SOPHIE
Everything’s changing. For so long, I’ve been desperate for something to happen, but now it is and it’s too fast. And it’s all because of the phone call, I’m sure of it.
He told me maybe a week or two ago: we wouldn’t be doing a postcard this time. I’d make a phone call instead. My heart leapt. It’s working, he’s trusting me. I’d been trying so hard …
And then he said we’d practise first. He was going to coach me in what to say.
‘What?’ he said. He must have seen the disappointment I tried to hide. ‘You think I’m going to let you slip a message out, to tell them whatever you like?’ It was so near the truth that I froze.
But he stayed calm, almost reasonable. ‘Sophie. If you were ever to do anything stupid or dangerous’ – I realised I was holding my breath – ‘you know, it wouldn’t take me more than a moment. Before anyone got here, police or otherwise.’ He wasn’t even looking at me. ‘You understand that I’d have to, for my own safety. I couldn’t let someone jeopardise all I’ve worked for.’ He managed to sound almost sad. ‘Even you.’
And then he told me what he needed me to say.
Finally, one night, he decided it was the moment. He went out briefly and when he came back he got out a clunky mobile phone. He made me wait for a bit: made a call, then hung up.
‘Come here,’ he said at last, and I went to the sofa next to him. ‘Now, are you going to be sensible?’
I nodded.
‘Whatever happens?’
I couldn’t think what he meant. ‘Whatever happens.’
He dialled in a number, and put the phone between us, clicking it onto loudspeaker.
‘Hello,’ the voice said. ‘Message in a Bottle.’
I parroted what I had to say. The reception was terrible: it kept cutting out, it must have been the thick walls. The woman was older, friendly-sounding. And I was so relieved, just to hear a grown-up’s voice other than his, after so long.
‘I’ve got to be quick,’ I told her. ‘I need you to tell them not to worry any more about their daughter – that she … that I’m fine, really I am …’
The line started skipping, yet again, then her voice cut through: ‘What? Who? Who do you want me to tell?’
‘They’re not to worry if they don’t hear from me after this, it only hurts us all.’ I hated that. ‘I’m Sophie Harlow,’ I said, at his nod. ‘My parents are Kate and Mark Harlow. Hello? Hello?’
‘Sophie,’ the woman said, almost thoughtfully. Then calmly, really: ‘Sophie, is that you?’
There was that moment of confusion, just before you realise something, like a cartoon character windmilling in the air before he falls off the cliff.
This wasn’t in the plan – I looked at him: there was not a trace of surprise in his face. He nodded.
My stomach dropped.
Of course. Of course it’s her. He planned it, all along. Letting me talk to her, so she’ll think I’m fine …
‘Are you still there, Sophie?’ Tears filled my eyes. Stick to the script. I couldn’t risk veering from it. ‘Are you still there?’
It was then the fear hit me in full. This is it. He’s covering his tracks.
‘Yes, yes, I’m here.’ And as I said it, I realised: that was my cue – my only option. Trust her. I gave the phrase every bit of meaning I could, like I was stamping on the words.
Slowly, deliberately, I said: ‘I’m still here.’ I didn’t dare look at him.
But she just replied: ‘Love you, So.’ She sounded so sad. Defeated. Not like Mum.
The line went dead.
‘Love you, Mo,’ I whispered. I always have to finish, it’s what we do.
I lifted my head, slowly. His hand kept pressing down the button on the phone for another beat, just to be sure, and then he picked it up and took out the battery, his movements deft.
He didn’t explain why he’d arranged that – and I know better than to ask. But if he’s trying to convince her that I’m OK, but that she won’t be hearing from me again … what’s he planning to do next?
The diary shook me, when he showed it to me. I’d brought it here when I left, and never wrote in it again. I couldn’t write what I really felt about him. But he must have found it, and taken it away.
It wasn’t like I’d been telling it everything anyway. Took the dog for the walk, things like that, just little reminders that only I’d understand, if anyone looked, because I couldn’t write the truth – Took the dog out and he picked me up in his car at the end of the road. And I was right to, because Mum did find it. I was so angry – scared I’d slipped up. But I’d been careful enough.
This time he had it written down in advance what he wanted me to say, and I had to copy it, him watching over my shoulder. And I realised, as I wrote. This stuff he was making me say, this load of lies, about me and Danny, him scaring me after I did the test … Someone had worked out I’d got pregnant.
But these cruel things I was writing, would people believe them? They’d hide me even further away, like piling branches on top of a body in the woods. I don’t know why I had to think of a nasty thing like that.
So I went as slowly as I could, trying to think of what I could do. Finally I was done, flicking back through the diary before I handed it back – and then I saw the title page.
‘But it doesn’t have my name in it,’ I said.
‘What do you suggest, that I post it to the police with a covering letter?’
‘No, of course not,’ I say. ‘It’s just – like you always say. People have forgotten about me.’
He couldn’t admit I was right. But he leafed through it, irritated, and then handed it back to me. ‘Fill in your details then. Don’t make a mistake.’
That’s when I did it – I wrote down my email address, only it was the wrong one.
You see, I’ve had a lot of time to think in here – about what I might do, if I ever get the chance.
He’d told me to delete our last email conversation, and I had. But just before that, I’d pressed ‘forward’, saving it to my drafts. I don’t know why, really. He was so thorough. Maybe the finality of it all scared me a bit.
I wasn’t going to do anything with it. But I couldn’t sleep that last night. I stayed up, quiet in my room, just messing around. Not thinking about what I had to do. Everything was ready. Almost everything, I remembered, and I got up and went to the computer.
Even then I was going to delete the draft. But I didn’t, not properly. Instead, I found myself setting up another email account, to hide it in. It wasn’t a plan, really, so much as a … souvenir. I think I just wanted to leave a trace, even if it was just for me. Proof that all this had really happened.
Of course, it asked me security questions. Well, he knew all my answers. So I set them up as if it were my mum answering. I told myself it was kind of a dig. I was still annoyed about the diary. But maybe part of me knew: you can trust your mum.
Even as I handed the diary back to him the other day, I could feel the greyness coming over me again. Who am I kidding? Who’s even going to see that? Not for the first time, I wanted to go back in time and shake myself, scream in my own face.
I am so desperately, totally over my head. But maybe … just maybe …
If anyone can find me, she can.