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Escaping Henworth?

I could have blown out the spark creeping up the fuse in my mind. I could have poured the same excuses over it – extinguished it with familiar lies or stamped it out with more well-rehearsed denial – but I didn’t.

Not this time.

This time, I packed up the shreds of my pathetic life into my worn holdall.

Now that I wasn’t desperately clasping the pieces of myself together, they flew apart like bullets. Piercing and tearing.

Finding that photo in their caravan had felt like waking bolt upright in bed after a nightmare. I couldn’t deny what I’d seen.

Her. Maeve White.

My fingertip bobbed as I ran it over the photo’s creases. They looked like ugly veins sprawled across her angelically plump cheeks. The pigment of the picture had faded, her name on the back barely visible, yet her blonde hair was still a sharp contrast to her dark, round eyes.

I had blonde hair. Well, not now, it had been box dyed – shade ‘Mocha 32’. A strict condition of the fracturing fa?ade.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Mum had yelled at Dad after I’d stormed out of their caravan earlier that day.

It was silly, really; pathetic that a boy had pushed me so far over the edge I thought I could stand-up to them, having barely survived past repercussions of doing so. But something about what had happened with Sam was too much, even for me.

Their caravan had shaken on its foundations, my parents whirling around each other, animated with fury. Her garish blue eyeshadow smeared; his beer belly rippling as she had tossed the tin at him. The worn little tin that had no place; that held a photograph they had no good reason to possess.

A photograph of five-year-old Maeve White, who went missing nineteen years ago.

I lunged for the holdall as it slipped off my bed. I’d crammed in faded t-shirts and unintentionally ripped jeans; worn boots and mismatched underwear. What do you pack when you’re running away from your entire life? Is it even running away when you’re an adult?

I hauled it back onto my bed, glancing out of the green-tinged plastic window over the muddy site. No one was coming; no one had noticed yet.

I pushed my feet into my trainers, my toes curling at the dampness lingering from that morning. Even a warm August could be cold and dank living in a mouldy caravan. I ran my fingertip over the photograph again before tucking it into the bag’s side pocket and pulling the zip closed, the metallic buzz loud in my ears. It was getting dark outside, the light creeping over the tips of the trees surrounding Henworth.

My caravan was at the edge of park, the obvious outcast – apt that their ostracism of me had become my advantage. I would still have to make it to the metal gate separating the imposing wire fences, then up the gravel path before anyone saw me. Before anyone saw what I’d become, saw what had snapped inside of me. I could taste it, the adrenaline. I could feel the heat in my bones. I could see the blue Ford I’d swiped the key for.

I hitched my bag on my shoulder, grabbing my black waterproof. My body pulsed when my hand hesitated on the flimsy door handle. It wasn’t just a door, it was destruction. Destruction of my entire life. There would be no going back.

Last week, I’d been with Sam. We’d laughed and kissed and stayed up watching some stupid old film on Channel 5. He was going to help me get out; he was just biding his time. Two years we’d been together, near enough. It was the only relationship I’d dared to extend past mutually beneficial sex. Sam was harmless and they knew it, so they had allowed it. I was a moth to a flame, fixated on the light that his little bit of love gave me in the darkness. We’d kept it low-key. I only stayed round his two or three times a month, and never when I was needed.

It was my fault, what had happened. I knew it was. I’d mentioned, stupidly, that one of the new cousins could take my van when I moved out.

My knuckles went white as my grip on the door handle tightened, but my wrist wouldn’t turn. I rolled my shoulders and tipped my head from one side to the other, attempting to stir up more anger. The storm had been brewing for a while now; I’d felt it growing inside of me, churning. I hadn’t stopped to think as I’d quietly crept back into their caravan after my parents’ fight was over, looking for the tin; taking the car key and the photograph.

After a quick internet search, I’d found the missing persons appeal for Maeve, and a home address for her parents. They were still searching. Nineteen years later and this perfect family, who looked like they had jumped straight out of a colourful Christmas TV advert, were still looking for their daughter.

I knew Henworth residents lived by their own rules – I’d seen darkness in all of them.

But would they really take a child?

Sam had been the one thing I’d asked for, for myself. Losing him, having him taken, then finding the photograph… it was like someone had knocked off my rose-tinted glasses. I couldn’t do it anymore, I wouldn’t. Spent was the mild mannered, submissive Chantelle. The Chantelle who had studied so she could forge her parents dodgy accounts; who had cared for the horses and tutored the kids whose parents were too drunk; who had kept those police officers happy in the hopes her parents would thank her, appreciate her, see her? I refused to be that Chantelle anymore.

As my hand finally pulled down the door handle, the lock clicked, reverberating through the plastic walls. I turned around one last time, taking in the worn red carpet, the unmade bed, the decaying kitchen.

No one remembers being five, do they?

The thought was intrusive and intimidating; it felt too big, especially for that moment. So, I pushed it out and packed it neatly away for later. Anyone with my upbringing would dream of being the child of those perfect people; of growing up in that beautiful house; of having a whole website dedicated to finding her and bringing her home.

Stop.

I would reach out to Maeve’s parents, tell them what I’d found, do the right thing, whatever the cost. They deserved closure. This wasn’t about me.

I flung open the door.

Panting to catch my breath after running to the car, I fell into the worn seat and twisted the key in the ignition. Everything was going too fast, yet the world around me seemed to slow, as if time itself was aiding me. My eyes focused on the fuel gauge, not blinking, as the needle moved painfully slowly.

I exhaled. It was past the first mark, that was enough to get me out.

My foot pressed down forcefully on the accelerator, sending the car lurching forwards, gravel spitting behind me. I was doing it. I was really doing it. The gate was open. The road was right there.

I can do this.

My heart couldn’t take any more beatings, my soul any more weight after being forced to look the other way, time and again. I wasn’t cut out for this life. I couldn’t let things go or turn a blind eye anymore. All I could see in my mind was little Maeve clutching that teddy.

I heard yelling as I neared the gate, but Marcus was too late. I swerved violently onto the road, clinging to the steering wheel like my life depended on it. Because, for the first time, it felt worth the risk.