‘Edie?’ I would whisper, my breath snagged like a fishhook. ‘Is that you, baby? Say something.’
Nothing. Some nights I would hear the wind on the line like ghosts whispering into my ear. The longest call lasted seven minutes, the shortest just four seconds. The calls came as late as three o’clock in the morning, when I’d take the phone from the cradle and nestle it into the empty pillow next to me so I could hear her breathing in the dark.
Then, for a time, they stopped. The last one I had was nine months ago, just as dusk was settling into the hollows of the Downs. I had a glass of white wine in my hand as I picked up the phone, sliding a Rizla into the folds of my paperback to mark my place. That time, the last time, I was convinced she was going to speak to me. I felt so sure I’d hear her voice that my legs grew weak and I let my back slide down the wall to the floor.
‘Edie?’ I said gently. ‘Talk to me. Please, just say hello.’
Nothing. I let the silence fill the line. I told her I loved her and missed her and that I was sorry, so sorry I hadn’t been enough for her. I told her I hoped she was well. ‘Well’ was the word I used, but what I really meant was ‘safe’. Be safe, my baby.
Since then, nothing. Until this afternoon.
Despite what I’ve told Frances, I am still searching for Edie, unable to resist carving my way through the scant online information about Peter Liverly. His name circles my skull, a constant orbit. I’ve updated the ‘Where Is Edie Hudson?’ website and posted the new picture of her that Frances showed me. The last few nights, sleep hasn’t come so easily so I spend the long night lying and staring at the ceiling with my hands folded over my chest, a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray, the shipping forecast playing in the background. ‘Westerly or southwesterly six to gale eight, occasionally severe gale nine in Southeast Iceland. Rough or very rough, occasionally moderate at first. Rain or drizzle. Good, occasionally poor.’
The call came at four thirty, as I was hauling the wet washing out of the machine. I reached for the phone – the landline, always the landline; I’ve refused to change the number since the day Edie left, in case she ever needed to contact me again. It’s that hope, you see, stretching its long, leathery wings about my ribs, crushing my chest.
I didn’t say hello this time. I didn’t say, ‘Is that you?’ either. I let the silence stretch out and I pressed the phone against my cheek and said, ‘I know about the baby, Edie.’
Was that a gasp? A quick indrawing of breath? Or was it the wind making the lines shiver? I pressed the phone more tightly in my hand, letting the washing drop to the floor at my feet.
‘Who was it, love? Was it that man from the church, the caretaker? You could have told me. I would have helped you.’
Silence. Then, a rustling. Very quick, like Edie was scrabbling for the phone. In the background I heard a voice, a woman – maybe Edie herself saying something. I could only make out one of the words. It sounded like nosebleed.
Then, a click.
‘Edie? Edie?’ I reached out to the phone and tapped the button inside the cradle. ‘Edie? Hello?’
The dial tone, flat and monotonous in my ear. I quickly hung up in case Edie was trying to call. I lay back on my elbows, thinking. That voice. It was so familiar. I knew it. It had to be her.
I dream about Tony Marston and wake up imagining the phone is ringing. The surface of my sleep is thin, and breaks apart easily. I’m panicking, reaching for my bedside drawer out of instinct, even before my eyes have opened. Tony told me that Mace was illegal but he didn’t take it away from me. It is still there, a small metal canister featuring the silhouette of a cowed attacker being repelled beneath the words Take Down Spray.
I let my hand drop away from the drawer and release a shuddering breath. There’s a memory lodged in my head, the way they do sometimes, like a squeaky wheel needing oil.
It was more than two years since Edie’s disappearance. I called Tony on a grey February morning and asked him to come over. The smell of frost and woodsmoke filled the air, and the heavy grey clouds were threatening snow. I stood in the garden smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for him to arrive, and when he did he was barely out of his coat before the anger overtook me, breathless and shaking and spitting words like bullets.
‘Do you know who this is?’
He looked over at me, puzzled. I was holding a newspaper out to him. Not a local; a national. A broadsheet. I’d bought it in the supermarket earlier that morning. He took it from me, studying the photograph of the girl on the front. I bit at my nails, already wishing I could light another cigarette.
‘Her name’s Jemima Kennedy. Middle name Avaline. She’s fourteen. Blonde-haired, green-eyed. Tall, sporty. Approximately five foot two—’
‘What’s going on, Frances?’
‘—weighs about ninety-eight pounds. It’s all there, that information. In the article. She went missing on Sunday evening.’
‘Okay—’
‘Her father owns a chain of car dealerships. That’s in there too. She went to Roedean School for girls, where she was a straight-A student with a flair for languages and music. Her parents had asked her to come straight back from a friend’s house, where they were watching a video. Austin Powers, her friends said. Jemima left their house at nine. It’s a twenty-minute walk along well-lit streets to her parents’ house on Roedean Crescent.
