dreamt of this last night, and when I caught up with her, she turned round and said, ‘Oh hi, Mum, I’ve been so busy,’ and disappeared into thin air.
I wish I was there instead of here. I’m like an animal trying to escape pain, but it’s inside me and I know I’ll take it with me wherever I go. But for now I’m stuck here with Heather pretending we’re best friends.
‘How do you all get on?’ Heather asked after she’d been here about four minutes, and ‘What’s Richard like as a father?’ I told her, ‘He’s fine, he’s a good father.’ Then she started asking me all about my life with Tony, of which I gave her edited highlights.
I hate that our lives are being laid out on the police petri dish, infinitesimal flaws scrutinised under a microscope where every imperfection is magnified and made more significant than it really is.
This morning Heather’s obsessing about the fact that I have ‘a close relationship’ with my daughter, and ‘have been known to panic when she doesn’t call for a matter of hours’.
‘That happened, yes. I thought she’d drowned at the lido,’ I say, knowing Heather had spotted my 999 call from last summer in the bloody notes.
‘But she was fine,’ Heather says, nodding.
‘On that occasion, yes. I think as parents we all have those moments,’ I say, knowing she thinks I’m unstable and blowing this out of all proportion. Everyone hears of the dangers of teenagers drowning in the summer – okay, it’s usually in lakes or reservoirs, but I’d seen the number of people who congregated at the lido on those warm July days and the rather young, vain lifeguards who sat preening themselves rather than keeping an eye on the swimmers.
Of course, like everyone else, Heather’s got me pigeon-holed as the mad mother. This isn’t helped by the fact that both Richard and Zoe still keep stressing to anyone who’ll listen that Amy’s probably gone off ‘to think about everything’.
‘I have a daughter of a similar age to Amy,’ Heather’s saying. She isn’t even dressed like a policewoman, she’s wearing a powder-blue jumper and slacks, very non-threatening, and presumably worn in the vain hope that devastated people will think of her as a friend. And tell her everything.
Not always they won’t, Heather.
‘Good, so if you have a daughter, you’ll understand what I’m going through,’ I say. ‘And if… what’s her name?’
‘Ella, her name’s Ella.’
We can both play the psychologist’s game, Heather.
‘Okay, if Ella is anything like Amy, you’ll know that she would not go AWOL without telling you.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ She’s shaking her head and looking doubtful.
‘Well, as far as Amy’s concerned, I am sure. This is the girl who calls me at midnight to dissect a row she’s just had over whose fridge shelf belongs to whom. She texts me updates of her day every few hours, from the sandwich she had for lunch, to what her lecturer said about her essay, to what a stranger said in the coffee queue at Starbucks – everything. And because we’re so close I could probably tell you what she had for supper every evening last week, and who’s on her in list and her out list, what she loves this week, or who annoyed her and what was said. I know that Becky is irritating, with the way she leaves her hair straighteners on the kitchen table. I know Emily is noisy in the bedroom, and that Ahmed bought her a muffin at the university canteen…’
I stop for breath, while Heather just nods slowly and smiles, seemingly unperturbed by my passionate diatribe. She’s like my therapist – I’m expecting for her to say, ‘And how does that make you feel?’ any minute now. I suppose she’s used to it; as a family liaison officer, it’s her job to listen to the ranting of people driven insane by the loss of loved ones.
‘What I’m saying is that I know my daughter,’ I repeat, and an image comes unbidden of Amy meeting Tony without telling me, and Amy and Richard meeting up to discuss what had happened. And then there’s the fact that Amy and Josh aren’t even together anymore, and I had no idea. Why so many secrets, Amy? Then again, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.
‘Yes, I hear you…’ Heather says. ‘I sometimes wonder though if mobile phones are a blessing or a curse. When I think about what I got up to at Amy’s age, I’m glad I didn’t have my mum calling me every five minutes.’
‘No, they’re a blessing. And as I’m not the kind of mother who calls Amy “every five minutes”, it isn’t a problem,’ I add pointedly, aware she’s still smiling and nodding. I feel like everyone has this theory that I’m an obsessive mother who won’t leave Amy alone. Heather’s not the only one who seems to be under this impression, but the poor woman’s like a police punchbag; though it’s frustrating to throw it all at her as she just soaks it up. I wish she’d retaliate, give me something to argue with, but everyone’s treading on eggshells around me. I know they’re all thinking the same, that Amy’s escaped her smothering mother.
I glance at Heather who’s paid to sit on strangers’ sofas on the worst days of their lives and watch them spew their anger and fear. What else can she do but smile and nod in the face of all this pain and anguish?
I become aware of a noise, then realise it’s me as a huge, racking sob starts deep inside my chest and pushes its way out.
Immediately, Zoe comes in, she’s been in the kitchen making lunch with Jodie and Josh. She sweeps me into her arms and embraces me as I sob and talk and make no sense.
‘I don’t know what she had to eat for dinner last night,’ I say, stuttering through the tears. ‘And I… I know she hasn’t been in the university canteen, because I’ve called them for the past two days and asked if there was a girl in there with long blonde hair wearing a red-checked scarf.’
‘Oh, Kat, you’re torturing yourself,’ Zoe’s saying, while Heather makes a discreet exit.
Eventually the guttural sobs subside and Zoe goes back into the kitchen, passing Heather, who’s returning with more cups of bloody tea. She’s carrying two mugs, gives one to me and puts the other on the coffee table for herself – it has the photo of a pug on the front. It’s Amy’s mug. I have to stop myself from asking her not to use it. I’m being irrational and I know it.
‘The station just rang me, and CCTV can’t place Amy at any of the railway stations she may have used to come home,’ she announces.
‘So she never set off for home?’ I ask.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Heather says, taking a sip from my missing daughter’s mug. ‘You were expecting her, weren’t you?’
‘Yes – I was,’ I say, having been asked this question so many times I’m beginning to question myself. ‘She just didn’t specify what day or what train.’
‘Kat, there’s something else…’ she starts to shift in the chair and I brace myself for what she’s about to say. I’ve acquired a sixth sense in the time Amy’s been missing – people, even police liaison officers – shift in their seat when they’re about to ask or tell me something difficult.
‘We checked Amy’s bank records, and on Saturday afternoon all her money was taken out of her student account from a cashline in Aberystwyth.’
‘Oh…’ I don’t breathe. ‘What does this mean?’
‘At this stage it’s hard to tell, but it could place her in Aberystwyth at that time.’
‘Yes – yes it could, couldn’t it? Perhaps she took the money and left the area after all?’ I say, relieved at this possibility, this chink of light in the darkness.
‘Or it might be that her bank card has been used by someone else.’
Immediately I come crashing down. Of course, I didn’t think of that in my current blurred state that only wants to hear what I want to hear.
We both sit in silence while I let this information in.
‘What do you think has happened to Amy?’ she suddenly says.
‘I don’t know.’ I feel tied up in knots. She’s making me paranoid.
‘Do you know what happened to her, Kat?’
‘No! Of course I don’t, what are you trying to say?’
‘Nothing, and please don’t take offence. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate that everyone has to be considered in this scenario.’
I’m not convinced that was just a routine question, and I’m not sure what I should or shouldn’t tell her. I don’t want to get into the whole birthday fallout – nor do I want to go into all the Tony stuff that I believe isn’t relevant. So I just speak from the heart.
‘As one mum to another, Heather,’ I say, ‘all I can tell you is that every nerve in my body is telling me she’s been hurt, taken… and that’s all I know.’
I’ve seen enough crime dramas to realise that as soon as someone goes missing, whoever they are, the family are the first focus. I know Heather’s only doing her job, but I feel like I’m constantly defending everything about my life, the way I behave, my relationship with my child, my marriage. And even the fact that my daughter is actually missing!
‘Do you think you worry too much?’ Zoe says to me later.
We’ve just had a sandwich lunch and Jodie and Josh are in the kitchen on Jodie’s laptop while Zoe and I are in the sitting room.
‘Worry too much about Amy, you mean? I suppose I do. Richard says I wrap her up in cotton wool, but I don’t.’
Zoe raises her eyebrows; she clearly thinks the same.
‘Heather sees me as this mother figure straight out of a Stephen King novel. It’s not like I make Amy pray for hours, wash her mouth with soap, ban boyfriends and deny the existence of menstruation,’ I say, in an attempt to get this into perspective.
Zoe laughs at this. ‘Not quite!’
‘Not at all!’ I say, surprised at the implication. ‘You sound like Richard – just because he doesn’t understand our closeness, it doesn’t make it weird,’ I add.
‘Oh God, what an insult, I sound like Richard?’ She laughs.
‘No, it’s just that Richard didn’t have a close relationship with either of his parents so judges my close parenting by those standards – he just doesn’t understand,’ I back-pedal. ‘And if I’m honest, Zoe, I’m beginning to question everything, even myself. Everything is a blur and I don’t know what’s real anymore. Heather asked me if Amy said she was definitely coming home, and I know she did – but the longer she’s missing, the more the conversations we had become blurry.’
‘Do you have a text from her telling you she was coming home?’ Zoe asks, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees.
‘No, that’s it. We talked on the phone about it, and I’m only questioning it because everyone keeps asking me. I’m sure, really. She said she was excited about coming home – had loads to tell me.’
I see the way she’s staring at me and I’m slightly uncomfortable.
‘Kat…’ she starts. ‘Do you know more than you’re telling the police – or any of us? Do you know where Amy is, love?’
‘No, no… Zoe, how can you say that?’
‘Sorry, love, I just had to ask. As your friend I had to ask.’
‘Please don’t ask me again,’ I say, with tears in my eyes. And I see the tears in her eyes, the sympathy on her face and know she’s just being a good friend.
‘As uncomfortable and difficult as it was for me to ask – you understand why I had to?’
I just nod, unable to speak, because if I do I might cry again, and I’m not sure I could stop.
Later, when Zoe’s gone, Richard’s asleep in bed and everywhere’s quiet, I scroll Amy’s Instagram looking at the photos and allow myself to cry. Freshers’ Week, just eight weeks ago, her Instagram spewed stories and photos with classmates, and flatmates usually in fancy dress. It began with selfies of perfectly made faces that seemed to disintegrate as each photo was taken as the evenings wore on. By midnight there’d be blurry photos and shaky videos of Amy and her friends hugging each other in the street, and by 3 a.m. they’d be falling out of nightclubs, lipstick and mascara a memory.
Those online photos – of this new, exciting time Amy was having – gave me great joy. I was happy because she was happy – and a 4 a.m. video of my daughter dancing in a dimly lit venue was strangely comforting. It meant she was okay, alive, and enjoying herself. And, trust me, the two magic words, “active now”, on her social media, are the most wonderful words a mother can see in the wee small hours when her child’s far from home.
‘I just know her…’ I murmur to myself, and think back to earlier when just before she left, Zoe had tried in her way to prepare me for what might happen next.
‘Love – don’t just assume Amy didn’t do something because you don’t think she would. Our kids surprise us, and at this age they change daily – your version of Amy might not be exactly who she is anymore.’
My version of Amy? I’m not even sure what that is now.