James-Bond-type figure in a dinner jacket, powerful and rich, waiting for Peri to rejoin him on an elegant yacht anchored in a hidden bay somewhere along that rocky coastline. Yet that hardly fit with the ragged girl who didn't have a mobile phone or a credit card, who'd had to beg a coin in order to call her mother collect.
Far more likely that Peri had hooked up with some wretched, anachronistic vagabond who liked to keep his woman barefoot and pregnant. She'd made her way off the cramped, dingy fishing boat and found the nearest telephone in an attempt to put her mother's mind at rest about her; but she was so thoroughly under this goon's spell that she was terrified in case she was gone too long, and he sailed off without her.
Why did wonderful women fall in love with horrible men, make unnecessary sacrifices, give up everything for them?
It was one of the great mysteries of life.
But I was getting carried away. I didn't know that Peri had done any such thing. At the beginning of an investigation, everything is wide-open. Anything is possible and it's too temptingly easy to build up elaborate stories that one solid fact would demolish. The truth of what had happened to Peri might be much, much stranger, or utterly banal.
I picked up an A5 hard-bound book covered in a sort of paisley pattern in dark pink, blue, and white—Peri's diary? Inside the front cover she had written her name and two different addresses. The Texas address had been lightly scored through; beneath it was an address in West Hampstead.
I flipped through the pages, noticing the careful, rounded handwriting of a good girl student, the same throughout. Only about the first third of the book had been used, and most of that as a sketchbook. This, like her handwriting, was schoolgirl stuff, and repetitious. She had only three subjects: horses, dogs, and elaborately coiffured Barbie-doll women. There was no evidence here of any great artistic talent; most twelve-year-olds could do as well. Although there was something oddly obsessive about the style and subject, I guessed there was nothing more sinister behind the pictures than a bored teenager passing the time.
After the drawings came about twenty closely written pages. There was no heading, no title or date to introduce it. Flipping through to the end of the text I saw a small drawing of a butterfly beside the initials P.L.
Ordering another cup of coffee, I made myself as comfortable as the hard chair allowed and settled down to read.
I know Cu was there from the beginning, because there's a picture of him in my crib, all fluffy and white and new-looking, with a bright pink ribbon tied around his neck. He must have been a present when I was born, but Mom can't remember who from.
“Probably Polly,” she said. “She was the only real friend I had when you were born. We didn't get many presents.”
Wherever he came from, Cu was the first of the Guardians.
Mocky came next. There's a picture of me, age two, clutching the little purple pony with the flying pink mane and tail. Mom thinks we got her at a garage sale.
Queeny was naked, one-legged, and half-bald, not a doll anyone would give as a present or pay money for. I brought her home with me from day care: Mom remembers trying to take her back while I screamed my head off. In the end, she was allowed to stay. Mom gave her a good washing, braided her sad hair, and made her a dress out of an old purple silk scarf: I thought she was beautiful.
How did I know they were Guardians?
I guess they must have told me.
They weren't like other toys; they could talk. Not out loud so other people could hear them, but just to me, secretly, when we were alone.
Once I asked them where they came from.
Cu said he couldn't remember. Mocky told me it didn't matter.
Queeny said they'd been sent by Him to watch over me.
But when I asked who “He” was she wouldn't say His name.
I tried to reason it out. Who else got a capital-H Him? “You mean God?”
She
Far more likely that Peri had hooked up with some wretched, anachronistic vagabond who liked to keep his woman barefoot and pregnant. She'd made her way off the cramped, dingy fishing boat and found the nearest telephone in an attempt to put her mother's mind at rest about her; but she was so thoroughly under this goon's spell that she was terrified in case she was gone too long, and he sailed off without her.
Why did wonderful women fall in love with horrible men, make unnecessary sacrifices, give up everything for them?
It was one of the great mysteries of life.
But I was getting carried away. I didn't know that Peri had done any such thing. At the beginning of an investigation, everything is wide-open. Anything is possible and it's too temptingly easy to build up elaborate stories that one solid fact would demolish. The truth of what had happened to Peri might be much, much stranger, or utterly banal.
I picked up an A5 hard-bound book covered in a sort of paisley pattern in dark pink, blue, and white—Peri's diary? Inside the front cover she had written her name and two different addresses. The Texas address had been lightly scored through; beneath it was an address in West Hampstead.
I flipped through the pages, noticing the careful, rounded handwriting of a good girl student, the same throughout. Only about the first third of the book had been used, and most of that as a sketchbook. This, like her handwriting, was schoolgirl stuff, and repetitious. She had only three subjects: horses, dogs, and elaborately coiffured Barbie-doll women. There was no evidence here of any great artistic talent; most twelve-year-olds could do as well. Although there was something oddly obsessive about the style and subject, I guessed there was nothing more sinister behind the pictures than a bored teenager passing the time.
After the drawings came about twenty closely written pages. There was no heading, no title or date to introduce it. Flipping through to the end of the text I saw a small drawing of a butterfly beside the initials P.L.
Ordering another cup of coffee, I made myself as comfortable as the hard chair allowed and settled down to read.
I know Cu was there from the beginning, because there's a picture of him in my crib, all fluffy and white and new-looking, with a bright pink ribbon tied around his neck. He must have been a present when I was born, but Mom can't remember who from.
“Probably Polly,” she said. “She was the only real friend I had when you were born. We didn't get many presents.”
Wherever he came from, Cu was the first of the Guardians.
Mocky came next. There's a picture of me, age two, clutching the little purple pony with the flying pink mane and tail. Mom thinks we got her at a garage sale.
Queeny was naked, one-legged, and half-bald, not a doll anyone would give as a present or pay money for. I brought her home with me from day care: Mom remembers trying to take her back while I screamed my head off. In the end, she was allowed to stay. Mom gave her a good washing, braided her sad hair, and made her a dress out of an old purple silk scarf: I thought she was beautiful.
How did I know they were Guardians?
I guess they must have told me.
They weren't like other toys; they could talk. Not out loud so other people could hear them, but just to me, secretly, when we were alone.
Once I asked them where they came from.
Cu said he couldn't remember. Mocky told me it didn't matter.
Queeny said they'd been sent by Him to watch over me.
But when I asked who “He” was she wouldn't say His name.
I tried to reason it out. Who else got a capital-H Him? “You mean God?”
She
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