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  The backdrop Graham uses for the Zoom meeting makes it look like he lives in a luxury apartment, which is highly unlikely because Graham is hanging on to life by his fingernails.

  Of a group defined by absences, he’s had it the hardest. His mum told him that she was going out for a loaf. She locked him in and told him to stay out of sight if anyone knocked. He was six. A neighbour called the police because they heard him screaming with hunger. Saved by shoddy, paper-thin walls, he told us with a rueful smile.

  Her body was found later on an abandoned building site. She’d escaped the husband who’d broken her jaw only to meet someone more monstrous while trying to supplement her meagre income with sex work. A desperate woman, reduced even further by the tabloid headline “Prostitute Slain.”

  Very few of us here like the press.

  Graham at sixty still bears all the scars of a childhood in care. His Zoom box bulges with pent-up pressure. His shoulders are up around his ears.

  The thing about Zoom is that people can’t tell who you’re really looking at. In my case it’s the man in the box adjacent to Fiona, our facilitator. She asks him to introduce himself when Graham finishes.

  “Hi, I’m Dan.” He clears his throat and rubs his forehead with the back of his right thumbnail. “I guess I’m here for the same reason everyone else is. My sister Caitlin went missing when she was fourteen. She’s never been found.”

  Every face on the screen distorts in sympathy. The possibility of being reunited is torture. The lack of closure. As if losing someone is a door that can be shut.

  Dan and I are a unique subset in this group that overlaps mother, father, son, sister, brother, the murdered, and the disappeared. Dan and I are the siblings of the missing.

  * * *

  Memory is malleable. I’ve been asked what happened, over and over. I’m worried that I’ve invented details to plug the gaps, or subconsciously drawn on my family’s version of events or news reports.

  Some things I know to be true.

  The smell of the sunblock that made us slippery and pale-sheened. The holiday complex at the edge of the new part of town, stacks of tessellating white apartments, bright in the sun’s glare. Air-conditioning units that looked stuck on, metal shutters and tiled floors for coolness. The kidney-shaped swimming pools and plastic loungers spread with bright towels. The tennis courts. Palm trees. The glint of the gold necklace around Aunty Samantha’s neck that caused such a ruckus.

  Don’t go up into the hills, the company rep warned us. Her lipstick was orange. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. There are wild dogs up there.

  * * *

  I visit Mum every month. She’s still in the house that was once home to us all. She won’t move, insisting Isobel won’t be able to find her if she does. She’s redecorated everywhere except Isobel’s room. I loathe being here. You can’t wallpaper over unhappiness.

  “Why do you hate me, Mum?”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  Not even that, then. My cheeks burn. It was a mistake to ask her.

  “What a strange thing to say. Why do you always have to be so dramatic?” She shakes her head. “Not everything is about you.”

  I want to reply, No, nothing is ever about me, but I don’t because it won’t help.

  “You’re going to spout some cod psychology that you’ve learnt in therapy, aren’t you?” Her pitch rises in mockery. “You hate me because Isobel was taken instead of me.”

  “It’s true though, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t you dare. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Making me to blame for everything.”

  Mum likes absolutes and extremes: always, everything, never. And blame is a particular sore point. Or rather, her perception of it. Mum was the most vilified in the end, to be fair to her.

  The search for Isobel led nowhere. Not to a child-snatching ring. Not to a body in a drain. Not to the wild dogs living in the hills. My private, distant mother was an easy target for both suspicion and speculation. More than my easy-going, affable father. She was singled out as a negligent mother at best, or guilty of infanticide at worst, be it accidental or deliberate.

  We’re here now, so I persist.

  “You were different with me to Isobel, for as long as I can remember.”

  “Different? What do you mean different?”

  “Like I was in the way.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  I want to cry. I don’t know if they’re tears of anger or shame at allowing myself to be bullied like this, even though I’m a grown woman.

  “You acted like I annoyed you. Isobel was only a child. She took her cue on how to treat me from you.”

  It’s a eureka moment. The truth has crystallised in trying to talk it through. I was so angry at Isobel, but she was only a child. It was all Mum. The truth only makes my guilt worse.

  “Oh God, Natalie, I’m seeing Samantha later and I haven’t got the energy for both of you in one day.”

  I should’ve brought an umbrella because it’s raining revelations. The overwhelming fear of weeping has passed. I pick up my bag.

  “I’m your daughter, not your sister. And I no longer have the energy for you, either.”

  * * *

  Isobel disappeared while we were on holiday. Disappeared. That makes it sound like a magic trick, doesn’t it?

  Aunt Sam and her family were already at the resort when we arrived. Our apartment was at the very edge of the complex. Theirs was further down the wide walkway on the opposite side.

  They came over to meet us. Aunt Sam looked loose-limbed. Happy.

  “Kelly!”

  “Let me just get the bags unpacked.” Mum smiled but always found a way to be busy around Aunt Sam. She was an expert at constructing barriers, even then.

  “We’ve brought you drinks.”

  Aunt Sam put down a glass for Mum, the same colour as the half-full one in her other hand. The contents were blood orange, with a wedge of pineapple jammed on the rim.

  “Hey, come here, big man.” Uncle James put down a pack of beer. A head shorter than Dad, he clapped Dad’s back as they hugged.

  I’m glad they’re still close friends. I’m not sure Dad would’ve survived without him.

  Ellen, my cousin, stood in the middle of the room and spun around. At ten she was the eldest of us. The frilly hem of her sundress swirled out. She always had such nice clothes. They were handed down to Isobel and then to me.

  Our fathers flopped in chairs, beer cans in hands, and started talking immediately. Aunt Sam fussed over us, telling us we’d grown, then perched on a kitchen stool. She called to Mum, who moved between the two bedrooms, unpacking.

  Isobel was drawn to Ellen. I followed. Ellen carried a beach bag filled with things to show us. She pulled out a mobile phone.

  “Mum? Ellen has a phone. Can I have one too?” Isobel pulled at Mum’s top.

  Mum put a box of teabags and tubes of sunscreen on the kitchen counter. “No, darling, not until you’re older.”

  “But Ellen has one. I’m only a year younger than she is.”

  “When you’re older.” Mum sounded gentle but resolute.

  “Here, have your drink.” Sam pushed the glass across the counter. “Go on. You’re on your holiday now.”

  Mum picked up the glass and took a sip. “God, that’s sweet.”

  Aunt Sam drained hers.

  Isobel and Ellen piled into an armchair together. It was always like that when we cousins were together. I was six. Too babyish for them.

  I could see a plastic panda in the beach bag full of treasure. I took the panda out. It was a pencil case. I unzipped it to reveal pens in neon and sparkly pastels. I pulled the cap off one.

  “No,” said Isobel loudly. “You’ll break it.”

  “Natalie, put it down.” Mum came over and pulled it from my hand. “Haven’t I told you not to touch other people’s things?”

  “Oh, she’s okay—” Aunt Sam started to say, but Mum stopped her with a raised hand.

  * * *

  I arrive at the café twenty minutes early. I wanted somewhere nice, even though it’s not a date. A place with good coffee and homemade cakes.

  After seeing Dan at online meetings for three months, I messaged him privately. Just a message of support. We kept in touch, soon talking every day. I wanted to meet him. I wanted to see if what I was feeling could survive out in the real world. I feel like I know him. I hope I’m not wrong in thinking he feels the same way too.

  I stand up when I see him in the doorway. “How was the d rive?”

  “I got stuck outside Birmingham, but apart from that it was okay.”

  I hold out my hand as he opens his arms. We both laugh and then I nod in consent. He leans down and I am enfolded. Nobody has ever held me like that before.

  “I would have come to you.”

  “No. The drive was good for me. I needed to be busy.”

  “What will you have? I’m buying.”

  I watch him as he studies the counter. He’s grown a beard since that first Zoom meeting. It suits him. His hair is a lighter shade that’s almost blond.

  “A latte, please. And some chocolate cake. It’s not too early for cake, is it?”

  “Never.”

  We sit and wait for our order. The coffee machine splutters and hisses.

  “Thanks for today, Natalie.” I watch his lips as he says my name. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know you do. That’s why I wanted to spend it with you. After Dad died I’d meet up with friends on Caitlin’s birthday, but I could tell they felt uncomfortable.”

  “The world carries on turning, while we’re stuck. Waiting.”

  Without a body, we’ve not been given permission to grieve.

  “Yes.” He sounds grateful. “Someone I thought knew me really well once said, ‘You’ve got to let her go.’”

  I’ve noticed he does that thing of rubbing his forehead with the back of his thumbnail when he’s nervous. I want to clasp his hand in mine.

  I hold up my coffee instead. “Happy birthday, Caitlin.”

  “Happy birthday, sis.”

  We talk about our lives. Work. His love of music. My love of cinema. It sounds like small talk after what we’ve shared, but I want to piece Dan together until he is more than the sum of loss. He’s earnest most of the time and when he laughs he stops himself as if we’re not allowed to be happy.

  * * *

  We were at one of the resort’s swimming pools. Our parents were stretched out on loungers. Isobel and Ellen were splashing and shrieking. I put my head under the water and watched them swim to the pool’s edge. Their legs scissored as they clutched the side. I surfaced. They were deep in conversation.

  After we got out, our parents towelled us down. Ellen got something from her mum’s wicker bag.

  “Not near the pool with that, Ellen.”

  Isobel sat so close to Ellen that their upper arms looked welded together. Their wet ponytails stuck out at odd angles. I saw the phone in Ellen’s hands. Ellen whispered in Isobel’s ear, covering her mouth with her hand. She showed her something on the phone. They talked some more, voices hushed.

  “Natalie, look at this.”

  It was the first time Isobel had spoken to me directly since Ellen had arrived.

  “Come on.” Ellen beckoned and moved aside to make space for me.

  They showed me cat videos on the phone. Cats falling off kitchen counters. Cats in outfits. Cats staring at dogs. Cats chasing dogs. We had two cats at home. I wanted a dog but Mum said they were too much work.

  Then they showed me another video.

  It was taken from a bedroom, I think. There were Lego models on the windowsill. Someone was filming the street below. It must have been late autumn, from the light. It was already fading at a time when groups of children in school uniforms were on their way home.

  There was a figure under the trees on the opposite verge. I couldn’t see his face. He was wearing a dark suit and a black hat. His hands were in his pockets.

  The schoolchildren hadn’t noticed him.

  “Who’s that?” I pointed to the screen. He was turning: left then right, then left again. Watching each group of girls.

  “She can see him. She can see Jack O’Dander.” Ellen’s nose was freckled and slightly upturned. She has grown into that promise of prettiness. Her facial tattoos and scars aren’t armour. She’s mortifying her own flesh. On the rare occasion that we meet, she can’t look me in the face. I think she’s suffered more than any of us.

  “Who’s Jack O’Dander?” I asked.

  “If you can see him, it means he can see you. He’ll come and find you.”

  I looked at my sister.

  “It’s true.”

  “Why would he come to find me?”

  “To take you away. Then we’ll never see you again.”

  “Can you see him?”

  “No. Can you?” Ellen asked Isobel.

  “No.” My sister shook her head. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

  When I glanced back at the phone, Jack O’Dander had stepped out from beneath the trees. He walked to the kerb and looked up. The streetlamp cast a shadow from the brim of his hat, hiding his face, but I could tell he was staring towards the window. In that moment, it looked like he was staring at me.

  I snatched the phone from Ellen and threw it down. It landed on the tiled poolside. Ellen shrieked Then she started to cry.

  “It was Nat.” Isobel drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around them.

  Aunt Sam knelt down and put her arm around me. “What happened, sweetie? Was it an accident?”

  “What have you done?” Mum stood over me.

  “She did it on purpose.” Isobel, my betrayer.

  Uncle James picked up the phone and pressed the buttons. The screen was cracked. “It’s dead.” He sighed. “Told you she was too young for a mobile.” He hauled Ellen onto his knee and hugged her. “It’s okay.”

  “You apologise to Ellen right now.” Mum gripped my arm. “Do you think we can afford to replace this?”

  “It’s okay. It’s insured.” Aunt Sam’s voice was soft and soothing. “What happened, Natalie?”

  I couldn’t explain. I started to cry, too.

  “Don’t fret, sweetheart.” Sam made a sad face. I wished she was my mum. “Let’s not make a big thing of it, Kelly.”

  “Was it deliberate, Isobel?” Mum ignored Aunt Sam.

  Isobel nodded.

  “Right. Get your shoes.”

  Mum marched me back to the apartment. People stared at us, a sobbing child and a mother, thunder-faced at some unspeakable misdemeanour.

  * * *

  Life after Isobel.

  I came in after school and dumped my bag in the hall. I pulled a dirty bowl from the sink, rinsed it, and tipped in the last of the cereal. I ate it dry because the milk smelt off. It was early September, a yellow, buttery quality to the light.

  It was just Mum and me by then. Dad told me: You won’t understand this now, but your mum and I can’t help one another, not when we need the same thing.

  It was a shitty thing to say, because neither of them had considered what I might need.

  After I finished, I opened the glass-panelled door to the lounge. The curtains were half drawn. Mum sat on the floor, her back against the sofa, phone clutched in both hands. I didn’t need to see to know that she was watching a video of us as children. I could hear Isobel’s voice. It sounded tinny and distant. She was singing. Mum didn’t look up. She didn’t see me. Not in the virtual world and not in the real one.

  In fact, I knew the final time my mother had really seen me. It was the night she’d opened the door to our room and seen that Isobel’s bed was empty. She pulled me from the bed, where I was pretending to sleep, huddled up to the wall. She shook my shoulders.

  Where’s your sister? Where is she?

  I was mute with terror. She only let me go when Dad intervened.

  Mum resented my every milestone. Puberty. My first day at high school. My first date. Graduating. Everything Isobel should have done before me.

  Isobel was good at maths, wasn’t she? Do you remember that poem she wrote? She could sing. Do you remember how she liked to paint? Isobel’s potential eclipsed me. In the moment she was taken, a trajectory of possibilities were closed to me. She was a fragment of shrapnel that entered me, and I was remade around her.

  * * *

  It seemed like hours before Dad returned to the apartment on the afternoon that I broke Ellen’s phone.

  The bedsheets smelt unfamiliar. The twin bed opposite mine had an indentation in it, as though someone had slept there while we’d been out. Apart from that, all the room contained was a small wardrobe, a floor lamp, and a long mirror. Dad had put one of the empty suitcases in the corner, stood on its end. It looked huge. It was open, just a fraction. I hadn’t looked at it before we went out, so I couldn’t say whether Dad had left it like that or not.

 

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