believe he could still catch a trace of the
fragrance unique to his child – malt mixed with soap.
The shirt was yellow and the bear printed on the front held an ice cream. His daughter was wearing it in his favourite photograph that always rested upon the bedside tables in the series of
small rooms he rented, like this one.
Preserved in that image at three years old, she was standing in their garden, amidst umbrellas of pumpkin leaves that hid her legs in a vegetable plot so bright the print appeared blanched.
Smiling, she revealed small, square teeth, as the sunlight caught her raven hair, creating a sheen on the crown of her head. Shielded from the glare, the dark gemstones of her lowered blue eyes
glittered with joy.
Cloth Cat came out of the pink rucksack next. The soft toy was a present from the father’s brother, who lived in New Zealand. If Cloth Cat ever strayed far from their daughter’s
hand, the father and his wife had panicked. He’d once climbed over a fence at night to search a park for Cloth Cat, convinced that his little girl had dropped the toy over the side of the
pushchair without him noticing, earlier in the day. Retracing the afternoon’s walk, he’d moved between rows of millet covering two square miles of a former West Midlands green space,
the crop arranged like phalanxes of a great army of old, every soldier carrying a spear. Torch in hand, the father had searched a mile of ground for the toy cat, along each of the sun-baked tarmac
paths, his eyes so alert they’d ached. The toy was irreplaceable; his wife had already looked through the online trading sites to discover that numerous kinds of cats had been available, but
no Cloth Cats. His daughter would never have been fooled by a usurper.
The father did not find Cloth Cat because the soft toy was still in the place his daughter had forgotten she’d ‘posted’ it. While her father had searched through the darkness
of a blackout, Cloth Cat was safe inside a kitchen cupboard at home, and had been the whole time the little girl had cried for the toy’s loss.
Some time later, the girl stopped reaching for Cloth Cat. A giraffe and a frog with long legs became new and constant companions. Yet when the father believed it safe to store Cloth Cat in the
garage, the toy returned to the girl’s favour and became the centre of her court all over again. The father often tried to imagine his daughter’s face if she and Cloth Cat were ever
reunited.
He cared more for his memory of her than he cared for himself, and he kept her things safe and close so that no more of her would go. But when his mind turned to the numbers of people who were
now crammed into this island, he could understand why his family had never been a priority to the police. When he considered the refugees, the millions, with more and more coming in every day in
great noisy leviathans of motion and colour and tired faces, he realized the authorities had never had the time to look for one four-year-old girl. And whenever he watched the news, he understood
why so few of the missing were ever found – because very few were even looking for them.
The emergency government claimed the population still stood at ninety million. Others claimed the population of the British Isles was now closer to one hundred and twenty million. Either way, he
and his wife were simply lost amongst the millions. When he’d accepted this after the first year of his daughter’s abduction, he had simply sat down in silence. His wife had lain down
and never really risen again.
In the first year, he and his wife had made hundreds of phone calls together, and sent thousands of emails to all kinds of individuals and departments. Sometimes they met harried people who
listened to them for a while. Pictures of the girl were shown on television and appeared on websites too. This continued for days on television and months online. And the father had also walked and
walked for the best part of
fragrance unique to his child – malt mixed with soap.
The shirt was yellow and the bear printed on the front held an ice cream. His daughter was wearing it in his favourite photograph that always rested upon the bedside tables in the series of
small rooms he rented, like this one.
Preserved in that image at three years old, she was standing in their garden, amidst umbrellas of pumpkin leaves that hid her legs in a vegetable plot so bright the print appeared blanched.
Smiling, she revealed small, square teeth, as the sunlight caught her raven hair, creating a sheen on the crown of her head. Shielded from the glare, the dark gemstones of her lowered blue eyes
glittered with joy.
Cloth Cat came out of the pink rucksack next. The soft toy was a present from the father’s brother, who lived in New Zealand. If Cloth Cat ever strayed far from their daughter’s
hand, the father and his wife had panicked. He’d once climbed over a fence at night to search a park for Cloth Cat, convinced that his little girl had dropped the toy over the side of the
pushchair without him noticing, earlier in the day. Retracing the afternoon’s walk, he’d moved between rows of millet covering two square miles of a former West Midlands green space,
the crop arranged like phalanxes of a great army of old, every soldier carrying a spear. Torch in hand, the father had searched a mile of ground for the toy cat, along each of the sun-baked tarmac
paths, his eyes so alert they’d ached. The toy was irreplaceable; his wife had already looked through the online trading sites to discover that numerous kinds of cats had been available, but
no Cloth Cats. His daughter would never have been fooled by a usurper.
The father did not find Cloth Cat because the soft toy was still in the place his daughter had forgotten she’d ‘posted’ it. While her father had searched through the darkness
of a blackout, Cloth Cat was safe inside a kitchen cupboard at home, and had been the whole time the little girl had cried for the toy’s loss.
Some time later, the girl stopped reaching for Cloth Cat. A giraffe and a frog with long legs became new and constant companions. Yet when the father believed it safe to store Cloth Cat in the
garage, the toy returned to the girl’s favour and became the centre of her court all over again. The father often tried to imagine his daughter’s face if she and Cloth Cat were ever
reunited.
He cared more for his memory of her than he cared for himself, and he kept her things safe and close so that no more of her would go. But when his mind turned to the numbers of people who were
now crammed into this island, he could understand why his family had never been a priority to the police. When he considered the refugees, the millions, with more and more coming in every day in
great noisy leviathans of motion and colour and tired faces, he realized the authorities had never had the time to look for one four-year-old girl. And whenever he watched the news, he understood
why so few of the missing were ever found – because very few were even looking for them.
The emergency government claimed the population still stood at ninety million. Others claimed the population of the British Isles was now closer to one hundred and twenty million. Either way, he
and his wife were simply lost amongst the millions. When he’d accepted this after the first year of his daughter’s abduction, he had simply sat down in silence. His wife had lain down
and never really risen again.
In the first year, he and his wife had made hundreds of phone calls together, and sent thousands of emails to all kinds of individuals and departments. Sometimes they met harried people who
listened to them for a while. Pictures of the girl were shown on television and appeared on websites too. This continued for days on television and months online. And the father had also walked and
walked for the best part of
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