Natália Gomes - Blackbird

Sometimes we could be so different.

‘Alex?’

‘Sorry, Dad. I was a million miles away. Did you say something?’

‘I want to get the flyers up before it gets dark. Will you help me?’

‘Of course.’

We start at the academy, taping posters around the entrance beneath the sky-blue sign, under the letters of STROMNESS ACADEMY, on classroom windows, on lampposts on the streets that spill out. Then we drive to the beach, and attach posters to the sides of bins, on car windscreens. We get to the golf club, the tourist office for the Ring of Brodgar and Skara Brae, bus shelters, the ferry docks, and even a couple of hotels. But when we drive to Kirkwall, we have to split up to cover more ground.

My dad takes his time in the pubs, asking revellers if they’ve seen anyone that looks like Olivia; while I stop by the cafés, The Shore Hotel, Helgis’, the iCentre, St Ola Community Centre, even the library. We meet back at the ferry docks, a small stack of flyers still gripped tight in our hands.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough.

By this time, the sun has almost set. Some lingering strips of amber and blush hover on the surface of the water.

We leave the remaining flyers on a bench outside Julia’s Café where Olivia and I got hot chocolate and watched the tourists march down off the boats and head straight for the warmth of Stromness Inn. It’s always colder here than people imagine. The climate isn’t for everyone. But for those who manage, it’s home.

My hands are red raw from the cold. I eventually had to take my gloves off because the tape kept sticking to the fluff, and I was afraid that the flyers wouldn’t stick right and fall off.

My dad has several small scratches on his hands which look like paper cuts.

We’ve been at this for hours now. But why do we feel like we’ve not accomplished anything at all?

We get home to find the house in darkness and my mum sleeping on the sofa with the phone cradled in her arms. She doesn’t look like she’s moved much since I left her.

Why is this happening to us?

She stirs and slowly opens her eyes. They’re brown and shaped like almonds, like Olivia’s. Like mine.

‘You’re back. Did you put the posters up?’

‘Yeah, we did.’

‘Did anyone call?’ asks my dad, removing the phone from her grasp. He collapses into his armchair and lays the phone down in his lap, gently securing it with his fingers, as if it might fall and break.

‘Journalists,’ she mutters.

‘How did they bloody get our number?’ snaps my dad.

‘It’s a small island, Peter,’ she says.

Mum even sounds like Olivia. I think that’s where she got her sense of adventure from. They’d gawk at photos in travel magazines together, and linger on Thomson Holidays adverts. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mum encouraged Olivia to move to London mainly so she’d have the chance to visit her there. But for my dad, the weekend in Aberdeen was enough. He got his taste of adventure and culture, and he wanted back on the island as soon as possible.

We couldn’t afford to fly, so we’d gone on the NorthLink ferry from Kirkwall. It had taken several hours, which was torture for my dad. I remember standing outside, letting the wind battle my hair wildly, and lift the fabric of my shirt. For me, I’d never felt more free in my life. To be surrounded by water on all sides, the sheer magnitude of it, the infiniteness. But for Olivia, it felt like a prison. She always felt trapped by the water because for her, she was stuck on an island.

The phone rings and we all jump, each of us lost in our own memories of Olivia. My dad grabs the phone and roughly pushes it to his ear, ‘Hello? Hello? Olivia?’

His face drops and he slowly hands the phone to me. ‘It’s Siobhan. Again.’

‘Tell her I’m not –’

‘Just talk to her, love,’ says my mum, taking the phone from my dad and placing it in my hand.

I get up and walk to my bedroom, feeling the carpet soft under my feet. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey, it’s me. Any news?’

‘No, it’s still the same. No word from her.’

There’s a cold silence between us, and I wonder whether she’s still there.

I don’t know why, but I haven’t wanted to talk to her since Olivia went missing. Our conversations, our general interactions just seem so trivial now compared to what me and my family are going through.

Siobhan and I hang out, we talk about boys, we listen to music, we watch her brother’s scary zombie films. Sometimes we pick up the other phone in her house and listen to his conversations with his girlfriend.

We don’t do this .

‘Do you feel like coming over tonight? I can invite Andy if you want, that’ll cheer you up –’

‘I can’t tonight. We have a lot going on here. We’re waiting by the phone. We’re back out tomorrow, early. We’re going to go with the police on their search party.’

‘Oh . . . do you want me to come?’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll speak to you later.’ I hang up before she responds.

Is this what happened to Olivia and Emily? Are Siobhan and I growing up, and growing apart?

Am I losing someone else in my life?

Or am I pushing her away?

I wake at quarter past four in the morning. The darkness in my room is cold, and covers me like a thick and heavy blanket, suffocating me. I can’t breathe.

Olivia.

I push the covers off, the cool air stretching across my body, but I still feel hot. My feet touch the carpeted floor beneath my bed and I stagger to the window by my dresser. Unlocking the latch, I heave it up above my head. Ice cold air hits my face and I open my mouth gasping for more. Panting, I lean against the window frame and rub the sleep out of my eyes.

Stars still shine bright in the sky above me, and a blinking light slowly moves across the dark canvas. A helicopter probably. Helicopters are common here, bringing oil-rig workers to and from the mainland. My dad works as an aviation engineer for Novotel Helicopters and knew the route well. He’ll be gone for weeks, working offshore, then back as if he’ll never left. His shifts are long, but he’ll always try to be there for birthdays, Christmases, even Parents’ Evenings.

He’ll be home this week though. He won’t go in. He’ll want to be here when Olivia comes home. She is coming home.

Suddenly I’m freezing. The cold air becomes too icy, too dark, too suffocating. I grab the edge of the window and pull down, but it sticks. I squeeze tight with my fingers and pull harder. My fingers slip and I wince as I feel my thumbnail bend back. I start clawing at the window, screaming, warm tears stabbing my eyes. It won’t close. Why am I crying?

I can’t breathe.

Olivia.

Where are you?

My door bursts open and my dad is standing in the doorway. The hallway light shines from behind him, and it hurts my eyes. I shield them with my hand.

I feel his hands around my bare shoulders. ‘Alex, are you OK? What’s going on?’

I’m still crying.

‘I don’t know . . . I can’t . . . I can’t close my window. I’m so cold!’

He reaches up and easily slides it down to meet the ledge. Suddenly it’s so quiet. I feel stupid.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, and blink them open. I’ve already adjusted to the light. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I over-reacted.’

He kneels down and sits beside me, both of our backs against the window ledge. I put my hands in my lap and interweave my fingers. I’m wearing blue pyjama bottoms with white polka dots, and a pale pink vest.

We sit for a while in silence, neither of us saying a word. Finally, I look up to meet his eyes. He’s staring straight ahead at the wall beside my bed. ‘Has she called?’ I ask him quietly, afraid of his answer.