chalkboard outside.
She crossed the road at Hawes Pier. The Maid of the Forth bobbed in the water, waiting to scoot tourists to Inchcolm Island tomorrow. Ellie had set off from this pier six years ago on a sponsored swim, back when she was really fit, when she was at her best. A team of eight of them in dry suits, the middle of summer, the most benign conditions possible, and still it nearly broke her. It wasn’t the distance, not much more than one and a half miles, but the height of the waves, a tidal range of over six metres to compete with. They had to alert coastguard and the harbourmaster beforehand, check for shipping traffic. But it had been worth it, the eight of them raising twenty thousand for the Sick Kids, and she was immortal for a brief moment afterwards. Staggering up the slipway at North Queensferry, hands on knees, she felt a mix of immense tiredness and overpowering adrenalin, bone-weary but unable to sleep until the small hours of the morning. It felt like she’d achieved something useful, and the glow of it had stayed with her for weeks.
She was directly under the rail bridge now, passing the huge stone legs supporting millions of tons of red steel. She wanted to feel the shudder of a train overhead, but none came.
It was only once she reached the lock-ups that she realised she didn’t have a clue what to do if she found Libby. There were six garages in a row, all in darkness, no street lights here. She went to the first one, listened. Silence. She tried to open the corrugated door but it was locked. She knocked on the door, which rattled in its fitting.
‘Hello?’
She went along the row doing the same, listening, trying the lock, knocking, but if Libby was in one of the later ones she would’ve heard Ellie coming, and would surely stay quiet.
After shaking the last door handle Ellie stood looking out to sea. The lights of the rail bridge stretched into the gloom over the Forth, like the promise of a brighter tomorrow. The sound of the waves, the salty smell, so familiar to her.
She unlocked her phone and opened Facebook. Checked out Logan’s page. A heart and three kisses from a girl called Melissa. A picture of the two of them together, in what looked like her bedroom. Ellie didn’t recognise her. How could your son be friends with a girl you’ve never heard of? How could he spend time in a teenage girl’s bedroom and you not know about it?
She typed in Sam McKenna, three mutual friends, apparently. She clicked through but it was no one direct, always once removed. That was the problem with Facebook, one you had a few hundred friends you were connected to the whole world, we’re all intertwined now, whether we like it or not.
She looked at Sam’s profile, not much there. Logan’s was the same, none of the kids cared about filling in their lives because they hadn’t lived much yet.
One hundred and thirty-five photos. She swiped through them, barely stopping to register. Gangs of mates hanging around the seafront, at school, in each other’s houses. Holiday photos. She slowed down at those, checking out his sister in a few of them, his mum and dad. Jack and Alison. They weren’t tagged in the pictures, so maybe they hadn’t succumbed to social media. Ellie tried to remember a time before she’d been on Facebook, but struggled. Just another crutch now.
She looked closer at the holiday pictures, flicking back and forth, then stopped at one that must’ve been taken by Sam. Libby and her mum and dad standing on a Scottish beach somewhere. Ellie zoomed in. What could you tell from the look on a face in a photograph? She stared at Libby, large-framed glasses on her face, a cluster of spots in the space between her eyebrows, those eyebrows brown but her hair tied in a blonde bun, so she was old enough to be dying her hair.
She clicked on Libby’s tag and went through to her page. Two hundred and four pictures. Swipe, swipe, swipe. The most recent ones all moody, fish-faced selfies,
She crossed the road at Hawes Pier. The Maid of the Forth bobbed in the water, waiting to scoot tourists to Inchcolm Island tomorrow. Ellie had set off from this pier six years ago on a sponsored swim, back when she was really fit, when she was at her best. A team of eight of them in dry suits, the middle of summer, the most benign conditions possible, and still it nearly broke her. It wasn’t the distance, not much more than one and a half miles, but the height of the waves, a tidal range of over six metres to compete with. They had to alert coastguard and the harbourmaster beforehand, check for shipping traffic. But it had been worth it, the eight of them raising twenty thousand for the Sick Kids, and she was immortal for a brief moment afterwards. Staggering up the slipway at North Queensferry, hands on knees, she felt a mix of immense tiredness and overpowering adrenalin, bone-weary but unable to sleep until the small hours of the morning. It felt like she’d achieved something useful, and the glow of it had stayed with her for weeks.
She was directly under the rail bridge now, passing the huge stone legs supporting millions of tons of red steel. She wanted to feel the shudder of a train overhead, but none came.
It was only once she reached the lock-ups that she realised she didn’t have a clue what to do if she found Libby. There were six garages in a row, all in darkness, no street lights here. She went to the first one, listened. Silence. She tried to open the corrugated door but it was locked. She knocked on the door, which rattled in its fitting.
‘Hello?’
She went along the row doing the same, listening, trying the lock, knocking, but if Libby was in one of the later ones she would’ve heard Ellie coming, and would surely stay quiet.
After shaking the last door handle Ellie stood looking out to sea. The lights of the rail bridge stretched into the gloom over the Forth, like the promise of a brighter tomorrow. The sound of the waves, the salty smell, so familiar to her.
She unlocked her phone and opened Facebook. Checked out Logan’s page. A heart and three kisses from a girl called Melissa. A picture of the two of them together, in what looked like her bedroom. Ellie didn’t recognise her. How could your son be friends with a girl you’ve never heard of? How could he spend time in a teenage girl’s bedroom and you not know about it?
She typed in Sam McKenna, three mutual friends, apparently. She clicked through but it was no one direct, always once removed. That was the problem with Facebook, one you had a few hundred friends you were connected to the whole world, we’re all intertwined now, whether we like it or not.
She looked at Sam’s profile, not much there. Logan’s was the same, none of the kids cared about filling in their lives because they hadn’t lived much yet.
One hundred and thirty-five photos. She swiped through them, barely stopping to register. Gangs of mates hanging around the seafront, at school, in each other’s houses. Holiday photos. She slowed down at those, checking out his sister in a few of them, his mum and dad. Jack and Alison. They weren’t tagged in the pictures, so maybe they hadn’t succumbed to social media. Ellie tried to remember a time before she’d been on Facebook, but struggled. Just another crutch now.
She looked closer at the holiday pictures, flicking back and forth, then stopped at one that must’ve been taken by Sam. Libby and her mum and dad standing on a Scottish beach somewhere. Ellie zoomed in. What could you tell from the look on a face in a photograph? She stared at Libby, large-framed glasses on her face, a cluster of spots in the space between her eyebrows, those eyebrows brown but her hair tied in a blonde bun, so she was old enough to be dying her hair.
She clicked on Libby’s tag and went through to her page. Two hundred and four pictures. Swipe, swipe, swipe. The most recent ones all moody, fish-faced selfies,
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