Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  A noise causes him to look up. Callum is stood in front of him looking decidedly worse for wear. His hair is lank and a film of grease covers his forehead and nose. The top he is wearing looks as if it’s just been dragged out from the bottom of the pile of dirty washing that is undoubtedly festering in his bedroom at this very minute. Poor kid.

  “Can I ask you something Callum?”

  The boy eyes him warily. That’s how it is now. They’re all on edge, dancing round each other, exhausted, distressed, unable to deal with any more bad news. They’re ready to snap at any given moment. He nods and flops into one of the chairs around the table.

  “That lady over the road? The one opposite who lives in the big house?”

  Callum nods, his skin suddenly prickling. He wonders if this is about the carry on with Sammo and AJ. Pair of daft twats, coming here and acting like they own the place. He hopes she hasn’t complained. It’s the last thing his dad needs right now, the last thing they all need. Because she looks like a complainer, the type who would get offended by the slightest little thing.

  “Did I hear somebody say she has a husband living with her?”

  The young lad relaxes. Not a complaint about his mates then. That’s good. He has enough to deal with at the minute.

  “Yeah, so mum said. He’s disabled apparently.”

  “And she saw him, your mum?”

  Callum shrugs his shoulders and stares at his shoes, already losing interest. What has any of this got to do with his mum? “Dunno. Why?”

  “No reason. Did she say what his disabilities are?”

  The young lad narrows his eyes in thought, “An accident I think. Yeah that’s it. He had an accident while. . .”

  “. . . out walking. That’s how it happened. An accident,” Toby murmurs softly, his spine suddenly stiff with unease.

  Callum looks up, a vague look of recollection on his face, “That’s the one. Broke his hip and stuff. Still in a really bad way from what mum said. Completely unable to do anything for himself. Why?”

  Toby shakes his head and leans on the table for support. “No reason. Just wondering.”

  Out of nowhere, a heavy lump works its way up his throat and tears sting at his eyes. Mike isn’t the only one who is exhausted. And as for considering going back to Lincoln - who is he kidding? Anna is his only remaining sister and he will do whatever it takes to help find her. That’s all there is to it.

  ....................................................................................................................................................

  Mike is waking up as Toby enters the room and places the steaming mug of tea next to him on the bedside cabinet. Toby eyes up the bed. God it looks inviting. He could sleep the clock round at the minute. Mike blinks and drags himself up by his elbows. He wearily runs his fingers through his hair. His shirt sticks to his stout belly and his trousers are badly creased and concertinaed where he has laid with his legs drawn up to his abdomen.

  “No news?”

  “No news,” Toby replies. He wonders if the police have done a sweep of the river. Is there a set routine for these things or is each case different? Every bone in his body wishes that Anna would skip through the door at any minute, flustered and apologetic at having caused such a furore. He is trying to stay positive for Mike, Callum and Mason but at some point they are all going to have to face up to the fact that something dreadful, probably even fatal, has happened to her. The sensible medical practitioner in him tells him as much but as her brother he has to keep some hope. He would do anything - anything - to see her smiling face again.

  Mike twists his heavy frame off the bed and sighs loudly before taking a long swig of the tea. He winces as it burns its way down his throat.

  “What now then?”

  Toby bites his lip and shakes his head, “I don’t know mate. I really, really don’t know.

  They head downstairs in silence, each of them too deeply locked in their own thoughts to say anything. Mike looks around. There is an unnatural stillness in the house. Even with all the bodies that have trooped in and out all day and night for the past two days, Mike has never known the place be so quiet. No television blaring in the background, the boys not yelling or laughing, no sound of Radio 2 filtering in from the kitchen as Anna spends the day baking, preparing a sausage casserole or trying to work out why her lemon drizzle cake hasn’t risen properly. Anna is the heartbeat of this house, the glue that binds them all together. And now she is gone. The words rattle around his head and catch in his throat. He turns and stares at the door, picturing her standing there, rolling her eyes at something he has said, or shouting up at the boys for them to stop stomping around, telling them that they sound like a herd of elephants up there. The image blurs his vision. He blinks and swallows hard. It’s not over yet.

  “That was the last we’ve got,” Mason says, eyeing up his dad’s mug.

  Mike stares at him, “Eh?”

  “We’re out of coffee and tea bags. I was gonna make some for everyone outside. They’re parched.”

  “Right, well I need to get out of here for a break. I’ll nip to the shop,” Mike tries to sound positive and in control but it comes out as forced, aggressive even.

  “Too late,” Mason mumbles as he stares at the clock. “It’s just about to close.”

  “And Simon’s gone home I take it?” They all nod. The thought that they could knock on his door, get Freda or Alan to open up the shop looms in his mind. He dismisses it. Simon’s been a massive help. He doesn’t want to bother them any more. They have a shop to run, early mornings to contend with. The last thing they need is people banging on their door when they have to be up at 4am to sort the morning papers out. Toby shrugs his shoulders and intervenes, “That’s what neighbours are for isn’t it? Borrowing a cup of sugar and all that? Anyway, it’s my fault. I used the last. Should have noticed really.”

  “I’ll go.” Mason gets up is standing behind them, his hands slung deep into his pockets, “I could do with getting out of this place for a short while,”

  Mike nods and watches as his son slopes away. He feels useless. What kind of a father is he putting his kids through something like this? A fucking pathetic one, that’s what. If he were an outsider looking in, he would want to punch a dad who was as stupid as he is. Letting his wife wander off down the river on her own while he went out drinking. A fucking worthless tosser is what he is.

  They are all still standing around in a daze, watching the police milling about outside when Mason comes back holding a half filled jar of coffee and a handful of tea bags.

  “Who do we have to thank for these?” Mike shuffles across and takes the jar before it slips out of Mason’s grip.

  “Jocelyn. She said she sends her best wishes and to call on her if we need anything else.”

  Mike nods gratefully and watches as his son heads off into the kitchen. His voice echoes as he shouts through to them from behind the cupboard door,

  “I called at that Phoebe’s house but nobody answered. I was glad actually. I know mum feels sorry for her with her disabled husband and everything but she’s really weird. Bit of a head case if you ask me.”

  Mike frowns and scratches at his scalp. He brings his fingers down and stares at them in mild disgust. His hair is greasy and he is in desperate need of a hot shower. “Why? What makes you say that?”

  A small pulse thrums at the side of Toby’s face, an insistent twitch that won’t go away. He rubs his hand over his face and surreptitiously wiggles at his jaw to stop it.

  “Well, he made me swear to not tell anyone, but AJ messaged me the other night and told me that when him and Sammo went in her garden a few weeks back, she threatened them with a knife. And then earlier when she was upstairs . . .” Mason shakes his head, exhausted and unable to formulate the correct words. Instead he retrieves his phone and scrolls through his texts to try to find it before giving in and sticking it back in his pocket.

  Mike shakes his head d
ismissively. “Is this the same AJ who told everyone his grandma had won the lottery and that his dad was related to the Royal Family?”

  Callum thinks of the message he deleted and frowns. He tries to say something but Toby’s voice breaks the silence, “Whitby,” he says ruminatively as he chews at one of his nails, “they were out on a walk up the cliffs at Whitby.”

  Mike stares at him and shrugs his shoulders, “Who was?”

  “Phoebe and her husband. They were up on the cliffs walking. And he fell.”

  “You know about it then?” Mason is looking at Toby quizzically.

  “Oh, I know about it all right.” A fist tightens somewhere down in his stomach. He has heard about people doing this kind of thing, read about it in medical journals, but never actually encountered it. He once dealt with a patient who Complicated Grief Disorder and couldn’t function properly, but has never come across anything as extreme as this.

  “How come? Is he one of your patients?” Mike has suddenly taken an interest in the conversation, not because he actually knows or cares about Phoebe or her husband but because at the minute there is little else going on to engage him. He just needs the police to do their bit now and bloody well find Anna.

  “Not a patient, no. A colleague.”

  “Retired, I guess after his accident?” Mike replies, his sudden curiosity now waning. At the minute, other people’s problems don’t rank high on his agenda. God knows he has enough of his own going on. A retiree living in a huge house with a hefty pension doesn’t need his help or his interest.

  “Not retired.” Toby’s face has turned a sickly shade of grey, the colour leaching out of it as he tries to tie all the loose ends together in his mind.

  “Not retired, yet disabled and house bound. How does that work then?”

  “Give me a minute to think this through.” Toby taps at his forehead, his fingers tracing a line above his eyes cutting through the deep groove that sits above the top of his nose. “I just need a second to think.”

  Twenty Nine

  It shouldn’t be like this, people carrying on as if everything in the village is normal when it is anything but. Freda stares out at the fading light from the corner of the window that isn’t plastered with ‘for sale’ signs. Faded yellowing scraps of paper and plain white postcards put up asymmetrically without any thought to aesthetics or light blockage, cover the pane of glass. She sighs and wishes she could rip them all down. How many lost cats and parakeets can there be round these parts? And if she sees another shabby chic dresser or art deco sideboard for sale, she swears she might just scream. This is such an insular place. Or is it simply that everything is getting on top of her lately? This shop, the long hours, their bloody huge overdraft. Some days it all seems too much for her. And now another disappearance. And not just any person either. Anna. Lovely, quiet, gentle Anna. She swallows the lump back that sticks painfully in her gullet. Bloody government and its cutbacks. That’s what it is. If they hadn’t slashed the budgets for the Environment Agency then the river would have been dredged but as it is, it gets clogged with branches and sometimes even entire trees that have been uprooted in the floods and all kinds of other crap that swills about and traps anyone who slips into that stretch of the river. And then there’s that ruddy useless path - well they call it a path - more of a mudslide. The whole sodding place is a death trap. Freda rubs at her eyes wearily and decides she has had enough for the night. She is going to lock up and without telling Alan, she is going to go and help Anna’s husband and his family and whatever search party they have got going. Simon tried his best but he’s just a young lad and did what he could to help out. But at the end of the day, she is the one who knows Anna. They were friends and she might just remember something that can help find her. Any bit of information will be welcome won’t it?

  The setting sun emits a feeble trickle of warmth as she flicks off the lights and locks the door. Alan will spot the fact that the place is in darkness no doubt but quite frankly she is beyond caring. If he wants to keep the place lit up in case one measly customer decides they need a packet of toilet rolls then he can come over here and serve them himself. She has more important things to do.

  .................................................................................................................................................

  The walk to the other end of the village provides Freda with some much needed therapeutic relief. It’s rare she gets chance to do the simple things lately. Even walking feels like a treat. She passes the hubbub of noise emanating from the holiday cabins - the same ones Alan had insisted would use the shop regularly, be their main source of income. Turns out the camp has its own small shop on site, besides, the place is frequented by yuppies who arrive already armed with their own supplies of feta cheese and hummus and clinking bottles of the sauvignon blanc they consume in huge quantities once their little darlings are safely tucked up nice and safe and warm in their John Lewis quilts. They wouldn’t be seen dead venturing off the site to visit the ramshackle old shop that only sells cheddar cheese and cheap Bulgarian wine at £3.00 a bottle.

  She finds herself glad of her wellies as she hits the path that runs through the fields that separate one end of the village from the other. She misses being in the centre of the village. It’s good to catch up on the odd bits of gossip, sneaky snippets that make their way into the aisles of the shop or are exchanged at the front counter but feels out on a limb once the darkness sets in. Just her, Alan and Simon now he’s back at home after finishing university, and the whoops and cackles of holidaymakers as they down yet another crate of craft beer and cider.

  By the time she manages to drag her feet out of the squelch of the mud that once passed as the path, the sky has a baleful look about it. A ridge of clouds hang ominously overhead, low and threatening, matching perfectly the sinking, dull sensation that is sitting at the pit of her stomach as she spots the uniformed officers dipping in and out of the trees, torches in hand as the light begins to rapidly face. Soon they will give up and Anna, just like Nancy, will be no more than a face smiling out from a newspaper or a Facebook page, set up to try and find her. Doing her best to ignore the crowd of official looking bodies and the bloody huge Mountain Rescue van that is parked by the verge of the green, Freda heads over to Anna’s house - easy to spot - the one with the police in the front sliver of garden, looking bedraggled and wearing expressions that tell her all she needs to know; Anna is still missing. Dread tugs at her as she stops and tries to kick wet mud off her boots. Her heel hits the kerb sending splashes of soft mulch over the path. A noise stops her and she looks up as a small car pulls up at the junction and stops before it swerves into the village and onto a driveway ahead, mounting the pavement with speed and screeching to a halt behind the high privet that surrounds a large house. The old barn. Not so old now it’s had a ton of money poured into it. Freda feels her skin prickle. Her. It’s her. The more she thinks about it, the more certain she is that it is definitely her. It might be nearly forty years ago but it’s something that has stuck in Freda’s mind for many years. Her heart patters about her chest. Alan is right though. So what if it is her? People often end up back where they started. Some never leave in the first place. She suddenly feels overcome with exhaustion and wishes she could sit down on the pavement without appearing like an old mad, bag lady. Casting a glance in the direction of the river, Freda shivers, Come on Anna, show yourself. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

  ............................................................................................................................................

  The hoard of people turn to face Freda as she attempts to head into Anna’s garden. A tall officer holds his hand out to her and places his entire body in front of the gate.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m a family friend. I run the corner shop - A&F Stores? I’ve come to see if Mike and the boys are okay. The officer glances at her for longer than is necessary befor
e nodding and stepping aside to let her in. She heads into the kitchen where she sees the two boys and Mike. Another man is there who she hasn’t seen before but something about him is familiar. The set of his jaw and the shape of his eyes puts her in mind of somebody. It takes her a few seconds to realise he looks like Anna. He watches her with a certain amount of caution until Mike gives her a nod and the boys offer her a smile, then he thrusts his hand out and gives Freda’s a good firm shake as Mike speaks,

  “This is Freda, Simon’s mother. She runs the local shop, the one Anna used to work at.”

  Freda feels her face burn as if owning the corner shop is something to be ashamed of.

  “Hi, I’m Toby, Anna’s brother. Your son was a massive help yesterday. He gave us all the kick up the backside we needed. We were all in shock, too exhausted and muddled to think straight.”