and straight. Charlotte is still out so they do her unconscious. Her head is bleeding. Afterwards we’re a room of sobbing girls, bald and patchy, with huge eyes. We look like we’re in a concentration camp. We look nothing like ourselves, just ghosts, with no hair, no clothes, no flesh on our bones. Disappearing.
He stands in the door. No more cheating at weigh-ins, girls. We’re closing the loopholes.
Chapter Twelve
Aidan was in the living room when she got back, late. As he was the paper’s editor – and it more or less ran on shoestring and paperclips – he worked from home a lot, looking after Maggie.
‘Well,’ she said, putting down her bag.
Aidan was engrossed in a DVD of Breaking Bad and barely looked up. ‘Well, Maguire.’
‘Is she down?’
‘Not without a fight. I had to hang a blanket over the curtains before she’d believe me that it’s night-time. But it’s not dark , Daddy, she says.’
Paula smiled, feeling the twinge of unease she always got when the word was used. It had been a risk, letting Maggie call Aidan Daddy. She didn’t know who’d started it – Pat, maybe. And it seemed too churlish to correct a toddler about the man who put her to bed most days, and so they’d left it, and now it was two years on, and Aidan was Maggie’s father. Except that now Guy might be coming back.
She pushed the thought away and sat on the arm of the sofa, pressing up close to Aidan. He wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt, black hair flopping over his forehead, just like any dad in the town. His hand left the remote and crept round her waist, eyes not moving from the screen. It rested, strong and warm, on her hip, and she sank into the certainty of it. Ink on his knuckles, a smear of newsprint. This was her place. This would be her husband, soon.
He said, ‘So, I was thinking this weekend we should visit the hotel. Get a sense of final numbers, confirm the menu and that.’
‘Um . . . might be tricky. I’ve got this big case on, the Morgan girl.’
‘You always have a big case, Maguire.’
‘I know. But this one . . . it’s strange.’
‘What’s happening with it?’ he asked casually.
‘Ah, here we go, pumping for the story?’ She elbowed him.
‘Can I not ask my fiancée about her day?’
‘Urgh. I hate that word.’
‘It’s what you are, Maguire. At least for a few more weeks.’
Paula felt a nasty little lurch. God, the wedding was so soon, and he was right, there was still loads to do. ‘I know. No, there’s no sign of Alice Morgan. Though I see according to you she’s been kidnapped by tree-worshipping Satanists.’
He shrugged. ‘Weird stuff sells papers. And we could be doing with the money, pay for this wedding.’
‘I’m more concerned about Oakdale. It’s a strange old place up at that college. What do you know about it?’
He pressed Mute on the DVD. ‘Did a piece on it a while back. There’s some dodgy American cash behind it, but otherwise it’s just a sort of rehab with qualifications for washed-up rich kids. Hardly surprising one of them would go missing.’
‘If I gave you a few names, do you reckon you could do what you do best?’
‘And what’s that?’ He squinted at her.
‘Dig the dirt, of course.’
‘Maguire, I’m insulted. Who is it?’
‘Some of Alice Morgan’s uni friends. They’re just not quite ringing true.’
‘Rich kids with a dodgy past? That’s my kind of thing.’ His hand stroked her ribcage through her shirt. ‘But here, I resent the implication that’s the only thing I’m good at. What about other things?’
Paula pretended to consider it. ‘Hm – can’t think of any right now.’
‘Do I need to jog your memory?’
Paula leaned over and paused the DVD. On screen, a bullet left a gun and never arrived. Frozen in mid-air, before the damage was done. That was a missing person, a bullet in flight, never hitting the target. After a while, you started to long for the impact. To finally feel the
He stands in the door. No more cheating at weigh-ins, girls. We’re closing the loopholes.
Chapter Twelve
Aidan was in the living room when she got back, late. As he was the paper’s editor – and it more or less ran on shoestring and paperclips – he worked from home a lot, looking after Maggie.
‘Well,’ she said, putting down her bag.
Aidan was engrossed in a DVD of Breaking Bad and barely looked up. ‘Well, Maguire.’
‘Is she down?’
‘Not without a fight. I had to hang a blanket over the curtains before she’d believe me that it’s night-time. But it’s not dark , Daddy, she says.’
Paula smiled, feeling the twinge of unease she always got when the word was used. It had been a risk, letting Maggie call Aidan Daddy. She didn’t know who’d started it – Pat, maybe. And it seemed too churlish to correct a toddler about the man who put her to bed most days, and so they’d left it, and now it was two years on, and Aidan was Maggie’s father. Except that now Guy might be coming back.
She pushed the thought away and sat on the arm of the sofa, pressing up close to Aidan. He wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt, black hair flopping over his forehead, just like any dad in the town. His hand left the remote and crept round her waist, eyes not moving from the screen. It rested, strong and warm, on her hip, and she sank into the certainty of it. Ink on his knuckles, a smear of newsprint. This was her place. This would be her husband, soon.
He said, ‘So, I was thinking this weekend we should visit the hotel. Get a sense of final numbers, confirm the menu and that.’
‘Um . . . might be tricky. I’ve got this big case on, the Morgan girl.’
‘You always have a big case, Maguire.’
‘I know. But this one . . . it’s strange.’
‘What’s happening with it?’ he asked casually.
‘Ah, here we go, pumping for the story?’ She elbowed him.
‘Can I not ask my fiancée about her day?’
‘Urgh. I hate that word.’
‘It’s what you are, Maguire. At least for a few more weeks.’
Paula felt a nasty little lurch. God, the wedding was so soon, and he was right, there was still loads to do. ‘I know. No, there’s no sign of Alice Morgan. Though I see according to you she’s been kidnapped by tree-worshipping Satanists.’
He shrugged. ‘Weird stuff sells papers. And we could be doing with the money, pay for this wedding.’
‘I’m more concerned about Oakdale. It’s a strange old place up at that college. What do you know about it?’
He pressed Mute on the DVD. ‘Did a piece on it a while back. There’s some dodgy American cash behind it, but otherwise it’s just a sort of rehab with qualifications for washed-up rich kids. Hardly surprising one of them would go missing.’
‘If I gave you a few names, do you reckon you could do what you do best?’
‘And what’s that?’ He squinted at her.
‘Dig the dirt, of course.’
‘Maguire, I’m insulted. Who is it?’
‘Some of Alice Morgan’s uni friends. They’re just not quite ringing true.’
‘Rich kids with a dodgy past? That’s my kind of thing.’ His hand stroked her ribcage through her shirt. ‘But here, I resent the implication that’s the only thing I’m good at. What about other things?’
Paula pretended to consider it. ‘Hm – can’t think of any right now.’
‘Do I need to jog your memory?’
Paula leaned over and paused the DVD. On screen, a bullet left a gun and never arrived. Frozen in mid-air, before the damage was done. That was a missing person, a bullet in flight, never hitting the target. After a while, you started to long for the impact. To finally feel the
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