She woke with a lethargic moan, her throbbing head breaking the silence of the room. Astrid’s fingers slipped through spilt bourbon and floating dead ants. Her teeth were like a ticket someone forgot to remove from a vending machine, and there was something stuck between her lips. She pulled it out and stared at a stub for a free packet of wine gums from the local shop, not even a lottery ticket. She had no idea how it had got there. Then she glanced at the empty minibar and recalled a late-night stagger from the hotel to the nearest convenience store.
As hangovers went, it wasn’t the worst she’d had. The aching in her skull ebbed and flowed like a low tide; there was a balloon covering her brain, inflating slowly and increasing the pressure. She stepped into the bathroom and threw up, her throat feeling as if a ten-tonne truck was speeding through it. A quick cold shower helped wake her up.
Astrid gathered her things and shuffled downstairs to pay her bill. The hire car she’d booked online arrived ten minutes later. She dumped her bag, with a single change of clothes, into the back seat. It was a budget rental, no-frills and compact. She cranked the radio up, skipped past the stations featuring Shock Jocks, fire and brimstone evangelists, and sleazy politicians to find one blasting out non-stop sixties rock.
New York to Angel Springs took her five hours, her thoughts full of missing and kidnapped girls. She tried not to focus on Olivia too much, promising herself to call Courtney again when she reached her destination.
On approaching the town, she drove alongside a long stretch of water as cars hissed by her window. On the radio, David Bowie sang about Robert Zimmerman as she focused on the research she’d found regarding where Alex and her mother lived, discovering they had a motorhome in a trailer park.
She knew trailer parks were big business in America, especially for those who owned the land, and was curious to see how Alex’s mother viewed her new life compared to what they’d left behind.
Billboards lined the ride into town, promoting Angel Springs’s religious institutions and services: one proclaimed Hell was real, while another claimed you couldn’t hold hands with God if you were masturbating. The thought of sex sent a nostalgic tingle through her body as she tried to remember the last time she was intimate with someone. A large image of a sad-looking Jesus cradling an aborted foetus shook the feeling from her.
When she got to Angel Springs, she headed for the motel she’d found online. She paid for a week, noticing the curious looks she received for her accent, and watched another guest lower his eyes when she peered his way. Then she took her flimsy bag of possessions to her room. It was contemporary and up to date if your idea of a modern hotel was from the 1970s. The bed was too short for her frame, and the furniture was all plastic and ready to end its days on a beach on the other side of the world. Kitsch replicas of Warhol prints and Lichtenstein rip-offs adorned the walls. At least it had free Wi-Fi, and the air conditioning worked.
She threw water on her face, tried to do something with the mess that was her hair and failed, then checked the Sanchez family’s residence on her phone. There were a few knowing looks from the staff as she left and climbed into the car.
Then it was time to explore Angel Springs. She drove past bagel shops, museums, theatres, clubs, bars, and at least a dozen churches, two synagogues and a mosque. Outside a church, she observed people singing and dancing while being showered with water from several hoses. It confused her, at first until she realised it was a communal baptism.
Thirty minutes later, after getting lost twice, she found a parking spot and began her search for Christina Sanchez by asking the mailman for directions. Once he’d deciphered Astrid’s accent, he pointed her in the right direction. She zipped up her jacket and strode towards it.
Smoke drifted out of a clutch of motorhomes. Outside one of them, someone had set up an antique boom-blaster music player throwing out the tortured tawdry tales of romances gone wrong. Next to that, a grill blazed out fumes of burnt meat and onions on the point of blackened disintegration. A group of women milled around, watching as children kicked stones at each other as if it was the newest Olympic sport. Tiny patches of grass sprouted out through cracked concrete and plastic sheets tossed to the ground in carefree abandonment. Astrid couldn’t imagine the stuck-up snobbery of Roger Taylor feeling comfortable in this environment.
She checked the address he’d given her: number sixty-six, Grace Cathedral Square. When she’d ambled through the rusted gateway, there’d been no obvious numbering system on the vehicles, and she’d spent a fruitless ten minutes getting her bearings. Then she saw it scrawled onto a makeshift post box nestling in front of a Winnebago. Sitting on the steps was a young boy with a drawn-on pencil-thin moustache, wearing a baseball cap the wrong way round. Astrid stood close enough for her shadow to swallow him whole.
‘Does Mrs Sanchez live here?’
He peered at her as if staring into an eclipse, scrawny hands flapping at his face. ‘What sort of accent is that, lady?’ The cigarette in his mouth belched out smoke at a frantic rate.
‘I’m English.’
His eyes lit up like fireworks. In her short time in America, she’d found the knowledge of her Englishness elicited one of two responses: irrational anger or unusual admiration. She wasn’t sure how this kid was going to respond until he did.
‘Have you done the Whitechapel Murder Tour? Do you know Alan Moore? Do you like Orange Juice, the band, not the drink? Do you have Keira Knightley’s number?’
He spoke as if words were bullets and his mouth was a machine gun. His excitement drew several others to them, both kids and adults, staring at the visitor in their community.
A young girl glared at her. ‘Are you the police?’
‘I’m looking for Christina Sanchez,’ she repeated. ‘To help find her daughter.’
A hush went around the group, soon replaced by heated chatter.
‘Send her in,’ a voice from the motorhome said.
The people parted and the kid gave her a knowing nod. Astrid stepped into the vehicle. It seemed bigger on the inside, like a modern Tardis where the walls appeared to consume less space than they should. A dull sheen of faded red engulfed most of the interior apart from the odd splash of paper covered in roses.
‘Who are you?’
Christina Sanchez sat in a velvet armchair which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a stately home. A built-in sofa was at her side, resplendent in little cushions adorned with the faces of grinning cats. Rose-hued curtains hung at the windows, and a luxurious carpet filled the floor. Everywhere smelt of fresh peaches and cigarette smoke.
‘My name is Astrid Snow, Mrs Sanchez. Roger Taylor asked me to find your daughter, Alex. Didn’t he contact you?’
‘I haven’t seen him for a long time. Are you an English cop?’
‘I’m more of a private investigator. Taylor hired me to help you, but if you’d rather I didn’t…’ She turned as if to leave.
‘No. You can stay. Sit over there.’
Christina pointed at the sofa and the grinning cats. Astrid pushed her back against the felines, feeling the hardwood behind them. Outside the window, the crowd still gathered.
‘Do you want me to search for your daughter, Mrs Sanchez? Even though it was Roger who asked me, I won’t do it without your permission.’
If she said no or revealed Alex had run away, Astrid would leave and never look back. She stared at the other woman’s face, noticing the slight tremble in her voice as she clutched at the crucifix around her neck.
‘Call me Christina. Is Roger paying you to do this?’ There was suspicion in her tone.
‘No, Christina. I owe him a favour, and, having watched some of your daughter’s videos online, I feel a kindred spirit towards her.’
‘A kindred spirit?’
‘She reminds me of me when I was younger.’
‘You’re not like that now, wanting the world to be a better place?’
It was a curious question. ‘I thought I wanted an easier life, but here I am thousands of miles from home, away from those I care about, a stranger in a strange land, but still, I want to help you and your daughter.’
Christina Sanchez reached for a cigarette, but then stopped. ‘You won’t find Alex in this town.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Those videos you enjoyed so much, and Alex’s other activities, have angered many. It’s easy for those with the Devil in their hearts to hate young girls like her, no matter how strong she is.’
‘When did you see her last?’
‘Two weeks ago. We argued, she was sitting where you are now, and then she got the bus to school.’
‘I thought she’d only been missing a week?’
‘Yes, that was the last time anyone saw her. She never returned from school after our disagreement, but she rang here, telling me she was staying with her friend Beth for a few days until I calmed down.’
‘What was the argument about?’
Christina breathed heavily, her fingers scratching against her arms, the unmistakeable actions of a smoker going cold turkey.
‘I told her to stop with all these protests, to concentrate on school and make more friends. I said if she didn’t, I’d throw her out.’ There was a tear in the corner of her eye. ‘I didn’t mean it, though.’ She wiped it away with her sleeve.
‘So what happened after that?’
‘I saw Beth at the shops, and she said Alex wasn’t with her, said she’d joined the Future Youth Project. I didn’t know what that was until I asked around.’
‘What is it?’
Christina twisted her head to the side, an expression of surprise crisscrossing her face.
‘I thought it was another of those social justice groups she was always going on about, but it wasn’t.’ She smiled now. ‘In fact, it was the exact opposite, a religious youth group set up to help Senator Brady get re-elected.’
Astrid sat back and tried to remember where she’d heard that name. Then it came to her; the billboards and posters outside town weren’t all promoting religion.
‘Senator Bob Brady, the Republican pro-life NRA member?’
Christina nodded. ‘I went there, you know, to the compound he has outside his mansion. They said Alex stayed two days, and then left. I told the police. They said they’d checked, but couldn’t find anything wrong, but they would say that because the Chief of Police is Bob Brady’s cousin. And they claimed they’d looked everywhere and spoken to her friends at school, and they said she told them she was going to run away because she hated it here and hated me, and was going to go somewhere more liberal, like California or New York.’ Her sentences rambled on into one long burst, spoken without taking a breath, her eyes misting over and her hands shivering. ‘So maybe she did run away after we’d argued.’ She stared at Astrid. ‘This could be a waste of your time.’
‘But she did go to this Future Youth Project?’
‘That’s what some of them said, but I don’t understand that; why would she?’
It didn’t make sense to Astrid either. ‘Have you got a last name and address for her friend?’
Christina reached into her pocket, removing a small card and handing it to her. ‘This is her business card, but her home address is on it.’
Astrid arched her eyebrows. ‘She’s seventeen and has a business?’
‘It’s one of those YouTube things all the kids have nowadays. Can you imagine what would have happened if we’d had those when we were younger?’
That was when Astrid realised they were about the same age. And she considered how different her life might have been if the internet, social media and mobile phones had been popular when she’d run away from home the first time.
Perhaps I would have catalogued my home life online immediately instead of waiting so long to report what happened: posted images of the bruises hidden underneath my clothes, made videos of Courtney laughing at me and encouraging Father to talk with his fists. And there could have been a daily blog of Mother’s descent into alcoholism.
‘What do you think has happened to Alex, Christina?’
She peered at Astrid through saucer-like eyes. ‘She didn’t like her life and went somewhere else.’ Christina Sanchez kept scratching at her arm. ‘She’ll come back when she finds out the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.’
‘Can I look in her room?’
Christina stood and walked to the rear, where she opened a door and let Astrid inside. Then she went outside to join the others. Astrid heard voices consoling her.
It was small, barely able to squeeze a single bed and a tiny wardrobe inside. The walls were bare, with faded paper peeling off like dandruff. She looked in the closet, finding only clothes. She checked under the bed, but that was empty. It was a vain hope to find a diary which might outline Alex’s secrets and indicate where she was.
Astrid closed the door behind her and stepped outside. Christina was with a group of women, who all went quiet when Astrid approached.
‘I’m going to the police station, Christina. I need to tell them I’m working for you as a private investigator into the disappearance of Alex. Is that okay?’
Sanchez nodded while the others placed consoling hands on her arms and shoulders. ‘Will you be in touch with Roger?’
Astrid had no desire to speak to Taylor anytime soon, but would have to at some point. ‘I’ll report to you first,’ she said as she left.
She strode from the park, got into the car and asked the GPS on her phone to locate the police station.
Let’s see how many locals I can annoy.