Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

‘I know. I know,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I just thought I’d tip you off. The shit’s probably going to hit the fan sooner or later.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t expect Karen to keep quiet about you visiting him in the recovery. There’ll be a huge investigation. Resulting with the issuing of several P45s . . . not to mention the potential for legal action from his parents . . . or the Trust.’

  ‘Then, if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll keep her mouth shut. Nobody knows and nobody needs to know. Unless Dan tells anyone, that’s the way it’ll stay. Now, do you happen to have his mobile number on file?’

  ‘Jesus, woman! I can’t give that to you. That would definitely tighten the noose around my neck.’

  I cringe at her choice of phrase. How can people be concerned at keeping their jobs when the real issue is keeping a troubled kid alive? I know I’m regarded as a loose cannon and I’m probably being unfair but it’s just the way I am.

  ‘Right,’ my tone is curt. ‘Any idea where he might go?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I have no idea where he’ll end up.’

  I almost blurt out that I’ve got a pretty good idea but stop myself from being spiteful. It just feels like I’m a helpless spectator and that’s not a role I play well.

  ‘If you hear anything . . . ’

  ‘I’ll let you know. I’m at the hospital. Don’t take this the wrong way but if you were thinking of coming down here . . . ’

  Usually I would have been out of the door but I can’t abandon Dean . . . and I definitely can’t leave him on my sofa for The Kid to stumble upon when he wakes. That could be catastrophic.

  ‘I wasn’t. But call me the minute he’s found. Once they’ve got him, I don’t care what happens, I’m speaking with him immediately. If you can see him, get him to call me. I’ll be on my way but I need to speak with him as soon as possible. Do you understand?’

  She hesitates.

  ‘Bernie, this is life and death. The kid has been living a nightmare. He wants it to end and he only knows one way to achieve that. I need to give him another one. And I don’t fucking care what they say, nobody is keeping me from him. I don’t care about the consequences. There’s only one consequence that I can’t handle. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes.’ I know she doesn’t like it.

  I lower myself to take a cheap shot. ‘You’ve got kids, Bernie . . . ’

  ‘Don’t,’ she snaps and hangs up. She thinks I’ve gone too far. I’ve only gone far enough to make sure she calls me. I feel like a bitch but in the grand scheme of things, I’d rather be a bitch than an accessory to a suicide.

  I’m walking out of my room, staring blankly at the screen of my phone when I notice the voicemail notification. Bernie must have left me a message when she couldn’t reach me.

  I see Jones lingering in the hall, just outside the living room door. I’ll see him to the front door as I listen to Bernie’s message—the only way to clear the notification. I know it’ll be a short message because she called me back immediately.

  I click the icon to dial in to my voicemail but as I reach Jones, I almost drop the phone.

  The voice is male. A young male. My hands begin to shake and I feel the discordant jolt of my heart missing a beat. My feet root to the spot. He’s called me. I feel hope.

  Quickly followed by anguish.

  Then despair.

  He needed me. He called me as a last resort and I missed the call. I missed the fucking call!

  So he said goodbye.

  There was a chilling finality to his tone. He won’t call again. I also know this attempt will be his last.

  Tears of anger and frustration threaten to spill over as I sag against the wall. Then I realise. I can call him back.

  My heart is hammering as I jab the screen of my phone to take me into my call log. There is no number. I hear my cry of anguish as find myself sinking to my knees.

  I sob inconsolably as the realisation fully hits home. I feel arms slip around me. I tense, thinking it’s Jones but, as I open my eyes and look through the blur of my tears, I can see that he’s kneeling in front of me. I turn my head and see that it’s The Kid. I swivel into his arms and clutch him to me, taking comfort in counting my biggest blessing as I face up to my biggest loss.

  It’s the realisation that he opened his bedroom door and was confronted by me bawling my eyes out in front of a strange man that jolts me out of my self-indulgent moment of weakness.

  More shockingly still, the realisation that he didn’t slam his door in terror. He stepped out, in front of a strange man.

  I pull back, holding him at arms’ length and regard him in nothing short of amazement. This is big. Bigger than big. This is monufuckingmental.

  He stares back at me, confusion and fear in his eyes. I smile and whisper, ‘I’m okay.’

  He smiles back. ‘I doubt that, but okay.’

  He looks up and I follow his gaze. A very uncomfortable looking Jones looks back at us.

  ‘You have coffee. Shall I get it?’ he says, his hands lifting and then falling back to his sides. He clearly wants to help but doesn’t know how.

  ‘Yes,’ says The Kid, without hesitation and with more authority than I’d believed possible, given the circumstances.

  Jones slips through the door. I hear muffled voices.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you, finding a strange man outside your door and me losing the plot but I can explain. I must warn you that there’s another man in the flat. He’s had a bad time tonight.’

  Even as I’m speaking, Jones reappears with my coffee, closely followed by Dean. I feel The Kid tense under my fingertips so I give him a squeeze. I find his eyes with mine. ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper.

  With three sets of expectant eyes on me, I figure that I owe them some sort of explanation so they don’t think I’m a therapist in need of therapy—although some may say they’d have a point.

  I usher them back into the living room, instructing Dean and Jones to sit on the sofa and The Kid to take the chair, although he refuses and stands in the doorway. I know it’s not out of chivalry—his social skills aren’t advanced enough. It’s a practice borne out of fear and survival.

  I quickly fill them in with the briefest of explanations, without revealing anything specific, of course.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I finish. ‘I take any sort of loss personally. The ultimate loss is something I find difficult to handle.’

  I raise an eyebrow when Jones holds out his hand.

  ‘Pass me your phone,’ he demands.

  I don’t move. I’m thrown by his confident request.

  ‘Quickly,’ he insists. ‘Time is of the essence. There may be something I can do to trace him.’

  I shake my head. ‘I checked. It said unknown number.’

  He gestures with his hand insistently. ‘It’s a recorded message. There may be sounds in the background that give clues to his location.’

  The penny drops and I pass him the phone. I refuse to be impressed. He’s a former Marine. He should know this stuff. In fact, my brain sneers, this is probably entry level stuff. I feel a surge of hope. What else can he do? I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up but I can’t help it.

  I almost hold my breath as he listens to the message, his face the picture of concentration.

  He then fiddles with the phone before playing the message out loud. Every word cuts like a knife. I’m blinking like mad, trying to hold back another barrage of tears.

  ‘Which hospital was he in?’ he asks abruptly.

  ‘St. Michaels.’

  ‘I need a map of the area. Do you have one? If not, do you have a PC or laptop?’

  I’m on my feet and taking my laptop out of its case, even as I nod my reply.

  I fire it up, log on and hand it to him. I’m almost bursting with nervous energy and frustration by the time he looks up again.

  ‘I can’t be certain of a location but I heard a train a
nd it wasn’t the Underground. My best guess, he’s either planning on getting on a train or . . . ’

  We stare at him for a few seconds as we absorb his unsaid words. ‘Or under one.’ I finish for him.

  The silence that follows is almost overwhelming.

  He turns the laptop around so I can see the screen. He points as he says, ‘Here’s the hospital. So this is the nearest station and here’s where the line runs. Because we don’t know exactly what time he left the hospital, it’s almost impossible to say how far away he could be—especially if he’s already been on a train. If that’s the case . . . he could be anywhere.’

  It’s hopeless. I knew it would be. My heart sinks. Not even seeing The Kid come forward to peek at the map on the screen cheers me. He’s fascinated by technology and I don’t think he’s encountered Google Maps yet. He’s looking at the screen in awe.

  ‘He’s seventeen you say?’ Jones says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, even assuming he has a mobile phone contract, it won’t be in his name. And a pay-as-you-go SIM wouldn’t be, either. But there could be something registered in one of his parents’ names. Do you have their names? Or even an address?’

  I shake my head, kicking myself for not making notes from his hospital file. I contemplate calling Bernie but she’s made it clear that she’s not going to give me any personal information. I tell Jones and he just nods.

  ‘Most kids are on social networks. We could do a search. If he has a selfie for a profile pic, you could identify him. We might be able to contact a friend of his and get his number. Of course, even if we strike lucky, he may well not answer his phone.’

  No. It could already be too late.

  He starts to log on to Facebook but Dean blurts out, ‘Can you play the message again? When I heard it, something sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. I’m not sure I can but something might click.’

  ‘Pass him the phone,’ I say to Jones. ‘I don’t want to hear it again.’

  I can’t bring myself to.

  Jones obliges and Dean hunkers down with the phone pressed to his ear as we concentrate on wading through all of the Facebook accounts with the same name.

  Suddenly, I spot his face. It gives me goosebumps. ‘That’s him,’ I cry.

  We can’t see a lot. His account must be locked down to friends. Usually, I’d congratulate a youngster for taking precautions with their online activity. Now, I just want to scream.

  ‘I could pull strings and get around that but it would take too long,’ Jones says. He sounds almost as distraught as I feel. I’m surprised. I thought he’d be a hardened veteran.

  I want to punch the screen but Jones is clicking and typing.

  Dean hands me back my phone with an apologetic shrug. The Kid kneels next to my chair and holds his hand out. I almost don’t give it to him. He’s fragile and that message is chilling in its finality. But if he wants it, how can I refuse without hurting his feelings? I’ve given it to the others.

  I hand it over and he awkwardly tries to access the message. At least that’s what I assume he’s doing, given the concentration on his face . . . and the intermittent frowns of frustration. I lean down and press the button to get into my contacts, then I press my voicemail. I lean back as it dials in, my mind wondering why on earth he’d want to hear it. Such acts of morbid fascination irk me. I know he’s damaged but tonight, coping with strangers, albeit in the safety and security of his home, has been a massive step forward for him. I don’t want anything to ruin that. Nothing outside of my control, anyway. I accept that I have next to no chance of success where Dan’s concerned.

  With the call from Dan, I realise I’ve forgotten about Dean. I look over to him, watching Jones doing his thing. He certainly seems to be okay so maybe Jones was right about his shock theory. I see Dean’s hand cup his genitals—a seemingly involuntary gesture. If Dean’s been the victim of severe cock and ball torture, he certainly would have been in agony. My hands clench into fists. I’ll get to the bottom of it and I’ll make sure that whoever is responsible is brought to justice. The club’s unique style of justice.

  But now isn’t the time. Dean is safe. Dan is not.

  A shout from The Kid almost makes me jump out of my skin.

  His eyes are huge and he’s practically vibrating with some sort of energy.

  ‘I know that sound,’ he says, and I can tell from his voice that he’s not vibrating. He’s trembling. In fear.

  He thrusts the phone out to me. ‘Play it out loud.’

  Caught up in the moment, I replay the message from the beginning on speakerphone.

  ‘Listen for the beeps,’ he says.

  I strain to hear. ‘There!’ he shouts.

  I can’t hear anything but Jones says, ‘I can hear them. Faintly. They’re almost musical.’

  ‘Yes,’ says The Kid. ‘They’re like music. I know them. A big machine makes them when it drives backwards.’

  ‘A vehicle reversing tone?’ Jones asks.

  Kid looks blank. I understand that he doesn’t understand the words.

  ‘A noise a vehicle or machine makes when it’s driving backwards?’ I clarify.

  He nods wildly. ‘Yes. A huge machine. Like a lorry but weird.’

  ‘I wonder how common that is,’ muses Jones. ‘I’ve not heard it before. Do you know where you heard it?’

  The Kid nods. ‘London.’

  I see Jones’ jaw tense. ‘Where in London? Which borough?’

  The Kid looks blank. He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. He knows he has huge blanks in knowledge and understanding that most adults take for granted. He looks to me, his eyes pleading.

  ‘Can you describe anything else? Anything you saw when you saw the machine making those noises?’

  I can feel Jones’ eyes on me. I get the feeling that he’s sussed that something’s not quite right where The Kid’s concerned. I ignore it.

  The Kid nods. ‘Trains. Lots of trains near the water. And big buildings. Big buildings like this.’ He makes a circle shape with his hands and then raises them up high.

  ‘A tower?’ I ask.

  The Kid shrugs. Yet another blank in his vocabulary. ‘Four of them,’ He holds up four fingers to illustrate his point. He looks like a young child.

  Jones’ eyes narrow but he says nothing. For that, I’m grateful. Begrudgingly so, but grateful all the same. He starts clicking away on the laptop keyboard.

  ‘Were there any words written on the tall buildings? Or on any buildings near there?’ he asks. ‘Is there anything else you can remember?’

  The Kid looks to me with wide eyes. He can read a little.

  ‘Maybe they were foreign,’ I say, stalling. I lean down to The Kid and whisper in his ear. ‘Do you know anything? Whisper if you don’t want to say?’

  Immediately, he whispers, ‘Made electricity.’

  Made electricity? Ironically, a light bulb goes off in my mind. ‘A power station,’ I say out loud.

  Jones stares at me. ‘Battersea Power Station. It has to be. It has four towers.’ Then he looks at The Kid. ‘Did you see anything else? Was the musical machine at the power station?’

  I lean down and whisper. ‘The four tall buildings is called a power station. Was that where you saw and heard those beeps?’

  ‘Near there. It was always dark or nearly dark. Didn’t see much,’ he whispers back. I know how painful this must be for him. I want to hug him close and protect him but I can’t protect him from the past. Those memories exist. I can’t erase them. But that doesn’t mean I want to stir them up. I feel a complete bitch for pushing him. My only consolation is that he willingly wanted to help.

  ‘Do you think you’d be able to take us to where you saw the machine that beeps?’ Jones asks The Kid.

  The Kid looks blank.

  ‘If we took you to the power station—the building that makes electricity—in a cab . . . a car . . . do you think you’d be able to show us where the machine is that beeps? Do
you think you might recognise it?’

  Even as I’m suggesting it, I know it’s a step too far. The Kid hasn’t set foot out the door since he’s been here. Not once in all these months. And I don’t know how long it’s been since he was taken there . . . Battersea is changing by the minute with all the regeneration that’s going on.

  To my surprise, he nods. I’m not sure about this. Especially since it’s unlikely that it will lead us to Dan . . . I mean, come on, what are the odds?

  No, I can’t allow this to happen. I shake my head. ‘It’s pointless. I mean, it’s been how long since he left that voicemail? He could have been getting on a train at Battersea—’

  ‘Why go to Battersea from the hospital if he just wanted to get on a train? There are stations near to the hospital. He’s there for a reason,’ Jones points out. I have to admit, he has a point.

  ‘We’ll never find it,’ I say.

  ‘It’s easy. It’s right by a big blue tower that makes gas,’ The Kid says.

  I frown but Jones has a Eureka moment. I literally see him get it. ‘Battersea Gas Holders,’ he says.

  Of course. The Kid wouldn’t know they didn’t make gas there. Briefly, I wonder how he knows what he knows but now isn’t the time to probe.

  I make a decision.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say then turn to The Kid. ‘You stay here. I can find it from your excellent description.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ says Jones.

  ‘And me,’ Dean chimes in, although he’s been no use and still looks a little pasty for my liking.

  I look from him to Jones, who’s clearly thinking the same thing.

  ‘I’ll call a cab then get some shoes on,’ I say, before it occurs to me that the most sensible footwear I own is a pair of three-inch wedge-heeled boots. In my world, wedges equal flats. Oh well, they’ll have to do.

  ‘I’ll call the cab while you get sorted,’ Jones says, already whipping out his phone.

  I dash off to my room and pull on some socks and my wedged boots. I grab a lightweight jacket: although it’s summer, it is the middle of the night.

  When I get back to the guys, I almost trip over Dean’s lip. He’s sulking. Big time.

  I look from him to Jones who gives me a look. I can’t describe it but there’s meaning in there somewhere.