Come Back to Me

as they turned to Chloe and Anthony. The children had been told to go into the garden to play, and they moved off holding hands. Chloe looked back as her grandparents turned inwards, a carapace for their daughter, and saw her mother’s head go down and her shoulders sag as she made it to the doorway, then slid down it to become a shaking, wailing heap, Chloe’s grandmother quickly going to her side.

In the garden, Anthony had let go of Chloe’s hand. The trees were bare and brown, and thick white cloud blotted out most of the leaden-grey sky.

Chloe raced downstairs as though the hounds of hell were chasing her, and burst into the kitchen, where her mother seemed to be in the process of emptying a cabinet of glass-ware, washing it all and putting it back again.

Margaret turned around in surprise at the sudden sound, and took one look at Chloe’s face, then said, ‘So, you do remember.’

‘Mum!’ Chloe was forcing herself to stay still, to keep her hands at her sides, though she felt like moving across the room and throttling her mother. ‘How could you -’ She registered her mother’s shocked face as she said the words. ‘How could you let Anthony go to America like that? You should have told him. You should have. What if…’ Now she was registering her mother’s expression becoming one of relief, and then Margaret said:

‘Chloe, you underestimate me. I’ve known where your father was all along. Anthony was never in danger, you needn’t worry about that.’

91

In the bathroom, Amy splashed water on her face, bracing herself for everything that must come next.

Guilty. They were going to prison.

She was so relieved. But what this meant for her life, she really didn’t know.

As she turned to grab a paper towel, two women came through the door; one her mother’s age, the other probably a little younger than Amy. She didn’t recognise them, but was all too familiar with the hollow look in their eyes.

She threw her paper towel in the bin, keen to leave, when the older woman began speaking to her.

‘Excuse me… Did you know my daughter? Did you know my Vanessa?’

Amy was so shocked that she began speaking without even thinking about it.

‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. But I’m so, so sorry.’

The woman came over and took Amy’s hand. ‘Then what happened to you?’ she asked softly.

The woman’s gaze was boring right through her. Amy felt almost transparent, like the woman could see into her brain and out the back of her head. Slowly, she unwound the scarf around her neck to show both women the scar that sliced across her skin.

‘I’m pretty sure I was meant to die too,’ she said.

The younger woman gasped. The older one took a long, appraising look at Amy’s neck, the rest of her body completely still.

Amy didn’t know what she was expecting the woman to say, but she felt immeasurably guilty, as though she could have done something; perhaps stayed and hunted down these men before they had preyed on someone else. She was expecting harsh words, a slap to the face, and was waiting for but not shirking from them; in fact her mind was inviting them to confirm everything that she knew she was.

So, the words that finally came shocked her more than anything she had imagined. The woman leaned forward, her arm stretching out towards Amy’s face. Amy instinctively recoiled, but there was something gentle in the movement that slowed her backwards arc, and the woman’s hand connected with Amy’s face to stroke her cheek, just once, with the lightest of touches. Like Amy’s mother used to do.

‘I am so very glad that you didn’t die,’ she said, with both sadness and kindness in her eyes.

Amy let out a sob and then collapsed into the woman’s arms, as a torrent of emotion gushed from her. The younger woman came and joined the embrace, and the three of them were locked together for what might have been seconds or hours, Amy couldn’t tell, though she vaguely registered the bathroom door opening and closing more than once without anyone coming inside.

When the woman stepped back, she said, ‘I’m Vanessa’s mother, Jean, and this is her sister, Natalie.’

Amy took her hand.

‘I’m Amy,’ she said, first of all. And then, ‘Thank you.’ They smiled at one another, but there was nothing else to be said.

‘Look after yourself, Amy,’ Jean added, as Amy turned to go.

‘You too,’ she replied, without looking back.

The peacefulness that had temporarily overcome Amy was blown away by Alex’s anger when he saw her.

‘Where have you been?’ He wiped his brow and agitatedly ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere.’

‘I met Vanessa’s mother and sister in the bathroom,’ she replied, surprised at his agitation.

Alex looked bewildered for a moment, and then understanding crossed his face. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, his shoulders slumping, the fight leaving him.

Amy was confused until he added, ‘I thought you’d gone.’

Another time, she might have been affronted, but now she wasn’t. Instead, she gave him a small smile. ‘Well, I didn’t,’ she replied.

‘No.’ He looked at her, his face relaxing, and then said, ‘Okay then, let’s go.’

As they headed for the door, Detective Thompson approached. ‘Just what we hoped for,’ he said, shaking Amy’s hand and then Alex’s, but Alex’s attention was caught elsewhere for a moment, and she followed his gaze.

The detective’s words faded away.

Time drifted, then slowed, then fractured.

A navy pinstriped suit teamed with a trendy yellow tie. Dark hair, a thin face, a vertical scar slicing his cheek just beneath his right eye.

Two black eyes were staring back at her. Spittle on her cheek. A body bearing down, violently crushing air from her lungs.

And then she was screaming as loudly as she could, because this time she didn’t have a petrol-soaked rag blocking her throat.

92

Chloe was frustrated. She had thought that last night she and her mother had broken through some kind of communication barrier, but today it seemed as if it had only been temporary, as her mother was back to fussing at every opportunity. Margaret had refused to enlighten Chloe further on the subject of her father, saying that first and foremost she needed some rest. She had insisted Chloe go back to bed, had brought up breakfast on a tray, and, unbelievably, chattered on about her journey and the latest gardening club gossip. When Chloe remained morose and uncommunicative, Margaret eventually left her alone to ‘rest’.

Chloe tried to settle down with her book, staring unseeingly at the pages. She dozed every now and then, intermittently hearing her mother banging around downstairs, presumably checking out where different things were kept. She tried not to think about what was getting rearranged or thrown out, or silently noted as inferior.

She had intended to get up and cajole her mother into explaining things properly, but after a while found that tiredness descended upon her like a thick blanket.