Not My Daughter. Suzy K Quinn

looked sordid and I felt the cheapness of it all – young girls sleeping with musicians who couldn’t care less about them.

      Michael came to the door. ‘I can see that pretty little brain working. Put all that down. All that stress. That’s what gave you cancer.’ He put a hand to my chest. ‘We’re old souls, you and I. We’ll meet again somewhere, somehow.’

      My chest felt warm with his touch. Like he was imparting some kind of energy.

      ‘I wish you weren’t married.’

      Michael kissed my head. ‘Danny will take you home. Okay? We’ve got my little Jaguar F-Type tucked under this bus, believe it or not. It’s in the hold, right underneath us. How about that? Don’t say anything to the press, will you? Don’t be that girl.’ He pushed the door all the way open. ‘Danny,’ he shouted down the bus. ‘Danny – this girl needs a ride home.’

      The driver poked his head out from the cab at the front.

      ‘You’ll be safe with Danny,’ said Michael, slinging his arm around my shoulder in a pally way. ‘I’ve known this man for years. He’ll look after you. Okay, love?’

      The term of endearment felt dismissive. Disconnected.

      I felt the cold, hard thump of the bedroom door closing behind me.

Lorna

      It’s 8 a.m.

      ‘Liberty?’ I yell up the stairs. ‘What’s happening up there? It’s nearly time for school.’

      Liberty still hasn’t come down for breakfast. Usually she’s up at seven, walking the grounds with Skywalker.

      She’s angry with me, I’m sure. Sulking.

      I wonder how well she slept last night. I only managed a few hours.

      This morning, I’m determined to smooth things over.

      Last night was not a good night.

      I’ve made Liberty a fresh fruit plate with a side of yoghurt, coconut and quinoa – her favourite.

      Nick and Darcy have already eaten breakfast omelettes and left for nursery. Cheddar cheese omelette with crunched-up cornflakes for Darcy; spinach, feta and tomato for Nick.

      Omelette is Nick’s speciality, and the only thing he can cook well. He makes omelette for himself and Darcy every morning, and sometimes for lunch and dinner too.

      ‘Liberty?’

      I carry Liberty’s fruit plate to the table and adjust slices of fruit to neaten the display. I’ve cut the kiwi, mango and strawberries to look like the artist Frida Kahlo, with mango for the face and slivered grapes for eyebrows. Liberty loves Frida, and I love doing fun little things like this for Liberty. Showing my love however I can.

      ‘Sweetheart?’ I call. ‘Rise and shine. You’ll be late.’

      Still no answer.

      I climb Liberty’s staircase, the bare wood smooth and warm under my feet. I am grateful for this house. There was a time I never believed I’d have a life like this. Our own land. A yoga room. Study. Library. And high, high gates all around.

      ‘Liberty?’

      I knock on my daughter’s door.

      ‘Honey?’

      It’s unlike Liberty not to answer, but the fight last night was pretty bad.

      I push the door open, listening.

      There’s nothing – no sound, no grumbling, no shower running. Skywalker doesn’t come running to greet me.

      Liberty’s bedroom is dark, but the bed has been made. Liberty always makes her bed the moment she gets up, even when she’s not well.

      Where is she, then? And where is Skywalker?

      I stroke the cotton duvet, feeling for Liberty in the gloom, but find nothing – no soft, warm body.

      ‘Liberty?’

      The ensuite door is slightly open, but no light spills out.

      Flicking on the bedroom light, I feel uneasy.

      I start to rationalize.

       She must have gone running in the grounds, maybe she’s training Skywalker outside, maybe, maybe …

      But things are missing. Liberty’s miniature turtle bookmark – the one she keeps on her desk for good luck. Her cherry-red DM boots.

      I open her built-in closet, heart racing.

      Some clothes are gone and there’s a big, gaping hole where her canvas army backpack usually sits.

      Suddenly, I am overwhelmed. Immobilized by fear.

      ‘Liberty, please,’ I say, voice weak. ‘If you’re here … it’s not funny.’

      I go to Liberty’s ensuite again. Maybe she’s hiding in the dark. Playing a trick on me. But when I pull the light cord, flickering light shows me an empty room. Liberty’s bamboo toothbrush has gone. Her hairbrush too.

      Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

      Now I’m tearing downstairs, screaming over and over again:

      ‘Liberty! Liberty!’

      The chain is off the backdoor. It’s never off. I latch it every night. Every single night. It’s part of my routine or, as Nick calls it, my OCD.

       Why have a chain on the back door? Nobody has a chain on the back door. And when we have that great big gate out there? Isn’t this a little bit of overkill?

      I imagine someone creeping upstairs in the dead of night. Stealing my beautiful daughter. But Skywalker would have barked. Liberty would have shouted and fought. And none of her things would be missing …

      No. That’s not what happened.

      Liberty crept downstairs – probably early in the morning, after I’d fallen asleep. Skywalker was close at her heels. She carried her army bag stuffed with clothes. The front door would be too noisy, she wouldn’t risk it. Instead she headed out the back way, softly slipping the chain from its metal tunnel. She carefully took Skywalker’s leash from the hook and clicked it to his collar.

      Now she’s outside, alone in the dark, heading to the front gate. She knows exactly where she’s headed. She’s going to see her father …

      I hear myself scream her name. ‘LIBERTY!’

      Okay.

      Calm. Calm.

      Breathe in, breathe out.

      She could have gone to a friend’s house.

      Call Liberty’s phone, I think. Just call her. But then I realize I took her phone last night.

       Call the police then. You know the number …

      I grab my own phone from the solar charging station.

      I’ve called the police so many times about Liberty. I am the woman who cried wolf.

      ‘Hello, what is your emergency?’

      For a stupid second, I jump at a disembodied voice:

      ‘Oh! Hey. Hello. Police.’ And then I add a British, ‘Please.’

      There’s a slight delay as I’m connected.

      ‘Sussex police. Can I take your name?’

      ‘My daughter. She’s gone. She’s … she’s run away.’

      ‘Can I have your full name and address?’

      ‘She’s