Mike Shevdon - The Road to Bedlam

"Not exactly. I spoke to her. I don't know where she is, but she's alive and well, mostly."

"How did you find her?"

"She found me. I don't think she's coming home either."

"Can you get in touch with her?"

"Maybe, I'm not sure. It's not easy to talk to her."

Greg steepled his hands in front of him. He thought for a long moment before speaking. "Debbie's mum isn't part of the church community. Comes to the meetings on a Friday. Makes tea when its her turn. Talks about her daughter, mostly. Never met the dad. Not even sure there is one. A series of boyfriends, maybe. What we used to call uncles."

"Stepfather?"

"Not that involved, or that reliable. They come and go. I don't know, but it's possible that one of them took a shine to Debbie."

"You think that's why she left?"

"Maybe. You'd have to ask her that question. Her mother doesn't know, I can tell you that. She'd kill them if they touched Debbie."

"She might not know, though."

"D'you think you could get her to phone home? It doesn't have to be from her own number. A call box would do it."

"I don't know whether I'll speak to her again."

"If you do. She'll know the number, I'm sure. Just a call. It would mean a lot."

"I found the others too, Greg. Some of them."

He looked directly at me for the first time. "What do you mean, some of them?"

I stared resolutely at the east window, avoiding his gaze. I was reminded of a technique I'd learned professionally, on a course on presentations. It's called a shit sandwich. If you have bad news then you wrap it between two pieces of good news. It helps to make it more palatable. There was no way of making this any easier.

"Gillian and Trudy… they're not coming back."

I sat under his unwavering stare. It was a little while before he looked away.

He cleared his throat. "You only started looking yesterday. You could give it a little more time."

"When people say things to you, Greg, you can hear whether they're lying, can't you?"

He became still beside me.

"And when they tell the truth, you can hear that too."

He might as well have been carved from the same stone as the church.

"So you'll be able to hear in my voice whether I'm telling the truth. Trudy and Gillian can't be found. I think they're dead."

"How do you know?" His voice was close to a whisper.

"I told you yesterday. I have different ways of finding people. If they're alive, I can find them."

"What if they've moved away? They could have gone abroad, taken a plane, maybe."

"Let's call it a talent, like knowing whether someone's telling the truth. If they're out there I can tell they're there. I can't find any trace of Gillian or Trudy."

"What about Helen?"

"Helen I found. She's OK. She has her hands full."

"She's had the baby? Thank God. I thought she'd gone for a termination."

I saw the news of the baby's safe arrival spread relief on his face and I felt like I'd cheated. There should be no good news after that. Once again, though, it meant he knew more than he was saying.

"You knew she was pregnant." It was a statement, not a question.

"No. Young man came to call. Wanted to know whether her parents had found her. Whether she'd been in touch. I had to tell him, no. Sat him down, made him tea. Asked him why he didn't go to her parents, if he was so worried. It was like pulling teeth."

"He's the father?"

"Thinks he is. She was underage. He said it wasn't supposed to happen. They were holding hands, kissing, that sort of thing. All very sweet. Then one afternoon after school she takes her clothes off in front of him. He's a good lad, but he's not made of stone."

"Just bad luck, she got pregnant first time?"

"Hardly. It became a regular thing. He was scarlet by the time he told me this."

"Why didn't they take precautions?"

"He wanted to. She wouldn't hear of it. Her family are churchgoing, strict with it. She said it would be up to God."

"You believe that?"

"He moves in mysterious ways, but usually within the sanctity of marriage. By then it was too late. She'd gone and I dreaded the worst. It's a relief to hear she'd had it. Boy or a girl?"

"I don't know. I didn't get to ask."

He studied the glass in the big window. "Quite a gift, that."

"What?"

"Finding people. These girls have been missing for months, more than a year, some of 'em. You walk in one morning and by the next day you know where they are."

"I know they're there. Where they are, I can't tell."

"Still, quite a gift."

"As you say."

"Ever been wrong?"

"You know I'm telling the truth. You can hear it."

"I know you believe it. I just don't know whether I believe it."

"Even if they were in a coma, down a mine, gone to Australia, I think I would know."

"A gift and a burden."

"Pardon?"

"It isn't easy, always knowing the truth. When people say, 'I'll see you on Sunday', and you hear the lie on their tongue, it isn't easy."

"I don't suppose it is."

"Worse when they say things like 'thank you' or 'hope to see you soon'."

"Yes. It must be."

"This daughter you lost. Must be a burden knowing for sure that she's dead, but being unable to see the body."

"I didn't say she was dead."

"No, you didn't, did you?"

There was another long silence while the rain lashed against the windows. It was Greg that eventually broke that silence.

"We live in hope."

"I'm not a religious man. I said that before."

"You don't have to believe in Him," he said. "The important thing is that He believes in you. If you have a gift, then it's for a purpose. Maybe you were brought to us to give us certainty. I think you know what that means."

"Closure."

"Perhaps. I will need to think about this, Neal. I believe you are sincere and that you know what you know. That doesn't mean I'm going to tell the parents. That might mean explaining how I know."

"I understand."

"If you could tell me where, it would be easier."

"Debbie? A city. Somewhere with nightclubs and loud music. Helen? Could be anywhere."

"Gillian? Trudy?"

"There's nothing, Greg. If I knew, I'd tell you."

"You would. Let's leave it there, then, for now. Try again for me, if you would? Not that I don't believe you, but it can't hurt. People have been mistaken before. If you get the chance to speak to Debbie or Helen, tell them their parents are worried sick about them. A phone call would make all the difference."

"I don't know if I'll be able to speak with them."

"You could also tell Helen that there's a young man who's desperate to hear from her and wants to do the right thing, and not just because it's the right thing to do."

"I'm not sure I should be the one to bear such news. It's too important."

"When you have my job, you get to deal with the shitty end of the stick too often. You see people at their worst, at their lowest, at the end. When, from time to time, you get the chance to share the joy in people's hearts, you grasp it, not for yourself, but because next time you're dealing with the shit you can look back and think, it isn't all like this."

"I'll remember that."

We sat in the church for a good few minutes after that, listening to the wind and the rain.

"I should go," I told him.

"Don't feel bad about this, Neal. The convention is not to shoot the messenger. Not your burden to carry."

"That doesn't stop me feeling responsible."

"Then be responsible for the good you are doing. Maybe we can put some families in touch again. You of all people know what it's like to deal with unexplained loss, I think."

I picked up my umbrella and buttoned my coat.

"Since you appear able to let yourself in, feel welcome here. If you need time to contemplate, it isn't a bad place to think. God doesn't mind. Just make sure you lock up when you leave."