Found

by Erin Kinsley

  ‘What do you mean?’ Of course he would ask that, stalling for time, fishing to find out what she knows, or thinks she knows.

  ‘Oxford, Schmoxford,’ she says, and there’s a slight slur in her speech. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says, and seems to give his attention back to the TV. Being called silly stings; her mother used to say it, and it feels patronising.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks, and Matt looks uneasy. ‘For Evan’s sake, we need to decide. We can’t stay here. We need to get him the help he needs, put him in a place where he can start to rebuild his life, maybe go back to school.’

  ‘He’s hardly ready for that.’

  ‘I can see that, silly. I’m the one who’s at home with him all day, remember? So what I’m asking you is, is it going to be just me and Evan, or are you coming too?’

  She’s expecting a quick answer, a reassurance that of course he’s committed, that she and Evan are his life. Anyone would say that, wouldn’t they? But instead there’s silence, and she can see Matt forming sentences in his head, trying them out to see which is the best, the least painful fit.

  ‘Listen,’ he says.

  And then the house phone rings.

  She can see the relief on his face. He gets up to find the handset and looks at the caller display.

  ‘It’s Dad,’ he says, and pushes the button to take the call. ‘Hi, Dad, how are you?’

  There’s a long delay as Matt listens. He asks, ‘What did they say?’ and then Jack talks a lot more.

  ‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ Matt says. ‘Of course I will. No arguments. I’ll set off first thing.’

  There are goodbyes, and Matt puts the phone back on its stand. When he sits back down in the armchair, his face is pale.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asks.

  ‘Bad news about Mum,’ he says. ‘She’s had some tests done. It’s cancer, cancer of the stomach. They’ve offered her treatment but she’s saying no. I said I’d go up and try and get her to see sense.’

  ‘I’m sorry, honey,’ Claire says quietly.

  ‘I’d better go and pack.’

  He’s almost out of the room when she calls him back.

  ‘Do you think Evan might like to go?’

  Matt’s face registers his surprise.

  ‘Really? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? I think a change of scene might do him good. He always loved it there, and what is there for him to do here? There’s no school and he’s no friends.’

  ‘OK. Let’s all go.’

  But Claire shakes her head.

  ‘I think you two should go without me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I put too much pressure on him. I know I do. I must be driving him nuts, always watching him, making sure he’s OK. I find it so hard to give him space, and he needs space. I think it would be better to make it a father–son thing. A boys’ road trip.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll worry about him every minute, and I’ll find it really hard to let him out of my sight. But I think he needs some time without me smothering him.’

  Matt shrugs.

  ‘If he wants to go, of course.’

  Claire follows Matt up the stairs, and stops outside Evan’s room, listening. There’s nothing to hear, not even Evan’s breathing, but there’s a light shining under the door so she thinks he must still be awake.

  She taps gently.

  ‘Evan? Can I come in?’

  In this, there’s been improvement. In a few moments, the door is opened, though Evan’s blocking it with his body, not allowing her in.

  She tries not to mind.

  ‘Grandpa’s just rung to say Grandma’s not very well,’ she says. ‘Dad’s going to drive up in the morning and stay a night or two to see if there’s anything he can do. So I was wondering if you wanted to go along for the ride.’

  Evan looks at her with his sad eyes, and a flicker of something crosses his face.

  Without speaking, he slowly closes the door; but before she moves away, she hears the sound of opening drawers, as Evan chooses clothes to pack for his trip.

  TWENTY

  11 August

  On the journey north, Matt expects no conversation from Evan, but talks as if he does. He suggests Evan puts on the radio, but senses rather than sees a slight shake of his head. Matt would prefer some distraction from what’s on his mind – the froth of Radio 2, a commercial station, or even, in deference to Evan, Radio 1 – but Evan seems content to look out of the car window. A few miles on the road, and Matt’s finding the empty space a good place to think things over – what he’ll say to his mother, the creeping worry that she may not be OK, the way things are between him and Claire, what the impact will be on Evan if they go their separate ways. While Evan was gone, life was simple. There was grief, and not much else. Now the grief for the son he’s lost – the normal boy, with normal prospects – is far more complex, and the fact that life will go on means if it’s to be more than the drudgery of passing days, roads must be chosen and hard decisions made. Even to be considering what he’s contemplating makes Matt feel a heel.

  It isn’t until the pressure on his bladder starts to be uncomfortable that he realises they’re totally unprepared to make this journey. Since his return, Evan has barely left the house, and then only to visit police facilities and the child psychiatrist they lined up for him to begin what they’re calling his rehabilitation. Signs appear for services in three miles. Evan is still looking out of the window, hands on his knees, the fingers of his right hand tapping a rhythm which might be boredom but is more likely to be stress. Surreptitiously Matt watches the hand, thinking how it’s changed – from the baby fist which used to grip his own fingers, to the toddler hand which held his crossing the road, to the boy’s hand which struggled to hold his cards when they played games at Christmas. Now it’s a youth’s hand, long and oversized and ready to be grown into, at odds with the way Evan is mentally. He seems much younger than he was before, as if he’s fallen under an enchantment reversing the path of maturation, retreating into boyishness as his body shoots up towards manhood.

  ‘I think we’ll stop for a comfort break, shall we?’ Matt suggests. ‘If you’re hungry, we could get a bite, McDonald’s or something. Only don’t tell your mum.’

  As soon as he’s said the words, he sees his lack of tact. For all he knows, Evan was fed nothing but fast food all the time he was gone, which would make it not a treat, but a reminder. A sandwich would be safer, but in the face of Evan’s apparent indifference, it seems it doesn’t matter.

  Matt takes the exit slip-road and slows the car. Immediately he’s wondering what to do for the best: park away from the central area where it’s quieter, or just find a space in the thick of things as he would do normally? His instinct is to avoid too many people, but maybe that’s signalling to Evan he thinks there’s an issue. He decides to be bold, and heads for the main car park.

  Evan’s fingers are drumming faster on his knee, and Matt doesn’t blame him for being nervous. Since he was last in this kind of environment, his world view has been shattered. Maybe he and Claire should have taken him out more, done more to get him re-integrated, but there’s no instruction manual for their situation, and no one’s offered any practical help. Let him take his time is the advice they keep hearing, but how much time should that be? Should they have pushed him harder? By leaving him night and day to his own devices, have they set him up to always be a recluse?

  Matt adopts an attitude he hopes Evan will take to be cool and relaxed. He takes his time to find a parking space on a row end, where the left side of the car – Evan’s side – is screened by conifer hedging, and turns off the engine. Evan is looking straight ahead, at rows of vehicles and the people walking amongst them: teenagers and young children
with frazzled parents, businessmen and delivery drivers, older people of Jack and Dora’s generation.

  ‘OK, buddy,’ says Matt. ‘Let’s go.’

  Praying Evan will follow his lead, he opens his door. The temptation to look back and see what Evan’s doing is strong, but he resists it. Act natural, he’s thinking, just act natural. He’s out of the car, but Evan hasn’t moved. There’s a man by himself walking towards them, and Matt senses Evan’s eyes on him, but the man’s on his phone and passes them without even a glance.

  Evan’s door opens, and Matt thinks, Thank Christ. In a moment Evan is standing beside him – too close beside him, and the closeness provokes in Matt the urge to put an arm around Evan’s shoulders.

  But that would look odd and they’re trying to do normal, where normal for Evan’s age would be him trailing behind Matt across the car park, trying to make out they’re not related.

  ‘Stick with me, kid,’ Matt says with a levity he’s not feeling, and they set off for the main building, Evan almost treading on Matt’s heels.

  People are coming and going. Matt pulls open one of the glass doors and stands aside to let Evan go ahead of him, but Evan hangs back, so Matt goes through first with Evan too close behind.

  The atrium is chaotic and hugely noisy, a dissonance of piped music, shouting children and the chatter of hundreds of people.

  Evan takes hold of Matt’s arm.

  ‘First things first,’ says Matt brightly, trying to keep it upbeat. ‘I need to find the gents. Let’s try over here.’

  With Evan’s arm linked through his, he feels protective. People will assume Evan has special needs, which of course he does. Taking a long way round to avoid pushing through a crowd, Matt leads his son to the toilets, and inside.

  There are men using the urinal.

  This is a place where men do intimate things, hidden away from the outside world. Evan tightens his grip on Matt’s arm.

  ‘We’ll use the stalls, shall we?’ Matt says discreetly. ‘You go first. I’ll guard the door.’

  He senses the other men listening, and almost laughs at the irony that he may be taken for some kind of paedophile. Evan clearly likes the idea of a locked door between himself and the strangers, but he’s reluctant to be parted from Matt, who touches his back, encouraging him forward. His hand there makes Evan uncomfortable. When he pulls away, it’s a stab in Matt’s heart.

  But Evan goes into the stall, closes the door and bolts it. Matt’s bladder is insisting he use the urinal, but Evan might be watching his feet under the stall door, so he handles his discomfort and stays where he is, as he’s promised. He waits for Evan to flush, then waits a minute or two longer, but beyond the sound of a zip being done up, there’s silence.

  The pressure on Matt’s bladder is becoming critical.

  ‘Evan, buddy, are you OK?’ he asks. A few moments later the bolt is slipped back and Evan appears.

  ‘My turn,’ says Matt.

  Evan’s eyes grow wide, and Matt sees his fear. Evan doesn’t want to be alone in here.

  ‘Tell you what,’ says Matt. ‘You go back in there and lock the door, I’ll use the doo-dah over here. One minute max and I’ll be back. OK?’

  Evan bolts himself back inside the stall, where the flimsy hardboard walls must feel far safer than no walls at all.

  ‘One minute!’ calls Matt, unzipping his flies. When he’s done, he taps gently at the door.

  ‘I’m back,’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’

  Behind the hardboard walls Evan is listening, making his decision on whether it’s safe for him to come out. As he’s about to take the risk and slide the bolt, two men burst in, talking loudly about last night’s football. They sound big and rough, the kind of men who’d easily overpower him, so he sits down on the toilet, puts his arms around himself, hugs himself into the smallest shape he can make and waits, quiet and unseen, until they’re gone.

  Matt takes out his phone and pretends to be engrossed in it. There’s a message from Claire asking how they’re getting on, and he replies with OK and an emoticon wearing a doubtful face.

  The men leave, and several more – far less vocal – enter. Matt’s preparing to knock again, but as he raises his hand, the bolt slides back and Evan appears.

  He leads Evan out into the food court. The men here are diluted with women and children, and in places there are empty tables where there are no men at all.

  They look around at the fast-food franchises: burgers, pizza, fish and chips.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ asks Matt. He’s feeling inclined towards the fried chicken Claire never lets them eat, but Evan has other ideas. He’s heading the opposite way, indisputably in the direction of McDonald’s.

  Claire’s enjoying her first glass of the evening, but the ring of the doorbell eradicates the welcome softening of tension the Pinot Noir brings. Instantly, her mind goes to Matt and Evan, and she hurries into the hall. Through the glass panes in the door, she sees a woman’s outline. Afraid it’s someone from the police, she opens it.

  She doesn’t know the woman, and she doesn’t look like police: too young, too colourfully dressed. Even plain-clothes police like Naylor seem to stick to navy-blue and black, occasionally grey. This girl’s in green with flashes of yellow, and her kitten-heeled shoes are yellow to match.

  Her smile’s a salesperson’s smile, showing all her white teeth but going nowhere near her eyes. There’s an expensive handbag slung over her shoulder – Mulberry? wonders Claire – and some kind of notebook under her arm.

  ‘Mrs Ferrers?’ she asks.

  Claire is still sober enough to be cautious, and she could deny who she is and be believed. The woman on the doorstep has seen photos of Claire from when Evan was taken, and the Claire she’s seeing now looks nothing like those pictures. She looks more like an older relative, and without too much imagination she could be taken for her own mother.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘I am,’ says the young woman, with what she’s hoping is cheeky charm. ‘I’m Annabelle, from the Fletcher magazine group. You’re probably familiar with some of the titles we publish. We mostly do women’s interest, coffee break stuff, lots of celebrities and true stories. It is Claire, isn’t it? Would you mind if I come in?’

  In her mind, Claire runs an inventory of the state of the housekeeping. There’s laundry in various conditions in the kitchen and utility – waiting for washing, waiting for drying, waiting for ironing, waiting to be put away – and even though it would be dinner-time in a normally functioning household, she’s yet to tackle the dishes left over from breakfast. The carpets need vacuuming, the bathrooms need cleaning and the kitchen floor needs a mop. Without thinking about it in any detail, there’s enough to keep her going an entire weekend.

  She takes up a position which blocks the door, stopping Annabelle from seeing into the hallway.

  ‘What is it you want?’ she asks.

  ‘Just a little chat, really,’ says Annabelle. She lays her head on one side, another charming gesture which might work on some men. ‘We think our readers would be really interested in your story, in the feel-good aspects of it. You know, your son back home with you, how you feel about that, how it is to be a family again.’

  Entirely of their own accord, Claire’s eyebrows lift.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she asks.

  Annabelle misses the incredulity in her tone.

  ‘Readers would love to hear how it’s been,’ she says. ‘There’d be a fee of some kind, of course.’

  Claire reflects on how it’s been: her silent son, her absent husband, the sense of everything still as irreparably broken as it ever was.

  She produces her own version of Annabelle’s insincere smile.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she says, ‘but why don’t you just fuck off?’

  Late afternoon, and the motorways have
been left far behind. They’re passing through open country glorious with summer, where sheep are grazing amongst the upland bracken, and rivers sparkle in valleys where wildflowers colour their banks.

  This tranquil beauty is balm for the soul, and Matt realises he’s missed it. Evan seems to be enjoying the scenery. Maybe he’s missed it, too.

  At the turn for Ainsclough Top, the stream where Evan used to fish runs under a bridge. Matt slows the car, allowing Evan a view of the clear water where wild cresses flourish.

  ‘I expect you could find time to come down here with your net while we’re here, see what you can catch.’

  Immediately Matt regrets saying it, thinking Evan’s far too old now for such childish things. Evan’s solemn face doesn’t move, but as they turn up the track towards the farm, he looks back over his shoulder, and his eyes, it seems to Matt, are on the stream.

  Jack’s waiting, smiling, at the door. As they get out of the car, Matt looks for signs of worry in his face, but there’s nothing to see. Evan walks straight up to his grandpa, gives him the briefest of hugs and goes inside the house.

  ‘How’s Mum?’ asks Matt, and Jack shrugs.

  ‘She’s all right,’ he says. ‘At least she says she is. Stubborn as ever. Let’s talk about it later. We don’t want to upset the boy.’

  In the living room, Dora’s sitting on the sofa, a book of word-search puzzles on her lap. To her obvious pleasure, Evan is sitting beside her, holding her hand.

  Matt crosses to her and kisses her cheek. Her face is undeniably thinner, and the bones at the base of her throat are prominent.

  ‘How are you doing, you old attention-seeker?’ he asks. ‘You look pretty well to me.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she says. ‘A bit tired. Just feeling my age, aren’t I, love?’ She squeezes Evan’s hand. ‘I’m hoping you might help me a bit with these puzzles, and I’m sorry to say your grandpa’s threatening to cook tea.’