Jean reached into the pocket of her dress. “I’ve got something to show you. It’s a postcard Yvette sent to me after she disappeared. Liza’s already seen it.”
Mitchell looked at the glossy photo of a group of flamingos on the card. He turned it over and held it up to read, by the firelight.
Darling Auntie Jean,
I’m so sorry we quarreled. You’ve always understood me the most. If anyone would sense how I’m feeling, it’s you. I’m more like you than you know and I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.
Yvette x
“Why does Yvette say she’s like you?” he asked.
Jean took the card from him. “That’s what I’m worried about. When Sheila and I fell out, I ran away to Germany without a word. I suppose I was punishing her. Even though it was a long time ago, Yvette knew about it. I’m afraid I’ve not set a good example to her. Maybe she’s gotten back with this Victor, especially if she knows Sheila wouldn’t approve. He’s dreadful, I can feel it.” Without warning, she clamped her hand on to his wrist, her fingernails digging into his skin. “You’ll help find her, won’t you, Mitchell? Bring her home safely. I’m worried sick about her.”
He shifted uncomfortably, unable to make a firm promise. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good, good. I know you won’t let us down.”
When Poppy rejoined him, the fire was dying down. She sat next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Have you seen the sky, Dad? It’s so black out here.”
“We should get some sleep,” he said, feeling worn-out after his conversation with Jean. “Do you know where your sleeping bag is?”
“Yep. Um, are you okay?”
“Just a bit tired, that’s all.”
They shook out their bags and clambered inside them, fully clothed. Poppy pulled her floppy cat out from her bag.
As they lay there, Mitchell listened to her breathing growing slower. He saw the silhouette of her arm reach up. “Do you think Mum is up there in the stars?” she asked sleepily.
He didn’t answer, in case his voice faltered. “Pull up your sleeping bag,” he said. “So that bugs don’t crawl on your face in the night.”
“Okay.”
He watched Poppy’s eyes blink in the darkness as she looked up at the stars for a while, and then as they closed.
“Good night, Poppy,” he whispered. “Sleep tight.”
“Night, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you, double that,” he said.
Mitchell wasn’t sure what time it was when he next woke up. The fire was low, and he could make out the dark shapes of guitars propped against tree trunks. People looked like giant caterpillars in their sleeping bags. The outline of someone moved toward him and his limbs stiffened. Fingers prodded his shoulder.
“Mitchell,” Liza whispered. “Are you awake?”
“I am now.”
She shook out her sleeping bag beside him, then sat down on it and cradled her knees. “I can’t sleep.”
“I’m not surprised. There’s probably foxes around here, maybe even wild boars.” He raised himself up onto one arm. “Are you okay?”
“I told you I was fine, but I’m not really.” She paused. “I don’t want to load stuff onto you.”
“If it helps us find Yvette...”
“Thanks,” she said, relieved. “I just don’t know what’s going on. Everything seems to be falling apart. I used to be so close to Naomi and Yvette, but when Jean told us about Victor...”
“You told me Yvette wasn’t in a relationship,” Mitchell confirmed.
“That’s right. She never mentioned Victor to me. And why did Jean get such a bad feeling about him? Why would he be furious with Yvette?”
He could tell she needed reassurance, but he had never been good at that kind of thing. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe everything will look clearer in the morning. Jean said the forest makes everything look beautiful, even the darkest things.”
Liza didn’t speak. She unzipped her sleeping bag, climbed inside and lay down a few inches away from him. He could feel the heat from her body.
There was a rustle and she clumsily reached down and took hold of his hand. His fingers tensed and, not sure if he’d offend her by moving them away, he let them stay. Burnt wood cracked and a few embers danced upward from the dying fire and, as time slipped by, Mitchell felt his eyes closing.
He was keenly aware of Liza’s hand still lying loosely in his own. But as he slowly drifted off to sleep, he decided he liked the comfort of it there.
13
CARL’S LETTER
The sound of yawning filled the car as Mitchell, Liza and Poppy traveled back to Upchester. They were too tired to speak to each other properly and communicated in a series of small sporadic sentences, hums and okays.
Poppy insisted she wouldn’t get sick if she sat in the back with Sasha and, within half an hour, she had fallen asleep and her snores punctuated the quietness. After reading Jasmine’s letter yesterday, Mitchell wasn’t in the mood for looking at the other letters Susan had given to him.
Liza focused on the road, occasionally taking one hand off the steering wheel to rub the corners of her eyes. She pressed the button on her CD player and Madonna’s Immaculate Collection started up.
“Madonna?” he said, surprised.
“Um, yeah?”
“I thought you liked serious music.”
“I like most of it, except head-banging stuff. Did you know music stimulates oxytocin, a brain hormone known as the trust molecule? It helps people bond with others?”
“I didn’t know that,” Mitchell said.
After “Express Yourself” played, the gauze on the side of his head fell off onto his lap. He surreptitiously rolled it into a ball.
“What was that?” Liza asked. “Something dropped down.”
“My plaster,” he said, grimacing at it. “My stitches are due out tomorrow.”
“Gross.” She mused upon this. “You’re going to the hospital?”
“Yes. They gave me an appointment for six days after the accident.”
“Hmm.” She indicated to turn onto the motorway. “Do you think you might see the doctor who helped Yvette?”
Mitchell frowned. “The hospital is a huge place, and he might not even work there. He could be a GP, or have been passing by from somewhere else.”