NATÁLIA GOMES graduated from the University of Stirling with a BA in Media & Journalism Studies, and went on to receive her Master’s degree in Education in the US She currently works in a public school system to increase educational opportunities for students with special needs. Prior, Natália Gomes wrote for the London-based online student political magazine, deAlign and stage-managed student plays at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute in New York City where she attended for two years. Her first novel, Dear Charlie, was published in 2016, followed by Blackbird in 2017.

This book is for my sister, Olivia.

Your strength and grace amaze me.

BLACKBIRD PLAYLIST

SYML – ‘WHERE’S MY LOVE’

BON IVER – ‘SKINNY LOVE’

AMBER RUN – ‘I FOUND’

DERMOT KENNEDY – ‘AFTER RAIN’

JOHNNY CASH – ‘HURT’

KALEO – ‘ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS’

SYML – ‘BETTER’

DERMOT KENNEDY – ‘SHELTER’

LILY ALLEN – ‘SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNEW’

BELLE AND SEBASTIAN – ‘THE FOX IN THE SNOW’

BON IVER – ‘HOLOCENE’

SEAFRET – ‘OCEANS’

SIA – ‘BIRD SET FREE’

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue: 31.12.2015

Chapter One: 02.01.2016 (morning)

Chapter Two: 02.01.2016 (afternoon)

Chapter Three: 03.01.2016

Chapter Four: 04.01.2016

Chapter Five: 24.10.2015

Chapter Six: 04.01.2016

Chapter Seven: 05.01.2016

Chapter Eight: 06.01.2016

Chapter Nine: 07.01.2016

Chapter Ten: 08.01.2016

Chapter Eleven: 10.01.2016

Chapter Twelve: 10.01.2016

Chapter Thirteen: 11.01.2016

Chapter Fourteen: 12.01.2016

Chapter Fifteen: 12.01.2016

Chapter Sixteen: 13.01.2016

Chapter Seventeen: 14.01.2016

Chapter Eighteen: 14.01.2016

Chapter Nineteen: 15.01.2016

Chapter Twenty: 17.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-One: 19.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Two: 20.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Three: 21.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Four: 22.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Five: 30.12.2015

Chapter Twenty-Six: 23.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Seven: 24.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Eight: 24.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Nine: 24.01.2016

Chapter Thirty: 31.12.2015

Chapter Thirty-One: 28.01.2016

Author Acknowledgements

Extract

Copyright

Prologue: 31.12.2015

Thirty-first of December. The end of 2015. That was the night that five thousand blackbirds dropped dead from the sky just before midnight in Beebe, small-town America. Witnesses recalled a dark blanket descending upon the town just moments before the state of Arkansas was propelled into the year 2016. The blanket turned out to be a sheath of dead feathers and battered bodies.

A local preacher blamed it on us – on the evils of modern society. He said the deaths were symbolic of our sins, and that this was only the beginning of the consequences that would follow. Maybe the sudden unexplained death of a species representing freedom and hope really did indicate an ominous future for us all. My science teacher thinks the birds just flew into a jet engine, or that they died because of fireworks.

The southern states in the US went crazy. Locals stocked up on bottled water, first-aid kits and weapons. Some even fled their homes. News reporters broadcasted hysteria-inducing specials on this apocalyptic warning. It happened right in front of me, on my TV screen. I watched it all unfold from my living room in Orkney, like some late-night television drama. But it wasn’t. It was real, and it was scary.

I studied the behaviour of the common blackbird in a Life Science class once. I wrote a paper about the history of the species and how they symbolize hope in some European cultures. Many believe birds are the epitome of freedom. Their ability to spread their wings and migrate to a better place during the darker months is something we all envy. If my sister could fly, she’d fly far away from here, and never come back. But she can’t fly. And I’m happy about that.

The great Emily Dickinson once said so eloquently, ‘Hope is the thing with feathers.’

31 December 2015.

That was also the last night I saw my sister alive.

I lost everything that night.

And I haven’t been the same since. We all haven’t.

We used to spend every New Year’s Eve together, just the two of us. But then we began to drift slowly apart, the years driving us into adolescence and indifference. For years, we battled our way back to how we used to be, and we were there. We had made it. We were close once again, finding ourselves back where we started, just the two of us. We needed nothing else, no one else. We weren’t just sisters. We were best friends.

31 December 2015.

We were supposed to spend this one together. It was special for us. I’d picked a movie, bought popcorn – the kind you microwave in a paper bag until it puffs and expands. She’d gone out to see her friends but she’d planned to be back for ten o’clock.

I waited for her. Until half past, until eleven, and even until midnight. I waited in the living room where I could see and hear the front door. The DVD box sat on the floor by the TV unopened. The bag of popcorn lay beside it.

I waited.

But she never came back.

She still hasn’t come back.

My name is Alex. I am fifteen years old, and I don’t know where my sister is.

Or if she will ever come back.

All I know is that my sister was last seen sometime before 10 p.m. on New Year’s Eve two miles from where I stood, watching footage of the birds falling from the sky on our small TV screen in our small living room in a small house on a small island, too far from reality.

They say you can sense when someone you love is in pain or has died. But I feel nothing. So she can’t be hurt or dead, right? Even that night, I didn’t feel any different going to bed, and I didn’t even worry when Dad said she hadn’t come home that night. I assumed she had stayed over at a friend’s house. I figured she had lost track of time, but my parents were worried. I told them not to be and that she’d be back later that day. I was wrong. She didn’t come back. She still hasn’t come home.

After they called the police, it was in the local papers that very evening – ‘Local Girl Missing’. She wasn’t missing. She had just forgotten to call, or something. Missing sounds like she’s dead. Who called the newspaper? How do they know things before we do?

I remember the doorbell ringing, and walking slowly to answer it. I remember turning the knob and pulling the door open, expecting to see my sister’s smiling face. But it wasn’t her. It was two policemen. One was older, scruffy-looking. He was the one that was clutching a small spiral-bound notepad in his hands. But it was the younger one who took my parents’ statement.

I watched as my mother put her hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs as she and my dad spoke softly to them. They told the officers that my sister had gone to a party with her friends and not come home. They told them they were worried about her. They told them they were scared. They hadn’t told me that. They had told me that there was nothing to worry about, that she’d come home. But now they’re lying. Or did they lie to me?

I remember that the older policeman wasn’t looking at them. He was watching me. And he had this look on his face that I couldn’t figure out – pity? Sadness? Indifference?

Either way, I will never forget his face. Or my mother’s when they told her that she needed to wait twenty-four hours before it can become an official missing persons case. Both will haunt me forever. I felt confused at first, like I had heard him wrong. ‘Missing persons case.’

I thought it was my sister playing jokes as she usually did. But then I saw the policeman’s face, and I knew it was true. Then I felt like all of the air had been violently sucked out of my body and I couldn’t breathe. It’s a strange feeling when someone tells you the person you love most in the world has vanished. It’s like you’ve been stripped from your body, and you’re floating above watching everything happen. Because you never think it will happen to you – that it is happening to you.

Being Orcadian, you are somewhat sheltered from that world. The world where evil is normal. Our island is small. Too small. Everyone knows everyone. But that is what’s so hard to understand. Someone must know where she is. Someone must know something.

She’s just staying over at a friend’s. That’s it. She’ll be back tomorrow.

Right?

What if she’s not back tomorrow? Or the next day? What then?

These police officers don’t know her. They don’t know anything about her so how are they going to find her?

I know her. She’s my sister. I know her.

She just turned eighteen years old on her last birthday.

Her name is Olivia.

She’s finishing school this year and is going to move to London. She’s looking forward to beginning her life. She wants to be a dancer with the Royal Ballet Company in London. And she will be, everyone says she dances beautifully. I love to watch her perform. She’s mesmerizing. She looks so free – like a blackbird.

Olivia.

Where are you?

Chapter One: 02.01.2016 (morning)

‘What time did you last see your sister on the night of the thirty-first?’

The room is cold, dimly lit, in the police station in Stenness near the Barnhouse Settlement. I pull my sleeves down over my hands and tuck them between my legs. How long have I been here? Is it still morning? Why am I here? I don’t know anything. I can’t share anything. I’m as in the dark as them.

I can feel my eyelids twitching, but I can’t stop it. I try opening them a little wider.

‘Alexandra?’

‘Alex.’

‘Alex, what time did you last see your sister on the night of the thirty-first?’ The police officer shifts in his seat like he’s uncomfortable, but his eyes never leave my face. Maybe he’s the reason my eyes are twitching. I remember him from yesterday. I remember the expression on his face.

‘Detective Birkens, is it?’ I cautiously ask.

‘Detective Inspector Birkens. I’ll be leading the investigation into your sister’s whereabouts. We met yesterday, very briefly.’

‘I remember.’

‘Sorry I had to get you up so early today.’

My body weighs heavily in the chair beneath me. My eyelids are starting to drop. It really is cold in here. There’s a breeze coming in from somewhere. The detective doesn’t seem to notice. What is the difference between a policeman and a detective anyway? Should I ask him?

‘Are you OK? Do you want anything to drink – water, tea, a Coke?’

No, I just want to go home.

The door clicks open and the younger policeman from yesterday steps into the room. He closes the door behind him, and leans against the wall by the doorframe. Now he’s watching me too. Everyone is.

‘Where are my mum and dad?’ I eventually ask.

‘They’re in the next room. They’re talking to another police officer.’

‘Why are we here?’

‘Because it’s been over twenty-four hours since Olivia was initially reported missing, so it’s now treated as a missing persons case.’

‘Case?’

‘It’s just a formality,’ smiles the younger policeman.

The detective inspector turns to him then looks back at me. ‘So back to Hogmanay evening,’ he says.

‘We ate dinner together.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Around half past five–’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Me, Olivia, Mum and Dad.’

This chair is really uncomfortable. I arch my back for some relief then try to settle back into the frame. There needs to be a cushion or something on the base.

I want to go home.

‘How would you describe the atmosphere at dinner?’ he says, looking up from his notepad.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was there tension?’

‘Tension between who?’

‘Between her and your father, or between her and your mother . . . or between you and her?’

‘We didn’t fight, if that’s what you mean.’

‘And your parents?’

‘No, nothing like that. Dinner was normal. We ate at the dining table, talked about normal stuff – work, school, friends, then she went upstairs to shower and get dressed; while Mum and I washed up and dried the dishes.’

We always ate together on Hogmanay evening, even if everyone had plans. We sat down together for one last time before the old year ended and a new one began. That time was special to us. This year, Olivia helped cook a roast with my dad. She chopped the potatoes and carrots, while my dad made a glaze and tied the meat together with twine. I don’t know why he did that. But it tasted good in the end.

My sister and my dad are really close. They enjoyed cooking together, while I preferred to set the table. They go for walks together while I stayed home.

They watched movies on the sofa together, while I read in my bedroom. My dad was devastated when Olivia told him she was moving to London, like he was losing his best friend. I was still going to be here. But that didn’t seem to be enough for him.

‘And where was your father during this?’

‘He was upstairs in the bedroom or his work study, I think.’

‘Did your parents go out on Hogmanay?’

‘They went to the Legion for their annual dinner and dance. They go every year.’

‘What time did they leave the house?’

‘After Olivia left. Maybe around quarter to seven?’

‘Olivia went straight to Emily Morrison’s house?’

‘That’s what she said she was going to do.’ My throat feels warm, the words hot in my mouth. Does he know I’m lying?

He looks at me for a moment too long, like he knows.

‘And your parents?’

‘Yes?’

‘When did you see them next?’

‘At home, the next morning.’

‘And you?’

‘I was at home. Olivia and I were supposed to watch a movie together around ten . . . after she got back from Emily’s. We were going to ring in the New Year together this year. I’d bought –’

‘Ten, you said?’

‘– Popcorn.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, never mind. Yes, ten.’

He scribbles in his notepad then looks up at me again.

‘Did you see the headline about the blackbirds?’ I ask, feeling my palms start to sweat.

‘No.’ He clears his throat and slides the notebook on the table in front of him. ‘And what did you do at home before ten?’

‘Before?’ Oh no. ‘I told you, I just stayed in,’ I say, fidgeting with the bottom of my shirt. I loop the fabric around my finger, feel it stretch beyond its limits.

‘Alone?’

Why is he asking me all these questions?

‘Yes, alone.’

‘Alex.’

‘What?’

‘You wouldn’t be the only fifteen-year-old who drank alcohol on Hogmanay with their friends while their parents were out the house.’

‘I didn’t do that.’ I shrug, glancing up at the door. Is he sure they can’t hear us?

He leans back in his chair and crosses his leg over his knee. He’s waiting for me to say something, waiting for me to confess all my sins. ‘I’m not going to arrest you for lying to your parents.’

‘OK fine, I wasn’t alone all night. Andy and Siobhan came by.’

‘What time?’

‘After everyone had left, so around seven.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘We watched telly until around half-past nine or quarter to ten.’

He doesn’t believe me. He knows I’m lying. I’m going to get in trouble and be grounded for the next ten years of my life.

‘I’m not here to arrest you for underage drinking. I’m just trying to get an idea of where everyone is when Olivia goes missing. Whatever you say won’t get back to your mum and dad. Understand?’

I nod, and relax my shoulders. ‘Exactly what you said – we drank alcohol while my parents were out of the house.’

‘Who brought the alcohol?’

‘Nobody. My dad has a stash of beers in the garage. He wouldn’t notice any were missing, and if he did he would never ask me because then he would know that I know that he drinks beer in the garage when Mum isn’t looking.’

‘She doesn’t like him drinking?’

‘She put him on a diet earlier this year. He has diabetes.’

He nods, and writes something down on his notepad. I lean my body a little to the left to try and see what he’s writing but then he scoops up the cover and places it over the pad.

‘And how many beers did you have?’

‘Just one –’

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me, waiting.

‘OK, more than that. Maybe three.’

‘Last question.’

Thank god. ‘OK.’

‘If your sister was upset about something – and I’m not saying she is – where would she go?’

‘You mean, like a secret hiding place? You think she’s hiding somewhere?’

‘Maybe.’

‘She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t want to scare us like that.’

‘Even if she was upset, maybe even scared?’

Why would my sister be scared? Was she in trouble and she never told me? Who’s scaring her?

‘Her boyfriend’s house –’

‘James MacIntosh, right?’

‘Yes. Her friend Emily’s, the dance studio where she takes classes – they have an open studio in the afternoons when anyone can go – the library, the Ring –’

‘– of Brodgar?’ asks the younger policeman.

‘She likes that, especially around sunrise, before the tourists come, of course,’ I smile.

‘Of course,’ he says.

Birkens is writing in his pad again. His hand must be sore from all the writing. ‘Sunrise? That’s early.’

‘She always wakes up earlier. She doesn’t like to sleep late. Not like me. I can sleep all day. Olivia likes to go for a walk in the mornings.’

‘Where?’

‘Down to the Ring, along the loch, through the woods by Binscarth Farm – there’s a little trail there. My dad sometimes goes with her, you should ask him.’

‘I’ll do that.’ He rises from the chair, pushing it back gently on the wooden floor. ‘Thank you, Alex. Your mum and dad are waiting outside.’

As he starts towards the door, I call after him. ‘Will Olivia be in trouble when she comes home?’

He doesn’t turn for a while, just looks straight ahead towards the other policeman or maybe beyond him. Slowly he turns to face me and has a forced smile on his face. ‘No, she won’t be in any trouble.’ He gestures towards the closed door.

When I leave the conference room, Mum and Dad are waiting for me in the lobby of the station. They both stand up when I come out.

‘Everything OK?’ Mum asks, as she gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. She hates seeing me with my hair across my face. She likes it up off my face, in a bun or a French braid like Olivia’s.

‘What did they ask you?’ says Dad, as he digs his car keys out from his jeans pocket.

‘Just about Hogmanay night.’

‘Well, let’s get home,’ my mum says, as she wraps her arm around me and nudges me towards the exit.

Walking over, I grab the knob but don’t turn it. I have to ask them something, and I have to see their faces when I ask it. ‘She’s just staying at a friend’s, right? We’ll find her?’

My mum nods but my dad doesn’t say anything. He’s not looking at me so I wait for him to say the words.

‘Yeah, sure. We’ll find her,’ he eventually says.

When we reach the house, my dad drops us at the front door. He tells us to go inside and lock the door. He’s going to get some posters printed with my sister’s face on them.

She’s going to be so embarrassed when she comes back.

Scooping up the phone directory, my mum disappears into the living room to start calling people. I think she’s called everyone by now.

No one’s seen Olivia.

No one knows where she is.

The house seems bigger to me now for some reason. And colder. A shiver shoots up my spine, and I hug myself to keep warm. I shuffle over to the wood burner and load some logs into the furnace. Lighter in hand, I search around for some newspaper to scrunch up. Sliding a paper out from under the TV remote, I kneel back down in front of the furnace and begin ripping pages off. I make only three paper strips to burn with the logs when something catches my eye. Lifting the paper up to my eyes, my sister’s name stares back at me. There she is.

Underneath her name is one word, in bold capitals: MISSING. That’s all she is now. Missing. She’s the missing girl from the Orkneys. The missing persons case that’s rocked this small community. That’s what the paper is saying.

Olivia.

Where are you?

Come home before this gets any worse.

Chapter Two: 02.01.2016 (afternoon)

I don’t push the doorbell, but slam my hand on James’s door, needing to feel pain. He doesn’t answer. My palm throbbing a little more than I had hoped for, this time I ring the bell. He answers almost immediately as if he’d been waiting for me right behind the door.

He opens his mouth to say something but I get there first. ‘Is she here?’ I ask, glancing over his shoulder. The TV flickers behind him, crackling against the wall in the hallway.

‘Alex, she’s not here. I haven’t seen her.’

‘Are you lying? Are you trying to cover for her? If you are that’s fine, just tell her to come home.’

He steps out from the doorway and rests against the edge of the frame. Dark circles have formed around his eyes and his skin is a little paler than usual. ‘Look, I really don’t think it’s anything to worry about.’

‘Are you kidding? She’s going to be in so much trouble. The police are involved now.’

‘I know. They just came to see me.’ He pushes his hands into his jeans pockets and looks out past me, towards the street or the ocean beyond me.

‘And?’

‘And I told them the same thing. She’s not here.’

A large sigh escapes my lungs and I tuck my chin to my chest a little. I had been hoping that she was here, hoping that James would know where she was so we could end all of this. But he knows as little as me. ‘Well, when was the last time you saw her? At the party?’

‘What party?’ He shrugs.

‘Euan’s party.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘She tells me everything. I know she wasn’t watching a movie at Emily’s house. She went to a party at Euan’s house over by Binscarth Farm.’

He digs his hands in deeper into his pockets and smiles slightly, the corners twisting up but not in a way that I find familiar or comforting. ‘She tells you everything, does she?’

‘Yes . . . I think so.’

‘Well, did she tell you we broke up?’

‘What?’

‘I guess she doesn’t tell you everything.’

‘This isn’t a joke. This is a waste of police time. She could be charged or something, I don’t know.’

‘I’m telling you the truth. We broke up. I wasn’t at that party because I knew she was going. I did my own thing, hung out with the boys from the football club.’

‘Why did you break up?’

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.

We talked about Mum and Dad, school, Andy, her friends, London. She made jokes and I laughed, devouring each word, every syllable. Then later I would call Siobhan and repeat the jokes, except telling her that I made them up.

When I glance back at the tree, she’s still there waiting for me. My group is a little further ahead, so I turn and start walking towards her.

‘Alex?’ Birkens is standing beside me, holding my arm gently. ‘Alex, do you see something?’

I turn back to show him, to tell him she’s right there, there’s nothing to be scared of, she’s safe. But she’s not there any more. She never was.

That evening I stagger upstairs, tired, defeated. I don’t know when – if – we’ll ever find her. We’ve looked everywhere, been everywhere.

I read about a lost colony in the sixteenth century, Roanoke, in social studies last year. An entire village of men, women and children migrated to the New World to make a new life for themselves. But three years later, when a new group arrived to join them, they found no trace of the former thriving village and its inhabitants. One man lost his whole family. He searched everywhere for them, called for them, prayed for their return. But they never returned. He never saw them again.

Over four hundred years later, people still wonder where they went, if they died of disease, were killed by tribes, drowned trying to return to England. New studies suggest they just left, packed up their belongings and went to live somewhere else.

Is that what Olivia did? Did she find a new life, a new family? Or like the lost colony, will she never return, leaving us to always wonder what happened?

I don’t see an answer right now. I don’t know what will happen. The search seems fruitless, a long journey where the signs to the destination begin merging into one, always telling us it’s just another ten miles ahead. But no matter how far we drive, it’s almost still ten miles ahead. That’s how I feel, how my dad must feel. I want to stay in bed. Curl up, turn the lights off, and let the cold bitter darkness take me.

But I don’t.

I get up the next morning and we look again.

Chapter Four: 04.01.2016

I’ve been having the same dream for three days now. It’s not so much of a dream. That indicates something pleasant is happening during your REM cycle – a long-harboured ambition being realized, a new love, the meeting of two friends who haven’t seen each other for a long time.

No, this isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare.

I can see her, hear her. But I can’t touch her. In all of my nightmares, she is always just out of reach. My mind is taunting me, playing with me. It knows I will stretch my arm out a little further to reach her. It knows I never can.

In these dreams, she is sitting on her bed, in her lavender-coloured bedroom that has photos of her and her friends on the wall in the shape of a giant letter O. In the middle of the O is a butterfly ornament, like in her real bedroom.

In the dream, I’m right there with her. I’m sitting on the rug near her, watching her dangle her legs over the side of the bed. Her toenails are painted a pale taupe and she’s swinging her feet gently side to side, like windscreen wipers on a car.

Swish.

Swish.

Swish.

Then we’re outside suddenly, and she’s on our old swings. Again her legs hang over the edge, but here her feet can touch the ground. She’s too big for the swings now. She’s not a child any more.

I can feel the grass on my fingers, the tips slightly damp from the morning dew. I can smell the soil in the air from the vegetable patch where my mum had just planted strawberries the morning before. I can hear the birds overhead, squawking and communicating with each other. They’re black as night. They soar overhead like my sister on the swing, gliding effortlessly through the air.

A knocking from behind makes me turn around, away from my sister. My mum’s hand hammers the kitchen window. Her finger points to the sky. Her terrified screams call out to me. When I turn back, the birds aren’t gliding and soaring. They’re swooping. There’s something different about them now. Now, they’re swooping towards us.

Their eyes gleam like black coal and their beaks snap frantically at our clothes and hair. But I can’t move. The grass grips me, its blades now sharp and suffocating. I squirm and struggle, but it won’t release me. I can hear my sister screaming. I can hear her calling out to me. She’s dying.

And I can’t help her.

I can’t reach her.

And soon, I won’t be able to save her.

I beat at the ground, the blades of grass stabbing at my palm. Nails curl into the soil, heaving my body up and out from their grip. I’m dragging my body now, hurling myself towards her, trying desperately to touch her –

‘Alexandra?’

I stir slightly, hearing the voice filter into my nightmare but it won’t let me go.

‘Alexandra?’

My eyes flicker open, and I sit upright feeling the back of the chair slam against my spine. It’s over. The nightmare is over.

A deep sigh escapes my lungs and I cover my face with my hands. Why can’t I shake this nightmare? Why does it follow me like this, day after day?

I look up and see DI Birkens standing over me.

‘How long has she been here?’ he calls out to the woman behind the glass screen in the reception room.

She shrugs her shoulders and gets back to her magazine, twirling her curly red hair with a pencil.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asks me.

I look at my wrist and realize I forgot to put my watch on today. I glance out of the window beside the big wooden doors that I came in. It’s already beginning to get dark.

‘A few hours, I think.’

He looks around. A man texts on his phone opposite us, barely glancing up. To my left, an older man sits and waits, his sheepdog curled up beside his feet. When I had come in, this place was empty. Now people wait to be noticed, wait to speak out, be heard, wait for answers to their questions. Like me.

‘Is the interview room open?’ he calls back towards the woman at the desk.

‘No, Boyd is in there until six,’ she says, not looking up.

He looks back at me and releases a long, drawn out sigh. ‘Oh OK. Well, come on through.’ Birkens gestures towards another set of heavy wooden doors. This one has a security keypad beside it. He punches in a four-digit code and the doors click open. He pushes them and waits for me to follow. I haven’t been here since the day after my sister was officially reported missing. I had wanted to leave that day. I had thought she was just staying at a friend’s house nursing a hangover. I had been so sure we’d find her. He had been so sure we’d find her – or had he lied to me?

I get up and hear the sheepdog barking behind me. The doors seal tight after I walk through. Dozens of desks stretch out before me, most unattended. On the desks sit stacks of file folders, coffee mugs and framed photos of smiling children.

I walk past the desks to his, wondering if these files have some new information about Olivia. I feel a dull ache spread along my shoulder blades. That chair in the waiting room was not the most comfortable. I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember waiting for Birkens to come back from a call, and then being in my nightmare. It had happened so fast, before I had even felt myself slipping into sleep’s grasp.

Officer Allans sees us coming and stands up from his chair. He looks eager, ambitious. All the things Detective Inspector Birkens isn’t any more.

‘Big night last night?’ he asks Birkens.

Birkens ignores him and shakes his head. He gestures me to sit down, and walks over to a coffee cup on the windowsill.

‘Don’t drink that!’ says Allans holding his hand out.

Birkens looks into the mug, then places it down on the desk beside me. I glance into the deep mug and see a film of white foam on the surface.

‘How long has this been sitting here?’ Birkens asks.

‘I think you poured that cup over a week ago, sir.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ he says. ‘And stop calling me sir. It makes me feel old and superior.’

‘But you are my . . . superior.’

‘In a few months you’ll have passed your exams and be a detective too. Then you can take over from me after I leave. You’ll really have to stop calling me sir then.’

‘I’ll only be a DC. It’ll take me years of experience to get to be you, sir. But I hope to be.’

‘I hope you don’t,’ he says, glancing back at me.

‘You’re leaving?’ I ask, feeling my chest tighten. He can’t leave. We haven’t found Olivia yet. Why would he leave now?

He sinks into a distressed brown leather chair and leans back. He legs fall to the side, and his long dark raincoat folds underneath him. I don’t know why, but I want to remind him that his coat will wrinkle if he sits like that. Why did I just think of that?

Eventually he clears his throat, ‘I’m retiring. Officially on the first of January but then this came up and we didn’t want it to go to Aberdeen.’

I feel that pain in my chest return. I sit up and hunch over, clasping my hands together.

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘I won’t be going anywhere until we find your sister.’

I take a deep breath and nod, feeling a little lighter than before.

He’s staying.

He’ll find Olivia.

I get up from the chair and walk to the window. A seagull swoops past the glass causing me to take a step back. Seagulls are everywhere on an island. You can’t escape them. Hungry, desperate birds.

‘Any messages for me since I’ve been out?’ I hear Birkens and Allans talking behind me.

‘You have three phone messages from Mrs Laird. She says you promised to talk to the McAllastair boys about staying off her property. She says they’re scaring the sheep again.’

‘Why is it that Mrs Laird thinks I have nothing better to do with my time than tend to a sheep dispute?’

‘Because we usually don’t have anything better to do with our time,’ laughs Allans.

I glance back at them.

‘Sorry. I forgot you were here,’ says Allans, his face starting to redden. ‘Sir, is the interview room not free?’

I sit back in the chair and lean back, letting my knees fall awkwardly to the sides. Mahogany shelves hold books on criminal investigations, forensic evidence collections, and the odd non-fictional account of past cases from Scotland Yard. A large white board sits on the wall to the right of the bookshelf, probably meant for case profiling but a 2012 calendar is still taped to it. The office probably hadn’t had a real investigation in years, clearly since before 2012. Island police crime tends to be the odd house break-in, motor vehicle theft and even an occasional sheep scaring.

I see another police officer in uniform sitting at a desk closer to the back wall, likely completing mundane administrative tasks, such as filing reports or documenting office expenses in a spreadsheet. I wonder what Glasgow’s main office looks like compared to this.

The heater in the corner of the room splutters gently and churns to radiate more warmth for the office, but fails. Outside, seagulls squawk, waiting for me.

‘You’ll need a new calendar,’ Allans says, nodding towards the white board. ‘I think I have a spare one at the house. I’ll get Jenn to bring it over.’

Birkens ignores him and stares at me. ‘Do your parents know you’re here?’

I shake my head.

He sits down beside me. ‘I’ll go call your mum and dad and let them know you’re here. They’ll be worried sick about you.’

‘They probably haven’t noticed I’m gone,’ I mumble.

‘There’s nothing you can do here, Alex. We have officers out in the field following up on new leads –’

‘That’s a lie. You don’t have any new leads,’ I say.

‘We’ll call your house immediately if we find anything, you know that.’

‘I don’t want to be at home right now.’

He frowns and takes a deep breath. He looks a little younger than I first thought, maybe mid-fifties. Too young for retirement. So why is he so desperate to leave? What does he hide behind those dark eyes? He sighs and gestures to the entryway at the back of the office. ‘Go make a cup of tea, and I’ll call them and tell them you’ll be home within a half hour. Deal?’

I nod and follow Allans to the break room. He shows me where the teabags and sugar are, and flips the kettle on for me.

He leans against the tiled counter and folds his arms against his chest. ‘You know, I am really sorry that you and your family are having to go through this. It’s not easy, and it’s not fair.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My wife and I don’t live too far away. If there’s anything we can ever do for your family, please let us know.’

I nod, smiling awkwardly as the churning of the kettle gets louder.

‘Did your sister ever keep a diary or a journal of some kind?’

‘Not sure, maybe a journal?’

He nods his head slowly.

‘Why?’

‘There may be something in there to indicate where she could be, who she could be with.’

‘You still think she’s hiding out somewhere? Even after all this?’

‘She could be anywhere.’

‘Not Olivia. She would see all this, the newspapers, the flyers. She’s even on television. She wouldn’t want us to worry like this.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he says, the noise of the kettle starting to drown him out. He releases his arms, his hands dropping heavily by his side and slides past me out the door.

The break room is smaller than I thought, with only a square plastic table and five chairs around it. A fridge sits in the corner, buzzing loudly. The noise of the kettle soon masks the buzzing. It boils fast then stops.

I dunk a teabag into a chipped mug and stir milk into my tea. I’m too tired to remember where Allans said the sugar was so I drink it as is.

The heat penetrates my hands as I hold the mug in my palms. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until now.

I head back towards the main office, to Birkens’ desk. I can hear someone else speaking now. Another male voice, but deeper and hoarser than Birkens’ or Allans’. I slow down and lean against the wall. I’m not ready to leave. I’m not ready to go home and face my parents. I rest my head and listen to them talk.

‘Phonecall from Mrs Laird. You can pick it up on line two.’

I immediately recognize Birkens’ voice. ‘No, not today. I don’t have time for her ramblings today. I have to drive Alex McCarthey to her house. Have someone take a message and tell her Davey here will get on to the McAllastair boys tomorrow.’

‘No, it’s not that,’ says the unfamiliar voice. ‘She said there’s a body out by the Ring of Brodgar. Right out in the open. She said it’s a girl. A dead girl.’

Suddenly the air leaves the room and I’m panting for breath. I hear my mug hitting the ground and feel hot liquid spray up my leggings. My hands are shaking wildly. What did he say?

I see Birkens in the doorway, looking at the spilled tea all around me. He looks at me, as I gasp for air. He slowly reaches his hand out to reach me, but I don’t take it. I see his mouth opening, but I don’t wait for his words. I just start running. I run down the hall, away from the three police officers. I hear them shouting my name, running after me.

I don’t stop.

I keep going down the hallway, having no idea where I’m going. Then I see a green exit sign lit up and I know that’s my way out. I slam into the door and push it open. I hear a click and the fire alarm wails.

My name is being called again, but this time it’s only Birkens yelling it. I run faster, harder, until my thighs throb. I don’t hear him behind me any more. He couldn’t keep up.

Overgrown blades of grass strike my legs as I run through the field. The long stems tangle around my boots, and grip me, pulling me down into the soil like in my dream. But unlike in my dream, I’m stronger. I fight back and push through them, hearing them snap and break.

The earth is damp from the morning rain, and my boots sink slightly into the thick mud. It slows me down, but again I fight through.

I can still hear the police officers calling my name even though they’re long gone now. Their voices echo in my head. Then I hear Olivia’s. She’s screaming, like in my dream.

I can’t help her.

I can’t reach her.

Olivia, I’m coming.

Wait for me.

I know exactly where I’m going and I know I’ve reached it by the crowds of people gathered. Their bodies block the standing stones and I can’t see past them. Two police cars with flashing lights are parked horizontally, and officers frantically tape off the car park, shouting to the crowd to move back. But they don’t move. They strain their necks to see more. They’re enjoying this, I think. They like the drama, the excitement in the air. They crave it. They’re bored. They are here because they need this.

I start pushing them out of the way, hearing them swear at me. A couple of them turn and see my face and nudge their friends. They recognize me. They all think exactly what I’m thinking – that’s my sister out there. My sister’s body has been found.

She’s dead.

I push them harder, screaming at them, ‘Move!’ My body hits the yellow tape and I see a female office running towards me. ‘Stop!’ she yells. But I don’t. I can’t.

I duck under the tape and start running again, this time faster. Another officer starts chasing me, but he can’t reach me.

The slick grass is harder to run on, and it slows me down. I see two officers standing over something. It’s long, and it lays awkwardly on the ground. I see an arm. A leg. Long dark brown hair spread wide on the grass.

Suddenly I feel arms around me, pulling me away, pulling me down. I hear Birkens’ voice trying to calm me but I thrash violently. ‘Let me go!’ I scream. The officers ahead turn at the noise and that’s when I see her more clearly.

My sister. My big sister. That’s me lying there. That’s my blood. We share the same blood. And it’s everywhere. It’s all around her head. It’s on the grass, it’s matted in her hair.

Then everything goes blurry. I grip Birkens’ shoulder and throw my head back. I see birds soaring overhead, circling us, circling her. I open my mouth and scream my sister’s name. Then darkness takes me.

Chapter Five: 24.10.2015

Olivia

I met him at my school. He’s a little taller than me, with dark hair and even darker eyes. But there’s a kindness to them too. He wants people to know only the character he performs. And most people only see that, only want to see that.

But not me.

I see him for who he is, who he really wants to be. And he’s so much more than that character.

We all play characters to a certain extent. We’re all pieces in a game, moved by hands not always ours. And we play our roles well. We do what people expect us to do, say what they want us to say, even if that means lying. Because the truth is so much harder to hear for most people.

I played the game for too long. But I can’t any more. I’m so tired of it. I want to make my own decisions now, play by my own rules. Even if that means hurting people, many of them people I loved at some point in the game.

I feel the worst when I think about hurting James. I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t keep up the facade any longer. He’s kind, he’s sweet to me, he’s been a good friend. But I’ve met someone. And he’s different. I feel different when I’m around him. I don’t feel like the character I play. I feel like me.

My friends noticed him too. They made comments to me, and nudged me when he walked past. I smiled, he smiled back. And when I passed him, I turned back to see if he was still watching. And he was.

I didn’t see him again for ages after that first time. I don’t know why. I looked around the school for him, out onto the street, down to the beach in case he walked there, down the big hill to see the ferries come in from Isle of Graemsay or Moaness. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.

Then one day, I saw him again. And after that I saw him every day.

We would hang out after school, get coffee from The Gallery Coffee Shop in Kirkwall where no one recognized us. You know, the kind of coffee that comes in a little to-go waxed paper cup, and we would sit on the beach away from Stromness, away from the big hill so no one saw us. I would bundle up and stick my hands in my pocket, and he would gently take my hands and hold them between his to warm them up. I would giggle, he would smile. And we did that most days for the first month.

We would talk for hours before I had to leave to pick up my sister from her friend’s. I wouldn’t want to leave so when I did, I would be a little angry at my sister for making me do it. I know it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. She would have just walked or taken a bus or asked Siobhan’s mum for a lift home, if only she knew. But she didn’t. He asked me not to tell anyone, not my sister or my friends, and I won’t betray his trust like that.

And I don’t think they or she would understand. They will judge me, without hearing the whole truth. They won’t listen to me, not like he does. Only he listens.

He listens to everything I have to say, not just the important stuff. When I talk, his eyes are on me and he’s absorbing every word, every syllable that leaves my lips. I didn’t know I liked to talk so much until I met someone who liked to listen.

I wish we could go for dinner or see a movie at the cinema together like a normal couple, but we can’t. And that’s OK, I guess. Because what we do, our little moments together, is enough for me. And I’d rather that than nothing at all.

He’s seen me dance. He snuck into the Autumn Dance Showcase and saw my performance. I knew he was coming so I had time to be nervous.

Butterflies fluttered furiously in my belly right up until the curtain was raised. Then the lights dimmed, the music started, and everything went away. All I was left with was the rhythm of the music and my body – the instrument.

I had practised my choreography for weeks. Everyone in the audience had seen me dance at some point, everyone except him. Besides, it’s different when you dance for the person you love.

Did I just say that?

Yes, I guess I did.

I love him.

I don’t know when that started, but somehow I’ve found myself right in the middle, not even realizing that it had begun.

It’s too late now.

I saw James yesterday. He still wants to talk about why we broke up. I just don’t have anything left to say to him. He was my friend before he was my boyfriend, and I really want him to be my friend again. Me, him, Em, we were inseparable at one time. We did everything together, went everywhere, shared everything.

But it’s not realistic to expect everything to stay the same. Because people grow up. They aren’t the same. They change. I’ve changed. And so have my feelings towards him.

But I want my friend back. I never said goodbye to him, just the relationship that had blossomed from the friendship. I want to go back to where we started.

I guess change scares me a little too.

But when it comes to the future, I need change. I need to break free of this place, of this character I’ve moulded into.

I haven’t told him yet about London. I don’t know how to tell him. It’s still so new. I enjoy spending time with him. I love him, but I can’t stay here for him.

There’s so much I still want to do with my life, so much I want to see. With James, it was so easy. But with him, it’s different, not so easy. I can tell him anything, but I can’t tell him what to do, what to feel.

He’s going to want me to stay, I know he is. He can’t come with me. He has too much here. He sacrificed everything for his last relationship. But that’s over now. I can’t ask him to sacrifice all over again. This is supposed to be a new beginning for us both.

I want him to come with me. But I can’t say those words. His answer might devastate us.

Because if he doesn’t come, I won’t stay.

I know my little sister Alex doesn’t get it, why I want to leave so badly. It’s not that I hate it here. She thinks it is. She thinks it’s too small for me. It is a small island, but it’s not too small for me. I just have this fire in my stomach to go. I want to start in London, dance. Then I want to travel around the world. I want to see it all, and not miss one moment.

I want to go to Switzerland, Italy, France. I want to kiss a stranger in New York City in Times Square like in the old photo of a sailor from the 1940s. I want to take a surfing lesson in Australia. I want to explore a sulphur cave in New Zealand, and ride a camel in Morocco. I want to walk along the Great Wall of China, watch the sun set in Hawaii, ride in a cable car up to Sugar Loaf Mountain in Brazil. I want to scream as loud as my lungs can cope over the Grand Canyon.

My sister is always talking about the flower that blooms just once at midnight – the kadapul flower, which is only found in Sri Lanka. When I told her I’d go there and pick it for her, she laughed and said I couldn’t, because it withers almost as soon as you pick it. And when I told her she should go there then to see it in person she laughed even harder.

My sister will never leave this island.

And she seems to be OK with that.

I don’t get it. We’re so different in that regard. But I guess she knows what makes her happy. I just hope she’ll come visit me in London.

London.

I don’t know how to tell him about London.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to him yet. But I’m not willing to say goodbye to my dreams either.

I dream about stepping on to that aeroplane. I’ve never been on a plane before. The furthest I’ve ever been to is Aberdeen, and we took the ferry.

Sometimes I lie in bed and think about being up in the air in that plane. Passport in hand, bag beside me, watching Orkney fade into the distance. Knowing that when I return – and I will return – that I would have explored the world, seen so much, felt so much.

That plane will soar so high in the sky, and for the first time I will feel free.

Free as a bird.

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