Often she’d sense she was being watched, catch sight of a shadow the other side of the voiles. Fear would stab her chest until she peered around the material to see it was her mum watching them, as though she was concerned they would disappear again. In the day Mum often touched the girls, reassuring herself they were really back. A hand on their arms. Fingers brushing the hair away from faces. But she never asked them questions, as though she was afraid to hear the answers. Not wanting to know what her children had been through – but it was there in her eyes, the wondering what the men had done to them. The tentative questions that Carly brushed aside. She couldn’t bear to talk about it. She wanted to tell her the men hadn’t done anything to them but she knew that wasn’t true. Physically they might be unharmed but mentally, emotionally, Carly knew they would never be the same again. Any of them.
Each day there was talking. Endless talking. Adults with hard eyes and soft voices asked them to draw their feelings. Countless photos of tattoos were slid across the table in front of her until Carly identified the eye on the back of Moustache’s neck. The police knew who he was. Although he’d fled his last known address, they found his brother, Doc, in his flat, hanging from the bannisters. Inexplicably, Carly felt sad when she learned this. They reassured Carly’s parents that they were confident they’d catch Moustache, that they shouldn’t worry, but they did. Her parents seemed to have shrunk since the girls had been snatched. Lines of worry were etched into their faces. Carly caught a whispered discussion between them about moving abroad, somewhere remote, but Carly knew for certain that however far they moved away Moustache would be able to find them if he wanted to.
Three blind mice, three blind mice.
Reporters still camped outside their home. They couldn’t go to the park, they didn’t go back to school for ages. Prisoners. Still prisoners. When they did have to venture out, a crowd closed around them, microphones thrust towards mouths, cameras held high above heads, relentless click-click-clicking. The police would form a barrier with their arms and demand everyone clear some room, give them some space. They’d hold hands, Carly, Leah, Marie, her mum and stepdad – a family united – and rush, heads down, never pausing to give a comment.
See how they run. See how they run.
Mum made their favourite meals, macaroni dripping with cheese and chicken stuffed with garlic butter, but Carly’s appetite didn’t return.
‘Can’t you just forget it’s happened?’ Mum asked wearily.
‘Forget?’ Anger flared in Carly’s stomach.
‘I don’t mean forget but… it’s like you’re punishing yourself. Punishing us. We need to try and put it behind us. All of it.’
‘You don’t know what it was like.’ Carly gripped the edge of the table so tightly she feared her fingers would snap.
‘I know but I do know that I can’t go back and change things for you, however much I want to,’ her mum said. ‘I’m trying to make it up to you, Carly. Make everything normal again. Please. Try and eat. You know you love my apple crumble.’
But Carly pushed her bowl away. Everything tasted of Spicy Tomato Snaps and blackcurrant liquorice sweets. She stalked across the kitchen. Her mum had fetched a glass as Carly lifted a bottle of cherry Coke from the fridge, watching as her daughter fizzed it open and tipped it down the sink, trying to understand, but not.
As much as her mother smothered her, her stepdad was the opposite. Out of the house at all hours. Tense and angry when he was home. Constantly calling the police station for an update. The phone clutched tightly in one hand, his other hand shaking a fist indicating what he would do to the surviving kidnapper if he ever got hold of him. He would jab off the TV if anyone put it on – the sisters were still featured on every channel. Their scared, pale faces stared out from newspapers. Hordes of cuddly toys were delivered, postmarks from all around the world. Brightly coloured cards depicting balloons, houses, champagne – with messages of welcome home; congratulations! Mum put them all in the bin. Once Carly had fished one out, which read, If you don’t accept Jesus into your lives your girls will be taken again. Her family weren’t religious but that night Carly had knelt at the side of her bed, hands clasped together and prayed.
The only people Carly could bear to spend time with were the twins. They became a unit of three, bound together by their trauma. It was Carly they turned to for bedtime stories, Carly they handed their hairbrush to each night. Her sisters were all she wanted. All she needed. Carly screamed at her mum so many times to leave her alone, little by little she began to comply. Mum retreated into herself. Her skin seemed to hang off her frame. Her eyes bloodshot, black bags hanging beneath them.
Why couldn’t the police find Moustache?
Carly shut everyone out. Ignoring the unread texts on her Nokia, even the one from Dean Malden. He didn’t seem important any more.
All the time, there was that awful knowing twisting in Carly’s gut. Moustache was still out there.
It all felt too much, but it turned out that was the lull in the storm.
It’s incomprehensible that being abducted wasn’t the worst part at all.
What came after they were rescued was far, far worse.
Chapter Forty-Two
Leah
Now
Archie screams again. My body responds before my mind properly processes what I am hearing. I am rocketing down the stairs, towards the noise, but his screams have now morphed into something else.
Laughter.
I fly into the kitchen, Archie is kneeling on the floor, giggling as a puppy licks his face.
‘No.’ I back away. Wondering if I’m still dreaming.
‘Before you start—’ George holds up his hands. ‘If we hadn’t taken him in, he’d have been put down and Archie’s been asking for a puppy forever.’
‘No.’ I can’t seem to think of anything else to say.
‘What happened to you wasn’t Bruno’s fault,’ George says gently as though he has read my mind. ‘You can’t keep punishing Archie for what happened.’
‘I’m not.’ Am I? Lots of people don’t want pets.
A rush of heat engulfs me. George places his hand on my shoulder. I angrily shrug him off.
‘How can you do this to me?’ I ask.
‘I’m doing this for you. If nothing else the dog will be protection.’
But the only thing I feel I need protecting from in this instant is my husband.
There’s a smattering of reporters outside the house and for once George agrees that Archie and I should stay home.
Today.
I keep checking the doormat but no letter has arrived.
‘I’ll go to Tesco’s and do a shop,’ he offers, ‘and pick up some bits at Pets at Home.’ He stalks to the bottom of our drive and informs the crowd that the curtains are staying closed and I won’t be going outside. Some of them drift away immediately. Some of them linger in hope.
I ring Tash.
‘How was the dentist?’ Despite everything, I haven’t forgotten my manners.
‘Dentist?’
‘Your emergency appointment yesterday?’
‘Yes. Fine. Are you okay?’
‘You’ll never guess what my husband has done?’ I ask. ‘What?’ she sounds wary.