by James Runcie
‘He was always worried about something; but I don’t think it was anything about his family. It was more about the state of the world, the fact that we’re all going to die in a nuclear war and so what’s the point slaving away to be bank managers or accountants or whatever we’re supposed to become when we’re older. You’ll have to ask him, if you can find him. I don’t think he’ll take much notice of his mother or father. They’re not going to help.’
‘They’re trying their best. They were young once too. We all rebelled against our parents at some stage.’
‘It doesn’t look like that now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You lot go on about the sixties and how cool it all was but what have you got to show for it? A semi in Tufnell Park? A new car? A fridge-freezer? A double garage? Is that it?’
‘As a Christian I have to think differently . . .’
‘No wonder Louis was depressed.’
‘Not depressed in such a way as to want to do himself harm?’
‘No, it wasn’t that. He wanted to make something of his life. He wanted to go away and surprise people. “I’ll show them,” he said. “I’ll even show you. Then you’ll know.” I told him I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to do my music.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I’m in a band. We’re called the Angels of Destiny.’
‘Did Louis want to be in it?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Did you say he couldn’t?’ Sidney asked.
‘He offered to write some lyrics. Then it turned out that they were all about the end of the world. It was embarrassing. Who’s going to listen to that? Still, I wouldn’t want anything horrible to happen to him and I’ll do anything you want to help you find him. I’m not a bad person, despite what my parents say.’
‘And what do they say?’
‘You’ll have to ask. But I wouldn’t believe them. They don’t know anything. Have you got children, Mr Chambers?’
The police search was confined to a large but narrow area: north up to Tufnell Park and on to Cathcart Hill and into Highgate; west to Haverstock Hill and Belsize Park; east to Holloway and south down to King’s Cross. They said that, although Sidney should not share this information with the rest of his family, they would also keep a lookout at the most popular suicide spots: the Hornsey Lane Bridge, Kentish Town Lock and the Regent’s Canal; building sites, homeless shelters and pub car parks; scrubland and parkland.
It was almost evening by the time Sidney left Amy and there was still too much heat in the day. He kept seeing ‘Missing’ posters for his own nephew. He had always been intrigued by these sudden desperate pleas in the past. Now he tried to avoid them.
The headmaster of the boy’s north London school was away on his annual holiday in the Lake District, but his secretary had put Sidney in touch with the English teacher, Robert Ellis, a relatively recent graduate who was also Louis’s form-master. He lived just up the road.
A thin, bald man with aquiline features that reminded Sidney of the white marble bust of a Roman emperor, Ellis was dressed in a pale-blue cotton summer suit that he wore without a tie, reclining in a deckchair in a book-lined room with open windows, venetian blinds and two fans on the go. He turned off Radio Three and promised to help in any way he could in the search for a child whom he described as ‘continually perplexed’.
He said that Louis had a natural gift for English, and that he had an unusual approach to J. D. Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye.
‘It always goes down well with that year, but Louis was particularly perceptive about it. They were not just the feelings of adolescent alienation. He was the only pupil to ask me if Holden Caulfield might be gay.’
‘I’d never thought of that.’
‘Novels with outsiders are popular; just as, if you ever think of writing a children’s book, it’s best to start with an orphan. Most children feel that they are alone.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Look at the New Testament. Jesus had brothers and sisters but they’re hardly ever mentioned. The hero has to be alone in order to find himself. I think that’s what Louis understood.’
Sidney was tempted to reply that the New Testament was ‘more than a story’ but thought he’d better stick to the matter in hand. ‘You’re not surprised he’s gone missing?’
‘I’m more concerned he hasn’t told anyone. He’s a thoughtful young man.’
‘You can’t imagine where he might have gone?’
‘Have you asked his girlfriend?’
‘No luck there, I’m afraid, unless she’s lying.’
‘I don’t think that either of them have much guile. But you might like to take a look at one of Louis’s essays. I’d asked them to write their own version of The Catcher in the Rye. It’s a good way of making them all think about style and tone of voice. We put Louis’s contribution up on Prize Day. Rather a bold decision, given what it says and how it starts. I think I’ve got it somewhere.’
Once found, Sidney started to read:
Everyone’s trying to be someone they’re not. That’s the trouble. We’re all phonies. Even me. We’re all pretending to belong when we don’t. It’s like we’re all supposed to be different pieces from the same jigsaw and when we’re put together we form one beautiful giant picture, the whole of humanity, and only God can see it and only he can put the jigsaw back together again because he made it in the first place.
But I think we all come from different jigsaws. We’re pieces from different sets, and we’ll never fit together. The edges are wrong. Sometimes two pieces might go together like people in love but they don’t belong anywhere else and they’re not anything anyone else would be impressed by . . .
‘Could I take this home with me?’ Sidney asked.
When he returned to Falkland Road he heard there had been developments. A hoax call to Helena’s newspaper claimed that Louis had been the victim of an IRA kidnap; a clairvoyant who smelled of bath salts and came all the way down from Seaforth had offered what she called ‘mystic anticipation’, and the police had received sightings of young men on the cross-Channel ferry at Beachy Head, in Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall and again at Old Trafford.
Sidney was infuriated. ‘Why would Louis go to Manchester? He supports Arsenal.’
The most useful news was that cash was missing from the club. It was around £11, and Louis had been seen there on the day of his disappearance.
His father didn’t know what to make of it. ‘Normally I’d want to strap the little bastard, but the police say that this is an encouraging sign. If he had a plan that needed money then there’s less chance he’s killed himself or been abducted. Things are looking up, Sidney, even if we don’t have anything positive. We just have to work out where the hell Louis is.’
Jennifer served up the supper. ‘This salad is rubbish. God knows why I thought pineapple would freshen it up. I can’t concentrate on anything. I don’t even want to eat it.’
‘I’ll have yours,’ said Dan. ‘I’m still here. Your other son. Just in case you’d forgotten.’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘Glad to know I’m appreciated.’
‘Don’t start . . .’ said Johnny.
Jennifer shared out the food. ‘It’s so hot. I’m surprised anyone’s got any appetite. By the way, Sidney, Hildegard phoned. They want you back at the cathedral in the morning. There’s an important meeting, apparently. She explained the situation, but the dean asked if you could pop in.’
‘I don’t want to abandon you.’
‘You can leave after breakfast. The police are doing what they can. Perhaps you could talk to Geordie? We know how you two spark ideas off each other.’
‘We should only be concerned about Louis.’
‘How’s his wife?’ Johnny asked, trying to take the focus away from his missing son. ‘I know she had a cancer scare.’
‘She’s better, so far. We hope.’
&
nbsp; ‘Lucky, then . . .’
‘You could say that,’ said Sidney. ‘We all prayed for her.’
‘Then pray for Louis.’
‘I know he isn’t a great believer in prayer,’ said Sidney. ‘But I am. And it’s my job. You don’t have to ask.’
The following morning, Sidney used the train journey back to Ely to read through his nephew’s anarchist magazines and the essay on The Catcher in the Rye:
So who are we all anyway? Sometimes people think they belong in the same jigsaw or whatever metaphor you want to use. The boys are the sporting heroes, the jocks and the lads; then there are the nerds, the pseuds and the weeds. The girls are the tarts and the swots and the in-between who hope that no one notices them too much until they wake up and find they’ve turned into their mothers.
But at school it doesn’t matter who we are. We’re all treated the same. We all go into the school chapel and pray to a God who never speaks. ‘We are not worthy to gather up the crumbs under thy table?’ Who wrote that? And, if it’s true, why do we bother? If he doesn’t answer, what’s the point of prayer? You just have to work everything out for yourself and not listen to what anyone else has to say, as the only thing other people are going to do is to try and make you think like them. Faith doesn’t give you answers. It only stops you asking questions.
So you have to be free of everything that’s gone before and make your own way. No Gods. No Masters. There’s more than one kind of freedom.
Sidney went straight to the meeting at the deanery, came back for a shower, and then updated his wife and daughter over a vegetarian lunch of lettuce soup and risotto. He decided not to comment on the vegetarianism any more (was he expected to convert?) but couldn’t resist remarking on a dessert that he had never been served before. It was called Lemon Snow.
‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Very refreshing. Where did you get the recipe?’
‘Oh, a friend. No one special.’
Rolfe, Sidney thought. Perhaps it was one of his dead wife’s.
‘It’s important that it’s properly chilled,’ Hildegard continued. ‘I think the name alone is supposed to help us think it’s colder.’
‘I’m still hot,’ said Anna.
‘You could have a little siesta?’ Sidney suggested
‘I don’t want to go to bed. I can’t sleep. And I want you to tell me about Louis, Dad. What’s happened to him?’
‘Nothing’s happened. We just don’t know where he is.’
‘Then how do you know nothing’s happened?’
‘We don’t.’
‘Then why did you say nothing had happened when something has?’
‘So you wouldn’t worry.’
Hildegard cleared away the plates. ‘You’re not handling this very well, Sidney.’
‘Why is it always me that has to deal with these things?’
‘I won’t answer that.’
‘Has he run away?’ Anna asked.
‘Possibly.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why do you think he might do that, Anna?’
‘Because he’s unhappy?’
‘Did he tell you he was?’ Sidney asked, hopefully.
‘He doesn’t say anything to me. Perhaps he wanted his parents to notice him more.’
‘I think his mother nags him all the time.’
‘Nagging’s not the same as listening.’
Hildegard interrupted. ‘Do you think we listen to you enough, my darling?’
‘Dad doesn’t. He’s too busy listening to other people.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is.’
‘Well if it is Anna, then I’ll try and do better.’
‘You always say that.’
Sidney tried to hold on to his patience. ‘I’m listening now. What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You must have done something.’
‘I’ve been bored.’
‘Then what would you like to do tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going swimming with Sophie. Then we’re going riding. I have to go to Sophie’s because I don’t have a pony of my own, even though you promised after we found that dead man.’
‘We didn’t actually promise. And we’ve been through all this, Anna. They’re very expensive.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘Quite costly to run.’
‘I could keep mine at Sophie’s.’
‘That would be complicated.’
‘If I ran away you might give me one.’
Sidney smiled. ‘That’s blackmail, darling.’
‘Well, at least that’s something you know how to deal with,’ said Hildegard.
‘Dad?’ Anna asked. ‘Do you prefer Louis to me? Do you ever wish you had a son?’
In bed that night, Sidney decided not to take issue with either wife or daughter but looked over Louis’s homework:
How do you know who’s writing this essay? It might be me, Louis Johnson, or I could have got someone else to write it for me, like Holden wrote about his brother’s baseball mitt for Stradlater and put in spelling errors to throw his teacher off the scent; except that Holden didn’t write any of it. J. D. Salinger did and we don’t even know if it was him because that might not be his real name, he might be using a pseudonym or someone else might be writing it for him. That’s the moral of the story: you never know what’s true. You never know if people really are who they say they are. You can’t trust anyone, not even your friends, your family or your girlfriend, because they’re always putting on a show, pretending to be someone they’re not. So perhaps one day you have to go some place where nobody knows you and find out who you really are. But even then you’ll find you have to keep pretending to be someone you’re not because you have to be someone for Chrissakes – that’s just the way of things. But, like I said, you never know what’s true.
Sidney acknowledged that Geordie was probably the only person who would tell him the truth about the possible outcome of Louis’s disappearance: the likelihood of abduction and murder; the possibility that his nephew was still in London, somewhere else or abroad; the average length of time for which underage boys went missing and the chances of a hopeful return. He would also reveal what the police would and would not tell the family.
The next day, they sat in the shade of an umbrella in the garden of the Prince Albert, enjoying a pub lunch, as Byron drank down bowl after bowl of water. Although Geordie was relatively optimistic, saying that the theft of the money was a positive sign, there was nothing he could offer to ease Sidney’s tension or to help the suspicion that no one was doing enough.
‘I feel so helpless and I’m still frightened of suicide,’ said Sidney. ‘I told the police I wasn’t, but I suppose that at least I put enough pressure on them to instigate an immediate search.’
‘They would have done that anyway.’
‘You know what I mean. I was worried they would think it was a family tiff.’
‘Don’t think the police aren’t doing all they can. We always worry about young men going missing. With girls it’s more obvious what to expect, I’m afraid. With men it could be anything. But don’t give up. More boys run away than kill themselves. Was your nephew on drugs?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And he wasn’t depressed?’
‘His parents say not.’
‘But you think he might have been?’
‘People hide it so well. I’ve been reading one of his English essays. He’s not impressed with our generation.’
‘Few young people are.’
‘Where would you go, Geordie, if you were his age and wanted just to run away?’
‘It would have to be somewhere I could be anonymous; a place where young people go; safer than London; somewhere with a proper alternative community where I wouldn’t be nagged and with a lot of young people who were there already: the coast, probably.’
‘Somewhere like Brighton?’
‘T
hat’s right.’
‘I thought so.’
Geordie had the familiar look of someone trying and failing to be patient; it was that of an indulgent and loving parent whose child had let him down once again. ‘You mean to say, Sidney, that you’ve already thought of all this and just want to check if you’re right?’
‘One of Louis’s anarchist magazines was printed there: the Brighton Voice.’
‘Seems a long way to go for a hunch.’
‘He’d underlined stuff.’
‘Then why didn’t he take it with him?’
‘Perhaps he remembered it, or he had a more recent edition. This was from May.’
‘I’m amazed anarchists are organised enough to print a magazine in the first place. Does the writing contain anything we should worry about; things like violent resistance?’
‘Not really; it’s the usual class-war stuff. “Stuff” being the operative word. “Stuff the Police”, “Stuff the Politicians”, “Stuff Fascism”.’
‘I thought we’d already done that.’
‘Our generation still has a lot to learn.’
‘There are times, Sidney, when I look at this country and wonder if we won the war or not.’
Geordie finished his pint. The people grouped around them in the garden did not seem particularly aware that their freedom had been hard-won, content to sunbathe, eat burgers with chips, and down as much lager as possible in order to stave off the heat.
‘I saw something Louis had written in one of his exercise books. GODDAM MONEY. Do you think it’s some kind of slogan?’
‘It might be; unless it’s the name of a band.’
‘I’m just going to assume he’s in Brighton.’
Sidney took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, momentarily irritated by the drip-dry shirt Hildegard had bought, which only seemed to make him sweat all the more.
He would have to change before evensong. There he would pray for his nephew, imagining him out in the streets with friends, or underneath Brighton Pier, throwing stones into the sea, or performing with a band, or lounging on a sofa in a squat: anything to keep the thought of him alive rather than dead.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Geordie asked.
‘I don’t think Louis is too keen on the police. Not that he’s wild about the Church, either.’
