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Kate Hamer: The Girl in the Red Coat

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Kate Hamer The Girl in the Red Coat
  • Название:
    The Girl in the Red Coat
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Faber & Faber
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    2015
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • Рейтинг книги:
    4 / 5
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The Girl in the Red Coat: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Kate Hamer's stand-out debut thriller is the hugely moving story of an abduction that will keep you guessing until the very last page. Carmel has always been different. Carmel's mother, Beth, newly single, worries about her daughter's strangeness, especially as she is trying to rebuild a life for the two of them on her own. When she takes eight year-old Carmel to a local children's festival, her worst fear is realised: Carmel disappears. Unable to accept the possibility that her daughter might be gone for good, Beth embarks on a mission to find her. Meanwhile, Carmel begins an extraordinary and terrifying journey of her own, with a man who believes she is a saviour.

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I’ve had so many false alarms I’m immune to them. But who am I kidding? Coffee gets me wired and awake. Graham calls and I tell him what’s happened.

‘Would you like me to be there?’ he asks. ‘I have a free period.’

I surprise myself by saying, ‘Yes.’

I’m showered and changed and waiting at the window for half an hour before they both end up arriving together. I feel a rush of affection for Maria as I see her coming up the path, the wind tugging at her raincoat. Her hair is cropped close to her head and I get the feeling she couldn’t be bothered with the femininity even of a neat bob any more, and got rid of it once it became a distraction. Graham bends his head and smiles as he says something to her and an unexpected wave of tenderness for him leaves me almost gasping.

‘Beth, how lovely to see you,’ she says. Close up, she looks older, of course. But something else too. She’s given in to her serious nature. Funny how if you don’t see someone for a while you can observe how their character and their daily thoughts have seeped into their bones, sunk into their muscles.

She sits on the edge of the sofa. ‘How are you, Beth? You’re looking well.’

‘My job keeps me going these days. I don’t know what I’d do without it.’

‘That’s good. Listen, it’s mainly a review but I won’t beat about the bush because I know you’ll be anxious about this. It’s a slim chance and I don’t want to get your hopes up.’

I smile; the platitudes haven’t changed. I’ve grown to like them. She uses them because she’s not confident about forming her own words, I can see that now.

‘Of course.’

She takes a folder out of her case, the plastic kind with a zip all the way round it. There’s a photo inside, blown up to A4. Graham perches on the arm of my chair and puts his hand on my shoulder.

‘I want you to take a look at this and see what you think.’

It’s the face of a girl. Her head’s half turned from the camera, revealing one eye. There’s a look in it I can’t quite fathom, or put my finger on. A clump of hair, curled in a loose corkscrew, blows across her face. It’s shadowy, taken from a distance.

A terrible pain grips my stomach, sudden, unexpected. It makes me cry out.

Maria is by my side in a flash. ‘Beth, what is it? I’m so sorry if this is upsetting you …’

She’s crouching down on the floor, looking up, and her face is full of concern.

‘It’s her.’

‘Now then, we can’t be so sure. We’ve done a computer model from a photo you gave us. It seems to match, but honestly, Beth, we can’t be sure. The hair in the way, the coat collar on the other side. It stops us measuring the jaw …’

I’m gripping the photo so hard it’s shaking and Maria gently prises it from my fingers.

‘Where was this taken?’ I reach up for Graham’s hand and his strong slender fingers weave with mine.

Maria’s back on the sofa now. She’s worried, I can see, worried she’s taken this too far, too soon.

‘It’s a group of drifters in America. The police there took photos of them, a good few years ago now, before they moved them on. They’ve got a database and a friend of mine’s been working out there. They’d forgotten to stop her access to the database so she does a trawl now and then. Just looking, really. I guess we’re a nosy bunch by trade. When she saw this she called me up.’

‘Oh God, let me see again.’

She lets me have the photo but she’s reluctant now. I sense it in the way she hands it over. The photo’s black and white so I can’t see the hair colour. But it’s better like this; you can see the bare bones of a face. I put my finger onto the cheek in the photo. I’m not so sure now. Is my memory of her fading? The idea is terrible.

‘She’s lovely.’

‘Yes, Beth. She is.’

‘What else? What else can they tell you?’ I’m frantic now; I need to calm down to show her she can pursue this without me falling to pieces.

‘Not much. I’ve spoken to the policeman who took the photo. It was in the southern states and they were camping illegally. He thought they might be gypsies, or Mexicans without visas. It was a couple of years ago now so his memory’s a bit hazy. He remembers the girl because she didn’t seem quite the same as the rest of them. But the next day they were gone and I suppose for him it was problem solved.’

‘Why did he take photos?’

‘I guess it’s a bit … well, it’s a tactic I suppose.’

‘What, to intimidate them?’ Already I want to protect this girl.

‘To persuade them to move on.’

*

Tonight, everything stirs. I go to the window but I can’t see out. The light’s on and inside the glass there’s just my reflection.

‘It’s alright, darling,’ I say fiercely. ‘I know you’re there.’

50

The dress is laid out on the stage. Gramps must have done it when I went to the toilet. It makes me feel funny looking at the dress all empty. It’s in a spotlight, blue on white. Round the neck and the bust there’s the silver nylon lace and it glitters in the light. For a moment it’s like it’s me lying down on the stage flat and empty and the real me, the one that’s looking, isn’t there.

I guess I’ll have to put it on. The forces saying I have to are too much again. They are Munroe and Gramps. They are the waiting chairs. They are every Bible for sale and every believer in this field. But if I do that right now I’m worried I’m going to disappear and the dress will be everything.

I go outside to get away from it all. What I’d like to do is tear the dress to shreds but I’d get into so much trouble I hardly want to think about it. I realise I’m still frightened of Munroe and remember Mum saying if you’re frightened of someone then you should think of them in a silly situation — like in their pyjamas brushing their teeth — and they stop being frightening. When I was little I’d think of people with poo on their faces, that seemed the silliest thing you could think. But the picture of Munroe with shit over his face somehow just makes him scarier so I blank the thought out and shove my hands into the pockets of my red jacket and wander down the path kicking small stones.

Then I hear this lovely voice and for a second I can’t see who it is and I really think the archangel Gabriel has come down from on high and is speaking to me directly.

‘Carmel.’

There’s no one in front of me.

‘Carmel, Carmel. Is it you?’

I look round and it’s Nico. I’m sure it is. It looks like him only taller, and real handsome. He’s leaning against one of the entrances to the tents, so tall and good-looking he’s better than the archangel Gabriel.

My breathing goes all funny when I see him. I’ve waited years for this to happen.

He comes right up to me and he’s so tall I have to bend my neck to look at him. ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘haven’t seen you since we were little kids.’

For some reason while I speak my hands waggle either side like I’m trying to swim because I feel I need to balance or I might fall over. ‘Nico. You sound like a proper American now.’

‘So do you.’

‘Do I?’ It’s funny but you don’t really know how you sound to your own ears.

I remember about his sister, I’m not sure if I should ask — in case. But I do anyway. ‘Is your sister, is she … here?’

He smiles and it runs over me, nice prickles. ‘No, but she’s still surviving.’ He wants to change the subject, he’s thinking of something to say. ‘Look at you — all your buttons are done up the wrong way.’

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