he thought, and walked out of the kitchen and into the hall.
It was Sandra and James. James was in his football kit, his bag over his shoulder. He slung it on to the stairs.
‘Don’t leave that blocking the stairs,’ Sandra said. ‘Go and put it away. And tidy your room while you’re up there.’ She looked at Martin and shook her head. ‘He’s a savage,’ she said.
Martin didn’t answer. She frowned. ‘Everything OK?’
Martin had a tense, almost nauseous, feeling in his stomach. Even though there was probably a simple explanation, he couldn’t avoid thinking the worst. He knew he was unnecessarily anxious, what his mum had called a ‘worry-wart’; whenever Sandra was out at night he couldn’t go to sleep until she was home, visions of car crashes or worse swimming in his head – but knowing he worried too much didn’t help. He was not the kind of father or husband or son who could relax and wait for news to come under the assumption it would be good. For him, no news was always bad news.
‘I thought you were Maggie,’ he said. ‘She’s not back yet. I called Anne and a couple of others. No one’s seen her.’
Sandra stared at him. For a moment there was worry in her eyes, but then she smiled. Unlike him, Sandra assumed that things were generally OK. ‘She’s a fifteen-year-old girl,’ she said. ‘She’s probably with a different friend. Or at the cinema.’
‘She should have told us.’
‘Yes, she should. But she didn’t. She’s not a little girl any more, Martin.’
‘I know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I still worry though.’
‘I know you do. It’s one of your more attractive traits.’
‘It might be time to get her a phone,’ he said. ‘Then this won’t happen again.’
‘That’s probably why she’s stayed out,’ Sandra replied. ‘So she finally gets the white whale, the elusive mobile phone.’
‘Not fair!’ The call came from the top of the stairs. ‘If she gets a phone, I want one!’
‘You’re fourteen,’ Martin replied. ‘Not a chance. And wash your hands before dinner. It’s nearly ready.’
He didn’t eat dinner; he couldn’t. His stomach was tight and clenched and the spaghetti bolognese on his plate looked totally unappetizing.
James nodded at his plate. ‘Can I have that?’
Evidently his son was not feeling the same way. Martin passed it over and stood up. He looked at the clock over the sideboard. It was nearly seven p.m. Maggie had never stayed out this late without letting them know; she always told them when she was going to be out, and where she was going to be.
Not this time. Maybe it had slipped her mind, but he didn’t think so. She was somewhere, and someone knew where that was.
He went to the phone in the hall and called Kevin.
‘Have you seen her?’ he asked, when Kevin picked up.
‘No. I was waiting for her to call. About coming over.’
‘Any ideas where she might be?’
‘No,’ he said. He sounded as worried as Martin, although Martin suspected it was for different reasons. Kevin was no doubt worried she was with another boy.
He hung up and called Anne again. It sounded like she was in the pub.
‘Any sign of Maggie?’ he said.
‘No.’ Anne said something to someone and the noise of the pub died down. ‘Sorry about that – I’ve come outside,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t hear in there. Is everything OK, Uncle Martin?’
‘Maggie still hasn’t turned up.’
‘God,’ Anne said. ‘I hope she’s OK. I’ll ask around, shall I?’
‘Please. Call if you hear anything.’
He tried more of her friends. Everyone he could think of. Chrissie – in Nottingham, but still possibly in possession of some useful information – Jeffrey, Oscar, Fern, Meg, Jessie. They always knew what the rest of them were up to.
Except now. None of them knew anything.
He stood with the receiver in his hand. If she wasn’t with a friend, then where was she? Images of bodies in ditches or on hospital trolleys came unbidden. He forced them away. That wasn’t it. There was another explanation, a reason she had said she was going to Anne’s and then not shown up, a reason she had not told anyone where she was.
And he thought he might know what it was. Maybe Kevin’s fears were justified.
She had a new boyfriend. Probably older, probably unsuitable – which was why she hadn’t told him and Sandra. And she didn’t want Kevin to find out, which was why she hadn’t told her friends.
Apart from Chrissie. She told Chrissie everything.
He dialled Chrissie’s number again.
‘Sorry to call again, Chrissie,’ he said. ‘There’s one other thing I wanted to ask you.’
‘That’s OK, Mr Cooper. Whatever you want.’
‘I know you said you don’t know where Maggie is, but is there anything I should know? Maybe she told you something and asked you not to tell me and her mum, but if she did, now is a good time to say so.’
‘No,’ Chrissie said. ‘There’s nothing.’
‘Are you sure, Chrissie? Maybe a new boyfriend she wants to keep secret?’
‘I promise, Mr Cooper,’ Chrissie said. ‘I promise there’s nothing.’
She sounded – as far as he could tell – as though she was telling the truth.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘If anything comes to mind, or if you hear from her, call me. Anytime.’
She did not call back. No one did. By ten p.m., Sandra was as worried as him.
They sat at the kitchen table. Sandra had a mug of tea; Martin still couldn’t stomach anything. He was sure, now, that something was seriously wrong.
‘Where the fucking hell is she?’ he said. He rarely swore; even now the words felt out of place in his mouth. ‘I don’t understand what she’s playing at.’
‘Me neither,’ Sandra said. ‘But when she does get home she’s going to be in so much trouble she won’t know which way is up for a month. She can’t do this kind of thing.’
