by Bev Thomas
‘What’s the usual timetable,’ I asked, ‘for finding boys like Tom?’
There was a moment of silence. ‘We’ll keep you posted,’ he said, and again, I am referred to the websites and the organisations. There was no news the next day. Or the day after that. It seemed incomprehensible that nothing else could be done, that no one could find him and bring him home.
The investigating officer reassured me he’d pass on any new information immediately. But, when I pressed him, he gently reminded me of Tom’s age.
‘Dr Hartland,’ his tone was kindly, but with an edge of insistence. ‘We’re doing everything we can – but London is full of missing children. Young boys and girls of thirteen and fourteen, younger sometimes. Perhaps there are problems at home. Drugs. Family breakdown, mental health problems. But they are missing. Look at any local paper. Tom’s still technically a child, but he’s not far off adulthood in the eyes of the law. At eighteen he’ll be deemed equipped to make his own decisions. If we find him, we’ll encourage him to make contact, but it will be his choice. We’ll do what we can.’
For those hours and days afterwards, I barely slept, and if I did doze off, I woke in a hot sweat, with a Shutterstock of awful images. The most recurrent one was of him falling into a lake. Sinking downwards, stones bulging in his pockets, his arms outstretched like giant wings.
I rang Geoff the following day to ask about the passport. He told me he’d given it back to Tom a few weeks ago.
‘But we’ve got his sweatshirt,’ he said, ‘he left it here that day. It was in his locker. With a book. I’ll drop it round.’
In fact, it was Julie who came over with his things. She refused to come in, but stood on the step, twisting her pink braids between her fingers. She was evasive about the evening he’d gone around to see her. Shrugging off my questions, like it wasn’t any of my business. But perhaps it was how tired I looked, or the worry etched on my face, that finally prompted her to offer up some details. She told me when he’d come around to her flat he was all panicky and worried, ‘blaming himself,’ she said, ‘but then we talked. And he seemed to chill a bit. We hung out for the evening.’ Then she hesitated, picking at her nails. ‘He asked if he could stay for a few days. On my sofa. Said he wanted some space—’
‘Some space?’ I shot back. ‘From what?’
She was shaking her head. ‘I said it wasn’t a good idea. It was a friend’s flat. She was already doing me a favour—’
‘You said no?’ my voice was stony.
‘Well, I – it wasn’t my flat—’
‘But he was asking for help.’
I’m not proud of my behaviour. I was tired and anxious and looking for someone to blame.
‘What were you thinking?’ I said with venom. I said her timing was appalling. I think I called her selfish. ‘He’s only seventeen,’ I shouted hysterically, ‘this is your fault.’ The last thing I remember is her dropping Tom’s things on the porch and the swirl of her tie dye dress as she marched away.
It’s hard to describe how devastated I was to see Tom’s copy of Into the Wild. I turned it over in my fingers then flicked it open. It was well thumbed, with bits of the text underlined in pencil. He never went anywhere without it, and so I realised how much I’d been linking the absence of the book with a premeditated departure on his part. Much as the idea he’d made a willing choice to leave was painful, it would have showed some intent, a decision, and to my mind was a better alternative to the other darker images of him. Lying in a ditch. Or at the foot of a cliff. Or at the bottom of a lake. I realised how much I’d dreaded the book turning up, under a pile of papers, or tucked behind bills on the mantelpiece. So, when Julie brought it back, I didn’t so much want to shoot the messenger – I wanted to annihilate her.
It was later that day that I found the remains of the bonfire in the garden. The metal fire pit we used to take camping was tucked by the side of the shed. I knelt down. On the grass, tossed to one side, was Tom’s wallet. It was empty. I sifted through the pile of white ash. My fingers found the hard edge of something. I lifted it up. A small triangle of blue plastic, melted on one side, but the unmistakable edge of an Oyster card. On the floor, to the side, was a scrap of paper. I peered at it. I could see exactly what it was. It was the corner of Tom’s filled in, but not yet sent off, application for his provisional driving licence. I sat on the grass, tried to imagine him coming out here the morning he cut his hair, or maybe it was late the night before. I tried to imagine him building the fire and setting light to the kindling then systematically feeding all his documents into the flames. His college ID card. His passport. His bank cards. I think about him watching them curl and burn and melt in the heat. Setting light to the things that defined who he was. Destroying all traces, all evidence of his identity, one by one. What was he thinking? I wondered. Then I stood up abruptly. I didn’t want to think about what he might have been thinking.
David came back early from Los Angeles and by Saturday Carolyn was home. It was obvious she knew something had happened when she saw the two of us had come to collect her. Together, we sat around the table and made a plan. David channelled his energy into a massive outward search. He left the house first thing and spent hours driving round London, going to all the hostels with photographs of Tom that Carolyn had printed out. He pinned a map up on the living room wall and marked out areas he thought that Tom might go. He tracked places where Tom had been happy; childhood holidays, camping trips – he even went to Devon, to the cabin by the lake. Carolyn set up a targeted search on social media, with accounts on Twitter and Instagram that she updated regularly, casting the net wide. At home, I coordinated the links with the police and Missing Persons Bureau. Every evening we came together to eat and update each other on our progress. There was no word, no sightings. Nothing.
Twenty-one
In the immediate aftermath I was in shock. Freefall. I obsessively checked all our bank accounts, and each time I went online, I hoped to see some sort of unusual activity, the removal of a lump sum that might have given us some sort of clue to his whereabouts. There was none. I was empty and aching as I moved through my life. For a while, things looked normal on the surface. I saw patients. I supervised my staff. I chaired the team meetings. No one knew. I held myself together, until the day I bumped into Sally Adams. I realised afterwards, it was only a matter of time. A small tap of a spoon on the eggshell that was my life.
Sally was Finn’s mother. The last time I’d properly seen Finn was that time at the station, after the football match. She was chatting in a huddle by the bus stop. I judged if I carried on walking at speed, looking straight ahead, I’d get past without her noticing. Just as I thought I was home and dry, I heard her shrill voice.
‘Ruth?’
I froze, then turned.
‘Ruth! I thought it was you.’
And then it started. ‘I’m on my way to the uniform shop,’ she said. ‘Finn’s got that football tour in Holland,’ she sighed. ‘You should see the amount of stuff they need … Holland? Holland? What happened to tournaments inside the M25?’
She rolled her eyes dramatically.
‘They’re staying in Eindhoven. An international tournament. Bloody hell. Seventeen years old? Where do you go from there, eh? Finn’s so happy. It’s all he wants to do – football … football … football …’ she said in mock exasperation.
Suddenly, she pulled out her phone. ‘Look at this,’ she said, scrolling through her photos. ‘Remember how fed up Finn was about being so short. Look at him now,’ and her pearly pink nail tapped on to a picture of a lanky boy in football kit. He looked unrecognisable. For a second, I saw the two of them at nursery. Finn and Tom, sitting together in the sandpit. Their small intent faces as they poured sand from one bucket to another.
‘Bill was moaning last night – when are they going to ship out and bloody leave us alone?’ she laughed. ‘He loves it really. In fact, Adam’s back now from university. The boomerang years! Last year at m
edical school and he’s moving back home for a while. It’s impossible – with London rents—’
On and on she went, feigning annoyance while revelling in her delight about her family. I stood immobilised, as if impaled by the glittering sword of her shiny, prize-winning children. When she took a breath, I was so anxious to ward against any questions coming my way that I found myself saying, ‘Is it four or five you have? I can never remember.’
‘Four,’ she said proudly. ‘I would have been happy to carry on, though. I wanted six – but Bill put his foot down. Or rather, zipped up his trousers,’ she shrieked, leaning in conspiratorially.
‘It does always feel like more than four. They all seem to hang out at ours – friends, girlfriends, boyfriends. Often, it’s like feeding a football team. I never know how many I’m cooking for – I can’t remember the last time it was just the six of us. I always end up doubling up stuff – don’t you find that?’ she said, not really waiting for an answer, as I pictured our long empty kitchen table.
I remember once going around to pick up Tom from Finn’s house when they were in Year One. She had four children under the age of seven, the youngest, a baby, was in a sling strapped to her chest. Her hair had a silky shine to it. She was perfectly dressed in Lycra and a matching sweatshirt. She was pureeing a fish pie, ‘for Molly,’ she explained, jiggling the baby, and scooping the potato mixture into small ice cube trays, while wiping down the surfaces at the same time. I felt tired just watching her.
‘“Liberty Hall”, Bill always mutters under his breath. But you know—’ and she suddenly stopped. ‘God knows what we’ll do when they’re gone. It’s the graveyard time for relationships, isn’t it – the big fat empty nest? I’ll have to take up basket weaving – or hope that a couple of them will be poorly paid creatives who can never afford to leave home,’ and she roared with laughter.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘thank goodness for work,’ and she was chortling so hard at her own joke, she didn’t seem to notice my dry tone.
She shook her head. ‘God knows how I’d have fitted in gainful employment. And especially your job – all that good work that you do.’
I was feeling hot and clammy. There was a smell of damp wool. I loosened the scarf from round my neck. Her face went blurry. And for a moment, everything went quiet. Her relentless incessant chatter continued. I could see her mouth moving. Her hands weaving and gesticulating in front of me. I didn’t hear any of it.
It took a great effort of will to glance at my watch.
‘Listen to me rabbiting on. How are you? The twins? David?’
‘Good,’ I managed to say, ‘but I have to get a train,’ I said, backing away, a hand up, like a shield.
‘Catch up soon,’ she called out after me, as I stumbled away towards the station.
*
I took three months off work. I told them I had to have emergency surgery on my back, after slipping on an icy pavement. Maggie deputised for me in my absence. The only person who knew the truth was Robert.
‘I don’t want to tell anyone at work,’ I said, ‘I want to keep it separate. Work helps. It’s part of who I am – and someday soon, whatever happens, I will want to go back. I don’t want them looking at me in a different way. All sympathy and pity and kid gloves. I won’t be able to stand it. It won’t work,’ I said fiercely.
Robert listened, and if he didn’t agree, he didn’t say so. Still, I could tell it didn’t sit well with him. That it wasn’t what he’d have recommended.
‘Whatever you think will work for you,’ he said. ‘That’s the important thing. But if you don’t open this out to John, to the wider team, then when you go back to work, you will need to be your own barometer, of what you can manage and what you can’t. What cases you take on. What to say no to. These are things we must discuss here. And I’d like your assurance that you will do that. Here, with me.’
I gave him my word – and he seemed satisfied with the spine surgery story. In many ways, it wasn’t so far from the truth. I could barely hold myself upright. Keep two feet on the floor.
And the day I called in sick after ‘my fall’, I literally collapsed, at such an alarming rate that I wondered if it had been a bad idea to have a break from work. I spent Christmas day in bed.
I developed flu symptoms and then a post-viral illness that meant I was confined to my bed for three weeks. I was floored, literally. David took a week off and fielded calls and emails from well-wishers from the unit. Then the second week, when I was no better, he worked from home. He was considerate and helpful. Unusually available and attentive. Perhaps we both saw that this sudden collapse was my body’s way of coping with the stress and shock and, while we’d been unable to speak of the events without recrimination, he could now focus on finding ways to nurture and heal my body.
Many of those days passed in a haze. I’d wake to find a cool flannel on my forehead, freshly filled glass of water, or lemon barley by my bed. Once, when I went to have a bath, I returned to find he had removed the sweat-drenched sheets and exchanged them for new crisp linen. It seemed so unlike him, and such an act of kindness, it made me want to weep. Afterwards, I discovered he’d even gone to visit my mother for me.
Carolyn was a quiet presence in the background, doing the washing and ironing and making a constant menu of delicious food; healthy soups, casseroles and salads, which she left on the hob, or in the fridge, with small Post-it notes. The weeks passed. The twins’ eighteenth birthday came and went. Carolyn had an English paper the next day, and wanted to revise. David had offered up various suggestions that I waved away. In the end, he took himself off to the cinema and I spent the evening in Tom’s room, just sitting on his bed.
Carolyn expressed doubts about her forthcoming trip to Australia, was in a mind to cancel, but David and I were uncharacteristically united. She had to go. There was no point staying in London. A waste of her year, ‘and anyway,’ I reasoned, ‘you can carry on the social media updates wherever you are,’ and it was this that seemed to sway her.
In the months that followed, up until our inevitable separation and David’s departure from the house, I was grateful to have his acts of kindness to remember. We waited until Carolyn had gone to Australia. If she was surprised at the news of our separation, she didn’t say.
In those weeks after I recovered, while I was still off work, I threw myself into a continued search for Tom. I joined the Missing Persons support group that was linked to the website the policewoman had given me. I went on chat rooms for parents. I gained support from others, mainly mothers from all over the world who were struggling with the very same torment. I was horrified at the numbers of ‘children’ who were sixteen, seventeen, and all those over the age of eighteen, who were beyond the reach of the law. Still babies really. Whatever their age – they would always be our babies. We emailed. We supported each other through difficult times. There were many lovely helpful people. Then there was Minty. After that, I closed down my account.
Weeks became months, which eventually became a year. A year of no news. It seemed inconceivable. I came to accept that the police could do nothing. I came to accept that my world was on the constant sharp edge of anxiety. A tension that heightened around birthdays and anniversaries, but also around many other entirely unpredictable and unexpected moments. I came to accept that I would see him everywhere. I came to accept living in a state of heightened anticipation, of anxious limbo. Of grief and loss. A missing person was an ambiguous loss, and with nothing to hook onto, it was like trying to hang a coat up in the dark. I came to expect that memories of him would nudge themselves unexpectedly into my daily life.
I didn’t expect Dan Griffin.
Twenty-two
John doesn’t smile. He’s not unfriendly, but his face is pinched with worry. He looks tired, is what I think when I come in. He’s lean and fit for a man in his early sixties. Today he looks grey, and weary. When I hover in the door, he stands up from his desk and gestures me towards the chairs by the ta
ble. He picks up a large brown A4 envelope from his desk, then joins me, sinking heavily into his chair.
‘Some photographs arrived at the Porters’ Lodge at lunchtime,’ he says. I feel an uncurling of unease as I recall my errors of last night. I look up at him. This is it, is what I’m thinking. I am going to have to explain to my boss, the Chief Executive of the Trust that I’ve worked for for twenty-five years, that I allowed a patient to stay overnight in my house. I have no idea what I’m going to say. It seems impossible – no, inconceivable – that there are photos of Dan leaving my house. How can that have happened? Who could have taken the pictures? He shakes open the envelope and fans out six or seven pictures across the table. I force myself to look down at them.
The pictures are blurry and flesh-coloured. For a moment, it looks like bodies, the side of a face perhaps, and I have the sinking memory of his lips on the side of my cheek. There’s a tense moment of silence as I peer at them. John is quiet. Too quiet. I am confused. I lean forwards. At first, it’s hard to work out what the images are.
I pick one up and it appears to be skin. I select another, there’s a red mark. And then I see it. The bracelet with small silver charms. A wheelbarrow. A star. A small heart. I look up. I feel the colour drain from my face.
‘Hayley Rappley,’ he nods, gravely. ‘Photos of her arm. She left this set at the Porters’ Lodge after posting them all on Instagram at two o’clock this morning – shortly followed by Twitter. The tag line #Killorcure with Ruth Hartland at the Trauma Unit.’
I hold my breath.
I select another. It’s less blurry. It’s possible to see the imprint of my fingers on her arm. The images seem to zoom in and out. I feel a dull ache at the back of my head. I think back to that moment in my room. My ears ringing with the sound of her fury. My desperation to stop her from leaving. My hand on her arm. I briefly close my eyes.
