How I Lost You

by Jenny Blackhurst

  Look, this’ll be the third time Ballbreaker’s called my house for cutting class in the last month. It’s not like I’ve got Lucy at mine to pretend to be my mum.”

  “Jesus, Billy, lighten up. What’s the worst that could happen? Tell them Adam’s been pushing you around and if you didn’t cut school he’d kick the shit out of you.”

  “Hey!” Adam objected. “Why me?”

  Jack grinned. “ ’Cos his mum loves me too much to believe I’d do anything like that, and Mike”—he lowered his voice—“is too much of a wimp to pull it off.”

  Adam smiled back, willing to accept he was less charming than Jack but at least scarier than Mike. “Well, just make sure she doesn’t call the school. My dad’ll beat my ass if I’m accused of bullying again.”

  “Right, fine.” Billy sighed. “What’s the plan, then?”

  Jack rolled off the bed and pulled out a huge piece of paper with a crudely drawn plan of a shop from underneath it.

  “This is a plan of the shop. Here’s where they keep the beers.” He drew a circle around a stand to the left of the counter. “Walters, that’s the guy who works the days ’cos he’s too old to do nights, he always stands by the counter. He can’t see great but he’s close enough to catch you if you’re not quick. We go in in twos. Me and you first, Adam: we read the magazines, mess in the candy aisle, generally piss off Walters so he barely even notices when you two go in and take the booze. Get vodka, as much as you can carry.”

  “Remind me again why I’ve got to steal the booze?” Billy asked. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

  “Yeah, you can tell.” Mike grinned, casting an eye over Billy’s too long, slightly greasy mop and three-year-old shoes. “We look the most innocent, mate. He won’t even notice us when those two are twatting around in there. Plus it’s usually Riley’s job but he’s not turned up. Don’t worry; I do it all the time. You just hold the bag.”

  Jack folded up the shop plan and slid it back under the bed. He pulled open the sliding doors of a double closet, took out a large black jacket, and threw it at Billy. “Wear this. It’s got extra-big inside pockets, so you can fit some in there if you get a chance. We’ll wait five minutes after you’ve left and follow on. Go home, get changed, and meet back here at eight.” He looked at Mike and Adam. “You two get a head start, we’ll catch up.”

  As soon as they were alone, he turned to Billy, who was studying his fingernails. “Get this right for us and you can come back here and take your pick of my stuff to go to my cousin’s party in.”

  “Why would I want—” Billy started, but Jack cut him off with a shake of the head.

  “Look, you don’t have to pretend with us, we’re your mates, okay? I know your family don’t have money and I don’t care. Do this and you can go to the party looking like the rest of us, and no one else there will know you’re any different. There’s gonna be girls there, Billy-boy, tons of girls. You ever got off with a girl before?”

  The look on his friend’s face told him the answer. “Tonight’s your night then, man. All you have to do is get the booze. You up for it?” He grinned as the other boy nodded. “Yeeessss, nice one, mate. Come on, let’s go.”

  The take had gone as well as he could have expected really. Their new friend hadn’t dropped any bottles or run up to the shopkeeper to confess, although he had practically shat himself when he’d walked in with Mike and seen that it wasn’t Walters on the counter but some girl with perfectly good eyesight. It’d turned out to be for the best, though. Jack was ten times better with women than with old men. He looked years older than fifteen, and with his floppy brown hair and clear blue eyes there was even less chance that the girl, Tina, would notice what was going on elsewhere in the shop. It had been Mike who had surprised him the most: when Tina had glanced his way, he’d simply dropped his bag and walked out. Lucky for Billy that Matt Riley had arrived at that exact moment, realized what Jack and Adam were up to, and seen Billy standing there like a deer in the headlights. He’d walked over to Billy, shoved the bottles into his bag, and practically dragged him from the store. Mike had been waiting as they came round the corner with three bottles of vodka clinking in Billy’s bag, and greeted them as though fuck all had gone wrong.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” Jack had demanded. “You left poor Shakespeare on his own to bring out all the booze. I practically had to shag her on the counter to stop her looking to see why you’d stormed out. Lucky Riley showed up.”

  “She was onto me,” Mike had protested. “She probably recognized me—I thought I was better off leaving him to it. What did you get?”

  Billy had gone to open the bag to show off his impressive haul, but Jack had thrust his hand over the top of it and shoved Mike hard on the shoulder.

  “Fuck off. You dropped Billy right in it there. If you think you’re coming tonight, you must be joking. Go on, fuck off home.”

  “Aw, come on, man, I’m sorry, all right?”

  “No, it’s not all right. Piss off.”

  “Fuck you then! Like you ever get your fucking hands dirty!” Mike yelled to their retreating backs. Jack snorted back a laugh.

  “Thank God for that. Fucking mutant would’ve cramped our style anyway. Back at mine at eight, Harvey?” Adam looked uncertain at the idea of returning without his friend, but eventually he nodded. Jack pumped the air with his fist.

  “You coming?” Billy asked Matt Riley, who nodded. “Yeah, may as well.”

  “Thanks for your help in there.”

  Riley grinned. “Don’t be gay. See you later.”

  Jack slung an arm around Billy’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze, then grabbed his arm and picked up his step. “Come on, mate, we’ve got some work to do on you.”

  11

  Nick Whitely is a handsome man, now I can see properly through my anger. The less flustered look suits him, and I don’t know if he’s noticed me looking but his eyes flash with amusement when he smiles and shakes my hand.

  “Mrs. Webster.” He turns to Cassie. “And Cassie Reynolds, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Cassie frowns. “Sorry, I thought we were meeting a reporter, not a detective.” My elbow shoots out reflexively, jabbing her in the side.

  We take a seat at the table. Mr. Whitely—I wonder if I should call him Nick?—has already ordered a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a jug of iced water. For a small-time journalist from a local rag he knows how to conduct a meeting. It takes me a minute to realize he’s been talking and I’ve been staring at his arms and trying to remember the last time arms like that were wrapped around me.

  “Sorry, what?”

  He’s gesturing towards the wine. “I said help yourselves.” I take a glass of water while Cassie opts for wine.

  “So, Mr. Whitely,” I start.

  “Please, call me Nick.”

  “Okay, Nick, you’re probably wondering why I got in touch with you again after throwing you out so unceremoniously yesterday.”

  Nick turns his blue eyes from his wineglass to meet mine. His gaze drifts over the rest of me briefly, then returns to hold my own. “What I’m wondering, Susan . . . if I may?” I nod in response and he continues. “Is what you wanted from me so badly that you were suddenly willing to talk to a member of the press.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “Curiosity? You already had my new identity, address, probably a few photos. So what are you getting out of this?”

  “I admit I was curious. I’m a journalist, so shoot me.” A grin passes quickly across his face, then he turns to Cassie. “Not you.”

  Cassie pulls her lips into a sarcastic smirk. I’m not sure Nick Whitely is joking.

  “I’d better get on with it then.” I take out the article from my brown leather handbag and pass it over to him. He scans the sheet of paper and hands it back.

  “I’ve already read it,” he informs me, his voice tinged with amusement. “In fact I think you’ll find I wrote it.”

  “Exac
tly,” I reply, tense with the knowledge that I’m holding my trump card quite close to my chest. “I’m wondering what you can tell me about Dr. Riley’s disappearance. I’ve searched and searched; according to Google he was never found.”

  Nick faces me with an open look. “Your Google-fu is strong. Matthew Riley was never found. A lot of people think he got in with the wrong kind of people and had to disappear. Others say he committed suicide over bad debts, but the police never found any evidence of that or foul play. Everything we turned up suggested he was happily married, beautiful wife and two young girls. No note.”

  “What do you think?”

  He shakes his head and is about to speak when an eager-looking waiter appears at the table with a pad and pen poised to scribble down our order. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  I look at the others.

  “I’ll have a chicken salad,” Cassie orders, “no dressing.” Nick looks over at me.

  “Erm, I’ll take the penne al pollo with a side of chips and some garlic dough balls.” What?

  I’m hungry.

  Nick smiles. “Sounds good. I’ll have the same. I like a woman who knows how to eat. So what did you want to know about Matthew Riley?” His silky-smooth voice forces me back to the matter in hand.

  “What do you think happened? Why would someone with a good job and a loving family just disappear?”

  “People do things out of character all the time,” he replies, taking a sip of his wine. Is he talking about me?

  “I suppose they do,” I say carefully.

  “So I guess my question is why do you want to know about it?”

  Cassie is nodding furiously at my bag and I guess this is the moment she wants me to show him what’s in there.

  Reaching down, I pull out the photo and silently hand it to him. He takes it.

  “I received this two days ago. It was pushed through my front door’s mail slot while I was in my kitchen. There was no postmark on the envelope. And then you turn up.”

  Nick looks at the photo, studying it for any sign of what conclusion he should draw from the little boy with the beautiful smile. I watch the expression on his face change from a slightly bemused frown to one of surprise, then comprehension as he turns the photograph over and reads the words scrawled on the back.

  “Do you see now what I’m getting at?” I lean forward in my chair, unable to mask my excitement. I can’t explain why it is so important to me that this man believe my story. I hadn’t realized until this moment how much I want someone to say they think it means the same as I secretly do. That my son might still be alive.

  “I think so, yes,” Nick says slowly, placing the photograph down on the table. He’s staring at it as though it might start talking to him if he looks at it hard enough. I’ve got no idea what he’s thinking; those eyes may be beautiful but they are also completely unreadable. Maybe law would suit this man better than journalism. Or poker.

  “Firstly, I want you to know I had nothing to do with this photograph, although I realize how it must look to you. Secondly, I find it hard to believe how from receiving this photo—which could be any little boy, anywhere—you’ve concluded that your son is still alive and that Dr. Riley faked his death certificate in order to frame you for murder . . . then what, killed himself? Or maybe the Mafia killed him for you? Although he did return from the dead to hand-deliver you a picture of your little boy four years on.”

  All right, when you put it like that, it does sound slightly far-fetched, but there’s no way on this earth I am about to admit that to this smug bastard.

  “I never said that,” I answer in my best defiant voice. “And I don’t appreciate the cocky little dig about returning from the dead you stuck in at the end there. I’m concerned it may be someone who knows my identity, someone who may have a vendetta against me. Why else go to all that trouble?”

  Cassie has slumped down in her seat and is rubbing her face wearily. She obviously expected this to go better. Nick Whitely has made it clear he thinks we’re idiots and I don’t see the point in staying here much longer, but the food arrives so the three of us sit in silence while the waiter fusses about tucking napkins onto our laps and topping up our glasses. As soon as he’s gone, I speak again.

  “Someone put this”—I thrust the newspaper photo at him next—“in my bag on the very same day. More questions, more unlikely answers.” He takes the second photo but his eyes don’t leave mine. “I don’t deny I’ve considered what it might be like to find out that my son is still alive, as crazy as that sounds. But answer me this, Mr. Whitely: if you had spent every day for the last one thousand and seven days wanting to die for what you’d been told you’d done to your little boy, then you found out there might be a chance, however slim, that you hadn’t ever done it, that your little boy might be alive and happy, wouldn’t you grab it with both hands? Someone out there put that thought in my head, even for the briefest second, to be cruel, or to scare me, I don’t know which. But I want to find out who, and why.”

  His fork freezes midway to his mouth and he looks at me in a way I realize he hasn’t done before. Gone is the curiosity, that cat-playing-with-mouse smile, and the cocky, self-assured twinkle in his eye; the man staring back at me looks like he knows exactly what it feels like to have something you wish so desperately had never happened. In his eyes now is a look of understanding. When he eventually speaks, I almost give in to the desire to reach over the table and kiss him.

  “How do you think I can help?”

  We stay at Dolce Vita until closing. When the waiters finally drop the pretense of good customer service and start stacking chairs on top of tables around us, we decide to give in and call it a day.

  Before we leave, Cassie and I disappear to the ladies’ for a long-awaited discussion about how we think the night has gone. Cassie doesn’t look overly happy.

  “It’s a good thing he fancies you,” she says, even her voice frowning. “Otherwise we’d both be back in Oakdale.”

  I try not to blush. “He does not.”

  “Oh shut up, he can’t take his eyes off you. He’s barely said a word to me since that wiseass remark about me shooting him. And it was a frigging picture frame, for his information.”

  I shudder. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  We return to the table and find him hanging up his mobile phone. “That was my boss. I’ve got a couple of days’ vacation left, thought I’d take some time off.”

  “Why?” Cassie asks, immediately looking suspicious. I know what she’s thinking: it’s one thing to spend an evening eating Italian food and indulging a strange woman’s paranoid delusions, it’s quite another to use up your hard-earned time off to chase imaginary criminal masterminds.

  “You’re welcome.” Nick laughs at her rudeness and I feel awful. I shoot Cassie a warning glare. If this gorgeous, intelligent man with his contacts and resources wants to help us, why is she pushing the issue?

  “No, really, why?” she presses. “Come on, Susan, don’t look at me like that. I don’t trust him. Neither of us were supposed to trust him. What’s in it for you, Mr. Whitely?”

  Nick doesn’t address Cassie’s question right away. He just looks at me closely and says nothing for a full minute. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny when he sits back in his seat.

  “Let’s just say it’s not often that a case piques my interest like this one,” he replies, not moving his eyes from mine. “I spend my days reporting on cases where the facts are clear. I’m a reporter, I’m not an investigative journalist. Press releases, court notes, and police statements fall on my desk and I cobble them together into something people want to read. I’m bored.”

  He holds out his hands in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture. I’m taking it and I don’t care what Cassie has to say about it.

  “In that case, thank you.” I get to my feet and Nick does the same. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I’ll go home and get some stuff
together, then I’ll travel up tomorrow. Sound good?”

  “His wife must be very trusting,” Cassie says evenly as we drive the ninety-mile trip home. “Or maybe he’s gay.”

  “He’s not gay. And he’s not married. No ring.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” Cassie shakes her head. “Slimeballs like him never wear their rings. Jim always said his was too tight. Too tight my ass.”

  “Maybe not all men are like Jim,” I snap, and she says nothing more about Nick.

  The journey home takes less time than expected. The roads are quiet and I don’t always stick to the speed limit. Dropping Cassie off at home, I kiss her on both cheeks, thank her for all her help, and promise to call her in the morning when I know what time Nick’s arriving.

  The car’s too quiet without her constant chatter. On goes the radio and I turn it up as far as my ears will allow to try to drown out the thoughts buzzing through my head. Can I trust Nick Whitely? I know Cassie doesn’t trust him just because he’s so good-looking—if there’s one thing she hates more than men, it’s attractive men—but maybe she has a point.

  I know something’s not right as soon as I pull into my driveway, but it takes me a few seconds to figure out exactly what it is that’s wrong. When my brain catches up with my eyes, my heart becomes a lead weight in my chest. My front door is ajar. I wouldn’t have forgotten to close it, no matter how much of a rush I’d been in. Protecting your personal space and your belongings is a lesson that’s drummed into you early on in Oakdale. What’s more disturbing than the door, though, is the shiny red liquid I can see dripping slowly down the handle and onto the step below. My front porch is covered in blood.

  12

  Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to walk inside my house. So why do I find myself getting out of the car and heading towards the front door?

  As I step closer to the blood-soaked porch, my heart hammering a fist-sized hole in my chest, I let out a small sigh of relief. The blood that looked so menacing dripping from the handle and pooling onto the cement slab below is slightly too thick and slightly too red. Paint. Someone’s been in there, I warn myself, and someone might still be in there.