It’s like an alien city, a biosphere from some time in the future when we’ve forgotten how to have a soul. Harsh strip lighting bathes it yellow-grey; a half-empty Costa Coffee – bleary-eyed lorry drivers getting their late night fix – sits next to a burger joint, the rancid, fatty smell competing with the synthetic lemon disinfectant from the nearby toilets. This is no time to be composing some pretentious ode to modern Britain – the second set of toilets is exactly where I’m heading for. That’s where Gemma texted to say she’d be waiting, and Annie and I decided not to waste time questioning her decision: at least she’d be hidden away. I tried, yet again, to convince Annie that the police should be the ones to pick Gemma up, but she begged me not to call them, and the truth is, I didn’t take too much persuading. Gemma’s been through enough today without being shoved in the back of a squad car and thrown into an interview room, questions firing at her from all directions. She sounded so vulnerable on the phone, ready to give up the fight and tell me what Patrick and his team need to learn. I know Gemma well enough to know that official channels will make her silent and mutinous. Not that any of it matters right now: I’m not Patrick’s source, nor Gemma’s therapist, I’m just a person who cares deeply – too deeply – about making sure she’s OK.
I feel a deep shiver of unease as I cut through the belly of the place. Annie asked that I do this solo, save Gemma from being ripped in two by choosing between them, yet again. But now that I’m here, alone and unprotected, I’m starting to remember how many lies and half truths she’s scattered these last few weeks, a trail of breadcrumbs that I’ve doggedly followed. When my phone flashes up at me with Patrick’s name it takes all my strength not to answer. I just need to get through this, then I can call him. I pause a second, send him a single kiss, then push my way through the random stragglers who are milling around.
I push open the heavy door, my heart thumping hard in my chest.
There she is, framed by the pockmarked mirror, standing alone in the empty toilet. Our eyes meet in the dingy glass, her face pale and set, a tube of cheap-looking cherry lip balm held up to her mouth like she’s readying herself for a night out. How is it that she looks older and younger all at the same time?
‘Found you!’ I say, relief flooding my body.
‘You took a-ges.’
‘I’m here now.’ I step towards her, and she turns to face me, her vulnerability almost palpable. ‘Do you need a hug?’ I say, choking up. She nods, her sharp chin jutting downwards, and I open my arms wide. She kicks aside the tatty old rucksack that she’s got at her feet, steps into them, her heart hammering as hard as mine. She feels jerky, a frightened jack rabbit. ‘You’re safe,’ I murmur, my hand stroking her hair. I want to envelop her, keep her cocooned. ‘Your mum’s in the car. We’re going home.’
I pull away now, the sense of urgency flooding back, but Gemma seems almost rooted to the spot.
‘Thing is, Mia, my dad will always come and find me,’ she says, her voice little more than a whisper. The same words can be sculpted into so many different shapes: there’s no triumph in that statement now.
‘And you’ve got a voice,’ I say. ‘You know what you want. You didn’t want to go with him, and you haven’t – it was so brave of you. But Gemma, please, let’s go and find your mum now. We can talk about all of it when we’re in the car.’
Gemma looks back at me, blank and impassive. I feel helpless suddenly, held hostage by my own arrogant belief I could pull this off. How can I sustain an emotional connection in this bleak wasteland, the two of us stranded between a dripping tap and a scratched-up tampon dispenser? We’ve strayed so far from the safety of the four walls of my room. Her eyes pull back towards the smudgy mirror, far away from me.
‘He’s taking me to America again.’
‘Gemma, come on—’
‘He thinks I like Disneyland, but I’m too old really. Jake would still like it.’
Two more minutes and then I’m calling Annie. No, not Annie. Patrick. I’m going to give this one last try.
‘Jake’s seven, isn’t he?’
I keep my voice light, unthreatening, all the time tracking her reflection. Her eyes are cloudy, her grip shaky as she forces the pinkish sheen onto her dry, pale lips.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Everything I could find out about you, I found out. I care about you.’
‘Yeah and I found out everything I could about you,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Not cos I cared. Knowledge is power, Mia, everyone knows that. Anyway,’ she adds, voice so soft I can barely hear her, ‘you didn’t care about me, you cared about your job. And your dick boyfriend. His job.’
She knows it in her bones – she knew about me and Patrick long before I did. Poor Gemma: her curse is to always know too much.
‘That’s not true. Do you think I’d be here – risking my career, risking pretty much everything . . .’ My voice is rising now, fear and exhaustion getting the better of me. ‘If I didn’t care about you?’
Gemma stares at me, face deliberately blank, eyes stripping me down. The moment seems to stretch forever. She leans down, unzips the bulging rucksack.
‘I can’t go with you, Mia. I have to give him these.’
Papers. Reams and reams of papers, numbers closely typed. Patrick was right all along.
‘Gemma . . .’ I say, the words hard to liberate, fear closing my throat, ‘do you know how important these are?’
Of course she does. She shrugs with that infuriating fake nonchalance.
‘He told me to keep them at school. It was the safest place.’
‘The day he left? When he dropped you off?’
She looks away.
‘My locker was a state anyway. Bit more crap in there. No one knew.’ She looks back at me, defiant. ‘They never cleared it out when I left.’
We need to get out of here. She needs to want to get out of here. If she doesn’t, he’ll always be swooping overhead like that eagle she imagined, waiting to spirit her away.
‘Gemma, I know how much you love him, I really do. It’s not wrong for you to love him.’ I force her to look at me. ‘But I want you to love you too! Like your mum loves you, and your brothers. Everything you’ve done today tells me you don’t want to go with him. You want a normal life. You deserve a normal life. You can love him without giving him everything, Gemma.’ The truth of it fells me, tears streaming down my face. ‘You’re not his life support. You don’t have to keep him safe from harm.’
That’s when she collapses onto me, her slight frame racked with sobs, her foot viciously kicking out at the rucksack, papers flying across the sticky floor. Maybe it’s the force of my wanting it for her, but it feels as though his hold on her is draining out of her.
‘I love you, Mia,’ she says, her face buried in my chest.
‘I love you too,’ I say.
‘Don’t leave me again. Promise you won’t leave me.’
Can I promise that? I wish I could. She doesn’t deserve any more lies.
‘You’ll always be part of my heart. Always.’
‘Is Mum really angry with me?’
‘No. She just wants you home. It’s time we went and found her.’
We pull apart, finally ready to go, but before we reach the door it starts to swing open. It’s a miracle really that it’s taken so long for anyone to come in here. A miracle or a nightmare? Because there, right in front of me, stands Christopher Vine.