After the Party, page 11
All the possible routes are in different colours. There’s something mesmerising about the map, about the possibility of finding Rebecca. I wonder if I should have shown Inspector Williams, but maybe he’d misconstrue my intention. I want to find her, I’m doing this for Dean. Why is he so hell-bent on Dean being involved? It’s absurd. I think about Dean’s anguished expression. He loves her, I remind myself, and although it’s the last feeling I should have, I can’t help but sob loudly into the silence of my house.
Chapter Twelve
I don’t go into work the next day; I can’t bear the idea of seeing people I work with, their faces twisted into the same expression. People from other departments, who didn’t even know Rebecca, hovering at the end of her aisle, staring at her desk like she isn’t coming back. More than anything, I can’t stand the whispers in the kitchen and corridors about Dean and Rebecca’s relationship. Marie has fuelled the rumours by telling people about their argument on the night of the Christmas party.
I lay in bed for a few hours in an attempt to get some sleep, my phone wedged under my pillow on loud in case Dean called. But I couldn’t fall asleep, I just stared out through my open curtains, the top window propped open and the sound of rogue tree branches scraping against the pane. A noise I used to find relaxing, but now it’s unsettling.
I pull back my hair into a tight bun and put on two layers of everything. I run a face wipe over my tired features and retreat to the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee. I eye the empty wine bottle on the side, and glance away. My thoughts feel jumbled and scatty from last night, the lack of sleep, the glasses of wine. A film sits on the top of Inspector Williams’s cold cup of coffee and I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling guilty. I could have been more helpful. We have the same goal, don’t we? We both want to find Rebecca. Last night was significant: he showed up by himself because he couldn’t get anyone in The Swan to speak to him; he was looking in all the obvious places for someone to blame. I thought at first he was a box checker, but now I see he is struggling to find the box at all. He’s desperate and so am I.
I sit at my desk and boot up my computer, scanning news websites for a mention of Rebecca’s disappearance. There’s nothing in the mainstream newspapers, but a couple of local media outlets have short articles with the same copy, a press release from Norwich Police. It reads, ‘Rebecca Abbott, 24, has been reported missing after a work Christmas party at the Tinley Manor House on the night of December 4th. If anyone has seen or heard from Rebecca, you are urged to contact Norwich Police Department.’ Below the copy is a small picture of Rebecca, focused on her oval face. She’s wearing a green polo neck jumper and large gold hoop earrings that almost touch her shoulders. She’s smiling, baring a set of white teeth through her upturned pink lips.
I snap shut my laptop and push my chair away from the desk. I try calling Dean again, but instead of ringing it goes straight to answerphone. I’ll go there later. I’ll take him some shopping and offer to help clean up the flat. I’ll pick up some cakes and the coffee he likes from that bakery. Dean’s parents live in Scotland and he said they couldn’t fly out yet. He must be alone, sitting in his filthy studio flat, waiting for news of Rebecca. I need to be more useful than I am being. Maybe I’ll ask if he wants to stay here. Then I can look after him. No matter what the outcome of all of this may be, I can be there for him.
I walk into the lounge and stare down at the map spread across the floor. I’ll try the most obvious route first, the one that skirts past my house and down to the chicken factory. Rebecca would know that’s the quickest way back to town. I know the police will be searching everywhere, I don’t doubt that, but I feel useless sitting here, waiting for something to happen.
I zip up my coat to my chin and pull on my wellies and gloves. As I shut the door behind me, I see Sheila’s curtain twitching, and make a note to pick up some Eccles cakes from the bakery. Instead of turning left towards town, I make a right at the end of my garden and onto the gravel pathway that leads down to the public footpath. There’s an icy chill in the air today, but the sun is high and swollen in the sky. Frost peppers the tips of branches and lines the kerb of the footpath. The ground is sodden and muddy from the downpour over the last couple of days and I’m thankful for my wellies as I try to avoid large puddles.
I continue past the small stone blockades and up to the wire fence, tiptoeing around puddles as I make my way along the footpath towards the chicken factory. For a moment, I think Rebecca might round the corner. She wouldn’t be smiling; she never smiles much, and if she does it’s always over in a flash. I push on towards the waterlogged fields. This area surrounding the village is the most hazardous; there’s an uncompromising rawness to the countryside. The fields belong to small subsistence farms scattered just off the main road. It’s one of my favourite parts of the area, but I don’t come down here much anymore. It’s like one of those memories that suddenly turns sour. A taste you always loved that now makes your stomach churn. Maybe I see myself in it, existing to survive, uncomplicated, unadorned.
The nearest farm is Bucklesberry Farm. The owner, Tom Fargate, keeps the fences that trail the footpath in excellent condition. I often stop by his farm for a box of eggs and some fresh milk, which he sells from a small barn as you pull in. I can see the red roof of his hay barn jutting out, just above the dip in the hillside. I grasp a part of the fence with a gloved hand and shake it. Rebecca wouldn’t come through here. I glance across the field, where the undulating terrain rears into the sky just to fall away. It’s possible she could have tripped and fallen into the dips in the fields. Tom uses this field for sheep, but they are kept in a barn at this time of year, so would he even know? Possibly not. But Rebecca’s an avid walker, it’s what redeems this place for her; she’s fond of spending time alone, meandering across the fields. She must have been confident that night… No, she was arrogant, annoyed at Dean for loving her so much that he wanted her to stay in Norfolk with him; petulant and impetuous in getting away from the party. I can imagine her skulking off into the night with something to prove. She couldn’t have gotten far in her high heels, unless she took them off and tried to make her way through the fields anyway, rocks scratching her ankles and icy mud oozing through the space between her toes, Or maybe not – I know she sometimes took a spare pair of flats to parties, so she never had to stop dancing...
I stare harder at the barn. What if she’s holed up somewhere like that, warm among the large hay bales or piles of straw? What if she fell asleep and one of the farmers locked her in next day and now she’s trapped? I remember when our family cat went missing for days, only to be found locked in a neighbour’s shed, her small paws raw and bloodied from desperately trying to scramble free. I think of Rebecca, her cheeks stained with mascara as she scratches at a wooden barn door, and my stomach turns. It would make sense, wouldn’t it, a drunk, tired Rebecca, miserable that she’d failed in finding her way home. She’d smelt the familiar scent of manure in the night air, wafting over to her as she stumbled around in the darkness. I think of her, staring out the window, the sadness in her eyes. Then the flash of her smile, so quick you could almost miss it, but she’d smile when she reached the barn, a soft floodlight illuminating her way as she closed the door, rubbing her hands together. You live in that little cottage with the red door in the field by Tom’s farm. She knew the way.
I march on alongside the fence, my eyes burrowing into the side of the barn, so certain that she’s in there. Then I think of all the farms circling the village and the ones she’d come across on her way into town. Inspector Williams must have called on them, had the same thought, surely. I trudge through the rising bog and persevere until I reach the narrow line of higher ground that separates Tom’s fields and the wooden gate. I see the large chicken coops in the distance and the llamas circling them. I smile. Tom bought the llamas to protect his chickens from fox attacks; he’d heard that they were protective animals and he was right. He grinned at me one day as he handed over an extra half a dozen eggs, saying repeatedly, ‘You wouldn’t believe it, would you, you just wouldn’t believe it.’
I click my tongue as I approach the fence but the llamas just look up lazily and bow their necks back down to take another bite of grass, their lips smacking rhythmically as they consider me again. Tom had lovingly named them all, and I understood why. They are his protectors in a way, protecting his livelihood.
I follow the trail until I come to a small wooden fence with ‘Private Property’ etched on a small plaque. I know Rebecca took this path. I think back to what she said about seeing my house from the fields. I’m going to miss it. Because she was moving away. I walk through the gate and past a tractor lying dormant, its wheels buried in the slops of mud.
I see Tom bent down next to a water butt by the barn.
‘Tom,’ I call, as I close the gate. He turns and smiles instantly, and then I make sure I point to the llamas. ‘I think they know me.’
‘I’d say so,’ he says slowly in his thick Norfolk accent, ‘they like visitors, especially Moose.’ Moose is a small white llama with a dark patch over one eye.
‘You could open a llama petting zoo,’ I suggest.
He crinkles his nose at this. ‘I don’t think so, too many tourists.’
I smile. ‘I came in the back way today.’
He nods, ‘I know, I saw you a mile off. Didn’t expect a visit today, especially after the torrential rain we’ve been having.’
I shift uncomfortably and glance at the barn behind him.
He runs a hand over his overly long stubble and pulls his flat cap firmly down. ‘You know the girl that’s missing,’ he states, picking up the pail of water next to him. I follow him around to the front of the barn and see its wooden doors are wide open.
‘I know her,’ I confirm. ‘I work with her.’
He dumps the pail and water spills over the side and sloshes onto the floor. I look around the barn frantically and then my eyes rest on him.
‘The police came by,’ he says sternly, nodding slowly as he follows my gaze around the barn. ‘They wanted to check out the barn.’
I nod, almost on the brink of tears. ‘They looked in all of them.’ He regards me intently. ‘You’re friends?’
I sniff and look away over at the llamas, protecting the chickens that lie huddled in their coops. How safe they must feel.
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry, Lizzie. She used to come by with her parents. She likes the strawberries I get in from down the way.’
I remember seeing her with punnets of strawberries at work, and plucking them from a bowl on her desk. I smile at the thought of it.
‘She’ll be okay,’ he says reassuringly, but I don’t believe him. He’s staring out at the unkempt fields, his wispy grey hair sticking out from under the hat, and puts his hands on his hips. His blotchy, weathered face stiffens and lines form under his eyes.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
His whole body jolts, like I’d crept up on him or woken him from a deep sleep.
‘She came here once or twice with a man.’
I wince and he notices. ‘Another friend of yours?’ he asks.
I smile wearily. ‘Yes.’
‘They were close.’ He raises his eyebrows, but feels the need to explain anyway. ‘Like, real close,’ he emphasises.
I picture the two of them slipping out of Dean’s small blue Fiesta, Rebecca’s long sleek legs and large Ugg boots grazing the gravel as they cling to each other. Them hand in hand, her pointing at a box of strawberries and him picking them up, just wanting to please her. I can imagine Tom serving them, his awkwardness as he tried to pack their purchases while they pecked at each other.
‘It’s always the boyfriend,’ he says bluntly and I realise it’s the first time anyone’s said it out loud. I stare at Tom, but he’s not thinking of me, he’s gazing out at the field still. He doesn’t notice when I start to cry. It’s the first time the possibility that Rebecca isn’t alive anymore has entered the world. It floats around me like a thick smoke and I instinctively swat the air.
Tom looks at me inquisitively. ‘Flies from the cows?’ he asks. ‘No, not this time of year,’ he replies to himself.
Then I take in what he says again. Always the boyfriend. He sounds old-fashioned, like he’s taken the line from an old crime film. But he’s not thinking like that, he’s just being honest, it’s on his mind. We stand together for a moment staring out at the grey field and the mud that threatens to drown the remaining grass, withered with the winter cold.
I’m about to reply when my phone starts ringing deep in my coat pocket. I step away from Tom without saying anything and he continues with his work. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, but along with it I’m clutching the mistletoe I’d stuffed in there from the Christmas party. It’s shrivelled and brown now, small wilted leaves clinging to a thin stem. I shake the memory away and look at my phone, not recognising the number. It could be work. I reluctantly answer it.
‘Hello,’
‘Hi, is that Lizzie?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Tilly, from The Mirror Agency.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘We wanted to say thank you for coming in on Monday for the interview.’
‘No,’ I say, leaning against the side of the barn. I spread my feet out in front of me and take a deep breath. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘So, we’d actually love to offer you the position of junior artworker. We were really impressed with your portfolio and your client experience.’
I lower my head between my knees. I can’t answer right now. I don’t know what to say. I can’t think about leaving here, not now. I look up and the rugged countryside stares back at me. I realise I haven’t said anything in a while. Tom is standing to the left of the barn, clutching a box of eggs and looking at me expectantly. He doesn’t edge away, but sensing my discomfort he moves closer and narrows his eyes. I shake my head.
‘I’m sorry, thank you, this is just…’ I squeeze my eyes shut and take in the sweet smell of Tom’s farm. The musty scent of wool and dry, powdery straw. ‘This is a bad time.’
‘Oh’ she answers, surprised. ‘I’m sorry, do you want to call me back at a more convenient time? I can give you my number.’
‘Yes,’ I reply. She reads the number out but I don’t take it in, just nod incessantly into the phone until I apologise again and say goodbye. I twiddle the mistletoe in my hand before cramming it back into my pocket.
‘Everything okay?’ Tom says immediately. ‘Not about the girl?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not that.’
‘Here,’ he says, handing over the eggs. ‘It’s on the house. Just –’ he points at the footpath ‘– don’t tell other people about that public footpath, keep it your secret. I don’t like folk wandering around at the back of my fields.’
‘Thanks, Tom.’ He reaches an arm out but hesitates and drops it to his side. ‘I’m sure they’ll find your friend.’ He closes an eye and points off into the distance. ‘She may play coy with that lad she’s been hanging out with but I’ve seen her out walking in all sorts of weather. She’ll be okay,’ he repeats. ‘She knows this land, as cruel as it may be.’
Always the boyfriend. A thought that flutters momentarily through his mind that he probably doesn’t remember saying out loud. I thank him for the eggs and start walking back towards the village, feeling deflated. I wonder how I never saw the two of them around the village. I suppose they were cautious about getting spotted. But they know that I live behind Tom’s farm, Dean knows I eat the eggs – hard-boiled, with salad – most days for lunch. He knows I like to look at the llamas. He knows. Doesn’t he?
I don’t walk the scenic way back into town, but instead skirt the chicken factory and take main roads, huddling to the side of the small pavements. Darkness swallows the town and there’s no moment between day and night, no pink-hued or orange-tinged sky. The streetlights turn on in town just as I reach the edge, the streets illuminated by the dull glow. It’s only half four and the sky has settled into black. The usual stars are hidden behind bloated grey clouds and the air is completely still. There are barely any cars on the roads, just the trickle of rainwater down the sewer grates along the edge of the pavement. My phone has been ringing in my pocket for a while now. I know it’s Mum, but I still check occasionally, just in case. She worries, I know she does. She’ll probably turn up at my house soon, but I won’t be there – I press on to The Swan. I need a drink. I need company. I need answers.
When I reach the courtyard, I hover for a moment outside listening to the buoyant voices chanting in the pub. They’re playing Christmas music again, but it’s low and I can just make out the low throb from the cheap speaker as the crowd shouts the words to ‘Fairytale of New York’ over the top. I close my eyes and smile. The cold, damp air presses upon my face and I lick my lips, tasting the saltiness, the sweetness carried over from the fields, the earthiness from the crops. It’s a taste so comforting I almost forget, for a moment, just for a second, where I am. Then I hear a voice, familiar but distant. I want to ignore it, stay centred in this small moment I have, I want to block it out, but I recognise it. I turn and Inspector Williams is standing in the pub doorway. I’m surprised to see him, but I don’t react. I suddenly realise how exhausted I feel, how my body aches from the long walk through the brooding countryside. How my mind has crashed from the weight of everything.
‘Lizzie,’ he says, holding up a beer.
He’s off duty, clearly. He’s wearing straight dark jeans and a purple shirt. He’s trying so hard to look casual that he looks even more uptight. I want to laugh, not at him, it’s not that, it’s just a reaction, like my body craves it, like my mind longs to hear it. But I stifle it and suddenly I’m irritated, of course he is here. I feel fed up, I want to barge past him. I want to scream at him to leave.
