And Then She Vanished Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Nick Jones

  E-book published in 2021 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by Bookfly Design

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced

  or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the

  publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-982693-68-8

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-982693-67-1

  Fiction / Science Fiction / Time Travel

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  PART 1

  Prologue

  Summer 1997—King’s Funfair

  The smell of roasting chestnuts and sweet candy, the piercing screams of kids being thrown around at impossible speed. The fair has come to Cheltenham, and it’s a big one. It’s all Amy’s talked about for the last few weeks, and now it’s here. My little sister is about to burst with excitement. Seven years old and enchanted by this colorful, sugary, crazy-loud place. We walk among the huge rides, their colored bulbs bright against the evening sky, a warm indigo of summer. Amy smiles up at me, her hand in mine. She looks impossibly cute in a dress she picked out weeks ago, pastel blue, like the ribbons in her hair. Will she remember this night?

  We pass a shooting range with a mountainous rainbow of stuffed animals. The vendor is a stout man dressed in a three-piece suit and top hat. He has piercing eyes and a devilish beard, a grown-up Artful Dodger. “Why don’t you give it a go, sir?” he inquires, grinning, his accent laced with a subtle cockney twang. “Win the little lady a prize?”

  “My brother is really good at guns,” Amy informs him.

  “Is that so?” he replies, playfully. “And what’s your brother’s name?”

  “Joseph Bridgeman,” she says with businesslike candor. “And he’ll probably hit them all.” She points to the row of targets at the back of the stand.

  The Dodger breaks into a kind laugh, attracting interested glances from passersby. Amy has already charmed him. I’ve seen it a hundred times. A few of my mates have sisters and wish they would spontaneously combust. I like spending time with Amy though. Everyone does.

  The Dodger leans forward as though intending to share a secret with her. “It’s normally two pounds for three shots, but your brother can have an extra one for free, all right?”

  Amy folds her arms. “My daddy says that nothing in life is free.”

  He nods seriously. “Well, I’m sure your daddy is a very smart man, but sometimes, the best things in life are free.”

  “The Beatles,” I say automatically.

  “You can’t beat ’em.” He nods. A brief reverence for the Fab Four passes between us. “So, you up for it then, Joseph?”

  Amy squeezes my hand. “Please?” Her expectant face shines up at me. How can I say no?

  With my pockets emptied, the Dodger cracks open a gun, loads it with pellets, and hands it to me. “There you go. Hit three targets, and she can have whatever she wants.”

  I pinch one eye, and stare down the barrel. The sight is fixed at a strange angle. That will need to be compensated for, I think, like a sniper in high winds. Amy’s sights, on the other hand, are locked onto a huge pink bear, her arms folded neatly as she waits for me.

  Boys and girls. Fourteen and seven. Chalk and cheese.

  “Roll up, roll up, ladies and gentlemen!” the stallholder cries. “The world-famous Burning Joseph Bridges is about to take the stand.” It seems I am, and the stakes are high.

  I gaze at the small crowd gathered around us, and my heart skips a beat. Sian Burrows, a vision of beauty in stone-washed jeans and a ruffled white blouse, is staring at me.

  She lifts a heavily bangled arm, waves, and flicks her huge mane of curly hair over her shoulder. Her makeup is so professional she looks like a woman—Julia Roberts, Madonna, and Sharon Stone all rolled into one. Sian is flanked by her usual cronies, Vicky Sharp and Wendy Nelson, but her eyes are on me. A fluttering sensation swims through my belly. Only Sian does this to me. I’ve fancied her since the first year of secondary school, nearly three years now. Some people aren’t even married that long. I was skinny then, but in the last year I’ve shot up and filled out. My acne has cleared up too, and finally Sian has noticed me. I haven’t kissed her yet. I haven’t kissed anyone. But if tonight goes well, I might get my chance. She smiles, confident and playful. I think I smile back, but I can’t feel my face anymore.

  Amy claps her hands and squeals, “Come on, Joe, win me the big bear!”

  Right. I wipe my brow and attempt to steady my heart rate. Rifle against my shoulder, I track one of the circular targets as it shakes its way in front of the sea of toys. I remember what my dad taught me about shooting an air rifle. Relax, and wait for the target to come to you. Aiming a few centimeters ahead, I wait, raise the barrel of the gun to compensate for the arc of descent, and fire. A loud ding rings out as the target drops. Amy jumps in the air and grabs my arm. “Yes!” she cries. “You did it, you got one!”

  One down, two to go. I rush my next shot, missing the target by an inch at least. I check to see if Sian’s still watching me. She offers me a stern but supportive nod, a gesture I acknowledge with a flush of pride. Her friends glare at me. Luckily, Cinderella isn’t listening to the ugly sisters. Now I’m more confident and wink at her as I raise my gun. I fire decisively and another target drops with a wonderful sound like a spoon hitting a pan. It sends a ripple of applause through the small audience. All I need is one more shot to win the bear and, hopefully, my first proper kiss.

  “You can do it,” Sian mouths at me, then bites her lip and flicks her hair again. I raise my gun one final time, breathe deep, wait for the final target to reach the sweet spot, and pull the trigger.

  ding!

  “Yes!” I punch the air, delighted in my moment of glory.

  “There you go, mate,” says the Artful Dodger, exchanging the gun for a big pink bear. The crowd applauds. I turn to give the bear to Amy, but she’s no longer at my side. A ripple of concern moves through my gut.

  My throat tightens. “Where’s my sister?” I ask the Artful Dodger.

  He looks around. “That’s weird. She was right here.”

  The music from a nearby ride warps and swells along with the grinding power of machinery. A wave of panic washes over me. The fairground seems to close in around me. Heart pounding in my ears, all I can see is a blur of faces, none of them Amy’s.

  Sian comes over. “She was next to you, I mean just a few seconds ago. She can’t have gone far.” Her voice is kind, and I can’t stand it. I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Amy said she wanted to go to the merry-go-round next, so I run toward it, dropping the bear. Horses painted gold and red gallop through a thousand light bulbs, mouths stretched into tortured grimaces. Children laugh and scream. Please, please let her be here, I beg the universe. Please let her be safe.

  The carousel spins full circle.

  No Amy.

  Something’s happened to her.

  “No,” I growl, trying to ignore the terrible thoughts invading my head. I expect she’s just wandered off, that’s all. Something must have caught her eye. But she was so excited about the bear, and I was on my last shot. Why would she leave?

  Someone took her.

  I push through the crowd of people. Each strange face weakens me. The sound of the fair is discordant now, screeching sirens, the shrill cries of terrified children, the deceptively innocent tinkling bells of a steam organ. The soundtrack from a nightmare.

  Seconds become minutes. Others call her name. I spot a flash of color in the grass next to a dirty generator that bangs away like the blood in my temples. Staggering, I fall to my knees and pick up one of Amy’s blue hair ribbons from the mud. I hold it, shivering, but when I try to call her name, nothing comes.

  1

  Tuesday, December 10, 2019

  “Joseph,” my accountant Martin says, “are you listening to me?”

  “Yes,” I say, but I’m not really, which is unfair. He’s only trying to help. It’s four thirty p.m. Martin has dropped in for a “chat.” Never good news. We’re in my den, a place I think of as my refuge. I’m slouched in my favorite leather armchair, listening to the rain hammer Cheltenham into submission.

  “Have you been drinking?” Martin asks, sniffing the air dramatically.

  “No.” I have, but not that much. “You were saying the website needs some work.”

  “No.” Martin peers at me over his glasses like a school headmaster. “I said your website is down. I checked it this morning.”

  “Oh,” I wince, “that’s not good.”

  “Don’t you care anymore?” he inquires carefully. “About the business, I mean.”

  I shrug. My business is a failing antiques website. My heart hasn’t been in it lately, which is a shame because I was good at it, before the dreams came back. I chew my bottom lip. “I was thinking, maybe I should try a different career.”

  Martin nods patiently, even t
hough he’s heard all this before. He’s far from just my accountant, he’s my guardian, my conscience, and one of the only people who tells me the truth. He used to work for my dad. As commercial director, Martin ran the property development business, and when Dad left us, Martin took me under his wing. He’s never given up on me, and considering that he was the one who got me interested in antiques in the first place, my apathy must be especially difficult for him.

  “Why do you do this?” I ask. “Keep trying to help me?”

  “Because you have a gift,” he says without hesitation, “and when your head is in the game, you’re the best there is.”

  The “gift” he’s referring to is my ability to connect with objects. They talk to me. I see things. The official name is psychometry, not that I broadcast the fact. It’s spooky and weird but also pretty useful. In the business of antiques, provenance is everything, and if you know which items will be desirable, will be worth good money in the future, then you are unstoppable. I could make a profit in my sleep, but therein lies the problem.

  Sleep, and my total lack of it. I’m lucky if I get two hours a night, and it’s been that way for months now.

  “You seem tired,” he says.

  I rub my eyes. “It’s Amy’s birthday this week.”

  He nods and says quietly, “I know.”

  I never say it would have been her birthday, because we never found her, therefore she isn’t dead. My chest tightens, and I exhale loudly. Martin offers me an empathetic smile, an expression I’ve seen on his face many times over the years. “The dreams have come back, haven’t they?” I nod. He walks to the window and stands beside me. “Listen. I’m sorry about the timing, I know things are difficult . . . but we do need to talk about the house.”

  “The house?” I say, as if we haven’t already talked about it a hundred times.

  Martin tenses up, jaw flexing. He’s in good shape for a man in his midfifties, plays a lot of squash. I imagine that if you took him apart, he would look like one of those sinewy models you see in sports injury clinics. “Your parents’ savings are almost gone,” he says. “When the money runs out, they could take the house, use it to pay for your mother’s care.”

  I shake my head, watching beads of rain trace their way down the window and disappear. Money. When you have it, you don’t think about it, and when you don’t, it’s all you think about. Unless you’re me: Captain Denial of the good ship Penniless.

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Martin asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “But I don’t know what you’re worrying about. It will be okay.”

  “No it won’t, not this time.” His voice is cool and direct. “Not if you carry on like this.”

  I stand, stare at him, and with fake enthusiasm say, “Martin, you’re a gent, and I know what you’re trying to do, but I now relieve you of your duty.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “My duty?”

  “Yes. Whatever it is you feel you need to do, you can stop now.”

  “I made a promise to your father,” he says seriously.

  I hold up a finger. “That’s not a conversation we’re going to have today.” He relents, and we stand in a stalemate. I appreciate that I’m acting like a petulant teenager, but I’m lost. I don’t know who I am anymore, and I can’t think straight. Grief and insomnia will do that to you.

  Eventually Martin says, “I’m not giving up on you, Joseph.” He hands me a business card.

  “What’s this?” I ask, taking it.

  “Someone I want you to go and see.”

  “Oh, come on!” I burst out. “Not this again.”

  “Her name is Alexia Finch,” he replies, unperturbed. “She’s really good.”

  Over the years, Martin has pushed and shoved me in front of various “experts.” I know he means well, but what’s the point? They can’t bring Amy back. I stare at the card, and then back at him. “The last thing I need right now is some shrink poking around in my head, digging up the past.”

  “She’s not a shrink.” Martin’s voice is calm and controlled. “She’s a really experienced hypnotherapist.”

  “Hypnotherapist!” I snort. “Martin . . .”

  “She’s good.”

  “She won’t understand.”

  “You might be surprised.” He studies me, expression cool, and then softens a little. “She has her own story, told me she got into therapy because it helped her so much.”

  “Well,” I smile sarcastically, “I’m glad someone had a happy ending and everything worked out.”

  I’m being annoying and immature, but it’s true what they say: when we hurt, we take it out on those closest to us. Martin doesn’t bite. He has three girls, all in their teens, which means he’s a master at ignoring displays of self-importance. He places a hand on my shoulder. “I care about you,” he says. “So, I’ve booked you an appointment.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Will you go? Please?”

  I fold my arms. “Fine.”

  “Good, that’s settled then.” Martin grabs his briefcase. “Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, I bought you some essentials.”

  Essentials? I study him, nervously.

  “They’re in the kitchen,” he says. “Consider it an official bribe. Go and see her.”

  The bribe is a shiny blender that resembles a space rocket from the sixties and a box full of fruit and vegetables. I put the machine straight to work and blitz apples, blueberries, and bananas into purple mush. It tastes amazing. Until recently, online shopping was my savior. Food delivered weekly is ideal for a hermit like me. All I had to do was nod to the delivery person and sign on the line. But then a really annoying thing happened. My credit card stopped working, and then I kind of ran out of food. Now, thanks to Martin, I have another three days’ worth of juicing ingredients. I’m not dead yet.

  I turn the business card over in my hands and feel bad about how I treated him. He’s been loyal, and I value that, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to see the therapist.

  The afternoon bleeds into the evening; when you suffer from insomnia, it’s all the same. I pick a bottle of red wine from my diminishing stocks and head to the den, leaving the rest of the house in darkness. There seems little point in filling it with light when I spend most of my evenings in one room. My den is my safe place, my escape, and it has everything I need. It isn’t a big room, but that’s good, makes it easy to keep warm. In one corner is a beaten-up old club chair. It’s missing some of the brass studs that adorn its edges. Next to that is a tall standard lamp with the largest, craziest shade I could find. The walls are lined with shelves and cupboards, crammed with books and things I’ve collected over the years. One section is full of vinyl, and next to my chair is a cabinet that houses my pride and joy: a Rega record deck and valve amplifier.

  I’m aware this room sounds like the final resting place of a retired old has-been, but I like it. It’s quiet in here, and when I play music, it’s like a wave of warm water running through me. I pour some wine into a large glass and scan my record collection. It doesn’t take long for a little voice in my head to suggest Rubber Soul.

  The Beatles seem to have a song for every occasion. My copy of this particular album is a reissue. The originals are nice—I have those too—but the remasters are another thing altogether, clean and rich and warm all at the same time. I pull the 180-gram slab of history from its sleeve, place it on the turntable, lower the stylus carefully onto the vinyl, and sink back into my chair.

  The needle finds the groove, and the Fab Four ease my mind. McCartney’s vocals on “Drive My Car” soar perfectly above the deep guitars. I pick up a framed photograph from one of the cluttered shelves: Amy, a few weeks before she went missing, hair trailing behind her as she plays on a swing in the garden, a swing that’s rusted away now. Twenty-three years, and the pain feels hot and fresh as ever. Music fills the room and the wine goes to work. The folk melodies of “Norwegian Wood” give way to the powerful Motown groove of “You Won’t See Me,” and the lyrics take me away. Finally, I collapse into my chair. As I drift off to sleep, the Beatles sing of loss, of years gone by and a missing girl they can no longer see.