Литагент HarperCollins - The Reunion

When she hadn’t turned up after two days, the police got involved. The officers interviewed everyone within her circle of friends, but because I wasn’t part of that anymore they didn’t ask me anything. I couldn’t really have told them that much, only that I was the last person to have seen her, not Miriam Visser. But what difference did it make? Since I’d turned off early, I couldn’t be sure that she’d ridden home through the dunes.

With the help of the army, helicopters, tracker dogs and infrared scanners, the whole area was searched. Isabel’s mother and her neighbours stuck up missing posters in bus shelters, public places and in house windows.

They found no trace of Isabel.

At school it was obviously the subject of conversation. Everyone had something to say about it, but I can’t remember much. Robin once reminded me about the wild rumours that were being spread: she had been kidnapped, raped, murdered, perhaps all three. And if it could happen to her it could happen to anybody. Nobody thought that Isabel might have run away. She had nothing to run away from, after all. She was the most popular girl in the school.

Teachers who Isabel had recently had problems with were treated with suspicion. As were boys she’d dumped. The depths of the North Holland canals were searched and an aeroplane combed the beach. Police motorbike officers drove along all of the walking paths in the dune area from Huisduinen to Callantsoog.

Isabel’s parents were filmed for programs like Missing and The Five O’Clock Show. After each broadcast, the tip-offs would come pouring in and people from all over the country volunteered for a large scale search because the police were not prepared to provide the necessary manpower. The search took place. Part of the army joined in. Psychics tried to help. But Isabel was not found.

I must have really retreated into my own world since I can remember so little. Finally the excitement died down. Worries about forthcoming reports, having to retake classes, the next school year and all those other cares gained the upper hand. Life went on. That’s to say, it should have gone on, but I still wonder what happened to Isabel.

Not long ago, her case was reopened in Missing. I was surfing the channels and got a shock when Isabel’s smiling face and short dark hair appeared on the screen. Spell-bound, I watched the reconstruction of the day she disappeared. All possible gruesome scenarios were played out while Isabel’s face smiled down at me from a box in the top right of the screen.

‘There must be people who know something more about the disappearance of Isabel Hartman,’ the presenter said earnestly. ‘If you’d like to come forward, please call our team. The number is about to come up on your screens. If you know something, please don’t hesitate. Pick up the phone and get in touch with us. There’s a reward of two thousand euros for any tip which leads to the case being solved.’

The reconstruction has triggered something and I’m getting a headache. I try to dredge something from the depths of my memory; something that I’m not entirely sure is there. I don’t know what it is, but I do know all of a sudden that Isabel is not alive.

That evening, I sit down at my computer with a bottle of wine, go to the chat room and pour my heart out to friends I’ve never met and probably never will.

The bell makes me jump. It’s nine o’clock. I get up, a little woozy from the wine and press the button that opens the door downstairs.

‘It’s me,’ Jeanine shouts.

She comes up and looks around. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Chatting. I’ll just shut down.’ I log off.

Jeanine goes through to the kitchen and stops. ‘How long has that lot taken you?’ she calls out, pointing to the bench top covered in empty bottles.

‘Oh, I’m not sure exactly.’

‘Not very long, I think.’ She studies my face. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I just like a glass of wine.’

‘If you drink that much, you don’t ‘just’ like a glass of wine, you need alcohol. And if you need alcohol you’ve got a problem.’

I’m uneasy under Jeanine’s sharp gaze.

‘Perhaps you’d be better off finding out why you feel so miserable, instead of kidding yourself that you just like a glass.’

Her expression is so worried that my irritation melts away. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me in that way, apart from my psychologist, but she was paid for it. We sit down at the kitchen table and I stare at its wooden top.

‘This is not just because of RenÉe, is it? This is still something to do with your depression,’ Jeanine says.

I nod.

‘But you did see a psychologist, didn’t you? Didn’t that help?’

‘After a while she couldn’t see how she could help me any more. Things were going better, but she had the feeling that she couldn’t get to the heart of the problem.’

I fiddle with the fruit in the fruit bowl. It is a pretty ceramic bowl that I bought in Spain and paid too much for. I laugh and tell her that.

‘Sabine…’ Jeanine says.

I keep my eyes fixed on the fruit bowl and try to decide whether to go on. Then I look up and ask, ‘Do you ever feel that there’s something in your memory that you can no longer get to?’

‘Sometimes,’ Jeanine says. ‘When I’ve forgotten someone’s name. It will be on the tip of my tongue and then just when I want to say it, it will disappear.’

‘Yes, exactly.’ I take a banana and gesture towards her with it. ‘That is exactly what it is like.’

‘What’s it got to do with then?’ Jeanine asks. ‘Or have you forgotten that too?’

I snap off the top of the banana and slowly peel it. There it is again, that spark, the memory that surfaces. I sit frozen, stare at a framed print on the wall and then it has gone again. I eat the banana, frustrated.

Jeanine hasn’t noticed a thing. ‘I’ve forgotten so much of the past,’ she says.

‘I have told you about Isabel haven’t I?’ I say.

‘Yes.’

‘I get the impression that I might know what happened to her.’

Jeanine stares at me. ‘But they never found her, did they? How can you know what happened to her?’

‘That’s just it,’ I sigh. ‘That is what I am trying to remember.’

That night I sleep badly again. I wake up with a mind full of confusing dreams, dreams about the past, about school. When I’m fully awake, I can’t remember any of the details. The only thing that remains is Bart’s smiling face, close to mine, and the deep sound of his voice in my ears. Bart, my first real love, the first and the only boy I’ve slept with. I haven’t seen him since school. I can’t remember ever having dreamt about him before. Why is the past pursuing me so relentlessly?

‘I’ve got a suggestion.’ RenÉe comes in to the office, takes off her coat and places a large pink piggy bank on her desk. ‘I’ve discussed it with Walter and he agrees with me. Too much paper is wasted on typos. Often the mistakes would have been found if you’d read over your work again. We all make mistakes occasionally, but recently the paper bin has been getting really full.’

She so deliberately avoids looking in my direction that I know who is being held responsible.

‘If we were to put ten cents in the piggy bank for each wasted sheet of paper, we could use the money to pay for our Friday afternoon drinks. What do you all think?’ She looks around expectantly.

I can’t believe it. I’ve got a headache and have been keeping an eye out for Olaf. It would be handy if something small could go wrong with my computer, but the PC starts up just fine.

‘Hmm, yeah,’ Zinzy says.