There’s No Place Like Here

47

The week that Jenny-May Butler went missing, the Gardaí came to Leitrim National School. We were all especially excited because it was rare that our principal graced our humble selves with his presence, particularly in our classrooms. As soon as we caught sight of his stern, accusing face, butterflies fluttered in everyone’s stomachs, each of us instantly hoping we weren’t in trouble even though we knew we’d done nothing wrong. But such was his power. Our main reason for excitement was due to him disrupting our religion lesson to whisper loudly into Ms. Sullivan’s ear. Loud whispering in the classroom by teachers always meant something important was happening. We were allowed to abandon our studies that morning and told to line up in a single file at the door with our fingers on our lips. For teachers, our placing our fingers on our lips didn’t usually have the desired effect, the finger not being a suitable silencer as it was indeed a finger, not a zipper, and it was, more important, our own finger, which we had the ability to remove at any stage. But that day when we entered the school hall, none of us said a word, because at the top of the very unusually silent room were two members of the Gardaí Síochana. One woman and one man, dressed head to toe in navy blue.

We sat on the floor in the middle of the hall with the other fourth classers. Up at the front were junior and senior infants. The older you were, the further back you were allowed be. The sixth always coolly took their places in the back row. Very quickly the hall was filled. The teachers lined up against the walls on the outside aisles like prison wardens, and every now and then clicked their fingers with an angry face at someone who was whispering or who was trying to make themselves more comfortable on the cold and slightly dirty gym floor, but who was seen to be fidgeting too much.

Our principal introduced the two guards to us, explaining that they were from the local garda station and were here to talk about a very important issue. He told us that we would be asked questions by our teachers later in class about what they had said. I looked over at our teachers when he announced this and noticed a few suddenly straightening themselves up to listen. Then the male garda began talking, he introduced himself as Garda Rogers and his colleague Garda Brannigan, and while he slowly walked the width of the front of the room with his hands behind his back, he explained how we shouldn’t trust strangers, how we shouldn’t get into their cars, not even when they tell us that our parents have told them to collect us. That made me think of refusing to get into my uncle Fred’s car on Wednesday afternoons when he collected me, and I almost laughed out loud. He told us that we should always speak up if we notice someone getting friendlier than they should. If someone approaches us or we witness anybody else being approached, we should tell our parents or teachers straightaway. I was ten years old and I remember thinking about when I was seven and I saw Joey Harrison being collected by a weird man at school. I told my teacher at the time and she reprimanded me because it was his dad and she thought I was being rude.

Also, for those of us at ten years of age, almost eleven, this safety talk was old news, but I supposed that particular safety talk was especially for the five- and six-year-olds who sat in the front rows of the hall picking their noses, scratching their heads, looking at the ceilings. A front row of little grasshoppers. At that point I had no desire to join the guards. It wasn’t that day’s free lesson in safety that set off my ambition; it was the odd socks. I also knew the talk was because of Jenny-May’s disappearance that week. Everybody had been acting weirdly about it all week. Our teacher had even left the classroom in tears a few times whenever her eyes fell upon Jenny-May’s empty seat. I was secretly delighted, which I knew was wrong, but it was the first week of peace I’d gotten at school for years. For once I didn’t feel Jenny-May’s balls of paper hitting my head as she blew them through a straw, and whenever I answered a question in class I didn’t hear sniggers behind me. I knew that a really terrible and sad thing had happened but I just couldn’t feel sad.

We said a prayer in class every morning for the first few weeks after she went missing, for Jenny-May’s safety, praying for her family and praying that she would be found. The prayer got shorter and shorter as the weeks went by, and then suddenly one Monday, when we came back after the weekend, Ms. Sullivan just left out that prayer without mentioning a thing. Everybody’s desks were rearranged in a different shape in the room, and bam!, everything went back to normal. I found that even weirder than Jenny-May going missing in the first place. I spent the first few minutes of that day looking at everybody reciting their poems like they were crazy, but the teacher chastised me for not learning the poem I had spent two hours learning the night before and she picked on me for the rest of the day.

After Garda Rogers had finished his safety talk, it was Garda Brannigan’s turn to talk more specifically about Jenny-May. She spoke in softer tones about how, if anybody knew anything or had any information about something they saw over the last few weeks or months, they should go to Room Four beside the staffroom, as she and Garda Rogers would be there for the day. My face burned because I felt like she was talking directly to me. I looked around, in paranoia, feeling as though this entire event had been staged just for me, to confess all that I knew. No one looked at me oddly, apart from James Maybury, who picked a scab on his elbow and flicked it at me. Our teacher clicked her fingers at him, which had little effect, as the damage had already been done and he wasn’t afraid, nor did he care much about clicking fingers.

When the talk was over we were once again encouraged by our teachers to go to Room Four to talk to the Gardaí, and then we were given our lunch break, which was a stupid idea because nobody was going to bother missing time playing in the yard by going to the guards. As soon as we got back into our classroom and Ms. Sullivan told us to take our math books out, hands suddenly shot into the air. People just suddenly seemed to remember vital evidence. But what else could Ms. Sullivan do? And so the Gardaí found themselves with a very long line of students of all ages outside their door, some of whom had never even met Jenny-May Butler.

Room Four was nicknamed the Interrogation Room, and the story of what went on inside became more and more exaggerated with each pupil that left and rejoined his friends. There were so many pupils with alleged information that the guards had to come back the next day, but not without a stern announcement to each class that although everybody’s help was very much appreciated, garda time was very precious and students should only go to Room Four if they had something very important to tell them. By the second day, I had already been refused access to Room Four by my teacher twice on account of the first request to go taking place during the history lesson and the second during Irish.

“But I like Irish, Miss,” I protested.

“Good, then you’ll be happy to stay,” she snapped, before ordering me to read an entire chapter aloud from the book.

I had no alternative but to raise my hand during art class on Friday afternoon. Everybody loved art class. Ms. Sullivan looked at me in surprise.

“Can I go now, Miss?”

“To the toilet?”

“No, to Room Four.”

She looked surprised but finally took me seriously and I was given permission to leave art class to the sound of ooooooooh from everybody else.

I knocked on the door to Room Four and Garda Rogers opened the door. He must have been six feet tall. At ten years old I was already very tall, at five foot five, and I was happy finally to see someone tower over me, even if he was intimidating, dressed in a garda uniform, and I was about to confess to him.

“Another math class?” He smiled broadly.

“No,” I said so quietly I could barely hear myself. “Art.”

“Oh.” He raised his thick caterpillar eyebrows with surprise.

“I’m responsible,” I said quickly.

“Well, that’s good, but I don’t think missing one math class makes you irresponsible, although don’t tell your teacher I said that.” He touched his nose.

“No,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I mean I’m responsible for Jenny-May going missing.”

This time he didn’t smile. He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

I looked around the room. It was nothing like the rumors that had been going around the last two days. Jemima Hayes said that someone told her friend that someone told her that someone hadn’t been allowed to leave the room to go to the toilet and had to pee in his pants. The room was nonthreatening, with a couch up against one wall, small table in the center, and a plastic school chair opposite that. There was no sign of a wet chair.

“Sit down there.” He pointed to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. What’s your name?”

“Sandy Shortt.”

“You’re tall for your age, though, aren’t you, Miss Shortt?” He laughed, and I smiled politely even though I’d heard it a million times. He stopped himself laughing. “So, tell me, what makes you think you were responsible for Jenny-May’s disappearance, as you called it?”

I frowned. “What do you call it?”

“Well, we don’t know for sure if…I mean there’s nothing to suggest…” He sighed. “Just tell me why you think you’re responsible.” He motioned for more.

“Well, Jenny-May didn’t like me,” I began slowly, suddenly becoming nervous.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” he said kindly. “What makes you think that?”

“She used to call me a lanky slut and throw stones at me.”

“Oh.” He fell silent.

I took a breath. “Then last week she found out that I told my friend Emer that I didn’t think she was as good at King/Queen as everybody thought she was and she got really angry and stormed over to me and Emer and challenged us to a game. Well, not us actually, because she didn’t say anything to Emer, just me. She doesn’t like Emer either but she doesn’t like me more, and I was the one that said it so we were supposed to play this game the next day, me and Jenny-May, and whoever won meant that they were the undisputed champion and nobody could say that they weren’t good because the fact that they’d won would prove it. She also knew that I fancied Stephen Spencer and she always used to shout stuff at me just so he wouldn’t like me, but I knew that she liked him too. Well, it was obvious because they French-kissed in the bushes at the end of the road a few times for dares but I don’t think that he really liked her and maybe he’s happy she’s gone now too, so he’ll be left alone, but I’m not saying I think he did anything to make her disappear. Anyway, the day we were supposed to play King/Queen I saw Jenny-May Butler cycling past my house down the road and she gave me a bad look and I knew she was going to beat me that day at King/Queen and that things would be even worse than they already were and-” I stopped talking and pursed my lips, not sure whether to say what I felt next.

“What happened, Sandy?”

I gulped hard.

“Did you do something?”

I nodded and he moved in, shuffling his backside closer the edge of his chair.

“What did you do?”

“I…I…”

“It’s OK, you can tell me.”

“I wished her away.” I said it quickly, like pulling a bandage from my skin, quick and easy.

“I’m sorry, you what?”

“I wished her away?”

“Whisht? Is that a weapon of some-”

“No, wished. I wished that she’d disappear.”

“Ah.” Realization dawned and he sat back slowly, in his chair. “I understand now.”

“No, you’re just saying that you do but you don’t really. I really did wish for her to be gone, much more than I’ve ever wished for anything to be gone in my whole entire life, even more than when Uncle Fred stayed over in our house for a month after he split up from Aunt Isabel and he smoked and drank and stunk the place out and I really wanted him gone but not as much as I wanted Jenny-May gone, and a few hours after me wishing that, Mrs. Butler came over to our house and told us she was missing.”

He leaned forward again. “So you saw Jenny-May a few hours before Mrs. Butler came over to your house?”

I nodded.

“What time was this at?”

I shrugged.

“Is there anything that could remind you of what time it was? Think back, what were you doing? Was there anybody else around?”

“I had just opened the door to my grandma and granddad. They came over for lunch and I was giving Grandma a hug when I saw her cycling by. That’s when I made the wish.” I winced.

“So, this was lunchtime. Was she with anyone?” He was on the edge of his seat now, ignoring my concern over my wishing her away. He asked question after question about what Jenny-May was doing, who she was with, how did she look, what was she wearing, where did it look like she was going, lots of questions over and over again until my head hurt and I could barely think what the answers were anymore. It turned out that I was such a good help to them because I was the last person to see her that I was allowed to go home early that day. Another benefit to Jenny-May’s disappearance.

A few nights before the Gardaí came to the school I had begun to feel guilty about Jenny-May disappearing. I watched a documentary with my dad about how one hundred fifty thousand people in Washington, D.C., all arranged to think positive thoughts at the same time and the crime rate went down, which proved that positive and negative thinking had a real effect. But then Garda Rogers told me that it wasn’t my fault Jenny-May Butler was gone, that wishing for something to happen didn’t actually make it happen, and so I became a lot more realistic after that.

And there I was, standing outside the office of Grace Burns twenty-four years later, about to knock on the door and feeling exactly the same as when I was ten. I had that same feeling of being responsible for something beyond my control but I also held the belief in some childish way that ever since I was ten years old, I had been secretly, silently, and subconsciously wishing I’d discover a place like this.