Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  But as her mind and body grew, these delusions disappeared, to make way for logic and reason. The threes came later and started with locked doors. Although it was still absurd if she ever gave it real thought, Anna’s consequence modelling became a little more sophisticated. It wasn’t so much an impossible, unrelated penalty, but more a forecast into the future. Let’s say that one day she didn’t check the gate three times, then – Sod’s Law – that would be the night Button escaped. All this played out in a second or two and soon condensed into a single, wordless urge to check things three times. Thinking one, two, three, as Ethan did.

  His childhood counting became a long-standing joke in the family. Everything lasted three seconds – only sometimes there were long gaps between the numbers. It had merit – you could technically chart a minute, an hour, or even a year. But it only worked if you knew, in advance, the length of time you were measuring. One at the beginning, two in the middle and three at the end. It was useless for anything without a conclusion – any timeline that faded to a blur.

  But even this hadn’t been a real issue. She would count in her head, triple check doors, brush her teeth, sip drinks, everything in strict rhythms – most in sets of three. If she was rushing or distracted, and she missed one, she could survive – she might not even notice. However, since 12 August 2010, when Ethan disappeared, the urges had become overwhelming.

  Anna worked hard to shelter her daughter from the media coverage and all these insecurities but, somewhere along the line, the rituals had bonded themselves to Robin.

  ‘When you’ve lost one,’ Dr Hunt said, ‘the attachment you have to your remaining children is ripe for disorder. It’s a relatively simple fix. A short course of cognitive behavioural therapy.’

  But Anna did not want to be ‘cured’. Even when they were involuntary, these compulsions were still a choice. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the universe wouldn’t change because she washed her left hand for five seconds and her right for ten. It was true that sometimes she wasn’t ‘in control’, whatever that meant. Occasionally she would watch her body, like a passenger, as it walked into the kitchen and checked the oven dial three times. She would even say, in her head, ‘Come on, this is ridiculous. Just leave it.’

  But let’s say she did just leave it and overcame the need to check. Well, then she just applied her inevitable forecast. If something happened, even coincidentally, it would destroy any remaining control she had left. It would justify the irrationality. And once you have that thought, you’re locked into the commitment. Once you consider, even though it’s infinitely unlikely, that you might have such agency in the world, then diligence really is your only option.

  Therefore, it was, she decided, safer and more logical to simply obey. To check one, two, three.

  Eventually, the hypothetical consequence of not checking became ‘Robin’. Anna had to check everything for her daughter. She couldn’t recall putting it into a conscious thought, like she had done as a child. But she understood what the feeling meant – if she did not check things three times, Robin would disappear, just like Ethan.

  There was no solace in the fact that, despite her conformity, it still happened. This proved nothing, because Anna wasn’t perfect. She probably had missed something. Even with all grounded, rational efforts, she still managed to blame herself.

  And if this wasn’t the case, then she was mad to believe it. Those were the only options she had – she was either guilty, or crazy. Probably somewhere between the two, she concluded.

  Hours later, on the stairs, she woke up and looked across the long, pale carpet – the fibres closest to her face were out of focus, fading to clarity at the end of the hall, near Robin’s bedroom. The door was ajar, as it always is. Anna climbed to her feet and wandered aimlessly through the quiet house.

  In the kitchen, she hugged her thick cardigan into herself and stepped across the tiles. She stopped at Button’s water bowl. It was empty, a light dusting of chalky limescale in the bottom. He was still at Daniel’s, and Anna wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

  ‘Call me as soon as you’re allowed home,’ Daniel had said.

  But if she did that, he would rush round immediately. His heart was in the right place, but she was not in the mood for guests.

  Turning, she stroked her fingers along the kitchen counter, over the chopping board and towards the knife set she’d bought Francis for Christmas. He did most of the cooking. In fact, he did most of everything. It was true, he could be controlling, but this wasn’t always a criticism. Francis was a pretty good chef and Anna was happy to let him clean the house his way. Fortunately, they had similar taste in television, so his dominion over the remote was also tolerable.

  The Shun-Karyi knives had cost more than a grand. Each was made from thirty-two layers of Damascus steel with strong cores cast in some obscure metal Anna had never heard of, and, crucially, they looked expensive. They were set on five small oak plinths above a square marble base – the ergonomic pakkawood handles stuck vertically from the top.

  Anna clicked the four-inch chopping blade from the magnetised holder. Finding the handle’s balance, feeling all that money, she turned it sideways. Then, with a quick flick of her wrist, she tapped the knife on the hard counter. One. Tap, the metal vibrating like a tuning fork. Two. Tap, a low sound. And three. Tap, ringing in the air. The notes were short – the blade was rigid.

  Something new had started to worry Anna in the last few days. It made her give serious consideration to that therapist Dr Hunt had mentioned. The daydream about finding the person responsible for all this pain, and turning them into a catatonic lump of conscious meat with three fast, well-placed incisions at intervals along their spinal column. Anna knew, from countless hours of tense surgery, the delicate strands that you must not damage. Why? Because the consequences are catastrophic for the patient.

  It wasn’t that this fantasy was so vivid and appealing – that, she felt, was quite reasonable. What troubled her was how much pleasure she found here. Now it bordered on eroticism. In fact, it was the only source of warmth in her imagination. Even more alluring – and she winced and cried at this thought – than being reunited with her lost children.

  Sliding down to the floor, Anna pushed her back against the fridge and put the knife on the Paris grey porcelain tiles between her legs. She knew why the image of them coming home no longer offered any joy. The reason was simple and it was awful. It was because truly, in her heart, Anna didn’t believe it would happen.

  She rubbed her eyes and frowned at her sore hands – they felt burned. Her knees too were tender. Strange, she had been home for hours and, somehow, she hadn’t checked Robin’s room yet. She rose from the kitchen tiles and went upstairs.

  Anna arrived on the second floor, stepped across the thick new carpet, along the staircase railing and towards the dim warmth of her daughter’s bedroom. 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 – all their eyes glistening.

  And when she looked at the bed, she had a sudden, sobering thought. Like an optical illusion had just revealed itself and, now, she couldn’t see it any other way. Calmly and in her mind, she whispered to herself, ‘Oh, Anna . . . you’re insane.’

  Chapter 32

  Anna stared through the kitchen window, through her reflection, through the black holes of her face. Someone was walking up the garden, towards the house. A dusk shadow. It was a man. Daniel. He must have seen the news.

  She counted to three. One, two, three tugs on her hair and she turned, headed to the back door.

  As he arrived on the patio, she grabbed the handle and pulled it open, throwing the kitchen’s cold white light on to the stone slabs below.

  ‘You didn’t call,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She sighed
, then stepped back inside.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, closing the door behind him and removing his jacket.

  ‘Never better.’

  They stood at the counter, Anna’s left hand flat on the surface.

  And he came close, into her space. But she cringed away from his hug.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘At the hotel . . . I shouldn’t have.’

  For a while, they just looked at each other.

  ‘Speak to me,’ Daniel whispered.

  Anna pressed her eyes into the crease of her elbow and leaned on the kitchen worktop. ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Sit down. Please. I’ll make you something to eat.’

  She felt his grip on her shoulders as she stood upright again. He guided her to the table.

  ‘Fine,’ she whispered, taking a seat.

  Hunched over, she felt small, like a child, as he prepared her food. They didn’t say a word.

  Eventually, he set a plate down in front of her. A sandwich cut into triangles. Anna felt sick just looking at it.

  ‘I . . . I haven’t slept,’ she said, fingers on her temple. ‘I don’t even know what day it is.’

  ‘It’s fine. Eat.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because you shouldn’t be alone . . . I promise, I’m not going to do anything.’ Daniel pulled a chair out and dragged it close. Perched at her knees, he said, ‘Yesterday . . . Sam came to see me.’

  Anna just watched him.

  ‘He was asking questions. About Robin. About that . . . thing in the tree.’ He rubbed his eye. ‘About me and you.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You lied.’

  ‘Of course I lied,’ he said.

  ‘You should have come clean. Just said it.’

  ‘To what end? What would that achieve?’

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘This was your idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘I’ve been lying for years. Because you told me to.’

  ‘Daniel.’

  ‘You should have left him. But you wanted to keep pretending.’ He laughed. ‘All for . . .’

  ‘For what? Say it. Fucking say it.’ There was a long silence.

  ‘For Ethan.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Anna shrugged.

  ‘No, what do you want me to say?’ Daniel stabbed a finger into his chest.

  ‘I don’t even want you to be here. These years.’ She grabbed her hair. ‘All these years.’ Anna rocked, banging her elbows on the wood.

  ‘Stop. Stop it. Look, I’m sorry. It just gets to me. If we’d made different decisions.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Francis . . . he’s . . . I mean, Anna, what if it’s fucking true?’

  ‘So it’s my fault?’

  ‘No . . . if anything it’s mine. I shouldn’t have agreed.’

  They’d met for dinner. They were just kids back then. It was so formal. A fancy restaurant with fancy candles. Such a strange memory. Anna had thought she was being mature.

  ‘Whatever you decide,’ Daniel had said. ‘I’ll respect it. Just tell me what to do.’

  She’d looked at her lap. ‘We have to stop.’

  The tears in Daniel’s eyes had the salt-rock candlelight burning in them. But Anna had been sure. It was the right thing to do. She was engaged. This kind of behaviour was not normal for her.

  ‘You can live with it?’ he’d asked. ‘I don’t think you realise how corrosive a lie like that can be.’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ Anna said. ‘Nothing.’

  Young Daniel, so slim back then, nodded. ‘OK.’

  They had even toasted with their glasses of red wine. A clink to officially declare whatever it was they had was over.

  Now, two decades on and Daniel had the cheek – the audacity – to suggest some alternative might have changed things.

  ‘I’d like you to leave,’ Anna said, sliding the sandwich away from her.

  ‘If that’s what you want. Just, please, give it some thought. They’re going to charge him in the morning. It’s real. It’s happening.’

  ‘Why?’ She shook her head. ‘Why would he do this? He’s . . . he’s not a bad father.’

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Anna . . .’ Daniel touched her wrist. ‘But I think he is.’

  On her feet, she swept the plate off the table, smashing it on the floor – the bread bouncing amid the broken china. The food now deadly.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘I wonder how Sam knew,’ he said, standing. ‘Why he asked about us?’

  Anna strode towards him, Daniel stepped backwards, stopping at the kitchen counter.

  ‘Maybe someone is watching,’ she whispered, pointing at the ceiling. She then placed her index finger on her lips. ‘Shhh.’

  He turned his head away, as though a strange thought, an alien concept, had just passed through his mind. And he frowned at her with . . . suspicion? Or perhaps the beginnings of outrage. He exhaled, stifled a laugh. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘That everyone suspects he’s to blame. Everyone can see it. Everyone . . . apart from you.’

  ‘Leave.’

  ‘Don’t you wonder? Aren’t you curious? Something very dark is happening, Anna . . . what else have you lied about?’

  It happened in a blink – she slammed an open hand into Daniel’s face, driving the back of his skull hard, harder than she had meant to, into the corner of the glassware cupboard. He grabbed his head, stumbled and fell to one knee.

  There was blood on his hand. Shaking, he gasped, breathed, touched his nose. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I told you to leave.’

  ‘God.’ Daniel sniffed, clambered upright again. ‘You really hurt me there.’ He tried to catch his breath.

  And once more, they stood opposite one another and shared a moment of silence.

  ‘I remember, years ago, when we were at uni,’ he said, his face scrunched and wincing, his palm on his scalp. ‘You’d been drinking vodka. You lay on the sofa. I put a blanket over your legs. Left you. Early in the morning, I got up for a lecture. And you were standing right in the hall. Just standing there. Staring. Staring at me, staring through me, just like you are now. You were . . . you were sleepwalking. Honestly, it was the creepiest thing I had ever seen. I looked into your eyes, your pupils, they were huge. And it was like there was nothing there, like . . . like no one was looking back. As if something fundamental, something vital was . . . was missing.’

  ‘Get. Out.’

  ‘I believe in a soul, Anna . . . and I haven’t seen yours for a very, very long time.’

  Chapter 33

  We see a modest community centre, lit jaundice yellow by old strip bulbs – their plastic casings, littered with dried insects, speckle odd shadows throughout the room. At the front of the hall is a small scuffed stage, opposite that a crowd of maybe twenty people on brown seats – like school chairs, half of which are empty. We film from the rear – and see the backs of heads, most are men, most are old. All are listening intently.

  On the raised stage, Diane Marston is speaking at a lectern. Her black hair, short and thin, has a side parting. Without make-up, the bones in her face are well defined. But, at a glance, it would be easy to miss these feminine shapes. And a closer look would find felinity first. Above her wide cheeks, she’s wearing large reading glasses, tinted yellow, like the rest of the room. Behind the left lens, a marbled cataract, a gloss of blue fog flooding her iris.

  But none of this distracts from the passion, the showmanship, the charisma and rhythm in her voice. Diane Marston performs with conviction. Undoubtedly, she believes what she says. And, on the bare wooden walls in this dated hall, these words arrive as a chorus of echoes.

  ‘And when they came to the crowd,’ she says, not reading but reciting, ‘a man came up to him and, kneeling befo
re him, said, “Lord, have mercy on my son, for he is an epileptic and he suffers terribly. For often he falls into the fire, and often into the water. And I brought him to your disciples, and they could not heal him.”’ She raises a finger. ‘And Jesus answered, “Oh, oh faithless and twisted generation, how long am I to be with you? How long am I to bear with you? Bring him here to me.”’ Diane is animated – speaking fast. She flows across the stage, sleek, fluid and low, moving like the cat we might have seen in her. ‘And Jesus rebuked the demon, and it came out of him, and the boy was healed instantly. Then the disciples came to Jesus privately and said, “Why, why could we not cast it out?” He said to them, “Because of your little faith. For truly, I say to you, if you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move, and nothing will be impossible for you.”’

  Diane returns to the lectern, removes her glasses and cleans them with a square of beige cloth. This pause is considered, composed here for effect. It’s impossible to know if the audience shares her piety but, clearly, they are captivated. The sermon is compelling – not because of its content but rather her delivery. She could sell any commodity – and today, she trades in ideas.

  ‘We must remember the Devil’s primary hallmark is deception,’ she says. ‘Most do not believe demonic forces exist, let alone roam free in our society. And without faith in this reality, we stand no chance of defeating them. They play among us – in government, in corporations large and small, in our own homes and hearts – in serpent, in swine, in men and in women. The sodomites, the whores, the child molesters and fiends – they will continue to thrive unless we stand, with the light at our side, and accept first and foremost that the fight is real. Make no mistake.’ She juts the glasses forwards, stabbing a stem at the congregation. ‘We, the Lord’s children, are at war. And, in times of war, there is no weapon too nefarious. Not with stakes as high as these. Mercy will be bestowed on those who take up arms in this battle. To sin with such cause is no sin at all. And, if you look in yourself, and at your brothers and sisters, and find peace – do not take comfort. Passive onlookers, like non-believers, will see no redemption. If it’s salvation we seek, first we must ask what our role has been in this fight – for He will surely wonder the same when the raging fires of judgement day take the earth by storm.’