Blackbird. N.D. Gomes

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      ‘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. СКАЧАТЬ