“It was here,” I say. My voice is no more than a croak.
“What happened?”
“It was John. He was angry with Joel. Disappointed. He’d wanted so much for his son, and Joel was failing him in every way. So he found him. And he took him. And he drowned him.”
The warmth of my breath hangs in the air for a moment, then blows away.
“How do you know?” Nick takes my hands between his and holds them gently, as if he’s afraid of frightening me into silence. “Susannah, love, I believe you, but how do you know?”
“Because of Jackie,” I say.
“Because of Jackie? I don’t understand.”
“We went to a medium, and he saw it, and it all came true,” I say. I must sound mad, but I don’t care. “Jackie and I went together, and he saw both of our boys, dead. He said, One on land, hidden beneath trees, and one in the water, near a boat that never moves. He said, One was killed by his father, and one was killed by his mother. And it came true, didn’t it? That’s why you arrested her.”
“No, love. That’s not true.”
The snow is like feathers, like petals, like kisses. If I stand still for too long I’ll be covered over.
“Yes. I’m right. It’s true. I saw on the news. It was on the news. I saw the pictures, it said you’d arrested someone, you’d got her in custody. I saw their house, their house was on the news. You found Ryan’s body.”
“We did, love. But it wasn’t Jackie. It was Lee. His stepfather.”
One was killed by his father. And one was killed by his…
And then, just as the gypsy woman promised, Joel comes back to me.
I’m at home. My house is clean and peaceful. I have eaten a nice lunch with my sister. There are small chores I should be undertaking – laundry, dusting, the folding of clothes – but I’m replete with food and too lazy to move. Instead, I sit in my nicely decorated living room and think about what I might add to make it even more beautiful. New cushions for the sofa and matching curtains. A different clock for the mantelpiece. Flowers for the table. Beside me, my handbag begins to vibrate.
I reach for my phone, but of course it’s switched off, I switched it off so I could enjoy my lunch with Melanie uninterrupted. What I can hear is my other phone, the cheap pay-as-you-go mobile that I bought months ago and have kept hidden in a dozen secret places ever since.
I’m putting a new number in your phone, I said to Joel. You’re the only one who’ll have the number. So if you ever need to call me and for Dad not to know about it… His blue eyes wide and startled, as if I’d grown a new face. Don’t ever tell anyone, okay? It’s just our secret. And it has been just our secret, called with increasing and terrifying frequency over the weeks and months as my son’s life grown darker and more confusing. His voice is slow and slurry.
“Mummy? Mum? Are you there? Please don’t leave me, I need you, please help me, I need you to come and get me. Please, Mum, please help me, I’m so sorry I ran away, I need you. Please help me, Mum. Mum? Can you hear me?”
The gentle selfish pleasure of my afternoon is over. I have to get back to my real life, where I keep my son safe from his father, so he can have the space to overcome his demons and heal his wounds and become the boy I know, I know, he truly is inside.
Keeping this secret requires certain precautions. I go to the coat cupboard and take out an ugly green fleece whose malevolent cut adds instant pounds to my body. I wipe off my lipstick, take out my earrings, unpin my hair and brush it limp and flat. I replace my pretty dress with faded jeans, my pretty heels with ugly elastic-sided black boots. I take out my real phone – my official phone – and lay it on the table. I leave my house by the back door and scuttle furtively down the narrow passageway. My neighbour, who has not yet forced himself to overcome his horror of the back bedroom where his daughter lived and died, does not see me. Even angels are blind sometimes. I take the bus into town and walk, walk, walk from the bus station to the place where my son waits for me.
He’s by the river, tucked away behind the broken doorway of a semi-derelict building that must have been a warehouse. We’re moments from the heart of the city, but despite the hum and rumble of the endless freight lorries making their way up to the ferry, we’re alone here, alone in a way that can only happen in a city, where no one knows anyone and no one watches if you choose to slip away, quiet and careful, beneath the branches of a hanging willow tree. Or into the bushes at the centre of a roundabout. Or behind the doorway of an old warehouse by the river. Joel’s always had a talent for finding places to hide.
“Joel.” I stroke his face. He is incoherent with whatever he’s taken, jaw slack, eyes rolling, skin sweaty, hands soft and useless. “Sweetie. It’s Mummy. I’m here. I’m here.” His eyes peel open and he smiles blissfully at me for a moment, then lapses back into the embrace of the chemicals that sing within him.
“Joel. Come on. We need to get you home.”
“Don’t wan’ go home. Wanna stay here. Stay here w’ me, Mum. S’beautiful.”
“Sweetie, we can’t.” I try to lift him, but it’s like trying to lift a sack of flour. He’s never been this bad before, never. Panic licks at my heart. In my head, a clock is ticking, counting down the moments until John will come home. What has Joel taken? How long will it last? Is there any chance of Joel being even semi-presentable by the time John walks through the door? “We need to get you sorted out. Dad’s coming home in a few hours. You want to be home for him, don’t you?”
“No. Dun’ want to see Dad. M’scared of Dad.”
“Don’t say that. Dad loves you.”
Joel waves his forefinger slowly in front of my face. His eyes crease with laughter. “Then why you always trying a keep me safe from’m?”
My heart feels cold.
“He wants me t’b’ different. But you love me just’z I am, don’t you?” Joel’s smile is as sweet and melting as when it was a baby. It’s a terrible thing to see it appear on the face of this limp ravaged body slumped across my lap. “You love me just’z I am. S’s why I love you best. You dun make me be anyone ’cept than who I am…”
“But this isn’t who you are, sweetie.”
“Yes ’tis. S’how I feel happiest. When’m high…’n’ you’re here w’me… I know’t dun’t matter, c’s you love me anyway. Thas wh’ makes me happier’n anything inna whole world.” He sighs and takes my hand, tucking it away like a treasure beneath his chin. “Dun’t ever wan’ go back to rest’v world, Mum. Less you’n’me stay here.”
“We can’t. This can’t go on. It can’t, we can’t keep living like this. Joel, you’re getting worse. You have to have some help.”
“No, Mum. You’re helping. Y’ come’n get me. Y’ll always look aft’ me. Keep’a whole world away.” He yawns. “Night night.”
“No.” I shake him. “Not night night. Time to wake up. Come on, get up. On your feet.”
“I can’t. ‘M not well. Can’t go school today.”
“We’re not going to school, we’re going home. Come on. Stand up. Stand up. Up!”
Somehow I wrestle him to his feet. He sways heavily and leans against the wall. I glance around apprehensively, afraid of being seen, afraid John has a network of spies who watch me. But there’s no one else here. No curious faces glancing out of windows. No fellow wanderers taking in the murky river air. We might be alone in a desert.
“That’s better. Now we have to walk. Okay? Walk. We’re going home. You hear me? Move your feet.” He takes a few shuffling steps. “That’s it. That’s it. Keep doing that.”
A few reluctant steps and we’ve made it out of the warehouse. Then he folds at the knees and like that he’s down again, rocking and swaying at the edge of the wharf, and nothing I can do will persuade him to his feet. How am I going to get him home? How?
“Joel.” I can feel the tears pouring down my cheeks. “Sweetie. This can’t go on. This isn’t a life. Not for any of us.”
“Mum, I’m scared.” He cl
utches at me. “My head hurts. All’v me hurts. I dun’t want to go school. Wanna stay here.”
Whose fault is this, this sickness that hides inside my son? Can I blame the woman, scarcely more than a child herself, who carried him in her belly? The foster carer who dropped Oramorph into his yearning, toothless mouth? The doctors who prescribed it? Is it John’s fault? Or is it mine?
“Make it stop,” Joel begs me. “You c’n do anything, Mum. Know you can. Make it all stop.”
Here’s how my life will go: I’ll hide Joel’s addictions for as long as I can, until one day they spill into the open and John sees everything, all the secrets I’ve kept and all the lies I’ve told. John will leave me. Joel will stay. I’ll have my son, to cosset and care for, to feed and clothe and nurture with everything he desires, for as long as his body can hold out. He’ll grow older and taller, but he will never leave me. My nest will never be empty. It will be just Joel and me, for ever and ever. Once, becoming a mother was all I dreamed of.
Or I could do something else. I could make it all stop. I could take away his pain.
I kneel beside my son. I hesitate. I press my lips against Joel’s face.
“I love you,” I say.
And then I push him hard over the edge of the wharf and let the river take him, drowning out all thought and feeling, filling his eyes and ears and lungs with the oblivion he craves. The sinking is slow and peaceful. His eyes are open. His hands are still. No one sees us. I watch him as he leaves me.
Afterwards I stand and stare sightlessly out across the water and wait to feel something. I’m waiting to be overwhelmed by a guilt so huge that it will fling me into the water after him. But instead the feeling, when it comes, is one of a strange and terrible relief. I’ve passed the test. I’ve done what my son asked. I’ve kept him safe from everything he’s afraid of. He’ll never have to go back to school. He’ll never have to face his father. I’ve made it all stop. I have not failed him.
Behind the door of the warehouse, I find Joel’s rucksack. At the bottom is Scrap-dog. Joel always took him everywhere. The rucksack needs to follow him into the water. But what about Scrap-dog? Do I keep him? Or send him on with Joel, as grave goods? I stare into the river that has swallowed my son and think, I need to decide soon. I have to get the next bus home. Joel will be home from school soon. I need to make him a sandwich.
The waters of memory should not close so easily over what I did to Joel. But the truth is that they do. It shouldn’t be this easy to get away with killing someone. But the truth is that it is.
“Susannah. Love. Look at me. Talk to me.” Nick is shaking me gently by the shoulders, trying to get my attention. “Please. You’re frightening me now. What’s happening to you?”
I think I should be paying attention to this man. He used to matter to me, I remember that. I remember the feel of his hands on my body, his mouth against mine. I remember an expensive gift. I remember the gleam in the gypsy woman’s eye as she laughed at me in a painted wooden caravan filled with china and crystal. He’ll come back to you, my love, she tells me, and now the snow’s falling on Christmas Eve and here he is, see? Do you see how your son’s coming to meet you? And now you’ll never be apart again. Something disturbs the surface of the mud.
“Look,” I say. “Can you see that?”
“See what?”
“Out there.”
“Susannah, there’s nothing there. Just water and mud.”
“No. I can see him. He’s coming for me. He’s come back to me. She told me he would, and he has.”
The man by my side is talking to me, but I can’t understand what he’s saying, he’s not important any more. His job was to help me find Joel, and that’s what he’s done. Now I can forget him.
Joel is struggling up out of the mud, his movements slow and jerky like an old film. His gaze is fixed on my face. His face is coated with mud and I can’t read his expression, but his eyes are as blue as they ever were. Is he angry with me? Or does he forgive me? Perhaps he’s even grateful? When he finally stands on the glossy brown surface, his feet leave no imprints.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you too,” says the man at my side, his voice sick and wretched. “Susannah, do you hear me? I love you. Come away from the edge. Please don’t do this. Please stay.”
“I have a present for you,” I say to Joel.
Beneath the mud, Joel’s face moves, but I can’t say whether it’s a smile or a snarl. It doesn’t matter. He’s my son, and he’s come back to me, and now we will never be apart again. His hands reach out towards me. He wants me to join him.
Holding Scrap-dog, I walk off the edge of the wharf to greet him, off the wharf and into the mud.
Life Without Hope:
Am I still a mother?
Am I still a mother?
I ask myself this question every day. I still don’t know what the answer is. It should be the simplest thing in the world, but when I meet someone new and they ask me about myself, the question always comes up – Do you have children? – and I freeze. Am I still a mother? Do I still have a child? Do I say, I had a son, I didn’t give birth to him but he was my son, and he went missing when he was fifteen and I don’t know if he’s alive or dead? Or do I lie and say, No, no children, how about you?
There’s no simple answer. No way to get round the fact that it hurts to deny my son’s existence, or to explain my life to a near-stranger and live with what happens next. A mother whose child has died may stop us in our tracks, but on some level we understand that this is simply one of the many ways in which the universe is cruel. But a mother whose child is missing – perhaps run away, perhaps driven out by something dreadful at home – invites judgement. On their faces, I see all the questions they don’t quite dare to ask. Was he unhappy? Were you too strict? Were you unloving? Abusive? What did you do to him to make him run?
So, yes. Sometimes I lie and say I have no children, because I’m weak and I don’t know how to face the pain it causes. But when I feel strong enough, I tell the truth. Yes. I had a son once. His name was Joel. I loved him so much. I love him still. And I hope one day I’ll see him again.
Posted on 24th December 2017
Filed to: Miscellaneous
Tags: missing people, support for families, Susannah Harper, Joel Harper
Acknowledgements
As always, the first and biggest thank you belongs to the amazing team at Legend Press, and especially to my lovely editor, Lauren Parsons. I’m proud every day to be a Legend author, and glad every day for the support you give my writing.
A special thank you to my very dear friend Krista Wood, for being my on-the-spot personal consultant on police procedure. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Thank you to Louise Beech, Vicky Foster, Michelle Dee, Linda Harrison, Julie Corbett and all the other amazing Women of Words, for teaching me to stand tall, breathe deep and stop hiding behind the mic stand.
Thank you to my family – and most especially my mum, Judy May, who made damn sure my brother and I fell as deeply in love with Hull Fair as anyone could.
Thank you to my children, Becky and Ben. One day soon, either I’ll write a book you can read, or you’ll be old enough to read the books I’ve written. In the meantime, please read this, and know how very much I love you.
Most of all, thank you to my husband, Tony. You make it all possible.
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We hope you enjoyed Cassandra’s novel. If you did, and
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Here’s the first chapter of the fantastic debut,
The Summer We All Ran Away.
chapter one (now)
This Thursday, in the middle of August, had been the most terrible, apocalyptic day of Davey’s nineteen years on earth. Getting drunk seemed the only possible respo
nse.
Slouched hopelessly on the grey-white steps of Trafalgar Square, his rucksack between his knees, he forced the vodka down his throat. Was it supposed to taste like this? Or were his mother and stepfather storing oven cleaner in the drinks cabinet for secret reasons of their own? He imagined it burning through his stomach and intestines, fizzing gently, creating thick yellow fumes. Stubbornly, he took another swill, and wondered if he might go blind.
Of course, if he did, then maybe he wouldn’t have to—
“All right there, mate?” said a companionable voice.
Davey squinted up through dust and sunshine to the policeman who stood, sweating amiably, by the steps.
“Bit early to be drinking, isn’t it? Not even lunchtime yet.”
Years of public school training smoothed over his terror.
“Er yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” His words slightly blurred by alcohol.
The policeman nodded wisely.
“Good.” His gaze took in the clean hands, the good jeans, the bottle of Stoli. The rucksack. The dark hair capping the young, weary face. The bloom of fresh bruises, one on the jawline, one high on the cheekbone. The crust of blood at the hairline. “You’ve been in the wars.”
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