Bluebells

1

‘I went over this on the phone.’

‘I just want to confirm the details.’

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Olive skin. Dark brown hair. She’s… I don’t know, average build, I suppose. Just over four foot tall. She’s tall for her age.’

‘What was she wearing the last time you saw her?’

‘She was in pyjamas. Shorts and a t-shirt. They were white and blue. They had this print on them. Some sort of animal. Rabbits, maybe. Or elephants.’

‘The more specific you can be, the better.’

‘I’m trying. They were new. Her mum had packed them. It was the same animal over and over, like a repeating print. From a distance they would just look like polka dots, anyway.’

The police officer’s pen scratches at her notebook. Mark pushes his knuckles against his lips and stares at the floor.

‘What about her feet? Slippers?’

‘Her red trainers are gone from the back door. She must be in them.’

‘Can you describe them?’

He shakes his head and shrugs. ‘They’re red trainers.’

‘The more details the better, Mr Taylor.’

‘I said I'm trying.’

2

It was the shrill, desperate shriek of a barn owl that pierced Emmy’s mind and pushed her from her sleep. Her eyelids flickered open and she saw the early sun sneak around the edge of her curtains and wash the room in a yellow haze.

A yawn came over her as she took in her surroundings. They weren’t wholly familiar to her yet, and her back was unaccustomed to the hard springs of the mattress. She stretched out her torso and lifted her arms up to the ceiling, reminding herself of the rustic wooden beams which had perplexed her when she first arrived. Her father had told her that they were designed to hold up the ceiling, which left her wondering if the ceiling of her own bedroom at home could be capable of falling on her at any moment.

She peeled the duvet off and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. As she placed a foot down on the floor the wooden boards creaked. She froze.

She peered at the clock on the wall; the hands told her it was just after six, which she’d come to learn was far too early for her father’s tastes. She thought about rolling back into bed, but the pressure in her bladder would never allow sleep to return. With breath held she stood up, winced at the groaning wood beneath her, and crept to her bedroom door.

3

‘Can you confirm when you last saw Emmy?’

‘Last night. It was about half eleven, quarter to twelve, maybe. I checked on her before I went to bed.’

‘And she was sleeping?’

‘Yeah. I got up again a few hours later but didn’t check on her then.’

‘What time was that?’

‘3-ish, I think.’

‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual at that time?’

‘No. Assumed she was sleeping.’ He thinks on it for a while, picturing his daughter’s dozing face and unruly hair splayed out across the pillow. ‘I should’ve checked on her. I do sometimes if I get up in the night. Only nipped to the loo. Too much beer.’

The police officer looks up from her notebook. ‘How much did you have to drink, Mr. Taylor?’

‘Not much. Couple of bottles.’ He sighs. ‘Four bottles. Over a few hours, mind.’

4

Emmy didn’t bother to flush the toilet, having noted the loud, gurgling water pipes that had woken her the previous night. She simply closed the lid and crept out of the bathroom, noting her growling stomach along the way.

She headed into the kitchen in search of food, but there was nothing on the countertop within her reach other than the fruit bowl. She sneered at it and turned to the fridge instead. She found beer, cans of pop, a block of cheese, butter, and a few salad vegetables which caused her to wrinkle her nose. She swung the door shut with a sigh and cringed as the beer bottles rattled on their shelf.

Resigning herself to an empty belly, Emmy approached the kitchen window and stood on her tiptoes to peer outside. The garden was illuminated by the early sun. She itched to breathe the fresh, morning air and tiptoe around the garden to see what it had to offer in the day’s quietest hours.

She headed for the back door and there slipped her trainers onto bare feet, disregarding her mother’s rule of always wearing socks with closed shoes. She knew she wouldn’t be out long; a quick run around on the lawn and then straight back inside to watch the morning’s cartoons and wait for Daddy to wake up.

A tug on the handle proved it to be locked, but as luck would have it, the key had been left in the door. She tried to turn it, but the lock was stiff and unwilling beneath her stubby fingers.

Emmy wasn’t one to let an adventure be quelled at the first hurdle. She grasped the key with both hands, put all her strength into her fingers and wrists, and turned. The lock gave a dull click and with a proud smile Emmy let herself out into the morning.

5

‘Have you noticed any signs of forced entry?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘The back door was unlocked when I first got up this morning.’

‘Had you left it unlocked?’

‘No, of course not. Both doors were locked when I went to bed. Windows all closed. But I did leave the key in the back door.’

‘Did you do that so that she could get out if she wanted to?’

‘The lock was stiff. I didn’t think she’d be able to turn it herself. And I thought she'd have more sense than to let herself out of the house in a place she doesn’t know.’

‘Does she let herself out at home?’

‘No.’ Mark clenches his jaw. ‘I don’t mean it like it’s something she usually does. I just mean… She knows she’s not to go off on her own without telling us. Both me and her mum have had those conversations with her, y’know?’

‘Would you ever usually let her go out alone?’

He shakes his head. ‘She’s too young.’

‘Not even to play in the garden, say?’

‘I suppose. Yeah, she plays in the garden on her own. But she checks with me first, and I keep an eye on her, obviously.’

‘Do you think that could be what happened here?’

Mark considers it, not for the first time. He shakes his head, but follows it with, ‘Yes. But she should know better.’

‘She is only seven, Mr. Taylor.’

Mark bites his tongue.

6

Emmy took in a deep lungful of the morning air and raised her face up to the sun. She stretched her limbs and smiled as the early chill eked out goosebumps up and down her arms.

Spiders had built webs across the expanse of the bushes on the perimeter of the garden, and the delicate threads shimmered with morning dew. Emmy stepped off the patio to investigate and flinched as the damp from the lawn soaked into her canvas shoes and nipped at her feet.

She followed the webs along the length of the garden, hoping to catch sight of the eight-legged creature responsible for them. She despised spiders but took great glee in examining them from a distance, imagining the heady fear she’d feel if one ever found itself scurrying over her hand.

A shriek grabbed Emmy’s attention and she snapped her head towards the sound. A barn owl perched on the fence at the end of the garden, sizing her up with unblinking eyes.

The young girl took a slow, cautious step towards it, desperate for a closer look. The owl hunched over and shrieked once more, warning her off, perhaps, or maybe it was goading her on.

She ventured another step. The owl squalled again and took off, swooping towards Emmy so close that she felt its broad wings send ripples through the still morning air. Then it curved back around and retreated towards the woods, disappearing quickly in a maze of gnarled bark and lush leaves. Emmy followed, her steps faster now, feet itching to explore.

As she reached the bottom of the garden she noticed that the green lawn gave way to blue beyond the enclosing fence. A thrill went through her as she thought of the stories she’d heard on the first day of her holiday. Bluebells were near, and with them could be fairies.

7

‘What was the last conversation you had with Emmy?’

‘I tucked her in. Said goodnight and all that.’

‘If you could run through it with me, please.’

Mark sighs. ‘We talked about the day we had together. We always do that. She said she liked the museum. The one in town. She loved the folklore bit about the fairies. It said they lure people into traps using bluebells, right? Something like that.’

‘Could she have tried to go back to the museum alone?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘She’s not that daft.’ He catches the police officer’s eye. ‘Maybe. I suppose.’

The police officer scribbles on her notepad. ‘Anything else you spoke about at bedtime?’

‘No. I gave her a kiss on the forehead, told her I loved her, and that was it.’ A raw, strangled sound escapes from Mark’s throat. He clenches his fists and holds his breath until he is sure it won’t happen again.

8

Emmy turned briefly back to the house to check for her father’s silhouette in the window. She was sure he’d still be softly snoring in his bed. She scuttled to the fence and peered over it at the bluebells, noting that their purplish-blue hue would look perfect on her bedroom walls at home.

She’d seen bluebells before, but she’d never paid them much heed. Daffodils were always her favourite; her mum once told her they were sunshine pulled from the sky and formed into blooms. But bluebells had taken first place as soon as she’d learned that fairies could live among them.

She bobbed down on her haunches to get as close as possible to the patch of flowers, and that’s when she was sure she heard them ring.

She’d expected it to be an ear-splitting, gong-like sound, if it happened at all, but she supposed the flowers were only small. A weak, tinny tinkle was surely all they were capable of. She sucked in a lungful of air and held it, not wanting the sound of her breath to distort the ringing of the bells.

Whispers came next. Soft and barely there, like the sound of a fingertip passing gently over skin.

Emmy clambered over the fence.

9

‘You’ve been staying in this cottage for... how long did you say? Just one night?’

Mark nods.

‘And have you visited this area before?’

‘No. First time.’

‘So it’s unlikely she knows her way around.’

Mark wipes his nose on his sleeve and nods.

‘Does her mother know that she’s missing?’

Mark hesitates. ‘I haven’t told her yet. She'll go spare.’

‘What is your relationship like with Emmy’s mother?’

‘Fine.’

‘You’re on good terms?’

He shrugs and tries to find the right thing to say. ‘We’ll never be best friends, will we?’

‘But you share custody of your daughter without conflict?’

‘Mostly.’

‘The more detail the better, Mr Taylor.’

‘What more do you need?’ Mark snaps.

There’s not a flinch from the police officer. ‘Is there a possibility that Emmy’s mother could have taken her?’

‘No. Christ, no.’ He gets up from his seat and dallies on the spot, lost. ‘Have you got enough, now? We should be out looking. You should be helping me find her. Please.’

10

The air felt cooler on the other side of the fence.

Emmy crouched and positioned her ear as close to the bluebells as possible. The delicate petals tickled her cheek. She was sure the whispers were growing louder. Or was it something moving in the woodland beyond? She surmised that the soft rustle of boots on leaf-laden ground would sound awfully similar to the murmurings of fairies.

Buzzing came next, and then something stroked the length of Emmy’s face. She sprang upright and pawed at her head, the clambering legs of spiders coming to mind, and then the heavy, fuzzy bodies of buzzing bees.

But neither insect was present. It was the bluebells that were buzzing. It was the sound of them growing. They shot up at a rate of knots, getting bigger by the second until they reached the height of Emmy’s knees, then her waist, then her shoulders, then the top of her head.

Soon the buzz deepened into creaks and groans as slender green stems grew tall and fat, and violet-blue flowers became swollen and heavy. Emmy span on the spot, mouth hanging open and eyes wide to take it all in. Her feet became tangled in a mesh of foliage. She stumbled, lost her balance and dropped to her knees, cold morning dew soaking her legs.

A shadow came over her. She craned her neck to look up. Gone was the bright morning sky. A massive bluebell hung directly over her head, its stamens and anthers pointing at her accusatorily like limp fingers. The petals were thick and waxy; robust enough to proof against wails or shouts.

The bell dropped to the ground and Emmy was gone.

11

‘Don't worry,’ the police officer says. ‘We'll find her.’

Mark merely stares out across the garden.

‘Wandered off too far, lost her way in the woods. I'm sure that’s all. Kids Emmy’s age don't have the most common sense, do they? I should know, I've got one of my own.’ The police officer forces a smile. ‘They're away with the fairies most of the time.’