For the past three hours I’ve been reading Piper’s stories and poems. Her handwriting is full of loops and swirls, punctuated by drawings, doodles and emoticons. At times I feel like I’m eavesdropping on my own daughter’s life, yet I don’t feel guilty. Maybe I’ll learn something. Understand more.
Most of the entries are undated, but I can see how they grew messier and more secretive in the months before she disappeared. There are code words that I don’t understand and nicknames for people. One of her teachers is “Mr. Bean” and another “Miss Trunchbull.”
She writes letters to herself and to her parents, a lot of them full of angst and anger.
Dear beautiful Daddy and the ice maiden,
By the time you find this letter I will be gone. Maybe I’ll have killed myself. Maybe I’m too hopeless to do that properly. I mess everything else up. Either way, I’ll no longer be your problem. You should be happy now, Mum. You’ll have a perfect daughter in Phoebe and a beautiful little boy and the ugly one will no longer mess up the family photographs or get in the way.
I used to think I was adopted. I still do. Then you had a proper baby and realized that I didn’t fit in with your perfect family. Maybe you should have given me back to the agency when you had the chance.
I think it’s best you forget me. Please look after Phoebe and Ben. Tell them I love them.
I am sorry but goodbye.
As always,
Piper.
Another journal entry begins on Piper’s fourteenth birthday, after what she describes as “the worst year of my life.”
Sometimes I feel that there is no point my living if I’m not going to be anyone. I’d hate so much to be just an ordinary nobody. I can’t imagine having a quiet life and then fading away, not to be remembered. The other day I read this: “You’re not a child any more when you have discovered that childhood is the best time of your life.”
If that’s true then pass me the razor blades.
Reading more of the pages, I discover Piper’s likes and dislikes. Favorite films. Worst fashion crimes (gypsy skirts and black mesh vests). Coolest bands. Possible careers. “Reasons to hate my mother.” “Why little sisters should be boiled in oil.” Occasionally I laugh out loud at some of her observations-a bad haircut makes her look like “a startled hamster,” while some boy she met at junior athletics has “an IQ two points lower than a rock.”
Wedged in the pages of one journal I find a strip of passport-sized photographs. Piper and Tash are sitting on each other’s laps in a photo booth, pulling faces at the camera, laughing behind smears of crimson lipstick.
It’s the only photograph that I’ve seen of Piper in which she doesn’t look self-conscious. Instead, she’s relaxed and reveling in the moment, completely happy.
Glancing at the pile of journals, I’m still no closer to uncovering her secret life. Condoms were found in Tash’s room, along with two cannabis cigarettes. She had older boyfriends and was sexually active. She went to parties and dabbled in drugs. Piper knew these things, but didn’t write about them.
Villages like Bingham are often deceptive. Viewed as rural idylls and perfect places to raise families. People get nostalgic about them, harking back to bygone days, imagining a world of picket fences, corner pubs and village bobbies.
The reality is sometimes very different. Bigger towns expand, swallowing up villages, turning them into satellite suburbs or commuter belts. Areas become run down. Pockets of poverty emerge. Unemployment. Domestic violence. Boredom.
Teenagers feel it most. Too young to drink or to drive, without cinemas, shops or youth centers, they find other amusements, crashing parties and experimenting with sex, soft drugs and alcohol. Young girls like Natasha are drawn to older men. Boys their own age are slower, shyer, less worldly, whereas older men have cars and money to splash around on restaurants and nice clothes. The girls are excited by the fact that a grown man might be interested in them, but are too young to understand the danger of stoking a man’s desire.
At some point I fall asleep fully clothed, a journal open on my chest. A phone enters my dreams. My mobile. Buzzing. A name on the screen: Victoria Naparstek.
She speaks before I can utter a word, yelling down the line.
“Please, please help me! They’re outside!”
I can hear shouting in the background.
“Where are you?”
“At Augie’s house… there are people outside… they want to kill him. They’re saying they’re going to burn him out.”
“Where are the police?”
“I called them.”
“What about Augie?”
“He’s here… with his mother. They’re scared. I’m scared.”
“Are the doors and windows locked?”
“Yes.”
“OK, stay away from them. I’m coming.”
Ruiz isn’t answering his phone. I leave a voicemail and juggle my shoes and socks as I run for the lift, taking it downstairs. The streets are deserted. Christmas lights twinkle and blink from shop windows and behind net curtains.
Jumping red lights at empty intersections and swerving around trucks gritting the roads, I reach the house in less than fifteen minutes. There must be fifty people outside, spilling across the footpath and grass verge onto the normally quiet street. More cars are arriving.
A dozen police officers are lined up in front of the two-story house. Outnumbered. Nervous. They’re yelling at people to go home but the protest has already gained too much momentum. Hayden McBain is at the center of the crowd. His uncle is at his shoulder.
“He’s a child-killer,” yells Vic McBain. “And we don’t want him here! There are kiddies in this street. We don’t want that evil pervert touching them. This is our town. These are our kids.”
The crowd punctuate each statement with a cheer and then begin to chant.
“Scum! Scum! Scum! SCUM!”
Fighting my way to the front, I recognize one of the constables. Yelling above the noise.
“Where are the rest of the police?”
“They’re coming.”
“Can I go inside?”
He nods and opens the gate. Victoria answers the door and closes it quickly. Relief in her hug. Fear. I glance along the hallway and see Augie, peering from the kitchen, half hidden behind the door frame. His mother is next to him, wearing her dressing gown, her hair unbrushed and skin looking almost jaundiced.
“Is everyone OK?”
They nod.
Augie has his mother’s dark solemn eyes but his gaze, even at its steadiest, keeps pulling distractedly to one side. His hands are no longer bandaged, but the skin looks pink and painful, smothered in cream.
From outside the chants are growing louder. Going to the front room, I open the curtain a crack. More police have arrived, linking arms to form a human chain, but they’re easily outnumbered. A bottle explodes on the tarmac, scattering diamonds of green glass.
Joining the others in the kitchen, I try to calm their nerves. “How about a cup of tea.”
Victoria fills the kettle.
“Why can’t they just leave us alone?” asks Mrs. Shaw.
“They’re angry at me,” says Augie.
Victoria shakes her head. “It’s not your fault.”
“Whose fault is it?”
“You should never have gone to that farmhouse,” says his mother. “You should have stayed away from those people.”
Tightening her robe, she looks through the pantry, trying to find a packet of biscuits. “I know I had some,” she says. And then to Augie, “Did you eat the biscuits?”
He lowers his head.
More police have arrived, but so have more protesters. Bottles and bricks are being thrown. Bodies forced back. Regrouping. Coming again. Each chant of “scum” makes Augie flinch. He presses his hands to his ears, trying to block the sound. He whispers in a little boy voice, “It’s my fault. I couldn’t save them.”
“Who couldn’t you save?” I ask.
“All of them.” He puts his finger to his forehead, corkscrewing it as if drilling into his skull. “I couldn’t save Mrs. Heyman from the fire. I couldn’t save my brother. I couldn’t save the girl.”
“Natasha?”
“The snowman took her.”
“Why do you call him the snowman?”
“He was made of snow.”
A window smashes in the front room. Mrs. Shaw screams. Almost simultaneously, glass shatters upstairs. Bricks and bottles are landing against the house.
“Everyone stay here,” I say.
Crouching, I run along the hallway to the front room. The curtains are billowing. Broken glass glitters on the carpet. I move to the window and glance outside. The police have surrendered ground under a hail of missiles.
Bottles and bricks are bouncing off parked cars, occasionally finding windows. A police van made it halfway down the street before being abandoned. Rioters are rocking it from side to side, creating momentum. It topples. Metal on tarmac. The mob cheers.
A rock cannons against the window frame above my head. Another shatters a picture in a frame on the mantelpiece.
Crawling to the entrance hall, I press my ear against the front door. I can hear a policeman outside, radioing for help, sounding desperate. I open the door a crack. Blood streams from a split on the bridge of his nose, running across his lips.
“Stay in the house, sir,” he orders.
I see his head snap back as a half-brick hits him flush in the face. He goes down, his helmet rolling across the steps. At that same moment, I see a flash of yellow and hear it smash as it lands. A whump sound fills the front room. Petrol igniting. Flames. Light.
“There’s a fire!” screams Mrs. Shaw.
“Stay in the kitchen,” I yell back.
Retreating down the hallway, closing the doors, I reach the kitchen. I look out the window and notice a gate at the rear of the yard.
“Where does it lead?”
Mrs. Shaw looks confused for a moment. “There’s a lane. It runs behind the houses to Lovett Road.”
“Where’s Augie?”
“I thought he was with you.”
“No.”
“He must be upstairs.”
“I’ll get him. You go. Take your coats. Call the fire brigade when you get to the lane.”
“I’m not leaving without Augie,” says his mother.
“I’ll get him.”
Covering my mouth and nose, I climb the stairs two at a time. There are three rooms upstairs, two of them bedrooms, crammed with too much furniture. I call Augie’s name. No answer. I can’t see him.
Walking around the beds, stepping over clothes, I glance out a broken window at the street. A phalanx of police wearing helmets and black body armor are marching from the northern end. Reinforcements. They’re pushing the crowd back, clearing the street like a human bulldozer. Behind them the road is littered with shattered bricks and broken glass. The police van is burning.
I can’t find Augie. I search the wardrobes and peer under the beds. He’s not here. The smoke is getting thicker and my eyes are streaming. I crawl across the landing, bumping my head against the wall. My fingers find the skirting board and I feel my way towards the bathroom.
By touch, I find the sink and turn on a tap, washing out my eyes. I manage to open the window a few inches and press my face to the gap, sucking in fresh air. Turning back, I notice a dark shape to my right. Augie is sitting in the bath, his arms wrapped around his knees.
I grab his arm. Shouting. “We have to get out.”
He looks at me. Tears stain his cheeks.
“Come with me.”
He pushes my hand away.
“You can’t stay here. We have to go.”
“I can’t,” he says, pointing to his ankle bracelet. “The judge said I couldn’t leave the house.”
“This is different. You’re allowed.”
“But they’ll kill me outside.”
There is a whooshing sound from below. Flames sweep across the ceiling of the entry hall. Wood crackles and burns. The window won’t open far enough for us to get out. I can’t carry Augie and he won’t come with me. He’s too frightened.
I can’t leave him here and I can’t stay.
Turning on a tap, I wet a towel and drape it over his head.
“Stay here, I’ll get help.”
He doesn’t answer.
I wet a second towel and cover my head. On my hands and knees, I reach the top of the stairs. Face first, I slide down the steps, losing control, landing on my shoulder and rolling. The burning ceiling twirls and dips.
I’m breathing more smoke than oxygen. Blindly, I try to reach the kitchen, but everything has slowed down. I keep hitting my head on the wall. I can’t find the door. It’s dark. Poisonous. Hot.
Curling up on the floor, I place my lips against the carpet, trying to find clean air. If I could just get one lungful, I could keep going. I can feel the heat on the back of my legs.
Wood splinters and the air pressure changes. The fire feeds on the oxygen and bursts through the door of the front room. Strong hands grab me, lifting me, carrying me along the hallway. I try to help, but can’t support my own weight.
My legs are bumping down the steps. I feel soft earth beneath me. Fresh air. I’m dragged across the garden and rolled onto my back. Coughing. Sucking in air. I can’t open my eyes, but I recognize Ruiz’s voice.
“Is there anyone else inside?”
I nod, but can’t speak. Another question, a different voice. Grievous is with him. I point upstairs. Every window at the rear of the house is lit up by fire. Firemen appear from the laneway, dragging hoses through the gate. The detective constable yells at them. “There’s someone still inside. Upstairs.”
The fireman nods and uses his radio, calling for breathing apparatus. Flames are spilling from windows, licking at the eaves. Ruiz helps me to stand. I don’t want to leave. I reach out towards Grievous, wanting to thank him, but he’s already gone, issuing commands, growing in stature.
Ruiz walks me along the lane past the fire engines and police cars. In the darkness I can’t see the smoke, but an orange glow is silhouetting the rooftops and the sparks look like bloated fireflies rising on the heated air.
The crowd has gone silent. No longer hurling missiles, they watch the blaze like children around a bonfire, cheeks glowing, light dancing in their eyes, energy draining away.
One group of young men is loitering on the far side of the street, swigging from cans of lager. Two of them I recognize: Toby Kroger and Craig Gould. Kroger sees me and raises his drink in a grinning toast. Nelson Stokes is another spectator, gazing at the fire as though he expected something more impressive and shouldn’t have bothered coming out.
Ruiz is still with me.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“I got your message. I came as soon as I could. Your girlfriend told me you were still inside the house.”
“Thank you.”
“I guess we’re even.”
“How does it make us even?”
“You’ll save my life one day.”
Victoria Naparstek is sitting in a police car with the door open and a gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
She looks relieved and then searches the road behind me. “Where’s Augie?”
“He wouldn’t come out. I tried. I’m sorry.”
Her first reaction is anger, then hurt, then sadness. She walks into my arms, resting her head against my chest, wiping her nose with the corner of the blanket.
“They killed him,” she whispers, barely making a sound.
This is how I wake, sliding warily out of sleep, listening for every sound, watching the shadows. He crept up on me last time, caught me by surprise. I won’t let it happen again.
Squatting, pants around my knees, I listen to the tinkling in the bedpan beneath me, gazing at the dull white square of the window. Quiet. No birdsong.
Afterwards, I climb on the bench and look at the pale nude sky.
I wonder if George will come today. Until Tash left, I didn’t consider the idea that I was lonely. Now it’s driving me crazy. I can handle the hunger and the cold, but not this. I need George. Next time I’ll be nicer to him and he’ll bring me food and more gas and warmer blankets. If I’m nice to him, he’ll let me wash and give me clean clothes.
I know what he wants and I don’t care anymore. He can stab me with his filthy penis. He can kiss me with his slimy tongue. I just want to know he’s coming back. I want to talk to someone. I don’t want to die down here alone.
I’ve tried to use the walkie-talkie but I think it’s broken or the batteries are dead. I took them out and put them back in again, but it didn’t make any difference. The eye is still peering from the ceiling but I don’t know if it’s turned on or if George is watching. I’ve begged him to come back, but nothing happened.
It’s cold. I pull on three layers of clothes and go to the gas burner. It’s empty. The tap is frozen. I’ll have to wait. The pipes will thaw when it warms up outside.
When I’m hungry like this I think about home. I think about cottage pie and baked pears. Phoebe. Ben. I used to be able to describe The Old Vicarage down to the last detail, every crack and creak and wobbly window, but over time I’ve started to forget things.
If I concentrate really hard, I can imagine throwing rocks into the pond and hear them land with a satisfying plonk before muddy bubbles break the surface. Then I can hear my mother calling me inside for breakfast but I keep standing in the garden, not wanting to leave, watching the first rays of sunshine reach across the lawn towards the greenhouse.
Phoebe will be up early. She’s a morning person, always buzzing and chatting, treating each day like the start of a new adventure. If it’s Saturday morning she’ll watch TV, curled up on the sofa, creating a fort of pillows around her. She’ll get Ben breakfast because he gets hungry before Mum and Dad get up.
I have a new baby sister. I don’t know her name. George didn’t tell me what they called her. I can’t remember much about Phoebe being a baby, but Ben came along when I was twelve. I saw him at the hospital, lying in a cot in the maternity ward. I thought he looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings.
There’s a sound above me. Boxes are being moved. For a fleeting second, I’m hoping that Tash has come back, but then I hear his voice.
“Honey, I’m home,” he sings from the far side of the trapdoor.
My bowels seem to liquefy. Stupid, stupid, stupid me! I wanted him to come. I prayed for it. Now I would take it back. I would take it back a million times.
The trapdoor opens. His face appears.
“Are you ready?”
I draw back, shaking my head, waiting.
“I heard you asking for me.”
“Where’s Tash?”
“I have food.”
“I want to see her.”
“Forget about her. She’s being punished. If you’re good to me, I’ll let you talk to her. Come on. Climb up. That’s it. Raise your arms. One, two, three, upsy daisy.”