by C. L. Taylor
Now I jump as the gate clangs open and a man and woman in neon yellow vests with lanyards around their necks step through the gap.
“Excuse me,” I say as the man closes the padlock. “My name is Claire Wilkinson. My son is missing. He’s called Billy, he’s fifteen. I’m worried that he might be sleeping rough and—”
“Not here he’s not,” the woman says. She’s mid-forties with a half-inch of gray roots showing through her curly red hair. “Bristol Council.” She gestures toward her lanyard. “We’re redeveloping the place. Waterside offices and homes. There’s twenty-four-hour security in place.”
“You’re quite sure there’s no one sleeping rough inside?”
The man pulls on the padlock. “Not unless he’s a pigeon. And we’ll be getting them out ASAP too.”
I glance through the gates and try to imagine the building coming back to life—with glass in the windows and families sitting on sofas in front of their tellies and office workers wheeling back and forth in front of computer screens—but I can’t see it.
“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t suppose you know of any squats in Gloucester Road, do you?”
But they’ve already wandered off.
I am a couple of hundred feet away from the Arches and stuck in traffic when I see him, a heavyset man with a bushy beard. He’s riding a yellow-and-black BMX bike with distinctive blue-and-white tires. He slips into the bus lane and undertakes me, his white sneakers pumping the pedals as he speeds down Cheltenham Road. He looks almost comical with his large body balanced on top of the small bike and his thick knees spread wide. I remember how Jake laughed and said Billy looked like a circus monkey when he rode his Mafia BMX. It was a kid’s bike, he said. And he looked like an idiot.
Just like the man in the hoodie.
It’s Billy’s bike. It has to be. I’ve never seen one like it, not with the same combination of colors.
I don’t think twice. I signal left and pull into the bus lane. A horn sounds behind me and the driver of the 3A bus shakes his head at me in my rearview mirror. Startled by the sound, the man on the bike glances back. I wave frantically but he either doesn’t see me or he doesn’t want to stop because his head drops and he begins to pedal even faster. He turns left onto Zetland Road just as the lights change and I’m forced to stop.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as he zips across the road and jumps off the bike outside a kitchen-and-bathroom shop and then hammers on the paneled wooden door of the building next to it, on the corner of the street. There are curtains at the window and a large piece of white card or wood—at least twelve feet by six feet—propped up inside, obscuring the view. As the traffic light turns green the door opens and the man disappears inside, taking the bike with him. It has to be the squat Jake told me about.
There’s a space outside a tile shop on the opposite side of the road so I park quickly, half mounting the pavement in my desperation to get out of the car.
I have to wait for one, two, three cars to go past before there’s a gap in the traffic and I can sprint across the road.
“Hello!” I knock on the door and then wait.
A young mother walks past, pushing a red-faced, squalling baby in a stroller. Her eyes are fixed on a spot in the distance, as though she’s willing herself to . . . just . . . get . . . home. She doesn’t so much as glance at me.
I knock again and walk around the corner and tap on the window.
Nothing happens. No one comes to the door and the curtains don’t twitch.
“Hello?” I lift the letterbox and peer inside but it’s lined with nylon bristles and I can’t see a thing. “Hello! I know you’re in there. I just saw you go in with the bike.”
“They’re all drug addicts, you know.” An elderly man, with a walking stick in one hand and a blue plastic bag in the other, pauses beside me. “If they’ve stolen something of yours you need to call the police.”
I instinctively touch my handbag, slung across my body. I should call the police. Or at least Mark. But adrenaline’s coursing through me and I can’t stop myself from shouting through the letterbox again as the man continues his amble up the road.
“My name’s Claire Wilkinson. My son Billy is missing. I think you might know him.”
I reach into my handbag and pull out a flier, then shove it through and go around the corner to the window again. The curtain twitches, just at the edge of the frame, and I catch a flash of pale pink flesh before it vanishes again.
There’s a creaking sound and I rush back to the door. It opens an inch or two and a male voice hisses, “Keep your voice down would you? The neighbors hate us as it is.”
The door opens wider. “Well, are you coming in or not?”
Chapter 15
I’d expected syringes and drug paraphernalia on the floor, or at least the stench of weed, mixed with urine and shit. I’d also imagined piles of rubbish, fast-food boxes, split bin bags, dirty walls and stained mattresses. Instead the walls are white—grubby but not soiled—and decorated with posters and murals. Mark would call it graffiti. There’s a frayed sofa too, an armchair and a low table holding what looks like some kind of screen-printing equipment. A guitar is propped up in the corner of the room along with several piles of books and half a dozen blank art canvases. Two men are sitting on the sofa. One’s reading a book about Andy Warhol; the other’s asleep, his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. I should be terrified, shut in a room with three men I don’t know, but I’m too shocked to feel fear. I thought I was about to walk into a drug den and instead it’s as though I’ve walked into a student flat.
“He was up late working,” says the large man in the red hoodie who hissed at me to come in. “He’s off to a festival soon. T-shirts,” he adds, gesturing toward the screen-printing equipment. “He does them all by hand.”
I feel myself gawp. “Squatters work?”
“We all work,” says the man with the book, looking up, and my cheeks burn. Did I just say that aloud? “Jay busks and—”
“You don’t work,” says Red Hoodie who must be Jay. “You’re a student.”
“I use my brain,” says the man on the sofa. “It’s work, believe you me.”
“I’d offer you a cup of tea,” says Jay, “but the council shut off the electric last week. We’ve still got water though, if you want some?”
“No, thank you.”
He’s holding Billy’s flier, crumpled up in his hand, but no one has mentioned my son since I walked in. And there’s no sign of the bike.
“Have any of you seen Billy?” I gesture at the flier.
Jay shakes his head. The art student shrugs. Sleeping man snorts in his sleep and wakes with a start. He stares at me through glassy eyes, then seems to jolt into himself. “Who are you?”
“Claire Wilkinson. Billy’s mum. I think you might know him.”
“Billy?” He scratches his head. “I know a Will Turner. Is that him?”
“No. His name’s Billy Wilkinson. He’s fifteen. He disappeared over six months ago. I know he had friends near Gloucester Road.”
“Never heard of him, sorry.”
“You must know him then.” I turn back to Jay. “You let me in.”
He runs a hand over his ginger beard, finds the end and tugs on it. “You were shouting through the letterbox. What else was I supposed to do?”
I feel myself grow hot under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes.
“But the bike . . .” The door is open on the other side of the living room revealing a dark hall or passageway.
“What bike?”
“I saw you on a bike. A BMX. Distinctive. Yellow and black.”
“And?” Jay crosses his arms over his broad chest and takes a step back, as though to get a better look at me.
“Could I . . .” I take a step toward the hallway. “Could I have a look at it?”
“It’s not for sale.”
The atmosphere in the room has changed. When I entered the house they were amused
and curious. Now they want me to leave.
I hear a sound from beyond the open door, the squeak-squeak-squeak of rusty bed springs and a low groan. Jay and the art student exchange a look. The student hides a smile behind his book. Why are they looking at each other like that? Is Billy here? Are they hiding him?
“All right, lady.” Jay puts a hand on my arm. “I think it’s time for you to go now, don’t you?”
There’s another sound from beyond the hallway. A moan of pain. The art student sniggers.
I snatch my arm away from Jay and, before he can react, I dart around him and run across the living room toward the open door. It’s dark in the hallway but I can just make out a bike, propped up against the wall. There are several rooms along the length of the corridor. All the doors are open apart from the one at the far end of the hallway. As I sprint toward it a hand grabs my shoulder and I’m yanked backward, but not before I’ve kicked out a leg and made contact with the door with the heel of my boot.
It swings open.
There’s a gasp and a grunt and my breath catches in my throat as two men, naked and flushed, spring away from each other. The thinner and paler of the two men, standing at the base of the bed, grabs an item of clothing from the floor and presses it to his crotch. The other man, still on the mattress, shouts, “What the fuck?” and picks up a shoe. He stares at me as though deciding whether or not I’m a threat, then launches himself off the bed and slams the door shut. “You can fuck off too, Jay,” he shouts as his flatmate, still standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder, roars with laughter.
“Come on, mad bird. Time for you to leave.” Jay moves his hand to the small of my back and maneuvers me out of the hallway, back into the living room and across to the front door.
“Please.” I twist away from him as he reaches for the door handle. “Please just tell me where you got the bike from. Is it stolen? I won’t tell the police. If it is Billy’s bike it could be a clue, it could help us—”
“It’s not stolen.” Jay glances back at his friends but they aren’t on the sofa anymore. They’ve moved to the other doorway, where they’re nudging each other and laughing as they peer into the hallway. “It’s Rich’s bike, the guy in the bedroom. He hates us using his stuff, particularly me. Says I’ll buckle the frame.” He laughs drily.
“But you saw me, in my car, and you sped up.”
“What car?” He looks genuinely confused. “I was trying to get the bike back before Rich got up. Look”— his expression softens as he opens the door—“I’m sorry your son’s missing. We’ll stick the leaflet up in the window, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say, even though it is no longer in his hand. It’s in a crumpled ball under the table.
“All right then. You take it easy.”
“Wait! Are there any other squats around here? My son—”
The question hangs in the air as the door is shut in my face.
Chapter 16
“Oh, crapping hell, missus.” Liz squeezes me tightly, then holds me at arm’s length so she can look me up and down. “I’ve been so worried about you. Where the hell have you been?”
I open my mouth to reply but my best friend gets there first. “Come in and tell me everything. Do I need to lock the front door this time? Because if you do a runner again I swear I’ll rugby-tackle you to the ground. I’ve eaten a metric fucking ton of chocolate in the last few days so I’m packing a few pounds!”
We’ve been sitting at Liz’s kitchen table for ten minutes. I’ve been talking nonstop since I stepped into her house. When I finally pause to take a breath Liz stares at me, her eyes large and round. “And all this has happened in the last few days?”
I nod.
“Why didn’t you come around? I mean, I appreciated the text you sent saying you were okay but Jesus, woman, you only live next door. You could have popped in. When Mark and Jake came around to say you’d disappeared I totally freaked. I thought it was my fault. That bloody newspaper.”
“I know.” I reach across the kitchen table for her hands. “I’m so sorry. I should have come around earlier but it’s . . . it’s all been so . . . I feel like I’m going mad. That’s the only way I can explain it. I’m literally losing my mind.”
“Of course you are, babe. Anyone in your situation would be. But I’ll tell you something for nothing—don’t you be going to any more places on your own. You need to let the police do their job. Anything could have happened to you in that squat. They could have robbed you or worse.”
“They weren’t like that.”
“And you know that for sure, do you? People turn, Claire. You need to be a bit less trusting.”
“I’m not too trusting.”
“You bloody are.”
“But I need to find Billy. If Caleb went missing you’d do everything you could to get him back. I’ve waited six months for the police to find him but I can’t keep doing that. I need to find him. I can’t just sit at home doing nothing. But I’ve started to see him everywhere I go. Everywhere . . .”
I snatch my hands back from Liz’s and rest my forehead on my curled fists, suddenly exhausted. I don’t know what to think anymore. Or what to do. Each time I think I’m one step closer to finding Billy I get my hopes up. Only for them to come crashing back down again.
“Deep breaths.” I hear the squeak of Liz’s chair on the kitchen tiles and then her hand on my back. She rubs circles over my shoulders with the palms of her hands, just the way I’d do to the kids when they were little and upset. “Take deep breaths, Claire.”
I close my eyes as she continues to rub my back but the darkness behind my eyelids is too dense, too deathless, and I open them again.
“Maybe what you need,” Liz says softly, “is a bit of normality. Let me finish,” she adds quickly. “I know there’s no normal—I know life can’t be normal until you get Billy back—but what I mean is maybe you need a routine. You’ve got too much time on your hands, Claire. Too much time to think and brood. Have you thought about going back to work?”
“Oh God, no.”
“I thought Stephen was a good boss?” Her voice softens as she says my brother-in-law’s name. I think she’s always had a bit of a soft spot for him, not that she’d ever admit it. “He let you take six months off after Billy disappeared. I’m sure he’d be glad to have you back.”
“I know, but it’s complicated.”
“How is it complicated? You loved your job at Wilkinson & Son. You were always telling me about the banter you had with the customers on the phone and how you and Stephen had a laugh.”
“Loved is a bit strong and anyway, what about Mark?”
“What about him? You went back to work after the argument, didn’t you? And he didn’t give you any grief.”
Mark and his stepbrother Stephen fell out a year ago. It was my birthday and we were having Sunday lunch in a local pub when Billy and Jake came to blows in the garden. They never revealed what started it but there was a lot of name-calling and insults thrown about before Jake landed the first punch. Mark intervened, heavy-handedly, and Stephen made a comment about Mark’s parenting skills.
He said it jokily but Mark bit back, asking what the fuck Stephen knew about bringing up children. It was a low blow. Stephen and his wife Caroline can’t have kids. They’ve tried everything, all the tests you can get. “Unknown fertility issues,” the consultant said. Caroline got pregnant once, after ten years of trying, but she lost the baby in the second trimester. They never discovered why. She was broken by it and so was Stephen. I thought Mark was completely out of order for what he’d said to him and I let him know as much. I went back to Wilkinson & Son the next day, as though nothing had happened. Mark didn’t give me grief about it but I could tell by the offhand way he greeted me that evening that he was secretly smarting. Where was my loyalty? Why hadn’t I sided with him and told Stephen to stick his job? Because I was angry with him, that was why. Between him and the boys they’d completely ruined my birthday.
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Mark and Stephen haven’t spoken since their argument, other than a few brusque words during the search for Billy, but I know Mark misses his stepbrother. He’s just too proud to admit it.
“And—don’t mind me saying this, Claire—but it’s not as though you couldn’t do with the money.”
Liz is right, again. Every spare penny we’ve managed to save over the years has been spent on publicizing Billy’s disappearance. There’s nothing left. Mark suggested canceling our Sky subscription and giving up a few other luxuries he thinks we could live without but why put everyone through that when I could go back to work for a bit? I could deal with a few hours a week, at least until Dr. Evans gets back to me with the result of the blood test.
“So?” Liz stops rubbing my back and slaps me square between the shoulder blades. “Are you going to give it a go? Give Stephen a ring and arrange to go back to work. You only have to do a few hours, see how it feels.”
I twist around in my chair and smile up at her. “And if I don’t?”
She winks. “I’ll run you over and put you out of your misery myself.”
Chapter 17
I feel sick as I signal right and turn the car into the yard of Wilkinson & Son builder’s merchants and park. It’s been three days since my conversation with Liz about going back to work. Nothing has changed since the last time I was here. The yard is still full of forklifts, vans and trucks. There are empty pallets stacked high in one corner. The sign—a yellow and blue logo that looks like a triangle made out of bricks—dominates the side of the warehouse. Inside, and in the larger yard beyond the building, dozens of builders and tradesmen will be perusing the timber, bricks, pipes, paint and power tools. Mark’s dad John will be on the shop floor, making sure the customers and staff are happy. And Stephen, Mark’s younger stepbrother, will be in the office: a phone in one hand, a stained coffee mug in the other. I used to be the office manager—a fancy title for what basically involved answering the phone, printing and mailing invoices, organizing the cleaners and running ads in the local press.
