Chapter 6 Zoe Spring 2025 #3
Steph stops refolding a letter.
‘Good plan,’ says Sara.
Zoe goes to pick the key up from the hall table but it’s not there.
‘I swore I left it here,’ she says, lifting up the bowl, then rifling through the dusty potpourri. ‘I don’t understand. It’s just disappeared.’ She stands with her hands on her hips looking around the hall.
‘It was in your pocket,’ calls Sara from the kitchen.
‘Yeah, but I took it out when we carried the boxes down from the attic because it’s so big it kept digging into me. I definitely left it here.’
‘It must be there somewhere,’ says Sara. ‘You just need to keep looking.’
Mum used to say that. Maybe all mums do.
‘The key was here,’ says Zoe. ‘On this table. It was definitely here and now it’s disappeared.’ Someone has taken it.
Milly
1988
The police car swings into the drive and I’m on my feet, running towards the front door. Outside, I can see Steph’s silhouette in the back. Thank God. Thank God. Whatever else has happened, she’s safe, she’s alive. Paul is suddenly beside me, gripping my hand.
It screeches to a halt. Steph is staring out of the window but doesn’t look at us. Something makes me stay where I am, rather than rushing forward as I would usually. A WPC walks round the side of the car and approaches us.
‘Mr and Mrs Wright?’ It’s not one of the usual officers.
We nod in unison, like dumb puppets. This feels serious.
‘I’m afraid your daughter has been involved in criminal activity. Can we come inside?’
Steph’s face is blank as she walks past me next to the WPC.
We all gather in the drawing room, perched on the edge of the chairs and settees.
I stack up the plates decorated with crumbs, evidence of another night of eating to get through the hours.
They decline a cup of tea, which somehow makes it feel even worse.
The police who have brought her home in the past always have a cup of tea.
Steph is staring into space. She’s paler than usual.
Tired, maybe. I wonder if she slept at all last night.
She looks okay apart from that. But she won’t catch my eye.
‘I’m sorry that it’s taken so long to bring Stephanie home,’ the WPC says, glancing at her. ‘We didn’t realise who she was initially as she gave a false name. It was only when one of my team recognised her that we put two and two together.’
‘A false name?’ Paul says. I can feel the tension in him.
‘She told us she was Milly Head,’ says the WPC, looking at her notebook.
‘Milly is my name,’ I say.
‘And Head is Patrick’s surname, who was arrested with her and the others. We thought they were related.’
P. Patrick Head.
‘What’s she done?’ Paul asks. I’m glad he can talk.
My voice is now stuck in my throat. If I say anything I know I’ll start to cry.
Steph seems oblivious to it all. As if we’re just sitting around talking about what to have for supper.
She smiles slightly, as she did when I was telling her off as a young child.
‘She was part of a group who smashed the windows of a department store,’ the WPC says, glancing at her notes. ‘She was recognised by passers-by and there was glass in her shoes when we arrested her at the squat a short while later. It’s a straightforward case of criminal damage.’
The squat.
‘That’s not evidence.’ Steph curls her lip. It’s the first time she’s spoken and her voice is unrecognisable. Hard. Mocking. I stare at her.
‘Is there a lot of damage?’ asks Paul.
The WPC nods. ‘Every single window was smashed. Thousands of pounds, I’d say. The department store will support a prosecution. They always do in these cases.’
‘But why, Steph?’ Paul turns to her. ‘I don’t understand why you’d do something like that.’
‘They sell fur,’ says Steph flatly.
She’s already talked to me about fur, and I promised to stop wearing it. We packed it up and took it to the attic.
‘You’re a bit young to be getting yourself mixed up with that animal-rights lot,’ the WPC says.
‘You’re from a good family. I don’t want you to ruin your life.
They’re bad news. They’ll be in prison before long.
’ She swivels to face us. ‘One of the ringleaders is a guy called Patrick. He particularly is very bad news. I suggest you keep firm tabs on your daughter and make sure she doesn’t spend any time with him. ’
The way the WPC looks at me makes me think that she knows it’s all my fault.
That I’m too busy socialising, or drinking or whatever to care what happens to my daughter.
I bet she doesn’t have children of her own.
Or she’d know that actually you have very little control over a child once they reach a certain age.
That in reality they can do exactly what they want and there’s very little you can do to stop them.
And if you do try to stop them, they can hurt you without meaning to.
And there’s nothing you can do about that.
I pull my blouse down where it has ridden up my arm, revealing the faint outline of fingertips from where she gripped me a few days ago.
I need to say something, to show I care, that I’m responsible. ‘How old is Patrick Head?’ I ask.
The WPC looks at her colleague and shrugs. ‘Mid-twenties, I think.’
Mid-twenties. What twenty-something-year-old man wants to hang out with a fourteen-year-old? Oh God, it’s like the things you read about. Men who like too-young girls. And it’s happening here.
Steph catches my eye and looks away. She knows what I’m thinking.
Later, when the police have gone, and Steph is back in her room, I bring her up a cup of tea. She’s lying on her bed. ‘Thanks,’ she says, taking a sip even though it will be too hot.
‘You must be exhausted,’ I say.
She nods. ‘I didn’t sleep much in the cell.’ The cell. I never thought a child of mine would say something like that.
‘It must have been very frightening,’ I manage.
‘I didn’t like how small it was,’ she says.
‘I kept walking round it. One, two, three, four. One, two. One, two, three, four. One, two. There was a shelf that was a sort of bed. It had a blanket. There was graffiti over the walls. Weird stuff.’ Her eyes are flitting around her bedroom, remembering it.
She doesn’t carry on and I wonder what I can say.
‘Do you think you’re a bit young for him?’ It comes out before I can stop it.
‘Oh, it’s not in that way, Mum. We’re all just there for the animals. We’re activists. He’s my friend, that’s all.’ She laughs. ‘There’s loads of us. Kids my age too. Patrick just happened to be there yesterday.’
I can tell by the way she talks that it’s a lie. By the light in her eyes, by the way she says his name. There is something between them.
‘Finally it all made sense. My life makes sense. This is what I’m supposed to be doing. Fighting for the voiceless. I know what it’s like to feel voiceless like those rabbits and rats.’
I don’t know what to say to that. How can she think she’s voiceless? The whole family, everything we do, seems to revolve around her. ‘Steph, I’m really worried about you. Getting involved with all this animal-rights stuff, taking so many risks, getting involved with an older man—’
‘I’ve already told you I’m not involved with him.’ Her voice is hard again, her teeth gritted. Her eyes are like flint. ‘And it’s not nonsense.’
I take a step back. But I can’t not address it. That WPC thinks I’m a terrible parent because I’m not stopping her doing this stuff. ‘It’s very clear to me that you are involved with this Patrick and he’s influencing you and making you do all these bad things. I really don’t want you seeing him.’
‘And what are you going to do if I do?’ Her eyebrows are raised, like she’s mocking me. She puts down the tea and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The languorous way she moves reminds me of a panther.
I can’t admit to her that there’s nothing I can do. ‘I just want to keep you safe.’
She takes a step towards me. ‘I am safe,’ she says.
‘Steph, you spent the night in a police cell. That’s not being safe.’
She’s quiet for a moment and stares at me.
She’s almost half a foot taller than me now.
‘Mum, this is really important to me. I know you always thought I would be a vet, and maybe I will be, but right now I need to fight for these animals. Awful things are happening that the public don’t know about.
If you saw the state of these animals, you’d never eat meat or wear cosmetics again. ’
She sounds so measured, so normal. Maybe it’s me who’s the mad one. Maybe I’m over-exaggerating all this. Mum always said I over-exaggerated.
‘Steph, please. These people are terrorists. They’re as bad as the IRA. They hurt people. You’re getting deeper and deeper into something you don’t understand. You’re so impulsive, you’re not thinking straight.’
Suddenly she’s standing right over me. My heart starts to beat faster.
‘Like the IRA?’ she says, staring down at me with that look in her eye. I need to get out of her room. ‘Why do you talk about things you don’t understand? I try to tell you but you just won’t listen.’
‘I am listening,’ I whisper. She’s standing between me and the door.
Her breath is coming too quickly. She’s going to start hyperventilating soon. I wonder where I left the paper bag. Downstairs, maybe. I put my hand on her arm. ‘Calm down, Steph, it’ll be okay. Just breathe.’
Her eyes are a deep grey and she looks at me for a moment but I get the sense she doesn’t really see me.
Then she half pushes, half flips me on to the bed.
I feel my body fly through the air – how can she be so strong?
– and my head collides with the top of the headboard, the carved mahogany slicing into the back of my skull.
I crumple half on the bed, half on the floor.
Black flashes above me. I close my eyes but it’s still there.
I slide to the floor. At least I’m nearer the door now.
Something wet is creeping through my hair.
There’s a hanky in my pocket and I hold it against the back of my skull.
I edge closer to the door but she stays by her desk. Thank God.
Paul shouts up from downstairs. ‘Milly, phone for you.’
I pull myself to my feet and stagger the last few yards and open the door.
‘Let’s talk later,’ I mumble.
‘There’s no need,’ she says, now sitting calmly at her desk.
I close the door quietly behind me and use the gallery railing to help me.
It’s hard to see much through the black stars.
I edge down the stairs, holding tightly on to the banister, and collapse on the telephone seat in the hall.
The library door is ajar, Paul’s head bent over papers. He doesn’t look up.
‘Hello,’ I say into the receiver using my best telephone voice.
‘Oh, Milly, it’s Jan. I heard what had happened and I wanted to check on you.’
News travels fast. But then Jan is married to Peter whose brother is in the police. I clamp my hand against the back of my head. The bleeding’s getting worse. ‘It’s all okay, Jan, but thank you for asking.’
‘It must be such a shock Steph being involved in criminal activity,’ she says. ‘Especially at her age. She was such a lovely youngster.’
I press my lips together. ‘She’s still lovely,’ I say.
‘Of course, of course.’ There’s silence on the line, just the crackle that tells me she’s still there. ‘She needs your support, doesn’t she, as she adjusts to being a young woman. It’s a challenging time.’
It reminds me of the last meeting we had with Steph’s headteacher when she smiled and said, ‘All Stephanie needs is a stable, loving home.’
‘Well, I wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you and here if you need anything. I can easily pop over,’ says Jan brightly.
I need you to go away and mind your own business, I think.
‘Anything at all,’ she repeats.
‘Thanks, Jan, and thanks for calling.’
‘Take care, Milly.’
I settle the phone down in the cradle and take the hanky from the back of my head.
It’s completely drenched with blood. I’m wearing a dark-brown dress, so blood that’s dripped on to it is barely visible.
Steph’s arrest will be around the village – and probably town too – within hours.
I go back upstairs to clean up my hair before Paul sees it.