The Missing

by C. L. Taylor

  “I want to have it now.”

  “Claire, is your mum there? Could you put her on the phone?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not. I’m coming over.”

  “No!” The word comes out sharply. “I need to think. I need to be here. Alone.”

  Another pause. Another sigh. “I don’t understand. Have I done something? Has Jake? I rang him at work. He said you had words the other day. Why didn’t you tell me? What did he say? Did he upset you?”

  “It’s not Jake and it’s not you. I just . . . Mark, please, please, just answer my question. Do you think Billy is dead?”

  I count the seconds.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  “Yes,” he says softly. “Yes, Claire. I think Billy is probably dead.”

  “Why? Why do you think that?”

  “He’s been missing for a long time. The appeal’s been in the news, it’s been in the newspapers. There aren’t many people who haven’t heard his name or seen his photo. If he was staying with someone they would have come forward. If he was injured someone would have found him. And if he was living rough he’d have been recognized. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know that’s not what you want to hear and I can’t believe we’re having this conversation over the phone. Please. Let me come and see you. Let me take you home. I need you. I need to see you.”

  There are no words. My head is empty and full all at the same time.

  “Claire? Please talk to me. I’m so worried about you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I whisper the words. “And I’ll be home soon. I promise. I just need a few days.”

  “Can I ring you? You didn’t answer when I tried your mobile.”

  “It’s in my handbag. I didn’t hear it.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t something I’ve done? Something I’ve said?”

  “I’m sure.” I can’t bear lying to him like this. There have been lies in our relationship before, of course there have, but they were small ones—the number of men I slept with before I met him, how well the boys behaved when he was away on a conference, how many bottles of wine I drank with Liz on a night out—but nothing like this. Nothing so monumental.

  “I love you,” Mark whispers. “You know that, don’t you? I’ve never stopped loving you, no matter what we’ve been through, not even for a second.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Do you still love me?” His words are loaded with fear.

  I close my eyes and reach inside myself, searching for an answer to his question through the fear and the doubt and the nights spent lying silently in bed back to back.

  “Yes,” I say. “I do.”

  Chapter 43

  I am wearing a sweater that’s so long the sleeves cover my hands, and a pair of jogging pants that are rolled up at the waist and above my ankles. After two days of wearing the same clothes I’ve been forced to raid my dad’s wardrobe. Mum is several sizes smaller than me and there’s no way I’d fit into her size 10 clothes without splitting something. It’s been strange spending so much time with my parents with all their idiosyncrasies on show—Dad watching game shows back to back each afternoon, flicking between channels the second the closing theme music begins, while Mum tucks herself up on a kitchen chair and calls a seemingly endless number of friends for “a quick catch-up.”

  They tiptoed around me for the first twenty-four hours, asking if I was okay or if there was anything they could get me but now they largely leave me to my own devices. Not that there’s anything to do other than watch TV. I’ve spent most of my time in the spare room, running over the events of the last few weeks trying, and failing, to make sense of it. Sonia would tell me that I should let myself grieve for Billy but I can’t. Not yet.

  When I woke up this morning the first thought that went through my head was, I’m going to the police today. The second thought was, I need to call Jake and Mark first.

  I’ve rung Jake several times over the last couple of days. The first time I called I was worried that he’d be falling apart without me to keep an eye on him but he sounded more stable than he’s seemed in a while. His main concern was the reason why I’d left home. He thought it was because he’d confessed to hitting Billy and was hugely relieved when I said it wasn’t. He told me that he was back at work and that he’d made up with Kira. He didn’t specifically mention his Tinder “friend” but he did reassure me that he wouldn’t be repeating his mistakes and that I didn’t need to worry about him.

  Mark seemed fine too. He said how strange it was to wake up and find an empty space where I should be and that he missed seeing my face when he got home from work. I asked if he’d been eating and he joked that, because Jake and Kira didn’t even know how to turn on the oven, it had been left to him to feed everyone and could I please come home before he burned the bottom out of every pan we own. He said he and Jake were getting on; that they were eating together and that Jake and Kira had joined him to watch a film one evening.

  “We even had a couple of conversations,” he said. “And they didn’t descend into arguments or mudslinging. Jake’s not a bad kid. It’s a lot for someone his age to deal with. For anyone to deal with.”

  I could hear the tenderness in his voice when he said his son’s name and it reassured me. Whatever happens to me they will be fine. Mark and Jake will pull together and look after each other. What’s left of my family will remain intact.

  Mark picks up the phone on the first ring.

  “Hello, darling, how are you?”

  “Good. I just wanted to say good morning to you before you go to work.”

  “Good morning to you too!” I can hear the smile behind his words. Relief too. “So, what are you up to today?”

  I take a deep breath. This will be the last lie I tell him. There will be no more secrets once I’ve spoken to the police.

  “I thought I’d go into town, maybe do a bit of shopping or have a coffee on the waterfront.”

  “You’re going out?” He sounds surprised. “That’s great news. I’ve got a few appointments in Cheltenham this afternoon. I don’t imagine I’ll be home until eight tonight. Will you be . . .” He trails off but I know what he wants to ask me.

  “I’m not sure when I’ll be home. Soon, hopefully.”

  “Do you want to speak to Jake? I think he’s up. Someone’s in the bathroom anyway.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll call him on his mobile.”

  “All right then, sweetheart. Enjoy the shopping and coffee and I’ll see you when I see you. Take care of yourself. I love you.”

  “I will. Bye, Mark.” The call ends before I can tell him that I love him too.

  I ring Jake next. Unlike Mark’s phone Jake’s mobile rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. I try again and finally it’s answered.

  “Mum,” he says, sounding out of breath. “Sorry, I was in the shower. Kira didn’t bother to tell me that my phone was ringing.”

  I hear the irritation in his voice and worry who he’ll confide in if I’m in prison. I’m not the only one in our family who bottles things up. “What’s the matter?”

  “She said I can’t go to her photography exhibition next week. She says it’s too personal.”

  “Maybe it’s to do with her dad.”

  He sighs. “Maybe. Who knows?”

  “Whatever her exhibition is about it obviously makes her feel vulnerable and you need to respect that.”

  “But it feels like she’s keeping secrets from me.”

  “And you’re not keeping secrets from her?”

  “Fair enough.”

  We both fall silent.

  Then he says, “You are going to come home, aren’t you, Mum?”

  I try not to think about the knife in my wardrobe and what will happen when I hand it in to the police. “Yes, son. I am.”

  Friday, December 19, 2014

  Jackdaw44: I
can’t stop thinking about you.

  ICE9: Me neither.

  ICE9: I feel so guilty though. We shouldn’t be doing this.

  Jackdaw44: Stop then.

  ICE9: Really?

  Jackdaw44: Yeah. If you want to stop we stop.

  ICE9: I thought you’d make it more difficult.

  Jackdaw44: Not if you’re not happy.

  ICE9: But I am. That’s the problem.

  Jackdaw44: I don’t think you really want to end it, do you?

  ICE9: I know I should . . .

  Jackdaw44: But?

  ICE9: I like the way I feel when I’m with you.

  Jackdaw44: And how’s that?

  ICE9: Happy. And free.

  Jackdaw44: Me too. X

  Chapter 44

  I drive past the house three times before parking outside. There’s a gap on the street where Jake usually leaves his van and Mark’s car isn’t in the driveway. Liz’s driveway is also empty. There are no lights on in our house but I watch the front and back doors for a few minutes anyway, just in case Kira suddenly appears, her hair unbrushed, her top slipping from her shoulder under the weight of her camera equipment, frazzled and running late.

  When no one emerges from the house I look at my watch—10:17 a.m.—then open the driver’s-side door.

  I’d expected to return home to a tower of plates in the sink, a bin full to overflowing and a pile of pizza boxes stacked up on the table, but the dishwasher is full, a fresh load of washing has been folded and stacked in the basket and there’s food in the fridge. The living room is similarly well kept; the rug has been vacuumed, the blanket on the back of the sofa is straight and neat and there are no mugs or dishes on the side tables.

  I’d imagined that my home would fall apart without me in it but somehow they’ve managed without me. It feels like forever since I quizzed Jake in the garage about his relationship with Kira and he called me a control freak. I’ve been in control my whole life: of my family, of the office at work, of my mind. Over the last few months I’ve lost control of everything. There’s only one more decision I have control of—whether or not I tell the police about the knife.

  The tote bag is just where I left it, buried in the corner of the wardrobe under a pile of winter sweaters. I peer inside, to check the knife is still there, then snatch up the bag and hurry back down the stairs. My mobile rings as I reach the kitchen but I don’t pause to answer it.

  The ringing stops as I hurry out of the back door and sprint across the road to my car. My mobile starts up again as I open my handbag to retrieve the keys and I flip it open, certain I’ll see Mum, Jake or Mark flashing on the screen. Instead it says Withheld number. Probably someone wanting to check if I’ve reclaimed PPI or ever been injured in a road traffic accident. I move my finger toward the end-call button, then change my mind. It could be DS Forbes.

  “Hello?”

  “Claire, it’s Stephen. Please don’t put the phone down. Please! It’s urgent.”

  Irritation rises in my chest. He withheld his number knowing I wouldn’t have answered a call from him. “Sorry. It’s not a good time.”

  “Caroline’s left me.”

  “What?”

  “I just got home and all her stuff is gone.”

  “Got home from where?”

  “I . . . I went out last night. Slept on a friend’s sofa. Please, Claire, I need your help.”

  I stare out of the window, at the traffic rushing past my car and the neighbor three doors down struggling to pull her bin in from the street. I always knew that Stephen and Caroline’s marriage was shaky, what with the stress of IVF and everything, but I’d assumed they’d managed to put all that behind them once they’d decided to stop trying for a baby.

  “Please, Claire, she likes you. Would you ring her? Convince her to speak to me.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the right person.”

  “I can’t ask anyone else. I’m just . . . I can’t . . .” His voice cracks and he bursts into tears.

  As he sobs down the phone I look across at the tote bag on the passenger seat beside me. I feel sorry for Stephen, I really do, but I can’t put off going to the police. I’ve left it too long as it is.

  “And . . . talked . . . Billy . . .” I can barely make out what Stephen is saying for the sobbing. “It was my fault.”

  “Sorry? What was that?”

  “Billy told me he was in love with someone but I thought it was just a stupid crush. I told him to man up and move on.”

  “Billy was in love with someone? Who?”

  “I don’t know,” he sniffs. “Someone he couldn’t be with, that’s all he said, and I changed the subject. And I shouldn’t have because then he disappeared and that fucking pedophile Jason Davies dragged him off the street and killed him.”

  “You know about Jason Davies?”

  “John told me. I can’t . . . I can’t believe I’m never going to see Billy again.”

  His words run together as he speaks and it hits me. He’s drunk. At 11:05 a.m.

  “Stephen, Stephen, listen!” I hold up a hand, even though he can’t see it. “Slow down. Firstly, we don’t know that Jason Davies had anything to do with Billy’s disappearance. And secondly, why is it your fault that Billy disappeared?”

  “I just said.” He sniffs noisily. “He told me the day before that he was in love with someone and I told him to man up instead of talking to him about it.”

  “And you think that’s why he ran away? To be with someone he loved? Or because he couldn’t be with them?”

  “I don’t know. Why else would he have disappeared in the middle of the night? I should have talked to him about it. I should have given him advice instead of telling him to—”

  “Man up. Yes, you said.” My heart races as I process what he’s just told me. This is new. Billy being in love with someone. This could give us answers. “Stephen, think. Did Billy give you any clues about who this person might be? Did he mention a name? Say how he met her?”

  “No. Nothing.” He blows his nose. “And I keep thinking back to that day . . . when we had lunch at the Lodekka. It was my fault Billy got punched. I told him to tell Jake about Mark.”

  “Tell Jake what about Mark? What are you talking about, Stephen?”

  “I’m in the Ostrich pub. Meet me and call Caroline and then I’ll tell you.”

  The line goes dead and I stare at the phone, waiting for him to call me back. Minutes tick by but it continues to lie silently in my palm. When I ring him back it goes straight to voicemail. I try again. Same result. I look back at the bag on the passenger seat. If I take it to the police and they arrest me I’ll never find out what Stephen knows. But what if it’s got nothing to do with Billy’s disappearance? What if he’s just drunk and feeling sorry for himself and he’s using Billy’s memory to manipulate me into calling Caroline for him? I need to get to the police station. Now, while I’m still feeling brave.

  I glance into the rearview mirror, spot Jane Hargreaves from three doors down raising a hand in greeting, and make a decision.

  Chapter 45

  Stephen doesn’t even attempt to stand up as he spots me striding across the pub toward him. He doesn’t smile, wave or speak. Instead he reaches for his pint, wraps his thick fingers around the glass and sinks the whole thing in four or five messy gulps.

  “I would ask you if you’d like another,” I say as he sets the empty glass on the table. “But I think you’ve probably had enough already.”

  “Yeah, right!” He runs a hand over his shiny forehead, then wipes it on his blue sweatshirt, leaving a sweaty stain. His eyes are dark-rimmed, his skin blotchy and lined. “Go on then, if you’re offering.”

  I ignore the request. “No work today then?”

  He glances over my shoulder toward the bar, points at his empty pint glass and grins as the barman gives him a weary nod.

  “I take it that’s a no.”

  He shrugs.

  “Are you going to tell me why Caroli
ne threw you out?”

  “Fuck knows.” He pushes his mobile across the table toward me, sliding it through a puddle of beer. “Ask her.”

  I pick up the phone and wipe it on the hem of my cardigan. “I need you to tell me what happened last summer first.”

  “Eh?” He looks confused.

  “When Jake and Billy had a fight outside the Lodekka on my birthday. You said you told Billy to tell Jake something about Mark.”

  “No. Ring Caroline first.” He folds his arms across his chest. He may be drunk but he’s not drunk enough to forget the conversation we had fifteen minutes ago.

  “Stephen, I’m supposed to be somewhere.”

  “Ring Caroline.”

  “Fine.” I push his phone back toward him. “But I’ll use my phone if she’s ignoring your calls.”

  She picks up on the third ring. “Hello, stranger. I haven’t heard from you for ages.”

  “I’m with Stephen. He asked me to call you.”

  She gives an exasperated sigh. “Don’t tell me, you’re in the pub?”

  Ask her, Stephen mouths as he lurches forward in his seat. I wave him away.

  “He seems upset about an argument you’ve had recently. He said you’ve moved out.”

  “Yes, I have. I don’t know what he’s told you, Claire, but I’ve had enough. A day doesn’t go by when he doesn’t have a drink and he’s getting worse. He pissed in the wardrobe when he came home from the pub the other night and I’m pretty sure he’s been drinking at work.”

  I look at Stephen, with his flushed cheeks, puffy face and enormous gut, and it all makes sense—the reason his hands shook when he was making the coffee, why he seemed so jittery when I walked into the office. He had the DTs. God only knows if there was water or vodka in the bottle on his desk.

  “I didn’t know that, Caroline.”

  “No, well, you wouldn’t. You don’t have to live with him.”

  Please, Stephen mouths. “Please.”

  I lower my gaze but I can still feel his eyes boring into the top of my head. “What if he agreed to go to AA or something? Or couples’ counseling?”