iii.
Julia broke the connection. She ran through the gates to the school entrance and pushed open the worn green door, then ran along the corridor in the direction of the administrative offices. Karen, the school secretary, tall and thin, with a head of tight black curls, was standing outside the office door, her face drained of colour.
‘Mrs Crowne,’ she said. ‘I’m sure everything’s ok. Perhaps your husband picked her up.’
The twitchy, alert look in her eyes belied the calm reassurance of her tone. Julia’s stomach fluttered, then contracted. She had a sudden, violent urge to vomit.
‘I’ll check,’ she said. She dialled Brian’s number.
‘Hello.’ His voice was hard; his dislike of her deliberate and obvious. ‘What do you want?’
Julia licked her lips. They were very dry. ‘Brian,’ she said. ‘Is Anna with you?’
‘Of course not. I’m at school. It’s your day to pick her up.’
‘I know,’ Julia paused, ‘but she’s not here.’
There was a long silence.
‘What do you mean she’s not there?’ The hardness in his voice had softened into concern. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ Julia said, wanting, even in this situation, to add a sarcastic obviously. ‘Maybe your mum picked her up?’ She almost smiled with relief. This was the answer, after all, of course it was. Edna, her grandmother, had come on the wrong day. The relaxation was almost palpable, like the glow from a stiff drink.
‘It wasn’t mum,’ Brian said. ‘She’s at home. She called an hour or so ago to ask about something. She wanted to know where the stopcock for the mains was. Apparently, there was some kind of leak in the kitchen.’
The hopeful glow faded. Julia swallowed; her mouth powder dry. ‘Then I don’t know where she is.’
They were words you never wanted or expected to say to your husband or wife or anybody at all about your five-year-old daughter. Five-year-old children were supposed to have known whereabouts at all times: with one or the other parent, at school, at a friend’s house, with a select few relatives, who, in Anna’s case, were Brian’s mum Edna, or, occasionally, when they were back from Portland, Oregon, Brian’s brother Simon and his wife Laura, these being the extent of their relatively small family circle.
‘You don’t know where she is?’ Brian asked, his voice caught between anger and panic. ‘You’d better find her!’
‘I know.’
‘And it’s nearly half past three! How come you’re just calling now?’
‘I was a bit late,’ Julia said. ‘I just got here. I thought the school would be – I thought she’d be here.’
‘Did you let them know you’d be late?’
‘No, I … my phone was dead. I just assumed … ’, her voice tailed off.
‘Jesus,’ Brian said. ‘She could be anywhere. In thirty minutes, she could be anywhere. She could have wandered … ’ he paused. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Start looking for her. Search the grounds and the streets nearby.’
‘OK.’ She felt frozen, unable to think. ‘We’ll search for her.’ She looked again at Karen, who nodded.
‘I’ll tell the cleaning staff to help,’ Karen said. ‘And Julia – don’t worry. She’ll turn up, I’m sure. She’s probably in someone’s garden, or the newsagent, or somewhere like that.’
Julia nodded, but the words were not at all reassuring. They were little more than meaningless sounds.
‘Brian,’ she said. ‘I have to go. I have to get started.’
‘One more thing,’ Brian said. ‘Call the police.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact, I’ll call them. You start looking for her. Start looking for Anna.’
The line went dead. Julia’s hand dropped to her side. Her phone, loosely gripped between her thumb and forefinger, dropped to the floor.
Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Oh, God.’
i.
These were the crucial hours.
If you had been seen then the police would learn about that soon enough. First, they would check the immediate area, then they would drive the route to the girl’s house to see if she had set off for home alone. When they didn’t find her they would contact all the parents and staff who had been there at three p.m. and ask them what they had seen. Then they would interview the family. They always looked close to home first, not that they would find anything.
And, of course, they would check the school’s CCTV. You knew you weren’t on that. All they would see was the girl walking out of shot and into oblivion.
Of course, there was always the possibility that there was a camera in the area you hadn’t spotted. You’d checked carefully, but it was possible.
And if there was, or if they had seen you, and realized who you were, then the police would be here soon enough, knocking on your door.
But that was OK. You had a plan for that. For these first hours the girl was elsewhere, stashed in your neighbour’s garage; your neighbour who was in Alicante for the fortnight, and who had left you their house keys because you’re our only neighbour so you can keep an eye on the place in case anything happens.
Something had happened, but not something they could have imagined.
You’d backed into their garage and unloaded her, then put your car away. No one would have seen. There was no one to see. No prying eyes. No spying eyes. It gave you comfort that you were invisible to the world, allowed you to get on with your life unobserved. Not just now, with the girl, but the other times as well.
And now the girl lay there, sleeping on the floor of a large doll’s house that the father had built for his kids, his braying, noisy kids, who had outgrown it. It was just big enough for her to lie full length in, her feet by a small table, her head on a bag of sand, which was destined to re-fill the sand pit that the two spoilt kids who loved to disturb your afternoon peace played in.
She could stay there until midnight. That was when you would bring her inside and introduce her to her new home.
Her temporary new home.
She wouldn’t be here for too long.
ii.
Julia
