by Linda Huber
‘Me too. Much the best way. Look – here are our ice creams.’
The arrival of the sundaes changed the topic very effectively, and Rob rubbed his foot up Phoebe’s leg – bless her. She’d said exactly what Mia needed to hear.
Scout was the happiest dog on the planet when they arrived home late that afternoon and released him from his cage. Rob laughed as the puppy pranced around, rushing from one person to the next, tail wagging overtime.
‘There’s no one better at welcoming you home than a dog, huh, Mia?’ He went into the kitchen and pulled out the dog food, which guaranteed him Scout’s one hundred per cent attention until the bowl was under the dog’s nose.
Dorothy nodded at Scout wolfing his food down. ‘Will you be getting him neutered?’
‘Yes,’ said Rob, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘We could have it done here; there’s an excellent vet in St Ives.’
Rob pondered. ‘It’s an idea. We’ll have a lot on when we’re back home, what with your removal and work and Mia back at school. I’ll swing it past Phoebe; she’s our dog expert. Dave said you can get it done at six months, and he’s nearly that now. Thanks, Mum.’
Dorothy smiled, and Rob hugged her. He had a mum in a million. The picture of another mum, walking the streets of London looking for her daughter flashed into his head, and he grimaced.
Chapter Five
The Boy, aged sixteen
His mother had gone for good. After a ‘chat’, in which she’d flung every cliché in the book at him, she’d packed her bags and left for London, where she had friends – carefully timing her final exit when Dad was working at the pub, of course.
Eddie didn’t blame her; Dad had been horrible to her for as long as he could remember, and he’d be out of it soon enough too. He’d been sixteen in January so he could leave school anytime. Dad had let him stay on until the end of the school year, because being ‘at school’ had made it easier to fit in extra boxing sessions, and it had all been worth it, hadn’t it, to get the Junior trophy now sparkling on the mantelpiece in the living room? Had it hell. But Eddie said nothing; leaving home and going up to Scotland to find work would be a lot more comfortable when the weather was milder, and there’d be more jobs going in summer. And who knows, miracles might happen and maybe he’d pass a couple of exams. Not that he’d said any of this. As far as Dad was concerned, he was going to work at the gym, end of.
Little did Dad know. Eddie smiled to himself. His schooling was shot to pieces, but once he got away, he’d be in charge of his own life. And it was good to know he was strong enough to make adult men fear him. He was an expert at using psychology these days: the cold stare perfected in the bathroom mirror worked on all his boxing opponents – on everyone, in fact, except his father.
Eddie stretched out on the sofa. He was talking about days, now, how good did that feel? A week or so would let his eye and all the bruising heal; finding a job would be easier when he didn’t look like he’d been up against an Olympic champ. But as of now, he was free. The championship was over, and he’d never fight another fight, never punch another bag, never smell the suffocating stench of sweat and primitive, raw killer instinct at the gym. Fight or flight: well, he was fleeing. It wasn’t too late to save his life.
Thinking about what he’d do when he went to Scotland reminded him that job-hunting would involve references. Stu would vouch for his character. Oh, and he’d need things like his passport and birth certificate, too. Eddie went through to the kitchen cupboard where there was an old cake box holding all the official stuff. The passports were right at the top – he’d done two comps on the continent this year, coming first in one and second in the other. And his birth certificate was tucked inside it, good. Anything else here he’d need? He rifled through the box, past all Mum’s ancient premium bonds that never won a penny, and Dad’s car stuff, and came to a crumpled envelope at the bottom. Eddie pulled out two photos – Dad’s parents on one and his father on the other, in an army uniform. There was a lot about his grandfather’s face that reminded you of Dad – same eyes, same cheekbones. Had Grandfather been a boxing fanatic too? Eddie knew almost nothing about him. His father’s voice spoke in his head: ‘He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’
He thrust the photos back, took his passport and birth certificate upstairs then sat outside with a beer. The best evenings were the ones he was home alone when Dad was at work.
His new, relaxed schedule lasted another two days. On Thursday, his father returned home from the pub demanding to know why his son hadn’t been at the gym that evening.
‘I went by to pick you up,’ he said, jabbing a finger at Eddie’s shoulder. ‘Lazy sod. Taking Monday off with your eye, fine – but there’s no reason you couldn’t have gone tonight, is there? So what’s the excuse?’
Impending freedom gave him courage to answer back. ‘Do I need one? I didn’t want to go, that’s all.’
His father stared, eyes narrowing, then stomped out. The cellar door slammed.
Eddie was watching the news from the sofa the following evening when two cans popped in the kitchen then his father joined him, a can of beer in each hand and a video under one arm. ‘It’s a goodie, this one.’ He handed over a beer and slotted “Jaws” into the machine.
At least it wasn’t “Rocky”. Eddie settled down to watch. His last weekend at home was coming up, so this might well be the last time he’d sit here with his father. The great escape was planned for Monday, when Dad left for the pub, and it was enough to make him happy, tonight. After a few minutes his father fetched a bowl of crisps, then later another two beers. Eddie drank deeply – this was more like it.
Halfway through the film, the TV went out of focus, and he rubbed his eyes. The room swung around him and slanted to the left, and his heart began to race.
‘What the hell am I drinking?’ It came out in a guttural slur and he clutched his chest, his father’s laughter echoing through his head.
‘I hate a man who can’t hold his beer.’ His father grasped his head and tipped the rest of the beer down his throat.
Horror washed through Eddie’s gut along with the beer. He spluttered and struggled, beer and whatever was in it slopping over his chest as the theme music from Jaws warned of an impending shark attack. Everything was going blurry and he couldn’t hear properly. Oh God, he was going to pass out.
He came to with his head pounding like one of those hydraulic hammers they used when they were digging the road up, and his mouth was dry as paper. He flung one arm over his eyes, and concentrated on breathing for a few moments. This was as sick as he’d ever felt… and why was he lying on the floor?
‘Ha. Thought you’d be off somewhere, did you? Thought you were smart, huh? Wrong, boy. I’m the one who says who comes and who goes in this house, and don’t you forget it. Lazy little bugger. You’re letting yourself go, boy, and we can’t have that.’
Eddie opened his eyes and blinked furiously, then his stomach plummeted along with his heart. His father was standing over him, waving his passport. And there was the punchbag, swaying slightly as Dad stroked one hand up and down the leather. Eddie rose onto one elbow – what the–? His feet were tied roughly together.
His father bent and jabbed him in the chest. ‘My house, my rules. You’re staying here until you’ve learned to be a real man, like my father and like me, so once you’ve freed your feet, you’d better get training, because you’ll be locked in here until I say otherwise. No escape, boy. Oh – and see the hook up there?’
He pointed up to the hook the punchbag was hanging from, then stuck his face into Eddie’s. ‘My dad hung himself from that hook. I found him – his face was black as midnight, boy, and he was covered in shit. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Don’t want that happening again, do we?’ The door slammed behind him and the key turned in the lock.
Eddie swore, struggling into a sitting position and pulling at the rope tied to his feet. A couple of good tugs and he chucked to the side. He lu
rched to his feet and began to pace, arms hugging his stomach. This was the worst hangover he’d ever had and he didn’t have any water – oh, wait. There was a sink in the bog over there.
He drank from cupped hands, then slid to the floor under the window to think. This was about Dad showing him who was boss. The best way to get out quick was to convince the old bugger he was training away like a busy little bee. Was he supposed to train without gloves? He gave the punchbag a couple of unenthusiastic whacks, but they jarred all the way through his head, and he gave up. He flopped down on the dirty mattress in the corner – where had that come from? A mattress had never featured down here before.
Apprehension wormed its way through his gut, and he dived for the toilet and vomited. Think, think – he had to plan, and it better be good. He tottered over and rattled the door. Nope – no way could he break it down or get it off. Get training, boy. He slapped the punchbag around for a few minutes, then collapsed onto the mattress. Tomorrow.
Grey dawn was filtering through the muck on the window when he awoke, his mouth as grotty as the bottom of a bird’s cage. He used the toilet and drank from the tap at the basin before splashing his face. The old guy really had gone batshit crazy this time. Eddie stared at the hook on the ceiling. Why had Grandfather hanged himself? Dad was always going on about how much of a man his father had been, but that didn’t seem to go with a guy who topped himself and allowed his – how old? – son to find him. Or was he supposed to hang himself too? He’d been left with a rope. He snorted. Watch and learn, Dad. He was going to get out of here.
He punched at the bag until his knuckles were bleeding, giving off loud pants and groans. The old man would notice that, of course he would; he’d be listening. Then he jogged around his cell, stamping his feet on the floor – thank God he’d been wearing trainers – then did some slappy-clappy exercises before retreating to the mattress again. Who the hell did his father think he was?
The reaction came when dusk was falling. A movement outside caught Eddie’s eye, and he looked up to see his father’s legs at the window. Then – Christ, no – a board was slapped over the frame. Darkness fell abruptly in the cellar room, and he fumbled to the door and switched the light on – not that the single bulb was enough to create more than dim shadows. Bang bang came from outside as his father hammered what sounded like a hundred nails into the board. Claustrophobia reared.
‘Dad! Let me out! I’ll train as much as you like.’ Wimp. He collapsed on the mattress, shivering.
Day became night and then day again before his father came. A narrow shaft of early-morning sunlight was streaming through the window when footsteps thudded on the stair. Eddie sat up, allowing the rage to kindle. This was his chance, and he was going to take it.
He jogged noisily on the spot until he heard his father fumble with the key. Ready… As soon as the door opened, he charged, knocking his father off balance and grabbing the thinning hair with both hands. Incensed eyes glared into his and wiry fingers gripped at his wrists, fingernails slicing into the meagre flesh there.
‘Fool, boy. Now you’ll–’
Eddie jerked one knee up as hard as he could, but his father twisted to the side.
‘Think you’re clever, boy?’
Eddie opened his mouth and screamed as the hands around his wrists tightened and twisted. Once he’d started the screams kept coming and coming; he couldn’t stop them. Rage enveloped him as he forced his hands to his father’s hair again and pulled as hard as he could, Dad resisting him all the way but oh, who was stronger now, Dad? This was like his first Junior fight, blood-red mist before his eyes, revenge in his soul as his father’s voice echoed through the years.
‘Fool, boy … Idiot, boy … You’re mad, boy…’
Oh yes, he was. A knee thudded into his father’s crotch and hit the target this time; a jerk, and his father’s head cracked against the door frame. Another slam and the old man was on the floor and Eddie was down there too, slamming and slamming the broken head against concrete and slamming and slamming and bits of brain were spattering out and still he was slamming. This was why you read about people being stabbed fifty-six times; once you started it was the rage that drove you and you went on and on and on and–
Dad was broken. He had broken the monster.
Eddie rose to his feet, staring stupidly, his heart fluttering and then settling to a tripping boom boom boom boom, filling his chest and thundering around his head.
He closed his eyes, but the bloody, broken head with the empty eyes remained in the centre of his vision.
Dad had been right. Death wasn’t a pretty sight.
Chapter Six
Sunday, 2nd August
Mia rolled out of bed. Scout was still in his cage, good. It was lovely when she could take him down herself, and they could play in the garden before breakfast. Cornwall was such a sunshiney place.
Nan was at the kitchen table, reading something in the paper, and – oh. The sun had gone and big dark clouds were rushing in from the sea.
‘Come on,’ said Nan. ‘Let’s take Scout outside for a game before the rain comes on.’
A good chase round the garden made Mia laugh. Dad and Phoebe were up when they went inside, and Mia sat at the table while Nan fried bacon for Sunday breakfast.
After breakfast, Dad sat down with the shopping list and a pen. ‘Okay, girls – supermarket?’
‘Sure,’ said Phoebe.
Shopping was boring. ‘Can I stay with Nan and Scout?’
‘’Course you can. You can help Nan sort through her boxes upstairs.’
Phoebe went up to get ready, and Mia moved round the table to be closer to Dad. She looked out at the house next door. Kelly was still in London.
‘Doesn’t Kelly miss being with her mum and dad?’
Dad gave her a little hug. ‘Sweetheart, don’t worry about Kelly. I’m sure Nicola will find her soon. London’s a big place, though, and she doesn’t have a clue where best to look, so that’s why it’s taking so long.’
Mia shrugged. Dad was right. They’d seen what a huge place London was when they went up in the London Eye. She waved Dad and Phoebe off, and was about to run upstairs to Nan when – yes! What a brilliant idea! Mia ran out to the driveway to see if Kelly’s dad’s car was there. It wasn’t. She could go and look for a clue in Kelly’s bedroom – she’d once read a book where some children searched for clues then caught a burglar. This was something like that, wasn’t it? Mia tiptoed into the living room and fished the Seatons’ key out of the tin again, gave Scout a chewy bone to keep him busy, then crept out.
The kitchen next door was still messy. Mia crept upstairs to start her clue-search in Kelly’s bedroom. Nothing had changed here, except the smell of Kelly’s perfume was almost gone. The no-smell made the room feel empty. Mia touched the photo of the three girls with one finger. Kelly looked happy in London, so that must be why she went back. Mia wandered around the room. This wasn’t so easy – what would a clue look like? She found a magazine half under the bed and leafed through it, but it was full of make-up advertisements and women wearing lovely clothes. In Mia’s book, a clue had been scribbled on the back of an envelope, but she couldn’t see any envelopes here. She opened the wardrobe, but it was stuffed full as usual. Kelly’s black and silver sweatshirt had fallen off its hanger, and for some reason, it made Mia want to cry. Kelly loved that sweatshirt. Mia hung it up again, and for a second, Kelly’s perfume was back – and she should go home. It was horrid here without Kelly, and if Kelly’s dad came home and found her…
Mia ran. She’d come back another time. But oh, please, Nicola, find Kelly soon.
Nicola trudged up Euston Road, dampness seeping under her jacket. A hood was inadequate protection against the relentless drizzle, but umbrellas were impractical when you needed both hands for your flyers. She handed one to a woman peering at her phone in a doorway, then moved on towards Euston. Sunday mornings were the worst times. She was always haunted by the dragging fear that
a vulnerable girl might be more likely to come to harm on a Saturday night than at any other time – illogical, but it paralysed Nicola’s gut every week and she was alone with her fear. Home now was a tiny room with a shared loo near Victoria Station – it cost an arm and a leg, but she had her savings, and it was better for her search to be central. There was nothing she could do except trawl the streets, and when she wasn’t doing that, she was trawling social media. But Kelly could have ceased to exist for all she found there, and some of the comments on posts Deb and the kids put up about Kelly were just so God-awful. Some people were scum. Deb was being brilliant; she’d told Nicola to leave social media to her and the others, they would do all the answering and deleting and troll-blocking necessary. But Nicola couldn’t not look.
In spite of the weather, the street was busy as usual. Sunday was her day for checking all the main stations, and in and around and under any nearby bridges. What you didn’t get at the weekend was commuters, but the tourists more than made up for them. Nicola dodged a pair of Americans peering at the man’s phone under a golf umbrella and wondering loudly where St Pancras was. Nicola pointed them in the right direction and gave them a flyer.
Her mobile buzzed as she was approaching Euston Station. A strange number, but she took the call without hesitating.
‘Nicola Seaton? This is DS Lambert at the Metropolitan Police. We need to speak to you – where are you?’
The world swam, and Nicola grabbed a lamppost, her heart rate spiralling skywards. ‘Have you found Kelly?’
‘No. Have you been in contact with her?’
She wouldn’t be out here searching if she had been, would she? Nicola raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘I wish.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Euston Road, almost at Euston Station.’ She gaped around. ‘I’m outside a fitness club. What’s happened?’
