by Max Porter
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Archie, is Lanny up there with you?
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Theo, have you seen Lanny since school?
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It’s Lanny’s mum, she’s asking if we’ve seen Lanny.
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Jolie’s texted asking if we’ve seen Lanny.
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Give Peggy a knock, ask if she’s seen Lanny would you?
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That’s Lanny’s mum asking if we’ve seen Lanny. He’s not with his old boyfriend apparently.
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She apologised for phoning me at home. I said don’t worry. It was 7.50 and I had just put our plates in to soak.
I said Lanny left school as normal, spring in his step, only difference is that he took his sports trainers with him. I distinctly remember seeing he had his little trainer bag.
I said he’s presumably at Pete’s having his art classes and she said nope Pete’s in London today.
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Panicky call from Fitty McFitterson, the one with the invisible husband, she’s lost her weird kid.
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It’s getting dark.
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And then the word Pete started bursting like blossom on the branch of the evening. The word Pete rising up aberrant and abnormal.
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Duh, Mad Pete’s just tucking him into a shallow grave, LOL.
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Don’t like her, never have. Up her own arse.
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He answers the call through the car speaker, yes, he’s on his way, yup he’ll keep an eye out for Lanny, maybe drive around the back way in case he’s come the long way home from his camp or something. Yes, he’ll stop at Pete’s. Yes, he does think it’s odd, but probably nothing to worry about, thank fuck it’s Friday unleash the chicken wrapped in bacon I am ready, I am ready for that bastard in my tum-tum.
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Hi Julie it’s Laura, Ben’s mum, I just got your message—
Jolie.
Sorry?
Jolie, not Julie.
Oh, I’m sorry. Jolie.
That’s OK. You were saying?
Oh, Ben says he saw Lanny this afternoon walking down the high street after school.
Down?
Yes, as in towards town not the other way.
OK, thanks Laura, that’s really kind, I think he’s probably stopped in for tea with a friend and he’ll scamper up any minute. Thanks for calling.
OK, you take care Julie. Oh my god what am I like, sorry, Jolie!
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Pete’s place is locked up, dark. I peer in. I tap on the kitchen window. All the weird stones lined up along Pete’s windowsill. Stones with holes in.
Pete?
I wander round the back in case they’re in the studio.
Lan-Bean?
Lannster?
Llandudno?
I feel silly. He’s not here.
There’s a bloody great fibreglass tree stump at the bottom of Pete’s garden. I’ve always wanted to see if it’s hollow.
I creep across the long grass, stepping over rusted paint cans and half-built frames, twisted bits of wood, slabs of rock, tables and ligatures, animal heads and god only knows what half-built sculptures or junk or both and I feel sure I’m the first man in a Paul Smith suit ever to tread this somewhat enchanted ground, and as I get to the tree I feel fairly sure that Lanny is hiding in it and is going to jump out and scare me shitless, so I say, Lanny? And I leap up to the open stump and shout, Got you!
Found you.
He’s not in the tree.
Got you.
There’s just weeds and junk in the tree. I feel a bit scared. I look back up the garden and feel like Pete’s house is watching me. All this old shit and bric-a-brac in Pete’s garden has witnessed me making a fool of myself. Witnessed me not finding my son hiding in a fake tree. Of course he’s not hiding in the fake tree.
I was thinking: Please, Lanny, don’t be annoying. Come home.
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Should we call Jolie and see if Lanny’s turned up?
It’s dark, he’ll be home.
Away with the fairies, that boy.
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Chicken not in the oven, sitting being the chicken that will never be cooked.
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Woman stands, as if completely normal, and gazes at her phone.
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Has Pete ever mentioned a mobile phone?
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Starting to actually,
Starting to … no nothing.
No go on.
Starting to worry.
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The artist Peter Blythe?
Yes, that’s him, could you give us a call if you see him.
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It was suddenly 10 pm and the rising feeling of sickness was in the house, was in our chests and throats and our arms felt flu-like, our bladders buzzed, our skin tightened because we knew the hours were passing and they were bad hours, normal evening turning into really worrying evening turning into terrifying endless night, no more Jolie, no more Robert, no more family, no more story, it’s ten o-fucking-clock where is Lanny, the facts are this, he has never stayed out past dark, well once, but not alone, he isn’t with Pete or staying over at Archie’s or Alf’s, Robert has walked up Giant’s Field, he has shouted long and hard at the top of the kite-flying field and if Lanny were in those woods he would not be naughty enough to not reply, Greg has also done the loop, shouting, Sally has driven around the village nine times, has driven into town and back slowly, looking out for Lanny, he is naughty but not like that, he isn’t naughty, how naughty is Lanny, not a question we ever ask, he isn’t naughty, he isn’t hiding from us, where the hell is he we keep asking what’s he doing, what’s he playing at, we said that a lot, play, playing, one of Lanny’s games, one of Lanny’s weird tricks.
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I was thinking clearly. Adrenalin. Jolie’s parents are saying, Why haven’t you phoned the police he’s a tiny child he’s a small boy what in god’s name are you doing not phoning the police and what in god’s name are you doing both at home, one of you stay home stay by the phone one of you get out there with a torch and find the bloody kid, go to his camp, go to the churchyard, go to the playground, go to the swilly-swamp, go to the bus shelter, go to the village hall, go to the pub car park, go to the holly hedge.
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Got him? And she says, No, come home, the police are here.
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come home
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It’s dark
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Peggy’s stood in the dark at her gate, watching.
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A lot of people arrive.
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They’re in there searching his house, so let’s quit joking, this is grim.
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None of us have slept.
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Bloody sirens and lights, mate, proper bacon in the place.
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I was looking out of the curtains at the lights and all the people coming and going up and down the street and I said to Gloria: This is what suddenly means. A teacher once told me the word suddenly is lazy. And the word nice.
But suddenly, Gloria, this is not nice.
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This isn’t something we are watching on telly. It’s just wolfed down a night and a day, nobody knows what time it is, there’s a lot of nasty gossip, and all we know is that Pete’s been taken in for questioning. Peter Blythe for fuck’s sake.
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There are twenty-three people in my house and a crowd of people in my driveway and many, many cars and vans and a man on the roof with a harness on.
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Do you want to un-say that, Stuart? There are several hundred people, at this very second, casting aspersions on their parenting. Judging. Telling stories. I don’t think you wanna be that person do you?
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Look at me, Robert. Look at me, man. Look at me. If he has touched a single hair on that boy’s head, I will dismember him with my bare hands. I will rip the man’s heart
out of his chest and stamp on it until it is part of the floor.
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It beggars belief that they ever left the kid alone with him, let alone countless times.
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I’m looking at poor Jolie’s hands, the bloody patchwork either side of every nail where she has bitten and chewed her fingers. She is saying, Please, can you please understand, I don’t know any more. Time’s gone mad. Yesterday feels like weeks ago feels like this morning, it’s all bent and confused. I’m sorry. The policeman tells her not to apologise. I catch Fergus’s eye and we make our excuses and leave them to it, poor lambs.
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A helicopter hovers above the village like a fat bee, hassling the ceiling.
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Newsflash, there’s no such thing as innocent old men hanging out with little children.
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Going out again. Can’t sleep. Me and the boys have drawn a circle with Mad Pete’s place in the middle, chucked a brick through his window for good measure. We’ll find the kid.
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She braked suddenly. I was chucked against the seatbelt. She shook her head at me in the wing mirror. I was frightened, to be in a police car.
You understand how serious this is, don’t you, Peter?
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Molested, kidnapped, abused, fiddled, nabbed, abducted, I was just tripping out with the absolute severity of this, could hardly handle it, so a few of us went to the pub and it was rammed with other people, strangers, all just like holy crap some old man has nicked a kid.
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Pause and breathe, my heartbeat saying time-time time-time, time to put a wash on, time to get Lanny,
think hard enough, I can hear him,
howdly-doo Mum, Howdly-hey,
what’s for tea, I’m so hungry today.
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They keep telling me what my rights are, that I can ask for food if I want it, that I can go to the loo if I need it. Hideous strip-lighting, my stuff in bags, nobody allowed to ask me anything until other people arrive and me saying to every one of them that comes in the baby-blue sterile room that I would not touch Lanny, and asking every five minutes What’s happened to Lanny, I’ve given finger prints and a mouth sample and my hands have been wiped and they said We don’t need your permission as if I was holding it back and It will be better if you tell us now, if you tell us right now, Pete, are you innocent, Pete, am I innocent Pete, into room five, interview five, train tickets and clothes and are there people in my house, waiting for the CCTV from National Rail, from Cork Street, yes there are sir, there are people in your house and you need to tell us where the boy is, I think you’ll find we can do whatever we like Mr Blythe, and one of them whispers, Being near the what? Because they think, you think, we know, I’ve done something to Lanny, spit it out then you miserable jobsworth arsehole, no I do not want more tea or a lawyer I want to see Jolie or Robert, I want to go home, I want to help find Lanny, and then surprise surprise the local nutbag, what a cliché, and I feel suddenly like I want my mum or my gallerist or Ben or anyone to tell them I’m not a nutbag at all I’m a bloody famous artist, that’s hardly the point, no matter, are you, I don’t, I could buy this whole police station if I sold a few old bits I’ve got stored, and I want Lanny to explain to these people, just see it, get me out, just done some reading on you, fairly infamous in the day, bring me Lanny and that’s exactly the point, Mr Blythe, you need to tell us where he is, fairly controversial figure, please calm down, did the parents know about your work, the shocking stuff, OK present in the room are, when did you last see the child, tape’s going on again, everybody ready, any time you need a cup of tea, Mr Blythe, did we hear from DCI Myerscough, we’re on the same side, Pete, can we just get you to move slightly nearer the recorder there, everyone wants the same thing, can we get some water in here please and some tissues, everyone wants little Lanny home safe.
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He’s not hiding in your mobile phone is he, you little city slicker, get out there and look for him. Search for him. Get at it.
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Soup and prayers. Then more soup and more prayers. My friends; we’ve been in training for this.
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Why would his school bag and sports shoes be in your shed?
I imagine he put them there.
Try again.
I imagine he came by and dropped them in there. He has done before. He’s free to come and go at my place.
Why did you hide them?
I didn’t.
Will you swear in a court of law that you did not place those two bags in your shed?
I will.
Forensics will go a long way, Mr Blythe, to ascertaining whether you are telling us the truth.
I want a cup of tea. This is fucking madness.
Again, language please.
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She said, It’s what we’re all thinking, and I said, No it isn’t Ellen, no it isn’t. It’s unthinkable. Don’t think it.
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Every bump in the field looks like a curled-up kid. My stomach is liquid.
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To clarify, we are looking for a living child. This is a search for a missing child. There is every statistical likelihood that Lanny will come home in the next six hours, cold and apologetic.
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Edward, if you say anything to me about conspiracy theories or plots I swear to god I will divorce you, just shut up, just shut up for once, or get out there and look for him.
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Can you describe for the benefit of the tape what we are looking at, some stuff from my studio, can you be more specific, some, please this is ridiculous, please, it’s Lanny’s name, go on please, it’s Lanny’s name written down again and again, fifty-five times to be exact Peter, Mr Blythe that is almost obsessive wouldn’t you say, it’s just a doodle, I do lettercutting, type, it’s just an absent-minded thing, but you must have been thinking about him while you did it, no, do you mean no you weren’t, no, not like that, perhaps, it looks to me like a love letter, it might seem to a casual observer that this is rather obsessive, not at all, can you describe for the benefit of the tape what we are looking at, if we could just answer, some stuff from my studio, haven’t slept what time, can you describe for the benefit of the tape, it’s a page from my sketchbook, go on, I don’t understand, you’ve asked me and I told you I want to go and help find Lanny, I don’t understand, what’s on the page Mr Blythe, it’s a drawing of two people having sex, it’s a drawing, not just a drawing is it, there’s probably twenty thousand drawings in my house, I don’t think, I just make work, I’ve been making work for decades, some of it’s like this, Mr Blythe I understand that but explain to me the difference between these ‘life drawings’ and pornographic drawings, NO, well Mr Blythe, I shall rephrase that, these are explicit drawings of androgynous figures engaging in sex acts, NO, where is the nice lady with the rose perfume she said I had nothing to worry about, you’d be advised to calm down, please, NO, that’ll do, we can take a break, I don’t like this I want to wait, hang on, go on, what, go on, I, good god I don’t know how else to explain to you, you think, wait, Mr Blythe let’s take a break, this is not, I know what you’re saying, I’ve always made work about sex and always drawn and there’s no connection what absolute madness, hands clammy guilty guilty calm down, what is this a Victorian indecency trial I am so unhappy I want to speak to someone else this is just ridiculous people have written books people have written doctoral studies on my drawings and Christ alive is this a serious thing now are you, bloody hell, they’re not the doodles of a sex pest I am, god almighty, I’d like to speak to someone, so in your art classes with Lanny did you ever, NO NO NO stop it I can’t believe, stop what Mr Blythe, calm down please, Mr Blythe, every time he moves his hands there is a sweaty print on the black plastic table top Mr Blythe?
he lifts his hand
a wet hand remains
there’s no difference between their voices and his voice and the thoughts in his head and he believes he c
an hear the thoughts in their heads too
he lifts his hand
