Looking For Alex. Marian Dillon

my shoulders as a tight, cold shiver.

      Dan, and Fitz, here in London, all this time.

      *

       11^th July 1977

      ‘You see, Beth, my problem is I’m finding it hard to see this as anything unusual. A little protest is my guess.’ Burton fixes his bleary eyes on mine as my fifth-form tutor used to when he thought I’d got something to hide. I swallow, blink. ‘Do you know what I mean, Beth?’

      I look over at my headteacher. Mr Cue is leaning against the window, his bum perched on the sill, hands in pockets. He raises his eyebrows until they form a question mark.

      ‘I’m not sure,’ I answer, grudgingly. ‘I suppose you mean girls run away from home all the time.’

      ‘Exactly, exactly, Beth.’

      My instinctive dislike of the policeman deepens. ‘Does that mean you don’t have to try and find them? What if someone’s got Alex? What if she’s being hurt?’

      The DS gets up from his blue plastic chair that sits facing mine and begins pacing about Mr Cue’s study. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in there on my own — that is without a friend beside me. I notice now how bare it is. Apart from Mr Cue’s heavy wooden desk and chair there’s a set of glass-fronted shelves, full of books and folders, some low cupboards, a small table, and two plastic chairs for parents. We pupils are not usually invited to sit.

      DS Burton stops and turns to look at me. ‘The way I’m looking at it, Beth, is like this. Your friend Alex, so I gather, is rather difficult.’ He makes the word difficult sound like an offence. ‘She misses lessons and when she is here she dresses in a way that will get her noticed in the wrong way — all that punk stuff.’

      His eyes travel over me, from head to toe. I fold my arms, suddenly self-conscious of my fledgling punk look: black skin-tight jeans under a Stranglers T-shirt, and oversized Doc Martens that sprout, bulbous, from my legs. The T-shirt is cinched with a wide black belt, accentuating my suddenly blossoming breasts; I notice how DS Burton’s eyes linger. With red cropped hair and thick black eyeliner I’m teetering on the edge of what the school consider acceptable. I glance at Mr Cue, who is now looking at me through narrowed eyes. There’s no uniform in the sixth form but there is a limit past which we are not expected to go, and I’m pretty close to that limit. Alex always strays over it provocatively. She wears tiny, tight skirts and fishnet stockings, clingy tops, extreme shoes and multiple earrings that run like a train track up each ear.

      ‘She’s got a bit of a lip on her, yes?’ Burton looks over at Mr Cue, who confirms this with a nod. ‘Her parents tell me she’s become more and more of a handful at home and the other day you told me she’s taken to hanging out at The Wellington Arms late at night. On her own. Bit of a dive, isn’t it?’

      ‘I didn’t say that. I said she told me she went there once. She’d had a row at home.’

      DS Burton looks at me intently. There’s silence in the room, broken only by the sound of balls on racquets from the tennis courts. The air is warm, liquid.

      ‘Well, all my information tells me that Alex is a bit of a rebel. Are you getting me? It’s almost like, why wouldn’t she run away?’

      I stare down at my hands, neatly folded in my lap. They look demure but the palms are warm and sweaty. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I hear myself say, surprised by my own daring.

      ‘Oh, is it? Well, tell me, then, Beth, why did Alex get on a bus to London exactly two weeks ago today?’

      My head shoots up so fast I feel a sharp pain jab the back of my neck. DS Burton looks faintly gratified at the reaction from both myself and Mr Cue, who pushes sharply away from the window and says, ‘What?’

      Out of the corner of my eye I see the woman constable who’s taking notes throw me a sympathetic look. Burton sits down in Mr Cue’s chair and leans over the desk.

      ‘So you’re telling us the truth, then, Beth. You don’t know any more than we do.’

      I can’t speak, can’t form any thoughts that seem to make sense.

      ‘You know that for certain?’ Mr Cue asks and Burton sticks his chin out, runs one finger round his collar.

      ‘We found out early this morning. One of the drivers saw the article in The Star and came forward, remembered seeing her on his bus. I kept it back, for obvious reasons, and Beth here has just told me what I wanted to know. So, what we now have is a young girl who’s left home of her own free will and without telling anyone where she’s going.’ He glances at me, sees my face, and maybe my despair. He coughs, and his voice changes, morphs into a ‘giving bad news’ version of itself. ‘It does mean, I’m afraid, that there’s not much else we can do. Alex is seventeen, so legally old enough to live by herself, and she’s not done anything under duress. We have to assume that she’s chosen to leave home. She’ll stay on the missing persons list but…’ he shrugs ‘…that’s all.’

      His words jangle uselessly in my head — own free will, she’s chosen to leave home — and the cold chill in my stomach is almost as bad as when I believed something terrible had happened to her.

      *

      For the next few days, I walk around in a daze, telling myself I should be happy, that now I can stop imagining Alex being dragged into a car and unspeakable things happening to her, that there was no random attack, no sudden blow from a hammer. But although I do feel relief — who wouldn’t? — those sickening thoughts seem to have got swapped for ones that are somehow, in an insidious way, worse. I veer between disbelief and shocked hurt, until all I can think is: how could she do this and not tell me?

      My parents, although concerned at how desolate I am, have their own take on things. I see it in their faces and hear it in whispered words. We might have expected something like this; typical of Alex. I even sense a slight relief, once they know she’s not been raped or murdered, that now she’s out of the way I can get on with my studies, get my grades and go to university.

      Only I’m not so sure that’s what I want to do.

      Two letters arrive for me, both big, fat envelopes. One is a prospectus from Leeds University. The other is a brochure from the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, in London. I’ve been expecting the first — my parents are encouraging me to apply there — but not the second, and it causes a row with my mother.

      ‘I thought we agreed that you’d go to university, get your language degree, and then do your acting afterwards.’ She’s ironing, her flushed face bobbing up and down.

      ‘We didn’t agree,’ I say. ‘It’s just what you and Dad think I should do.’ I’m staring at the cover of the brochure, at students in white masks and black cloaks, wondering why this has been posted to me. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

      ‘You need something solid behind you, Beth, so that—’

      ‘Yes, I know, for when I end up as yet another failed actor.’

      ‘Actress,’ she corrects, always the keeper of correct grammar, and clunks the iron down on its stand as she tugs my dad’s shirt into position.

      ‘Actor. Actress is patronising.’

      She tightens her lips and says nothing more. Watching the iron sweep from left to right, I sense that she’s holding back because of my distress about Alex but I’m too cross with her to be grateful.

      ‘And anyway, I didn’t even send for this.’ Not yet, although I had intended to. ‘I don’t know why it’s come.’

      My mother parks the iron and comes over to pick up the Leeds prospectus. ‘Oh, this looks very good, Beth.’

      I flick the pages of the Guildhall brochure, seeing a montage of student life there — rehearsals, dance lessons, mime, productions — and a faint flutter of excitement, like the wings of a moth, begins to stir