Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  Sam, moving silently now in this fresh, fateful certainty, did not hear the rest of that sentence as he took a step backwards. Through a long gap in the boards above, he saw Isabelle’s sad eyes.

  They seemed to close all by themselves.

  With his right hand on the grip, his left cupped beneath, Sam lifted the gun and aimed it at the ceiling. He squeezed the trigger and fired six shots in rapid succession – splinters and dust and smoke – the cracks booming in the tight space as voices roared and meat fell.

  Fast now, through a curtain of warm rain and to the stairs. Up and up and Sam rammed through the trapdoor, sending the tyres bouncing, one of them rolling across the concrete, out of the barn, spinning like a huge black coin in the sun. Over the rubble, he saw Henry Marston dead on the floorboards – blood flowing from exit wounds on his legs and his ragged shirt, pouring into the wood. Furious wasps swarmed, strobing in new light.

  Isabelle was down too, writhing on the ground next to the barrels, clutching her shin. A stray ricochet maybe. Impossible to know. She shouted something.

  But Sam was running, outside, into the day, past the cars, looking down the grassy hill. Gregory Marston fleeing, sprinting as fast as he could, checking over his shoulder – panicked and glaring. His white T-shirt no larger than a postage stamp in Sam’s sights. Leaning in, he fired twice, the pistol kicking in his hands. Two quick puffs of powder spat up behind his target. Another pair of shots and weeds flinched at his side – cut stalks, falling flowers, empty shells bouncing on the concrete.

  Still, Gregory ran, stumbled, tried to zigzag – desperate flight – towards the hedge now, on to the gravel track. But not quick enough. Five more fast rounds echoed in the valley, the fourth producing a harsh spray – denim fibre. He spun, slamming hard into the ground, skidding flat amid rising dust.

  When Sam arrived, Gregory was crawling on to the long grass, flattening it, dragging his lower half. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was . . .’ He coughed, then rolled on to his back and held up a red hand. ‘I didn’t know he was a kid.’

  ‘Give me the name.’

  ‘Wait . . . I . . .’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘It’s someone from the church, isn’t it? It’s someone you know.’

  ‘You’re gonna . . . you’re gonna shoot me anyway.’

  ‘Five seconds.’

  ‘Fuck . . . fuck you . . .’

  Sam aimed.

  ‘I thought your kid was older. I thought he was eighteen. I wouldn’t— no wait, please—’

  The final bullet made his whole body tense as turf exploded behind his head. Limp now, both arms spread wide at his sides.

  Sam blinked. It was remarkably quiet. Still. Calm. No bugs. No singing birds. He felt suddenly alone, like when you turn the television off late at night.

  But then a sound, pounding footsteps behind him. He turned to see a black shape, a shoulder, then thud – he was rattled, winded, face down on the ground.

  Isabelle was on him, his right wrist tugged up his back – her grip solid on his thumb. Pure technique negating his strength. ‘Ah, fuck,’ he groaned into the grass.

  ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of murder,’ she said.

  ‘Suspicion?’

  ‘You do not have to say anything,’ she went on. ‘But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.’

  ‘Isabelle.’

  ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘Do you understand?’ she yelled.

  There was a gristly clunk inside him. Sam grunted in pain, struggling to break free. But she pushed – he knew one more ounce of pressure and his shoulder would dislocate.

  ‘Let me go.’ He stayed still, stopped resisting. When he took a breath, he tasted the earth at his cheek. ‘There’s . . . ah, Jesus . . . there’s still one of them left. Two if you count Diane.’

  ‘One of them left? Where do you think you are? You just killed those men. Did they deserve to die? Do you get to decide that?’

  ‘You know what they were going to do.’

  ‘That’s not how it works.’ Another squeeze and he gritted his teeth. ‘Isabelle, listen. Listen to me. These feuds . . . they only go one way.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to get any worse.’

  ‘You’ve seen what they are – it’s tit for tat – this is a zero-sum game. Got a hell of a debt now.’

  ‘Freddie can be moved,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep him safe. We’ll keep you safe.’

  Sam could feel his heart, flat on the ground, punching his ribs. Behind, Isabelle was panting. He sniffed and waited a moment.

  ‘Think it through,’ he said. Calm. Slow. ‘These men . . . these dead men . . . They didn’t come here to meet me . . .’ He felt her sit a little lower, now on the small of his back, as she considered this critical fact. ‘They know where you live . . . Abigail was right. I’m not a good one. Just let me go, and I’ll fix this.’

  ‘I can’t, Sam . . . I can’t.’

  ‘You have to . . .’

  ‘If . . . if I do anything other than arrest you, I’m complicit.’

  ‘You’re not . . . You just need to loosen your grip. Just let go,’ he whispered. ‘Just . . . let go.’

  With a quick shift of his weight, Sam whipped his hand free and scrabbled out. He turned, Isabelle had the pistol. She kept it pointed at him as they rose together, back to their feet.

  ‘On the ground,’ she said. Formal now – this was work.

  ‘You keep count of those shots?’

  She nodded. ‘One left.’

  ‘Do you want to gamble? Do you think you can keep her safe? Is there an expiry date for this? How long?’ Sam stepped closer. ‘Give it to me.’

  She took a pace back, uneasy as she considered her options. But she understood. He could see that. She knew the stakes.

  ‘Dead brothers,’ Sam said. ‘Dead siblings. They take it literally. Eye for an eye. Think about what that might mean.’ He gestured towards Gregory’s corpse, then to the barn at the top of the hill. ‘What this means. Just give me the gun.’

  ‘If I do that . . . you, honest Sam, what are you going to say? When they arrest you, you’ll say what, exactly? That I just let you go, sent you on your merry fucking way?’

  ‘If that happens, then . . .’ Sam sighed. ‘Then, I’ll lie.’

  She lifted her aim – jutting the barrel towards him – tears in her eyes.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, then I’m lying now,’ he said, showing his palms, shaking his head. ‘Either way, you’ve seen I can do it.’

  And then, finally, Isabelle stopped fighting. She didn’t react as he carefully pressed her hands down and took the pistol. All his values, for all of hers. It was a good deal, a fair trade.

  Every bit of that tranquillity, that balance – the way she moved as though she’d discovered a fundamental secret about the world, about how to live at peace – it all seemed to drain away. Isabelle faced the valley, down the hill, past the swaying daisies, past the butterflies, past the death. And, with glassy, bloodshot eyes and one of those calm breaths, she sat on the grass.

  ‘If I see you again . . .’ she said, without looking up.

  ‘I know.’

  Sam left her there and walked back to the barn. He took the keys from the floor, next to Henry’s body, then climbed into his shiny black Mercedes. The dashboard lit up with some beeps and a whispering radio as the conditioner blew out cool air. Adjusting the mirror, Sam saw the murder costume he was wearing. It was smeared on his cheeks, his hair, sticky red drips dried halfway down his face. He searched around inside the car and found a bottle of water in the passenger footwell. After a couple of swigs, he poured the remainder on to a T-shirt from the back seat. When he’d wiped himself as best he could, scrubbing his neck and hands, he swapped his jumper for Henry’s blazer. It was a poor fit, but at least it was clean.

&n
bsp; As he pulled away, the wheels crunched on the gravel, then dropped in and out of potholes along the track.

  Again, turning through the opening in the trees, Sam glanced up at the rear-view mirror and saw Isabelle, slouched in the same position, knees together on the ground. Her head was bowed, her arms in her lap. A perfectly still, dark figure, surrounded by greenery and meadow flowers. If it wasn’t for the wisps of her fringe moving in the breeze, she could have been a painting. A picture of a lost soul, alone in this empty place with two dead men and a plume of dust from the car tyres, following him down the track, rising and drifting across the grass like smoke.

  PART THREE

  ANNA CLARKE

  Chapter 31

  Although many of the TV vans had gone, Orchard Court was still a festival of media activity. Anna stayed low on the back seat as Barney, the police family-liaison officer, pulled in through the gate.

  ‘You got everything?’ he asked, holding the steering wheel, leaning round. ‘Straight to the door, all right, don’t stop, don’t listen.’

  Anna collected her things, then put her jacket over her head and rushed across the drive, ignoring yelled questions and cameras flashing between the black iron fence bars behind her.

  Inside, after she had put her bag down, Barney offered her tea.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to contact?’

  Anna told him she wanted to be alone. Trained in such matters, he didn’t protest much and left the house around five minutes later, having depleted all attempts at small talk.

  The standard questions they asked had been updated, although the classics were familiar. And have you had any suicidal thoughts? That one was still on the list. She’d shaken her head as Barney took notes in biro. It was half true – there had been plenty of bleak daydreams where she’d imagined how peaceful it must have felt before she was born. She suspected death was probably like that – just nothing. But it wasn’t an option. What if they came home and she wasn’t here waiting for them? This situation was actually worse than hopeless – Anna couldn’t even kill herself.

  The blinds in the kitchen were closed, so she sat at the dining table, in the dark. It was cold and quiet here. Triple glazing, all plugs turned off, and no voices in the empty house. The kind of awful silence most people can’t afford. It was tidy too – the crime-scene cleaners had done a good job. Other than the faint, lingering smell of bleach products, she’d only found one sign they’d been here – a torn strip of yellow police tape on the front-door frame. It was thin, like cheap lametta tinsel. She picked it off with her fingernail, rolled it into a ball and stuck it on the inside of the new bin bag in the kitchen.

  The police hadn’t been quite so thorough with Ethan because, unlike Robin, there had been no blood at the house. There were no signs of injury and his bed was made. These were the only differences.

  Anna took her phone out and realised it wasn’t connected to the Wi-Fi. It demanded she re-enter the password. Even her mobile had forgotten. She typed it in – ‘Button123’ appearing as nine asterisks. Emails. She refreshed the list three times with her thumb, her ring tapping the silicone phone cover while she waited. As always, nothing important. Just the standard abuse and anonymous cruelty. But every so often, something kinder. A stranger would offer support. There was never any comfort in the unfounded claim that, one day, it’d be all right. Still, she read every single word – good and bad.

  After around fifteen minutes, she pushed back the white dining chair and stood. Sniffing her tears away, Anna began her pointless ritual. She went upstairs, stepped across the thick new carpet, along the staircase railing and towards her daughter’s bedroom. Dim now with no night light. The door was ajar, as it always is, and she pressed it open with a finger, as she always did. Silent, expensive hinges – wood brushing wool. The art box. The closed curtains. The row of stuffed toys on the shelf – none of their eyes glistening.

  And an empty bed.

  One.

  Quietly crying, she turned round and went back downstairs.

  Downstairs, whimpering in the hall, she sighed and turned round.

  Anna went upstairs, stepped across the thick new carpet, along the staircase railing and towards her daughter’s bedroom. Dim now with no night light. The door was ajar, as it always is, and she pressed it open with a finger, as she always did. Silent, expensive hinges – wood brushing wool. The art box. The closed curtains. The row of stuffed toys on the shelf – none of their eyes glistening.

  And an empty bed.

  Two.

  Downstairs again.

  Anna went upstairs, stepped across the thick new carpet, along the staircase railing and towards her daughter’s bedroom. Dim now with no night light. The door was ajar, as it always is, and she pressed it open with a finger, as she always did. Silent, expensive hinges – wood brushing wool. The art box. The closed curtains. The row of stuffed toys on the shelf – none of their eyes glistening.

  Anna’s eyes were closed. She took a breath and looked a final time at Robin’s empty bed.

  Three.

  One more set. Stairs, stairs, carpet, door, toys, bed. Stairs, stairs, carpet, door, toys, bed. Stairs, stairs, carpet, door, toys . . . bed. Another set. Stairs, bed, stairs, bed, stairs, bed.

  Again.

  We see old home-movie footage, shot on a mobile phone. The screen is small, pixelated – the size of a matchbox.

  ‘ONE . . .’ a child yells, sitting by a sofa, hiding his face. He is maybe three years old, wearing a red T-shirt beneath dungarees.

  ‘Just . . . just go through all the numbers,’ Francis is saying from behind the camera. He’s giggling. Laughter has taken his breath. ‘He’s waiting . . . Anna, Anna, this is pure gold.’

  We move out of the living room and into the hallway. Behind a door, Anna is crouched with a towel over her head. In the background, we hear slow piano and hushed violins. We know then that this recording is used in The Clarkes – edited, scored by a full orchestra, quiet now. A sombre scene.

  ‘He kind of gets the concept,’ Francis whispers, ‘but hasn’t quite grasped—’

  ‘You’ll give my position away,’ Anna says, waving her hand past the door. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘TWO,’ Ethan screams from the living room.

  Francis sniggering. ‘Aw, aw my God,’ he says, crying now. ‘Listen, listen, he’ll wait . . . he’ll wait about fifteen seconds . . . He must be counting in his head . . . Aw, man, it’s always perfectly timed. Wait for it . . .’

  ‘THREE – coming, ready or not.’

  We move away from Anna, further down the hall in the Clarkes’ home.

  ‘Oh, hello, Daddy,’ Ethan says, looking up, past the camera. Ignoring the lens, focusing on Francis. ‘Mummy where?’

  ‘I don’t know, little man,’ Francis whispers, his nostrils hissing with stifled laughter.

  Ethan stomps around some discarded shoes. He pulls open the cupboard under the stairs. ‘Mummy’s hiding,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder. Then he turns his attention back to Francis, toddles past him and into the kitchen. After a quick search, he returns.

  When he arrives at the downstairs bathroom door, held open against the wall, he stops. Stern in his tiny face, curious and unsure, he pulls it slowly away to reveal a shadow, a shape. Anna throws the towel from her head – ‘Rah!’ – and Ethan flinches, erupting into laughter as he declares he’s found her.

  ‘You did – you found me,’ Anna says, standing. And, with the effortless strength of a mother, she picks him up and holds him at her hip. ‘Shall we say silly Daddy?’ she adds, bouncing her arm and walking towards the camera – pointing at us. ‘We know how to count.’

  ‘One, two, three,’ Ethan says, stretching out his clumsy, chubby fingers, then cheering with Anna.

  ‘Those are the only numbers we need. We’ll just count them slower, yeah?’ She presses her forehead gently into his fair hair.

  ‘My turn,’ he says, writhing
free. Anna sets him down and he disappears, running fast into the living room. ‘Count,’ he shouts. ‘I’m hiding.’

  Hands covering her eyes, Anna says, ‘One,’ then she waits fifteen seconds and calls out, ‘two,’ and finally, clocking half a minute with those three easy numbers, she yells, ‘three. Coming, ready or not.’

  The microphone rustles as the camera tilts, points at the wall, the ceiling, then back at Francis’s face. He looks down into his phone. ‘Neither of them can count. These guys are nuts.’

  Back now to the living room – Ethan clearly visible behind the long curtain. A bulge and two tiny red socks beneath the glowing white fabric.

  ‘Where is he?’ Anna says. ‘I just can’t find him anywhere.’

  Audible giggling from the moving curtain.

  ‘Daddy, have you seen Ethan?’

  ‘Nope.’

  And when Ethan’s head pokes out and he balls his fists in excitement, stepping from foot to foot, Anna sweeps in to grab him. Again, holding him at her hip, she speaks to the camera. But their voices fall silent, replaced by music, rising strings – long, swaying notes – a grand tragedy, loud now, loud and absolute.

  Anna was still doing her rounds, although by this point she was exhausted and crawling on her hands and knees, up and down the stairs. One, two, three. Her legs and shoulders ached and her palms were raw. Eventually, she collapsed on the final step and rested her cheek flat on the second-floor carpet.

  These habits start slow – she’d noticed them creeping in years ago. Simple things, like checking a door, or the hob, or even making sure she had logged out of her emails on her work computer. It didn’t matter that she knew there was no need to check these things more than once.

  Because, of course, memories are far from reliable.

  When she was a child, these rituals were attached to abstract punishment. If, for example, she hadn’t finished washing her hands before the toilet cistern filled up, then maybe she would get head lice. If her felt tips weren’t all facing the same way in her pencil case, then she wouldn’t win the affection of her latest crush. A particularly bizarre routine was alternating where she sat on the school bus. Window seat one day, aisle seat the next. If the pattern wasn’t maintained, then maybe her mother would die in her sleep.