Tideline

by Penny Hancock

  As she gazed she noticed Sonia wrapped in a scarf over on the far side of the market, near the food stalls. Nadia was right. She did look amazing. Slimmer than ever with that grey cashmere headscarf flung about her hair. More elegant than anyone in the bustling marketplace. She was clearly in a hurry, pointing at food and stuffing it impatiently into a large shopper. Helen remembered that Greg was worried about her state of mind.

  She drained her cappuccino and got up. She’d go and say hello. Check that Sonia was alright. She adjusted her own scarf, did up the toggles on her wool jacket, and went inside to pay her bill. The queue was long and slow, the girl at the counter clearly new, fumbling with the cash register. By the time Helen had paid and emerged into the marketplace, Sonia had gone.

  Helen thought of pursuing her, but decided against it. Instead, she sat back down. The shops round the edge of the market were doing brisk business as usual. The one selling T-shirts made her think of Jez. He and Alicia downloading that picture of . . . who was it? Some seventies musicians? Jeff someone. And Tim? They were father and son, Jez had explained. Helen hadn’t really been listening. The son had drowned in a river one night with all his clothes on. He was only thirty. Only a couple of years older than his father had been when he had died, too young. Tragic.

  Jez told Helen they were going to shrink one of the images and make badges, and Alicia said she was getting it put onto T-shirts for both of them. After downloading the image, Jez had found a programme where you could morph a photo of yourself onto the body of an elf doing a jig. He and Alicia had found it hilarious. It had been quite funny, but it was more his infectious laugh that had made Helen join in too. That was on Thursday evening.

  But what was it that had been niggling away at her about Jez? That had made her feel so irritable when Alicia had gone on about him, and when everyone had fussed so much last night? Something about the last conversation she’d had with Jez before all this had blown up. She tried to remember it all in detail. It was Friday lunchtime. She had come in, not expecting to find anyone at home. Jez was playing his guitar loudly (but rather brilliantly she must admit) through an amp. She remembered the cross way she stomped up the stairs, opened his door.

  ‘If you’re planning on living with us when you come to college, you’ll have to be more thoughtful,’ she told him. ‘We have neighbours to consider, you know.’

  Her irritation was unreasonable, she knew. Her boys always played loud music in their rooms, it had never bothered her. But Jez was so bloody good at everything, as Maria was at pains to remind her every night, and Helen had a headache. A stonking hangover, truth be told.

  Jez had looked startled by her temper, and had apologized. She’d been taken back by his contrition – Barney and Theo would never have said sorry – they were more likely to tell her to bugger off. She’d left the room without saying any more, and was now ashamed by her lack of graciousness.

  Surely Jez hadn’t taken her words to heart, gone off feeling he wasn’t wanted? Something daft like that? Mick’s anxiety combined with her sister’s hysteria had forced Helen to remain calm last night. But now she felt a slow terror build within.

  Maybe Maria was right. She had been too laid back. Not just laid back though, in some ways, downright negligent. She had not asked where he was going when he went out. Had not worried what time he came in. She’d treated him like one of her boys but he wasn’t one of her boys. He was young and innocent and naïve and sweet natured. All these thoughts made her so uncomfortable she had to stand up and move. She hurried back through the park, her head down, dreading what lay ahead.

  ‘You’ve contacted everyone he knew?’ Inspector Kirwin glanced at each of them in turn. She was short and plump and looked too homely to be an inspector, Helen thought. Alongside her sat a boy, a police constable she introduced as Josh, who barely looked Barney’s age.

  Helen and Mick exchanged glances. They were at the kitchen table sipping tea. Maria, dressed impeccably as usual, nevertheless looked exhausted. It was clear she hadn’t slept a wink. She was biting her thumbnail, unable to sit still.

  ‘We could go through Barney and Theo’s mobile contacts, and then our phone book,’ Mick suggested.

  ‘You haven’t done that yet?’ Maria stood up, her face drained of colour.

  ‘We only began to think there was something amiss yesterday evening. It was late. We could hardly phone people at that hour.’

  Helen looked at Inspector Kirwin across the table for affirmation.

  ‘You’ve had all morning,’ said Maria. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘There are, believe it or not, other things in our lives apart from Jez!’ Helen blurted before she could stop herself.

  ‘Helen!’ Mick glowered at her.

  ‘We’re just as upset and worried as you are, Maria,’ said Helen. ‘He’s our nephew. But to keep apportioning blame . . .’

  ‘No one’s blaming anyone.’ Mick glared at Helen and Helen pursed her lips.

  ‘From what you’ve told me,’ said Kirwin, ‘there’s still a strong possibility he’s on his way back home to Paris. You say he was expected some time this weekend but he hadn’t said exactly when.’

  ‘He said Saturday,’ said Maria. ‘But he’s left his things here. I know Jez. He’d have been in touch if he changed his plans. He knows I worry if he’s late. He always phones or texts.’

  ‘Unlike our two,’ Helen couldn’t help muttering.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said unlike Barney and Theo.’ Helen didn’t mean to sound bitter, but she realized the minute she’d spoken that it was how it had come out.

  Mick stared at her. ‘Drop it,’ he said.

  Kirwin glanced from one to the other of them.

  ‘Was there a feeling of animosity at all towards your nephew? Did he give rise to any conflict while he was staying with you?’ she asked.

  Mick shook his head.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ said Helen. ‘It’s been a joy having him to stay.’

  ‘Which one of you saw him last?’

  Mick looked at Helen and shrugged.

  ‘I left for work at, oh, 7.30 on Friday morning. I assumed he was in bed.’

  ‘He was,’ said Helen. ‘He came into the kitchen for a glass of water just before I left. About quarter to eight. I went off to work as usual. I do a half day on Friday so I came home at lunchtime. He went out again at about three thirty I think.’

  ‘Do you know where he was planning to go?’

  Helen decided her irritable words before Jez left were best not mentioned.

  ‘I don’t remember. He was in and out such a lot. Off to rehearse in Barney and Theo’s band. And he had a couple of interviews last week.’

  ‘Those were over by Friday!’ said Maria. ‘I can’t believe you don’t know that.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ said Helen. ‘But he’s nearly sixteen, Maria. He was very responsible about getting himself where he needed to be at the right time. You have to trust kids, you can’t breathe down their necks all the time.’

  What a suffocating mother Maria was. No wonder he’d gone off on his own for a bit, rather than going home. Helen shifted in her chair and changed the subject.

  ‘I bumped into his girlfriend yesterday. She said he was due to meet her in the foot tunnel on Friday afternoon but he didn’t turn up.’

  ‘The foot tunnel?’ Maria blanched. ‘The Greenwich foot tunnel? You let them meet down there?’

  ‘It’s not what it was,’ said Mick. ‘There are CCTV cameras down there these days.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said the young constable, speaking for the first time.

  ‘We need to speak to the girlfriend,’ said Kirwin. ‘Did anyone else see Jez that day? In your family, I mean. Obviously we’ll check with your sons too.’

  They all shook their heads.

  ‘To clarify, then, you came home on Friday lunchtime and saw him leave the house at about three thirty,’ the
policewoman said, staring at Helen rather intently.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Helen said. She felt her face go hot and hoped no one would notice.

  ‘Well thank you,’ said Kirwin. ‘If you could let us have a look at anything that might help – a laptop or mobile he may have used, before he went missing. We’ll need a recent photo of Jez if possible, for our missing persons poster. And if you don’t mind, there’s a reporter who’s interested in your case. I know it can feel intrusive, but it often helps to get publicity out there as soon as possible. Are you happy to talk to someone if they come round later?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mick said straight away.

  ‘I have a lovely photo of him,’ said Maria, ‘on my phone. Could I print it out Mick?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Mick. ‘Let’s get that done straight away.’

  The policewoman smiled.

  ‘You can email it straight to us at the station,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you the address.’

  As they all stood up the phone began to ring. Helen picked it up.

  ‘Helen, it’s Simon.’

  ‘Simon, just a friend,’ Helen told the expectant group, covering the mouthpiece. They trooped out of the room. Helen was relieved to have an excuse to hang back.

  ‘Listen. I’ve got a spare ticket for Tosca, the dress rehearsal this Friday. You interested?’

  ‘Oh, Simon, how timely. I’ve had the most horrendous weekend. Thank you. If no one else wants it?’

  ‘I was going to offer it to Sonia but Greg often gets tickets and I thought you’d appreciate it more.’

  ‘I’d love it.’

  As she put the phone down, Helen could hear Maria with Mick in the study sorting out Jez’s photo. She made for the fridge. She could kill for a large glass of wine.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday

  Sonia

  I let one end of the silk run through my hand. I’m about to untie it so Jez will never know, but suddenly he opens his eyes. Blinks up at me.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s fine, Jez. Everything’s fine. I have someone coming this morning who’s interested in hearing you play. My opera friend. You know, I said he could help you.’

  ‘I don’t want help. I’m leaving.’

  He struggles, pulling at the bonds, which of course only tightens them. His wrists redden. ‘Let me go. I want to go now.’

  ‘Please don’t, Jez. Don’t say you want to go. It upsets me.’

  ‘But you’ve tied me up.’

  I stand up. ‘It was just a little game. Look, I’m popping out to get some things to eat. I can get you croissants, bagels, whatever you prefer. What would you like?’

  ‘I just want you to let me go. This is mad. Mad!’

  I sit down on the bed, stroke the hair off his damp forehead.

  ‘You’ll be glad of the contact, won’t you? Then you’ll be free to follow it up in your own time.’

  He’s quiet for a bit as he searches my face. Then he says, ‘If it is a surprise party for my birthday on Wednesday, I think you’re going a bit far.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tying me up! Locking me in! You could just tell me I have to stay here now I’ve guessed. I won’t tell Helen I know about it. Honest.’

  ‘OK. But I want to get your ankle better, and I don’t want you to do anything rash.’

  When am I going to let him go? I haven’t really thought it through properly. Maybe it will be on his birthday as he imagines. Anyway, soon, before Greg and Kit come home. Before he edges further towards adulthood. Today though, I want to savour every second I have left with him, and I want him relaxed and happy, not anxious like this.

  ‘Tell me what I can bring you, Jez. Remember I’ll get you anything you like.’

  After a pause he lets his head fall back against the pillows. ‘I could do with a smoke. There’s some weed in my jacket pocket.’

  ‘I’ll bring it.’

  ‘But I need my hands free. I need a piss, Sonia! How am I supposed to go for a piss like this? Or a shit. I’ve got to go!’

  I look at him, spreadeagled on the iron bed. His bad foot wrapped in its bandage, lolling over the edge. He can’t go anywhere with his ankle like that.

  ‘I’ll take these silly scarves off then, if you promise not to try anything daft like you did yesterday.’

  ‘No. No. I promise.’ He says it as if he’s weary with playing the game but knows it’s in his best interests to continue.

  We smile at each other and I untie the knots slowly, watching him all the time. I run my thumb over the red welts the scarves have left on his wrists. ‘I haven’t hurt you, have I? I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘No,’ he says, shaking his hands as I pull the silk away. ‘No, it’s OK. That’s better. Thanks.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll be back soon. With weed and croissants. And I’ll bring Simon.’

  A bustle this morning as I go along the alley to the shops. A brisk spring wind blows ripples across the river so the boats speeding in both directions rock on the choppy water. Students in scarves and hoodies gather in little groups in the university gardens, kids bound along on their way to school. People hurry towards the pier to get the Clipper up to town. Everyone’s on their way somewhere. I’m going to buy croissants from Rhodes for me and Jez and Simon who’s due later. I may grab some of their fabulous panini, too, for Jez to have for lunch. He’ll have an appetite by then. While I’m there I’ll treat him to one of their chocolate brownies. It’s one of those shops, Kit used to say, where you can’t buy just one thing however resolute you are when you go in. She used to make me buy her slices of their Princess Cake, with its marzipan icing, and she’d eat the layers one at a time, licking up the creamy filling between each one as she went.

  There’s a spring in my step this morning. Michael notices this as I pass. He works in the Anchor and is sweeping the paving stones outside.

  ‘You’re looking perky this morning, Sonia,’ he says. I wave and hurry on towards the village. I cross the road, about to pass the newsagents, and then stop.

  There, staring from the rack where the local papers are stacked, is his beautiful face. What’s he doing there, on the front page? Smiling over to his right, caught unawares, his mouth half open, as if he’s just spotted someone special. Who? I peer at the caption under the photograph:

  Jez Mahfoud, who disappeared on Friday.

  I buy the paper and hurry to the steps opposite the Cutty Sark, which has been shrouded in white stuff since the fire destroyed it. The wind keeps lifting the corners of the pages as I start to read and I have to bat them down. The white awnings flap around the Cutty Sark, and the blue hoardings slap and rattle. The wind unsettles me. It takes me longer than it should to grasp the meaning of the words.

  Fears are mounting for the safety of a young man who has not been seen since he left his aunt’s house in Greenwich to meet his girlfriend on Friday afternoon. Jez Mahfoud was last seen on Friday lunchtime by his aunt, Helen Whitehorn, with whom he was spending a week while on vacation from Paris.

  Inspector Hailey Kirwin said it was out of character for him to be missing for so long without contacting a family member or his girlfriend.

  This is so premature! For goodness’ sake, boys fail to go home after a weekend with mates, after a heavy drinking or smoking session all the time. What’s the fuss about? A gust of wind lifts the front page and snatches it from my hand. I lurch to catch it, bumping into a woman who gives me a look as she goes past. Putting my foot on the page to trap it, I almost lose my balance. I sit down again and spread the page against my lap.

  The fifteen year old was reported missing 24 hours after he failed to turn up at a gig at which he was supposed to be playing. He had arranged to meet his girlfriend in the Greenwich foot tunnel on Friday evening but did not appear there either. His mother, who lives in Paris, expected him home over the weekend but he did not arrive.

  Another small inset picture shows Je
z, almost unrecognizable, turning a somersault, mid-air. The caption reads:

  Jez Mahfoud, base jumping on the Greenwich Peninsula a week ago. Mobile phone picture.

  The article continues:

  ‘An accident involving the river has not been ruled out,’ says Inspector Kirwin. ‘The Marine Policing Unit (MPU) are conducting a thorough search of the stretch between Greenwich and the Thames Barrier.’ Police have also contacted Mahfoud’s father, a French Algerian journalist who lives in Marseilles.

  The police are urging anyone who might have seen Jez Mahfoud to come forward. He is described as about 5ft 10 inches tall with black hair swept forward over his eyes, and was wearing a leather jacket, jeans and Adidas trainers.

  I can’t help smiling at the mistake in this last detail. Jez is wearing Nike trainers, the kind that come up the ankles a bit. I look again at the photo and see that he was younger then. A child still. He’s filled out now, his hair’s longer. Pleasure shudders through me at the thought that he’s mine. But as I stand up I find my knees are weak. I stumble. This is silly. The report that he’s missing makes it sound as if he’s come to some harm. But Jez is safe with me. He’s getting everything he wants, and more. Do I need to phone everyone and tell them that Jez came to me and now he’s staying for a while? That I’m taking care of him? Why should I? He’s comfortable. He is, in fact, in the lap of luxury.

  I push the paper into a nearby bin and head for the bakery in a daze. It seems that people in the queue turn and look at me, so I lower my face as I pay for the cakes and sandwiches. My hands seem to be trembling, money drops from my purse onto the floor, coins scattering all over the place so I have to grovel about amongst the shoppers’ feet to pick them up. No one helps, and I feel myself grow hot and cross.