The Road to Bedlam: Courts of the Feyre, Book 2 (26 page)

    Yesterday these girls had been blank faces. Now they were people. Helen's uncomfortable smile revealed a shyness and a hesitancy. Other photos revealed a plain simplicity to her. She looked straightforward and honest, with none of the artifice that Debbie had adopted. I wondered how that had translated into becoming a mother. Had she planned it or had things simply got out of hand? It was hard to imagine her getting carried away with some boy and ending up pregnant. Maybe the baby wasn't hers? Maybe she was looking after it for someone else? With that thought came the memory of that quiet reassurance and rhythmic suckling. "Mummy's coming…" No, the baby was hers. The photo, though, revealed nothing of that.

    There were pictures of Karen there, though they tended to be at the back, covered by newer postings. As a girl, Karen had looked a lot like her sister, Shelley, reminding me to find a way to pass on Karen's message to her sister. I would do it discreetly, away from her parents. Karen smiled out of the picture at me, reminding me of the way she had looked across at Ahmed. I couldn't help wishing that one day she would find a way to be close to her family once again.

    In every picture, Trudy Bilbardie was with someone else. I had looked for a good picture of her by torchlight the previous night and settled for the one with her standing between friends because it was a clear image of her. It wouldn't have mattered, though. Trudy was always the centre of attention, hugging those about her close, a big smile for the camera. She looked bright, sparkly and full of life.

    For the first time I wondered whether there were other photos of these women. How much had the choice of pictures been governed by the people searching for them? Were there pictures in a drawer somewhere of Trudy on her own looking nervous? Were there photos of Helen in glamorous dresses and Debbie in jeans and no make-up? If there were, the people searching for them had not chosen to show them.

    That left me with Gillian, her hair framing her face like a halo as she leant forward. It must have been a recent picture, or perhaps she was older than the others, since there were drinks on the table behind her and the photo had been taken with flash so that the shot faded out into a vignette of darkness – a nightclub, perhaps?

    What had she been leaning forward to do? Was someone offering her something, or repeating something not quite heard? Of all the pictures, this one was the least posed. It captured an unconscious moment. There were a couple of other photos, but they looked like mobile phone pictures or shots taken of someone else that Gillian had happened to be with. I could imagine her holding up a hand when the camera was raised, or stepping aside, but for this one shot she'd just been Gillian.

    Replacing the photo, I stepped back. Greg had been right. It wasn't just about finding the girls. It was about knowing what became of them, where they went and why they'd made whatever choice they'd made. And for two of them it was about closure. I would never know if Gillian and Trudy were like their photographs. It was too late for that question. I knew that now.

    Greg said that you had to find out what people needed before you tried to help them. I knew what it was like to lose a daughter. I knew the emptiness and the nagging thought that there was something more I could have done. The parents of these girls needed to know, good news or bad. This wasn't news I could carry, though. I needed Greg.

    When he arrived I was sitting in a pew at the back of the church, listening to the rain and the wind and thinking about the girls, about what to say, and how to say it.

    "Was the door open when you got here?" he asked me.

    "No."

    "You borrowed a key?"

    "Not that either. I let myself in. I hope you don't mind. I'm not here to steal the silver or make off with the collection."

    He closed the heavy door behind him, shutting out the weather, and walked into the centre of the church and genuflected towards the altar. He was silent for a moment.

    "You saw Karen?"

    "Yes."

    "How is she?" He came and sat beside me in the pew, looking down the church towards the big east window.

    "She's well. Ahmed is very protective of her. He looks after her."

    "A good man."

    "A protective man. He took exception to me asking around for her."

    "There was a fight?"

    I shook my head. "It didn't come to that. Karen intervened. We had mint tea together."

    "Quite refreshing, isn't it? Not with sugar, though. That spoils it."

    "She asked about her family. She misses them."

    "It's difficult. Tony, Karen's father, isn't a racist. He just can't deal with the fact that his daughter loves a man whose culture, upbringing, religion and way of life are so very different from his own. He doesn't know how to speak to Ahmed; doesn't know what to say. It comes out as aggression. He doesn't mean it."

    "Karen thinks he does."

    "And that's why they live apart. It's better. At least for now."

    "But why the photos? They know where she is. They could ring her up if they wanted to. Why make a show of it?"

    "When Karen first vanished, they thought Ahmed had kidnapped her. They made a huge fuss. The police were involved, everything. Then they found out where she was and what she was doing. They'd already joined the group, posted photos, made a public statement. I think they thought she'd realise what a mistake she'd made and come back. They could say she'd run away and then decided to come home."

    I shook my head. "She's not coming home."

    "I know. So do they. The fiction remains, though."

    "I spoke to Debbie, too."

    "Debbie? You found her?"

    "Not exactly. I spoke to her. I don't know where she is, but she's alive and well, mostly."

    "How did you find her?"

    "She found me. I don't think she's coming home either."

    "Can you get in touch with her?"

    "Maybe, I'm not sure. It's not easy to talk to her."

    Greg steepled his hands in front of him. He thought for a long moment before speaking. "Debbie's mum isn't part of the church community. Comes to the meetings on a Friday. Makes tea when its her turn. Talks about her daughter, mostly. Never met the dad. Not even sure there is one. A series of boyfriends, maybe. What we used to call uncles."

    "Stepfather?"

    "Not that involved, or that reliable. They come and go. I don't know, but it's possible that one of them took a shine to Debbie."

    "You think that's why she left?"

    "Maybe. You'd have to ask her that question. Her mother doesn't know, I can tell you that. She'd kill them if they touched Debbie."

    "She might not know, though."

    "D'you think you could get her to phone home? It doesn't have to be from her own number. A call box would do it."

    "I don't know whether I'll speak to her again."

    "If you do. She'll know the number, I'm sure. Just a call. It would mean a lot."

    "I found the others too, Greg. Some of them."

    He looked directly at me for the first time. "What do you mean, some of them?"

    I stared resolutely at the east window, avoiding his gaze. I was reminded of a technique I'd learned professionally, on a course on presentations. It's called a shit sandwich. If you have bad news then you wrap it between two pieces of good news. It helps to make it more palatable. There was no way of making this any easier.

    "Gillian and Trudy… they're not coming back."

    I sat under his unwavering stare. It was a little while before he looked away.

    He cleared his throat. "You only started looking yesterday. You could give it a little more time."

    "When people say things to you, Greg, you can hear whether they're lying, can't you?"

    He became still beside me.

    "And when they tell the truth, you can hear that too."

    He might as well have been carved from the same stone as the church.

    "So you'll be able to hear in my voice whether I'm telling the truth. Trudy and Gillian can't be found. I think they're dead."

    "How do you know?" His voice was close to a whisper.

    "I told you yesterday. I have different ways of finding people. If they're alive, I can find them."

    "What if they've moved away? They could have gone abroad, taken a plane, maybe."

    "Let's call it a talent, like knowing whether someone's telling the truth. If they're out there I can tell they're there. I can't find any trace of Gillian or Trudy."

    "What about Helen?"

    "Helen I found. She's OK. She has her hands full."

    "She's had the baby? Thank God. I thought she'd gone for a termination."

    I saw the news of the baby's safe arrival spread relief on his face and I felt like I'd cheated. There should be no good news after that. Once again, though, it meant he knew more than he was saying.

    "You knew she was pregnant." It was a statement, not a question.

    "No. Young man came to call. Wanted to know whether her parents had found her. Whether she'd been in touch. I had to tell him, no. Sat him down, made him tea. Asked him why he didn't go to her parents, if he was so worried. It was like pulling teeth."

    "He's the father?"

    "Thinks he is. She was underage. He said it wasn't supposed to happen. They were holding hands, kissing, that sort of thing. All very sweet. Then one afternoon after school she takes her clothes off in front of him. He's a good lad, but he's not made of stone."

    "Just bad luck, she got pregnant first time?"

    "Hardly. It became a regular thing. He was scarlet by the time he told me this."

    "Why didn't they take precautions?"

    "He wanted to. She wouldn't hear of it. Her family are churchgoing, strict with it. She said it would be up to God."

    "You believe that?"

    "He moves in mysterious ways, but usually within the sanctity of marriage. By then it was too late. She'd gone and I dreaded the worst. It's a relief to hear she'd had it. Boy or a girl?"

    "I don't know. I didn't get to ask."

    He studied the glass in the big window. "Quite a gift, that."

    "What?"

    "Finding people. These girls have been missing for months, more than a year, some of 'em. You walk in one morning and by the next day you know where they are."

    "I know they're there. Where they are, I can't tell."

    "Still, quite a gift."

    "As you say."

    "Ever been wrong?"

    "You know I'm telling the truth. You can hear it."

    "I know you believe it. I just don't know whether I believe it."

    "Even if they were in a coma, down a mine, gone to Australia, I think I would know."

    "A gift and a burden."

    "Pardon?"

    "It isn't easy, always knowing the truth. When people say, 'I'll see you on Sunday', and you hear the lie on their tongue, it isn't easy."

    "I don't suppose it is."

    "Worse when they say things like 'thank you' or 'hope to see you soon'."

    "Yes. It must be."

    "This daughter you lost. Must be a burden knowing for sure that she's dead, but being unable to see the body."

    "I didn't say she was dead."

    "No, you didn't, did you?"

    There was another long silence while the rain lashed against the windows. It was Greg that eventually broke that silence.

    "We live in hope."

    "I'm not a religious man. I said that before."

    "You don't have to believe in Him," he said. "The important thing is that He believes in you. If you have a gift, then it's for a purpose. Maybe you were brought to us to give us certainty. I think you know what that means."

    "Closure."

    "Perhaps. I will need to think about this, Neal. I believe you are sincere and that you know what you know. That doesn't mean I'm going to tell the parents. That might mean explaining how I know."

    "I understand."

    "If you could tell me where, it would be easier."

    "Debbie? A city. Somewhere with nightclubs and loud music. Helen? Could be anywhere."

    "Gillian? Trudy?"

    "There's nothing, Greg. If I knew, I'd tell you."

    "You would. Let's leave it there, then, for now. Try again for me, if you would? Not that I don't believe you, but it can't hurt. People have been mistaken before. If you get the chance to speak to Debbie or Helen, tell them their parents are worried sick about them. A phone call would make all the difference."

    "I don't know if I'll be able to speak with them."

    "You could also tell Helen that there's a young man who's desperate to hear from her and wants to do the right thing, and not just because it's the right thing to do."

    "I'm not sure I should be the one to bear such news. It's too important."

    "When you have my job, you get to deal with the shitty end of the stick too often. You see people at their worst, at their lowest, at the end. When, from time to time, you get the chance to share the joy in people's hearts, you grasp it, not for yourself, but because next time you're dealing with the shit you can look back and think, it isn't all like this."

    "I'll remember that."

    We sat in the church for a good few minutes after that, listening to the wind and the rain.

    "I should go," I told him.

    "Don't feel bad about this, Neal. The convention is not to shoot the messenger. Not your burden to carry."

    "That doesn't stop me feeling responsible."