Down to Earth. Melanie Rose
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of drinking and dancing the night away at bars and clubs.
After I’d moved in with him we’d tried to keep some sort of social life alive, but the pressures of our jobs and being full time parents meant that we rarely went out in the evenings any more.
For all my promise of a lasting commitment, the parachute jump had been a breath of fresh air, an adventure in the making and nothing Calum or anyone else could say would have dissuaded me from taking part. Now, as the phone went unanswered, I wondered if I was being punished.
He must have gone out, I thought, even though he’d said he would be there when I got home. And it was a school night, so Abbey should be in doing her homework. Perhaps Calum had taken Abbey out for a pizza.
Replacing the receiver, I rubbed my hands over my face. I couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. Tolerant as the barman was being, I couldn’t see him letting me spend the night.
Coming to a decision, I dialled the number for my parents’ house. They would want to know why Calum hadn’t come for me of course, and I waited for them to pick up with mixed feelings. But the phone rang and rang endlessly there too. Where had everyone gone? Normally my parents ate dinners in front of the television; it was unusual for them to go out unless it was some special occasion. Out of habit I glanced at my watch again, forgetting that it might be broken. Ten thirty. Perhaps they had gone to bed.
I was about to replace the receiver, when it was picked up and a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘Mum?’ It didn’t sound like my mother, but I couldn’t imagine who else it could be.
‘Who is this?’ the voice demanded.
‘It’s Michaela. Is that you, Mum?’
‘I’m sorry you’ve got the wrong number.’
I repeated the number I had dialled and the woman confirmed it was correct.
‘This is Michaela Anderson, are you sure my parents aren’t there?’
‘Very funny,’ the voice snapped waspishly. The phone went dead. I knew it had been unwise to press the point, but I couldn’t understand why some stranger had picked up my parents’ phone. I stood, rooted to the spot with the receiver in my hand, until someone nudged my elbow.
‘Made your call?’ The barman was looking at me strangely. He took the phone from me and replaced it gently on its cradle. ‘Are you alright, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I couldn’t get through,’ I mumbled, trying to shake off the feeling of deep unease that was creeping up through my body. ‘I need to try someone else.’
‘Go ahead,’ he said, turning away, ‘let me know if you need anything.’
I tried Ingrid next, but her line seemed to be out of order. Leaning back against the wall I tried to think. I was over an hour’s drive from home and I had no money for a cab, a train, or even a bus – should there have been one at this time of the night – which I doubted. Ice cold fingers of fear tightened around my chest which was feeling increasingly hollow and empty. I thought for a moment that I might actually faint.
Holding onto the wall for support, I clawed my way back towards the bar. There had to be a rational answer to all this. Maybe I was asleep and dreaming the whole thing. As I made my way slowly along the passage I glanced at the walls, which were covered from floor to ceiling with posters advertising various bands I’d never heard of, leaflets and personal messages stuck on top of one another forming a huge collage.
I paused as one particular leaflet caught my eye. There were several copies of it, some partially hidden by more recent stickers, others with pen marks and scribbles obscuring a face. Bold printed words asked: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? The thing that made me stop dead in my tracks was the face itself: my face peering out from a washed-out photograph. A photo I’d had taken only the week before, and which, to my knowledge hadn’t even been developed yet.
But it was not only the enormity of seeing my own face staring wanly back at me from the faded leaflets that made my blood run cold. It was the date printed boldly underneath the picture: ‘Last seen 15 April 2002.’
Because 15 April 2002 was today’s date. And I wasn’t missing at all.
The pub toilet wasn’t the ideal place to hide. Apart from being less than hygienic, customers kept coming in to use the facilities to find me alternately splashing cold water onto my face and slapping or pinching myself in the hope that I’d wake up from this terrible nightmare. Most of the ladies coming in and out averted their eyes, though one or two looked at me sympathetically as they washed their hands or touched up their make-up.
Eventually the barman, who turned out to be the pub landlord, called me out and told me the pub was closing for the night.
‘There must be someone you can call,’ he said as he cleared the tables of glasses. I watched, perched on a bar stool as he picked up a discarded local newspaper and tossed it into a blue plastic bin.
‘Don’t throw it away!’ I exclaimed, reaching for the paper and smoothing it out.
‘I wasn’t throwing it away, love, I was recycling it. Look, that’s the recycling bin.’
I spread the paper out on the bar top and peered at the date. He hadn’t struck me as a save-the-planet type of guy, but I didn’t have time to wonder at his idiosyncrasies, because I was staring at the date printed in the top right hand corner of the paper. ‘Monday, 20 October 2008’.
‘Where did this newspaper come from?’ I demanded tremulously.
He shrugged. ‘One of the customers must have brought it in.’
‘Is it a joke or something?’
He stopped in mid-stride, his fingers full of glasses and stared at me suspiciously. ‘In what way might it be a joke?’
‘The date,’ I whispered. Something in his expression stopped me from protesting further and I backtracked quickly, a plausible lie leaping to my lips, ‘Sorry, I lost my reading glasses in the accident and I’m having trouble seeing the small print. This is today’s paper is it?’
He came over and took the paper out of my hand. ‘Of course it is. Look, love, I’ve got to close up and you can’t stay here. I don’t want to throw you out with nowhere to go, but what do you expect me to do with you?’
We stared at one another helplessly for a moment. No amount of prayer was going to help me now, I decided. Tears welled in my eyes and I blinked them furiously back, feeling in the jumpsuit pocket for a tissue, determined not to cry in front of this stranger. But it wasn’t a tissue my fingers located – it was a crumpled piece of paper with a telephone number scribbled in pencil.
‘Matt,’ I breathed.
‘Excuse me?’
‘There is someone else I could try, if you don’t mind letting me use the telephone one more time.’
He waved me towards the back. ‘Be my guest, but make it quick will you?’
I dialled the number with trembling fingers. Matt had only given me his number a couple of hours ago, but those few hours seemed to have turned into half a lifetime.
‘Please answer,’ I begged, shifting from one weary foot to the other as the phone rang in the distance. ‘Please, please pick up.’
And then there was a voice at the end of the line. ‘Hello?’
‘Matt?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Michaela. Michaela Anderson. You gave me your number and asked me to give you a call …’
The silence at the end