hadn’t changed. It was still hers in every way. Her concert and fashion posters were pinned randomly to the walls amongst the portraits he’d done of her – Jess as Picasso’s Woman in a Green Hat; Jess as Jawlensky’s Girl in a Flowered Hat ; Jess as Van Gogh’s Peasant Girl in a Straw Hat. There were other paintings they’d done together, photographs they’d taken and books they’d read. Nothing had been moved, not the soft toys she’d collected over the years, nor the dressing gown hanging on the backof the door, nor the mess on the dressing table, nor shoes stuffed into a collapsing rack. Even the pile of fresh towels Jenny had put on the bed ready for when she got home were still where Jenny had left them.
They couldn’t clear anything out yet; if they did it would be giving up, and he wouldn’t allow himself to do that. She might be dead, but until someone could tell him that for certain he had to find a way to bring her back to her mother and brother, to him. They weren’t complete without her and never would be. It felt as though all the purpose had been stripped from their world, that every thought had to be about her because it was the only way of keeping her with them.
But she wasn’t with them, and today, because it was a bad one, he felt sure in his broken heart that she was dead. If it were true, if she was lost to him, it would be better to know than to endure this never-ending hell of wondering where she was, what might be happening to her. Tomorrow he’d probably feel differently. Tomorrow he might hear her so clearly in his mind that he’d know beyond a doubt that she was out there somewhere. And of course she was, she had to be, because people didn’t just disappear. They might not come back, or ever be found, but they were still somewhere . . . Which led him to the small, but horrific comfort that could be found in the stories of girls who’d returned to their families after being imprisoned for months, even years, by some sick maniac whom no one had even suspected. They were hidden in cellars, or sheds, or bunkers far from anywhere they could be heard if they called for help, or screamed out in fear or pain.
Did someone have Jess in captivity? Had they tied her up, locked her into a windowless space, drugged her, done whatever was necessary to put her beyond the power of escape? Were they even now using her, abusing her . . . He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, as if the image, the obscenity, could be shut out so easily.
Why didn’t he know? As her father he should have some kind of instinct, or telepathic connection that would help lead him to her.
‘We should consult a psychic,’ Jenny had said when it started to become evident the police weren’t getting anywhere. ‘Anything’s better than sitting here waiting and trusting people who don’t know any more than we do.’
He hadn’t argued, nor had Matt, because like Jenny they’d considered anything worth a try. A neighbour had recommended someone in Cornwall, so they’d taken Jess’s first teddy, a photograph, a track of her singing, and her diary aged nine, to try and help the woman to pick up some vibes.
Either she wasn’t very good, or they’d taken the wrong things, because they’d come away knowing no more than they had before going.
‘We should never have come to Kesterly,’ Jenny had wept when they’d got home. ‘It wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t.’
She’d known that made no sense. Jess had disappeared in London, but Jenny had felt compelled to say it anyway, and Blake understood that it was her way of trying to blame him for the way their lives were imploding.
Usually he let her, because he blamed himself. On that occasion he’d hit back in an outburst of frustration and self-loathing. ‘You think I did it, don’t you?’ he’d accused. ‘In your heart you believe I molested that boy.’
She’d turned away, shaking her head. It was Matt who’d raged, ‘No one believes
They couldn’t clear anything out yet; if they did it would be giving up, and he wouldn’t allow himself to do that. She might be dead, but until someone could tell him that for certain he had to find a way to bring her back to her mother and brother, to him. They weren’t complete without her and never would be. It felt as though all the purpose had been stripped from their world, that every thought had to be about her because it was the only way of keeping her with them.
But she wasn’t with them, and today, because it was a bad one, he felt sure in his broken heart that she was dead. If it were true, if she was lost to him, it would be better to know than to endure this never-ending hell of wondering where she was, what might be happening to her. Tomorrow he’d probably feel differently. Tomorrow he might hear her so clearly in his mind that he’d know beyond a doubt that she was out there somewhere. And of course she was, she had to be, because people didn’t just disappear. They might not come back, or ever be found, but they were still somewhere . . . Which led him to the small, but horrific comfort that could be found in the stories of girls who’d returned to their families after being imprisoned for months, even years, by some sick maniac whom no one had even suspected. They were hidden in cellars, or sheds, or bunkers far from anywhere they could be heard if they called for help, or screamed out in fear or pain.
Did someone have Jess in captivity? Had they tied her up, locked her into a windowless space, drugged her, done whatever was necessary to put her beyond the power of escape? Were they even now using her, abusing her . . . He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, as if the image, the obscenity, could be shut out so easily.
Why didn’t he know? As her father he should have some kind of instinct, or telepathic connection that would help lead him to her.
‘We should consult a psychic,’ Jenny had said when it started to become evident the police weren’t getting anywhere. ‘Anything’s better than sitting here waiting and trusting people who don’t know any more than we do.’
He hadn’t argued, nor had Matt, because like Jenny they’d considered anything worth a try. A neighbour had recommended someone in Cornwall, so they’d taken Jess’s first teddy, a photograph, a track of her singing, and her diary aged nine, to try and help the woman to pick up some vibes.
Either she wasn’t very good, or they’d taken the wrong things, because they’d come away knowing no more than they had before going.
‘We should never have come to Kesterly,’ Jenny had wept when they’d got home. ‘It wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t.’
She’d known that made no sense. Jess had disappeared in London, but Jenny had felt compelled to say it anyway, and Blake understood that it was her way of trying to blame him for the way their lives were imploding.
Usually he let her, because he blamed himself. On that occasion he’d hit back in an outburst of frustration and self-loathing. ‘You think I did it, don’t you?’ he’d accused. ‘In your heart you believe I molested that boy.’
She’d turned away, shaking her head. It was Matt who’d raged, ‘No one believes
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