The Girl in the Red Coat (31 page)

A fat lady blows past me. ‘Ice storm coming,’ she calls. ‘Better find your folk, child. Better find them and get safely out of here to your home, the Lord willing.’

‘I have no folk,’ I call back. ‘There is no home.’

But she doesn’t hear me and then she’s gone. Ice crystals shimmer in the gap she’s left. I shiver; only Nico’s kiss is still there to keep me warm – my first ever kiss – burning on my mouth, melting the air around it.

I walk across the field. Everyone’s nearly gone now – just a few stragglers moving towards the car park. The cold wind sounds like a song and at first I think the words are like my name. Then I realise the song isn’t meant to be understood, unless you’re ice or wind. Its words are creaking and humming in a different language. I’m thinking of another song though. One that my mum used to sing sometimes when the wind blew round our house and the tree tapped on the wall – ‘The North Wind doth blow. And we shall have snow. And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?’

When I was little I felt sorry for the robin once I was tucked into my warm cosy bed, thinking of it shivering out there and pecking away at the cold ground. So Mum told me to put on my dressing gown and together we went out the back door and scattered some crumbs on the garden that was all black and frozen.

My jacket – my nice warm jacket. I go back through the tent flaps that are rolling in and out like a wave from the wind. Inside there’s tipped-over chairs scattered across the floor. One lady’s hat has been stood on so it’s a flat pink cake. The lights are still on, shining on the spot where I fell inside Maxine’s body, the green one on the stage where
Gramps stood trying to summon up the spirit. Too cold for spirit here now, with the sides of the tent making noises like a boat in a storm.

I find my jacket folded up at the back of the stage among the coiling wires. There’s a heaviness making the jacket lean to one side when I feed my arms into the sleeves. Gramps has put a drink in the pocket. It’s something he does sometimes; he knows this can be thirsty work. The can of Coke is freezing in my hand but I pop the tab anyway. The icy bubbles are hard and shining, the taste of brown diamonds, bursting on my tongue.

I sit on the edge of the stage sipping Coke with the tent flapping and blowing around me. I think – I won’t see Gramps again. He wanted to go with that cop. When he left there was relief on his face. The metal cuff went round his wrist and he wanted that – to feel its cold grip tightening round his skin and bone. I’d thought he was raising his hand to bless me somehow or give me luck. But now I realise he was saying goodbye and that I was never going to get to tell him how I wouldn’t work for him again.

Goodbye Carmel,
and after he had gone I’d felt a certain gladness for a moment – that everything might be different now.

The wind’s died down outside. The tent is still at last. When I lift the door it’s stiff and hard and there’s a shattering like tiny glass is breaking and I realise the canvas is iced up hard.

Outside the world is white and for a minute I don’t recognise it. The tents look like a row of ships stuck in a frozen sea. I think – I’ve gone in one door and come out of another into this beautiful place, though of course I know that can’t
be true. My feet spin around in crazy circles and I have to reach out to a pole and my hand nearly sticks to it.

I shiver and pull my jacket close round me and I realise I’m still wearing the white dress over my jeans – its frilly bottom is sticking out under the red. It hardly matters – there’s not a soul about to see. I’m like the queen of Iceland here alone in this strange land. I slip and slide back out onto the path. There’s the cross at the end against the sky and I start to feel afraid. I walk slowly up to it huffing out smoky breath. It’s turned into a cross-shaped glacier with icicles hanging from its two branches.

I wonder what I’m going to do now with Gramps gone probably for ever. I want to cry but I can feel the water freezing in my eyes before it gets out and I think soon I must leave or I’ll die like the robin in winter. I wonder if I’ll be found – frozen to the spot – and sometimes I feel scared and sometimes like I’m going to fly because I can’t decide whether I’m alone, or free.

Or perhaps it’s not like that. Perhaps, after all, you can be free and not have to be all alone. I think of Mum and Dad. Melody. Nico. Gramps. I don’t want to have to die to be free – I could stay alone here and turn into an icy statue, or I could start walking. So that’s what I do.

I start walking back.

On the highway the cars are driving slowly, crushing the ice and sending it up in a great spray. I walk on the grass at the edge because there’s no sidewalk. The light has started to fade.

I wrap my jacket closer around me and wonder where I’m going. It’s going to be dark soon – I think of the ditch I spent the night in with Gramps. But I can’t see any ditches by the side of this road. And the idea of sleeping in a ditch again is bad, but not as bad as the thought that Munroe might be cruising round looking for me in his SUV to catch me. This could be my chance, I think. Take it, take it.

I turn a corner and there’s a house. It’s set back from the road and it looks like it was there before the highway and everything else got built around it and that’s why it’s on its own. There’s light at a downstairs window.

I stand in the front yard. The window is open a crack and the height of it is about the same as my head. I hear dishes clattering inside and water running. I tap on the window.

‘Who’s that?’ It’s a woman’s voice.

‘Please. Please help me,’ I call through the crack.

A figure appears at the window and looks down. It’s a woman with grey hair and a large face. She looks startled, angry even.

‘Can you help me?’ I say again. But I’m not sure if she’s hearing me, my voice is like a squeak in my mouth.

‘Get away.’ Her voice is fearful.

‘Please,’ I say it louder, ‘if I could just use your phone. I need to try to call my dad. If you know how to find numbers …’

‘Get away. Get out of my yard. Go, or I’ll call the police.’ The window slams shut.

I walk away and rejoin the highway. It’s getting proper dark now and the traffic flows past me, chucking up melted ice.

Then, lit up like Christmas, a diner – ‘Last Stop’ – the name in neon pink and the words shining upside down on wet ground. I’m so weary now I have to stop.

Inside is red Formica everywhere and I’m the only customer. A man stands behind the counter looking out. There’s a big clock on the wall above him. He stands there like he’s been waiting for me.

I go to the counter and fumble with frozen fingers in my breast pocket for the few dollars there. ‘Pie, please,’ I say.

‘What was that?’ My voice has gone so small again he has to lean over to hear.

‘Pie, please.’

‘Cherry or apple?’

‘Cherry.’

‘Cream or ice cream?’

‘Cream, please.’

He cuts me a slice of pie and spoons cream on and I take it and climb up on a high stool and start to eat, each mouthful warm and sweet. I look down and see the white lace at the bottom of my dress hanging down over my jeans black with dirt, and wet. I touch my face and feel a bruise coming where I got hit with Maxine’s wheelchair. I think about writing my name on a napkin and feel about in my pocket but my pen has gone. All the times I’ve written it: in salt from little packets on diner tables; on the walls of restrooms; at the bottom of menus; in the dust on the sides of trucks. There must be nets of it criss-crossing this huge land by now.

I turn away to eat my pie so the man won’t see my face all broken and scared and it’s so quiet the clock above us fills the room with its tick.

When I finish I turn back again and the man behind the counter hasn’t moved. He stands, his face yellow in the light, watching me.

FIVE YEARS, 209 DAYS

Are all mysteries finally solved or do some last forever? What happens when we die. What became of my little girl. Do they end? Or can unknowing go on for always?

The night shift has just finished; I’m at home, the winter dawn breaking outside. I’m wearing the white cotton uniform and white clogs from work.

I’m sitting on the sofa when I hear something upstairs. This is an old house, it has its own repertoire of noises but this one I haven’t heard before – it sounds like someone running across bare boards. I try not to be alarmed; the house leads a life of its own.

There’s a loud rap at the door.

I open it to see a man and woman on the step. They are both turned away, looking at the breaking orange on the horizon. When they face me I don’t recognise either of them. But they’re police, I know that.

The woman is introducing them. ‘Detective Inspector Ian Carling … Annie Wallace …’

They have come unannounced: they have news. I don’t know yet if it’s bad or good. But unannounced, something’s happened. I’m sick, suddenly, and light-headed. There’s a buzzing in my ears.

‘May we come in? We need to talk …’

They have news. They have news.

Then – I didn’t know it could happen in real life – my legs turn to water beneath me and I fall forward.

The man catches me deftly, managing not to drop the file that is tucked beneath his arm. I look up at his freshly shaven jaw, and see the plugs of dark hair he can never quite get rid of. He helps me inside, back onto the sofa. He fetches me a glass of water and I drink, my teeth chattering on the glass.

‘May we sit?’ asks Annie. I notice she’s wearing a poppy on her black coat – it must be November already.

I nod, my teeth still chattering on the glass. They sit in formal fashion. The man is broad and tall, dark with pale skin. The woman – Annie – is slim in her black coat, her blond hair in a neat ponytail.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I mumble. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ I stumble upstairs. I’m delaying things. In the bathroom I jackknife over the basin and deposit a burning spurt of sick on the white porcelain. I turn on the tap to wash it away and dab cold water round my mouth. I have the sudden urge to escape out of the bathroom window, and never have to know.

Downstairs, they’re waiting, in the same positions. The woman starts to speak.

‘Beth, we know it would have been better for someone you’re familiar with to come. But Maria is away on holiday and we can’t wait with this information. I’ll tell you quickly – a girl has been found and …’

‘Is she … is she alive?’ I burst out.

‘Yes, yes.’ She joins me on the sofa and puts a hand on my arm. An engagement ring glitters there. ‘Yes, Beth.
She’s alive and we can’t be sure …’

‘Is she alive?’ I already asked that.

‘Yes, alive, but …’

I can’t think. I focus on the glowing red spot of the poppy.

Ian clears his throat, interrupts. ‘A girl has been found. We have reasons to believe it may be your daughter.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God …’

‘We’re not sure yet. But we have to tell you. A girl has been found alive and well in the States. We have reason to believe, to be confirmed, it might be Carmel.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The States. A man was arrested the same day …’

‘The States! Is she alright? Is she alright?’

‘Apparently well. Though alone …’

‘So she’s well and the man …’

‘He was arrested for another offence. He confessed to another offence …’

‘Where is she?’

‘The States, I said …’

‘No. I mean now, right now.’

‘She’s being prepared to fly back …’

‘And a man confessed to taking her …’

‘No. He confessed to another, previous, offence. But it transpired …’

‘She’s coming home …?’

Annie is nodding and smiling next to me. Her eyes are filling with tears. I focus on her poppy and try to breathe.

‘But … how do you know? How do you know it’s her?’

The policeman opens the file and begins reading from it.
‘My name is Carmel Summer Wakeford. I used to live in
Norfolk, England. My mum’s name was Beth and my dad’s name is Paul. He has a girlfriend called Lucy. I lived in a house with a tree by the side. My mum had a glass cat she kept by her bed. There was a picture up that said T
HERE’S
N
O
P
LACE
L
IKE
H
OME
. The curtains downstairs are orange …’

FIVE YEARS 215 DAYS

So my mystery is to end here. ‘Here’ is a police facility: two hours’ drive from home.

Last night I dreamed of the three of us – Paul, Carmel, me. And for the first time in years she was no longer walking backwards. Instead, she was her eight-year-old self sitting on a swing between us. There was an explosion, nuclear in ferocity. Our figures first bleached white then flashed to black outlines. The ground rocked underneath my feet. I can still feel the sway from the dream as I stand looking through the glass partition down the corridor. Graham, Lucy and the children wait for us at home. We want to keep it simple.

Behind me, Paul sits. He veers between seething with murderous intentions – wanting to get the man and ‘just give us five minutes on our own’ – and a sort of subsumed tearfulness. Strangely, I appear calmer than him.

I dressed this morning with care. My best gold earrings. My nice blue dress. Mary Jane shoes. I want to show her I’m alright.

But I worry that she won’t recognise me. I’ve aged, a lot. Hair short now and grey coming through.

And closer. She must be getting closer. We toy with coffee in plastic cups and sandwiches while we wait. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. How can I look more
myself? I fluff my hair out to look longer and put on some lipstick.

Back with the empty coffee cups and uneaten sandwiches. Closer still. I have a strange image of the two of us. That all these years we were tiny insects and the world was made of a huge beast – some kind of cattle. That we roamed and roamed across its back and even climbed up, one on the tip of each horn, and from there we tried to wave to each other. But being tiny we could not see, and the chasm was too great, and there wasn’t anything that could bridge that gap. And all the time, on her map on her bedroom wall there she was – in the cradle of that single question mark.

Footsteps come down the corridor and send rumbling noises underneath the closed door at the end. I lick my dry lips and watch the door through the glass. I want to leave this glass room and walk towards the sound but find I can’t move.

And the door opens and a girl – a young woman – walks through, a policewoman by her side.

The girl has short curls. She has beautiful eyes. Too thin. She wears black jeans and a red jacket with brass buttons that makes her look like a girl soldier. The eight-year-old embedded in my memory is gone. I have the sensation of looking down a time telescope and seeing into the future.

She sees me and not meaning to I lift my hand in a kind of greeting and she does the same. And I shouldn’t have worried about her not recognising me, not at all, because we know each other at once.