The Missing

by C. L. Taylor

  The red light turns amber, then green and I press on the accelerator.

  Neither of us speaks for several minutes. I glance across at Kira, at the lump on her temple, and my stomach lurches.

  “Did Jake hit you?”

  “What?”

  “When you were fighting over the bottle. There’s a bruise on your head. Did he hit you?”

  “God, no!”

  “So how did you get the bruise?”

  “At the club last night.” She flips down the visor and examines the side of her head in the mirror, prodding it appraisingly with her index finger. “I dropped my mobile and hit my head on the corner of the table when I bent down to get it.”

  “Kira, I know I’m not your mum but you’re the nearest thing I’ve got to a daughter and if I thought anyone was hurting you—”

  She slaps the visor shut. “Jake didn’t hit me. All right? He’d never do something like that. I can’t believe you’d say something like that about your own son.”

  I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

  “Sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you’re trying to look out for me but—”

  “Forget it.” I slow the car as we approach the roundabout. “Just tell me one thing. How long has he been drinking in the mornings?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Kira, how long?”

  “Just today. I think.”

  “You think?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. They spend every waking minute together. How could she be unsure about something like that?

  “Yeah.” She zips up her makeup bag and gazes out of the window as the car swings around the roundabout and we approach Bristol Temple Meads. As I signal left and pull into the station and park the car, I can’t help but scan the small crowd of people milling around outside the station, smoking cigarettes and queuing for taxis. I can’t go anywhere without looking for Billy.

  “Do you think he’s got a drinking problem?”

  “No.” She shakes her head as she unbuckles her seat belt and opens the door. “He’s not an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean. He opened the rum when we got home from the club. He was wired and couldn’t sleep.”

  “Because of Billy’s appeal?”

  “Yeah.” She lifts one leg out of the foot well, places it on the pavement outside and gazes longingly at the entrance to the train station.

  “Kira?” I reach across the car and touch her on the shoulder. “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

  “No,” she says. Then she jumps out of the car, handbag and makeup bag clutched to her chest, and sprints toward the station entrance before I can say another word.

  Chapter 4

  It’s a small conference room, tucked away in the basement of the town hall with a striplight buzzing overhead and no natural light. It’s a quarter of the size of the one where we made our first appeal for Billy, forty-eight hours after we reported him missing. Unlike that first appeal, when every single one of the plastic-backed chairs in the rows opposite us were filled, there are only half a dozen journalists and photographers present. Most of them are fiddling with their phones. They glance up as we file in with DS Forbes, then look back down again. A couple of them begin scribbling in their notebooks.

  Mrs. Wilkinson looks somber in a pale gray sweater and trouser ensemble while Mr. Wilkinson looks surly and distracted in a dark suit, the leg of his trousers stained with what looks like dirt or oil.

  I have no idea if that’s what they’ve written. I’ll find out tomorrow, I imagine. I can’t bear to read the papers, particularly not the online versions with the horrible, judgmental comments at the bottom, but I know Mark will. He’ll pore over them, growling and swearing and mumbling about “the bloody idiot public.”

  I didn’t know what a double-edged sword media attention would be back when Billy disappeared. I was desperate for them to publish our story—we both were, the more attention Billy’s story got the better—but I couldn’t have prepared myself for the barrage of speculation and judgment that came with it. I looked pale and distraught, those were the words most of the reporters used to describe me during that first press conference. Mark was described as cold and reserved. He wasn’t reserved—he was bloody terrified, we both were. But while I quaked, twisting my fingers together under the desk, Mark sat still, straight-backed, his hands on his knees and his eyes fixed on the large ornate clock on the opposite wall. At one point I reached for his hand and wrapped my fingers around his. He didn’t so much as glance at me until he’d delivered his appeal. At the time I felt desperately hurt but later, in the privacy of our living room, he explained that, as much as he’d wanted to comfort me, he hadn’t been able to.

  “You know I compartmentalize to deal with stress,” he said. “And I needed to deliver my appeal without breaking down. If I’d have touched you, if I’d so much as looked at you I would have crumbled. And I couldn’t do that, not when what I had to say was so important. You can understand that. Can’t you?”

  I could and I couldn’t, but I envied his ability to shut out the thoughts and feelings he didn’t want to deal with. My emotions can’t be shut into boxes in my head. They’re as tangled and jumbled as the strands of thread in the bottom of my grandmother’s embroidery basket. And the one thought that runs through everything, the strand that is wrapped around my heart is, Where is Billy?

  “Claire?” DS Forbes says. “They’re ready for your statement now.”

  A television camera has appeared in the aisle that runs between the lines of plastic-backed chairs. The lens is trained on my face. We decided some weeks ago that I should be the one to make this appeal.

  “The public respond more favorably when the mother does it,” DS Forbes said. He made no mention of the horrible comments that had appeared online when Mark made the last appeal six months ago. Comments like: You can tell the father’s behind it. He’s not showing any emotion and I bet you money it was the dad. It always is.

  “Ready?” DS Forbes says again and this time I sit up straighter in my chair and take a deep breath in through my nose. I can smell DS Forbes’s aftershave and the faintest scent of motor oil emanating from Mark, who’s sitting on the other side of me. I can sense him watching me, but I don’t turn to look at him before I pick up the prepared statement on the desk in front of me. I can do this. I no longer need a hand on my knee.

  “Six months ago today,” I say, looking straight into the camera lens, “on Thursday the fifth of February, my younger son Billy disappeared from our home in Knowle, South Bristol, in the early hours of the morning. He was only fifteen. He took his schoolbag and his mobile phone and he was probably dressed in jeans, Nike sneakers, a black Superdry jacket and an NYC baseball hat . . .” I falter, aware that some of the journalists are twisting around in their seats, no longer scribbling in their notebooks. Mark, beside me, makes a low noise in the base of his throat and DS Forbes leans forward and puts his elbows on the desk. “We all miss Billy very much. His disappearance has left a hole in our family that nothing can fill and . . .” I keep my eyes trained on the camera but I’m aware of a commotion at the back of the room. One man is wrestling with another in the doorway. “Billy, if you’re watching, please get in touch. We love you very, very much and nothing can change that. If you don’t want to ring us directly, please just walk into the nearest police station or get in touch with one of your friends.”

  The producer standing next to the cameraman taps him on the shoulder and signals toward the back of the room. The camera twists away from me and a shout emanates from the doorway.

  “Get off me! I’ve got a right to be here! I’ve got a right to speak.”

  Chapter 5

  “What’s Jake doing here?” Mark stares over the heads of the journalists and several flashbulbs fire at once, lighting up the corner of the room where Jake is remonstrating with a male police officer. “I thought you said he was ill.”

  “He was . . . is. Let me deal with this.”
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br />   “Mrs. Wilkinson, wait!” DS Forbes shouts as I hurry across the room and shoulder my way through the circle of journalists that has formed around my son. I can just about make out the back of Jake’s head. His fair hair is wild and tousled without a liberal application of hair gel. He disappears as a policeman steps in front of him, blocking my view.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me, please.”

  The TV cameraman hisses as I push past him but he’s shushed by his producer. “That’s the mum, get her in the shot.”

  I push past a couple of council officials and approach the policeman who’s shepherding Jake toward the open doorway. Tapping him on the back of his black stab vest has no effect so instead I pull on his arm.

  He doesn’t so much as glance at me. Instead he keeps his eyes trained on Jake; Jake, who’s a good six inches shorter, with his hands clenched at his sides and the tendons straining in his neck.

  “Please,” I shout. “Please stop, he’s my son.”

  “Mum?” Jake says and the police officer looks at me in surprise. He lowers his arms a fraction.

  “He’s my son,” I say again.

  The policeman glances behind me, toward the poster of Billy affixed to a flipchart beside the desk.

  “No, not Billy,” I say. “This is Jake, my other son.”

  “Other son? I wasn’t told to expect any other relatives . . .” He looks at DS Forbes who shakes his head.

  “It’s all right, PC George. I’ve got this.”

  DS Forbes has met Jake before. He interviewed him at length, the day after Billy disappeared, just as he and his team interviewed all our extended family and friends.

  “Show’s over, guys.” He signals to the producer to cut the filming and gestures for the journalists to return to their seats. No one moves.

  “Jake!” A female journalist with a sharp blond bob reaches a hand over my shoulder and waves a Dictaphone in my son’s direction. “What was it you wanted to say?”

  “Jake?” The producer proffers a microphone. “Did you have a message for Billy?”

  My son takes a step forward, shoulders back, chin up. He glances at PC George and raises an eyebrow, vindicated.

  “What happened to your foot, Jake?”

  A short, balding man with hairy forearms that poke out of his rolled-up shirtsleeves points at Jake’s sneakers. The instep of his right shoe, normally pristine and white, is muddied with brown blood.

  “Jake?” Mark says.

  The room grows quiet as my husband and son stare at each other. They’re waiting for Jake to speak. I wait too. I can feel Mark bristling behind me. This is his worst nightmare—our respectable, measured appeal transformed into a barroom brawl.

  I hear a click and a whirr from the camera to my left and I imagine the lens zooming in on Jake’s pale, drawn face. He passes the heel of his hand over his damp brow and then, with only the briefest of glances at me, turns on the heel of his good foot and limps out of the room.

  Monday, August 11, 2014

  Jackdaw44: Fuck my life.

  ICE9: Don’t say that.

  Jackdaw44: Why not. It’s true. My dad is a hypocritical wanker and my mum is fucking clueless.

  ICE9: Have you talked to your dad about the weekend?

  Jackdaw44: Are you fucking kidding?

  ICE9: You should give him the chance to explain.

  Jackdaw44: What? That he’s weak, spineless, a liar and a lecherous bastard? No, thanks.

  ICE9: Maybe it’s not how it seemed.

  Jackdaw44: You’re taking the piss, right? You saw me. You saw what I did.

  ICE9: That was stupid.

  Jackdaw44: It was sick. I wish I’d seen the look on his face when he saw his car window. When he got home he told Mum that vandals did it. Ha. Ha. Ha. I’m the fucking vandal.

  Jackdaw44: You still there?

  ICE9: Yeah. Sorry. Bit busy.

  Jackdaw44: No worries. Just wanted to say thanks for cooling me out. I would have totally lost my shit if you hadn’t turned up.

  ICE9: You did lose your shit.

  Jackdaw44: Could have been worse.

  ICE9: Hmm.

  Jackdaw44: Anyway. Thanx.

  Chapter 6

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Mark is standing in the center of the living room with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. The skin at the base of his throat is mottled and red.

  “Sod this.” Jake moves to get out of his armchair, wincing as he puts weight on his bad foot.

  “You’ll stay where you bloody are,” Mark shouts and I grip the cushion I’m clutching to my chest a little tighter. “This is my house and as long as you live here you’ll do what I say.”

  “Yeah, because that worked out well with Billy, didn’t it?” Jake doesn’t raise his voice but Mark stumbles backward as though the question has been screamed in his face.

  He seems to fold in on himself, then quickly recovers. “What did you just say?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, say it again.”

  “Please!” I say. “Please don’t do this.”

  “It’s all right, Mum,” Jake says. “I can take Dad.”

  “Take me?” Mark laughs. “Aren’t we the big man now we’ve grown a few muscles? Steroids making you brave, are they, son?”

  I stare at Jake in horror. “You’re not taking steroids, are you?”

  “Dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “One more word from you,” Mark says, “and you’re out.”

  “Please!” I say. “Please! Please stop! Mark, he’s your son! He’s your son.”

  A tense silence fills the room, punctuated only by the sound of my own raggedy breathing. I brace myself for round two. Instead Mark’s shoulders slump and he exhales heavily.

  “Always the villain,” he says, looking from me to Jake. “I’m always the villain.”

  I want to say something. I want to contradict him. To support him. But to do so would mean choosing between my husband and my son. It’s like the night Billy disappeared all over again. My family is disintegrating in front of my eyes and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  “Mum,” Jakes says as the back door slams shut and Mark leaves the house. “I can explain.”

  “Later.” My throat is so tight I can barely speak. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Chapter 7

  “Here you go.” Liz places a steaming mug of tea on the table in front of me, then pulls out a chair and sits down. A split second later she stands up again, crosses the kitchen and rummages around in the back of a cupboard bursting with tins, jars and packets of pasta and rice. It’s the day after the appeal. I was going to pop in on Liz yesterday but, after everything that happened, I didn’t have the energy.

  “Ah! Knew I had some.” She brandishes a 100-gram bar of Galaxy at me and returns to the table. “Hidden from Caleb and for emergencies only,” she says as she sets it in front of me. “And days when I decide to skip Slimming World.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Mind if I do then?” She runs a nail along the gold wrapper and snaps off four pieces. She bites into the chocolate, takes a swig of tea, then smiles broadly. “That’s better. Caleb was in a pig of a mood this morning, whining about the lack of clean socks in his drawer. Hellooooo, we both work and you’re twenty. Wash your own bloody socks. I thought he’d make more of an effort with his personal hygiene now he’s met someone. Did I tell you about the new boyfriend?”

  I shake my head.

  “He met him in a pub in Old Market. Eighteen, works in House of Fraser. I haven’t met him yet. Caleb said he doesn’t want to scare him off by introducing him to me. Cheeky shit. Anyway, sorry.” She leans back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. “How are you? I meant to watch the appeal but next door’s cat got into the garden again. It was primed to take a shit on the lawn so I chucked some water at it. I thought I’d pop in after you got back but I sp
otted Mark storming out the back door looking really pissed off and figured it wasn’t the best time.”

  That’s the thing I love about Liz; Billy’s disappearance hasn’t changed our friendship in the slightest. While everyone else awkwardly avoids the subject or cross-examines me about the latest developments Liz is just Liz. You crave normality after something terrible happens. Everything reminds you of what you’ve lost—everything—and sometimes you just want to stop thinking about it. I love hearing Liz bitch about Lloyd. I enjoy her little rants about her son, Caleb, or Elaine, her boss at the supermarket where she works.

  Mark compartmentalizes his life. He has the “boxes” in his head he escapes into. I don’t. But at least I have Liz.

  “So how was it?” she asks.

  “Awful.”

  I tell her about Kira screaming, the booze, the cut foot, Jake’s interruption and the argument when we all got home.

  “I’m just so tired,” I say as she swipes a box of tissues from the windowsill and pushes them toward me. “I just want Billy to come home and for this to be over. I miss him, Liz. I miss him so much.”

  “I know,” she says. “I know you do.”

  I pull a tissue from the box and dab at my cheeks. I hate that my default emotional reaction is crying. I wish I could shout and scream or punch something instead.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “For what? If you can’t snot all over your best friend’s kitchen where can you?”

  I try not to cry in front of Mark and Jake because I don’t want them to worry about me but it’s different with Liz. Her kitchen is a safe haven. We’ve known each other since Liz and Lloyd moved next door when the boys were little. They’d play in the back garden while Liz and I would sit on deck chairs and chat. It was a tentative friendship at first, as we sussed each other out, but it wasn’t long before we started taking it in turns to do the school run and the odd bit of babysitting. The first time we went out for drinks we got so drunk we stopped being polite and properly opened up. We were both in tears by the end of the night. Since then we’ve been there for each other through everything—Lloyd walking out on Liz last year, my father-in-law’s heart attack and now Billy.