Unspoken (35 page)

‘Oh Flora,’ I say pitifully, and then, under the table, I see something that makes my heart skip. Her little rabbit. Her dirty, torn, faded and battered pale pink rabbit. ‘Look, what about this?’ I bend down.

‘Don’t touch it.’ Ed scares the life out of me. ‘I’m about to seal off the area. If nothing transpires soon,’ he adds, for a quick shot of hope. ‘Leave everything exactly where it is.’ He speaks into his radio and I realise he is going to make
Alcatraz
into a crime scene. The chances that Flora has simply wandered off are growing slimmer by the minute. He is considering the worst outcome.

‘Be careful with it then,’ I say. ‘She loves it. She can’t sleep without it.’ Then I wonder how Flora will sleep tonight. ‘Oh God, Murray. What if someone’s taken her? Or what if she’s curled up in a hedge and lost and freezing half to death?’

‘What if,’ Ed snatches the speculation from me, ‘you take care of your wife, Murray, and leave the worrying to us?’ He tries to sound sympathetic but this is the second time I’ve seen him at work recently and there’s none of the real Ed in him at all.

I don’t bother correcting him about ‘wife’. It somehow offers a little comfort. ‘I have my most capable men on the job,’ Ed says. A vein pulses on his neck. ‘We’ve started work on this quickly. The first couple of hours are the most important.’

‘But she could have gone missing as soon as Murray went to the village.’ I look at my watch. ‘That’s up to five hours ago now. So much can happen to a child in five hours.’ Then my mind tries to destroy me with images of everything that could have happened to her. ‘Oh, Ed.
Please
get her back.’ The tears crash down my face. ‘Tell me she’s just wandered off and is in the next field. She won’t be able to hear us calling her. She’ll think we’re not searching for her.’

‘That’s a highly likely scenario, Julia, and her deafness doesn’t help the search, I admit. Our dogs will soon pick up a trail.’ Ed reaches out and gives me a brief hug. ‘Mike, is your team ready?’ A man and a dog have come aboard.

The dog’s nose calmly scans the air before she bows her snout and leads her owner off the front of the boat.

‘That’s odd,’ Murray comments. ‘Flora would never leave the boat at the bow. The climb over the side is too high for her.’

‘Does that mean that someone took her off?’ I rush to the forward deck to see where the dog is leading her owner. I see the zig-zag beacon of the officer’s flashlight and hear the other dog bark in anticipation on the bank. It is quickly silenced.

‘Why didn’t they use Flora’s rabbit for a scent?’ The forgotten toy still lies on the floor inside.

‘Flora’s trail will still be fresh for the dogs,’ Ed explains. ‘We have a dog that’s trained for water search. If necessary.’ He adds the last bit for my benefit, I know. I push the image of Flora in the water from my mind. She needs me to be strong. ‘I’m going to brief my men with an update on the search plan and put a police diver on standby. Sit tight.’ Ed gives me a wisp of a smile before leaving me alone. Beside me, a thousand miles away, Murray is buried in his own misery, drowning in guilt.

‘Come on,’ I say to him. We have to stay positive. ‘Let’s search a wider area. Where would a little girl want to go on a freezing cold night?’

Murray opens his mouth, but before he can answer, I stare out into the night, wide-eyed, and whisper to him, ‘
Home.
’

I hold my breath and stick my face out of the window, squinting because the freezing air stings my eyes. I scrutinise every inch of the verge and hedgerows as Julia cruises slowly along the country lanes. Alex has been instructed to look anywhere and everywhere as we drive home with the headlights flashing beacons in the night.

‘What if she walked across the fields?’ Alex asks. ‘She’ll get lost. She might get killed by the man that hurt that girl.’ We’d all been thinking about Grace Covatta, but no one had dared mention her name. Not in the same breath as Flora’s.

‘That won’t happen,’ I reassure my son. ‘Not to Flora.’ And after Julia gives me a sharp look, I turn back to scan the dark lanes. When all I can see is my own gloomy reflection in the glass, I can’t help wondering if Alex might be right.

 

Alex is a good boy. He’s mature for his age, smart at school, and only occasionally pulls stunts that remind me he’s an eleven-year-old boy. I really trusted him to look after his sister. And I wanted him to know that I trusted him. The thought of dragging Flora across the fields in the dark was less appealing than leaving her cosy and content with her brother inside
Alcatraz
. She would have towed along behind me, moaning, and ended up on my back, shivering in the frost. Besides, I’d promised to be quick.

The walk to the village didn’t take as long as I’d expected. I marched around a couple of unfamiliar lanes and was about to ask someone if there was a shop in the village when I spotted the pub. It was warm, inviting and promised a moment’s salvation. I would drink quickly.

‘A pint of that, please.’ I gestured to a local ale. Nothing about what I was doing felt easy. Leaving Alex in charge was like going out without shoes on. It wasn’t something I’d normally do, but I’d resolved to make him feel grown-up; just give him the first sniff of responsibility. And what could possibly happen? I’d thought as I walked away from the boat. The benefits of keeping the kids warm and comfortable inside
Alcatraz
outweighed any risks. I knew my kids. They wouldn’t leave the boat unless there was a real emergency.

‘Two eighty-five, please, mate.’

I handed over a twenty-pound note. ‘Is there a shop around here? I’m after some sausages. Perhaps a tin of beans and some bread.’ I sipped my pint. It was good.

The bartender glanced at the clock. ‘You’ll be lucky to find it open now. If that’s all you’re after, I reckon my Margaret will have something in the kitchen for you.’

‘That would save me much flack from my son.’ I grinned and drew a large mouthful of the beer. It dropped right down inside me as if it belonged there.

‘Off the boats, are you?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. My son wanted to try a spot of outdoor cooking tonight. It’s a boy thing.’ I rolled my eyes and dipped down to the halfway mark on my pint while the man called for his wife. He instructed the middle-aged woman to search the kitchen for what I wanted, and as if by magic, she quickly reappeared with everything Alex could want for a campfire supper.

‘That’s great. How much do I owe you?’

‘Don’t mind the money. Just try a couple more of my ales and we’ll call it quits, eh?’ The barman was already pulling back on the polished pewter arm of a beer I’d never even heard of. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘And tell me what you think of this.’

And so I did. At least four more times over the next hour, and with each pint consumed, the urgency to get back to the boat waned by an exponential amount. The kids would be fine. Alex would come looking for me if there was a problem. It was only when Margaret emerged from the kitchen again at least two hours after I first sat down at the curved bar that I decided I should be on my way. The beer had loosened my world.

‘Good to see you then, Dan.’

‘Don,’ the barman corrected.

‘And thanks for the sausages.’ I slowly turned around looking for them, and eventually found the wrapped packet under my stool. I felt dizzy and sick. The beer was stronger than I was used to. ‘See you again maybe. And thanks for all this.’ I held up my loot and set off for the river. Ten minutes later I dashed back into the pub for my jacket.

I finally found
Alcatraz
through all the fields, but only because of the whistling. ‘Alex?’ I called out. ‘Is that you? Where are you?’ I saw the line of my boat’s windows through the hedge and I soon emerged on to the bank. ‘Alex,’ I called out again. I was annoyed that he’d got off the boat.

‘Over here, Dad.’ He was a little way up the river. I heard him panting and the thud of his quick footsteps pounding the bank as he ran back to me. ‘I was just getting the firewood ready. You were gone
ages
. Did you get the sausages? We’re starving.’

‘I sure did,’ I said proudly, and held up the paper packet that Margaret had kindly given me. ‘And I made some new friends.’ The beer filled my belly and my brain banged against my skull. By choice, I usually drank whisky. ‘You should be inside keeping warm. Let’s go and get Flora and she can help light the fire.’ We stepped aboard. ‘You shouldn’t have come out,’ I muttered. ‘I told you to stay in the cabin with your sister.’

None of it mattered now. I was back. With sausages. We were going to have a fun evening. No more ticking-off.

‘She’s probably asleep by now. She was bored,’ Alex said.

I went into the cabin, and because of the alcohol, I didn’t feel that first stab of fear that every parent suffers when they can’t instantly locate their child. Last time I’d seen Flora, she was sitting at the table colouring. ‘Where is she, mate?’ I went to the tiny bathroom and pushed against the door. It swung into the cubicle, proving it empty. ‘Shit,’ I remember saying, although I still trusted that she was on board. ‘Were you playing hide and seek?’

‘No.’ Alex reddened. He knew what was coming.

‘She must be in here somewhere.’ I went to the front of
Alcatraz
and flung open a couple of storage lockers big enough for a child to hide in. Nothing except the stale whiff of damp tarpaulins and ancient rope. I opened the semi-glazed door to the forward deck and checked right up into the point of the bows. Nothing. I must have missed her in the kitchen. The ale did its best to dampen my instincts, but my heart still raced against the sluggish effects.

‘Flora, where have you gone?’ It was a cross between fear, worry, frustration and a belief that my darling little girl was having a game with me. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d spent ten minutes hunting for her.

‘She was here, Dad, honestly. She was just colouring and then she played with her dolls.’

‘Flora!’ I yelled, even though I knew it was futile. Perhaps the vibrations of her name would send her scurrying from her hiding place. My search gathered momentum, and soon every single stowage space had been ransacked. I even shone the torch down into the engine compartment. I made a mental note to run the bilge pump when Flora turned up. There was more water in the hull than ever.

‘OK, buddy. We’d better go and look on the bank. She must have followed you outside.’

‘Probably,’ Alex admitted. ‘Although I told her to stay in here.’ He touched my arm ever so lightly, and for a second I thought that it was Flora creeping up from behind. ‘She’ll be all right, won’t she, Dad?’

‘Of course,’ I said. My mouth was so dry that the words came out flat.

The groundsman found me in his hut. I was lying in a cone of sunshine, vomit and blood. The difference between consciousness and what lay beyond was unfathomable, although I had been passing between both for hours.

‘Sweet Mother of God.’ He loomed over me, making me stiffen with fear. ‘What happened here? What happened to you, lass?’ A rough hand touched my cheek with the lightness of a leaf.

I flinched and stared up at him. The tongue in my mouth was a swollen cut of meat. It pressed painfully on my teeth, allowing only the tiniest space for air to pass through the back of my throat. Swallowing was impossible. And the soles of my feet, paddling in pools of blood, burned with the grooves that I knew had been carved into them. I couldn’t speak or flee. I was an animal in shock, waiting for this man to assault me or save me. I didn’t care which, as long as the pain could end.

When they arrived, the police were puzzled. They stared down at me, asking me questions I couldn’t answer. An ambulance crew was summoned, and after a great deal of gawping and pondering, chatting with the groundsman and Mr Boseley-Greene about how such a terrible thing could have happened at his daughter’s wedding, they finally carted me off to hospital.

I was an inconvenience, an embarrassing remnant of an otherwise perfect day, and until I was in the ambulance and wrapped in a rough wool blanket, I had remained naked and bloody. The suffering went on as if David had carefully orchestrated all this misery; all my life of misery.

In hospital, answering the detective’s questions was impossible. I couldn’t speak. Memories were a road accident in my mind; an evening exploded into incomprehensible fragments of delight, pain and terror. And because of the drugs, I was still peering through fogged glass. Nothing was visible; nothing was real.

I told the police what had happened by jotting down broken sentences, barely legible scrawl, on to a small notepad. If I filled every page, there wouldn’t be enough space to tell them the truth.

‘Rape, Miss Marshall, is a very serious allegation. And at a wedding? The young man you are accusing is particularly upset by what happened to you. He went to the police station voluntarily when he was informed what had happened. Are you
sure
you have got your facts right?’ The worn-out detective watched a pretty nurse walk down the ward, more interested in her starched white uniform and neat, long-legged steps than he was in taking a statement from me.

I stared at him from my hospital bed. He had no idea how I was feeling. I wanted to tear myself inside out, set fire to my remains. I hated myself. I hated what David had done to me. The concept of trust, of friendship –
of a future
– had been destroyed.

I picked up the pencil and wrote again. No one had asked about my injuries. I screwed up my eyes as I handed the page to the detective. I could still feel David’s knife cold against my skin.

‘He attacked you with a knife?’

At last, a glimmer of interest. I’d been in hospital three hours and no one had asked where my wounds had come from.

My legs were suddenly exposed as the detective stood and whipped back the sheet. ‘The doctor mentioned lacerations to the lower limbs. Nasty.’ Then he peeled apart my lips and gawped into my mouth before shying away.