Ice Dancing Episode 12

The clock on the mantelpiece had struck eleven and there was no sign of Fiona. I had tried phoning her but her phone was switched off. Sandy had been watching an old Bond movie and – uncharacteristically – had drunk a couple of very large drams during the course of the evening.

He had been complaining of rheumatism so perhaps the whisky was medicinal. By 10.30, he had fallen asleep in the chair and had only woken up to stagger to the lavatory, then he struggled up to bed.

I had heard the creak of wood and groan of springs as he flung himself on to the mattress and not long after, his snores came reverberating through the ceiling.

I couldn’t send him down to the village in search of Fiona, could I?

Ten minutes passed. I turned on the television and flicked between channels: plump men and women were indulging in naked ball games somewhere in Europe.

In America, mothers were putting their tiny, tarty daughters through pageant hell.

Siggy sat on my knee. The autumn evening was chilly and Sandy had lit the fire but now it was burning very low and I hadn’t bothered to stoke it up.

Safe as houses

Siggy was feeling the cold and I was the warmest thing in the room. He wasn’t really savage, but if he came on to your knee and you didn’t scratch his jowls, he would bite you, gently but with the hint of violence to come, until you did.

Another ten minutes passed. I had visions of Fiona lying drunk, drugged, raped, murdered. Abducted. This is the village, Helen, I told myself sternly. Safe as houses. No crime to speak of. Knocked down in the street then, I thought.

I tipped Siggy off my lap and phoned Annie. Her entire household kept late hours and I knew she would still be up. “Have any of your lot seen Fiona?” “Hang on a minute.”

I heard her running up the stairs. There was a pause. Then, “No. Nobody has. But they’ve hardly left the house all night. Dean took the dog for a walk an hour ago. His girlfriend’s here now. Why? Should she be home?”

“Oh you know what she’s like, Annie. Eleven o’clock I told her.”

“It’s only half past. She’s probably at somebody’s house watching a film. Do you want Tim to go out and have a look for her? He’s still up.”

“No. She’d be mortified.”

“Give her another half hour and phone me back if she’s still not home.”

“Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?” “Have you seen what’s on the telly? And our broadband’s on the blink again.” “Nothing worth watching.”

“Have a drink, Helen. Calm down. She’ll be back in a minute.”

Another half hour passed. I thought I might drive down into the village and go looking for her myself. I was on the point of phoning Annie again when I heard the rattle of a vehicle in the yard. I rushed to the kitchen door in time to see Joe Napier with his arm around a very drunken Fiona.

He had half dragged her out of the front seat, but she was being unco-operative and he was having a hard time.

He was holding her upright with one hand, although she’s a big girl, her father’s daughter all right, and she was giggling. Her skirt had ridden up and she was practically showing her knickers.

“For God’s sake!” I was so angry that I thought I was going to hit him. Or her. “What have you done to her?”

“Not guilty, ma’am,” he said, mildly, reverting to his polite form of address. “Don’t you think we ought to get her inside?”

If he had let go of her, she would have fallen down.

He was holding her upright with one hand, although she’s a big girl, her father’s daughter all right, and she was giggling

Not a pretty sight

I held the door open and he half carried my sixteen-year-old daughter into the kitchen and balanced her precariously on a chair. He looked as if he found it funny but was trying not to laugh. She had stopped giggling and started groaning, her head in her hands.

“Ooh, Mum. I do feel...”

My reactions, honed by years of experience, were pretty quick. When she was a little girl, Fiona had always turned to me saying, “Mum, I do feel...” and promptly vomited all over whatever I happened to be wearing at the time. So I was in there with the bucket just in time, and she was heaving and barfing into it. Not a pretty sight. I glared at Joe Napier.

“Yeah,” he observed, laconically, leaning in the doorway. “She did that in my car as well.”

“She was sick in your car? What happened to her?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Honest. You’ll have to ask her that when she’s sober. I just fell over her.”

“Fell over her?”

“When I went into the pub she was hanging about the phone box with the other groupies. Somebody in the pub told me who she was.”

“Groupies?”

“The phone box groupies. It seems to hold some major attraction for them. Don’t you have cell phones over here?”

I must have looked at him blankly, too worried about Fiona to take in what he was saying.

“I wasn’t drinking because I had the car,” he said, by way of explanation.

“Just fancied a bit of company which was why I went to the pub. When I came out, she was sitting on the pavement and I almost tripped over her. She couldn’t stand up straight. I didn’t think it was wise to leave her there, so I managed to get her into the car. Then she was sick.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you want me to clean it up for you?”

He spread his hands.

“Don’t worry. What’s a bit of vomit between neighbours?”

“But I was so worried about her.” “How old is she?”

“Sixteen. Oh God, what has she been taking?”

He was heading for the door. Not his problem. He still looked amused and faintly embarrassed.

“Oh I reckon it’s just liquor,” he said. “But she looks as if she’s had some god-awful mixture.”

“I can see that.”

“I’d better be getting home. Hope she’s OK. Night, Mrs Breckenridge.”

More on Monday.

Ice Dancing by Catherine Czerkawska, Dyrock Publishing, £9.99 and Kindle E-reader from £2.99. For more of her books, including The Posy Ring and A Proper Person To Be Detained, see www. saraband.net.