‘But no one could’ve known about the shells. It could only have come from her.’
‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up, love. At least one good thing may come from this: we might find out what happened to her.’
‘I’m going to try and find her – or trace who wrote the email,’ I say. ‘If the police think it’s a crank, then I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’ I pull out the roll of film from my handbag. ‘I found this in Robert’s keepsake box. It might have some clues.’
Grandad shakes his head. ‘This is only going to lead to heartache, Anna. The police will say it’s some lunatic, obsessed with her or something – they won’t even be interested, they weren’t last time. It’s been too long.’
‘Last time? What happened last time?’
He flaps his hand.
‘A letter, in strange writing. I took it to the police and they said it might be her, or it might not. They logged it and that was that. Said she was an adult – that she left of her own accord.’
My shoulders slump. Robert mentioned another letter the other day, and now Grandad. But I can’t ask him more about it now – he looks exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, even though he’s tried to hide it with reading glasses. I shouldn’t be talking to him like this. His only child. The bed she slept in upstairs still has the same duvet cover; her record player is still by the window.
‘I’m sorry, Grandad.’
He doesn’t look at me when he says, ‘It’s been hard for us all.’
The carriage clock chimes five.
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘The after-school club closes in half an hour.’
‘They never had such things in my day.’
I smile a little as a tiny glimpse of the Grandad I know shows through. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.
‘I’ll see myself out.’
I’m turning the roll of film in my hands, waiting in the queue. Who knew Max Spielmann would be so busy?
‘What are we buying here?’ says Sophie. ‘I’m hungry.’
She says it like she’s auditioning for Oliver Twist.
‘Pictures.’ I hold up the film. ‘This shop can change this little thing into photographs.’
Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. She steps closer to me.
‘Is this a magic shop?’
‘Yes.’
The man in front leaves, but the woman behind the counter is typing something into the computer. She has one long coarse hair growing from her chin and she’s stroking it as though it were a beard.
‘Is that woman a wizard?’ says Sophie.
She hasn’t got the hang of whispering yet. My cheeks are burning.
The woman looks up quickly; I’ve half a mind to run out of the shop.
‘Not quite, young lady,’ she says, looking up. ‘I’m a witch. And you have to be good for your mum or you’ll end up in my rabbit stew.’ She smiles. ‘How can I help you?’
I put the film on the counter.
‘Can you develop this? I think it’s nearly thirty years old.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. As long as it’s been kept in its container.’ She opens the lid and slides out the film. ‘It looks intact. I’ll have to send it off though – we don’t do 34 mm any more in store. No demand, you see. I’ll post it off tonight and it should be back in two or three days.’
I fill out my details and she winks at Sophie as we leave. Sophie doesn’t smile back.
Out on the street, I feel like celebrating. I thought they’d say it couldn’t be done – that they didn’t do things like that these days.
But the pictures might not even come out.
I take Sophie’s hand and pull her away from the kerb.
‘Is there a word for that?’ she says.
‘Word for what?’
‘You always walk on the pavement near the cars.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’
‘What would happen if a car crashed into us and got you first? Who’d look after me?’
‘Don’t think like that.’
‘But who would? Daddy’s always working.’
‘He’s not always working. I work too. I’ll think of the word.’
‘What word?’
‘For protecting you on the pavement. I’ll Google it. And I’m glad you’re thinking so practically.’
She starts skipping. My hands go up and down with hers.
I wish I were in her head.
The back of my neck prickles; I feel as though someone’s watching me. I turn around quickly.
There’s no one there.
I shouldn’t get my hopes up about the photographs. Grandad always says I should manage my expectations. But if I had a choice between forgetting everything over the past few days, or being hurt from finding the truth, then I’d choose the truth.
I’ve been watching her for weeks and she hasn’t noticed. She’s too busy living in that head of hers. I watch in the rearview mirror as she gazes out of the window. She’s looking around.
I glance over at the pile of pink notepaper on the passenger seat. It’s surprising how much meaning can be conveyed in so few words. Will it mean anything to her, to them?
I slide down in the seat of the car as someone passes. I don’t recognise him; he mustn’t be a neighbour. Streets have gone all Neighbourhood Watch nowadays.
The radio plays ‘Norwegian Wood’ by The Beatles. My fingers go to the radio – a reflex – and switch it off. Shutting the memories down. We used to listen to that together, didn’t we? I can’t remember if it was your favourite song, or mine.
Friday, 4 July 1986
Debbie
The oil from Bobby’s fish fingers spits from the frying pan; a drop touches my lips. I put my finger on my mouth to rub the sting away.
I can’t have imagined Nathan this afternoon. We had a conversation.
‘We have to see each other,’ he said. There must be meaning in that. But why would Monica say Nathan was at work? And if she was so worried about me looking hysterical in the street, why didn’t she pull over?
The front door slams shut. It must be ten past five. Bobby’s banging his legs against the chair under the dining table. Thump-thump, thump-thump.
‘Stop it!’
He doesn’t look up, but stops his legs.
It’ll take Peter another five seconds to hang up his jacket. Five, four, three, two—
I hear him throw his newspaper onto the settee. He usually says hello.
‘Everything