being kind to myself I’d think it’s not surprising considering what I’ve been through, what I’ve yet to face over this coming week.
I’m rarely kind to myself.
But still, I remember what happened the last time everything got out of hand. The build of pressure. The loss of control. Despite the scrutiny I’ll be under over the next few days, I have to hold it together this time, if not for me, then for George and Archie.
The silver-framed faces of the three of us at Drayton Manor Park beam down at me from the dresser. Archie has inherited bits of both of us. He has my fiery red hair but instead of being poker-straight it’s curly like George’s dark mop would be if he didn’t keep it so short. Unlike George’s hair, Archie’s always smells of the apple shampoo I wash it with each night and as I recall the familiar scent, momentarily I allow myself to relax, until an incoming text lights up my phone.
I need you.
I tell myself I can just say no, but anxiety rises as quickly as Archie’s tears do when he’s overtired.
Calm yourself.
I force my eyes to travel around the room and name three things to ground myself.
Archie’s cuddly toy Labrador curled up its wicker basket, a fake bone between its paws. He’s forever begging for a puppy but I can’t cope with the thought of a real dog.
George’s sheepskin gloves on top of the microwave; he always forgets where he’s left them.
A canvas print of three girls holding hands on a golden beach. I don’t know who they are but when I saw it hanging in the window of a local gallery I stood there for the longest time, unsure whether it made me feel happy or sad. For three years it’s hung on my wall and I still feel a flurry of emotions when I catch sight of it. I still can’t unpick what they are.
Calm.
A second message buzzes.
It’s important.
I can just say no.
But I won’t.
I can’t delay it any more. Peeling off my disposable gloves I snap on a fresh pair and gather my keys and my mobile. On the doormat is a business card from a reporter with Call me scrawled across it.
I won’t.
At times like these I wonder why I’ve never moved away from this small town I grew up in, where everybody knows who I am and what happened to me. I think it’s partly because there’s no getting away from it. Once you’ve been global news there is no fading into anonymity. It only takes one person to post a sighting on Twitter or Facebook and your face is everywhere again. The public like a game of hide-and-seek even though I don’t want to play. There’s also a comfort in being surrounded by familiar faces. Strangers still terrify me. The main reason though, if I’m honest, is because staying so close to where it happened is a form of punishment and deep down we all feel in some way responsible.
We still blame ourselves.
Although I’m late, I’m in no hurry to get there; part of me knows what she’ll want to talk about and I don’t think I can face it.
I’m careful as I drive, headlights slicing through the gloom. The dark skies give a sense of early evening rather than midmorning. We’re barely into autumn and it already feels like winter. I’m mindful of the traffic, peering into cars, wondering who’s inside and where they’re going.
If they’re happy.
Everyone in the town was more vigilant after our abduction. The community was pulled together by threads of horror but over time they… not exactly forgot but moved on. Or tried to. Eyes that once looked at me with sympathy became filled with annoyance as another anniversary summoned a fresh batch of true-crime fans, pointing out the house we grew up in. Our old school. The swings in the playground our parents once pushed us on – higher-higher-higher. It’s where I now take Archie.
I’m almost halfway there when I notice the fuel gauge is nearly empty. Inwardly, I curse. George was supposed to fill my car up last night, he knows I find it difficult. I can’t bear the smell of fumes. I was sure he’d gone to do it while I gave Archie his bath and read him a story but I must have been mistaken. He probably got caught up in another long work call. The hours he’s putting in at the moment are ridiculous but I’m lucky he’s working