You know, my mother used to say this about patterns, or more commonly about coincidences but the quote fits just as well here. It was said that once was by chance and that twice was a coincidence. Third time’s a pattern. If all that is true, I wonder what she would say about four times, or even five. Honest fact? Undeniable truth maybe? It was something that had been bugging me lately, weighing on my mind. Well it had been weighing until it became obvious.

The first time I noticed, it was just a momentary distraction, a pause in the bustling of everyday life. It was a poster here and there, a picture of a young girl smiling at the camera. She looked about ten, happy and youthful in a way I hadn’t been in years. It was a cute photo, birthday hat and all, belonging in a family album and not on a ‘missing, please help’ poster stuck to a slowly rotting street pole in some back alley that no one goes down in a backwards town where no-one ever visits. She was blonde, with cute little ringlets that curled around the tips of her ears and dimples that curled around her mouth. She was sweet, adorable, and missing.

The second time, I paid a little more attention, not just a lingering look while my bus arrived for work. After all, if something happens twice, there could always be a third time. Another poster, though this time there were more of them. No longer hidden in some abandoned alley where only those that don’t look wander, no, they were everywhere. Not just one here or there but on every corner and every second pole. Bigger too. Not just the poster. The girl was older, still blonde, still pretty. She looked about thirteen, though with the pigtails and fringe you could say about ten. Freckles scattered across her face, drawing constellations across her nose and around her eyes like the stars as night. I remember wondering how many there were, and then I remembered that it probably didn’t even matter. She was missing.

The third time, I knew there would be more. This time she was older still but just as blonde. Her hair wasn’t as long as the others, fluffy and barely touching her neck. Along with the new posters, and the fliers handed out by mothers and children still in uniforms, were warnings. ‘Be wary, Be warned.’ They all said, be careful when walking about, especially in the dark and don’t go anywhere alone. Maybe that would have been helpful in the beginning, when there was only one missing, would have helped more than a lonely poster in a dark alley. Or it might not have changed anything. It was hard to know, because no matter what happens in people’s lives, some things don’t change. People still go about their daily routine, even if they are aware of the threats surrounding them. After all, it wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last time that they knew of a deadly danger, it was just that this time it wasn’t as expected or accepted as drunk drivers or fatal accidents. Nor was it the inevitable end of their lives. It was something new, and somehow more personal, and still just as easily ignored until it is thrust in their faces.

It was also the first time in a long while that I had seen my neighbour. She had been keeping to herself lately, locking herself away in her house since her partner left. I thought she was still avoiding the world out of sadness and embarrassment, the days prior to the split, the street had been gifted with screaming and shouting that had echoed out of the small but well-maintained house. From what I had overheard, unwillingly but overheard nonetheless, was that he had left to find someone new, someone more vibrant, more interesting, sane. I hadn’t really understood. My neighbour, while a quiet woman who kept to herself more often than not, was not boring. Her hair was as vibrant and red as the roses and lilies that she grew in her sprawling garden. Her name, Deirdre, which stood out from all the Marks and Marys that littered role calls, meant broken-hearted in Scottish.

She had laughed when she told me that, she definitely wasn’t laughing about it now.

It was just after dark when I saw her; I had just returned from work, nine freezing hours in an office with no heater in the middle of winter, which had run longer than expected and the sun had been setting when we finished. All those warnings of ‘Don’t go out at night. Don’t go out alone.’ were kind of hard to follow where you live alone. For me it was a worry, but not one large enough for me to stop going about doing what I need to do. However, none of that seemed to worry Deirdre, who seemed more than happy to putter around her slightly overgrown garden, though that may have been because of her lovely red hair, whereas mine eerily resembled those on the poster littered about. Maybe it was time to dye it.

She noticed me of course. Standing in the just-lit streetlights and staring wasn’t the best way to remain hidden. Not that there was any reason to hide from her in the first place. She was a nice lady, a lovely woman who made delicious biscuits and was always surrounded by perfectly cut flowers in dark-shaded vases. Before everything that had happened we used to sit and talk, but that was a long time ago. Now she was just a very lonely woman. Lonely after her husband left her for a younger blonde woman who taught dance instead of planting flowers.

So I couldn’t say no when she invited me over to have afternoon tea. It wasn’t out of pity or sympathy, but Mother had always said that manners were important and that lonely people always needed someone to talk to, even if it was just a nod of the head while they talked their worries away. Though now that I look back, I’m not quite sure that she was talking about actual talking, and more like lonely people needed watching otherwise they might decide to do something unwise. Making sure they didn’t do anything to ruin their lives or anyone else’s, too bad I found out that one too late.

The fourth girl in the poster was closer to my age, maybe a little older. She had vibrant blue eyes that stood out from the picture; they contrasted with her hair beautifully, like the shimmering sea and the golden setting sun. She was also missing now, added to the walls and polls littered with posters, sometimes covering up those who have yet to be found. Maybe they thought she had a better chance. I had seen police combing the town, cars and people moving slowly through empty streets, trying to be a vigilant watch over the frightened town. No need for anyone else to go missing. Maybe I would dye my hair after all, but later, maybe tomorrow, for now there was tea waiting for me. I would hate to disappoint her after she went through all the effort to remind me.

When I arrived at the patchwork garden, only half repaired from its owner’s seclusion, with its metal gates and pebble stone path, she was waiting for me. When she welcomed me in I noticed the scent had changed. It no longer smelled like sugared ginger biscuits and cut flowers, the settled fragrance of everything the woman loved. But now that way gone, replaced by the clinical smell of disinfectant that reminded me of hospitals, and only partially covered up by the sugary sweetness of discount perfumes that had never even been close to a real flower.

Other than the smell, the house hadn’t changed all that much.

Picture frames still lined the walls, sparingly holding anything personal, more often a flower that she found particularly pretty or any other aspect of life that she had come across. A few of the pictures had changed, all the ones that had held even the slightest hint of her ex-husband had been removed, making way for what I hoped was a new start. There was a new display though, a little to the side and on cotton-lined table separate from her pinned butterflies and pressed flowers. A box with a glass window to a board with little sliver hooks in it. The first four were hanging onto woven blonde locks of hair tied with a ribbon, similar in colour but not close enough to be from the same person. After shutting the door, Deirdre smiled gratefully at me and waved me into the room. “Thank you for coming, and making this easy for me. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

So if once is by chance and three times is a pattern, I wonder if five is just too many. I also wonder if anyone will ever find me. They still haven’t found the others.

(An old story written in 2016. Thought it was time to let it rest.)