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The clock on my bedside table says 4.54 a.m. Flinging back my bedcovers, I grab a thick cardigan and fumble my way downstairs in the dark, careful not to tread on the creaky step fourth from the bottom. I let myself out into the back garden and tiptoe through the frost-rimed grass in my bare feet, almost running because of the cold. My breath comes out in white puffs and hangs heavily on the chill night air.
I perch on the mossy stone bench beneath the beech tree, hugging my knees to my chest and curling my feet beneath me for warmth. This is where Mum and I used to sit and chat. She’d be on the deckchair, there, and I’d unburden myself of whatever was troubling me: boys, exams, work.
Lottie.
I close my eyes, listening for her voice, and hear only mocking silence.
The sun hasn’t yet risen, but the dense blackness of night is softening into the strange, grey half-light that precedes dawn. I feel as if I’ve been trapped in this moment of non-being, caught between two worlds, ever since Lottie disappeared. For those who grieve, time is not a linear experience. My purgatory is both endless and rawly fresh.
My eyes sting with sudden tears. I can’t keep careening from one crazy conspiracy theory to another, the way I have been ever since I thought I saw Lottie on the Tube. My feet need to touch bottom.
Somehow, I have to find a way to climb back out of theabyss. For two years, I’ve clung to the hope of being reunited with my daughter. It’s time I figured out how to let her go.
First, I need to heal the breach with Harriet. Whatever’s happened between us in the past, we’re sisters. Mum would be heartbroken if she could see how wide the rift between us has become. Perhaps I should go back to the Shetlands with Harriet for a while and really get to know who she is. We might surprise ourselves and actually like each other.
With a sudden sense of purpose, I uncurl and head back towards the house. The kitchen is still in darkness as I let myself in. Before I make peace with Harriet, I need to make peace with myself. I can lay my doubts to rest with a single phone call. I unplug my mobile from its charger on the kitchen counter and shut myself in Dad’s study at the front of the house, where I won’t be overheard.
Mungo answers on the second ring. I’m aware it’s still not yet six, but he works shifts on the rigs and I have no idea when a good time would be.
‘Mungo, it’s Alex,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to call so early. Do you have a moment to talk?’
‘Two minutes,’ he says.
My brother-in-law has always been a man of few words but, even so, I’m surprised by the gruffness of his tone.
‘It’s about Lottie,’ I say. ‘The day she disappeared. You were at home that week, weren’t you? On the islands, in Brae?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know this might sound ridiculous, but was Harriet with you?’ I wait for him to say,Yes, of course, where else would she be?
The silence swirling between us is thick and dense, like fog rolling in from the North Sea.
‘What’s this about, Alex?’ Mungo says.
‘I’m just trying to get things clear in my head,’ I say.
‘You should talk to your sister.’
My mouth is dry. ‘I’m asking you, Mungo.’
The clock in Dad’s study ticks loudly. I can hear the radiator pipes in the walls as the house breathes.
‘I’ve no idea where Harriet was,’ he says, finally. ‘I have no idea where sheis. She left me. I came home from the rig one day and she was gone.’
The ground beneath my feet falls away.
‘When?’ I stammer. ‘When did she leave you?’
‘That summer. Before your girl was taken.’
That summer.
Two and a halfyearsago.
Why didn’t Harriet tell me she’d left Mungo? Why didn’t she tellanyof us? Mum bought her and Mungo an anniversary card only a few weeks before she died. Why keep it a secret?
‘Look,’ Mungo says. ‘I’m sorry. I heard about your mum. She was a nice lady.’
