Me and You

Net result to date? Sweet feck all.

8.20 p.m.

Still here, with my voice nearly hoarse by now from talking on phone.

On the plus side, between the pair of us we’ve at least managed to make some kind of headway and now have a good long list of people we’ve left messages for and who are to get back to us; people who might just be able to shed a bit of light on the whole thing. On the minus side, though, in spite of everyone we did actually manage to speak to, we’ve got absolutely nowhere. In cop-show-speak, no leads to talk of. No one’s seen or heard a whisper from Kitty in days, and no one’s spoken to her on the phone either. No texts even to say Happy Christmas, nothing.

As if she’s just vanished into thin air.

9.05 p.m.

Eventually, Simon slumps forward, holding his head in his hands and looking about as shattered as I feel. He has to be feeling the uselessness and futility of this, I just know. Know it without being told.

‘Listen, I’ve an idea,’ I tell him tentatively, not wanting to panic the guy, but at the same time, anxious to do more than keep on cold calling a bunch of total strangers late on Stephen’s night, when everyone we talk to would far rather be stuffing their faces with Cadbury’s Selection Boxes, while watching Mamma Mia!

He looks over to me, red-eyed with tiredness by now.

‘Don’t freak out on me,’ I say, ‘but I really think it’s time to start checking around hospitals. Just in case … Well, you know. She might have been at some party and maybe something happened to her on the way home? And say she was taken to a hospital somewhere and no one has a clue who she is?’

He looks worriedly into space for a second, then nods his head.

‘I’m only praying you’re wrong,’ he says, jaw clamped tightly, ‘but it’s certainly worth a shot.’

Sick with nerves now, I get back onto the phone, go online, look up the number for Vincent’s Hospital and dial.

9.20 p.m.

Bloody waste of time! Hospitals turn out to be a total dead end. Didn’t take me long to ring every single one with an A&E unit in the greater Dublin area as there’s not that many. And once I navigated my way past ‘Are-you-next-of kin?’ type questions and explained the situation, I pretty much got the same response from all of them.

V. sorry for my trouble, but it’s impossible to give that information over the phone. Have I tried contacting the police, is all I’m asked, over and over.

Right then. Nothing for it but to call into each and every hospital we can think of, first light tomorrow, as they say in search-and-rescue TV shows. Better than sitting round here ringing a total bunch of strangers who know absolutely nothing, feeling useless and with all confidence fast draining from me.

Anything’s better than that.

9.35 p.m.

Agree we need to call it a night. As Simon v. wisely points out, calling people we don’t know at this hour just isn’t a good plan. He offers to drive me home and promises to call during the night if she turns up.

Which I just know by him, he’s still secretly holding out for. All night long, whenever he hears a car door slamming or fast footsteps pounding down street outside, he’ll jump up a bit, then look confidently towards the front door like a lost puppy, silently praying she’ll slide her key into lock and bounce in like nothing happened. Honest to God, the hope in his eyes would nearly kill you.

Am wall-falling with tiredness by now. Gratefully accept his offer.

9.45 p.m.

On the way to my parents’ house, we pass by the local cop shop on Harcourt Terrace.

I catch sight of a copper striding out of there, which means at least they’re still open. It’s a sign. Right then, in a flash, the decision is made.

‘Simon, pull over the car,’ I tell him firmly, when we’re stopped at traffic lights.

‘What did you say?’ he asks, looking at me like I’ve finally lost it.

‘I know this is the last thing either of us wants to do right now,’ I say, whipping off my seat belt and getting ready to jump out, now that we’ve stopped. ‘But I just think there’s no harm in calling in and telling the cops everything that’s happened to date, that’s all. Let’s just bring them up to speed and keep them informed. I mean, they’ve got access to all sorts of resources that we don’t, so …’

I trail off a bit here and it would melt a heart of stone to see just how crushed the poor guy’s starting to look. Can practically hear him thinking: bringing in the coppers now means Kitty’s really, really gone and isn’t coming back.

He parks the car and I reach over to pat his arm sympathetically.

‘Look, I know how sick with worry you are,’ I tell him a bit more gently. ‘And I know how much you were looking forward to your skiing trip tomorrow and that you’re secretly hoping against hope that she might yet do some kind of eleventh-hour resurfacing act in the middle of the night. Don’t get me wrong, I’m praying for that too. But we’re here, is all I’m saying. And we have spent all afternoon and evening pretty much doing their bloody job for them. So let’s just see if they can help us out! Just humourise me, Simon. Come on, what’s wrong with that?’

Long pause, and I swear I can physically see the eternal optimist in him wrestle with his inner realist.

Astonishingly, the realist wins out.

‘You’re right,’ he sighs, for first time all day sounding defeated. ‘We’re here. For what it’s worth, let’s do it.’

10.35 p.m.

Police are useless! Total and utter waste of time! I storm out of there fuming, and even calm, level-headed Simon’s pissed off at just how lackadaisical they were. Now I know it’s Christmas, etc., I know the sixteen-year-old copper on duty would far rather be home in front of a computer screen chatting up girls on Facebook, rather than listening to a borderline hysteric and the shell-shocked boyfriend of a missing woman, demanding that something be done immediately to track her down.

First question: did Kitty have a history of drug or alcohol abuse? I gave him an adamant no. Almost snapped the face off him. I mean, sure Kitty likes a drink the way we all do, but drugs? Never once, in all the long years I’ve known her! And that is a long, long, time, probably since well before you were toilet trained, I stressed to the acne-faced copper.

Second question: did she have a history of depression, or was she in any way prone to suicidal tendencies? Almost guffawed in his face, and Simon was at pains to point out that she’s a respectable student, waitressing her way through night school; the jolliest, most positive, outgoing type you could ever meet, who’d probably never once in the whole course of her life entertained a solitary dark thought. ’Course, I was nearly thumping on the table by then and kept demanding to talk to someone – anyone – more senior, who might see the severity of the situation and take it that bit more seriously.

Simon had to haul me back by the elbow at this point, and even had the manners to apologise to the young kid on my behalf, politely explaining that we’d both had a v. stressful day of it. At which point I went back to standing sulkily on the sidelines, arms folded, occasionally lobbing in, ‘But she never went to visit her foster mother on Christmas Day! And she stood me up on my birthday! So why aren’t you writing that down in your logbook, sonny? Unheard of for her!’

Totally wasting my breath. Child-copper told us that standard procedure is that a missing persons report can only be filed when someone’s been gone for a minimum of three days. I nearly had to be held back at that and had to resist the urge to holler, ‘So going AWOL over Christmas is no cause for immediate concern, then?’

Simon calmly pointed out that, as far as we know, the last person who actually saw Kitty was Joyce Byrne at Byrne & Sacetti, who said goodbye to her at about one in the morning on the twenty-fourth, just as she was finishing up her shift. About seventy hours ago, roughly. For God’s sake, we’re almost there, almost at magical three-day mark!

But the copper was v. insistent. If she still hasn’t surfaced by tomorrow, he told us, then we could come back and they’d take it from there. Around six in the evening is the best time, he added, as the sergeant would be back on duty then. Like we were making appointments at the hairdresser’s.

But then – And this is bit that almost made me gag – he v. coolly, almost dismissively, informed us that the vast majority of people who disappear for a while usually resurface again safe and well. Well over ninety per cent of them, in fact. Clearly it must be a well-known statistic they apparently teach you in your first year at Garda Training College, because he kept stressing it over and over again, like a broken record. Then told us to just go home and even managed to add insult to injury by calling after us, ‘And try not to worry.’

Had the strongest urge to smack him over the head with the butt end of my umbrella, but Simon clocked it in time and hauled me out of there, before I got the chance to inflict lasting damage.

11.10 p.m.

Front driveway of my parents’ house. Sleeting down v. heavily now, lashing. The two of us barely spoke the whole way here; too punch drunk by it all. Just as I’m about to clamber out of the car, Simon grabs my hand and pulls me back.

‘Thanks, Angie,’ is all he says sincerely, the green eyes focused right on me in that v. intense way he has. ‘You’re keeping me sane in all this. I just want you to know that.’

‘Ring me,’ I tell him, ‘anytime at all in the night if she turns up.’

‘You know I will.’

Am too exhausted to say what I really think.

But what happens if and when she doesn’t?

Chapter Four

27 December, 8.20 a.m.

I’m in a deep, dead, exhausted sleep when I’m woken by the phone, beside me, ringing. And in a nanosecond, I go from early-morning grogginess to wide awake and on high alert.

Please be Simon with news … Please can the pathetic, frail little hope he was clinging to – that Kitty would just stroll through the front door during the wee small hours – have actually, miraculously come to pass …

It’s not Simon, but the next best thing! My buddy Jeff, ringing me back to say he got all my hysterical voice messages yesterday and of course now v. anxious to find out what in hell is going on with Kitty. What’s the story? Has she turned up? Quickly, I fill him in and bring him up to speed.

‘OK then,’ he says in his decisive, man-of-action way. ‘Just tell me how I can help and I’ll be there.’

Jeff’s amazing. Jeff’s a true pal. This is exactly what’s needed right now. Fresh blood. Reinforcements.

8.25 a.m.

Call Simon. The phone’s picked up after approximately half a ring, if even that.

‘Hello?’ he answers.

Shit. I just know by the overly hopeful note in his voice he was praying this might be Kitty. But Simon’s always the perfect gentleman and at least has the good grace not to sound a bit deflated, when it turns out it’s only me. My heart goes out to the guy. Am actually afraid at one point he sounds dangerously close to tears.

Please, for the love of God, don’t cry, I find myself silently praying. Don’t think I could handle it if I had to be strong one in all this, while Simon fell apart. Thank Christ he doesn’t, but the underlying tremble in his voice is nearly worse.

He says he and Kitty were meant to be leaving for their big skiing hollier in just under three hours’ time. His Xmas gift to her. He tells me that just a few short days ago, before the whole world somehow fell apart, he thought he’d be arm in arm with her right at this very moment, skipping through Duty Free with bottle of champagne tucked under his oxter and with nothing but a fab, romantic week in Austria arsing around the slopes to look forward to. Says never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d spend this morning ringing up a gangload of total strangers, in the slim hope someone, somewhere might have had even a fleeting conversation with her on that final shift and that maybe, maybe they might be able to shed a bit of light on this.

It’s a flair of mine to say the wrong thing at times like this, and true to form, Angie strikes again.

‘Simon … this is just a thought,’ I say tentatively, ‘but I don’t suppose there’s any point in turning up at the airport, just in case?’ Then in a classic Freudian slip, I manage to mumble out the single most annoying comment, the same one I was gritting my teeth down the phone over, every time I heard it yesterday.

‘I mean, you know what Kitty’s like,’ I blurt out, barely pausing to think. ‘So just say she did end up buried deep in some stranger’s house over Christmas, someone who we’ve not made contact with yet, then … well, maybe she’ll just turn up at Departures later on this morning, with a credit card in her back pocket and nothing else?’

I regret the words the very second they’re out of my mouth. Am a stupid, bloody, moronic, tactless idiot. I shouldn’t do this to the guy, when he’s going through so much! It’s downright cruel. False hope can be a v., v. dangerous thing.

Still, though. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be unprecedented carry-on for our Kitty. Can’t help thinking back to that one particular, now-famous occasion—

But Simon interrupts my train of thought, sighing exhaustedly.

‘You know, I’d sort of been hoping for that too,’ he says. ‘In fact, I was thinking almost exactly along the same lines as you. But at about four o’clock this morning, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and started rummaging through her desk, in case there was some clue there as to what’s going on. An address of where she might be staying, a phone number, a name, maybe. Something we’ve overlooked that just might explain all this.’

‘And?’

‘Well, put it this way: she’s most definitely not going to casually turn up at the airport this morning and that’s for certain.’

‘You’re absolutely sure?’

Not meaning to contradict him so baldly, but she actually has done it before. With me, as it happened. Years ago. I thought she’d stood me up for a last-minute trip to London, and next thing she bounded into airport, no bags, no luggage, nothing, and full of the most outlandish story involving a hit-and-run driver, a sick cocker spaniel with a mashed front paw, a wailing child and a last-minute dash to the nearest vets. One of those completely mental, nutty excuses, so utterly off-the-wall that you just knew it could only be the truth. Vintage Kitty, in other words.

‘Yeah, I’m pretty certain,’ Simon is saying, ‘because when I was rummaging through her desk at stupid o’clock this morning, I came across a couple of things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a list of restaurants in the resort that we were meant to go to. A German phrase book I’d bought her for the trip, as a joke. And right beside all of that, I found her passport.’

9.25 a.m.

Jeff picks me up and v. kindly says he’ll drive me to Kitty’s house, then help to give Simon and me a dig-out for the rest of the entire day. Says he’ll do whatever he can to help, bless him. Claims he’s prepared do anything to find our gal, even if it’s only running around distributing milky mugs of sugary tea, patting shoulders and saying, ‘There, there, dear,’ at regular intervals. A true friend, in other words.

Anyway, he collects me in his little runaround Skoda, typical Jeff, dressed like he’s on his way to a gym. Bit too tight Lycra gym leggings with trainers and a v. clingy sweatshirt, with suspicious overtones of a recent spray tan, just a shade too mahogany for it to be natural. In December. When it’s freezing.

To his great annoyance, Jeff’s often mistaken for gay, reinforced by the fact he works as a freelance make-up artist, hence the addiction to spray tans. But he’s not; he’s straight as they come and actively seeking a GF. And he really is a total sweetheart, inordinately generous, the kind of bloke who’d gladly do anything for you. If he was in a movie, he’d most likely be cast as the reliable-best-buddy-of-leading-man. You know, the sort of roles Paul Rudd makes a v. healthy living out of. Such a lovely guy, Kitty often says, that it’s almost a racing certainty he’ll ultimately end up with a complete bitch. Always the way; the sweeter and more genuine they are, the more horrendous the girlfriend. Sad fact.

‘I just can’t believe Kitty would pull a disappearing trick like this!’ he tells me after a quick peck on the cheek, as I clamber into the car beside him. ‘It just doesn’t seem possible, not even for her!’

I nod mutely back at him in agreement.

‘So that’s not only Christmas that she’s missed,’ he goes on, ‘on top of your birthday, but now the chance to head off on a holiday with Simon, too? Jeez … Dunno about you, honey, but I’m now working on the definite possibility that something serious must have happened to her on her way home from work. I’m thinking … maybe some axe-wielding psycho now has her locked up in a cellar somewhere in the bowels of the South Circular Road?’

He has the tact to shut up instantly when he catches me doing an involuntary shudder and offers me a bottle of ayurvedic water. (Still water, by the way. Jeff’s theory is that carbonated bubbles are an indirect cause of male cellulite. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy dearly, but he can be tiny bit image-conscious like that.)

‘Congratulations,’ I tell him, gratefully snapping open water bottle and taking a big slug. ‘You’ve now arrived at stage one. Disbelief combined with a willing acceptance that whatever happened to her must be gruesome beyond belief. I’d a full day of that yesterday, thanks very much, while you were hauling your skinny arse up the side of a mountain.’

‘So, dare I ask what stage you’re now at, hon?’

‘Since early this morning? I’m officially at stage two.’

‘Which is?’

‘Bizarrely, it’s ridiculous belief that everything’s going to be OK, in the face of almost overwhelming odds. Which is why I’m about to suggest you and I take a quick detour on the way to Kitty’s.’

10.01 a.m.

Vincent’s Hospital, the biggest one over my end of town. Jeff pulls into the car park and we stomp our way through the icy grounds towards the A&E department.

‘Simon thinks this is a total waste of time,’ I explain briskly on the way, ‘but I’m saying, let’s just rule out all possibilities, that’s all.’

‘Quite right.’ Jeff pats my arm a bit patronisingly, like I’m some hysterical old dear who needs agreeing with at all times, else she’s likely to get a fit of the vapours. Truth is, though, I’m not particularly bothered whether Jeff understands or not. Just need to be doing something. Need to keep being proactive.

Keep telling myself over and over again: if it was the other way round, Kitty would probably have SWAT teams out patrolling the streets, searching for me by now.

10.17 a.m.

A&E unit is v. quiet. Miracle. Was half expecting it to be like a field hospital at the Battle of the Somme given that it’s the Christmas holidays. Head to the main desk and speak to a v. helpful receptionist. A lovely young one who must be able to sense waves of urgency practically pinging off the pair of us, as she goes out of her way to be helpful.

‘We’re looking for a patient who may possibly have been admitted early on the morning of Christmas Eve, thirty-one years old, five feet ten … em … really skinny … Oh yeah, hazel eyes and waist-length long, black, curly hair. Name of Kitty Hope. Might they have anyone who even comes close to fitting that description?’ is our not v. well-thought-out opener.

But no joy. Receptionist is nothing if not persevering, though, and as soon as she’s checked on her system that no one of that name’s been admitted, she then volunteers to ask around for us, just in case. Even disappears off into the A&E to double check; really goes the extra mile for us. Then comes back through double doors where we’re sitting tensely on plastic seats in the waiting area and shakes her head sadly at us.

She doesn’t even need to open her mouth. The look on her disappointed face tells us all we need to know.

10.32 a.m.

Back in the car when Simon calls wondering where I am. Sounding agitated and panicky. V. worrying. And now I’m starting to feel a bit shitty about leaving poor guy alone this morning, to deal with all this by himself. Just doesn’t sit right with me, somehow.

Suddenly I’m concerned that he and I seem to have switched personalities: whereas he was the pillar of confidence and strength yesterday and I was the screw-up, today we’re in near-perfect role reversal. He seems to be falling apart, so it’s up to me to be Miss Bossypants Assertiveness. I tell him that we’re on our way back, then saintly Jeff v. kindly offers to drop me off at Kitty’s and continue doing the trawl of hospitals on his own.

I thank him warmly. So fab to be able to delegate. Then I’ve a brainwave. I suggest to Jeff that we should start rooting out photos of Kitty from her house, so we have something to show to the world, and in particular, to the hospitals. Not to mention the coppers, who are bound to want decent headshots of her later on, if it comes to that. I’m now working along the lines that Kitty could be lying in a ward somewhere, suffering from deep concussion and not knowing who she is or how she got there.

Then, of course, my imagination totally runs away with me and I get an immediate vision of her bandaged from head to foot with just tiny slit holes for her eyes, so no one can even see who she is, never mind what she looks like. Bit far-fetched, maybe, but as I said to Jeff, quoting Basil Rathbone in the old Sherlock Holmes movies, once you’ve eliminated the impossible, then whatever you’re left with, however improbable, must be the truth.

Makes sense. Doesn’t it?

When the pair of us arrive at Kitty’s, Simon answers the door. Soon as I catch the state he’s in, the sudden urge I get to cradle him tight and tell him everything will be OK, even though it clearly isn’t, is almost overpowering. He actually looks like a lost little boy. The dark circles under his eyes have now gone even darker; poor guy looks like he never even got to bed last night, never mind slept and, unusually for him, he’s still streeling around in yesterday’s clothes. He gives me a hug and I instantly feel the roughness of his face against mine. Unheard of for a man like this, I think distractedly. Simon’s normally all smooth and lotion-y with a lovely, lemony smell of expensive aftershave off him. Well turned out, as Mother Blennerhasset would be wont to remark. Heartbreaking to see.

Even Jeff gets bit of a shock at just how badly Simon’s taking it.

Soon as we head inside, Jeff skites off to Kitty’s study to whip a few decent photos off the wall and Simon automatically goes to stick on the kettle, offering us both coffee.

‘I feel daft even asking you this,’ I say gently to him, ‘but how are you feeling right now?’

He gives a weak, watery smile back at me. ‘You know what I’ve spent the last hour doing?’ he says hoarsely. ‘I’ve been on the phone to the hotel in Austria where Kitty and I were due to be checking in around now.’

‘Cancelling the booking?’

‘Cancelling everything. The reservation, the candlelit dinner for two I’d booked for tonight, the …’ He breaks off here a bit. ‘Well … let’s just say, I had a surprise arranged for her, a very special surprise, but now I guess that’s all gone by the wayside too.’

‘Oh, Simon, I don’t know what to say,’ I tell him gently. ‘I hope at least that the hotel were OK about it?’

‘Oh, yeah, very sympathetic. The reservations manager spoke fluent English and she was incredibly understanding. She wanted to know …’ but he trails off again, like the end of that sentence is too painful to even articulate. I instinctively move a step closer to him, but he focuses on putting Nescafé into mugs and composes himself in time.

‘She said she was sorry if my girlfriend and I had broken up. And I just couldn’t find it in me to get the right words out, so instead I hung up the phone.’