by John Marrs
After another pause, the man opened his mouth and began to speak.
‘Hello, Kitty, it’s been a long time.’
She was puzzled. Nobody called me Kitty except for my father and . . .
Her stomach dropped like she’d fallen thirty storeys in a split second.
CHAPTER TWO
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier
5 June, 4.45 a.m.
My eyes stung like they’d been splashed with vinegar. In the space of twenty-four hours, I’d barely closed them. My whole life revolved around waiting for Simon to come home.
I’d gone to bed at midnight in the same clothes I’d worn all day, as if putting on my pyjamas would mean accepting it had drawn to a close without him. And as willing as I was for it to end, the thought of living through a second day like that frightened me.
I’d left our bedroom door ajar so I wouldn’t miss the sound of the telephone’s ring or a policeman’s knock. And I lay perfectly still on top of the quilt, because being trapped between sheets and blankets might cost precious seconds in the race to get downstairs. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I was so anxious that the slightest crack or creak had me on tenterhooks, in case Simon was dashing across the landing to tell me it’d all been a silly misunderstanding.
I imagined how he’d hold me tighter than I’d ever been held before, and those horrible twenty-four hours would become a bad memory. Those long, long hours since I’d last shared my bed with him. Already, I missed hearing him whistling ‘Hotel California’ to himself as he mowed the lawn, or watching him catch ladybirds in marmalade jars with Robbie. I missed feeling his warm breath on my neck as he slept. Where was the man who’d hugged me as I cried myself to sleep and begged God to bring back my little boy?
My eyes were still open when dawn broke. It was a new day but I still ached from the torture of the last.
8.10 a.m.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ asked James suddenly, his eyes looking past the kitchen door and towards the hallway.
‘Um, he’s gone to work early,’ I lied, and swiftly changed the subject.
I’d tried my best to pretend everything was normal when the kids woke up. But as they finished their toast and packed books inside bags, my hugs lasted longer than usual as I tried to feel Simon inside them. Paula had volunteered to take them to school for me while I poured my fourth coffee of the morning and waited for Roger.
‘That’s just going to put you more on edge,’ she said, pointing to the mug then wagging her finger like a schoolma’am.
‘It’s the only thing keeping me sane,’ I replied, and paused to stare at my hands to see if they were still wobbling. ‘What if he doesn’t come back, Paula?’ I whispered out of James’s earshot. ‘How can I carry on without him?’
‘Hey, hey, hey, I will not allow you to think like that,’ she replied, holding my hand firmly. ‘After the hell the two of you have been through, Roger will move heaven and earth to bring him home.’
‘But what if he can’t?’
‘You mark my words, they will find him.’
I nodded because I knew she was right.
‘I’ll take Emily with me as well if you like,’ she suggested, already pulling the pink stroller from the cupboard under the stairs.
‘Thank you,’ I replied gratefully, just as Roger arrived, accompanied by a stern-looking uniformed policewoman he introduced as WPC Williams. Paula ushered the kids out of the back door before they saw my visitors. We sat at the kitchen table and they took out their pens and pocket notebooks.
‘When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs Nicholson?’ WPC Williams began. I didn’t like her scowl when she said ‘your husband’.
‘Two nights ago. He wanted to watch News at Ten but I was tired, so I kissed him goodnight and went to bed.’
‘Do you remember what time he joined you?’
‘No, but I know he was there.’
‘How? Did you see him or talk to him?’
‘No, I’m just sure he was.’
‘But it’s possible he might not have been? I mean, he could have actually left that night?’
‘Well, I suppose so, yes.’ I wracked my brains to recall if I’d felt Simon at all during the night, but I drew a blank. Then WPC Williams changed her direction.
‘Was everything all right with your marriage?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, defensively.
‘Did Simon have any money problems? Did he show signs of stress at work?’
‘No, nothing at all.’ I didn’t appreciate the way she referred to him in the past tense.
‘You haven’t considered the possibility there might be someone else?’
That caught me by surprise. It had never crossed my mind, not even for a second. ‘No, he wouldn’t do that.’
‘I think Catherine’s right,’ added Roger. ‘Simon’s not that kind of guy. Family means everything to him.’
‘Only it happens more often than you think—’
I cut her off forcefully. ‘I told you, no. My husband does not have affairs.’
‘Has he ever disappeared before?’
‘No.’
‘Even just for a few hours?’
‘No.’
‘Has he ever threatened to leave?’
‘No!’ My hackles were up and my head buzzed. I glanced at the digital clock on the oven and hoped the questions would end soon.
‘Have there been any family problems lately?’
Roger and I glanced at each other and I felt my throat tighten.
‘Only what I told you about in the car,’ Roger replied for me.
‘Right. And how did Simon deal with that?’
I swallowed hard. ‘It’s been a tough fifteen months for all of us, but we’ve managed to get through it. He was very supportive.’
‘I can only imagine. But you don’t think it has anything to do with why Simon left?’
‘Stop saying he’s left!’ I snapped. ‘My husband has gone missing.’
‘That’s not what Yvette meant,’ Roger replied, glaring at his tactless colleague. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine, we just need to look at all possibilities.’
‘You mean you think it’s a possibility he could have walked out on us?’
‘No, no, I don’t. But please bear with us. We’re almost done.’
The questions finished after a long half-hour, when all the avenues we’d explored ended in cul-de-sacs. Roger asked for a recent photograph of Simon, so I pulled out a padded envelope of pictures I’d yet to place into albums from the kitchen drawer.
I’d taken them two Christmases ago, the last time our family was complete. When it was all of us together, not six minus one. Now I was terrified it was about to become minus two.
The photo was from early on Christmas Day, when James had been dancing and miming to his new Michael Jackson CD while Robbie was in his own prehistoric world, with a Diplodocus and something else with a spiny back fighting for power. Emily had been making herself giggle popping bubble wrap with her feet.
I recalled how Simon seemed oblivious to the wonderful chaos. Instead, he’d looked around at the family he’d helped create like he’d never seen them before. In one picture, he seemed fixated by the face in the high chair smiling back at him. There was something blank about his expression that wasn’t the Simon I remembered. So I picked another photo instead: all smiles. That’s how I wanted people to see him, as my Simon. Because that’s the Simon I desperately needed to come home.
12.45 p.m.
Word of Simon’s disappearance spread like wildfire because it had to. If he was lying injured somewhere, then time was of the essence to find him. So, under police supervision, our friends in the village formed a search party.
Dozens of people of all ages, along with neighbours we’d never met, hunted for him in fields, along country roads, in copses and church grounds. Police divers tackled streams, ponds and canals.
I stood by the fence in the back gar
den with my arms wrapped around myself, willing my tremors to stop. I watched as blurred figures fanned out across the fields. I dreaded hearing a voice suddenly shouting that they’d found something. But the sound of their feet trampling the crops was all the wind carried back to me.
Later, I joined Roger and WPC Williams in searching the house from top to bottom for anything out of the ordinary. It was invasive, but I gritted my teeth and accepted it because I knew they had a job to do.
We searched through the antique writing bureau, paper by paper, folder by folder, ploughing through old bank statements and phone bills for ‘signs of unusual activity’. Simon’s passport, chequebook and bank card were in their usual place in the drawer, next to mine. I examined each of the scores of receipts he kept in shoeboxes, dating back years.
Elsewhere, police checked his records with his doctor and trawled through his office paperwork with Steven. Neighbours were questioned, and even the milkman and our poor paperboy were given the third degree. But Simon simply hadn’t been seen.
WPC Williams asked me to narrow down what he might have been wearing, so I rummaged through his wardrobe. Suddenly I recalled Oscar waiting nervously by the front door the day before. It hadn’t registered at the time, but Simon’s running shoes had been by the dog’s side. This puzzled me. It meant he hadn’t, as I’d presumed, gone for a jog. So WPC Williams was right: he could have disappeared during the night. But where had he gone so late, or so early, and why? And why hadn’t he taken his wallet or keys?
‘How are you getting on there, Mrs Nicholson?’ yelled WPC Williams from the foot of the stairs. ‘Have you found anything?’
‘No, I’ll be down in a minute,’ I lied, and perched on the ottoman trying to fathom out the unfathomable. I don’t know why, but I felt it best to keep my realisation to myself. She doubted him already and I wasn’t keen to prove the smug cow right.
With the arrival of a Herald & Post reporter came police reinforcements in a transit van. Three handlers with barking German shepherd sniffer dogs came into the house to pick up a scent from Simon’s clothes. Oscar cowered in the pantry, unable to understand why his world had become such a confusing, noisy place.
‘I know how you feel,’ I whispered, and bent down to kiss his head.
5.15 p.m.
I’d had no choice but to lie to the children again when I’d picked them up from school in the car. Robbie and James punched their fists in the air when I said I was taking them to the cinema to see a new Disney film.
I’d accepted Roger’s advice and got them out of the village so they wouldn’t ask why so many people were in the streets and fields on a weekday. I wanted to keep them in a world of cartoon make-believe before reality hit them. As they crammed in as much popcorn and as many iced lollipops as their mouths allowed, I casually mentioned that Daddy had been home at lunchtime to pick up some fresh clothes.
‘He’s flying to a different country for work, in a huge plane, like the one we flew in to Spain,’ I said. ‘He’ll only be gone for a few days.’
They loved the thought of him on a big adventure somewhere across the sea. Robbie said it made him sound like Indiana Jones.
‘And Daddy asked me to take you all to the cinema for a treat and to remind you he loves you very much and he’ll be home soon.’
‘Thanks, Daddy!’ shouted James, lifting his head up to the sky to wave to an imaginary aeroplane.
As soon as the film’s opening credits began, I wondered if an early evening out to cover up a gigantic lie was the right thing to do. But how could I expect them to understand their dad had vanished when I didn’t understand it myself? I couldn’t tell them the truth because I didn’t know what the truth was.
I stared at the screen for an hour and a half, not taking in a single word or animated image. I couldn’t stop thinking about Simon’s running shoes. If he hadn’t gone for a run when he left the house, then where had he gone? And why? I went round in so many circles I began to feel queasy.
But amongst the confusion, I was still certain of one thing. Simon hadn’t left us of his own free will.
8.40 p.m.
I pulled into the drive soon after fading daylight forced the search party to come to a halt. A tired Robbie and James trudged up the staircase and into the bathroom to brush their teeth. I hurried into the kitchen and found Steven and Baishali, who’d brought Emily back from Paula’s house.
‘Have you heard anything?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Sorry,’ she replied, and I felt my bottom lip quiver. She looked at me apologetically and rose to her feet to hug me. But I put my hands up to form a barrier.
‘I’m okay, honestly. I’d better check on the kids.’
‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this,’ she began, and then stopped.
‘Tell me what?’ As much as I loved her, Baishali’s fear of saying the wrong thing could be frustrating at times, especially now, when all I needed was the truth.
‘You had a couple of visitors earlier.’
‘Who?’
‘Arthur and Shirley,’ she replied, then stared at the floor like a guilty child.
I sighed. In the chaos of those twenty-four hours, I’d asked Roger to fill in Simon’s father and stepmother, and then promptly forgot about them. I was too tired to go into battle tonight.
‘I wouldn’t keep them waiting for too long,’ added Baishali, reading my mind. ‘You know Shirley’s like a dog with a bone if she thinks someone’s not telling her something.’
I nodded, scared that if I spoke, my voice might crack. She could tell, and this time, I let her hug me.
‘Try not to worry. Simon will be back soon.’ She leaned back from me and gave me an encouraging smile. But all I could wonder was how many times people would tell me that before it came true.
SIMON
Luton, twenty-five years earlier
5 June, 8.40 a.m.
Cars and lorries thundered past the motorway slip road as my feet sank into the soggy grass verge.
With little money and no alternative means, hitchhiking would be the best way to reach London, provided I could persuade a driver to take pity on me. But both man and machine appeared deliberately oblivious to my optimistic thumb. However, I had patience on my side.
After a restful night in my tatty caravan, a family car with a roof rack strapped full of weathered plastic suitcases had parked by my side early in the morning. With minimum fuss, I’d grabbed my clothes and scrambled out of the rear window like a fugitive, dressing as I ran.
My pace slowed when I reached the gates, then I paused at the sound of a child’s scream. One of the new arrivals, a little boy of no more than three years, was unable to contain his excitement and had run eagerly towards the caravan. He must have tripped and taken the brunt of the impact on his knees.
As I watched, his mum discarded her handbag, ran around the car and scooped him up in her arms. Fatherhood had taught me the difference between genuine and exaggerated tears. The boy knew what he was about. The longer he made his pain visible, the longer he’d remain her priority.
Not that this had ever worked for me with my own mother. The last time I’d seen her had been some twenty years earlier – when I’d longed for her death.
My father, Arthur, was a loyal but weak man whose only mistake in his mediocre life had been to offer his heart to a transient soul. Doreen was his polar opposite – a flighty, part-time wife and parent who sauntered in and out of our lives through her own set of revolving doors.
When she gave us her attention, she was fun, attentive and loving. You could feel her presence long before she made her entrance into a room. Her infectious laughter filled corners my father and I couldn’t reach. She and I would giggle as we built dens in the living room using polyester bedsheets draped over the sofa. We’d crawl inside to escape the world, and pick at crumbled digestive biscuits from the tin filled with cast-offs from the supermarket’s damaged-goods shelf.
But Arthur and I only ever had the w
oman we loved on loan. It never mattered how long she remained in our company – a month, six months, maybe a year if we were fortunate – we always kept one eye on the clock, waiting for the inevitable.
Doreen’s extramarital liaisons were both frequent and humiliating. Sometimes it only took a stranger’s wink and a sniff of greener grass and she’d dig her way out to the other side. Once she absconded with the local pub landlord to work in his new premises in Sunderland. Then a Pan Am pilot with an American twang promised to show her the world: she reached as far as Birmingham before he cast her aside.
And there were her extended stays in London with the one my parents only argued about when they thought I was sleeping. Doreen was terrified of being happy, but equally frightened of being alone. Anytime she reached the middle ground, she ran either from us or to us. Just because I grew accustomed to it, didn’t mean it made sense.
‘I get suffocated, Simon,’ she once strived to explain. I’d caught her one Saturday teatime trying to slip away without being noticed. She knelt with her suitcase in one hand and my hand in the other, talking to a six-year-old like he knew how to navigate the trenches of the heart.
‘I love you and your dad, but I need more,’ she cried, then closed the front door and disappeared in a stranger’s blue Austin Healey.
We always forgave her dramatic vignettes. Eventually her departures came as a relief, as anticipating the melancholy they induced was far worse than the actual rejection. When I wished her dead, it was only to force the merry-go-round to stop.
Even today, as a grown man about to embark on a brand-new life, a small part of me still ached for my mother’s love, despite myself. After all the promises she’d broken and the tears I’d shed, I needed her to know she was forgiven before I moved on. And London was her last known location.
The heavens opened and the rain poured down just as a car’s indicator flashed and it pulled over up ahead. I ran towards it.
My wife’s actions had made me understand there were times when there was no other option but to leave everything behind, and to hell with the ramifications. And I had a better reason to leave my family than Doreen ever believed she’d had.
