by Paul Clayton
Having managed to lose his mum, Shannon and Jonny while they were out on the walk, Henry had made his way straight into town. He filled the afternoon by wandering in and out of shops. As evening approached, he’d tried to sneak into the cinema. On previous visits with friends, someone had always managed to get in without a ticket but today that hadn’t worked and Henry was stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He had patted his pockets, pretending to look for his ticket.
A skinny man with a Get Your Cinema Here T-shirt and a bad comb-over had pulled him to one side. ‘Go back to the desk, to the person who sold you the ticket. They’ll be able to look up the transaction and give you a replacement.’
Henry knew the man was trying to be helpful, but it was no good. He couldn’t go back to the desk because he hadn’t bought a ticket.
He’d pushed his way through the cinema doors and gone back onto the street. A cold wind was now pushing across the roundabout and down the high street. Henry shivered. He had an extra jumper under his parka, but that was his only preparation for sleeping rough. He’d pushed a cereal bar found at the back of a kitchen cupboard into his pocket, but he’d eaten it half way through the afternoon and now lack of food was becoming a problem. He hadn’t charged his phone before leaving home and, as he pushed at the screen, it gave up and turned off. Not that he would have messaged anyone because the challenge had to be done alone, but his phone was a comforter like a rosary. He felt better when it was in his hand and he could touch it.
Now the shops were closing and places to find warmth were becoming fewer. Henry thought of the shelter at the end of the lake in the park. Sometimes, when they were out walking Dimwit, he’d seen people curled up on the benches wrapped in newspaper or worn-out sleeping bags. Mum said they were homeless people. On one occasion, she’d given a pound coin to an old woman who was half-lying on a bench. Henry had asked why, and Mum had said, ‘Because sometimes, my love, you just feel you have to help.’
He walked down the high street and turned into Park Road. The main gates to the park were closed with a large chain and padlock. The lights of the park-keeper’s cottage gave it the look of a fairy-tale dwelling, like something from a story with a happy ending.
Henry turned and walked along the posh side of the park. He no longer knew where he was. This was somewhere he rarely ventured. It was very cold now and he started to shiver. Through the tall green spiked railings, the bushes and trees were almost silhouettes, the blackest of greens. A path stretched away into wooded gloom.
Following the side of the park involved scrambling over some low walls that belonged to two blocks of flats. He pushed his way through a hedge and crossed the end of a private garden, looking for a gap in the railings or perhaps a tree he might climb and drop from to enter the park. The drizzling rain from earlier had melted the leaves underfoot to slush and it was hard to walk without slipping. He held onto the railings.
He emerged from the private garden into the darkness of a road. The glow of the streetlamps helped him find his way and he walked a little quicker. Then, a little further along the side of the park, he came to a gate in the railings. He pulled at it. It wouldn’t budge. Henry tugged in frustration at it with both hands, but it wouldn’t open. Then he saw there was a lock on the gate. Henry wondered where he might get a key from. If he could get into the park he would feel safe and the oncoming night would not seem such a threat. And there would be a good chance he could stay dry.
He looked at the apartment blocks behind him. Lights in windows, curtained and cosy. People appearing at them, peering out into the drizzling night. Opposite him stood a tower named Parkside. Large letters in white across a glossy black porch. Henry counted eight floors of steel-and-glass balconies. Perhaps he could climb onto one of the lower floors and stay out of the rain that way.
He turned back to take one last look into the locked park. A wind had risen and the trees swayed, filling the air with a whisper. Leaves scurried along the path and the wind brought goosebumps to his arms. He knew he had to find somewhere else for the night.
Heading back to the road, he dashed across where the lighting was at its poorest. Suddenly, car headlamps swarmed over him. Henry hesitated, unsure whether to run forward or to retrace his steps. He could hear the car braking and, just as he thought he was clear, he felt something hit the side of his hip. Henry jerked away in some degree of pain and tumbled to the pavement.
The car engine noise fell silent and the door of the car opened. ‘Hello.’
Henry twisted his neck to look back.
A figure stood silhouetted by the headlamps. ‘Hello there? Are you okay?’ The figure moved forward and offered Henry a hand.
He lifted himself to his feet with help. He wanted to cry but no, that would not do. He shouldn’t be here. For some reason he felt lost and alone, and he shouldn’t be on this side of the park.
‘I didn’t see you. You ran into the light. Are you all right?’
Henry’s hip felt bruised but one or two uncertain steps told him he could walk. He nodded in reply, unsure what he should say.
‘What were you doing? You do know this is a private road, don’t you? That’s why I didn’t expect to see anyone.’ The figure came into the light and Henry saw her for the first time.
The woman had glossy tomato-coloured hair sticking out from beneath a woollen bobble hat. Large thick spectacles covered a lot of her face, which seemed tight and mottled, and a bright-red-lipsticked gash of a mouth smiled at him. She held a green-and-yellow chequered coat close around her.
Henry hid his smile. He could see blue slippers on her feet. Each slipper seemed to be a cat of some kind. Henry thought of Mr Twisty the Clown, or a woman in an old sitcom about a holiday camp who made his mother laugh. Perhaps she was a witch.
‘Are you wanting to get into the park, my love?’ Her words pushed a cloud of steam out into the night. Henry could smell her breath; it reminded him of when Frankie had been to the pub.
He waited and said nothing. The Blue Whale challenge was secret, after all. And who was this clownish woman with the terrible slippers?
‘The gate’s locked. It’s a private gate, for residents use only. You shouldn’t be in there at night,’ she continued. ‘I know people do go in for all sorts of things. Men, mainly. The people from the council don’t like it.’
‘Yes,’ mumbled Henry. ‘Sorry. I wanted to sort of sleep there. It’s a dare I’m doing.’
‘Is it?’ The woman took a step towards him. ‘How exciting. Then we ought to see what we can do to help.’ She bent down and breathed into his face. ‘Would you like me to help you?’
Henry nodded.
‘Where were you thinking of hiding in the park for the night?’
Henry liked it when she said hiding. Suddenly he knew she understood, she was on his side. He told her of his plan – the shelter with the benches overlooking the lake, how he planned to set an alarm for early in the morning on his phone so he wouldn’t get caught by the park keepers, although he didn’t tell her about his phone battery dying.
‘No sleeping bag or anything, I see,’ she said. ‘You have to prepare if you’re going to sleep in the park overnight.’
Henry giggled. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘Will you let me help you?’
Henry looked at her again. He nodded. The woman laughed. Henry thought it sounded like a pig snorting.
‘It’s the least I can do. And I won’t tell anyone about you running out into the road like that and causing the accident.’ She smiled at him again and held out a hand to lead him to the railings. She didn’t seem like a proper grown up. Something about her told him she understood, that she got it. He nodded.
‘Wait here and give me five minutes. I can get you a sleeping bag and some things for the night.’
Henry rattled the gate.
‘And don’t worry about that. I have a key.’
>
Henry settled down by the gate as the clownish woman waddled away into the darkness.
‘Please come back,’ whispered Henry to himself. ‘Please come back.’
Chapter Five
‘It’s a ten-year-old kid, Sarge. Ran off while he was out with his mum and the dog this afternoon.’ PC Ashley was filling in his report at the station and doing his best to convince Sergeant Chescoe that they should do something.
‘I’ve got everything here in the report book. I’m not sure what we can do now.’ Chescoe paused and saw the disappointment in Oliver’s face. That was the trouble with these new coppers. Too bloody eager.
‘Why not show willing and go grab somebody who’s free? At least, you could walk around the park. It’s all locked up by now, so there’ll be nowt to see. As long as it looks like we’ve done summat, then we’re in the clear. If the little bastard’s still missing in the morning, we can ramp it up.’
Chescoe continued to enter the details of the constable’s report into his computer. If he ever left the force, the sergeant’s looks would get him work in any Christmas grotto. His demeanour would not.
‘Most of these buggers come to nothing. He’ll have pissed off with some mates, phone out of battery, and never given a thought about his mother worrying her bloody tits off at home.’
Oliver found himself torn between thinking that the desk sergeant was probably right and the desire to be part of things, which had made him a constable in the first place.
‘I think I might do that, Sarge.’ Chescoe didn’t look up from the computer so Oliver pushed his way through the swing doors into the canteen to see who might be free. Early evening on a Friday, most available constables were either out on a call or hadn’t yet logged on. But in the far corner, sitting with a cup of some sort of herbal infusion and swiping on her phone, was WPC Graham.
Oliver sighed. Pamela Graham was the last person anyone wanted to spend an evening out on the beat with. Earnest, over attentive and with a sense of humour as prickly as a porcupine, she was hard work through and through. Yet she got results. Many of her junior male colleagues envied her conviction rate. She had a habit of seeming to be in the right place at the right time, and whatever she did always turned up trumps. It wouldn’t do any harm to ask if she would take a quick turn around the park with him.
Once she’d heard his story, Pamela picked up her drink and grabbed a plastic cup from the counter to decant it into. ‘Liquorice root,’ she said to Oliver, pouring an unhealthy looking dark concoction into the cup, though he’d not asked for an explanation. ‘Boosts energy and focus and encourages good bowel movement.’
‘Right. Just what I need.’ Oliver pulled his cap on and made to walk out of the room.
Pamela followed close behind and seemed anxious to give him more information about the benefits of the drink. ‘It contains adaptogens, you see, Ollie.’
He winced at the diminutive of his name. ‘Great. I’m more of a Pepsi Max and a Mars Bar man myself, Pam,’ he replied. ‘But thanks.’
After a twenty-five minute walk, they had covered the perimeter of the no-dog side of the park. It was hard to see into it; other than a little floodlighting on the lake, the undergrowth, trees and bushes were in darkness. There was no sign of movement and it looked like the wrong environment in which to spot a stray ten year old.
They crossed the top of the park, past the park-keeper’s cottage, and followed the railings to an area where the houses were much bigger. They were large 1930s’ half-timbered residences, the sort with four cars parked outside them. These didn’t belong to people who worked around here; these were the houses of people who worked in the city’s banks and boardrooms.
‘Do you think he has gone missing?’ said Pamela. ‘Or is it another kid off with his mates?’
‘The mum seemed very upset, and the sister and brother said it wasn’t like him. Well, the brother did – the sister didn’t seem to care. I asked all the usual stuff about whether there’d been a row or any trouble, but no. They were all out together taking the dog for a walk, then the dog came running back with nobody on the other end of the lead.’
‘If he was just messing about, why would he let go of the dog? Anything could have happened to the poor thing. Some people just don’t deserve to have animals.’
For the briefest moment, Oliver wondered what pet Pamela Graham had. The only thing he could think of was stick insects. ‘That’s what worries me. The dog. Evidently the lad’s very fond of it.’
By now they had followed the road onto Lakeside Drive, a misnomer as the lake was out of sight, separated by undergrowth, trees and the tall green railings. Ahead of them, a woman stepped out of the shadows. She crossed the road holding her coat around her.
‘Excuse me,’ said Oliver. The woman stopped and they caught up with her. ‘Sorry, madam, but have you just come out of the park?’ To his right there was a gate in the railings.
The woman smiled at them. ‘No, officer, I haven’t. I’ve lost my cat. Normally he’s back home by now. I came down to see if he was around.’
‘You wouldn’t have a key to that gate by any chance?’
She looked at the gate and turned back to him. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. I think you have to pay for a key. It’s for residents of the flats and houses on Parkside. Not the sort of place I could afford.’
‘You haven’t seen any young children around here, have you?’ Pamela asked. ‘We’re looking for a ten-year-old boy who’s gone missing. There’s a chance he might be in the park.’
‘If he’s in there, dear,’ replied the woman, ‘he’s in there till morning. They lock the gates at half past five during the winter, and I think most people would find it hard to climb over those railings.’
‘Yes, they’re a bit spiky and unpleasant,’ Pamela said.
Oliver glanced at her. He wondered if she was describing herself.
‘I think they’re Victorian, actually,’ said the woman. ‘They didn’t get taken away in the war to make Spitfires. The park originally belonged to Lord Cator, you see. A private park. Amazing what some people can get away with, isn’t it, officer?’ She smiled at Oliver then pulled her coat more tightly around her. ‘If I can be of no more help, I’d like to get back inside.’ With that, she walked across the street and disappeared into the darkness between two of the blocks of flats.
Oliver watched her go for a moment, then continued his journey around the park.
‘Shouldn’t you have asked her name and address?’ Pamela asked a little breathlessly as she caught up with him.
‘Yes, I should.’ Oliver knew she thought he was in the wrong, but three-quarters of the way around the park the warmth of the station canteen had started to appear very attractive. ‘She hadn’t seen anything. Some old dear looking for a cat. She looked a bit Scooby Doo for my taste. Awful choice in footwear.’
Pamela looked puzzled. ‘I liked them. Cats with whiskers. Nice.’
So that was her pet, thought Oliver. Another bloody woman with a cat.
Chapter Six
After the young policeman left, Frankie knew that she had to do something. She pulled on a coat and trainers.
‘Where you off to, Mum?’ asked Jonny.
‘I’m going out to look for Henry. I can’t just sit here.’
‘Come with you, shall I?’
Frankie smiled at her son and then looked over at his sister lying on the sofa. Settled in front of the television, she showed no inclination to move. ‘No, it’s all right. You stay here with Shannon. I’m just going to walk round the park and into town, see if I can learn anything. See if anyone knows where he is. You stay here. That’ll be a help.’
Frankie retraced their afternoon walk to the park. The gates they’d gone through now had a huge chain and padlock wound around the centre. She made her way as near to the fence as she could up to the park-keeper’s cottage at
the top end of the lake. It was too dark to see anything.
Once or twice her heart pushed her to call out. ‘Henry. Henry. Please, Henry.’
She cut across the supermarket car park and walked up the high street as far as the cinema. Shops were closing; only a few stayed open late. They seemed unwelcoming, with bars on the doors or locks operated from inside.
She pushed her way into a newsagent. Swiping through pictures on her phone, she found a photograph of Henry wearing a pair of red swimming trunks taken at Center Parcs She thrust her telephone at the newsagent.
‘No, love. He’s not been in here. We discourage kids after about seven o’clock.’
Frankie’s heart fell.
After two hours futile wandering and enquiring in a few more shops, she returned home. Jonny was waiting in the kitchen and put the kettle on as soon she walked through the door. Shannon hadn’t moved from the sofa and was still glued to the television.
Jonny gave her an enormous hug and she nestled her head against his chest, the benefit of having a tall son on the verge of manhood. ‘No luck,’ she muttered, trying to hold back tears.
‘He’ll be back. You know Henry. He’ll be back.’
She thought Jonny sounded uncertain.
They passed the rest of the evening in the lounge, Shannon engaged with the television, Jonny casting sideways looks to check on his mum, and Frankie biting her nails and swiping her telephone in desperation for ideas. ‘He hasn’t got a Facebook account or anything like that has he?’ she asked.
Shannon shrugged.
A little after one in the morning, the kids went to bed. Frankie washed up the cups on the coffee table and left a light on in the kitchen. It was tempting to leave the door unlocked, but she realised how foolish that would be.
She crept upstairs and into the bedroom she shared with Shannon. Three kids and a single mum in a two-bedroom flat was not an ideal combination. Her daughter was asleep and the room was in darkness.
