8
Elise
“The police were here earlier.” When Andrew comes in, I watch his face for a reaction to my announcement; see the split-second freeze before he continues as though it meant nothing. “They were asking about Hollie.”
This time, his reaction is unmistakeable. “I hope you told them that girl is nothing but trouble.” His voice is abrupt, cold. “She’s probably run off with a boyfriend. We all know she’s more than capable of it.”
“James is really worried,” I tell him, taken aback by the harshness of his words. “Niamh hasn’t heard from her. It isn’t at all like Hollie to do this.”
“That’s nonsense, Elise, as you well know. That girl doesn’t care who she upsets.”
That he could be so utterly callous in the face of a teenage girl’s disappearance appalls me. Then I remember the photo he was looking at on his phone. It was of a girl, not dissimilar to Hollie. Not for the first time, I wonder if my husband is into porn; if maybe that’s why he froze when I mentioned the police visit.
“Andrew, that photo—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“That wasn’t what you think it was,” he snaps. “Do you know how many men with frigid wives look at photos of pretty girls?”
But before I can respond, my phone buzzes. My heart is in my mouth as I see an unknown number flashing up on my screen. Turning away, I answer it.
“Elise Buckley.” I listen for a moment, glance at Andrew, then walk a few steps away from him. “I’m sorry... I can’t talk right now. Can I call you back?” I speak as quietly as I can, but when I end the call and put my phone down, Andrew’s staring at me.
“My God.” His words are mocking, a look of sheer disbelief on his face. But I see it for what it is. He isn’t interested. It’s simply a deflection of attention onto me.
“Whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t that,” I say wearily, knowing there’s nothing Andrew would like more than to point his finger and find me guilty, as if my having an affair would somehow validate his own extramarital activities.
“Tell me who that was.” He barks it out, an order he expects me to obey. As he comes to stand directly in front of me, his presence is suddenly menacing.
“No.” Shaking my head, I reach for my phone to keep it away from him.
“Give me your phone.” Holding his hand out, he tries to snatch it from me.
Putting my phone in my pocket, I manage to evade him. “It’s nothing to do with you, Andrew.” Summoning all my dignity, I turn away. “Now if you’ll excuse me...” As I start to walk away from him, I’m aware that I’m holding my breath, knowing how much he hates being crossed. But I’ve barely gone two steps before I feel him grab my arm, his fingers closing tightly, roughly pinching my skin. I spin around. “How dare you!” I stare at him, trying not to show my fear. “You’re the one who’s screwing around. You don’t even care who knows it. You’re despicable.” I hear Niamh move around upstairs and shake my arm free of his grip. “There’s only one reason I’m here—and that’s Niamh. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Lying bitch,” he mutters.
Hearing Niamh’s footsteps on the stairs, I step back, flashing him a warning look. Then as she comes into the kitchen, I turn toward her. “I was just telling your father about the police being here earlier.” My tone deliberately light, I glance at Andrew. “I’ve told them where the practice is. I’m sure they’ll be in touch.”
I turn to Niamh again. “I’ve made chicken curry. Can you set the table?” But under my mask of calm, a torrent of anger rages inside me at Andrew’s complete lack of respect for me. I should be upstairs packing, removing myself and Niamh from this toxic house, from Andrew’s life, then calling the police, listing the abuse he inflicts on us. Being here isn’t good for Niamh. But then a sense of powerlessness overwhelms me. Andrew will never let her go. He’s made that clear—nor can I leave her here alone. I’m trapped.
* * *
It isn’t until the next day, when Andrew’s at work and Niamh is still in her room, that I return the call from yesterday, dialing the number with shaking hands, sounding matter-of-fact when an unfamiliar voice answers; waiting as I’m connected.
“Hello. It’s Elise Buckley. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you before.” As I listen, I feel my world slip sideways. “Oh. Friday? I think that’s fine.” Swallowing, I rack my brain as I try to remember when I’m working. “Yes. Thank you.”
After ending the call, I turn to see Niamh standing there. I wonder how much of the conversation she’s overheard, but I can’t read her face. “Are you OK, Niamh?”
Going to the fridge, she nods. After getting out a can of Coke, she says calmly, “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?”
My response is too quick, my gasp too loud. “Of course we’re not. What makes you think that?”
The way she shrugs, then turns in a single fluid movement, reminds me of Hollie. “That phone call?” When I don’t reply, she goes on. “It isn’t just that. You argue all the time. Dad’s never here. When he is, he eats on his own.” I’m astonished when I see tears glitter in her eyes.
Walking toward her, I put my hands firmly on her shoulders. “We are not getting a divorce.” I speak with a ferocious determination. “I know things seem a bit difficult just now. But we’ll get over it. You mustn’t worry.” Then I pause. “Have you spoken to your father about this?”
“Yes.” Her answer shocks me, that she’s talked to Andrew at all, let alone that she’s talked to him before me.
I stare at her, incredulous. “What did he say?”
She shrugs again. “Not much.” She breaks off, then her clear gray eyes look piercingly into mine. “He laughed. Then he said you’d never leave him.”
As she says that, my heart breaks for her. She’s a pawn. He’s using her, doing what I’ve always dreaded he’d do, drawing Niamh into his cat-and-mouse games with me. In that moment, I’ve never hated him more. I imagine him laughing, unkindly, cruelly, knowing he doesn’t care what Niamh sees, how she feels. He doesn’t protect her, look out for her. The only person who can do that is me. “He’s right. I won’t.” As I gaze steadily at my daughter, the web I’m caught in tightens.
Niamh’s nod is barely perceptible. Not knowing how else to reassure her, I play it down, changing the subject. “I had an email from your school. They should have the heating fixed by tomorrow. If the roads are clear, they’ll open again the day after. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Hollie?”
“No.” Niamh walks over to the window, gazing ahead. “Where do you suppose she is?”
I go over and stand next to her, making out a flurry of snowflakes in the dim light outside. “I don’t know. It’s only been two days. Most likely, she’s at someone’s house somewhere.” I break off, because no one knows, and because the more time passes, the more worrying her absence becomes. In temperatures like this, she wouldn’t survive living rough.
“I’m scared.” Niamh wraps her arms around her narrow body. “I want to know what’s happened.”
“I know.” I feel exactly the same. “How do you and Hollie usually keep in touch?”
“Messenger,” Niamh says briefly. “Sometimes Instagram. But, you know. Mostly, she just turns up.”
“Try not to worry.” I place an arm around her shoulders. “She’ll be OK. We have to believe that she will turn up. I’m sure the police are doing everything they can.”
But I’m not sure. There are no rules when teenagers go missing, just as too many lives are cut short for all the wrong reasons. Right now, Hollie could be anywhere.