I’m pleased that Cara and I aren’t face to face. That she can’t see my fear. And I have her face in my mind anyway. Of course I do – any mother does. All her faces. From when she was born, that crinkly tiny tiny face, the shock of dark hair.
She’s so small. So, so small. Could be crushed in just the palm of a hand.
Yes, that face, all her faces, right up to her now-face. That lovely blonde hair, about a thousand different shades, from gold to oaten, shorter now that she’s older. Cool Cara. Beautifully smooth. Not for my Cara the acne and pockmarks of the mid-teens. Flawless.
‘Cara?’ I whisper. That same reverent tone as when I called her by name that first time, in the hospital.
‘Shh, it’s not safe,’ she hisses, quietly. ‘We need to find another way to communicate. And then we need to get out of here.’
She is right, of course. If he hears us talking, he will punish us. Separate us. Bring forward his plans. Whatever they are. But, for now, I need something.
‘Cara,’ I whisper again. She doesn’t reply. Frightened, I suppose, of being overheard. Just this one thing then I’ll heed her. ‘When I tap, like this, on the wall—’ I tap, twice, very lightly ‘—it means I love you, OK? And you tap back to tell me you’re safe. OK?’
Nothing.
I know she’s safe, as safe as anyone can be when they are kidnapped, I’ve just spoken to her. But still my heart pounds at her silence.
Then, there it is. Tap tap.
I feel my soul relax, my shoulders unhunch, at her sound.
But it’s only a temporary release. I must get her out of here. I must get her properly safe.
I look at the window again. If I could just escape, I could come back for Cara. Or maybe, now that we’re both here, there’s double the chance that someone will have seen something, reported something? One of Cara’s school friends maybe? They’re always together and, when they’re not, they’re calling or messaging or Instagramming or whatever it is that they do on those devices of theirs. I don’t know. She just helped me spruce up my website. ‘It needs more jazz, Mum!’ she said. ‘And a picture of you! You’re selling yourself, just as much as you’re selling the cupcakes!’ So perceptive, Cara. Such a good business head. Maybe she won’t go to university. Maybe she can help expand the studio into a cupcake empire. And how lovely to have a daughter who’s so proud of you that she insists on her favourite photo of you on your website. And that the photo is one of the two of you together – both with hair down, heads resting together, eyeliner on, black leggings showing off slim legs, big cheery smiles saying life is great, eat cupcakes.
Should I have been more careful, putting up photos of my daughter? Maybe. Maybe not. But she’s probably all over social media of her own accord. She’s fifteen. It’s what they do.
Oh, to be back in that studio with you now, Cara!
I bend my head against the wall to Cara’s room, as if I’m leaning against her head like on that website photo. Oh my darling. Please let that window help us escape. Please let one of your school friends have seen something. Please.
She won’t tell. She won’t tell. Alice repeats the mantra of silence. Cara had entrusted her with a secret. What good would it do to tell anyone about it? ‘La, la, la, I’m not listening’, she says to the little voice inside her head that insists telling might do some good. I’m doing my English homework, she tells the voice sternly. And I am not telling that man what I know. That’s a secret.
Alice’s eyes wander to the passport-sized picture of her and Cara on her wall. They’re wearing crazy red wigs, silver star-shaped sunglasses and moustaches. Both of them grinning madly. You can almost see the giggles. It was a party at school, and the teachers had laid on some ‘fun’ dress-up photo booths. And they were fun. What the teachers didn’t know was that Cara had held on to the sunglasses and customised them – just in case they weren’t tacky enough – with some glitter-glue cardboard rainbows. ‘You’re such a rebel!’ Alice had told her. And they’d giggled some more. It seems hard to believe in now, the laughter.
‘Alice! Come down here, please,’ calls a voice. A parental voice.
‘I’m doing my homework,’ she shouts back.
‘Now, please,’ the voice calls.
Fine. Alice closes her exercise book in a huff. On the front is a picture of Mr Wilson that Cara drew for her. It accentuates his big ears and has a funny caption coming out of his mouth. Well, it’s only funny if you know Mr Wilson. He has a silly high-pitched voice like a parrot. So him saying, ‘Good morning, class’, while a parrot flaps round in the background, is a very funny picture indeed. All the funnier for being drawn in class by her best friend. Alice turns the exercise book over. I’m not telling, she says again.
Downstairs, her mum is sitting on the sofa holding a piece of paper.
‘What’s all this about you helping a detective?’ Alice’s mum asks her.
Alice stands next to her mother and peers at the piece of paper.
Oh. Stupid school. Of course they’ve sent a letter about Mr Belvoir. They send letters about everything. And if they don’t send them, they hand them out, and Alice is supposed to give them to her mum. All such boring letters. And so much to remember. Cara always said she never told her mum about the boring stuff. But then, Cara never told her mum about the interesting stuff either. That, she kept for Alice. That was the blessing and curse of having a best friend.
Alice stands back from the piece of paper again. ‘Oh, that.’ She feigns nonchalance. She puts her hands on the arm of the sofa and does little stretches of her legs to either side. ‘Just some man trying to find stuff out about Cara. No big deal.’ Alice hopes her mum can’t hear her heart beating. Or even see it beating. Great big red bangs out of her chest – boom, boom, boom.
Her mum puts the letter down and regards Alice.
‘How can you say that, Alice? Don’t be so fickle. If it’s about Cara, it’s important. You must tell him anything you know. Quite what he thinks he’s going to add, I’m not sure. But you must help, do you hear me?’
Alice stares at the floor and nods.
‘Otherwise I don’t know how you can call yourself Cara’s best friend.’
Alice keeps nodding. A single tear falls down her cheek. Her mum rises from the sofa.
‘Oh, come here, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ Alice finds herself enveloped in a big perfumey hug. ‘I know it’s difficult for you. You’re being so brave.’
Alice sniffs. ‘I just keep thinking about how much I want to see her. Why did it have to be Cara? It’s so unfair.’
‘I know, love. I know.’
‘And I just keep thinking about the last time I saw her, when—’
She stops herself. She’s said too much. The secret risks slipping out without her choosing it to.
‘When what, love?’
Alice shakes her head. ‘When I try to go to sleep. I just keep thinking about that last time, when I go to sleep.’
Alice feels her hair being ruffled by her mum. Usually, she’d say she’s too old for that, but today it feels nice.
‘It’s natural to feel like that, love. But if you talk to this man, who knows – you might make it all a lot better. You know I can’t tell you that you’ll see Cara again but, well, you never know, it might help.’
Alice