Unspoken (33 page)

‘Chrissie, you’re a star. An absolute shining star in heaven.’ I chewed my pencil. ‘And please, don’t have lung cancer.’

‘There’s more,’ she said expectantly, proudly. ‘Although it may be nothing. Marcus went one step further and called up the GP’s surgery where Mary was a patient. Being a doctor, he won the receptionist’s trust and made up some story about Mary being in his care. The receptionist told him that Mary had visited the GP recently. Marcus is completely mad too, by the way,’ she added as if that justified the extra digging, ‘and also desperate to date me again. Anyway, it turns out that Mary saw a Dr David Carlyle on the twenty-second of December for a routine appointment. Apparently she had an infected finger.’

‘Yes, yes, I knew about the infected finger,’ I said slowly, pondering. ‘But I didn’t know exactly when it was that she’d seen Carlyle. Thanks, Chrissie.’ And our phone call ended after more well-deserved praise.

‘A sign, Mary. I need to know you understand what I’m telling you.’ I clasp her hands and watch her eyes flick out across the water as if she is out there, cutting through the glassy surface. But she doesn’t give me a sign.

Before the nurse returns, I think about the sequence of events. Julia discovered her mother mute on Christmas Day. During the time since Mary’s visit to Carlyle on the twenty-second – that three-day period – something stopped her speaking. I transfer my grip to her brittle shoulders. ‘Mary, what
was
it that scared you into silence?’

And just when the tiny tremor on her jaw begins to pull at the muscles of her mouth, just when her blinking directs her stare from the water to my face, the nurse returns and insists that Mary has to go back on to the ward.

I turn and gaze out over the lake myself, in case Mary left any clues in the water.

 

If she hadn’t called me ridiculous, if she hadn’t mocked me, then I might actually have considered changing my hot-headed plans. But in my work, I see so many cases of clearing up the mess when it’s too late, far too many instances of the children being left to suffer with inappropriate step-parents unnecessarily, that I simply can’t help myself. I’m not losing my kids. When we leave Northmire, I take them straight to
Alcatraz
. And they won’t be going back this evening as I promised Julia.

‘What’s the big surprise then?’ Alex is disappointed, I can tell. ‘You promised there was a surprise and it’s just the stupid boat.’

‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.’ We walk down the towpath. ‘We’re going on a holiday.’ Alex hesitates, pulls a vaguely hopeful face, then signs what I’ve said to Flora. She gives a delighted squeak.

‘Where to?’

This is as far as my spur-of-the-moment holiday plans have got. ‘To an amazing place,’ I say in a voice that implies a jungle trek, a desert island, a Disney resort.

‘Do we get to go on an aeroplane?’ Alex is still dubious but evidently willing to be tempted.

‘Not exactly. Think of it more as a cruise.’

‘On the sea?’

I reckon he’d go for that – a glitzy jaunt round the Mediterranean or an icy fjord adventure. I stop walking and go wide-eyed and serious, staring intently at each of my children. ‘We’re going on a cruise so dangerous, so intrepid that no explorer brave enough to attempt the journey has ever returned alive.’ I pause dramatically. I can almost hear Alex’s heart beating. ‘The very mention of the River Cam sends chills of fear down valiant men’s spines. Our mission . . . to make it to Pope’s Corner and maybe even beyond by tomorrow night. We will be heroes and the world will be ours for the taking.’ I punch the air and cheer, conjuring an image of our homecoming for my son. I wait for his reaction and Flora just gawps at me, totally unaware of what’s going on.

‘Dad, I’m eleven, not three. And the holiday sucks. Does Mum know you’re taking us on the stupid boat?’

He’s clearly not impressed. ‘Of course.’ But I can see he doesn’t believe me. ‘Look, let’s just get aboard and plan our adventure. It’ll be great.’ I’m desperate now. ‘We can even make a campfire tonight, if you like. We can cook sausages on it.’ For now, the Boy Scout cooking seals it and Alex grudgingly accompanies me on to
Alcatraz
, disappointed that his promised surprise is no more than a chug up the river. Before we board, I squint at the hull. She’s drawing another inch, perhaps two. I pray we’re not sinking.

 

None of it’s planned properly, of course, but then in my experience it’s best not to map out a course you can’t follow. That’s why a life on the water is so simple. There aren’t many ways to go, and a three-sixty about-turn is fairly impossible in a thirty-two-foot boat on a narrow river. So what could possibly go wrong with this holiday?

‘Can I steer?’ Alex is shivering and wearing his coat with my waterproof jacket over the top. He looks like a semi-erected tent.

‘Sure. Remember, left is right and right is left.’ That about sums it all up, I think, squinting through the drizzle.

Our view of the countryside is occluded by the low-hanging clouds and rain. Flora is sensibly tucked up inside the cabin, keeping warm under a blanket. She doesn’t appear to have brought a coat. As soon as Alex told her of my appalling plan for a holiday, she took to sulking and working on her secret drawings. I make a mental note to ask her again about her brief moment of contact with her grandmother. I need all the clues I can get.

Hours later, just as the vague afternoon light gives way to a lilac dusk, perhaps promising overnight snow, I decide it’s time to set up camp for the night. ‘Drop anchor, skipper,’ I call out to Alex. He is standing on the forward deck, being the figurehead of our journey, having made the death-defying walk down the narrow ledge along the side of the boat. His mother would faint at the sight. He turns and gives me a sullen stare.

‘Don’t be stupid, Dad,’ he calls back angrily, but when he sees my expression dissolve into hurt, he bows his head and makes his way carefully back along the narrow ledge, gripping on to the roof for all he’s worth. With every step he takes, I imagine him transforming from boy to young man. I close my eyes for a beat and realise that I don’t have to lose him, not if I tread carefully too.

‘Want to take the tiller while I pull her in?’

‘Sure,’ he says, grinning at the responsibility.

I peek down the hatch before I leap the few feet to the bank, making sure Flora is safe. She’s absorbed in her work and frowns as she sees me spying. She cradles her picture with her arms.

‘Slack off on the throttle, buddy,’ I call out over the engine noise, and Alex does as he is told, sliding
Alcatraz
to an easy stop at the bank. Between us, we secure the stern and bow to a couple of nearby trees. ‘It’ll hold as long as we don’t have heavy winds overnight. Who knows where we’ll end up then? Down in the Amazonian rainfor—’

‘Da-ad, I’m not a kid. You don’t need to talk to me like I am. The boat’s secure, OK? Nothing’s going to happen. Nothing out of a storybook, anyway.’

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, and nod in agreement. Alex’s face slumps when he discovers that, after pulling a shower of coloured wrapping from his pocket, he’s eaten his last Fruit Pastille. There’s no food aboard either, so unless they fancy eating tinned mackerel marinated in Jack Daniel’s, it’s going to mean a trip to a shop or a meal at a pub.

‘But you said we could cook sausages on a fire.’ Alex is horrified when I suggest the pub meal. I’m already salivating at the thought of a pint, but in the interests of father – son relations, I must keep my promise. Alex will cook sausages on a campfire on the riverbank if I have to hunt all night for food and dry wood. I stare at the British Waterways map.

‘According to this, we should be near Little Stretford. There’s a track right here that goes directly into the village.’

‘It’ll take ages to walk there and I’m starving. You said we could cook campfire food.’ Alex cradles his chin in his hands, leaning on the tiller.

‘Buddy, I’m working on it, OK?’ I reach into the cabin and pull my hat and gloves from a hook. The temperature’s falling and it won’t be long before a frost works over the land. ‘Are you sure you’re not up for pie and chips in the local?’ I can even smell the pint as the barmaid pulls it. ‘You sure you won’t be too cold cooking outside? It might start raining again.’

‘We’ll have the fire to keep us warm. It’ll be an adventure. A proper surprise like you said.’ Alex opens the guilt tap full force.

I sigh, resigned. ‘Bangers and toasted marshmallows it is, then.’ I zip up my jacket. I can make this quick. ‘Look, can you show me how really responsible you are and look after your sister for twenty minutes?’ Judging by the map, it shouldn’t take any longer than that. I pray there’s a village shop still open.

‘Do I get paid? Baby-sitters cost money, you know.’

‘Will a pound do?’

‘Five.’

‘Five? Two. Last offer.’

‘Three, and that’s
my
last offer or you’ll have to put up with Flora whining across the fields with you. And she doesn’t have a coat and Mum’ll go spare when I tell her.’

He’s right. ‘OK. Three it is, then. Get down inside the cabin. Sit with your sister. Don’t fight and don’t, whatever you do, leave the boat. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ he says, saluting as new skipper. ‘And don’t forget to buy ketchup.’

Alex grins and disappears inside the cabin. I hear him slide the bolt on the door. I have a torch, a map, some money and an urgent need to get in my son’s good books. With that in mind, I set off on the track that leads to the village, not thinking about a pint in the pub at all.

My mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. I’m alone. David left a few hours ago. He was distant and troubled; no doubt deeply worried about the disturbance outside his house. I suggested he leave it another day, but he’s gone home to check there wasn’t any further damage. I made him promise that he would call the police if there’d been any trouble. I’m not sure when he’s coming back.

I glance at my watch and pull my phone from my pocket. Thankfully Murray will be bringing the children home soon. I contemplate asking him in for a cup of tea. I need the company. As I answer the phone, I see that I have eight unanswered calls.

‘Hello.’

‘Oh God, Julia. Julia. Oh my God. It’s Flora. She’s gone missing. Shit. I don’t know what to do, Julia.’ Murray is shouting, hysterical, and his voice distorts and shatters my head into a million pieces.

I scream. ‘What do you mean, Flora’s missing? Murray!’ A wail comes from a place so deep inside me, it hurts. ‘But Flora is with you. She’s safe with you, right?’

‘No. Julia. Flora’s gone. She’s gone from the boat. Just gone. Nowhere. Flora is nowhere.’

‘Murray, shut up. What do you mean, gone? Where are you?’ Of course, there’s been a mistake. My hands shake so much that I can hardly hold the phone to my ear.

‘We’re on the boat. We were on the boat. We went on a trip today. I was getting food and when I came back she was gone.’ There’s panting or wind or something rushing down the phone. Fear.

‘Call the police. I’m coming to you. Where are you? Where’s Alex? Is Alex safe?’

‘I’ve called the police,’ he tells me as if it’s all under control. ‘Alex is fine. He’s beside me. Do you want to talk?’

‘Yes!’ Put him on.’

Alex is crying, I can tell. Little sobs half hidden beneath bravery. ‘We were on the boat and going to have a fire and then Flora was gone.’

‘Christ. Did she fall in the water?’ I snatch the keys from the table and head out of the door while still talking. ‘Where are you, Alex? Where is the boat? Did you go very far?’

‘I don’t know. It’s all my fault. I want Flora.’ And then my son falls apart and Murray comes back on the line. I am hammering my car down the lane, driving in second gear because I daren’t let go of the phone to change up.

‘Julia, go to Little Stretford. Come along Main Street as far as you can go. Keep going down the fen road. Keep going until you reach the river. Go over the railway. Keep going to the river. Hurry, Julia, hurry.’

‘Why . . . what . . . ?’ I can’t speak. ‘What are you doing all the way up there, Murray? Where’s Flora? Get her now. I’m coming to take the kids back.You can’t have them.’ My voice tempers slightly and switches to automatic as I tear along the dark lanes. I continue talking long after the line has gone dead. ‘Tell Flora to pack up her stuff and get ready to come home. Tell Alex not to cry. Get Flora ready for me . . . I want my children back, Murray.’

In ten minutes, I am breaking the speed limit through Little Stretford. Thankfully the speed of a car outruns a whole day’s chug of a narrowboat.

‘Dear God, let her be OK.’ Cottages and the village pub flash by as I follow Murray’s directions. ‘Over the railway line,’ I say out loud. Then, ‘Surely there’s been a mistake. Tell me this isn’t happening.’ Stifled sobs spill out with my staccato breaths. ‘Please someone tell me this is a joke or Murray has gone mad. Maybe he’s drunk.’ A slight relaxing in my chest. ‘Yes, maybe he’s so drunk he didn’t even notice Flora tucked up in her bunk.’ I bang the steering wheel and rock back and forth as if it will make the car go faster. I bump down the lane as it narrows, approaching the river. I pass over a railway crossing just like Murray said.

The lane funnels to a small gateway and I realise I’m going to have to abandon the car and run the last bit. I leave the headlights on to illuminate my passage to the river.

‘Murray!’ I call out when I think I’m close. ‘Murray, where are you?’ I scream his name over and over until my throat burns.

‘Here. Over here.’ Finally I hear him and see the flash of a torch beam sweep through the night. I push through long wet grass and finally on to the bank of the river. Murray’s boat delivers beacons of light, vaguely warming, somehow promising that Flora couldn’t possibly be far away. I see that the grass is flattened on the bank – a million panicked footprints.