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I add my number and send it and my phone rings.
‘Have you heard from Jenna?’ It’s my brother. As always, the only person who really cares about me.
I shake my head even though he can’t see me and hear myself reeling off a summary.
Tristan sighs. ‘Oh, Frankie, I’m sorry I’m not there. I’ll be home as soon as I can get away from all of this nonsense.’
‘No – don’t worry. There’s not much you can do,’ I say, but I don’t mean it.
‘I tried calling Father but he didn’t pick up,’ he says
‘I tried too. But he won’t know where she is, will he?’
‘I suppose probably not.’
‘Then I should just call the police, shouldn’t I?’
‘The police?’
‘Don’t you think? It’s been almost seven hours. I’ve asked everyone who’s likely to know apart from Rose – I mean, she could be missing herself, couldn’t she?’
‘I’m not… Do you really think Jenna’s missing?’
I take a breath. ‘I don’t know where she is. She hasn’t been seen since lunch.’ My voice breaks. This is the definition of missing, isn’t it?
‘Maybe… But the first thing the police will ask is if you’ve spoken to everyone. We do live with our parents. And they might know. Even if they don’t, it’s a step the police will want to take before anything else.’
I don’t want him to be right.
‘I can’t help it though, Tris. Georgia’s back, and the way she looked at Jenna when I dropped her off this morning, like they were best friends or, I don’t know…’ I want to say ‘like mother and daughter’ but it curdles my stomach.
‘Get yourself home. They’re probably there already. I shouldn’t be too long – we might make dinner – and we should have a sit-down before thinking about involving the police. Much love, Frankie,’ he says and rings off.
I say goodbye and get going again, winding back through the estate.
We need to sit down before we involve the police?
I press my thigh as I turn into the main road. Then my phone rings again and I put it on speaker as I drive past a field turning from green to gold.
‘Hello?’
The line crackles. Then: ‘Frances? Mr Whitlow here. I’m on my way to security. They say they’ve found something.’
20
AFTER
It’s lunchtime and I queue at the hatch along the side of the canteen, even though I suspect I could ask for table service if I wanted. I thought I’d have a hard time in prison, but it turns out it’s quite easy to command the respect of a room full of criminals when you’re in there with them for murder.
I was moved recently – you get moved a lot – and because I arrived at my current abode upon the velvet cushion of my previous prison officers’ praise, no one at the top has felt compelled to let slip the precise details of my crime to the wider population. It’s a relief. Because, frankly, I’m not sure they’d like it.
I find an empty table amid the hum of voices. Guards watch from the sides of the room, their faces fixed in disapproval and disdain. It’s lucky, if you have a face like that, to get a job like this, where it’s always an appropriate expression.
They’re not all bad though.
I pull my food towards me and can’t help but smile.
Even in prison, cheese toasties are the food of the gods. It’s really very hard to fuck up a cheese toastie. And when you’ve accrued enough points with enough people to ensure extra cheese, butter on the outside before it goes in the machine, and a sachet mountain of honest-to-God real genuine Heinz tomato ketchup, then it’s a very good day – a day on which you can lick your lips and can’t help but accrue more points with more people.
