The Lost Ones

by Ben Cheetham

  ‘I bet he’s going to the hospital,’ said Eddie as Henry reversed towards the main road.

  ‘It’s time we got going too.’

  Eddie got out of the car, then ducked his head back in. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to find out what else that joyless sheep-shagger’s been up to.’

  ‘I’ll head back via Netherwitton. See if I can beat the old fart to town.’ Eddie darted to a souped-up BMW. The wheels kicked up dirt as he accelerated away. Tom struggled to keep up in his Volvo.

  Eddie raced straight on at the crossroads. Tom turned left, flooring the accelerator on the straight descent to Rothley Lakes. A few minutes later he was juddering along the rutted track to Graham’s farm. He jerked to a stop at the gate, sprang out and ran towards the pebble-dash house. A restless baaing of hungry sheep came from the barn. The flock should have been put out to pasture hours ago. Tom’s nose wrinkled at the smell of wool and dung. It didn’t end, he knew, at the house’s front door. The whole place was saturated in it. As a teenager he used to spend hours in the bathroom, scrubbing himself until his skin was red raw, paranoid that the stink would become permanently ingrained in his pores.

  He inserted a key into the door. His father – a doggedly fair man – had left half the flock to him. He’d insisted Tom hold onto the key in the forlorn hope that one day he would change his mind about his inheritance. Tom had never asked Graham to buy him out or for a share in the meagre profits. But all that was going to change. He stepped into a stone-flagged hallway. A flight of stairs carpeted in threadbare green led upwards. To the left and at the far end of the hallway were chipped and scuffed white doors. The walls were papered in cream Anaglypta that Tom could vaguely remember their dad pasting up. Several pairs of mud-encrusted wellies were lined up beneath some pegs with a jumble of wax jackets, scarves and hats hanging on them. Tom spotted their dad’s favourite flat cap. He peered into a living room furnished with a well-worn three-piece suite, an old TV and bookshelves stuffed with their dad’s sheep-breeding and fly-fishing books and their mum’s cheap romance novels. Tom shook his head. Why couldn’t his brother let go of all this junk? Perhaps if he had he would have been able to make a life for himself without trying to steal someone else’s.

  A grey-tiled mantelpiece was crowded with photographs, some in frames, others merely balanced against the wall. There were faded photos of his parents – his dad straight-backed, broad-shouldered, craggy-faced, inexpressive; his mum almost equally heavy set, short dark hair, round placid face. His gaze passed quickly over them to photos of himself, Amanda, Jake and Erin. There was a photo of them all in front of a Christmas tree, which Amanda had sent out to relatives a few years before. And there were photos of the kids dating back to when they were in nappies. There was also a recent-looking photo of Amanda standing in front of some pine trees, her face lit up by the sparkly-eyed smile he’d fallen in love with.

  His jaw twitching, Tom pocketed the photos of himself and his family. He moved through to the dining room. Four mismatched chairs were pushed under an oak table in the middle of a purple swirled rug. A pendulum clock ticked on the wall above a glass-doored cabinet filled with the china his mum had reserved for special occasions. Everything neat and tidy. Nothing out of place. It was the same in the kitchen with its ancient gas cooker, Welsh dresser stacked with crockery, walls hung with pans, deep ceramic sink, and Bob’s food and water bowls next to the grubby duvet he slept on.

  Tom headed upstairs. He stuck his head into what had once been his parents’ bedroom. To all intents and purposes, it still was their bedroom – same iron-framed double bed, same crucifix on the wall above it, same floral eiderdown, same faded yellow curtains. It was as if twenty minutes not twenty years had passed since he’d last been in there. He looked in Graham’s bedroom next – neatly made single bed, a chest of bedside drawers. Tom opened the top drawer. His jaw squeezed so tight it felt as if his teeth would shatter. Amanda stared up at him from a photo. She was stretched out on Graham’s bed wearing only skimpy underwear – underwear Tom had never seen before. In a second photo her mouth was wide with laughter and her hands were raised as if to hide her face.

  Tom thrust the photos into his pocket. He wrenched out the other drawers and upended their contents – socks, boxer shorts, unopened condoms, lube. Sweet strawberry flavoured lube! It made him want to retch with rage. He stalked from the room to a shabby little bathroom. There were no photos waiting to torture him in there. He punched open the door to his old bedroom. Unlike the rest of the house, it bore no resemblance to when he’d lived there. Where his bed had been there was a cheap-looking MDF desk with a computer and printer on it. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that his were the only belongings Graham could bear to part with.

  He took out the photos of Amanda. Her laughing face, the underwear. Oh, Christ, it was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images were branded onto his retinas. A thought gouged its way into his mind. An idea. Graham had taken what he loved. And now he would return the favour.

  Tom descended to the kitchen. The box of rat poison was in the same place it had always been – the highest shelf of the walk-in pantry. He snatched it down and stalked to the barn. The sheep were penned in behind a rusty gate. They milled about nervously as he climbed up to the hayloft. He toppled a bale of hay over the edge of the loft, scattering the sheep. He jumped down and broke up the bale. He opened the box of rat poison, but hesitated to upend it. The flock of white-faced Cheviots was relatively small compared to some in the area, but his dad had been immensely proud of it. The lineage of many of the breeding ewes could be traced back through generations of Jacksons to the late 1800s. That entire heritage, all the countless hours of caring and nurturing would be lost in a moment if he did this. He stood, caught between this thought and the image of Amanda on the bed. His mind returned to the photos of his parents. Their eyes seemed to stare at him, not judging, just sad. He couldn’t do it to them, no matter how much he wanted to hurt Graham. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he flung the box aside. The sound of engines drew him outside.

  Several police vehicles were pulling up behind his car. Among them was a van marked FORENSIC INVESTIGATION. A constable got out of it and asked, ‘Mr Jackson, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Same thing as you.’

  ‘Have you been in the house?’

  ‘Yes. I have a key.’

  ‘And have you moved anything inside?’

  Tom shook his head. There was no way Graham was getting back the photos. Just the thought of him looking at them made Tom want to pound his fists into something. ‘Did my brother give you permission to search the farm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tom wondered whether he should be relieved. Surely that meant Graham had nothing more to hide.

  ‘You’re going to have to leave,’ continued the constable. ‘We’re sealing off this property until our investigation is complete.’

  Tom returned to his car. He didn’t glance at the farm in the rear-view mirror. He never wanted to see the place again. When he reached the main road, he braked and sat motionless behind the wheel. He suddenly felt utterly lost. He stared at a landscape he’d known all his life as if he was seeing it for the first time. Where now? he wondered. Where do I go from here?

  DAY 2

  9.11 A.M.

  One of Cathy’s hands rested on Amanda’s shoulder, the other was pressed anxiously to her own mouth. When the curtain swished open and Henry entered the cubicle, she exclaimed, ‘Thank God you’re here, Henry. I don’t know what to do. She won’t talk to me. She just keeps staring at the wall.’

  Henry made a calming motion. He stooped to kiss Amanda’s temple, murmuring, ‘It’s all right, darling. Daddy’s here now.’

  ‘Daddy.’ Amanda’s voice was a tremulous whisper. Her eyes slid round to his, almost lost in tears. ‘I’ve ruined everything. I’m a terrible, terrible person.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Yes, it is.
I’ve betrayed Tom. I’ve done something . . .’ A sob swallowed her words.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, darling. You’re my daughter and I’ll always love you.’

  Amanda closed her eyes, shaking her head as if she didn’t deserve such unconditional love.

  Henry stroked her hair. ‘You’re too good for him.’

  ‘Am I?’ Amanda’s tone suggested she thought it was the other way around.

  ‘Yes, you are. When Tom asked my permission for your hand in marriage, I gave it because I knew saying no wouldn’t stop you. You’re a Brooks. And when we want something, nothing stands in our way. But I always knew it would come to this one day. How can a man like him expect to keep a woman like you?’

  ‘A woman like me? You mean a selfish bitch.’

  ‘You’re a Brooks,’ Henry said again, as if the name raised her above criticism. ‘And now it’s time for you to come back to where you belong.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want you and the children to come and live with us.’

  ‘Children,’ Amanda said like an empty echo.

  Henry took her hand, his grip firm with resolve. ‘We’re going to find Erin. And we’re going to put this behind us.’ He added meaningfully, ‘All of it.’

  ‘But Tom—’

  ‘Forget Tom. I don’t want to hear his name any more. As far as I’m concerned, you’re no longer a Jackson. And neither are the children.’

  Amanda gave a hard shake of her head. ‘I may be a bitch but I could never do that to him.’

  ‘We’ll discuss this later. Now come on. On your feet. This is no place for you to be. You need to be with Jake.’

  Pushing her exhaustion aside with a deep breath, Amanda swung her feet off the bed. Henry handed Cathy his car keys. ‘I’m parked at the main entrance. Bring my car around the back. Be careful no one follows you. There are a few journalist types hanging about reception.’

  She nodded and hurried from the cubicle. Henry and Amanda made to follow. With an apologetic look, Constable Foster barred their path. ‘Sorry, Mr Brooks, but Inspector Shields requests that Mrs Jackson remain here.’

  Henry’s bushy eyebrows drew together. ‘You know that nothing happens around here without my say-so, Mike. Houses don’t get built, business licences aren’t granted, constables don’t become sergeants.’

  Constable Foster shifted uneasily, but held his ground.

  ‘Inspector Shields only said it would be best if I remained here,’ put in Amanda.

  ‘In that case my daughter is within her rights to leave,’ said Henry. ‘Now if you’d please step aside.’

  Constable Foster hesitated a moment longer, then turned his body to let them by.

  ‘Thank you, Mike. We Middlebury men don’t forget our friends.’

  Henry extended his hand and Constable Foster shook it. ‘I have to inform Inspector Shields that Mrs Jackson left.’

  ‘Of course you do. And you can also let him know my daughter will be staying at my house from now on.’

  As they headed for the rear entrance, Amanda said with a contemptuous lift of her lips, ‘Some things never change in this town.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ agreed Henry. ‘Never forget that.’

  Cathy shifted over to allow Henry to take the Range Rover’s steering wheel. ‘What about my car?’ she asked as they pulled around the front.

  ‘We’ll fetch it later when there are less of them around.’ Henry motioned to the news crews thronging the police station car park. ‘Better keep your head down, Amanda.’

  She lay herself flat on the back seat.

  ‘Look at them,’ Cathy said with a shudder. ‘Like flies on muck.’

  Henry met the gaze of a stocky, bearded man leaning against the bonnet of a BMW. The man rose onto his tiptoes to peer into the Range Rover. Henry pushed harder on the accelerator. When the station was out of sight, he said, ‘You can sit up now, Amanda.’

  Amanda remained lying on the seat. ‘The kids are going to need their clothes and . . . and . . .’ She faded off. The haunted blankness was back in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you worry about any of that. Your mother and I will sort it all out.’

  ‘Please, darling, try to pull yourself together,’ said Cathy. ‘We don’t want Jake to see you like this, do we now? He’s worried enough about you as it is.’

  With seeming great effort, Amanda raised herself into a sitting position. She rubbed her hands vigorously over her face as if washing something away.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Henry when the tall gates and golden-stoned walls of Ritton Hall came into view. ‘Home.’

  ‘Home,’ Amanda parroted as if she was trying to work out what the word meant.

  The gates swung inwards and the Range Rover crunched along the driveway. Henry and Cathy got out. Amanda remained seated, staring at the house with a kind of disbelief, like someone returning to a place they’d thought they would never see again. ‘Come on, darling,’ said Henry, coaxing her out as if she was a nervous dog.

  Cathy entered the house. ‘Jake, we’re home. Your mum’s with us.’ There was no reply. She turned to Henry and Amanda. ‘He must be sleeping. The poor darling’s absolutely wiped out. I’ll go up and look in on him.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ said Amanda. ‘I’ll go.’

  She wearily climbed the stairs and cracked open the door to Jake’s room. A shape was dimly visible beneath the bedsheets. She felt a need to see Jake’s face, but the covers were pulled up over his head. She didn’t want to risk disturbing him by lifting them. Not after what he’d been through last night, and what he was going to have to face when he woke. Tears were suddenly rushing to her eyes. She barely had time to close the door before her sobs broke free. She sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

  DAY 2

  9.12 A.M.

  A familiar wisp of smoke curled from the wooden playground house. Jake climbed the ladder awkwardly, hopping his good hand up the rungs. Lauren blew a surprised puff of smoke at the sight of him. ‘What happened to your arm?’

  ‘I fell through the floor at the Ingham house.’

  ‘Shit. You’re lucky you didn’t die. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not much.’

  Jake sat down next to Lauren and accepted the half-smoked cigarette. It tasted of her lipstick. Lauren eyed his hair. ‘It looks like you were attacked by some seriously pissed-off scissors.’

  ‘Can we not talk about my hair?’

  ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

  ‘My mum’s in hospital. She fainted or something.’

  ‘This whole situation’s so messed up.’ Lauren took back the cigarette, sucked in a drag and flicked the stub out of the playhouse. ‘So let’s see the diary.’

  ‘I haven’t got it with me.’

  Her face fell. ‘Why not?’

  ‘In case we get picked up by the police again. I didn’t want to risk having it taken away.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Lauren begrudgingly conceded. ‘But I get to read it straight after we’ve checked out Mary’s house, right?’

  Jake nodded, although he’d already decided Lauren would only get her hands on the diary once he’d finished reading it.

  She jumped to her feet. ‘So let’s go see what the old witch has been up to.’

  They made their way across town, sticking to quiet streets. Pretty little cottages gave way to an estate of pebble-dashed council houses – mostly semis, postage-stamp front gardens, no driveways.

  ‘That’s Mary’s place.’ Lauren pointed to a little bungalow backing onto woods. The garden was so overgrown that bushes masked the windows. Several cats were stretched out in splotches of sun on the mossy garden path. Others were prowling lazily around. Jake counted twelve at a glance.

  ‘She definitely likes cats,’ he observed.

  ‘Especially black ones,’ Lauren added meaningfully.

  Jake gave her an irritated look. ‘Why do you keep making out like she�
��s some kind of witch? You were the one mouthing off about all the small-minded pricks around here treating her like a freak.’

  ‘Witches aren’t freaks. I think they’re pretty cool, so long as they’re not casting spells on me.’

  Jake rolled his eyes. ‘We need to get around the back.’

  Lauren led him along a footpath shadowed by oak trees. A sagging fence bearded with ivy just barely divided the bungalow’s back garden from the woods. A path had been hacked through bushes to a glass-doored porch. Newspaper was taped to the inside of the glass. A fat ginger tomcat lounged on the porch roof, like a lookout ready to pounce on any unwanted visitors.

  ‘How are we supposed to know if she’s in?’ wondered Jake.

  Lauren pointed out a thread of pale smoke coming from the chimney. ‘I guess that means she’s probably in. So what now?’

  ‘We wait for her to go out.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t leave the house today?’

  Jake thought for a moment, then shrugged.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we should do,’ continued Lauren. ‘We should knock and run.’

  ‘Knock and run. What are you, like ten years old or something?’

  ‘Screw you.’

  Jake stared at the bungalow. Several minutes crawled by. The ginger tom stretched, padded over the roof and jumped into a bush. A black cat took its place. ‘Changing of the guard,’ commented Jake.

  Lauren crossed her arms, lips compressed in moody silence.

  Nothing moved except the smoke curling from the chimney and the shadows shortening as the sun inched up the sky. ‘What time is it?’ asked Jake.

  ‘Look for yourself,’ muttered Lauren.

  ‘My mum took away my phone, remember?’

  Lauren glanced at her mobile. ‘It’s nearly ten.’

  ‘Ten o’clock,’ Jake said quietly. It had been twenty-four hours since Erin went missing. Had she had anything to eat or drink? How long could a person survive without food and water? He heaved a sigh. ‘OK.’

  ‘OK what?’

  ‘OK, let’s knock and run.’