rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">EPILOGUE
The fire crackles as the flames leap into the frigid November air, sending out showers of sparks. The wooden pallets that have been piled high by volunteering parents, eagerly giving up their Saturday afternoon, crumple and sag as they burn. The guy – the star of this cold, clear Bonfire Night – is long gone now, his newspaper-stuffed belly and papier mâché head only lasting a matter of seconds, the crowd cheering as his features catch alight, feeding the frenzy of the flames.
My breath steams out in front of me, thick plumes of white that match the smoke that rises from the bonfire, but I am not cold, my hands are warm and my cheeks flushed pink. The crowd of parents, teachers and children, five or six deep in some places, that gathers in the muddy field behind the school are transfixed as the first of the fireworks shoots into the sky, before sending a spectacular display of colours raining down through the night air. I watch as she keeps her gaze fixed onto the display, the heat of the bonfire casting an orange glow across her features, her hat pushed back on her head, so her view isn’t obstructed. For a moment I feel a tiny twinge of guilt – after all, none of this is really her fault – before I remember why I’m doing this, and I bat it away impatiently.
All I need to do now, is wait. Wait for the realisation to dawn on her face, for the fear to grip her heart and make her stomach flip over as she realises what has happened. For her to realise that Laurel is gone.
‘Here.’ Fran thrusts a polystyrene cup of mulled wine into my hand, fragrant steam curling into the cold November air. I don’t drink – not even cheap mulled wine with the alcohol boiled out of it – something I’ve told her repeatedly for the past three years that I’ve worked for her as a nanny, but she never takes any notice.
‘Thanks.’ I cup my hands around the warm plastic and let the feeble heat attempt to thaw out my cold fingers. Another firework shoots into the air, blue and white sparks showering across the sky, and a gasp rises from the crowd. Fran sips at her wine, grimacing slightly, before pushing her hat back on her head so she can see properly. She fumbles in her pocket, drawing out a slightly melted chocolate bar. ‘I got this for Laurel,’ she says, the foil wrapper glinting in the reflected glow from the giant bonfire behind the cordon in front of us.
‘Laurel?’ I say, frowning slightly. Laurel is a nightmare to get to bed if she has sweets this late in the evening, Fran knows that. Although, it’ll be my job to tussle Laurel into bed all hyped up on sugar, not Fran’s. I glance down, expecting to see her tiny frame in front of us, in the position she’s held all evening. She dragged us to the very edge of the cordon as soon as we arrived at the field behind the school, determined that we wouldn’t miss a second of the Oxbury Primary School bonfire and fireworks display.
‘Yes, for Laurel – you know, my daughter,’ Fran says impatiently, thrusting the chocolate towards me. She follows my gaze, and frowns slightly, biting down on her lip, before she opens her mouth to speak. ‘Where is she?’
I turn, anxiously scanning the crowds behind us, the faces of parents, family members and teachers that have all come out in their droves to watch the display. Laurel isn’t there. She isn’t in front of me, in the tiny pocket of space she carved out for herself, and she isn’t behind me either. I turn back to Fran, trying to ignore the tiny flutter in my chest.
‘I thought she went with you?’ I say, the cup of mulled wine now cooling quickly in the chilly night air, a waft of cinnamon rising from the cup and making my stomach heave.
‘With me?’ Fran’s eyes are wide as she glances past me, searching for Laurel.
‘Yes, with you.’ I have to stop myself from snapping at her, worry nipping at my insides. ‘You said you were going to get us a drink and pop to the loo, and Laurel said, “Hang on, Mummy, I’m coming with you.”‘
‘She did? Are you sure?’
‘Well, reasonably sure,’ I say, a delicate twinge of frustration whispering at my breastbone. ‘I mean, I saw her follow after you, because I shouted out to her to keep hold of your hand.’ There are hundreds, if not thousands of people here tonight, the display well known in the small patch of Surrey that we live in. It’s a regular annual event arranged by the PTA, and it’s well attended every year.
‘She didn’t,’ Fran whispers, her eyes meeting mine as the blood drains from her face. ‘She didn’t hold my hand. She didn’t catch up with me at all.’
I feel sick at Fran’s words, her fingers gripping my forearm, digging in vice-like. Trying to crush the rising unease that makes my stomach do a tiny somersault, I take a deep breath, peeling Fran’s fingers from my arm and taking her hand in mine.
‘Don’t panic,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level and calm, ‘she must have just wandered off. There are people on the gate; no one would let her walk out on her own, she’s only little.’
Fran nods, her face a sickly shade of white. ‘We need to look for her, I need to find her. Surely, she can’t have gone too far?’ She drops my hand and starts to shove her way past the crowds of people hemming us in. I follow after her, ignoring the tuts and frowns from others. Finally, I break free of the crush and catch up to her, as she begins to run across the field towards the bank of portaloos, slipping and sliding in the mud that coats her designer wellies.
‘Wait, Fran,’ I gasp, ‘wait. We need to . . . to think for a minute. We need to think about this logically, about where she might be.’
‘She was following me to the loos, that’s what you told me,’ Fran says, her eyes frantically scanning the field behind me, ‘I’m going to look there, maybe she did follow me, maybe she’s got locked in one of them, maybe she’s banging on the door now and no one can hear her.’ Another burst of fireworks erupts in the sky with a popping noise, as she pulls her arm away from me, staggering slightly.
‘OK,’ I nod, ‘good idea. You check the loos, I’ll go and ask at the barbecue area. See if they’ve seen her – she might have asked for you if she couldn’t find her way back to us in the crowd.’ Fran has hammered it home from the first day I began working with them, that if Laurel gets lost she must find a policeman, or security guard — someone in authority — and ask them to find her mummy. Laurel knows the rules. Fran gives a sharp nod, but I can see her mind is already on getting to the portaloos, and she turns and starts to run towards the row of green plastic cabins. I gaze after her for a moment, a whicker of fear making my pulse beat faster, making my feet stick to the ground for just a minute before I begin the walk over to the barbecue area. I hurry as fast as I can, but the field beneath my feet is a slurry of mud, thanks to three days of constant rain, and straw, laid to soak up the mud, which is now a thick, sludgy, slippery mess.
Heat, a thudding bass from the DJ system in the ‘bar’ area (a tent, with a trestle table full of wine and beer bottles), and the acrid scent of barbecue smoke assaults my senses as I approach the table, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak.
‘Hi.’ My voice is drowned out by the crappy music, and the pop of fireworks exploding over my head. ‘Hey!’ I shout.
‘Hello, darlin’, what can I get you? Burger? Sausage?’ The burly guy behind the table turns to me, hot dog roll in hand. It’s my second visit to Pete the Meat tonight, the local butcher (and local lothario, if the rumours are true).
‘No, no thank you.’ I shake my head, ‘I’m looking for a little girl – she’s got lost. Have you seen