Blackbird

He frowns, tiny lines forming across his forehead.

I can’t imagine them not together. They’re all I remember. The two of them and Emily have been friends for so much of her – and my – life. Was this because of London? Had they argued about her moving there? Had he refused to go, or asked her to stay?

‘You’ll have to ask her. I would like to know myself.’

He looks uncomfortable, his fingers fidgeting in his pockets. I don’t know what else to say to him. I came here looking for Olivia, but all I’ve done is remind him of a time he seems to want to forget.

‘Um, well if you do know where she is, please get this message to her. She needs to come home. I doubt she’ll be in much trouble now. If she waits too long, she might be.’

‘Like I said, I don’t know where she is.’ He steps back and slowly closes the front door, leaving me all alone on the step.

I turn around and walk down the driveway, glancing back at the house to see if there is any movement behind the curtains. She would have come out if she was there and heard my voice. She’d know everyone was worried about her.

I don’t think she’s here.

I gaze down the street and wonder if she walked here recently. Why would they break up? And why would she not tell me about it? I’m her sister. We tell each other everything, or at least I thought we were supposed to.

Maybe she told her best friend instead. I need to talk to Emily. She’d know where Olivia was. She has to; someone has to.

I lightly jog down to the bus stop at the bottom of the road, and check the timetable. My dad’s face enters my mind and I can’t stop thinking about the look on it when he told me we’d find Olivia soon. He looked like he didn’t believe his own words.

The ache comes back, it’s dull at first then starts getting stronger. My hand grips the metal edge of the bus shelter as I try to steady myself.

We’ll find her.

We’ll find her.

The bus pulls up loudly behind me and screeches to a halt. I close my eyes tight, and take a slow deep breath.

One foot at a time. That’s all I have to focus on.

The doors swing open. ‘Oi, are you getting on or what? I don’t have all day.’

My fingers loosen their grip on the shelter side and I push off slightly to turn around. ‘Yeah, sorry.’

Fumbling around for change in my coat pocket, I briefly glance up to meet the driver’s eyes. He startles for a moment then straightens up his back slightly. ‘So sorry, I . . . I didn’t see who you were. I’m really sorry for your family’s loss.’

‘My sister’s not dead,’ I say, my tone sharper than I’d intended. But she’s not dead. She’s missing, so please don’t call it a loss. We haven’t lost her. We just can’t find her right now.

‘Right, sorry. Where are you off to?’

‘I need to get to Kirbister Road.’

‘I actually don’t stop there, this is a number eight. I only go to Guardhouse Park . . . but I’m almost at the end of my shift, and the bus is empty. I’ll take you.’

‘Thank you,’ I say quietly, pulling out silver fifty-pence pieces from my pocket.

‘Don’t worry about the fare this time.’

I shuffle to the middle of the bus, and collapse down into a navy cushioned seat. My fingers grip the yellow standing bar, again to steady myself.

The loch is on my right, as we head north up the A965. When I look up front, I see the driver’s eyes in the rear mirror. But he’s not looking at the cars behind us, because there aren’t any. He’s looking at me. He must recognize me from the local newspapers. We’re all in there, the whole family. Our faces and names splashed all over the front, for the whole world to speculate. How did they act so fast? What do they want from us?

Shivering, I turn my body a little towards the window and gaze out. If she’s not at Emily’s, I don’t know where to go after that, what to do. We’re in the newspapers, we’re on the news – if she’s out there, she would see how this is getting out of hand.

Olivia, where are you?

Please come home.

What if she can’t come home? What if she’s trapped? Is she being held against her will? Do we know the person who has my sister? Were they in their house right now, watching TV or taking a walk on the beach with their dog? Who is the monster? Whoever it is took my sister from me. Took her from the world, when she had so much to give back.

No, no. She’s out there. I know she is, I feel it. Or do I?

The bus jolts and I know we’re here. The side door pops open, and I’m relieved because I don’t have to talk to the driver again, and face his sympathies, his pity.

‘Thank you,’ I call back as I step off and my feet land on the icy road beneath. I start pounding the pavement up the street and slow down. That’s my dad’s car. It’s parked in Emily’s driveway. He’s here too.

When I pull in closer, I see Emily at the front door talking to him. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but she looks a little scared, or maybe nervous.

‘Dad!’

He turns around, but doesn’t look surprised. ‘I told you to stay in the house.’

‘You didn’t tell me you were coming here.’

‘You didn’t either.’

‘I stopped by James’s too.’

‘James?’ asks Emily.

‘Yeah, me too,’ my dad mumbles.

I look at Emily, desperate. ‘Well, is she here?’

My dad shakes his head.

‘I was telling your dad, I haven’t seen Olivia since the party on New Year’s Eve. Sorry. I would tell you if she was here. It’s all over the newspapers, I wouldn’t lie about that.’

‘Did you know she was going to a party on Hogmanay?’ my dad asks me.

I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want him to think Olivia lied to him either. So I ignore his question and turn back to Emily. ‘But surely you must know where she could be if she’s not with you?’ I ask, taking another step towards her.

‘Honestly, lately I never know where she is. We haven’t been hanging out as much as we used to. So you’re asking the wrong person.’

‘Who should we be asking?’ my father says, his jaw tensing slightly.

‘Not me.’ She starts to close the door on us, but then stops. ‘Sorry, I wish I knew more, but I just don’t.’

When the door clicks shut, I turn to my dad. His chin is down at his chest. I know how he feels. Another dead end.

‘Dad, we’ll find her. She’ll come home.’

He nods his head gently, then walks back to his car. I slide in the passenger side and hear a crumpling beneath me. I’m sitting on papers. When I pull them out from underneath I’m faced with Olivia again. It’s a photo of her from her birthday dinner in Aberdeen two years ago. We had gone there for the weekend, stayed on Union Street. During the daytime, we shopped, walked along the River Don to watch the occasional salmon spring to the surface, and even visited Dunnottar Castle. It was mesmerizing. The long winding path down to the castle, the cliff drops on all sides.

In the evening, we had eaten early because Dad likes his meals around half four or five, and walked around the city which really seemed to come to life at night. It was too much for me. Too many bright lights, too many big buildings, too many sounds. But Olivia loved it. I thought it too loud, but for her it wasn’t loud enough. That’s when she decided she wanted to move to London.

Sometimes we could be so different.

‘Alex?’

‘Sorry, Dad. I was a million miles away. Did you say something?’

‘I want to get the flyers up before it gets dark. Will you help me?’

‘Of course.’

We start at the academy, taping posters around the entrance beneath the sky-blue sign, under the letters of STROMNESS ACADEMY, on classroom windows, on lampposts on the streets that spill out. Then we drive to the beach, and attach posters to the sides of bins, on car windscreens. We get to the golf club, the tourist office for the Ring of Brodgar and Skara Brae, bus shelters, the ferry docks, and even a couple of hotels. But when we drive to Kirkwall, we have to split up to cover more ground.

My dad takes his time in the pubs, asking revellers if they’ve seen anyone that looks like Olivia; while I stop by the cafés, The Shore Hotel, Helgis’, the iCentre, St Ola Community Centre, even the library. We meet back at the ferry docks, a small stack of flyers still gripped tight in our hands.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough.

By this time, the sun has almost set. Some lingering strips of amber and blush hover on the surface of the water.

We leave the remaining flyers on a bench outside Julia’s Café where Olivia and I got hot chocolate and watched the tourists march down off the boats and head straight for the warmth of Stromness Inn. It’s always colder here than people imagine. The climate isn’t for everyone. But for those who manage, it’s home.

My hands are red raw from the cold. I eventually had to take my gloves off because the tape kept sticking to the fluff, and I was afraid that the flyers wouldn’t stick right and fall off.

My dad has several small scratches on his hands which look like paper cuts.

We’ve been at this for hours now. But why do we feel like we’ve not accomplished anything at all?

We get home to find the house in darkness and my mum sleeping on the sofa with the phone cradled in her arms. She doesn’t look like she’s moved much since I left her.

Why is this happening to us?

She stirs and slowly opens her eyes. They’re brown and shaped like almonds, like Olivia’s. Like mine.

‘You’re back. Did you put the posters up?’

‘Yeah, we did.’

‘Did anyone call?’ asks my dad, removing the phone from her grasp. He collapses into his armchair and lays the phone down in his lap, gently securing it with his fingers, as if it might fall and break.

‘Journalists,’ she mutters.

‘How did they bloody get our number?’ snaps my dad.

‘It’s a small island, Peter,’ she says.

Mum even sounds like Olivia. I think that’s where she got her sense of adventure from. They’d gawk at photos in travel magazines together, and linger on Thomson Holidays adverts. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mum encouraged Olivia to move to London mainly so she’d have the chance to visit her there. But for my dad, the weekend in Aberdeen was enough. He got his taste of adventure and culture, and he wanted back on the island as soon as possible.

We couldn’t afford to fly, so we’d gone on the NorthLink ferry from Kirkwall. It had taken several hours, which was torture for my dad. I remember standing outside, letting the wind battle my hair wildly, and lift the fabric of my shirt. For me, I’d never felt more free in my life. To be surrounded by water on all sides, the sheer magnitude of it, the infiniteness. But for Olivia, it felt like a prison. She always felt trapped by the water because for her, she was stuck on an island.

The phone rings and we all jump, each of us lost in our own memories of Olivia. My dad grabs the phone and roughly pushes it to his ear, ‘Hello? Hello? Olivia?’

His face drops and he slowly hands the phone to me. ‘It’s Siobhan. Again.’

‘Tell her I’m not –’

‘Just talk to her, love,’ says my mum, taking the phone from my dad and placing it in my hand.

I get up and walk to my bedroom, feeling the carpet soft under my feet. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey, it’s me. Any news?’

‘No, it’s still the same. No word from her.’

There’s a cold silence between us, and I wonder whether she’s still there.

I don’t know why, but I haven’t wanted to talk to her since Olivia went missing. Our conversations, our general interactions just seem so trivial now compared to what me and my family are going through.

Siobhan and I hang out, we talk about boys, we listen to music, we watch her brother’s scary zombie films. Sometimes we pick up the other phone in her house and listen to his conversations with his girlfriend.

We don’t do this.

‘Do you feel like coming over tonight? I can invite Andy if you want, that’ll cheer you up –’

‘I can’t tonight. We have a lot going on here. We’re waiting by the phone. We’re back out tomorrow, early. We’re going to go with the police on their search party.’

‘Oh . . . do you want me to come?’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll speak to you later.’ I hang up before she responds.

Is this what happened to Olivia and Emily? Are Siobhan and I growing up, and growing apart?

Am I losing someone else in my life?

Or am I pushing her away?

Chapter Three: 03.01.2016

I wake at quarter past four in the morning. The darkness in my room is cold, and covers me like a thick and heavy blanket, suffocating me. I can’t breathe.

Olivia.

I push the covers off, the cool air stretching across my body, but I still feel hot. My feet touch the carpeted floor beneath my bed and I stagger to the window by my dresser. Unlocking the latch, I heave it up above my head. Ice cold air hits my face and I open my mouth gasping for more. Panting, I lean against the window frame and rub the sleep out of my eyes.

Stars still shine bright in the sky above me, and a blinking light slowly moves across the dark canvas. A helicopter probably. Helicopters are common here, bringing oil-rig workers to and from the mainland. My dad works as an aviation engineer for Novotel Helicopters and knew the route well. He’ll be gone for weeks, working offshore, then back as if he’ll never left. His shifts are long, but he’ll always try to be there for birthdays, Christmases, even Parents’ Evenings.

He’ll be home this week though. He won’t go in. He’ll want to be here when Olivia comes home. She is coming home.

Suddenly I’m freezing. The cold air becomes too icy, too dark, too suffocating. I grab the edge of the window and pull down, but it sticks. I squeeze tight with my fingers and pull harder. My fingers slip and I wince as I feel my thumbnail bend back. I start clawing at the window, screaming, warm tears stabbing my eyes. It won’t close. Why am I crying?

I can’t breathe.

Olivia.

Where are you?

My door bursts open and my dad is standing in the doorway. The hallway light shines from behind him, and it hurts my eyes. I shield them with my hand.

I feel his hands around my bare shoulders. ‘Alex, are you OK? What’s going on?’

I’m still crying.

‘I don’t know . . . I can’t . . . I can’t close my window. I’m so cold!’

He reaches up and easily slides it down to meet the ledge. Suddenly it’s so quiet. I feel stupid.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, and blink them open. I’ve already adjusted to the light. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I over-reacted.’

He kneels down and sits beside me, both of our backs against the window ledge. I put my hands in my lap and interweave my fingers. I’m wearing blue pyjama bottoms with white polka dots, and a pale pink vest.

We sit for a while in silence, neither of us saying a word. Finally, I look up to meet his eyes. He’s staring straight ahead at the wall beside my bed. ‘Has she called?’ I ask him quietly, afraid of his answer.

He shakes his head.

‘Dad?’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘Dad?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I want to go looking for her today. I want to join the search team.’ I wait for him to say no, to tell me I’m too young, too inexperienced for this kind of situation. If this is what it is. But he doesn’t.

‘OK.’

He gets up and walks out of my room, closing the door halfway behind him. Darkness seeps in again, but I don’t care. I don’t mind the darkness now. Because I know in only a few hours it will be gone, stamped out by the first rays of sunrise.

We’ll find her today.

We need to.

By the time I’ve showered and changed, it’s almost six. I hurry down the stairs and find my dad dressed with his shoes on already. His thick winter coat sits on the kitchen counter next to mine.

‘Do you want breakfast before we go?’

I shake my head. He doesn’t argue. He hands me my coat and slides into his. We walk past the stairs and he glances up.

‘Is Mum coming?’

‘No, she’s going to wait here in case . . . she calls.’ He doesn’t sound convinced that she will.

‘She will call, right?’ I ask.

He doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘Yes. She’ll call.’

I almost ask him to promise, but I don’t.

We lock the house, leaving a spare key under the fake pot plant where Olivia knows to look, in case she’s lost her key, and get into the car.

There are no other cars on the road. No headlights, no more blinking lights in the sky either. No one else is outside except us.

‘Did you sleep at all?’ my dad asks.

‘A little. You?’

‘Yeah, a little.’

I know he’s lying.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The police are searching the woods out by the Binscarth Farm. It’s about a mile from the house where the Hogmanay party was. They said we could join them.’

I shiver, feeling the cold draught in from outside. I turn the heat on and open the vent beside me. Lukewarm air flows out and chills me more.

‘Will you be warm enough? We’ll be outside for a while.’

I tighten the scarf around my neck and tuck my chin down to feel the warm material on my face. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine.’

‘We can go back if you want? Maybe you can join later in the morning or –’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’

I feel guilty. I shouldn’t feel cold. I shouldn’t want to go back to my warm bed. My sister is out there somewhere, probably freezing and all alone, maybe even injured. I pinch my hand, pressing down hard until I feel a little pain. That’s what I deserve.

We take a right onto a dirt road and feel the tyres struggle on the icy stones. My dad shifts into a low gear and eventually we reach the top. Bright lights and crowds of people fill our windscreen. Hats, scarves, gloves, walking boots, torches, walking sticks. Everybody came out today, all in search of my sister.

‘Wow,’ mutters my dad as he edges through the crowd to find a parking spot.

‘Right there,’ I say, pointing to a clearing under the trees.

We swing in and quickly shut off the engine. Warm air stops blowing and the cold immediately closes in again.

Opening the door, people start coming towards us. They must have recognized our car because they’re all standing around us, telling us they’re sorry.

Sorry for what?

Sorry for our loss? Have we lost Olivia? We’re all here to find her, so why are people sorry? Perhaps they know deep down inside that what we find may not be what we’re ready for.

I wait for my dad to say something, but when I look over I see his lips trembling. He opens his mouth, looking like he might finally speak, but then he closes it again and just nods.

I walk over to him and take his arm. Together we walk through, the crowd parting as we pass. Hands touch my shoulder, squeeze my arm, words of sympathy fill the air around me like the cold chill pressing in.

‘Thank you for coming,’ I say quietly, occasionally exchanging eye contact with people.

I recognize them all. My headmistress, the old man with the dog who owns the newspaper shop on Main Street, the attractive blonde woman from the tourist office, my dad’s work colleagues, my mum’s friends and their husbands, Mr Sheffield my sister’s music teacher, the redhead who owns the dance studio where my sister used to go. They’re all here. They’re here with us, for us.

Siobhan is in the back, waving at me. She wants me to stand with her. But I don’t move. I’m not here to be social. I’m here for one purpose only – to find my sister. Siobhan is still waving, so I turn and walk away.

We see DI Birkens and his partner, a younger officer.

‘You didn’t have to come out today, Mr McCarthey. We would have kept you updated,’ says Birkens.

‘She’s my daughter’ is all my dad says in response.

Birkens nods in agreement and starts walking back towards his car. His partner follows us. He reaches out his hand to shake my dad’s. ‘We met before, but you might not remember me. I’m Dave Allans. I’m assigned to this case too. Don’t worry, we’re going to do everything we can to find your daughter alive –’

‘Alive?’ I repeat. Was that even a question? She has to be found alive.

‘Well, after forty-eight hours, the chances are significantly –’

Birkens coughs loudly, then looks at Allans who stuffs his hands in his coat pockets and looks down at the ground. As we walk over to the bonnet of the car, Allans gently touches my shoulder. ‘It’ll all be OK.’

Birkens pulls out a faded map and rests it against the bonnet, pointing to a large dotted area on the map. ‘Here is Stan McGregor’s farm and here’s Binscarth Farm, combined they stretch out four hundred acres, towards The Ring. If she left the Hogmanay party and headed west then she would have had to pass through here. I say we split up into groups and search everywhere. If she’s here in this area, we will find her.’

We listen to Birkens as he instructs us to divide into groups of eight to ten and search row by row, in line. I stand next to my dad, his two friends, Mr Sheffield, the postman and his son Jack, and Officer Allans. I hear a whistle blow and then we start moving, as eight at first, fumbling through the woods always a step in front or behind, then finally as one. We hold our torches low to the ground and skim the light over the ground as we walk. Back and forth, back and forth. Our light touches everything, and nothing.

We call my sister’s name, round trees and duck under bridges with enthusiasm, but we find nothing. Soon the sun rises, the red glow spreading through the grass and trees like a blazing fire. We turn off our torches and pull the hoods and hats back away from our eyes. The air is cold, but the sun soon burns bright.

I feel the chilled blades of grass break under my boots and hear the crunch. The breeze pinches my cheeks and flows through my hair. I can hear birds in the distance to my left and when I turn to hear the sweet music, I see a tall birch tree. Then I realize I’m a step or two behind everyone else but I don’t hurry to catch up. Instead I stop and stand for a while in front of the big birch.

It’s only for a moment at first, but then it becomes clear – the long dark hair, long lean limbs, her graceful gait that reveals her love of dance. She’s walking away from me, her hair swaying in the breeze against her back. But then she turns to look at me. The greenish-brown eyes with the amber fleck and the birthmark on her left pupil, the familiar nose that I see in the mirror every day, the pale olive skin and flushed cheeks. She’s wearing fitted dark distressed jeans, dark green wellies, and a slightly oversized khaki coat. A navy and cream scarf drapes around her long elegant neck and hangs loosely around her shoulders. She’s beautiful.

While her hair curled naturally and subtly around the ends, mine hung straight like a pencil; while her face was a creamy mix of olive hues and rose, mine was pale, freckled and bothered by the odd teen breakout. She was effortless in her style, whereas I studied her magazines and borrowed her clothes. I always felt inadequate next to her, always a step behind like I am today.

Anyone who knew her, or even saw her, would know that she wasn’t meant for a place like this. She was meant for something bigger, like Edinburgh or London. We were just lucky to have her for as long as we could.

Me, on the other hand, I would stay here. I would finish school, get an administration job in the local property agency or tourist office, or work down at the harbour, greeting tourists off the Kirkwall ferries. I was meant for this place. But not Olivia. She was different. She was special. I was ordinary.

I look up and see her again by the tree. She’s facing me now and is smiling at me, gesturing with her hand for me to follow her.

She wasn’t wearing that outfit on Hogmanay yet I recognize it. I remember a chilly but sunny afternoon we went walking down by the loch. We talked for two hours, our arms locked, as we always did.