It doesn’t take me long to find a taxi.
I say the name of the street, terrified that the driver will wrinkle his brow: that he will tell me such a place doesn’t exist. But he simply pulls away from the pavement.
As we move through the streets, I stare out of the window, looking for things I recognize. For a long time, there is nothing: it is too dark to see much. Then we pass a newsagent on the corner, and I can smell the damp rubber of the mat, see the lines of cigarette packets behind the counter.
We drive down a street lined with skinny, leafless trees, and a strange sensation passes through me, as if I am falling from a great height. This is it, I think, I recognize it. This is the street.
‘What number?’ the taxi driver says.
‘Fourteen,’ I answer, surprising myself.
I climb out and look up at the building. It’s smaller than I remember, but it is the same house. There are lights on in most of the windows, and I can see the flickering of a television screen behind the curtain in the front room. There is a path which runs through a small front garden, and I feel my mother grasp hold of my hand and pull me along it, towards the blue front door. I hear her complaining. Come on, Elise. I see my small hand, wrapped in her bigger one.
I stand in a tiled porch with a low seat on either side. I reach up to ring the doorbell, and see a hand with long red-painted fingernails. As I press it, the hand is mine again, the fingernails bitten to the quick.
I hear the familiar bell ring out, and panic. There are noises beyond and I begin to wonder what I will do if my mother or father opens the door. Quickly, I try to work out how old my father would be now. Seventy-seven, I think, as the hinges begin to creak.
Standing on the doorstep is a woman in her early thirties with dark brown hair and small neat pearl earrings.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
‘I’m looking for someone who used to live here, some time ago,’ I say.
‘Well, we’ve been here for six years,’ she says.
‘There was a man and a woman living here,’ I say, wishing I could remember their names. I grasp after anything else I know. ‘It was over twenty years ago.’
‘I don’t think I can help you,’ she says. She moves to close the door.
‘They’re my parents,’ I cry out, and the door stops moving. ‘I’ve lost touch with them, and I need to find them.’
She looks round the edge of the door at me. ‘Do you want to come in?’ she asks.
She turns around, and I follow her into the house, shutting the door behind me. The hallway is dim, the walls green, cluttered with kids’ shoes and school bags. As I walk through, I hear a girl’s laughter echo down the wide wooden staircase.
‘How many children do you have?’ I ask.
‘Three boys,’ she says, without turning around.
‘I have a son too,’ I say. ‘But he’s grown up now.’
I stop in the doorway of the kitchen. There’s a woman standing by the sink with her back to us, her long dark blonde hair falling over her shoulders. I watch her hands as she takes a plate from the water, washes it, and puts it on the draining board. She is looking out of the window, at the garden. As she begins to turn her head towards me, she is gone.
When I look up, the woman is watching me.
‘I grew up here,’ I say.
‘It’s a great house.’
‘Do you know anything about the people who lived here before you?’
‘Not much. They were an older couple, though. We did the sale through an agent so we didn’t find out much about them.’
‘Did you ever meet them?’
‘No,’ she says.
‘And you wouldn’t know where they moved on to?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. But you’re welcome to look around the house if you want to.’
‘I should probably be getting back,’ I say. ‘I’m staying with my son and I don’t want him to worry.’ The woman looks relieved. ‘Do you think I could maybe come back another day and have a look? I have a lot of memories in this house, and as I mentioned, I lost touch with my parents. It would mean a lot to me.’
‘If I’m here, I’m happy to let you look around,’ she says.
I follow her out of the kitchen and back through the hallway.
‘Thank you,’ I say, when we reach the doorway. ‘And thanks for answering my questions.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,’ she says. ‘I’m Lucy, by the way.’ She holds her hand out to me. ‘Elise,’ I say, taking it in mine.
*
In the taxi on the way back to Kylan’s, I try to think what I can do next. Maybe I can find the newspaper article my picture is from: it will be about a missing girl and not a car crash. I will take Kylan back to the valley, and we will look under the house. Then he will have to believe me.
I turn the key in the lock and walk into the hallway, dropping the key on the table.
A figure appears further down the corridor. I move closer and see it is Katya.
‘It’s all right, Kylan,’ she calls, ‘she’s here.’
I turn the corner into the kitchen and see Kylan on the phone.
‘She’s just walked in,’ he says into the receiver. ‘She looks fine.’ A pause. ‘I’ll let you know. Thanks, Dad.’
Kylan puts the phone back onto the hook.
‘We’ve been so worried, Mum,’ Kylan says. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I just popped out for a walk,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ he says. ‘I came in to check on you, and you were gone.’
‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ I say.
‘I was about to phone the police,’ Kylan says.
‘Kylan,’ I say, ‘I’m a grown woman. Don’t you think I can take care of myself?’
Kylan doesn’t say anything.
‘I’m glad you’re back safely,’ he says. ‘We’d better go to bed. It’s getting late, and we have work in the morning.’
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the corridor, wanting to explain again.