Читать книгу The Secrets of Sunshine - Phaedra Patrick - Страница 18

The next morning, Mitchell woke with alarm. His bedroom was brighter than usual, and his eyes shot open when he saw the time on his watch. He was already two hours late for work. He was still wearing his clothes and, when he kicked off the bedsheets, his writing pad skidded to the floor.

Across the corridor, Poppy snored lightly as he hobbled into her room.

‘Pops,’ he hissed. ‘Poppy.’

When she didn’t stir, he reached out to touch her shoulder. He calculated he could make her a late breakfast, rush her to school and make it there before lunchtime. Then he could go into work.

But tomorrow was the last day of the school year and the lessons would be winding down. He knew deep down that, last night, Poppy wasn’t okay.

And he wasn’t okay, either.

He had leaped from a bridge, saved someone, been knocked unconscious and woken in hospital. He tried to survey it all technically and without emotion, but he couldn’t deny his body felt like it was filled with wet sand.

Even though his brain urged him to wake her, Mitchell brushed a lock of hair off Poppy’s cheek and he decided to leave her in bed. He made himself a bowl of muesli and sat alone at the dining table to eat it. He noticed the light bulb that hung down above his head was dusty and didn’t have a shade.

Whenever Anita used to visit, she would say the place looked like a bachelor pad. At the time he thought it was amusing, but now it felt rather tragic.

Instead of browsing the national news on his iPad as usual, Mitchell opened the Upchester News website. If Barry had seen a photo of him online, there might be an image of the woman in the yellow dress, too. He felt a desperate need to find out if she was okay.

On the main page, there was a photo of the bridge and he read the large sub headline: Man Saves Woman from Raging River.

He shook his head at it in dismay. I didn’t save the woman, I helped her. The water wasn’t raging.

The piece was written by someone called Susan Smythe and was full of theatrical words such as selfless and courageous and dashing – words he didn’t associate with himself. Thankfully the article didn’t mention his name, but it didn’t give the name of the woman in the yellow dress, either.

He read through it twice and his concern increased. Perhaps she’d ended up in hospital, too. He felt annoyed with himself for not making enquiries while he was in there.

When he scanned the last sentence of the article, he sucked in a breath.

Have you attached your own padlock and why? What would you say to the Hero on the Bridge? Write in and you could win £200.

There was another square image below this, featuring a large red triangle. When Mitchell clicked it, a video played. The air around him chilled as he watched himself sitting by the river edge. His polo shirt clung wet to his body and he hadn’t realized how slim he’d become.

The woman in yellow sat in front of him and bent her head, so he couldn’t see her face. The film ended with a zoomed-in frozen image of her eye and ear on the screen. Her earring was the shape of a large gold cactus that he hadn’t noticed when he’d helped her.

Somehow, she seemed to look straight at him and Mitchell rubbed his fingers together, wanting to reach into the screen. ‘I hope you’re okay,’ he said quietly. ‘Who and where are you?’

His thoughts were broken by footsteps thudding along the hallway. ‘Aargh, Dad,’ Poppy yelped, her dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. ‘I’m late for school.’

He waved a hand to calm her down. ‘It’s okay.’

‘But I’ve missed my bus.’

‘It’s not the end of the world.’

‘Tell Miss Heathcliff that.’

He gently took hold of her shoulders. ‘I don’t feel well enough to go into work today,’ he said, the words sounding alien to him. ‘I’m taking the day off, and so are you.’

Poppy gaped at him. ‘What?’

‘I was going to wake you, but you needed to rest after last night.’

She chewed the side of her cheek. ‘Sorry, Dad.’

‘You don’t need to apologize. How do you feel today?’

‘Starving.’

‘Well, why don’t you have some cereal while I call the school? I’ll tell Miss Heathcliff you’ll be back in tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll understand.’

‘Will she?’

‘Leave it to me. You could take a nice bath after breakfast.’

Her words were cautious. ‘But don’t we have a plan?’

Mitchell glanced across at his schedules in the hallway. ‘Not even one action point,’ he said, ignoring his uneasiness.

‘Great.’ Poppy grinned as she picked up the muesli box.

Mitchell’s mobile phone screen was still blank, so he used his landline to call his boss. He explained he’d been in an accident and needed to rest up.

Russ already knew about Mitchell’s hospitalization from Barry and agreed with his time off. He was committed to the city council’s mantra of providing a supportive working environment for all, and he loved to win trophies and awards to prove it.

‘Has the woman I helped come forward?’ Mitchell asked.

‘No, and let’s hope she doesn’t,’ Russ said. ‘We don’t want any negative stories kicking around before the centenary celebrations. Someone falling from a bridge is not good for the city’s image, might raise health and safety concerns. So do not, I repeat, do not say anything to the press, or put stuff on Twitter or Facebook. We need it to settle down, nice and quiet. You got that?’

Mitchell decided not to mention the online news article. ‘Loud and clear,’ he grumbled, shifting on the sofa. ‘I never use social media anyway.’

After her bath, he let Poppy eat a bowl of Coco Pops for her lunch, just this once. He insisted she drink a glass of milk.

He sat next to her at the table and jiggled his leg, unused to convalescing.

Poppy pushed her empty bowl away. ‘I got some homework yesterday and it’s deadly boring.’ She began to recite the assignment in a singsong manner. ‘Produce a piece of work during the school holidays to celebrate Upchester’s centenary of city status. It has to include photos and more than one quote.’

Mitchell liked projects, especially the planning stages. He secretly relished helping Poppy with her schoolwork, and his juddering leg stilled. ‘You could write a story about the architecture of the city bridges,’ he said. ‘Did you know the concrete one is called a beam bridge? It’s the simplest kind, like a tree chopped down and placed across a river.’

‘You’ve told me before.’ She rolled her eyes teasingly. ‘It’s my homework. Did you look for the lady on the internet?’

He nodded. ‘I found a short video.’ Mitchell played the clip and showed Poppy the text about the competition.

‘That’s rubbish,’ she said. ‘You can’t see her properly.’

‘I know.’

‘And no one will write in.’

The landline phone rang, and Poppy stared at it suspiciously. Mitchell once overheard her talking about it to her school friend Rachel, as if it was invented in the Dark Ages.

‘I’ll get it,’ he said and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’

‘Mr Fisher?’ The lady’s voice was breathless and he wondered if Vanessa had got hold of his phone number.

‘Um, yes?’

‘It’s Miss Bradfield.’

‘Oh, hi,’ he replied. ‘If you’re calling to see how I am, I’m absolutely fine.’

‘But you’re off work?’

‘Well, yes.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Look, I know this is a big ask,’ she said. ‘But can you come over to my place? Like ASAP.’

He frowned. ‘What, now?’

‘Yes. I’d like to talk to you. I have ninety minutes free before my next lesson.’

Mitchell didn’t feel like traipsing across the city today, even though she’d been so helpful. He wondered if Poppy had left something behind at her house. ‘We kind of have plans.’

‘Oh,’ she said dejectedly. ‘Only I’ve just watched a small film of you online, and I need to ask you something. It really can’t wait.’

‘About the film?’

‘About the lady in the film.’ She paused, as if carefully considering her next words. ‘I think the woman you rescued might be my sister.’

‘Don’t use your posh voice, Dad,’ Poppy whispered as they stood waiting for Miss Bradfield to answer her door. They’d taken a bus across the city and got here within forty-five minutes of Miss Bradfield’s call. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘What posh voice?’

‘The one you use on the phone and in expensive shops.’

‘I never go into expensive shops.’

‘Just speak normally, okay.’

Mitchell had started to recite words in his head to see if he did pronounce them in a grander manner, when Miss Bradfield opened the door. She was wearing red shorts with a frayed hem, and a blue-and-white striped shirt. Her feet were bare. ‘Glad you could come over,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ Poppy fanned her hand behind her head. ‘Pineapple.’

Miss Bradfield returned Poppy’s gesture. ‘Come in and get comfy.’

Poppy jumped inside with both feet. ‘I wasn’t in school today,’ she said.

‘She stayed at home with me for a bit of recovery time,’ Mitchell explained. He covertly gave some money to Miss Bradfield to cover the taxi fare and music lesson.

‘We talked about my homework, though,’ Poppy said. ‘The history of Upchester. Yawn.’

‘Well, history can be can be anything, even something that happened five minutes ago. Only boring people get bored.’ Miss Bradfield led the way through the pink glossy kitchen and out into a small yard. A book lay flat on her striped deck-chair and a small guitar was propped against the wall. Poppy picked it up, strummed it then held it up in one hand like a rock star.

Sasha trotted over and flopped onto her side with her head on Mitchell’s shoe.

‘She lubs you.’ Miss Bradfield smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. In fact, Mitchell thought she looked a lot paler than she did yesterday. ‘Can I get you guys a drink?’

Poppy smacked her lips. ‘I loved that orangey stuff.’

‘We’d both like a glass a milk,’ Mitchell said.

Miss Bradfield reappeared a few minutes later with three glasses of frothy yellow liquid. Poppy’s glass sported a pink paper umbrella and Mitchell’s a green one. ‘I made banana milkshakes, so everyone is happy,’ she said.

After sucking nervously on her straw, she reached behind her cushion and passed a couple of photographs to Mitchell. ‘These are of me with my two sisters.’

The first shot showed three brunette women, laughing and raising cocktail glasses to the camera. Miss Bradfield stood in the middle wearing her aviator sunglasses. The woman on the left sported a black top and a striking gold pineapple pendant. ‘This one is Naomi, my younger sister. And I think you helped my older sister, Yvette.’ Miss Bradfield tapped the pretty lady to the right of the shot.

Mitchell’s mind raced at the potential coincidence of it being her. He couldn’t be certain, because the woman’s face was partially hidden by a cocktail glass. But her chestnut curly hair was similar. He looked at the next photo and this time he could see her more clearly. Her dark eyes, her smile. He could picture her in his arms again.

It was her.

Relief tidal waved over him that he’d found her. ‘Yes. Yvette.’ He found he liked saying her name.

Miss Bradfield stared at him and stood up abruptly. She glanced at the photo again before rushing back towards the house with a stumble.

Poppy stared after her. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure. Will you keep an eye on the dog while I go and see?’

Poppy scooped Sasha into her arms. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after you.’

He found Miss Bradfield standing in the kitchen, staring at the photos on her fridge.

‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘This is all super weird. I recognized Yvette’s earring first, in the clip. I bought them in Mexico for her birthday. They’re golden cacti and she wears them a lot. I bought Naomi a gold pineapple necklace, too. It’s great when you buy something and the person likes it, isn’t it? Makes you feel good inside.’

Mitchell could recall the woman’s yellow dress, her eyes and her smile. However, he felt a sliding sensation inside him that something wasn’t right. ‘Have you heard from Yvette since she fell?’

Miss Bradfield looked down at the floor. ‘The thing is—’ She jumped as the doorbell chimed and she glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, what? It’s too early for my next pupil.’

She made her way to the door and stopped dead when she saw two people behind the frosted glass. ‘It’s Mum and Naomi,’ she hissed. ‘What are they doing here? Mum’s supposed to be staying at Naomi’s place tonight.’

‘It’s okay,’ Mitchell said. ‘Maybe we can catch you next week—’

Miss Bradfield shot out a hand and gripped his arm. ‘No.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You stay.’

Mitchell stared down at her fingers.

She let them slowly fall away. ‘Sorry, it’s just that—’

The doorbell sounded again, twice.

‘Look, let me just get that. Patience isn’t one of Mum’s virtues. You and Poppy can wait in the lounge. It’s nice in there, quite glam.’

‘Um, okay.’

Mitchell opened the door to a small, cosy room with a striped carpet. There were gold-framed paintings of cherubs on the walls and various instruments sat under the window. He called Poppy back inside and she skipped along the hallway to join him.

‘What?’ she asked.

He ushered her into the room. ‘We’re waiting in here for Miss Bradfield.’

‘We can call her Liza. She said so.’ She plopped down on the sofa.

Mitchell heard the front door open and the sound of kisses planted loudly on cheeks. After a few moments, a large lady bustled into the room. She had dyed raven-black hair set in coarse waves, and she wore an overlong purple shirt over white linen trousers. Her gnarled fingers were like roots of ginger and adorned with chunky gold rings. Mitchell saw she shared the same dark eyes as her daughters. ‘I insist on meeting your friends, Liza,’ she said.

Miss Bradfield followed her in and mouthed Sorry to Mitchell in an exaggerated manner. Another woman, whom he recognized as Naomi, entered as well, and gave him a warm smile.

‘And who do we have here?’ Miss Bradfield’s mother asked Poppy as if she were a toddler. ‘How old are you, honey? What instrument do you play and what grade are you on?’

Miss Bradfield stepped forward. ‘Mr Fisher and Poppy popped by to talk about some, um, school stuff,’ she said. ‘Guitars, sheet music, that kind of thing. They aren’t stopping.’

Miss Bradfield’s mother held out her hand toward Mitchell. ‘I’m Sheila,’ she said. ‘Seeing as Liza hasn’t introduced us properly.’ After Mitchell shook it, she refocused on her daughter. ‘Do you know your shorts have threads hanging from them, Liza? They’re a disgrace.’

‘Yes, Mum. It’s kind of fashionable, you know.’

Naomi took hold of her mum’s arm. ‘Let’s go to the garden, and we’ll get you a nice glass of water.’ She led her out of the room.

‘I’m almost ten,’ Poppy shouted after them. ‘I’m learning the guitar. No grades, yet.’

There was a bustling noise in the kitchen and the sound of a tap running. When Miss Bradfield returned, she semi-closed the door behind her. ‘Sorry about that. Naomi’s had a burst water pipe at home, so Mum can’t stop there. The spare bed is all wet. She’s insisting on staying with me instead, which is not what I need. A sure way to bring on a headache.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Now, tell me how you came to save my sister, Mr Fisher.’

Mitchell explained how he saw Yvette fasten a padlock then lean over the railing, looking for something. He mimed swimming motions and explained how he’d also ended up in hospital, omitting the detail about being hit by a pizza delivery bike so he didn’t sound like an idiot. ‘I don’t know what happened to her after that. I didn’t even know her name until you told me.’

Miss Bradfield sat down, massaging her temples in a circular motion. ‘What on earth was Yvette doing on the bridge? Why didn’t she call me? This is so strange.’

Mitchell didn’t say anything, assuming her questions weren’t meant for him.

She raised her head. ‘Aren’t those padlocks on the bridges supposed to be love tokens or something?’

‘People call them love locks. They leave names or messages on them.’

‘Hmm, I’d never think to do that.’ She twirled a thread on her shorts around on her finger until it snapped.

‘Is there something wrong, Miss Bradfield?’ Mitchell asked her cautiously.

‘Oh, just call me Liza.’

‘Told you,’ Poppy chirruped.

Mitchell shook his head to show her this wasn’t the right time. ‘Okay, Liza. And please call me Mitchell.’

‘Well, Mitchell.’ She found a small smile. ‘The thing is, Yvette went missing almost twelve months ago. Vanished.’

His forehead wrinkled. ‘Um, missing?’

‘She disappeared in July last year. And you’re the only person I know to have seen her since.’ She said it as if it was an accusation or a challenge to him.

Mitchell closed his eyes, trying to make sense of this. ‘Disappeared?’ he repeated.

‘Walked out of her life without a word. Didn’t let Mum, Naomi or me know about it.’

He searched for something to say. ‘Do the police know about this?’

She sighed, exasperated. ‘The police won’t treat her as a missing person because she writes to me sometimes. So, they wouldn’t be interested that you saw her. Too busy with burglars and petty theft and fights in bars…’

‘Liza, Liza.’ A voice rang through from the back garden.

‘Duty calls.’ Liza shrugged. ‘Will you get back in touch with me if you think of anything—’ Her words choked up. ‘Anything at all that might help me find her again?’

‘Of course, though I’ve told you all I know,’ he said.

She nodded slightly. ‘In two weeks, Yvette will have been missing for exactly twelve months. I want her home by then. I promised Mum. A year is too long without my sister. We’ve got to get her back.’

Mitchell’s head ached as he tried to think what he could possibly offer. ‘Yvette attached a padlock… There could be something written on it.’

Her eyes lit with hope. ‘Really?’

‘Sometimes there are only initials on the locks, or nothing at all,’ he reconsidered out loud, not wanting to raise her hopes.

‘But if there is, it could be a clue.’

‘Finding it again will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

Liza rubbed under her eye. ‘Will it even still be there?’

‘It may have been cut off,’ Mitchell said. Then he thought about how slowly Barry worked. ‘But yes, it probably is.’

‘Then I need to see it.’ Liza sat upright. ‘You’ve brought us a fresh lead, Mitchell. Will you help me to find that lock?’

Mitchell shifted uncomfortably at her ask, a knot forming in his stomach. He didn’t need any more complications in his life. But when he looked over at Poppy, her eyes urged him to say yes. Her words about no one being there to help her mum felt branded into his brain. Maybe he could do something this time around.

‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’