The Sleepover

by Samantha King

  I shiver, reaching for my coat on the back of the chair and pulling it on. But as I thrust my hands into the pockets, I catch the sharp corner of the envelope I’d forgotten about, and the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle. Yesterday, I received Craig’s letter asking to discuss joint-custody arrangements. Today, Nick has vanished. The timing suddenly strikes me as more than a coincidence.

  “This app. It helped you track me to Beth’s house. Then what?” I have to force myself to remain in my seat—not to leap across the kitchen, grab hold of Craig, and try to shake the truth out of him.

  “I told you, that’s not quite how it was.” He finishes his coffee and carries the mug to the sink, meticulously washing it then setting it on the drainer to dry. “Sure, I tracked you to Beth’s house. But I only realized there was a problem when Jason texted me.”

  “Jason texted you?” I stare at him in astonishment. “Why would he do that?”

  “Why not? Our families may have drifted apart, but we always got on. He was worried about Nick. He’s got my number. It was good of him to let me know, I think.”

  “He didn’t seem that bothered to me. And he never mentioned that he’d sent you a text.”

  “He’s a teenager, Isobel. Kids his age don’t say much at the best of times.”

  “Fine.” He’s probably right, I concede. In fact, it’s the most frustrating thing about this whole situation: persuading the three boys to talk. “So you introduced yourself. And the police invited you in. Questioned you. Is that how it was?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And by the time I got there, you’d told them everything. About Nick. Me. Us.” I recall DS Clarke’s copious notes, understanding now why she’d written so many before I had even arrived. Even if I accept Craig’s explanation about the tracker app, and that he wasn’t deliberately following me, there’s no doubt in my mind that he seized the opportunity to speak to the police before me . . . to lay the foundations of justification for what he’d done?

  My head swims as a terrible suspicion takes hold: that Nick hasn’t disappeared; he’s been taken. By Craig. To get back at me for keeping Nick from him, and to pave the way for his joint-custody claim: by proving I’m not a diligent enough parent.

  He accused me of it a year ago, and he made it abundantly clear that he disapproved of the sleepover. Did he put the phone down after our fractious call and come up with a rash plan to prove his point? Nick’s mood was so odd when I spoke to him last night. I can’t help wondering if Craig contacted him, blamed me for keeping them apart, and persuaded Nick to come to him. If so, what the hell has he done with my son?

  “I’m not sure I get where you’re going with this,” Craig says, frowning as he crosses the kitchen and pulls out a chair, sitting down next to me at the table. “Yes, I spoke to the police. I talked to them about last year. The incident at the school gate. Our separation.” He raises his eyebrows. “So?”

  “You make it sound like it was a mutual decision.” I glare at him. “You left me, Craig. You left Nick. You made a judgment about my parenting and you walked out.”

  “And like I said, I’m sorry. Extremely.” He leans his elbows on the table, rubbing his hands wearily over his face. “Please, don’t let that muddy the waters now. We both just want what’s best for Nick, don’t we? We might have our different methods, but—”

  “And your methods are always right, aren’t they?”

  “Sorry?”

  “No, you’re not.” I feel a lump in my throat as I remember Nick saying the same thing to me yesterday morning. “You’re not sorry at all. Nick is out there, somewhere, and you don’t seem stressed at all. In fact, you seem . . .”

  “What? Like I’m remaining calm? Rational?” He shakes his head. “That’s because not a single disaster I’ve ever dealt with in my career has been solved by panicking.”

  “This isn’t business, Craig. It’s personal. It’s about my son.”

  “And mine. My special-son,” he insists, using the term he’s always preferred to stepson. “I care about him, too, Isobel. And I like to think I know what’s best for him.”

  “You’d love to prove that, wouldn’t you?” My heart is hammering, but the sight of Nick’s school backpack in its usual place against the kitchen dresser gives me strength. If Craig is hiding my little boy, I won’t rest until I’ve found him.

  “Look, I know you’re upset,” he pacifies. “We both are. But it’s going to achieve precisely nothing taking our stress out on each other. I’m really sorry about my letter. In hindsight, it was ill-judged.” His mouth twists. “I was just trying to get your attention, I suppose.”

  “By demanding custody of my son.”

  “Proposing a discussion for joint custody.” He links his hands together, as if to illustrate the point. “I miss our family. I want us to be together again. All three of us.”

  “I think you’re missing the point. There aren’t three of us right now. There’s just us. And I want you to stop playing games and tell me the truth. Is this some kind of setup?”

  “What?”

  “Nick disappearing. Is it some sort of horrible ruse to prove I’m a bad mother? Oh, I know you had nothing to do with the sleepover. But you did know about it. And you didn’t approve. As you didn’t approve a year ago. You’re the parenting expert, aren’t you—the one who knows what’s best for Nick? Getting him away from me, in other words.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you sure, Craig?” I give him a direct stare, trying to read his thoughts, trying to let him know that I won’t be fobbed off. “Because it’s not too late to own up. I won’t press charges. I’ll tell the police we just had an argument that got out of hand. Please, if you’ve got Nick, we can talk. Just give him back to me.”

  “I can’t believe you’d even think that.” He leans forward, taking hold of my hands and gripping them tightly. “I’d never hurt Nick. He’s my son. Fine. Stepson. But I love him like he’s my own flesh and blood. Why do you have to keep pushing me away?”

  “I don’t. I . . .” Jerking my hands away, I stare at Craig’s handsome face, the telltale twitch of a muscle in his cheek. He looks devastated, and I wonder if I’ve just made the most horrendous misjudgment.

  “You said it yourself to the police. You didn’t change Nick’s name when we got married. Why not, Isobel? Was I such a terrible father to him? Sweetheart, we’re on the same side,” he continues before I can answer. “I hate that something like this has brought us together again. But that’s exactly where we belong. Together. I was wrong to leave. I’m not too proud to admit my mistakes. I want to put them right.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I need space to think. Thankfully, Craig agrees and doesn’t make a fuss when I quickly show him out, promising to call him later. As soon as he’s gone, I dash upstairs to Nick’s bedroom, throwing myself onto his bed and pressing my face into the pillow that still smells of him.

  For a fleeting moment, I feel furious with him for not being here. “Where are you, Nick?” I pummel the soft bedclothes with my fists, needing some release, finding no relief. Deciding to phone DS Clarke for an update, I fumble in my pocket for the card she left me. Startled when she answers on the first ring, I blurt out a rather garbled explanation of the angry exchange I’ve just had with Craig.

  Magically, the detective manages to calm me down, reassuring me that they’ve already searched his apartment—as he himself suggested they do. His next-door neighbor in the apartment building also confirmed that he saw Craig shortly after midnight last night, when he asked him to move his car so that he had space to park his own. He remembered it particularly because he’d admired Craig’s new Mercedes, and they’d had a chat about it.

  “His alibi checks out, Izzy.”

  “God, I’ll be suspecting the plumber next. I’m such an idiot.”

  “No, you’re a mum,” DS Clarke reassures me briskly. “You wouldn’t be human if you
weren’t questioning everyone around you. Who’d be the first person I’d suspect if my son went missing? My ex-husband. Not that I have one. Or a son. But you take my point.”

  “I do.” I smile tearfully, glad I phoned her. The young detective’s manner is a little intense, but I realize I’m going to need her straight talking to keep me grounded over the coming hours . . . days? I think fearfully. Craig always used to caution me about the pitfalls of being led by my heart, not my head; I suspect I’ve just proved his point. Again.

  “You believed your son was safe,” DS Clarke continues. “Your trust was broken. It makes you wary. Suspicious. I get that. And if Craig is any sort of husband, ex or otherwise, I’m sure he will, too. OK?”

  “OK,” I echo uncertainly. I’m not so sure, but I will phone Craig later, I decide. I’m shocked he could even talk about us being a family again, but perhaps that’s his way of coping with the stress of the situation. We’ve both made mistakes, and as he said: we need to put our differences aside and work together to find Nick. “Yes, you’re right,” I say quietly to the detective. “I’m just feeling a bit . . .”

  “I know. It’s tough. Don’t beat yourself up too much. Emotions are bound to be running high. For you and Craig. Let’s chat more when I come over, OK? I’ll be with you in about half an hour. A suggestion came up at our team brief. I need to talk it over with you.”

  “What is it?” I’ll do anything—go anywhere; sitting at home waiting while the police carry out their searches is driving me mad.

  “The boss thinks going public might help. I know you said you’d rather keep Nick’s name out of the news, but—”

  “Go on TV, you mean?” I grip the phone tighter.

  “It can help. Press releases have gone out now. Alerts across social media. Bulletins with Nick’s photo, descriptions of what he was wearing, when and where he disappeared. A dedicated phone line has been set up. But I think DCI Maxwell is right. We need to do more to get Nick on the public’s radar. I spoke to Nick’s doctor. We’re all worried about his asthma. Time is of the essence here. A media appeal could be life—could be crucial.”

  She was about to say lifesaving. “I see.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be right there with you. I know how hard this is. We all want to bring your boy home, Izzy. To do that, we need as many eyes as possible looking for him.”

  I stand up and drift to the bedroom window, looking out at gardens stretching into the distance. I’ve lived in this area all my life; it’s as familiar to me as the back of my hand—or my son’s face. But the world suddenly feels bigger, full of hidden corners and dangerous possibilities.

  “OK. Yes, I can see that.” I bite my lip to fight off yet more tears. I haven’t cried so much since this time last year. I felt sure, then, that I must have used up all my bad luck. I was wrong: lightning can strike twice.

  “There’s still some time today. We’ll have to draw a line for the night at some point, of course. But the guys are out there knocking on doors. We’ve got an alert out at bus and train stations. We found Nick’s passport in his room, so we’re not targeting airports as yet. For now, we’re focusing on the local angle. Talking to Beth’s neighbors, local residents. Anyone and everyone Nick knows, and who might know him.”

  “And if no one has seen anything?” I grip the phone even tighter.

  “We keep looking. Then we look again. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll have divers trawl the Thames from Richmond to Twickenham. Just to rule it out,” the detective adds when I gasp in shock. “You mentioned during our initial interview that Nick calls the river one of his ‘happy’ places. Accidents can happen.” She pauses. “I won’t leave any stone unturned, Izzy. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” I manage to say, feeling overwhelmed by the thought of my little boy at the center of such a vast operation. It makes him seem so small. So very lost. As am I.

  Nick’s bedroom, in stark contrast, suddenly feels huge—and strangely empty, even though only one thing is missing: his laptop. I hadn’t realized how large its presence loomed; how accustomed I am to seeing Nick always behind it. Shock rippled through me earlier when DS Clarke said the officers searching our house needed to take it away to examine Nick’s Internet activity and liaise with child protection agencies. I immediately knew what she meant: specialists in tracking down predators who use the Internet to groom children . . .

  Feeling myself starting to slip into another pit of horrific imaginings, I jump when the doorbell rings. It can’t be DS Clarke already; I’ve only just got off the phone with her. Maybe it’s Craig returning to pick up where we left off. . . . Heart racing, I hurry downstairs, steeling myself to apologize to him for letting my imagination run away with me.

  It’s Arthur. I’d forgotten all about canceling his appointment. Thankful for once that the taciturn plumber doesn’t do small talk, I leave him to fix the boiler and hurry back to Nick’s room, eager to hunt through his things and search for any clues the police might possibly have missed. I half hope I might even find a note . . .

  There’s nothing. All I unearth as I root through the jumbled assortment of one-armed superheroes and Lego figures is the ghost of Nick’s childhood. Tiny bubbles of memory float up along with each translucent dust mote, engulfing me with the unique perfume of the past. I breathe it in, gripped by painful nostalgia as I lie down on the bed once more, turning to stare at the wall where Nick has doodled his favorite cartoon characters.

  Closing my eyes, I remember the low murmur of his imaginary play, realizing that it’s always been so present in my consciousness, I can’t recall exactly when it fell silent. Nick’s invented characters were as real to me as they were to him. They were him, each voice reflecting part of who he was, his hopes and worries projected on to little plastic figures. Now those toys have been packed away, abandoned in favor of the more powerful lure of the Internet; a big part of my connection with Nick is buried along with them, I reflect sadly.

  “Dammit. I should have just bought him a diary,” I mutter, and I’m about to start searching his desk again when the doorbell rings for the second time.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Honestly, please say if I’m intruding, Mrs. Brookes.” Nick’s usually laid-back young form tutor is tense and solemn-faced, his blue eyes clouded with concern. “I wasn’t sure if now was the right time. It’s just that I was out for a walk, and passing near here, so I thought . . .”

  “Mr. Newton. No, I’m glad you’re here. I was expecting the police, but . . . Please. Come in.” I push back my tangled hair and tug halfheartedly at the bottom of my sweater, pulling it down over my jeans. I’m sure I must look disheveled; I can’t bring myself to care. “And it’s Izzy.”

  “Thanks, Izzy. Likewise, please call me Sean.” Stepping onto the porch, he offers a gentle handshake. “OK to leave this here?” His eyes widen anxiously as he props a skateboard against the wall, before kicking off muddy sneakers and lining them up neatly on the doormat.

  “Of course.” I smile, touched by his youthful politeness.

  As I close the front door behind him, I notice bumper-to-bumper cars on the road. DS Clarke said on the phone that she’d be here in half an hour. She must be stuck in traffic, I realize. Or perhaps still caught up with calling Nick’s teachers . . . It’s kind of Mr. Newton—Sean—to come straight here after speaking to her. I know he’s Nick’s favorite teacher, though, and his prompt visit shows how much he cares about Nick in return.

  “I won’t stay long,” he says, following me into the living room.

  “Please, it’s fine.” Any company is better than being alone with my fears. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “No, don’t worry. But thanks. I just wanted to check that you’re OK. Apart from not being OK, obviously. Sorry. That sounded idiotic.” He screws up his face as he perches on the leather armchair nearest the fireplace. Craig’s chair, I try not to think. “You must be so worried.”

  “Going out
of my mind,” I tell him honestly, curling my legs up on the chesterfield. “The police told me to stay here in case Nick comes back. I know they’re right, but I want to be out there looking, too. And questioning the boys. Not that they’re saying much.”

  “About the sleepover, you mean? Something must have gone on, right? I mean, Nick simply isn’t the kind of kid who wanders off for no reason. What have the other boys said? Have they given you any idea what happened last night?”

  “Barely anything.”

  “I’m not surprised about Adrian or Sammy, to be fair. They wouldn’t say boo to a goose. As for Jason, well, he doesn’t display quite the same reticence,” he says tactfully.

  “That’s one way of putting it.” I recall Jason making Nick watch him play games on the Xbox for two hours straight without letting him take a single turn.

  “I’ve tried to channel his energy into drama. I won’t repeat where he told me to go.” Sean pulls a grimace, then glances up at Nick’s photos on the mantelpiece. “I guess Nick’s the performer. He’s got a show coming up, hasn’t he?” He turns back to me with an expectant look. “You don’t think he might have been feeling the pressure, do you?”

  “The police asked me that, too. But Nick lives for his dance. Almost every day he says he can’t wait to get back on stage. Unless he’s just been putting on an act.” I frown, remembering Craig saying that boys of Nick’s age don’t usually confide in their mums. “I was hoping he might have let something slip to his new friends. But they’ve said nothing.”

  “Nothing at all? Wow. I’m not surprised you’re going out of your mind. The police will keep trying, though?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess there’re only so many times they can listen to the same answer. All three just keep saying the same thing: there was no fight, nothing unusual. Nick was there. Then he was gone.”