“Sorry. Here. Let me warm you up.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders; I pull away, even though I’m shivering almost uncontrollably.
“Where were you? I’ve been calling and calling you. I left messages.”
“Sorry. I’ve had a few things to sort out. I was going to phone you back. Then I thought I might as well head straight to the police station and talk to you in person. You’d already left, though. The duty officer filled me in. I got here as fast as I could.”
“Did he tell you about the dare? The terror test?”
“Yeah.” His lips purse. “What the hell were those boys thinking?”
“Did they tell you about Jason, too?”
“Jason?”
“He’s dead, Craig.” I don’t have the energy to soften the blow.
“What?” He pulls back, his eyes narrowing in shock.
“The police divers found him in the river this afternoon. They were looking for Nick. They found Jason instead.”
“In the river.” Craig’s rich baritone voice turns even huskier, his dark brows furrowing so deep that his eyes almost disappear. “Was there some kind of accident?”
“I don’t know. The police are still investigating.” I draw in a breath, wanting to tell Craig everything, but dreading saying the words aloud. I dig my fingernails into my palms. “DCI Maxwell did say they can’t rule out the possibility that Jason took his own life.”
“Christ, no.” Craig leans forward, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t believe it. Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” I repeat, biting my lip as the shock of Jason’s death ripples through me once more. “But the detectives are worried about a connection with Nick. They seem to be having some doubts about Samir’s statement now, too.”
“What? Four boys mucking around at a sleepover. Getting the new kid to prove himself. What’s not to believe?”
“I’m not sure.” I bite my nails, thinking through what DCI Maxwell and DS Clarke were saying about Nick not having his phone with him, trying to figure out how that changes their understanding of what happened on Friday night. “But I have a bad feeling, too.”
“That’s probably exhaustion. Anxious overthinking. Totally understandable. It’s been a nightmarish few days. Let’s hope it’s over soon.”
We both glance outside, watching the search party stretch out into a long line, and I feel my body stiffen with a fear I can’t express. “What if he’s . . . ?”
“Don’t even think it.”
“I can’t not, Craig. He didn’t have his phone with him. It was hidden outside Katie’s house. Nick would have been alone in those woods. No way of calling for help. What must he have been going through?”
“Nick’s phone was at Katie’s house?” Craig’s voice lilts in surprise.
“Yes. Jason must have hidden it there.” I still can’t think of any other explanation.
“That would be an odd thing for him to do. Mind you, Katie said he’s been all over the place lately. Not his usual self at all.”
“Did she? You still see her, then.” I don’t really care; I just don’t want either of them to think they have to lie to me, or conceal any relationship that’s developed between them.
“Occasionally.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Nathan’s never there. I’ve helped her and Jason out a few times.” He turns to give me a direct look. “There’s nothing going on between us. In case you were wondering.”
“No, of course not. Anyway, I don’t—”
“You were, weren’t you?” He lets out a sigh. “Sorry, that’s my fault. We should have had this conversation months ago. I promise you, Isobel: there has never been anything between me and Katie. Never has been. Never will.”
He reaches hesitantly for my hand; this time, too tired and anxious to argue, I don’t pull away. “It’s fine. You really don’t need to explain yourself. You’re a free man,” I quip, echoing his own comment to me on Friday.
“Sure.”
He looks disappointed, as though he’s expecting something else from me, but before I can gather my thoughts to say any more, lights flash across the car and I see the chain of flashlights heading toward the trees. “They’re going in.” I turn to look at Craig, feeling my mouth dry. “They’re taking their time, though,” I add, turning back to watch the group of officers milling around, frustrated that they aren’t already plunging into the woods.
“They have to be systematic,” Craig says quietly. “Plan their route so they don’t miss anything. They’ll be trawling for evidence as well as trying to find Nick.”
“Right. If indeed he’s even there.” Unaccountably I’m gripped by the sudden thought that Samir lied—that, for some reason, he’s sent us on a wild-goose chase.
“We’ll know soon enough.” Craig sits back, hands thrust deep in his coat pockets as though settling in for the wait.
I reach for the door. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t just sit here.”
“Isobel.”
“He’s my son, Craig.” I make no pretense of sparing his feelings now; I refuse to waste time quibbling over who cares most about Nick. I do. He is my priority. First, last, always. “No matter what state he’s in, I have to be there when they find him.”
“Right. You’re right.” Craig hesitates a moment longer then opens the car door and steps outside, buttoning up his coat and blowing on his hands as the cold bites. Then he holds one out to me. “Come on. Let’s go find our boy.”
* * *
“Keep up, Izzy. The police are way ahead. We need to keep moving.”
It’s the first time Craig has ever called me “Izzy,” I register, staring at his back as he snaps a slender branch to help cut his way through the dense undergrowth, powdery snow flying up at every swipe. Underfoot, I can feel the velvet carpet of snow melting into a peaty mulch. Here in the woods, the thaw is happening faster.
“There they are! What’s happening? Craig?” Spotting a group of officers in yellow high-vis jackets huddled together a few yards ahead, I speed up, twisting my ankle as I hurry toward them. Wincing against the pain, I limp as fast as I can toward DS Clarke, who I can now see holding up what looks like a bundle of clothes. Craig has got there before me, and my heart pounds sickeningly as I see him cover his mouth with one hand.
“Izzy, you shouldn’t be here.” DS Clarke looks startled as I half sprint, half tumble toward her.
“Have you found him?” Glancing frantically around, I have to shield my eyes against the glare of torch beams combing the trees. I jump when DCI Maxwell appears at my side.
“Sarah’s right. You’d do best to wait in the car. Both of you.” His breath puffs out in an icy cloud as he turns toward Craig, patting his shoulder with a reassuring but firm hand.
Craig brushes it off. “Are those Nick’s?” He coughs to clear the huskiness in his voice. “Have you found him?”
“I’m afraid not.” DCI Maxwell shows no reaction to Craig’s brusqueness. “We’ve just retrieved a yellow T-shirt and green hoodie from outside that shed.” He nods at a rickety-looking shack, almost entirely hidden by thorny scrub. “It matches the description Izzy gave us of what Nick was wearing on Friday night. And one of his sneakers was over there.” He points toward the river a few feet away. “It has his name in it. But there’s no sign of Nick himself. Yet. We’ll keep looking. Please, you should both go back to the—”
“He’ll be frozen. Two nights outside. In this weather.” I stare at the officers carefully stowing Nick’s clothes into evidence bags then toward the icy river, before my eyes are drawn in horror back to the shed. “What is this place?” I watch in a daze of disbelief as another officer cordons off the area, surrounding it with blue-and-white police tape.
“Abandoned woodshed,” DCI Maxwell says, staring at it, too.
“Nick’s hoodie is torn,” DS Clarke tells me, clearly accepting now that I’m not going anywhere. “It’s dotted with splinters. Looks like he ripped it trying to get ou
t of the shed.”
“But his T-shirt. Why would he take that off?” I pull up the collar of my parka, shivering more in fear than cold. I can barely feel the icy chill now; adrenaline pulses hot and urgent through my veins.
“Shock and exhaustion . . . dehydration. They all play tricks on the mind,” DCI Maxwell explains. “If Nick’s been out here for two nights, it’s possible delusions have set in. Hallucinations, perhaps. I’ve seen it happen before. Nick might have mistaken cold for heat.”
“Is there . . . did you see any blood on his clothes?” I look between the two detectives, scrutinizing their expressions for any clue that they’re hiding something from me.
“We need to conduct a forensic examination to be absolutely certain. But at first glance—no,” DS Clarke reassures me.
“But that’s for later,” her boss adds curtly. “Right now, we need to keep looking.”
“We’re coming with you,” Craig says, striding off before anyone can stop him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t believe he’d willingly go in there,” I say, more to myself. Craig has already forged way ahead of me. Still ignoring the jarring ache in my ankle, I try to follow as fast as I can, but as I pick my way across slippery rocks and the gnarled roots of ancient trees, I can’t stop thinking about the woodshed . . . and the horror Nick has always had of confined spaces.
I remember the day he cried all the way home, having been locked in the locker room after school swimming lessons. He had nightmares for days, and he’s been claustrophobic ever since; it seems incredible that he’d accept any kind of dare that involved hiding in a shed. In the woods. In the dark . . .
“Craig! Wait!” I call after him, eager to share my doubts, pulling up short as I notice him veer suddenly off the main path, away from the police search party. He seems to be moving faster and faster, and despite urging myself onward, I can’t keep up.
Glancing anxiously at the line of police torches disappearing in the opposite direction, I hover uncertainly, wondering which way to go, what to do. Desperation surges inside me. If I can’t find Nick, maybe he will find me . . .
“Nick! NICK!” I summon up all my breath to scream, listening to the eerie echo rebounding through the woods. A sharp breeze stirs pine needles, lifting the incongruous scent of Christmas from gently swaying spruce.
The smell instantly reminds me of Nick’s excitement each year as he rushes to discover his presents under the tree. The happy image is immediately followed by one of him sobbing after he took his favorite new book into school for show-and-tell, only for the other kids to toss it around the classroom, teasing him because it was about ballet.
Even when it stops, it never leaves you, I remember Sean Newton saying about bullying, and my knees almost give way as I wonder if Samir was telling the truth: that as far as the others were concerned, this was all a dare, a challenge—but for Nick it went further, deeper . . .
What if he set out to conquer his fears by acting them out, as Jason’s website urged, only the bitter, claustrophobic darkness defeated him, and the thought of being sneered at—Wimp! Loser!—as he has been so many times before, tipped him over the edge?
“No! No!” I try to pull back from the devastating thought, but it won’t let go of me. I think of the book Sean said Nick was reading: about a little boy who lost his dad. Missing Craig, had Nick started thinking more and more about his father? Terror rushes through me as I wonder if he found out the truth about Alex—and what impact that had on him . . . Had it led him to believe that when life never seems to get any better, there is one final way to end the pain?
Looking up at the spidery treetops in despair, I see the shadow of my worst nightmare: the day that has haunted me for twelve years . . .
* * *
“Alex? Where are you?”
I looked around eagerly as I let myself in through the back door, heading straight for our tiny kitchen, the long hike back from the doctor’s having worked up a burning thirst. Alex always told me to get the bus, but walking saved the fare, and we were going to need every penny he made from his paintings once Nicholas Alexander Blake, as I’d finally made up my mind to call him, arrived in a month’s time.
“Ouch. Your son and heir is really making his presence felt!” I yelled, hoping to guilt-trip Alex out from wherever he was hiding—no doubt with headphones on while he painted. He loved music as much as art, and he’d vowed to fill our boy’s world with both, painting the apartment every color of the rainbow and planting borders to match in the small front yard.
Guessing that’s where he was right now—tucking yet more bulbs into the soft earth beneath the apple tree, where he’d built our son the perfect hidey hole—I headed out through the front door. The sun was dazzling; the apple tree cast a dappled shadow on the bright green grass. Noticing it was oddly shaped, I looked closer. Then I stared up at the lush, fruit-laden tree to see the love of my life hanging from its branches.
* * *
I never thought I would let any man close to me again, or trust someone else with the most precious thing in my life: my child. It was Katie who convinced me to try—and it was Craig who finally persuaded me that he would be the perfect husband and stepdad. I’ve spent the last year blaming him for leaving me, but the truth is undoubtedly far more complicated. Being a stepparent isn’t easy, and at least he finally seems to be admitting his mistakes. Maybe at some point we’ll even be able to talk them through like sensible adults.
I never had that chance with Alex. I’ll never know if our relationship was just a schoolboy crush for him and it burned out. Alex left nothing for me but questions; he left nothing for the son he promised he couldn’t wait to meet but an old radio and the set of paintbrushes I’ve tucked away. Perhaps, in the end, it was all too overwhelming. He was only nineteen, after all. Just seven years older than Nick is now . . .
“NICK! WHERE ARE YOU?”
I stumble in the direction Craig went, eager to know where he was walking with such purpose. The wind picks up; the trees seem to be whispering about me: You drive away everyone you love. I shut my ears and keep my eyes on the ground, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Claustrophobia squeezes tighter as I fight my way deeper into the woods, panicking as I glimpse Craig’s long gray coat, half-camouflaged by shadows.
“You know this place. It’s fine. Nick’s fine. You know this place. It’s fine. Nick’s fine.” I repeat the mantra over and over, ignoring the thorns that grab at my coat sleeves, as if to pull me back. I have to go on. I have to find my boy.
I spent hours in this park with Nick when he was little, ever since he was weeks old and I brought my books here to study for retakes of the exams I had missed, first while pregnant then coping with the horrible juxtaposition of Alex’s suicide and Nick’s birth. He would lie on his blanket, kicking his feet and smiling at the sky, and I would happily give in and put my work aside to make up names for the fat, curious ducks that came to scavenge for crumbs.
Nick took his first steps here, and the wide, open spaces became a place he could run free, safe from playground taunts. If I close my eyes, I know I’ll see him pirouetting through golden leaves, a carefree seven-year-old boy in pink Wellingtons, spotlighted by autumn sunshine. “Are you sure you want pink?” “But it’s my favorite color, Mummy!”
Over the years, we’ve come here far less often, but when Craig and I got married, I was determined to keep those memories close, and I chose our house because of its view: of the woods, fields, and wild ponies Nick loved to talk to when he was a little boy, giggling when their velvety noses tickled his palms. Only those sunlit memories will never be the same. And now, as I stare into the black abyss of the park, I tell myself Nick can’t be here. Not here, lost in the place we have both loved.
I look around, searching for any familiar landmark; this part of the park is unfamiliar to me. I look up at the smudged-charcoal sky to find the moon, hiding its face in despair behin
d a wraithlike drift of clouds. “Where is my son?” I ask the moon, before peering ahead to see a small copse, an outcrop of rocks. I smell the river. I hear voices. No, one voice: Craig’s.
“I’ve got him. Izzy, I’ve found him. Come quick.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Only his face is visible: the gentle slope of his jaw, the chestnut-cleft chin I would recognize anywhere. His white-blond hair is so dirty, his skin so pale, that if I blink I would surely mistake his head for a log or a stone. I claw my way closer, ripping through the thorny curtain that shrouds the small clearing. Stepping into a bowl-shaped gully ten feet wide, my eyes sweep the violent hollow, a mist-filled amphitheater where my son lies, cruelly center stage.
Closer still. His body is swaddled by a drift of leaves, as though careless hands tucked him up for the night. A circle of snow-laced rocks crouches around him, their jagged edges explaining the tar-black gouge on Nick’s forehead: one wrong foot in the darkness, and he would have gone flying. Arms stretched wide, he looks as though he was reaching for someone as he fell. My heart throbs with guilt that I wasn’t here to catch him.
“It’s OK, darling. Mummy’s here now.” I half stumble, half fling myself toward him, dropping to my knees at his side. Stroking the blood-matted spikes of his bangs with one hand, I slide the other beneath the dank leaves to find his arm; it’s ice cold. I trail my hand upward to feel his chest; his bare skin is smooth white marble, with no rise and fall.
“Please God, no!” Acid nausea burns my throat as I howl my pain. My scream hangs in a frosty pall over Nick’s face, but not a whisper of his breath clouds the air. I feel for his heartbeat, my mind filling with memories of bending over him exactly so, a dozen times a night, when he was a baby—frightened and alone, missing Alex, devastated that I wasn’t enough to make him want to live, terrified I didn’t know how to keep our son alive, either.
It seemed like a miracle that he survived, grew up, became the light of my life. I would lie down on the frozen earth right now and beg the universe to take my life, if it would mean Nick keeping his. Praying like I’ve never prayed before, I coil myself around him, desperately trying to infuse my body heat into his. He doesn’t move; his eyelids are sealed with frost, his lashes encrusted with ice.
The Sleepover Page 15
