The day I went missing
Part 1
There’s a bend in one of the blinds in my bedroom, from where our cat, Juniper, flew at the window when he saw a bird and scrabbled at the blinds to get out. Mum laughed when she saw it, and I guess it was funny at the time, but now the sun shines right into my eyes in the morning.
I’m an early riser anyway. I didn’t get that from Mum, she’s not a morning person. I wonder if I got it from Dad.
I check my phone, hoping Graham hasn’t messaged me, which he hasn’t. We left it badly. Our relationship is sweet and sour, but recently it’s started to feel more sour than sweet.
It’s no one’s fault, but it is my doing. I just don’t care anymore; I don’t love him like I should. Not all relationships have to be drenched in love, and I’ve never been one for passion anyway, but I think I should at least care about my partner. But I feel nothing towards him.
It was an intense break-up, mainly because I wanted it to be over and done quickly, but I know when you’ve been with someone for a long time, it’s not as easy as that. I tried to force it anyway and it got ugly. I regret that.
Graham isn’t a bad guy, but I don’t think he’s ready for all the things he wants from me. To settle down, get married, have a family. It all sounds so boring, and it wasn’t until I met his mum that I realised where all that pressure was coming from. Things changed between us; either she didn’t like me and it made Graham want me more, or she loved me and Graham wanted to secure our future, trap me into something I couldn’t walk away from so easily.
I think it’s the former. It was the way she stared straight at me when I was talking, an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. And her questions were just as direct. It was like she was reading off a checklist, an interview I’m sure I failed.
I told Graham I wasn’t ready for any of it, and he didn’t seem to mind at first, but as time went by, I realised I wasn’t ready for him. We’ve broken up a few times over the past two years, but there was a finality about this. I asked if we could stay friends and his eyes almost popped out of their sockets. He splayed his hands and leant forward and said, ‘Really, Katy?’ several times.
He got a promotion at work and I was happy for him, but he didn’t seem happy for my successes. That’s the only emotion he got from me by the end of it, a bitterness towards him.
My door swings open. ‘Morning,’ Mum says. She’s in her favourite stripy pyjamas and pink fleece dressing gown, her hair freshly dyed and sticking up slightly.
‘You’re up early?’
‘I couldn’t sleep, thought I’d get a head start on fixing that old lawnmower for Trudy.’
‘Trudy?’ I ask.
‘Number 60. Really, Katy, how do you not know the names of our neighbours? Not very observant for a journalist, are you?’ she says, holding a steaming mug to her lips and taking a satisfying sip. ‘You got in late last night, everything all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Okay, if you say so.’ She smiles. ‘What you up to today?’
‘I’ve got to do a few bits in town, then work. I’ll be back tonight, though,’ I say, throwing back the covers. ‘Shouldn’t be too late.’
‘In time for dinner?’
I shake my head. ‘Eat without me, but’ – I hold up a finger – ‘don’t watch the new Happy Valley, you have to wait for me for that.’
She smiles. ‘Yes sir,’ she says, closing the door.
I don’t have any classes today, but I asked for a meeting with one of my professors to get some advice. Professor Travis teaches my news and feature writing class, and although he’s a bit of a creep, he’s taught me a lot about investigative journalism, and I want to discuss my dissertation with him.
There was a rumour he’d gotten in trouble for being flirty with some of the girls in my class. He wasn’t obvious about it in class, in fact he seemed shy and reserved, a little bit too self-conscious. He’s youngish, about thirty-five, but dresses too old, in tweed jackets and baggy chinos. It’s hard to say whether he’s handsome, though a few other people in class have commented that he is.
When I get to campus, it’s eerily quiet, the usual buzz of the corridors replaced by early morning stragglers heading to the library or walking back to dorm rooms in outfits from the night before. I grab a coffee from the small café by reception and wave at the student advisers sipping from mugs behind a glass window.
Fridays are always quiet; the student bar holds cheap student nights on Thursdays and everyone in my class goes as we don’t have any lectures on Friday mornings. In fact, most the university seems to go. I went once and didn’t enjoy it. It was sticky and warm, full of sweaty faces always getting too close, hot viscous breath in my ear and everyone shouting above pulsing music.
Mum always says I should try harder with people at university, but I’m not one for drinking cheap alcohol or dancing to tuneless pop music, I much prefer a dingy underground pub or a gig in a place I never knew existed, Joanna and I standing hand in hand, a pint glass brimming with golden ale and our boots crashing against the dancefloor.
I haven’t spoken to Joanna properly in a while though, and I’m struggling to remember if it was a fight or we just drifted apart. She said I always seemed busy with studying, work or Graham, and questioned whether I really had time for her anymore. We have arranged to meet tomorrow for breakfast to hash it out, but I’m not sure if I want to.
I’m glad I stayed in Bristol for university though. It always suited me. Not too big to feel overwhelming, not too small to get boring. Plus, it felt like it was a good place to start my career, a lot of stories to uncover, a city on the edge almost overwhelmed by the weight of London.
Mum thought I stayed for her, and maybe I did. She lost her way when Grandad died, floating about going from job to job, letting her talents go to waste. I suggested she use the money Grandma gave us to start her own repair business and she was reluctant at first, until she appeared at my bedroom door late one night and asked if it would be okay. She didn’t need my permission, but she wanted it, she always wants my opinion, and I value that.
Lately, I can’t help but feel our roles are shifting, though. I check in with her more than she does with me; she says she wants to give me space to grow as I get older, and that trust she has in me is somewhat well placed, but…
She doesn’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.
I knock on Professor Travis’s door and he answers immediately.
‘Come in.’
He’s sitting with his back to the door, hunched over his laptop, the keyboard clacking away, and he doesn’t look up until I’ve closed the door and sat in the chair next to his desk. He swivels to face me and looks confused for a moment before smiling.
‘Sorry, I forgot.’
He snaps his laptop shut and takes off his glasses, running a hand over his face. He looks tired today, like he’s had a late night; there are fine lines under his eyes and his lips are thin and dehydrated.
‘I can come back another time?’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’
I place my bag at my feet, and he turns to face me now, his knees almost touching my own.
‘I just wanted to discuss my dissertation.’
‘Of course,’ he says, clasping his hands together. ‘I’m surprised you already know what you want to do, if I’m honest.’
‘Well, you know I want to be an investigative journalist, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to report on a story.’
‘A fictional story?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘No, that’s not what I had in mind, I want to break a story.’
He leans back, placing his glasses back on, crosses his legs and nods. ‘I suppose you could. What did you have in mind?’
‘Well.’ I pause. ‘I’m not ready to share that just yet.’
He stifles a laugh and it irritates me. ‘Then what did you want to talk to me about?’
‘I wanted some advice.’
‘This isn’t about your dissertation, is it?’ he asks. The blood drains from my face and I think I see him smile, but he turns away too quickly.
‘No,’ I admit.
‘Then what is this about?’
‘I’m working on a real story.’
‘You’re working at NTV, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘You want to pitch this to them?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s bigger than that.’
He turns back, his face lined with concern. ‘Bigger than that?’
I nod.
‘What’s bigger than NTV?’
‘It just doesn’t suit them, that’s all I meant.’
‘Okay, well, what kind of outlet does it suit?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘You can’t say or you won’t say?’ He grins. ‘You’re protecting your sources, I understand, very smart. I always thought you’d make a fine journalist, Katy. But I can’t help you, if you don’t tell me.’
‘I wanted advice on protection,’ I say suddenly and his eyes widen.
‘Protection?’ He laughs. ‘I think you’ve watched too many films.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I haven’t.’
He frowns. ‘Are you involved in something dangerous?’
‘The protection isn’t for me.’
His cheeks deflate and the air escapes through his lips. He smiles incredulously. ‘You know you’re obligated to go to the police and report this if you suspect someone is in danger? You know that?’ he repeats.
I nod. ‘What about if the police didn’t listen?’
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘so the story is to get their attention.’
‘No, not their attention.’
‘Then whose?’
‘It’s a warning shot,’ I say. ‘But I need to know how seriously it’ll get taken, I need to get it right.’
‘I can help you draft something?’
‘No, it’s okay, I don’t—’ I stop.
‘You don’t have any evidence?’ he says, slowly. He nods. ‘Then you’re fucked,’ he says plainly.
‘I have sources who will go on the record, but is that not enough?’
‘If you can’t tell me what’s going on, then I can’t help you.’
I stand up, pulling my bag with me. I hover my hand over the clasp of my satchel. Should I tell him? I let my hand fall away.
‘Thanks for your time,’ I say. ‘See you next week.’
‘Be careful,’ he says as I leave.
I walk away from campus just as it starts to fill up. People push into me, but I don’t pay it any mind. I’m lost in thought. I’m out of my depth, the wrong person for this.
But I’m so close, I just need more evidence.
I need to become somebody I’m not.