Emily Barr - The Sleeper

It was impossible to say the right thing, because there wasn’t one.

‘I’m so sorry, Sam.’

‘I know.’

‘Had she been to Nepal before?’

‘No, never. I was going to take her, to look at orphanages.’

‘She’d been to Asia, though.’

‘Yeah, Thailand and shit. That’s what I wanted you to see.’

I frowned, not following. ‘What did you want me to see?’

He paused. ‘Oh, don’t worry. Forget it. It was only if you were going to come over. Are you?’

‘Can’t. I’m in London. My family live here, you know.’

‘You said you didn’t see your family.’

‘It’s complicated. What is it?’

‘Oh. Don’t worry. I started going through her things. It was doing my head in, having it all there. My brother, Ben, he was on at me to chuck it all in a skip, and then him and Mum finally went back to Sussex, which meant I knew I had to deal with it somehow. So I went through all her stuff – I’ve been up all night, doing it. Piling it into bags and shit. She ain’t coming back, after all. And I found this old book, that I never knew she had.’

‘Old book? What sort of an old book?’

My phone was barely charged enough for this conversation. I shifted my chair close to the socket, and plugged it back in.

‘It’s a diary,’ he said. ‘An old diary of Lara’s. From when she was in Thailand. I flicked through it. Couldn’t really bear to read it. There’s some weird shit in there. That’s why I thought I’d show it to you. So you could have a read and then we could give it to the police or whatever. You’re the only person I could think of, who would read it for me.’

‘Sam. What sort of weird shit? Is it about drugs?’

‘Did you know that about her? Yet another thing she never thought to mention to me.’

‘Not at all. Sam – can I read it? Could you – well, would you send it to me? I know you should hand it over to the police, but I can take it to them here when I’ve read it.’

He said nothing for a while.

‘Why not,’ he agreed, in the end. ‘What the fuck. You’re more together than I am. If I post it, it’ll get me out of the house. Going to the post office, I mean. A little errand to run. I’ll walk through town and back again. See who stares at me. Give me an address.’

‘Sure.’ I took a piece of the hotel’s paperwork out of my bag and read it to him.

‘But Iris?’

‘Yes?’

‘When you’re back, you have to come and see me. Right? Please?’

I squirmed with guilt. ‘Of course. Promise.’

‘Bring your boyfriend if you like. I mean, don’t think I’m being creepy or anything.’

‘Oh, that’s OK. My boyfriend’s …’ I inhaled deeply and was surprised at how calmly my voice came out. ‘My boyfriend’s not really around any more.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ he said dutifully, and as he was drawing breath to ask something else, I interrupted him.

‘Look, Sam? You know Leon Campion?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Someone was talking about him the other day.’

‘Lara’s godfather. Hates me, always has done. He’s all over her. If you see him, don’t send him my regards. Tell him to fuck himself. In fact if anyone’s done away with her, he’d be top of my list of candidates. Him and Olivia.’

‘Oh.’

He hung up, promising to post the diary. I hoped he actually would: I was not holding my breath.

Lara’s parents’ house was large and ugly, a big block of property, and more intimidating than I had expected it to be. My head was still swimming in the toxic residue of martini and Prosecco, a drink I was certain I would never look in the face again.

Where there must once have been a garden, now there was tarmac, and two cars were parked on it. One (her father’s, I presumed) was a huge Jeep, ostentatiously and unnecessarily equipped for all terrains and eventualities, and wholly ridiculous in so suburban an environment. The other looked like the run-around, the wife’s little Peugeot.

It was odd to think that this was Lara’s origin. As far as I knew, she had grown up here, though I was not completely sure. It was an unremarkable house, unstylish, moneyed and boring. I tried to picture a teenage Lara, blonde and gorgeous and bursting with potential, arriving home in school uniform. I imagined Olivia, sulking stroppily in her wake.

She was shifting in my mind, becoming elusive. Sam was right: I did not know this woman at all. I had only met her four times and I had considered her to be a lovely potential friend; I’d never so much as guessed at her dark side.

The doorbell played ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ audibly inside the house. I stood on the doorstep with no idea what I was going to say, and after a while, I heard the sounds of someone approaching. Whoever it was undid what sounded like many locks on the inside, and then the door was pulled open, and Lara was standing in front of me.

It was not her. Of course it was not Lara. But she was so like her that for what felt like a very long time I could not say a word. It occurred to me, in slow motion, that this woman, with her blond hair, her green wrap dress, her strong bone structure, was Lara’s mother. She, too, was not what I had expected. This woman looked so ethereal that she could not possibly have given birth once, let alone twice.

She was looking at me with narrowed eyes, questions on her face, but she said nothing.

‘Um, hello,’ I managed in the end. ‘Mrs Wilberforce?’

She gave the wariest of nods.

‘My name’s Iris. I’m a friend of Lara’s. From Cornwall. I just …’

Words deserted me. I had no idea why I was here.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was faint, quiet. She did not invite me in, or move at all. She was a pale ghost of a woman.

‘I’m sorry. You look like Lara.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know if Olivia’s mentioned me? We had a drink together the other day. I’m …’ And then I found I couldn’t say it. How ridiculous to announce that I had come from Cornwall to do some sleuthing and prove their missing daughter’s innocence. I could not announce to this woman that her daughter might have stolen my passport and flown to Bangkok. The words, in my head, were beyond implausible. It would sound insulting, and she would think I was mad.

I drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m in London and I was thinking of Lara and I just wanted to come and see you and say I don’t believe what everyone’s saying about her. I’m sorry. I should have called.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should come in, dear, since you’re here?’

She opened the door a little wider and I saw a man, Lara’s father, approaching from across a wide, thickly carpeted hallway. He was enormously fat, balding, and he was sizing me up.

‘What can we do for you?’ he said. His demeanour was utterly, flatly hostile.

Lara’s mother shrank away. He took her place, filling the doorway. I stuttered out my story again.

‘You’re what? Lara’s friend? Well, I appreciate your coming by, but to be honest, we’ve had so many journos turning up making that claim that I’m not prepared to risk it.’

‘But Olivia …’ I started.

‘I don’t care what Olivia says,’ he said, and as he closed the door in my face, I heard him shout: ‘You were going to let her in! You were, I heard you! Fuck’s sake, Victoria!’

I stood there for a while, hoping that Lara’s downtrodden mother might reappear and talk to me in secret, but she didn’t. In the end I walked away, back to the mainline station. I bought a Ginsters cheese pasty at a convenience store, had it microwaved to a state of scalding sogginess, and set off back to the city. On the way, I told myself, I would read Alex’s messages, and I would hope that the right words might come to me, so that I could reply.