Free Book of Lost Threads by Tess Evans Page B

that her attempts at facial imaging were ‘unhelpful’. There were very few of Amber-Lee’s belongings in the flat and some suspicion that Brenda had appropriated them. The usually helpful Prostitutes’ Collective couldn’t place the girl and suggested talking to the Ward Street Shelter, where they were told that a girl calling herself Amber-Lee had come in there one day, but left suddenly while she was waiting to be seen. The busy social worker had a very general sense of what she looked like, and the facial image from her description was nothing like the one produced by Brenda’s.
    Moss suddenly realised that the sun had gone down and the fire was burning low. She looked at her watch. It was after seven, and with a muttered shit! she jumped to her feet, stoked the fire and began to prepare the meal. At five to eight she heard the gate open and close, but the footsteps stopped short of the door. She pulled back the curtains. Was that Finn waiting in the shadows? Was he ashamed to face her? She opened the door and called to him in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, ‘Come on in, Finn. I’m ready to dish up.’
    Finn put a finger to his lips and remained standing in the garden for a few moments more. He peered at his watch a couple of times and then came in, taking off his coat and glancing quickly at the table where the folder had been. His eyes followed hers to the sideboard where it now lay.
    ‘I read it,’ she said. ‘We can talk about it later, if you like, but let’s have something to eat first.’
    Finn went to wash his hands and returned to find a large pot of pasta, with salad and bread, ready for serving. Moss would have liked a glass of wine but was reluctant to open the bottle she’d found in the cupboard. She poured them each a glass of water instead. Her father had good reason not to drink and she wasn’t going to be the one to tempt him.
    Finn sat down at the table and began to speak without preamble. ‘I couldn’t get her out of my head,’ he said. ‘It was her anonymity that got to me. She was somebody’s daughter and her parents either didn’t want to own her or simply didn’t know where she was. In the end, she was buried without a name.’ For the first time, he looked at his own daughter directly, appealing to her to understand. ‘It was as though she’d never existed, Moss. I could have coped if her family or even a good friend had been there for her. Even to curse me. Especially to curse me. Just think—a fifteen-year-old is buried and not one person there really cared.’
    Moss longed to absolve him but knew she was impotent. He had taken the blame not only for the accident but for the girl’s whole sorry life. She took his hand, which lay lifeless on the table.
    ‘It’s okay, Finn. It’s okay.’ Knowing it was far from okay. She was beginning to understand the emergence of Finn and why he had decided to leave Michael behind.
    They finished their pasta in silence; heads bowed over their bowls, staring down at the roughly chopped vegetables, the pasta, the mince. Cutlery and glasses chinked softly, and at one stage Finn cleared his throat. Moss looked up expectantly, but he continued to ply his fork with grim tenacity.
    Outside, a dog barked and a woman’s voice called out, ‘Come on, boy. Dinnertime.’ A door slammed. A car drove past. The clock chimed the half-hour and ticked away another five minutes before Finn put down his glass and picked up the thread of his story.
    ‘By the time I thought to offer to pay for her funeral,’ he said, ‘she’d already been buried. It happened within a fortnight. I went to the State Trustees, but they could only direct me to the gravesite.’
    He saw it all again—the discarded chip packet at his feet, the rough yellow mound, the iron fence that drew a line between the living and the dead. He had picked up the chip packet and, for want of anything else to do with it, put it into his pocket. He should have brought flowers. He