The Secrets of Sunshine

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.’

7

Message

Mitchell was usually like a coiled spring, ready to take up his bolt cutters and get to work. However, today his movements were slower because of his sore back and aching limbs. He felt glum rather than determined when he saw all the locks stretching out in front of him. When he trudged over to Redford, he found Barry working there.

Barry cut through a shackle and kicked the lock across the pavement. He rubbed his neck and stared at his mobile phone before he noticed Mitchell. ‘I can’t work in this heat,’ he groaned. ‘Just look at the amount of locks now. We need a drastic solution here.’

Mitchell surveyed the railings and for the first time ever, the size of the task removing the locks felt overwhelming. ‘A stick of dynamite might be the only option,’ he said.

‘It’s all down to you and me, mate. Russ isn’t going to help us.’

The word impossible appeared in Mitchell’s head and he ordered it to go away. All he could do was set to work and keep going. ‘Do you have any spare bolt cutters I can use?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, but they’re a bit rusty. I’ve asked around about your missing toolbox, too, but no luck. We could stick a note to the railing and see if anyone replies. I’ve got paper, a pen and sticky tape.’

‘That’s very organized, for you.’

Barry shrugged self-consciously. ‘Tina the artist said I should try out some landscape drawing, but that’s not going to happen.’

As the two men walked along Redford, Mitchell glanced at the river, and a shiver ran down his spine. The water wasn’t gushing as quickly today, but it looked cold and gun-metal grey. He thought of Yvette Bradfield’s smile and the gold heart-shaped padlock glinting in her hands.

We did share a connection, didn’t we? How does she know me?

‘I found out the woman I helped is Liza Bradfield’s sister Yvette,’ he told Barry. ‘But she’s been missing for almost a year, and the family have no idea where she is.’

Barry blew from the corner of his mouth. ‘Wow. Mind blown.’

‘I know. And now Liza wants me to find Yvette’s lock. She hopes it might provide a clue to her sister’s whereabouts.’

‘Can’t they put something on Facebook?’

‘I think they want to keep things in the family.’

Barry stared at the thousands of locks on the railings. ‘Hmph, you’ve got no chance.’ He picked up a thick black pen and wrote on a piece of paper ‘Lost toolbox (shiny metal). Award for safe return.’ ‘We should add your phone number to this,’ he said.

‘My mobile’s not working, and I don’t want to put my home number.’

Barry rooted around in his toolbox and handed a gnarled plastic mobile to Mitchell. ‘It’s a spare one, a bit bashed, but it works okay. You may get calls from random women looking for dates. Not that it’s a bad thing.’

‘Yes, it is. And I’m still going to look for Yvette’s lock.’

Barry put his hand on his hip and looked around. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It’s easier than cutting them off, and I’ll tell you about Enid.’

‘Another lucky woman?’

Barry nodded proudly. ‘A dog stylist.’

‘I thought you didn’t like dogs.’

‘I like cats better, but she looks great in her photo.’

Mitchell moved the conversation on by describing Yvette’s lock to Barry. He tried to remember roughly where she’d fastened it.

‘At least it’s a different shape to the norm,’ Barry said as the two men crouched down on the pavement. They worked methodically, examining locks on a stretch of railing, one by one.

‘Are you sure we’ve got the right place?’ he asked after a while when they failed to find it.

Mitchell was beginning to doubt himself, too. ‘Let’s try further along.’

As he picked up another padlock, he became aware of someone standing behind him.

‘Are you him?’ a voice said. ‘The Hero on the Bridge? You look like him.’

Mitchell and Barry looked up to see a young woman clutching a fake Mulberry mustard-coloured satchel. She had an ice-blonde straight bob and wore a white blouse with a large bow at the neck. Plasters were stuck to the back of her heels, where her half-size-too-small designer court shoes had chafed.

Barry stood up and smoothed his hair. ‘Barry Waters,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘I meant him.’ She held her hand out towards Mitchell. ‘I’m Susan Smythe.’

Mitchell recognized her name from the online article. He straightened himself up and tentatively returned her handshake.

‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘Well, in training.’

He retracted his hand. ‘We don’t know anything about Word Up,’ he said dismissively. ‘We get asked about them all the time.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’ Susan’s eyes glistened as she took a tissue out of her satchel, giving her nose a blow.

‘Hay fever?’ Mitchell asked warily.

‘I’m gathering myself. I’m a bit, um… I’m rather upset.’

Barry took a step to the side. ‘Time for my break,’ he said and sidled away. ‘Catch you later.’

Mitchell waited for Susan’s sniffling to stop. She stuffed her tissue back into her satchel and moved the strap higher on her shoulder. ‘I wrote a piece about you for the Upchester News channel. Your name is Mitchell Fisher, right?’

He nodded reluctantly.

‘I recognized your, um…’ She eyed his face.

‘My courageous and dashing nature?’ he quoted from her article.

‘I was about to say your eyes. I came to give you something.’ She opened her satchel again and took out a batch of ten or so letters fastened together with a purple rubber band. ‘These. They arrived this morning. I, um…’ Her tissue reappeared, and she spoke to herself through clenched teeth. ‘All I want to do is come up with a great story, and I messed up. Again.’

Mitchell was surprised to feel a touch of paternal-like concern towards her. There was something about her determined demeanour that reminded him of Poppy. ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing of the sort.’

She gave him a self-depreciating smile. ‘My first week on the job, I spilled coffee on a politician. During the second week I got stuck in a traffic jam and missed an interview with Brad Beatty.’

‘Brad who?’

‘The lead singer of Word Up. For my triple whammy I wrote an article about you jumping from the bridge and didn’t include your name. I asked the general public to submit their stories and didn’t publish an email address. The news channel address was printed online, so people sent letters instead. And, here they are.’ She proffered them to him.

Mitchell thought of all the envelopes stuffed in his nightstand drawer and he raised a palm. ‘Thank you, but I have plenty of my own.’

Susan kept her hand outstretched. ‘My boss warned me not to mess up again. I thought you could help me out.’

‘Um, how?’

‘Perhaps by reading these letters and selecting a winner for the competition? They’re all addressed to you, anyway.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I want to move on from what happened.’

She gave a defeated sigh. ‘I suppose I’ll just throw them away, then. Or leave them on my boss’s desk, where he’ll use them as coasters. He’s more interested in the sport and crime stories.’

Mitchell glanced at the letters in her hand. He’d so enjoyed receiving the ones Anita sent him in the past. He wished he’d kept them to remind himself that she did love him, once. With some reluctance, he took the letters from Susan and hoped there weren’t any featuring red hearts among them.