Cecelia Ahern - There’s No Place Like Here

Joseph and Helena seemed so sure that my watch wasn’t lost; they seemed so confident that nothing could leave this place. I had to find out. I slipped out of the house silently so as not to wake the family. Outside, the weather was mild. I felt like I was walking around a toy village in the snowy mountains of Switzerland; little wooden chalets with window boxes and candles in the windows to help light the way and welcome new wanderers. All was quiet outside. The crackling and the snapping of branches could be heard from the forest as people made their way to the village for the first time. People who’d probably found themselves there during an innocent walk to the shop or a stroll home from the pub. I felt safe in the village, protected by people intent on picking up where they left off and moving on.

I walked out of the village, following the dusty road that ran alongside the fields. The sun was rising over the trees in the distance, casting orange hues over the blue light, like a giant orange squeezing its colorful juice over the villages, the trees, the mountains and fields, and allowing the liquid light to flow like a stream down the pathways.

In the distance I saw a figure rising and stooping in the center of the road. He stood up and his height and physique revealed him to be Joseph. His figure was jet black against the rising sun that was the giant orange sitting on the top of the road, looking like it was about to roll down to us, squashing all in its path. I was just about to approach him when he got down on his hands and knees and began brushing the dusty floor. I jumped into the woods and hid behind a tree, watching him. He’d beaten me to it; I realized he was searching for my watch.

The beam from a flashlight shot through the trees and made its way toward me. I quickly ducked, wondering where on earth it was coming from. Joseph stopped what he was doing to look up at the light. It disappeared, he continued searching, and I continued to watch him, wanting to see what he would do when he came upon the watch. But he didn’t find it. After an hour of very determined searching, I think Gregory would agree, Joseph finally rose to his feet, placed his hands on his hips, shook his head, and sighed.

A chill ran through me. It wasn’t there, I knew it.

Before Jack went home on Wednesday night, he returned to the estuary to see if Sandy’s car had upped and gone over the past twenty-four hours.

Gloria had been delighted to learn that he was planning on seeing a psychiatrist, although she was a little confused, to say the least, as to why he had to travel to Dublin for a session. Still, he hadn’t seen her so happy in a long time and it showed him how bad he must have been lately. He could almost hear her thinking and planning a wedding, babies, christenings, and who knows what else, as he told her. However, she was misguided in thinking the counseling was directly for him. He had no intention of wanting to be cured of wanting to find his brother. To him it was no sickness.

It was dark outside, pitch-black among the trees down by the Shannon Estuary where owls hooted and creatures moved around in the undergrowth. He took his emergency flashlight out of his car and as he switched it on, he saw various startled glowing eyes freeze and then dash back into the bushes. Sandy’s Ford Fiesta was in its place, untouched since he’d last been there. He shone the light around the trees, at the pathway that led farther along the estuary. A pleasant walk for bird watchers and nature lovers or a jogging path for Sandy? He walked toward it, deeper into the forest where he had looked so many times over the last few days. His inexperience had previously led him to look out for footprints, as if they would be any help to him. He walked farther, enjoying seeing creatures leap out of the line of the light into the distance, and he shone the light up into the trees and watched as it found its way up to the sky.

A trail appeared on his left. He stopped walking and immediately stopped trying to work out what was niggling at him. He’d never noticed that trail before. He shone the light up the trail: more trees and blackness were at the end. He shuddered and moved the light away again with the intention of returning in the light of day to wander up the track. As he shone the torch in another direction, shining metal caught his eye and disappeared again. He quickly searched around with the light, afraid whatever it was would vanish. His eye fell upon a silver watch, lying among the long grass beside the trail to his left. He bent to pick it up with his heart thumping in his chest, an image suddenly appearing in his mind.

It was the memory of Sandy bending to pick up her watch at the garage a few mornings ago.

Hello, I hope I’ve called the correct number for Mary Stanley.” Jack spoke into the answering machine. “My name is Jack Ruttle. You don’t know me but I’ve been trying to get in touch with Sandy Shortt, whom I know you were recently in contact with. I know this seems like a strange phone call, but if you hear from her or have any idea where she has gone, could you please contact me on the following number…”

Jack sighed and tried another number. All around him on this sunny day in Dublin, people were lying out on the grass of St. Stephen’s Green. Ducks were waddling around his bench, searching for bits of bread people had dropped while feeding them. They quacked, pecked, and hopped back into the glistening water, distracting him momentarily. After spending more than an hour trying to find his way around Dublin’s system of one-way streets, and then being stuck in traffic jams, he’d finally managed to find a parking space around St. Stephen’s Green. He had an hour to spare before his session with Dr. Burton, something he was growing increasingly nervous about. Jack wasn’t good at discussing his feelings with anyone at the best of times, never mind an entire hour of searching his brain for pretend worries with a psychiatrist, all just to find information about Sandy Shortt. Columbo he was not, and he was growing tired of trying to find indirect ways of getting answers.

He had been calling through the list on Sandy’s phonebook all morning, leaving messages with all those who had contacted her over the past few days and those she had made appointments with in previous weeks. He wasn’t getting anywhere; so far he’d left six voice messages, he’d spoken to two people who were extremely guarded about giving out any information, and he’d listened for far too long to her fuming landlord, who seemed more upset about not being paid yet that month than where Sandy was.

“Let me warn you now, sonny, before she breaks your heart,” he’d growled. “Unless you want to be hanging around for days on end, waiting for her, then I suggest you cut your ties with her now. You’re not the only one, I can tell you that.” He’d laughed heartily. “Don’t be fooled by her. She brings them back all the time, thinking none of us hear her. I’m right above; I hear her comings and goings, if you’ll pardon the pun. You mark my words; she’ll turn up here in a few days wondering what all the fuss was about, probably thinking she was gone for two hours instead of two weeks. She does it all the time. But if you do see her before then, tell her to get that money to me ASAP or she’ll be tossed out on her arse.”

Jack sighed. If he was going to give up, now was the time to do it. But he couldn’t. Here he was in Dublin, a few minutes away from meeting someone who, he imagined, knew more about what went on in Sandy’s head than anybody else. He didn’t want to pack it all in and head home to…nothing. His idea of Sandy was changing. Through their conversations on the phone he had painted a picture of her in his mind: organized, businesslike, in love with her job, chatty, personable. The more he dug around into her life, the more that image of her altered. She was still all of those things, but more. She was becoming more real to him. This wasn’t a phantom he was chasing; she was a real, complex, layered person, no longer just the helpful stranger he’d spoken to on the phone. Maybe Garda Turner was right, maybe she’d just had enough and was hiding from the world for a while, but that was something her counselor would surely know.