How I Lost You

by Jenny Blackhurst

  “They said I killed him.” Cold tears run down my cheeks, pooling on my collarbone. “How could they be looking for him?”

  Margaret looks at me at last, her eyes full of pity. “They say money talks, but that’s not always true, Susan. Sometimes money buys silence.”

  “What does that mean? What kind of people are you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It was too late. I didn’t know the whole truth, certainly not enough to be sure that Dylan was alive and you were innocent. Once again the truth threatened to finish us, and to be entirely honest with you, I was being selfish. I had my son back in my life and he needed me. When your child needs you, Susan, you never give up on them.”

  “Who does Mark think has Dylan? Where has he gone?”

  Margaret looks like she’d rather tear out her own tongue than carry on talking, but I couldn’t care less. So many questions are running through my mind, questions that this woman can’t answer. Why did that photo make Mark think Dylan was alive if he’d found him dead in our home? Who does he think took him, and how? Why would anyone take my baby?

  “I don’t know. I’m so sorry. Mark came round here this morning shouting that you were going to find out the truth, that he knew where Dylan was and who had taken him. He got in the car before we could calm him down and sped off. Richard rang him right away but we could get nothing from his mobile. He’d totally disappeared.”

  “How did he know all of a sudden where Dylan was? For God’s sake, Margaret, who had he spoken to? What had he found out? Where the hell is he?”

  Right on cue my mobile phone vibrates in my handbag. I make a grab for it and my blood runs cold at what I see. It’s a text from Rob: Found Mark and know where Dylan is. Come.

  There’s an address in Durham.

  I jump to my feet and grab my bag. He knows where Dylan is.

  “What is it? Where are you going?” Margaret demands, fear on her face.

  “I’m going to get my son back.”

  57

  The address Rob has given me is another hour and a half away and fear clutches at my heart the entire drive. Margaret wanted me to wait for Richard so that they could come with me, but I can’t imagine a scenario where those two people can make this any better. Without Cassie or Nick to fall back on, I’m alone. But that’s okay, I can do this alone. For a long time I doubted myself, my sanity, my strength of character. I doubted myself as a woman, a mother, and a human being. What kind of person murders her own son and just . . . poof! . . . forgets? Now things are different. I’m no longer the woman who committed that senseless act; I’m a woman whose son was taken from her, a mother who will not give up until her baby is back in her arms. I’m not afraid for myself; I’m afraid I’ll be too late for my son.

  Too many times on the journey I wonder what I’ll do if Mark has found Dylan, if he asks me to run away with him. After everything he’s put me through, I wonder if I could do it. Turn back the clock and become a family again, forget the last four years and start afresh with the man I loved. I’m ashamed to admit that I’m considering it. Just like that, he’s found our son and life is as it was.

  Daylight has given way to a murky darkness by the time I pull up at the disused warehouse Rob has directed me to, and my first instinct is that I’ve made a big mistake. My GPS’s red pin is flashing, indicating that I’ve reached my destination, but how can this be where I need to be? Surely Mark hasn’t brought our son here?

  Moonlight picks out the huge crumbling building. Black squares on the face of the old gray brick hide where the windows once gaped and the door is big enough to get a truck through.

  Scanning the trees on either side of the approach, I can’t see any sign of anyone else here—no cars, and no lawyer or ex-husband waiting to greet me. Did Rob even say Mark would be here? I pull out my mobile. His text is still on the screen and the postcode is the same as the one I programmed in outside Margaret’s house. This is the right place. On impulse, I press “Forward” and scroll down until I see Cassie’s number. She’s four hours away and can’t stand the sight of me, but something is very wrong about this and I don’t want to go in without telling someone. I’ve seen the movies.

  But still, the decision is made. If there’s even the smallest chance I will find out what happened to Dylan in there, then there’s no way I’m turning back.

  The gravel crunches under my feet and the slam of the car door doesn’t so much announce my presence as broadcast it to every soul in the area. So you know I’m here, Rob, now it’s your turn.

  My breath rises like steam and I pull my arms around my chest, rubbing them to try to generate some heat. I wish now I’d given some more thought to what I’m wearing. My sweater is so thin I can see the hairs on my arms poking through.

  The weathered sign above the door announces that the building once belonged to G. K. Sankey. I wonder if Mr. Sankey believed in underfloor heating—somehow I don’t think so.

  “Hello? Rob? Mark?” The place is so still, so silent that the sound of my voice seems wrong, like talking out loud in a library.

  I lock the car door and move quickly over to the door of the building, not wanting to be out in the open more than I need to. Like I said, I’ve seen the movies. When I’m close enough to touch the heavy wooden door, I can see that it’s only attached to the frame by one of its hinges and is twisted slightly, leaving a gap big enough for a person to climb through. Hands wedged on either side of the frame, I hoist my body up into the darkness and drop through.

  Shadows dance across the walls of the warehouse, the cavernous space lit only by the orange flame of a fire in a black metal bin in the middle of the floor. Someone’s here.

  “Rob? Mark?”

  My words reverberate against the steel joists in the rafters, against the dusty concrete floors and the darkness beyond the flames.

  “Susan.” My heart flies into my throat and I take a step backwards, my heel connecting with the broken door. “Susan, I’m here.” My ex-husband hurries forward from the darkness. In the flickering light of the flames and smoke he seems thinner, more drawn even than he did just a few days ago.

  “Where’s Dylan?” I ask. It’s hard to reconcile in my mind that Dylan is four years old now. In my head I’m still half expecting Mark to thrust a three-month-old baby into my arms. Will I ever get over that lost time? “Where is Rob?”

  My back is pressed against the damp, twisted door. For the first time since I arrived my heart is thumping murderously and my breath has caught on a hard lump in my throat. Smoke from the fire stings my eyes. Oh shit, please don’t let this be a panic attack. Not now, not when I’m so close, not when my little boy needs me maybe more now than ever.

  “Who’s Rob?”

  “Rob Howe, Rachael’s boss? From ZBH Solicitors. He said you’d found Dylan.”

  “Rob Howe?” Mark’s face creases into a frown. “What does he look like?”

  “Floppy brown hair, blue eyes, scar on his neck?”

  “Fuck,” Mark swears quietly.

  “What? What?”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s not Rob Howe, Susan, it’s . . . Oh God, no. He said he had Dylan?”

  “No, not exactly. If he isn’t Rob Howe, then who is he?” Faced with a choice between panic and anger, my brain has chosen anger. Just this once, my faulty wiring has decided to work in my favor. “Who the fuck is he and what has he done with my son?”

  My legs step forward automatically, fueled by fury, until I’m inches from the man I pledged my life to. “I swear to God, Mark, you tell me what’s going on or I’ll—”

  “Jack.”

  I’ve never met a Jack. I don’t know any Jack.

  His eyes drop to the floor, studiously investigating the dusty concrete. “There are things you don’t know, Susan, about me, and Jack, and—”

  “I know all about Beth.” He cringes at the sound of her name. “I know what happened to her.”

  “You hear that, Mark? She knows.” The voice is calm
and familiar, and my eyes search the room for its owner. Beyond the smoke and flames I can’t see a thing. The fire crackles and spits sparks and ash onto the floor.

  Mark’s eyes mirror my own, scanning the darkness for our host.

  “Looks a bit different in here without the tables and chairs, doesn’t it? Sorry I couldn’t re-create the scene exactly, Shakes. I considered it, but the whole thing felt a bit melodramatic.”

  There’s movement in the corner of the room, and she steps out of the shadows into the firelight.

  “Jennifer?” The word catches in Mark’s throat and I struggle to remember where I’ve seen this woman before. Then I remember. Jennifer . . . the library . . . Bethany’s best friend . . .

  It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, and like I’ve known her for years. Her long dishwater hair has been dyed a deep red, and a shaky hand has applied eyeliner in thick black lines around her eyes. But I’m not seeing her standing in the light of the fire, surrounded by smoke and fluttering ash. I’m seeing her in the doorway of the house Mark and I shared, silhouetted against the bright sunshine of the day, hearing her voice say “Mrs. Webster?” on the day my life ended.

  “You were in my house. That day, you came to my house.”

  A thin-lipped smile. “Bit late to start jogging down memory lane now.”

  “What were you doing there? What are you doing here? Where’s Rob? Where is my son?”

  “Rob wasn’t Rob. Maybe nothing is as it seems, Susan, did you ever think that? Maybe black is white and down is up. Maybe ZBH stands for Zara, Bratbury, and Howe, and maybe the man you met is the puppeteer. Maybe you don’t have a son. Maybe you killed him.” Jennifer speaks offhandedly, as though it means nothing to her. She’s crazy. Does she have Dylan? She steps closer and I smell a sharp, fresh paint smell. She’s holding a small silver object in her fingers. A lighter.

  “I think we all know that isn’t true.” I’m trying to keep my voice level, not give away the terror that has frozen my legs together. I feel a bead of sweat tickle its way down my spine and into the small of my back. “You have my attention now, Jennifer, isn’t that what this is all about? The photograph, Kristy Riley . . . this?”

  Both their faces look confused. Good, let them be confused. I’ve been confused for four years.

  “What photograph?” Jennifer asks at the same time as Mark says, “What about Kristy?”

  “Ha.” My laugh is without the slightest bit of humor. “Looks like I’m not the only one who isn’t completely in the picture.”

  “Riley’s dead,” Jennifer states. “Both of them, actually. You thought you were so clever, Billy, helping Matt pull that disappearing act. If only he’d waited patiently for Kristy and the little princesses to join him. Instead he had to have an attack of conscience and try and find me. Jack wasn’t going to let that happen.”

  “Matty’s dead?” Mark’s face crumples and he closes his eyes in pain. “You fucking bitch.” He opens his eyes and charges towards her.

  “Whoa, boy.” Jennifer holds up the lighter and flicks the flame, illuminating her face. Mark stops short a foot away from her. “What’s one more, eh? Bethany, Kristy, Dylan, they’re all collateral damage. ‘These are the generations,’ eh? Anything to protect the Brotherhood. Protect your own asses more like. Well, not this time. I had your back once upon a time, Mark, but that’s not enough.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that Matt Riley was your best friend?” I aim my question at Mark but don’t take my eyes off Jennifer. “Why haven’t you ever spoken about him to me?”

  Mark shakes his head. “Matty and Kristy are from a time I never wanted you to hear about. I never wanted to get caught up in difficult explanations, or have one of us trip up and mention . . . what happened. I just wanted to protect you, Susan.”

  “Aw, bless.” Jennifer’s voice cuts between us. “Maybe there’s more to Mark than meets the eye. For example, does it surprise you to know that he and I were lovers at university?”

  “No.” It should, but it doesn’t. How did I know that?

  “No, of course not. I told you once already. I knew you’d remember. Bit late, though, Susan.” She says it the way you’d tell your child they were a bit late for lunch. What does she mean, she’s told me once?

  “We weren’t lovers,” Mark spits. “I made a stupid mistake, once. The biggest mistake of my life. A mistake that ruined everything.”

  Jennifer ignores him as easily as if he hasn’t spoken. “She’s going to remember it all soon, Mark. Then she’ll hate you just like I do. I’d say I’m sorry you won’t be around to see it, but I always knew it was coming to this, even if you didn’t. I can finally say I hate you.”

  “Jennifer, please.” Mark’s voice is a squeak, and I try to beg him with my eyes to stay quiet. Quiet so I can think, quiet so he doesn’t get us killed.

  Jennifer pulls a face at me. “Seriously, Susan, what did we ever see in this guy? Are you sure you don’t want to do this? I don’t think anyone would blame you. Maybe we could even get the police to invoke the double jeopardy law. I know usually it relates to the same crime twice, but an eye for an eye, eh? You’ve already done the time . . .” She holds the lighter out to me and I hesitate. She’s crazy. She’s actually bat-shit crazy. Does she think I’m going to kill him? Would she let me just take it? She laughs and pulls it away again. I’ve missed my chance. “No? I don’t blame you, to be honest. Killing a person, it changes you. Taking a life, well, you have to be a real fucked-up individual. Don’t you, Mark?”

  Mark groans and puts his hands to his face.

  “Okay, back up. Good boy.” She picks up something from the floor by the fire. Handcuffs; she has come prepared. “Put these on, just one arm. That’s it, now over by the wall.”

  I can’t even properly see the wall, and when Mark hesitates, she takes two strides forward and grabs him roughly by the arm. She’s no match for him physically, but either she’s stronger than she looks or he’s not putting up any fight, because he starts to move. My foot inches backwards. I’m going to run for it, hopefully get help before she hurts him.

  “Don’t even think about running.” I don’t know how she’s seen me move through the dark and the layer of smoke. “I’ll set this place off before you can take another step, and I’d like to bet this lighter fluid is faster than you. Over here, and make it fast. When lover boy realizes where we are, I’ll have more than the pair of you to worry about.”

  I realize she’s talking about Nick, but I decide not to tell her how unlikely that scenario is. Nick isn’t coming to rescue me. I pray to God Cassie has received my text and the police are on the way.

  Mark looks at me, something like hope entering his eyes. He believes her, I realize. He really thinks we’re going to be rescued. I can’t believe that he’s driven us down this path and he thinks I’m going to be the one to get us rescued. Well, sorry to disappoint you, darling, but I’m a very bad judge of men, remember . . . ?

  “Down there.” Jennifer points to the floor next to the bare breeze blocks of the wall. “There’s a pipe. One on you and one on the pipe. There’s another set here for the missus.”

  Mark does as he’s told, kneeling down next to the wall, and with a sickening clarity I know exactly what she’s going to do. The smell I noticed when she walked in: not fresh paint. Turpentine. She’s going to set the place on fire.

  “I’m not getting down there.” If I do, we’ll both be trapped in a burning building. Jennifer’s eyes harden in anger. “Get the fuck down.”

  “You must be kidding me. You’ll have to kill me.”

  She pinches her lips together and rolls her eyes upwards, sighs impatiently. “Fine.” And before I realize what’s she’s doing, she raises her hand and my head explodes with pain.

  58

  MARK: 27 NOVEMBER 1992

  Four loud blows against the door signaled the arrival of their leader. Mark felt the color drain from his face and his chest tingle. Was this what a heart at
tack felt like? The largest boy in the room by a rugby-playing mile, a bulk Mark recognized as Jack Bratbury’s right-hand man Adam Harvey, was at the door in seconds and Mark’s heart felt like lead as he heard it swing open.

  The room began to buzz; as always, Jack was not alone.

  “Evening, gents,” he greeted, his voice bouncing around the warehouse. “You’re probably wondering what I’ve got for you here. Not my usual offering, I’ll admit.”

  He shoved forward the hunched figure he had been holding up. The girl was clearly out of it and fell to the floor, making no effort to stand. This had never happened before. Usually the girls he arrived with were at the very least lucid; willing participants in Jack’s games, at first anyway. This girl was neither willing nor a participant. Her robe was one of theirs; when she hit the floor, it flew up, uncovering bare skin underneath. Her head was covered with a black hood, but unlike theirs her hood hid her face too.

  “What’s up with her, she a dog?” one of the boys asked. The others began to snigger; Jack laughed.

  “Okay, I admit this was a last-minute plan. Things fell through and I couldn’t let one of my boys leave without a proper send-off, could I?”

  The buzz was back. Who was leaving? What was Jack talking about? Mark felt as though his lungs had filled with lead. Did he know?

  Relax, he told himself, trying to take deep, unnoticeable breaths. He could be talking about anyone.

  Jack stepped over the unconscious girl on the floor, the focus of the room suddenly taken away from her, all eyes on him as he walked over to where Mark was standing, rigid with fear. He clamped a heavy hand on Mark’s shoulder, a little harder than necessary, and leaned in, his lips lingering uncomfortably close to Mark’s ear.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you really think I was just going to let you go?” he hissed. Blood pounded in Mark’s ears; his mouth was too dry to speak. “You’re going nowhere,” Jack continued, louder now. “Without a proper send-off!” The group around them laughed, tension beginning to fizzle.