be bone-rattlingly loud in there. She may have to face life without ear-drums if she carries on like this.
I do a bit of housework – and by that I mean cramming even more plates into the dishwasher and hoping for the best – and decide to try and turn in for the night. Or at least lie in bed with a good book. I sleep in what used to be the spare room of the house, which is quite small and looks out over the garden. I’ve never been able to bring myself to sleep in Kate’s room, even though it is by far the biggest. It’s still too much … hers. The whole house, to some extent, is a bit like a constant reminder of the life we used to have; the woman we loved, who filled it with energy and warmth and security. The woman we lost.
But we live in the rest of the house. We use it; we make meals, and mess things up, and wash clothes, and leave books lying around, and dump our bags in the hallway. The rest of the house has moved on a little – it’s evolving with us, around us.
Kate’s room, though? That’s still haunted. Still a no-go zone. Like there’s some kind of emotional cordon around it; crime scene tape for the mind. The door stays shut, although I do occasionally find myself standing outside, touching the handle, imagining she’s still in there. Getting ready for work, or a night out, faffing around with hair straighteners or using one of the seventeen different types of perfume on her cluttered dressing table, sniffing them all and usually deciding on the Burberry.
Sometimes I even go so far as to open the door, and the disappointment of seeing that neatly made bed; seeing the wires of the hair straighteners tangled in an unused heap like coiled snakes; smelling the seventeen different types of perfume … well, it’s a killer, I can tell you. Some doors are simply better off left closed – at least for the time being.
I amble up the stairs, feeling croaky and stiff, like an 80-year-old version of myself. I pause outside Martha’s room, lingering there as I debate whether to knock or not.
I don’t want to push her, or intrude … or, if I’m entirely honest, interact with her at all. I’m tired too, and we both need a bit of space. But I also really don’t want to be listening to death metal all night, while I try to concentrate on reading the latest Kate Atkinson book. Jackson Brodie deserves my full attention.
So I knock, practicing my super-friendly, no-conflict-here smile, and wait for her to answer. She doesn’t – possibly because of the ear-splitting level of the music. I knock again, my super-friendly, no-conflict-here smile possibly fading a little. I wait some more. Still nothing.
After that, I bang on the door double-fisted, yelling ‘Martha! Turn that racket down!’ at the top of my voice. God, the neighbours must absolutely love us.
The super-friendly, no-conflict-here smile has by this time well and truly done a runner. It has been replaced by its angry relative: the super-unfriendly I’m-going-to-kill-you face.
Annoyed, tired, and already feeling tomorrow’s headache coming on, I decide that her privacy is an over-rated commodity, and push the door open. I usually avoid doing such things – you never know what you’re going to find in an angry teenaged girl’s bedroom – but I’ve had enough.
The door slams backwards, and I storm into the room. I intend to rip the plug to the stereo out of the wall, and entirely possibly throw her awesomely cool record player (the kind we all got rid of in the 90s) out of the window. I might, depending on how that goes, snap her entire vinyl collection into tiny black smithereens.
Of course, I don’t do any of this. Not because I am cool and calm and restrained. But because I realise that there is a bigger issue to deal with than the music.
The room – smelling suspiciously ripe and herbal – is empty. Martha, adorable child that she is, has snuck out.
It’s my own fault, I think, as I make my way towards town. If I hadn’t passed out in front of the goggle box, she wouldn’t have been able to sneak past me and into the night. I’d known she was more upset than she’d been letting on – about the letter from college, about life in general, the potential move to Dorset– but I’d let her escape to her room and fester in it.
I didn’t even bother doing the usual ring-round of her friends. She’d moved on from them. I did, however, ring Steph – the police lady who had become half a friend. After bringing Martha home that night, we’d bumped into each other a few times in town, and she’d always been kind, not only asking how Martha was, but asking how I was as well. So few people ever asked that, and I was pathetically grateful. Funny how you can present a tough front to the world, but a random act of kindness from a virtual stranger can bring on the waterworks.
So tonight, I took a chance, and called her, trying to sound light-hearted but feeling the weight of the world bearing down on my shoulders. The rational part of me knew Martha would be all right – but the part of me that read a lot of books was extremely concerned with serial killers, rohypnol in drinks, and strange European men who kept girls in sound-proofed cellars for years on end.
“Yep, I’ve just seen her,” Steph confirmed. “She was with the same people as before – that gang that hangs round the bus station – and it looked like they might have been heading for The Dump.”
The Dump is a local nightclub, on the edge of Bristol city centre, and it’s about as lovely as the name implies. The Dump isn’t its real name, of course – but it’s how it’s known to locals. It’s had about five different names since I’ve been old enough to pay attention, and seems to change it all the time in an attempt to revamp its slightly dodgy image.
It’s a squat 1970s building on the edge of a small strip of kebab shops and tanning salons, and it’s been there forever. Me and Kate used to go there, and it’s never once gone out of fashion. Probably because it was never even in fashion – it’s not a cool club.
Its floors are sticky with decades of sweat and spilled beer; it always smells of smoke despite the ban, and the fire exits are rickety old metal steps corroded by rust. I’d had many very fine nights there myself, in a different lifetime.
After I finish talking to Steph, I decide that I will simply go and find Martha, and bring her home. I don’t know why I’m freaking out so much – but some kind of instinct is telling me that this is important. That if I let this one slide, it will be followed by an avalanche. That I’ll never get her back again. I’m sure I’m over-reacting, but trust that instinct anyway.
Wearing flannel pyjama trousers, Kate’s Glastonbury hoodie and my Crocs, I march all the way to the club. I’m slightly out of puff as I arrive, and definitely out of patience. By the time I bump into Steph, I probably resemble a furious gnome who buys her clothes in a charity shop.
“Did you see her go in?” I ask, after we’ve said hello. “Because you know she’s only 16 … they shouldn’t be letting her in at all …”
“I know, I know,” she replies, placatingly. “And this place is overdue a raid. But I didn’t actually see her go in, no, so there’s nothing I could do. You know how it is.”
I nod. I do know how it is. When I was younger, I adored the fact that the doormen at The Dump didn’t pay too much attention to how old you were. I was coming here from the age of 15 onwards and nobody ever batted an eyelid. All it took was seventeen layers of foundation, a push-up bra, and a lot of attitude.
“Wish me luck,” I say, trying
