All out of dogs, he said. But these are popular.
Martin looked in the bag. The smell was terrible. Whatever it was, it had a lot of dirty white hair.
Llama, Woods said. Baby llama.
Martin was not expecting that. That was non-standard. But time was getting tight.
He lifted it out of the bag, and had a good look at it. He was a butcher, not a vet, but he knew a thing or two about animals. This one was in a bad way. The eyes were all gummy and the breathing was off. Quick and shallow. And there was the smell.
He looked at Woods, and at Frank.
It’s not even a bloody llama for a start, he said to Frank, quietly.
No? asked Woods. What is it then?
It’s an alpaca, is what it is, Martin told him.
If Woods was surprised, he didn’t show it. Well, mate, he said; whatever it is, it’s yours now. He stepped outside, and started talking to the other lad.
Martin said to Frank, muttering: this is no good. This won’t do the job at all. Look at the bloody state of it. It’s nearly dead. What am I going to do with a dead bloody alpaca? Hide it in the garage? If my wife comes home and finds a dead alpaca in the garage, I’m going to get bloody divorced. No marriage counselling, no trial separation, I’m going to get bloody divorced. And I don’t want to get divorced, Frank. I love my wife, okay?
It was the most he’d said all evening. Frank didn’t reply.
Woods came back into the caravan and asked if they were all good.
Mr Woods, Martin said. No disrespect, but this wasn’t what we were looking for. It’s for my wife. She really wanted a dog. I’m sorry. As though he was apologising for not wanting to buy a half-dead alpaca.
Woods just looked at him. He repeated the price. He told Martin it was late, he was tired, and Martin was going to take the so-and-so alpaca whether he so-and-so wanted to or not.
They handed over the rest of the money. They took the alpaca and went to get in the car.
They didn’t talk much on the way back. They had to wind the windows right down on account of the smell. The air rushing in was cold and sharp. When they came along the road above the reservoir the moon was shining off it.
Frank said that anyway, what he’d been trying to say earlier was that he’d finally got a new appointment sorted at the hospital, next week, for a something Martin didn’t quite catch. He looked like it was important so Martin asked him to repeat it.
BIOPSY, Frank said.
Oh, right, Martin replied.
It was probably nothing. These doctors. They’d whip you in for tests at the drop of a hat. It would be nothing. You look fit as a fiddle to me, he said.
They stopped off at the reservoir car park, and got rid of the alpaca.
Martin asked Frank if he had any more good ideas about the wife’s birthday. Frank did not. They were quiet the rest of the way back.
9: Stephanie
She never asked for names, but she was good at remembering faces. So when she saw the two of them being interviewed on the news she recognised them immediately, even though it must have been fifteen years since they’d last met.
They’d come to see her one evening, when she was working. Or rather, the young man had come to see her. It had been arranged. The older man had driven him there.
She watched them get out of a Land Rover and cross the driveway, their boots heavy in the gravel. She was already cautious, with there being two of them. She opened the door and checked the name. The older man seemed impatient to get inside. She told him they were out of sight on this side of the house, but he didn’t seem reassured.
The young man was nervous, once they got inside.
The men were often nervous, more so than they wanted to admit, but this one didn’t seem to want to be there at all. She watched him while the older man, his father, told her what was required. He spoke to her as if she worked in a restaurant and he was ordering food from a menu. She didn’t like his tone. He thumped his son on the back and went to wait in the car.
She led the way upstairs. The whole set-up felt unsatisfactory. The boy couldn’t even look at her. He was wearing a heavy jacket, and he was flushed and sweaty. She asked how old he was, and when he said eighteen it sounded like a lie. She’d be lucky if he turned out to be sixteen. She could smell beer on him, and asked how much he’d had to drink. A couple, he said, and she guessed it was more than that.
Your first time? she asked, and he nodded.
Sort of, he said. Meaning very much so, she knew.
She talked to him, first. She didn’t want to do anything until he could at least look her in the eyes. She took his jacket off, as a way of letting him feel okay about being touched, and made him a cup of tea. She asked him some questions.
He’d not long left school, he told her, and was working for his father. They were hill-farmers. They kept sheep. They were a big family, with three other brothers at home. He was the oldest. She asked if coming to see her had been his idea, and he shook his head. She asked if he felt okay about being there. He hesitated, and looked up at her. There was an uncertainty in his eyes; a fear of saying the wrong thing. He told her he wasn’t sure, that it depended, and did she feel okay about being there?
*
She felt fine about being there.
She’d been working in the area for a couple of years by then. A friend had set her up. She was well-enough known to stay in business, but not enough that anyone talked. The men certainly didn’t. They were mostly married, or had other reasons for wanting to be discreet.
She worked from a holiday cottage. There were no neighbours, and cars could be parked around the back, away from the road. Her friend kept an eye on things, and he would always be in the house if she was meeting somebody new. It was a straightforward arrangement. The money was good, and the complications few. She wasn’t planning on doing it for ever. She was in control. She felt more in control than the men who came to see her, many of whom seemed muddled and lonely, or resentful of her for some reason. Angry, sometimes. She’d had to call her friend through from the other room on occasion. The men were always surprised to see him; outraged, as though it was cheating in some way.
She didn’t tell the young man any of this, of course. She just said she was comfortable being there. It was funny how often she had to have this conversation. All those concerned men wanting to know if she was okay, or if there was something different she could be doing with her life. And yet there they were, knocking at her door, paying her for sex. The idea of rescuing her was just another control fantasy, much the same as paying her to do something they thought she might not want to do.
I never do anything I don’t want to do, she sometimes had to tell them. They seemed disappointed to hear it.
*
He’d dressed up for the occasion. He was wearing a pair of black jeans, and a checked shirt which was clean but hadn’t been ironed. She imagined a household where only the mother did any ironing. His hair was thick and black, parted exactly in the centre, the two fringes hanging down into his eyes. He had a working-man’s body, with broad shoulders and a bowed chest, but a boy’s face. There were still spots spread across it, and a rawness that made it look as though he’d shaved just before coming out. She could imagine his father explaining how he should dress, how he should proceed; as though explaining how to approach a job interview, or the best way to handle a sheep.
He kept sipping his tea before it was ready to drink, and burning his mouth, and then pretending he hadn’t. There was an eagerness about him, once he began to relax. An eagerness to impress, to be thought mature, but also an eagerness to get on with it. The reluctance was gone.
She had mixed feelings about going ahead. This was why she’d started a conversation first. She understood what the father thought this was. She could imagine him pacing back and forth outside. She was reluctant to go along with this idea, of the older woman initiating a younger boy. She wasn’t Mrs bloody Robinson. He should learn about these things w
ith a girlfriend, when the time came.
But still, beneath the nerves and the shaving rash, there was something so hopeful in the way he looked at her. She didn’t want to disappoint him; and she could tell, from the way the older man had spoken, that he would have good reason not to let his father down. She took his cup of tea and set it to one side. She moved him over to the edge of the bed, and started to undress.
And she enjoyed the thrill in his eyes. Of course she did. That was part of it, sometimes. He was hurried and clumsy, once he got started. She slowed him down by making him practise unfastening her bra. This is the most useful thing you’ll learn tonight, she told him. She had to put the condom on for him, and then it was over very quickly. He made no sound at all, but when she asked he said that yes, he’d enjoyed it. He’d stopped looking her in the eye again. He was ashamed, and she told him not to be.
Afterwards he seemed confused about what to do. She offered him some tissues to clean himself but he’d already pulled up his trousers. She dressed, and opened the door. He said thank you, a number of times, and shook her hand. She told him to take care, and that it was generally not the done thing to shake hands after sex.
*
His father came up into the room then. Payment had already been taken so at first she didn’t understand why he was there. He wanted to know how things had gone. It seemed inappropriate. She tried to keep things light and told him she didn’t like to compromise client confidentiality. He hadn’t paid her to be bloody confidential, he said.
She kept a distance and told him she wasn’t going to discuss it. He persisted. He wanted to know if he had anything to worry about, with his boy, if there were any problems.
He could have been talking to his vet about a wayward sheepdog. He had nothing to worry about, she told him. His son was fine. She hated going along with his way of thinking, but there was something in his manner that made her worried for the boy’s safety. She’d understood the boy’s nervousness, then.
The father seemed satisfied with that. He relaxed. He took off his jacket and started unbuckling his belt. She tried to make light of this as well, saying that she didn’t even know his name yet, but he didn’t seem in the mood for humour. He seemed – heated. She had to tell him, quickly, that she didn’t work with more than one client in an evening. And he laughed, as though that was a joke. Usually, repeating herself clearly and firmly was enough for someone to get the message. She folded her arms, and said she was done for the evening. You can make an appointment for another time, she told him, knowing she wouldn’t take him on. He laughed again, with even less humour than the first time, and took a big step towards her.
She knew what was coming.
She called for help.
He grabbed her by the shoulder and smacked her across the face.
It wasn’t a slap. He caught her with the heel of his hand, hard, and she went down to the floor with her vision slanted and her ears whistling. Her friend was in the room quickly, taking hold of the man’s arm just as he lifted his belt above his head. He was hustled outside. There was more violence then, she was sure, but it happened out of earshot and she didn’t ask her friend about it afterwards.
Despite what she’d worried about when she first got into the work, and despite what she thought she knew about the business as a whole, this was the closest she’d come to being in proper trouble the whole time she’d worked there. It had scared her, undoubtedly. The rage on his face had been so thorough, and had come on him so abruptly. She’d wondered what he’d done with it, later. She’d worried about the son.
They’d moved on, after that. Her friend had said it would only be sensible. Men like that, in an area like that, tend to have associates. They tend to talk. They were – territorial.
It wasn’t worth waiting around to find out what might happen if he came back, was how her friend put it.
It put the wind up her for a while, but she soon recovered. She worked for a few more years, in various places. And although she occasionally remembered the young man, she would have said she’d forgotten what he looked like, until she saw him on the news.
There was a story about a missing girl, in the village near where she’d worked. The reporter was asking what people in the village felt about the girl’s disappearance. His name was strapped across the bottom of the screen.
Gordon Jackson, Sheep Farmer.
He was saying they all had sympathy for the family, they couldn’t believe what had happened, it was terrible, they’d all taken part in trying to find her. His father was in the background, talking to someone else, pretending to ignore the camera. She remembered him even more clearly than the son. He hardly seemed to have aged at all.
Gordon Jackson, Sheep Farmer, kept talking. His voice was deeper now, and rougher. It was shocking weather to have gone up top on the moor, he said. We could all see that. The girl should never have been up there in the first place. She had no business wandering around up there on her own.
The reporter thanked him, and he nodded, and as they cut back to the studio she saw him glance away from the camera, towards his father.
10: Donna
By the time the man came into the pub to say he was looking for his daughter, Donna had already had enough of the evening. She could have done without the drama.
The man was with Stuart Hunter. Stuart wasn’t often seen in the pub, so people had fallen quiet before either of them started speaking. It was a Sunday evening, and there were only a dozen or so regulars in the small lounge-bar. Donna was there with Claire, trying to get her sobered up after an evening over in Cardwell which had got out of hand.
We were expecting her back about an hour ago, the man said. She’s probably just lost track of the time. I was wondering if anyone may have seen her around. She’s nearly thirteen. About this tall.
He held a hand to his chest, and then seemed to reconsider, looking down and lifting his hand towards his chin.
She’s got dark-blonde hair, he said. Collar-length.
This was the same girl who went missing the following winter. The whole evening felt like a trial run, when Donna remembered it later.
Tony’s first response was that they didn’t serve teenagers, so he would have noticed if she’d been in unaccompanied. He seemed to have taken offence. Tony took offence easily.
The girl’s father said of course, he understood, but was it possible she’d popped in and out, was it possible she’d sat in the beer garden without coming into the bar? They were sure she hadn’t gone far, he said. She was probably just wandering about and had lost track of the time. She’d done it before. They were trying to retrace her steps. She didn’t know the area.
Stuart said that the girl had been out with his daughter, Sophie, for most of the afternoon, but that Sophie didn’t know where she was now.
She does this, the man was saying. I’m sure she’ll turn up. He seemed embarrassed, more than anything.
Donna tried to catch Claire’s eye, but she was in another world. Lounging across her armchair like the Queen of France, ignoring the coffee Donna had bought for her.
Donna went over to the bar. I think we saw her earlier, she told them. With Sophie. Down by the woods. We were on our way to Cardwell and there was a whole group of kids out on the road, near the entrance to the old quarry. There was one girl we didn’t recognise. Maybe that was her?
The girl’s father thanked her. Tony suggested they all go and take a look, and there was a general move towards the door, glasses left half-empty on the tables as they spilled out into the square.
Tony asked Donna what the hell they’d been doing going over to Cardwell. Fancied a change of scene, Donna told him.
In Cardwell? he said. Had a good evening, did you?
I’ve had a bloody excellent evening, Claire told him, in her loudest whisper; but don’t tell Will.
*
Outside it was still warm, but the air was turning damp and the light was falling away. People spread out quickly through th
e streets, peering over walls and into back gardens and alleyways, knocking on doors.
If it wasn’t for Claire, Donna would probably just have slipped away home. It seemed likely the girl wouldn’t have gone far. She’s done this sort of thing before, the girl’s father was saying. I really don’t want to cause a fuss. She always turns up in the end. Donna watched him. There was something there that reminded her of her own father. He seemed embarrassed by his daughter’s actions; or maybe embarrassed that he’d let her out of his sight. Her own father had lost his way with her by the time she turned ten or so. He’d kept calling her his baby girl, his baby princess, as though if he said it often enough she would never grow up.
The man had wiry dark hair that kept falling into his eyes, and a pair of black-framed glasses that he kept having to adjust.
Donna was just about to ask him about his daughter when Claire came stumbling up and grabbed her by the arm.
What are we doing again? she whispered.
We’re looking for that man’s daughter, Donna said. She’s late home. He’s worried about her.
I’m late home! Claire said. No one’s worried about me.
You’re a grown-up, Donna told her. Apparently.
*
Donna had thought of herself as a grown-up for a long time. Her father had drifted away from the family when she was thirteen, or maybe fourteen. It was hard to say. There’d been no definitive leaving. He just kept going away and coming back and going away, and eventually he stayed gone. Donna had grown up quickly, after that. Their mother had never really talked about it, but there’d been a gap in the household that needed filling. Her baby brother had been too young. And too male. Donna had had to look after them all for a while, until her mother got back on her feet. That had taken a few years.