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IIt was three o’clock. We haven’t seen our daughter Lara all dayBut on Sundays the pastors are busy at home. My husband Shawn thought too far too early to bother the policeSo my call was apologetic.
“I’m just checking there hasn’t been an accident – going into A&E?”
“How old is he?”
“12.”
“She doesn’t disappear often?”
“Never before. She was hoping to play soccer at two o’clock. She probably went to someone’s house after church.”
“Was there a disagreement – a minor point to mention?”
“no way.”
I added a thought later: “There was an incident six months ago.” Her 10-year-old autistic brother almost committed suicide because he was bullied by teachers.
His tone changed rapidly. “Where do you live, Mrs. Atkins?”
“The Vicarage on Parsons Green.”
“Officers will be with you immediately. Please both of you remain where you are.”
Within minutes the police arrived, searched his room and asked for a photograph. Our oldest compiled a list of his sister’s friends. The police asked us to contact all of them. It seemed as if it took a long time for the officers to leave.
Then we heard it – the drone of helicopters thundering overhead, barely an hour had passed since I had made my call. We watched them move back and forth over the Thames, heat sensors scanning the water, looking for our daughter’s still-warm body.
It all seemed wrong. Professionals are expected to reassure parents, say there is nothing to worry about – not to be too worried.
It became night and she did not come home. We could no longer believe that she was at a friend’s place. I thought, This is the beginning of the rest of our lives: from now on, we are the family that lost their daughter just before Christmas. She will never come home.
The police returned at midnight with a team of well-behaved German Shepherd dogs. We were locked in a room, our occupants were pulled from their beds, one for loud crying.
The dogs searched our attic, sniffed behind curtains, looked under the benches in the church, and climbed the bell tower; Eventually they were taken to our midnight garden, wagging their tails behind every bush.
We built a pool above ground, and officers removed the winter cover and lit a torch in the muddy depths. The next spring, it was dark with mushy-black spots of decomposed leaves.
“You realized what they were looking for?” Shawn asked when they finally left around two o’clock. His father was a police officer. “Who are the primary suspects?” I nodded.
A big, silent PC was left behind, neither sleeping nor sitting all night or the next day. I felt consoled, but I never asked what it was for.
Our bedroom overlooks Parsons Green. I sat on my bed with my hands on my knees, while Shawn spent the night searching and wondering where she had disappeared into the void of London. I knew what he was thinking. When he turned, I realized that he knew the same thing about me. We will never see him again. This is the worst that can happen.
At that fateful moment, my mind mourned the brightest detail – his violin fell silent. She played Irish fiddle music, jigs and danced with such dazzling, sparkling joy. We will never hear it again.
There seemed to be a strange peace at the core of our desolation, too deep for tears. I told myself that at last she was home, safe in the arms of the one who loved her more than us.
That day lasted for years. At 6 am, I asked PC if we could do something.
He responded, “Publicity helps sometimes.”
Before seven o’clock, I telephoned the editor of the newspaper for which I wrote. “What am I doing, going in front of everyone? Am I crazy?”
“When she walks through that door,” he replied, “you won’t care what you’ve done.”
By mid-morning, representatives of all the media of the country had gathered at our house and garden.
The liaison officer who arrived late asked what was going on. My father, 60 miles away, cried in his pastor’s room. Someone had brought our younger sons from school. Neighbors brought delicious food that we couldn’t eat – PC brought, but not before someone had seen tears streaming down his face. As night fell, news crews were scrambling to file copy or document someone else’s plight.
We were exceptionally lucky. The police asked our eldest and Shawn’s sisters to go with them. An hour or two later, they escorted Our Prodigal Daughter through the church, avoiding the reporters camped outside. We thanked them and hugged and cried, then climbed over the wall to celebrate with the neighbors.
The next day, it began – analysis, criticism, theorizing, for weeks. “Too strict.” “Not tough enough.” “A waste of resources.”
I was asked to attend events and met other people who had lost children. Twenty-four hours had ruined our lives. How did they survive for years or more?
For us and for our daughter, three decades have passed since the terrible mental anguish that first manifested itself, and which has devastated her life.
I think about our shared, certain certainty of death. I used to think it was courageous and realistic, but now I wonder.
Perhaps it is easier to grieve once and for all than to endure such pain of uncertainty.
Please donate now to the SafeCall campaign, launched by The Independent and the charity Missing People, to help raise £165,000 to create a free service to help vulnerable children find new, safe futures.
For advice, support and options, if you or someone you love goes missing, text or call Missing People on 116000. It’s free, confidential and non-judgmental. or visit missingpeople.org.uk/get-help