by James Runcie
‘I don’t care what they find out,’ said Jennifer, ‘just as long as my son’s all right. What on earth can he have been thinking of?’
‘I’m afraid it’s unlikely to be about us.’
‘Do you think we haven’t loved him enough?’ Johnny asked.
They went out into the streets of Kentish Town with a photograph of Louis that Jennifer had taken the previous summer. The boy was shielding his eyes from the sun and he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He looked so thin, Sidney thought. He was just a scrap.
He had had enough experience with Geordie to know that the first twenty-four hours were crucial. It was Louis’s sixteenth birthday next week, the age at which he could leave home without his parents’ consent. Had he decided to strike out early, and, if so, could Johnny and Jen order him home after he had come of age? At the moment it did not matter if they could or couldn’t.
The police station in Holmes Road was a Victorian building that looked as if it had originally been intended to be something else (swimming baths? a library?) and its current occupants seemed equally uncertain, greeting each new arrival with unimpressed suspicion, as if they preferred to be left alone. They had plenty to be getting on with.
Sidney thought it must have been the heat. The sergeant on duty was a large sweaty man who would have failed an audition for Z Cars but had kept his job because it probably would have been too much trouble to sack him. He was holding a manila folder and a between-meals snack of a white corned-beef roll with the healthy addition of a slice of lettuce and a dollop of salad cream that had spilled onto his trousers.
Terry Allen asked for details of every friend and relative; places that Louis was known to frequent (had they checked all of them?), and if he had a particular medical or mental-health problem. Had he been silent or withdrawn, had his behaviour changed recently, how much money was likely to be on him and did he have his own bank account? Had there been any family arguments? Was there trouble at school? Would Louis have wanted to run away for any reason? What about his exam results? Had he had them yet? (He had not.) Was he expecting to do badly? How secretive was he and how well did the family understand him?
‘I think I know my own son,’ said Jennifer.
‘I’m not saying you don’t. It’s just the young sometimes like to have their secrets.’
‘I don’t read his diary, if that’s what you’re asking. But I think I can always tell when my boy’s unhappy.’
‘And he’s not been that, Mrs Johnson, as far as you are aware?’
‘He can be moody. But isn’t that part of being a teenager?’
‘Any trouble with his love-life?’
‘There’s his girlfriend. It’s been a bit on-off.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Just her mother. Amy says she doesn’t know where Louis is. He told his brother he was going round to hers but he didn’t turn up.’
‘And that’s the last anyone saw of him?’
‘Yes. Around eight o’clock last night.’
‘You live in Falkland Road. And this Amy . . .’
‘Grieve. She lives just up past Tufnell Park: Cathcart Hill.’
‘So we think he went missing in the area between those two roads; unless he went somewhere completely different. Does your son often lie to his brother?’
‘I don’t think Dan could tell.’
‘We’ll need to talk to him too. How old is he?’
‘Twelve.’
‘And they get on?’
‘As much as any brothers do. We try not to interfere when they’re talking. It’s best to let them get on with it rather than ask too many direct questions ourselves.’
‘They find me embarrassing,’ said Johnny. ‘Dads always are. I try to be friendly, but it never seems to work unless he wants money.’
‘You give him pocket money?’
‘Fifty pence a week. But he helps himself occasionally,’ said Johnny. ‘You know. Goes through my pockets for loose change. He thinks I don’t notice but I do. Honestly, we give him the most liberal upbringing. He has anything he needs within reason. Now he goes and does this.’
‘Any trouble in the past?’
‘I don’t know. Not much. There was a bit of . . .’
Jennifer tried to interrupt her husband but it was too late.
‘Shoplifting?’ the policeman asked.
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s common.’
Jennifer became agitated. ‘Why are you telling him that, Johnny?’
Terry Allen’s response was more kindly than it might have been. ‘We were always going to find out about that. We do have records. It doesn’t matter so much now, unless he’s got bigger plans.’
‘He’s not like that.’
Johnny did not share his wife’s confidence. ‘I don’t know what he’s like any more. I used to think I could get through to him about anything. We were friends.’
‘It’s hard for parents to be mates with their children,’ said Terry. ‘They’re two different jobs. What do you think, Vicar?’
‘It’s probably too early to tell what’s happened,’ Sidney replied. ‘I just hope he’s gone somewhere of his own choosing.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Johnny.
Sidney answered the unspoken question. ‘I don’t think Louis is the type to take his own life, if that’s what you are thinking.’
‘I was just wondering when we were going to get round to that,’ said Terry.
‘You don’t . . .’ said Jennifer.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Sidney. ‘That’s why I raised it, so that we could all be clear that we are discarding the possibility.’
‘We’ll do a search of the area,’ said Terry, avoiding a detailed answer. It was clear that neither parent had thought of suicide at all. Sidney tried to take this as an encouraging sign but couldn’t be sure. It only took a moment to do something rash: to walk in front of a car, jump from a bridge or throw yourself under a train. He felt a sudden, deep fear.
The policeman continued. ‘We’ll need to start with a description and a photo. Have you got one? We’ll have to have as many as possible.’
‘I brought one out with me to show to all the people we’ve met in the street,’ said Jennifer. ‘It’s the first I could find. We took it last summer.’
Terry Allen studied the picture; a pale young boy with one hand up in his tousled but gelled black hair, sleepy eyes – taken at a party – and a nose that he probably thought was too thin and too long. Louis had a little bit of acne on his chin and right cheek, an uncertain smile that looked like it wouldn’t last, and he was wearing the north London adolescent uniform of a leather jacket, white T-shirt, jeans and Doc Martens.
‘Seems like a nice lad,’ the policeman said, without wanting to give anything away. How many similar photos had he seen? Sidney wondered. And how many young men had either killed themselves or been abducted recently? Was there an ongoing investigation? How much were the police prepared to share information and was there anything about this new case that would commit them to urgency?
‘Is he a trusting sort?’ Terry asked.
‘He’d help anyone,’ said Jennifer.
‘Ah,’ the policeman replied. ‘That’s not so good.’
A few hours later, Sidney’s father telephoned from Budleigh Salterton. He wanted to talk to Sidney about the cricket. He had seen three days of the recent Test Match at the Oval but now wanted to come up to watch Viv Richards bat and have another look at the West Indian fast bowlers in the Prudential Trophy game at Lord’s. Despite his retirement, Alec Chambers was determined, as he put it, ‘not to slope away into the long grass’.
‘I can’t imagine you ever doing that, Dad.’
‘You never know, son. You have to keep interested in life before life loses interest in you.’
The only real indication of Alec Chambers’s age was a slight loss of hearing and an increased impatience with the opinions of other people. He had to get his point o
f view in first (lest there be any misunderstanding) and made any follow-up question sound like an accusation.
‘Hildegard said you were at Jennifer’s,’ he continued. ‘But I didn’t think you’d still be there. Is something wrong?’
Should Sidney tell his father what was going on? If they didn’t find Louis that day then there would be an appeal in the papers and the news would reach Devon soon enough. He decided to come clean.
‘I’ll get the next train.’
‘You can’t do that, Dad. It won’t help.’
‘Why not? Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Sidney. I’m not going to abandon my daughter’s child. Jennifer will need me. Louis is my first grandson. What kind of a man do you think I am?’
‘I don’t want you to worry.’
‘I’ll be more anxious down here, away from everything that’s going on. Have you any idea where he’s got to?’
‘Not really.’
‘He once told me he’d always wanted to go to New York. You don’t think he’s managed that, do you?’
‘I don’t think he’s got the money. But how did you know that?’
‘You see, Sidney, perhaps I can be of assistance after all? I know my grandson better than everyone thinks.’
‘All right. If you can spare the time . . .’
‘What else am I going to do? The only thing is, Sidney, I’ll have to pretend I’m coming up for some cricket. I don’t want to alarm your mother.’
‘You mean you won’t tell her?’
‘I can’t.’
‘I don’t think that’s fair, Dad.’
‘Iris is a little fragile these days.’
‘I know that. But she’s all right mentally, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t want to alarm her.’
‘But how can you keep it from her? It’ll be in the papers if it goes on like this. Wouldn’t it be better if you explained?’
‘We’re very isolated.’
‘Someone will tell her and you won’t be with her. That isn’t right. We can’t keep it from her.’
‘You were trying to keep it from me.’
‘That’s different. And anyway, you found out soon enough.’
‘I don’t see how it is, Sidney. And I think I know what’s best for your mother.’
‘But you can’t just leave her down in Devon. She knows London. If you’re coming up to town then she should come too.’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’
‘What do you mean? Is there something you haven’t been telling us?’
‘Iris has had a few setbacks recently: little bits of dizziness.’
‘Then you can’t leave her on her own. Why didn’t you say?’
‘We didn’t want to alarm you.’
‘That’s what I was trying to do for you with Louis, Dad. Stay with Mum. Look after her.’
‘But I have to do something.’
‘You are doing something. You’re looking after Mum.’
Sidney was irritated all over again by the partial knowledge within families; how truths were revealed to a son or a daughter, a brother or a sister who were then instructed not to pass things on. This meant that no one could ever tell how much other family members ever knew and whether they were able to say anything out loud or not. It was a hopeless situation and one, he thought, that was particularly British. He couldn’t imagine Hildegard putting up with such nonsense. No wonder children had secrets. They got the idea from their parents.
He was just beginning to consider how and why Louis might have chosen to rebel when Helena Mitchell arrived at the front door of the Johnson house with sweat in her hair and a notebook and tape recorder at the ready.
‘I’m sorry, Sidney.’
‘You’ve heard?’
‘I work in a newsroom.’
‘I thought you were freelance now? And what about Mercy? I didn’t realise you planned to be back at work so soon.’
‘I have to earn a living, Sidney, and, like you, I do have my contacts. They put two and two together.’
‘Louis has a different surname.’
‘It’s not hard and I wasn’t expecting to find you here – although I should have guessed. I’ve met Johnny in the past at his club. Is he in?’
‘I don’t think this is a good time, Helena.’
‘No, it certainly isn’t. That’s why you need me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have to blow this story up, Sidney.’
‘I think the family will want to keep a low profile.’
‘That’s the last thing you need. You’ve got to realise how dangerous this situation is. Hundreds of young children go missing and they’re never found. No one even knows about them. It’s so common they are hardly reported. If you want to see your nephew again then we have to act big and fast. We have to shout it out all over the country. This boy matters. This boy is missing. You’ve got to make this as urgent and as public as you can. It’s the only way. Believe me. And it’s the least I can do for you.’
‘How do you think you can help?’
‘We have to make the story personal. The police will do their bit. There’ll be a press conference. But I need one member of the family to make a direct and heartfelt appeal. Who is the boy most likely to listen to? His mother?’
‘I’m not sure. I think that’s who he might be running away from.’
‘His father?’
‘No.’
‘His brother?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘His girlfriend?’
‘Possible but not ideal.’
‘Then it has to be you, Sidney.’
‘Really? Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’d better start writing. It has to be the most moving thing you’ve ever written. It has to appeal both to the public and to your nephew. I’m not leaving until you’ve done it.’
Jennifer and Johnny agreed that Sidney had the finest way with words and that he had the best chance of getting the tone right. It had to be loving and yet forceful, emphasising how much distress and anxiety Louis had caused without making him feel guilty. It had to be free of blame, offer a promise of a welcome return without any punitive consequences and even, Sidney thought, contain a joke or two to make his nephew smile. Through force of rhetoric, Sidney had to make Louis miss his family in a way that he had never realised.
He could not dwell at this time on the possibility that the child was already dead. He had to convince himself, and others, that Louis was still alive, that there was still hope. To doubt that, in a superstitious world, would only increase the possibility of disaster.
It took more than an hour to write a simple paragraph.
‘Will this do?’ he asked.
Helena read it through. ‘It’s good enough for now. There’ll need to be more. We have to keep this story in the news for as long as it takes to find him.’
‘And how will we do that?’
‘You leave that to me.’
Sidney walked north to Cathcart Hill to try and extract information from Louis’s girlfriend. There was no respite from the London heat and traffic, the fumes and the gridlock, the desire every time anyone left home to return as soon as possible for a shower, a cold beer and a sofa in the shade. Sidney was forced to a halt when a swarm of ladybirds emerged from nowhere in front of his face. He didn’t know what to do. A group of workmen stopped to watch and laugh at him.
‘Go on, Vic, take ’em on! Show ’em what you’re made of!’
Sidney fended off the blur of red and black and tried to pretend it had been a deliberate attempt to attract good luck. He smiled at the workmen and gave them what he hoped would be taken as a cheery wave. They were resurfacing the road but the heat and steam off the fresh tarmac already had an exhausted air.
Amy was a worryingly thin girl with dyed red hair. The family had only agreed to let Sidney meet her because he was a vicar. The Johnsons were considered a bad lot, even though the Grieves seemed perfectly cap
able of inflicting damage on their children without any outside influence.
Amy sat cross-legged on the sofa with a cigarette and a can of lager. She showed no signs of wanting to go anywhere. She avoided eye contact and spoke as if human interaction was nothing but an irritating interruption to a preferred solitude.
‘I hope you can help,’ Sidney began. ‘I’m very fond of my nephew, and I think, in a way, you are too.’
‘He spoke about you.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘He thought you were quite cool for a vicar.’
‘That may not be saying very much.’
‘It isn’t. It doesn’t matter. You do your best, I suppose.’
‘I try.’
‘I don’t know what to call you.’
‘“Mr Chambers” is fine. “Sidney” if you prefer.’
‘It wasn’t a serious thing with Louis, you know? I just felt sorry for him.’
‘And you broke it off?’
Amy smiled, almost sorrowfully. ‘There was nothing to break. I couldn’t ever be what Louis wanted me to be. Although I never found out what that was. He was so serious it was scary. He’d ask me a load of questions, tell me I wasn’t like anyone else, try to kiss me and then leave as soon as he could. It wasn’t like it was a relationship or anything.’
‘He thought it was.’
‘I don’t know how he can have felt that.’
‘Perhaps, Amy, you were the only person that was kind to him?’
‘He had friends, Mr Chambers. He wasn’t a total waste of space.’
‘What kind of friends?’
‘People interested in CND, politics, rallies. I think they lived in a squat. They made a magazine and stuff. Louis went on some kind of march with them. I think it was the Anti-Nazi League. Then he went on a coach. He wouldn’t say where it was going. It was a Magical Mystery Tour of some kind. He said he’d never been with so many people he agreed with in his life.’
‘I saw a ticket to a free festival in his room. Watchfield. Did you go with him?’
‘He asked me. But my parents took me to France. It was boring. I should have gone with Louis, but you don’t know these things, do you?’
‘Was he anxious about anything in particular? His exam results, for example, or losing you?’
