Waiting for Wednesday

half
forgotten about. Maybe some buildings had been there, had been demolished and the grass
and the gorse had grown back. One day someone would notice it again, next to the
motorway, close to London, and they’d build an industrial estate or a service
station, but until then it would struggle on. Frieda rather liked it.
    She rummaged in her pocket and found the
card that the taxi driver had given her. It was probably time to give up, return to
London and to her normal life and her work. The impulse brought an immediate feeling of
relief. She was just reaching for her phone when a car pulled up at the entrance to the
refuge. A man got out. He was tall, slightly stooped, with unkempt hair that was nearly
white and a beaked nose. He wore dark trousers and a rumpled jacket, a thin dark tie
pulled loose over his shirt. He had a watchful, unsmiling air, and she saw the blare of
his pale, hooded eyes. They stared at each other. They were thirty or more yards apart,
too far to talk comfortably. Frieda stood back from the fence. She walked a few steps
towards him and he walked towards her. The expression on his face didn’t alter: it
was as though he was looking not at but through her.
    ‘Do you work here?’ the man
asked.
    ‘No. I was trying to find someone, but
he’s not here.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘You aren’t called
Shane, are you?’
    ‘No,’ said the man.
‘I’m not.’ And he walked past Frieda into the yard. Suddenly he
stopped and turned. ‘Why do you want him?’
    ‘It’s difficult to
explain.’
    The man came back towards her. ‘Tell
me anyway.’
    ‘I’m searching for a
girl,’ said Frieda, ‘and I thought that someone called Shane might help me.
I was told he was here but they haven’t heard of him.’
    ‘Shane,’ said the man,
reflectively. ‘I haven’t heard of him. Still, you may as well come
along.’
    Frieda raised her eyebrows in surprise.
‘Why should I do that?’
    ‘I’m trying to find someone as
well.’ He spoke slowly and sombrely.
    ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t
know you. You’re a stranger to me, and I don’t know who you’re meeting
or why you’re here. I’ve finished and I’m going home.’
    ‘It’ll just take a
minute.’ He scrutinized her. ‘My name’s Fearby, by the way. Jim
Fearby. I’m a journalist.’
    The sun passed behind a cloud and the
landscape in front of them darkened. Frieda had the feeling of being in a dream, where
everything made sense but was senseless. ‘I’m Frieda Klein.’
    ‘And who
are
you?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ She
stopped, hearing the words. ‘I’m just someone trying to help
someone.’
    ‘Yes. What’s the name of your
missing girl?’
    ‘Lila Dawes.’
    ‘Lila Dawes?’ He frowned.
‘No, I haven’t heard of her. But come with me.’
    They walked into the yard where the girl was
now sweeping. She was obviously puzzled to see Frieda again.
    ‘I’m looking for a man called
Mick Doherty,’ said Fearby.
    ‘He’s over the other
side,’ said the girl. ‘Doing the fence.’
    ‘Where?’
    The girl sighed. She led them through the
yard to the field and pointed across. They could see signs of someone moving on the far
side, right by the main road.
    ‘Is it safe to walk across?’
asked Fearby.
    ‘They don’t bite.’
    A small gate opened into the field. Fearby
and Frieda walked across it in silence. Two horses came to them and Fearby glanced at
Frieda.
    ‘They think we’ve got
food,’ said Frieda.
    ‘What will they do when they find we
haven’t?’
    A small ragged horse nuzzled against Frieda.
She stroked it between the eyes. How long was it since she had been that close to a
horse? Twenty years? Longer? She felt the warmth of its breath on her. Comforting. It
smelt sweet, musty, earthy. As they got closer to the far side, they saw a man fastening
the fence to a new post, twisting wire with pliers. He looked at them. He was tall, with
very long reddish-brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans and a black
T-shirt. At first the T-shirt appeared to have long sleeves, but then Frieda saw his
arms were covered with a network of tattoos. He had earrings in both ears.
    ‘Are you Mick Doherty?’ asked
Fearby.
    The man frowned at them. ‘Who are
you?’
    ‘We’re not police. I’m
looking for a young girl called Sharon Gibbs. She’s missing. Your name came up as
someone who knew her.’
    ‘I’ve never heard of
her.’
    ‘I think you have. You are Mick
Doherty?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘We