Kate Hamer - The Girl in the Red Coat

They have come unannounced: they have news. I don’t know yet if it’s bad or good. But unannounced, something’s happened. I’m sick, suddenly, and light-headed. There’s a buzzing in my ears.

‘May we come in? We need to talk …’

They have news. They have news.

Then — I didn’t know it could happen in real life — my legs turn to water beneath me and I fall forward.

The man catches me deftly, managing not to drop the file that is tucked beneath his arm. I look up at his freshly shaven jaw, and see the plugs of dark hair he can never quite get rid of. He helps me inside, back onto the sofa. He fetches me a glass of water and I drink, my teeth chattering on the glass.

‘May we sit?’ asks Annie. I notice she’s wearing a poppy on her black coat — it must be November already.

I nod, my teeth still chattering on the glass. They sit in formal fashion. The man is broad and tall, dark with pale skin. The woman — Annie — is slim in her black coat, her blond hair in a neat ponytail.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I mumble. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ I stumble upstairs. I’m delaying things. In the bathroom I jackknife over the basin and deposit a burning spurt of sick on the white porcelain. I turn on the tap to wash it away and dab cold water round my mouth. I have the sudden urge to escape out of the bathroom window, and never have to know.

Downstairs, they’re waiting, in the same positions. The woman starts to speak.

‘Beth, we know it would have been better for someone you’re familiar with to come. But Maria is away on holiday and we can’t wait with this information. I’ll tell you quickly — a girl has been found and …’

‘Is she … is she alive?’ I burst out.

‘Yes, yes.’ She joins me on the sofa and puts a hand on my arm. An engagement ring glitters there. ‘Yes, Beth. She’s alive and we can’t be sure …’

‘Is she alive?’ I already asked that.

‘Yes, alive, but …’

I can’t think. I focus on the glowing red spot of the poppy.

Ian clears his throat, interrupts. ‘A girl has been found. We have reasons to believe it may be your daughter.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God …’

‘We’re not sure yet. But we have to tell you. A girl has been found alive and well in the States. We have reason to believe, to be confirmed, it might be Carmel.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The States. A man was arrested the same day …’

‘The States! Is she alright? Is she alright?’

‘Apparently well. Though alone …’

‘So she’s well and the man …’

‘He was arrested for another offence. He confessed to another offence …’

‘Where is she?’

‘The States, I said …’

‘No. I mean now, right now.’

‘She’s being prepared to fly back …’

‘And a man confessed to taking her …’

‘No. He confessed to another, previous, offence. But it transpired …’

‘She’s coming home …?’

Annie is nodding and smiling next to me. Her eyes are filling with tears. I focus on her poppy and try to breathe.

‘But … how do you know? How do you know it’s her?’

The policeman opens the file and begins reading from it. ‘My name is Carmel Summer Wakeford. I used to live in Norfolk, England. My mum’s name was Beth and my dad’s name is Paul. He has a girlfriend called Lucy. I lived in a house with a tree by the side. My mum had a glass cat she kept by her bed. There was a picture up that said THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME. The curtains downstairs are orange …’

FIVE YEARS 215 DAYS

So my mystery is to end here. ‘Here’ is a police facility: two hours’ drive from home.

Last night I dreamed of the three of us — Paul, Carmel, me. And for the first time in years she was no longer walking backwards. Instead, she was her eight-year-old self sitting on a swing between us. There was an explosion, nuclear in ferocity. Our figures first bleached white then flashed to black outlines. The ground rocked underneath my feet. I can still feel the sway from the dream as I stand looking through the glass partition down the corridor. Graham, Lucy and the children wait for us at home. We want to keep it simple.

Behind me, Paul sits. He veers between seething with murderous intentions — wanting to get the man and ‘just give us five minutes on our own’ — and a sort of subsumed tearfulness. Strangely, I appear calmer than him.

I dressed this morning with care. My best gold earrings. My nice blue dress. Mary Jane shoes. I want to show her I’m alright.

But I worry that she won’t recognise me. I’ve aged, a lot. Hair short now and grey coming through.

And closer. She must be getting closer. We toy with coffee in plastic cups and sandwiches while we wait. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. How can I look more myself? I fluff my hair out to look longer and put on some lipstick.

Back with the empty coffee cups and uneaten sandwiches. Closer still. I have a strange image of the two of us. That all these years we were tiny insects and the world was made of a huge beast — some kind of cattle. That we roamed and roamed across its back and even climbed up, one on the tip of each horn, and from there we tried to wave to each other. But being tiny we could not see, and the chasm was too great, and there wasn’t anything that could bridge that gap. And all the time, on her map on her bedroom wall there she was — in the cradle of that single question mark.

Footsteps come down the corridor and send rumbling noises underneath the closed door at the end. I lick my dry lips and watch the door through the glass. I want to leave this glass room and walk towards the sound but find I can’t move.

And the door opens and a girl — a young woman — walks through, a policewoman by her side.

The girl has short curls. She has beautiful eyes. Too thin. She wears black jeans and a red jacket with brass buttons that makes her look like a girl soldier. The eight-year-old embedded in my memory is gone. I have the sensation of looking down a time telescope and seeing into the future.

She sees me and not meaning to I lift my hand in a kind of greeting and she does the same. And I shouldn’t have worried about her not recognising me, not at all, because we know each other at once.

Star billing in these acknowledgements has to go to my agent Alice Lutyens and my editor at Faber, Sarah Savitt. They have both been named as rising stars recently and frankly I’m not surprised. I feel very blessed to be supported either side by two such extraordinary women. Alice, you have a fantastic creative editorial eye and a super sharp business sense — what a combination! I feel very blessed for having landed with you. I lucked out again when it came to my editor, Sarah — I know that your incredibly wise, creative and perceptive editing has made this a far, far better book. You are both so on my wavelength and I thank you from my heart.

Sophie Portas, the brilliant publicity manager at Faber.

Anna Davis, who runs the Curtis Brown Creative course — your clear headedness, advice and integrity have helped me enormously as did the wonderful course you devised. Chris Wakling for the wonderful teaching on the course.

To all the autumn 2011 Curtis Brown Creative group — I get the sense we are all going to be part of each other’s writing journey — you all certainly have been part of mine. Thanks to James Hannah, Theresa Howes, Lisa Berry and Julie Malamute in particular for reading the novel and giving such helpful feedback.

All the staff and tutors at the creative writing MA at Aberystwyth University. I’m so glad I made the decision to go here!