Waiting for Wednesday

this part of the city
she’d never seen. She found herself walking along a two-lane road, lorries
rumbling by. On both sides there were housing estates, the sort that had been quickly
knocked up after the war and now were crumbling. Some of the flats were boarded up,
others had washing hanging from their little terraces. It didn’t feel like a place
for walking, but then she turned into a street of little Victorian terraced houses and
it suddenly became quiet. Still she felt uncomfortable, miles from home.
    As she approached the station, she passed a
phone box and stopped. There wasn’t even a phone in it. It had been ripped away.
Then she looked more closely. On the glass walls there were dozens of little stickers:
young model, language teacher, very strict teacher, escorts
de luxe
. Frieda
took a notebook from her bag and wrote down the phone numbers. It took several minutes,
and two teenage boys walking past giggled and shouted something but she pretended not to
hear.
    Back in her house, she made a phone
call.
    ‘Agnes?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Frieda Klein.’
    ‘Oh – did you find
anything?’
    ‘I didn’t find Lila, if
that’s what you mean. She seems to have vanished. Her father can’t find her.
It’s not good news, but I thought you’d want to know.’
    ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.’
There was a pause. ‘I’m going to the police to report her missing. I should
have done it months ago.’
    ‘It probably won’t do any
good,’ Frieda said softly. ‘She’s an adult.’
    ‘I have to do something. I can’t
just let it go.’
    ‘I understand that.’
    ‘I’ll do it at once. Though now
that I’ve waited all these years, I don’t know what difference an hour will
make.’
    Jim Fearby was nearly three-fifths of the
way through his list. There were twenty-three names on it, obtained from local
newspapers and missing-person websites. Three he had already put a tick by; one he had
put a query by; others he had crossed out. He had nine families left to visit – nine
mothers who would look at him with stricken faces, haunted eyes. Nine more stories of
missing and nine more sets of photos for him to add to the collection of young
women’s faces he had tacked up on his cork board in his study.
    They stared down at him now as he sat back
in his chair with his tumbler of whisky, no added water, and his cigarette. He never
used to smoke inside the house, but now there was no one to care. He looked from face to
face: there was the first girl, Hazel Barton, with her radiant smile – he felt he knew
her well by now. Then there was Vanessa Dale, the one who had got away. Roxanne
Ingatestone, her asymmetrical face and grey-green eyes. Daisy Crewe, eager and a little
dimple on one cheek. Vanessa Dale was safe, Hazel Barton was dead. What about the other
two? He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another at once, sucking smoke down into his
lungs, staring at the faces until it almost seemed that they were alive under his gaze
and were looking back at him, asking him to find them.
That was a very enigmatic little email.
What’s going on? Tell me how you are, tell me how Reuben and Josef and Sasha
are? What about Chloë? I miss hearing the details of your days. I miss you. Sandy
xxx



THIRTY-FIVE
    Frieda had arranged to meet Sasha at eight
o’clock. Sasha had rung to say there was something she needed to tell her. Frieda
hadn’t known from her voice whether it was good or bad, but she did know it was
important. Before then, as she had promised, she went to see Olivia.
    She didn’t know quite what to expect,
but she was taken aback by Olivia’s appearance. She came to the door in a pair of
striped drawstring trousers, a stained camisole and plastic flip-flops. The varnish on
her toenails was chipped, her hair was greasy – but, above all, her face, puffy and
pale, was bare of any makeup. Frieda thought she had never seen Olivia without it. As
soon as she got out of bed in the mornings, she would carefully apply foundation,
eyeliner, thick mascara, bold red lipstick. Without it, she looked vulnerable and
defeated. It was hard to feel angry with her.
    ‘Did you forget I was
coming?’
    ‘Not really. I didn’t know what
time it was.’
    ‘It’s six thirty.’
    ‘God. Time flies when you’re
asleep.’ She made an attempt at a laugh.
    ‘Are you ill?’
    ‘I had a late night. I was just having
a nap.’
    ‘Shall I make us some tea?’
    ‘Tea?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I could do with a drink.’
    ‘Tea