Airline employee Angela found her a seat on the midnight flight. Angela remembered Emma. She’d seen her and an elderly gentleman leave the airport together earlier that evening. Angela had seen how the elderly gentleman supported himself on her arm and noted how considerate Emma appeared to be.

Perhaps they were grandfather and granddaughter.

She’d seen the elderly gentleman take a cassette out of his pocket and put it in the trash can liner carried by Rose the cleaner.

She’d seen Rose take the tape out and put it into her personal stereo. Rose had come over to Angela and asked her to listen to a bit of the tape because the voice was dishy. Welsh. Broody. Angela had said no, she was a bit busy.

Emma was looking tired now. Angela thought Emma could do with a bit of lipstick, a touch of rouge. Her face looked dead.

Emma paid with a credit card and checked in her Samsonite.

Angela asked if Emma had packed her suitcase herself.

Emma nodded.

Angela asked if Emma was carrying any electrical devices.

Emma shook her head.

Angela asked if the elderly gentleman she’d seen earlier would be traveling too as Angela would be happy to hold back the seat next to her.

Emma said the elderly gentleman had fallen in front of a train and so probably wouldn’t be checking in.

Pause.

“Righto,” said Angela.

706

John was escorted from the airport in order to prevent him from pulling some stunt with his prop gun. If he hadn’t been flanked by two security officers he might have noticed Emma making her pale and one-shoed way to Departures.

705

Cody put the tape amongst her other mementos.

A china dog from a house in Kings Heath—the starting point for a story about fairgrounds.

A postcard from the Seychelles taken off a notice board in Stetchford—an article on tropical diseases.

A copy of Twelve Angry Men taken from the bag of a city center shopper—a magazine piece about sweat marks on shirts.

According to an illustrated medical dictionary, the photo she stole from the butcher’s house was of an appendix.

Mostly, though, she had mementos from Frankburg’s house. Her portable radio because the world kept turning. Her woolen jumper because the nights were drawing in. Her first “suicide” note—“Dad, by the time you read this I will be dead, thanks for everything.” Somehow Frankburg had known it was a fake.

Frankburg waited six months for her to crawl sheepishly back. When she didn’t, he’d called the radio and they’d made an announcement: This is an SOS message for Lily Frankburg, last seen in Birmingham. Would Lily Frankburg contact the Birmingham Free Hospital, where her father, Dr. Roger Frankburg, is dangerously ill.

He hadn’t really been ill and he’d hung around the hospital waiting for her to call. Fifteen clients rang in instead, panicking. He was ejected from the premises.

So he’d held a sort of memorial service. Invited everyone he could think of. He figured she’d turn up if only to see who attended.