Page 58 of Just Another Missing Person

After midnight, and I drive back to her place and move her in, having asked for the keys to be left in a safe space for me.

I plant the breadcrumb trail: add a few things to the kitchen, make some noise. I take a shower, bathroom locked so nobody can see who I really am. I use the shampoo and conditioner and leave the lids open. I put a toothbrush I bought by the sink. I send a few texts about the room to the housemates I know to be asleep.

When one knocks for me as I’m unpacking, I pretend to be asleep, my door locked. Nobody can see me. I rumple the bedsheets. I instagram the bed.

It’s all evidence, evidence, evidence. The more people who see her, or think they see her, the better. She is an optical illusion.

I am almost ready. Olivia is almost missing. I go home and don’t sleep a wink. Instead, I think about you. And how this nefarious, illegal activity is for you, to find out what happened to you, to find out what Matthew meant by his regretful message.It’ll be worth it, it’ll be worth it, it’ll be worth it, I think, as Yolanda unconsciously reaches for me in her sleep and I grasp her hand the way I grasped yours on the day you were born.

***

It’s just past eight, and Andrew will be inside the café—a pretentious, pretend-backstreet type, you know the ones. Used to be a warehouse, a yoga studio. Exposed waste pipes, asbestos raining down from the ceiling, you name it. Soon, I expect one will have a toilet just in the wide open, all in the name of hipsterdom. The café is lit up, an out-of-focus amber, Andrew safely inside. The air is cut-glass, spring-cold, winter’s last bite. I hope you’re not out in it, alone. I still think this way, even a year on.

I have fifteen minutes, or thereabouts. I reckon that’s how long somebody gives a stand-up—don’t you? He’ll wait for Olivia until quarter past, minimum.

He drives the same car he always did, and it’s parked on the street outside what I assume is his house. The moon is out, huge and low tonight, a swirling crystal ball. It provides hardly any light, dulled by the city haze. I look at it and wonder if I am on the right side of history here. Whether people will understand, and forgive me. Yolanda. You. Wherever you are.

I take a tennis ball out from the inside of my jacket. I have three items with me—this, a coat hanger, and a brick. The latter is an emergency measure, but might work if it looks like there were signs of a struggle from within the car.

I’m good at learning things, going on locksmiths courses, all sorts, and remembering them, and executing them, too. I’ve already cut a hole in the ball, and I set it now against the lock, creating a vacuum. As hard as I can, I bring down the heel of my hand onto it. One, two, three. The third time sends a shockwave down the door that I can feel, a private sonic boom just for me. And just like that, the vertical piece of plastic in the door pops up, signaling that the car is unlocked,as simple as that. I feel my shoulders drop in relief as I check my watch. It took two minutes. Thirteen left.

And now all I need is to send the housemates my location, then drop the phone in the boot. Two steps. Easy. It’ll lead the police straight to him. And, when they come knocking, there’ll be a text on Andrew’s phone, arranging to meet Olivia.

I think about you suddenly, as I often do. Bound, gagged, forced to run away, raped, killed. Which was it, in this car? Each possibility beams onto the back of my mind like a movie projector, blazing me in its headlights. I hope you didn’t die frightened.

I lean against the car for a second, winded by grief. It happens at the strangest moments. I catch my breath, then run around to the boot, but it doesn’t pop.

My hands begin to sweat. I get into the front, run my palms over the dashboard, looking for a boot-popping icon, but they’re symbols I don’t recognize. Aircon, maybe. Fan heater... Jesus, where is it? I close the driver’s door and pop the lock up and back down, but nothing happens.

Another minute down. I start to press every button. The hazards illuminate the street a bright, ice-lolly orange, and I turn them off again. Fucking hell, how old is this car? I don’t recognize any of it. Maybe it’s on the keys... which are with him. I think it with a sinking heart.

Olivia’s phone buzzes, no doubt Andrew wondering where she is, and I decline it, then silence it in case he leaves the café and hears it ringing nearby.

I google it frantically. A site called Quora tells me it’s underneath the passenger seat. I run my hands along it but they come away dirty, something muddy, no button found.

Fuck it. I’ll go around the back. Have to try and force the boot myself.

But, as I lock the door and move around his car, I see him. I’d recognize that swagger anywhere. He’s leaving the café, holding the door open for somebody behind him, and then loping over. The streetlamps cast a yellow haze around him. Time’s up. He didn’t give it long.

I duck down behind the car and scramble to send the text. It’s all I can manage.Please come x, I send. Right, now, the location. Fuck, I forgot to look up how to do it quickly on this thing. FAILED TO SEND, flashes up. I go hot, then cold. I cannot fuck this up. The SMS has sent, but the location hasn’t. Andrew is about ten feet from me. Fuck. This phone has no data on it. Only credit for messaging and calling. I thought it was all included.

The boot won’t open, it just won’t open, and I can’t get back around to any of the doors without him seeing me. I haven’t got enough time, I haven’t, I haven’t, I haven’t. I’ve got to abandon it. I fumble with the phone, and it skitters away from my shaking hands, down a drain. One second’s silence, then a dull splash.

I start to shiver, crouching behind his car. I practically have a fever, broken from nowhere. I’ve fucked up, I’ve fucked up, I’ve fucked up. My chance to do my best for you, and it’s wrecked.

Andrew’s approaching. I can hear him talking on the phone. “Can we go out?”

A pause. “Which one?”

“Okay—Portishead One. Got it.”

Experiencing regret about something I did in my past.

Experiencing regret about something I did in my past.

As I hide, I think about this sentence Andrew wrote to Olivia. If only, if only, if only. The truth is just out of reach.

He drives away, fast, engine revving, and as soon as he’sgone, I go to the drain, but it’s deep, black, full of water. The phone invisible, probably now broken, switched off, waterlogged. My neat evidence trail, linking him to Olivia, destroyed.

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