Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

Then, bowl in hand, he ascends the stairs. Outside Robin’s door, he wipes away his tears, takes a breath, and – tap-tap-tap – three gentle knocks. It’s barely a whisper. But she tells him he can come in.

  Chapter 35

  Robin had just put the last line on her drawing when she heard a knock at the door. As Julius entered, she spun the sketchbook around to show him.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ he said, looking down at the picture.

  ‘I didn’t have quite the right colours – I think his wings will be lovely. Maybe so lovely you couldn’t even draw them.’

  Smiling, Julius held out his hand. ‘Here.’

  A mountain of blue-and-white ice cream in a bowl. He’d even added squirty cream and chocolate sauce. She would prefer it without the nuts but, as he had put so much effort into making it look nice, she decided not to mention that.

  ‘For me?’ Robin asked.

  And Julius nodded.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He sat down next to her on the bed.

  She pulled her feet up on to the mattress and rested the cold bowl in her lap. The metal handle clinked on the china and reminded her of her own spoon, still hidden beneath her pillow. She lifted a large mouthful and giggled, crossing her eyes as she turned to him – looking at a dot of cream on the end of her nose.

  Julius smiled again and wiped it away. While she ate, he flicked through her sketchbook and she explained each picture.

  ‘Is this Button?’ he asked, pointing at a dog.

  ‘Mmm-hm.’

  ‘Are those wrinkles?’

  ‘In dog years he’s ten thousand years old,’ she said, covering her mouth to swallow. A piece of nut was stuck in her teeth. She dug it out with her tongue and winced – it tasted bitter.

  ‘You’re not scared of creepy-crawlies, are you?’ He was on a page with some beetles and a long millipede going from corner to corner.

  ‘Nope. Not really. Although . . .’ Robin remembered the sleepover at Emma’s house a couple of weeks ago. They had all been tucked up in their sleeping bags when a big spider scurried across the floorboards. Everyone screamed and panicked and said it was disgusting. In the end, Emma’s dad came upstairs with a glass and a postcard to get rid of it. Robin had wanted to do it herself – she wasn’t frightened. She liked all animals, even insects – even arachnids. But she had pretended to be scared, just like they were. It was silly. Now, she knew, if she ever saw a spider again when they were around, she would have to act terrified. Otherwise they would realise she had lied.

  ‘Although . . . ?’

  ‘Sometimes I pretend to be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because everyone else is.’

  ‘Why would you want to be like everyone else?’

  ‘That’s what Mum always says.’

  He closed the sketchbook and placed it on the bed cover.

  ‘Do you believe in heaven?’ he asked.

  Robin had sat through many conversations like this. Most evenings, he would read stories to her from the Bible. At the end, he asked if she understood what they meant. Most of the time, she would shrug and say, ‘Kind of.’

  But did she believe in heaven?

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, scooping some chocolate from the edge of the bowl. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you know what heaven is?’

  ‘It’s where you go when you die, if you’re good.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Distracted, Robin put some ice cream, sauce and nuts on the spoon – creating a perfect mouthful. Then she held it up for Julius.

  ‘I’m OK, thank you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s really nice.’

  ‘Bubblegum and cookie dough.’

  ‘Double yums.’

  ‘And what about hell? Do you know what that is?’

  Nodding, she chewed. ‘Mmm. The opposite, where bad people go.’ And she pointed at the floor – her fingers still black from the spray paint.

  ‘Where would you rather go, heaven or hell?’

  ‘Well, heaven.’

  ‘And what would it look like?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . clouds?’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful place you can imagine – your very own heaven.’

  ‘Then, I guess it would . . .’ Robin put the bowl in her lap and stared at the wall, at one of her stencilled leaves. And she smiled. ‘It would be just like home,’ she said.

  Julius touched her knee – he seemed happy with her answer. ‘You’ve been so well behaved. Tomorrow, there will be no more rules.’

  ‘None at all?’ Robin eyed him cautiously.

  ‘No locked doors, no bars. You can go wherever you want.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, turning. ‘Anywhere?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She knelt on the mattress and hugged him. He squeezed her, then patted her back.

  ‘Tonight, you can watch cartoons and stay up as late as you like. And, in the morning, when the sun comes up, the world is yours.’

  Robin sat back on the bed. Her eyes stung and she felt the beginning of tears, but blinked and they went away.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  Biting her thumbnail, she looked across the room, then lifted an eyebrow. ‘Home?’

  ‘So be it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just . . . You can meet Button, I can show you my house, we have loads of flowers in the garden because we have a gardener – word of advice, don’t pick them because—’ Robin stopped and frowned at him. ‘Why are you crying?’ she asked.

  ‘Because . . . I’ll miss you.’ Julius sniffed and turned his head away, so she hid her joy. It seemed mean to be so excited if he was sad.

  ‘We can still be friends?’ she said.

  But he didn’t respond.

  After her bath, she got dry and put on her thick pyjamas. Even though she could stay up late, all she wanted to do was go straight to bed. Maybe it was because she was looking forward to tomorrow – either way, she was really sleepy.

  She took the bowl downstairs and put it in the kitchen sink. It was evening now – the sun was like a big orange and the clouds were thin and long, so there were no faces in the sky. For a moment she thought she was dreaming, because there was a breeze in the kitchen. Robin stepped sideways and looked at the back door.

  It was open. And it felt like she was alone.

  Without even thinking, she crept towards the chilled air, then outside on to a stone patio.

  ‘Are you tired?’ Julius asked from behind.

  Robin jumped and spun – all her muscles tensed. ‘Sorry, I . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. You can go outside. Say goodnight to Patty.’

  So that’s what she did, she walked out into the garden. The grass was dry but cool on her bare feet. Even when she’d been poorly, she’d never stayed indoors for this long. Everywhere smelled so incredible and fresh. It was like the wind was cleaning cobwebs off her skin.

  There were a few early stars twinkling in the sky above the shed roof. She looked lower and stared at the back fence – her heart began to beat faster when she considered it. There was nothing stopping her. She checked over her shoulder and saw Julius in the kitchen window, washing up. He seemed distracted. Turning to the fence again, she took another step forwards. But a yawn arrived. She tried to stop it, her jaw rigid and her eyes watery, but it still came through.

  No. She was being silly. It was getting dark. She was in her pyjamas. She wasn’t even wearing shoes. And when she glanced down at her feet, she realised she was standing near the grave. Curious, she leaned to the left and her shadow moved off the wooden cross.

  There was no name, no date, just a single letter, ‘E.’

  ‘Don’t be out there too long,’ Julius called. He was on the patio, holding a tea towel and her ice-cream bowl. ‘You’ll get cold.’

  Robin left the stars, the grass and the gentle breeze and went back indoors.

  Despite being exhausted, she ran to her bed, sat on the pillow, then slid
her legs halfway under the cover. She flung it up and snuggled in quickly as it fell down on top of her, letting out a fake shiver. ‘Brrrr.’

  ‘Did you say goodbye to him?’ Julius turned off the main light. The window glowed faint grey, but the lamp on the carpet filled the room with red warmth.

  ‘No – I think he was hiding,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. Even if he’s transformed, he won’t forget me.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Robin remembered what she’d read about them – and it was amazing. Scientists did an experiment where they ring a bell and poke a caterpillar to make it really stressed. After that, every time they ring the bell, it squirms because it doesn’t like the sound. Then it goes into its cocoon, where its whole body, even its brain, melts down into a sort of bug soup. This then turns into a butterfly. And, when it comes out and they ring the bell again, it gets stressed – because it doesn’t like the sound.

  ‘Yeah – they remember,’ she whispered, resting her head on her pillow. ‘Butterflies remember being caterpillars.’

  ‘Sweet dreams, Robin,’ he said, and the door creaked shut.

  She pulled the cover right up to her chin, rolled to her side and wiggled her toes – now snug in fluffy socks.

  Tomorrow morning, she would get to see Mum again – she was going to give her a big kiss on the cheek. She’d see Dad, and Button too. Her heart was fluttering like a hummingbird’s – not from fear this time, but from happiness.

  Finally, she pushed some of the duvet between her knees and closed her eyes. She thought of all the names for Julius’s dog. Elizabeth, Emma, Eve. Or maybe for a boy dog, Edward, Ellis, Elliott. There weren’t that many names that started with E. But she was too excited to think about sad things like that.

  Robin tried to remember a time when she’d been this smiley. Not even Christmas, or Disneyland tickets, or winning the art contest at school – beating people much older than her. Nothing compared to how fantastic tomorrow was going to be. Home again.

  She hardly ever thought about her brother – but for some reason he popped into her mind. Of course, she had been a baby when he’d disappeared so she couldn’t remember him. And, although no one knew where he was, she sometimes imagined that, if Ethan had died, he might have gone to . . .

  Her eyes were open now. The flutter in her chest sunk down, low, low into her stomach when she thought of that grass mound in the garden. A small grave. The letter E.

  Julius really would miss her, because she was going tomorrow. Going home. Home to heaven. Determined, Robin reached under her pillow and rolled on to her back. Beneath the covers, she held the sharpened spoon handle at her chest like the dagger it always was, and decided that, no matter what, no matter how tired she got, she would not fall asleep.

  For hours she lay there, perfectly still and awake, wondering if she too could wrap herself tightly enough to transform into something small and delicate. Something which would remember all the things that truly scared her. She didn’t even care what colour she would be, as long as she had wings.

  Chapter 36

  The camera sees water. A fast river rushing over smooth egg pebbles and rocks, passing under a fallen tree which bridges bank to bank. Near the edge, a deer leans down and lowers its face to drink – the river is glaring and drips gold and fractured white in the low sun. The scene seems idyllic, composed well with a mill wheel in the background, the gentle silt slopes and the woodland behind teeming, hissing with wildlife.

  And, curious now, the deer lifts its head, turns its neck to listen. Ears fanned on alert. It blinks. And then it bolts, darts along the path, splashes through a shallow golden crossing and disappears from sight. Leaves shiver. Like the fleeing birds, it heard the man approaching.

  Sam, with Isabelle’s Post-it note still in his pocket, parked the black Mercedes about two hundred metres from Diane Marston’s home. Then he travelled on foot up the village river which, according to the map on his mobile, ran along the rear of the property. He moved fast, running, then jogging – it would be a matter of minutes before police arrived on her doorstep to tell her that, they regretted to say, two of her brothers were dead. Henry Senior cut down by inexplicable fire that rose up through the ground at his feet, as though from hell. And Gregory, executed at point-blank range amid swaying petals and futile repentance. Though Sam doubted they’d add his embellishments.

  This would come in the fresh wake of her nephew’s suicide. Sam pictured Henry Junior’s second fall – wheeling to the terrace railing at Hallowfield General Hospital, ignoring the pain. Then, using only his upper body, pulling himself high like a gymnast, tilting over the edge and rolling, falling, spinning limp and fast and smashing into the tarmac – a sudden blur, a shadow, then crack. Onlookers would have screamed. It was a bad day for the Marston family.

  Halfway down the river, Sam passed an old shack with a wooden mill wheel propped on the side. The slats along the bottom were all broken so, instead of turning, it rested in the water and welcomed crawling plant life. Nearby, up the sandy bank, there was a chain-link fence between him and an electrical substation – humming wire and steel, and weeds in the cracked concrete – a jarring throng of metal in this otherwise unspoiled countryside. And, on the corner of the closest outbuilding, Sam noticed a security camera filming across the river. He looked directly into the lens. This footage of him stained, dishevelled, here, now, reborn, heading towards Diane Marston’s house – it would be evidence. Perhaps shown to a jury, or narrated by a coroner. Invariably, Sam would not be there to hear the charges.

  He knew that to pass judgement on the coming events, you would first need to understand, in the haze of all this chaos, that the Marstons and the Clarkes were connected in some way. And there – the inner slice of a Venn diagram Sam did not yet understand, in which the disparate lives of these two families crossed over – was where he needed to be. That was where the truth was hiding, coiled and snug in its nest.

  Sam had to beat the police. Today, and tomorrow. The deadline was approaching. They could only hold Francis for a few more hours. First thing in the morning, they’d charge him. A stark, official symbol of Sam’s defeat, hanging above like a hammer – falling now to drive the final nail into Robin’s coffin.

  A strike to end it all. These inevitable, fragile, familiar things.

  Hallowfield General would be busier than usual – all sorts of activity could go unwitnessed. He had called Lei on the way here, and asked about the officers by Freddie’s bed. Perhaps, he suggested, there should be a few more. To keep him safe, just in case. To protect him from the creatures Sam lied about when, years ago, Freddie would wake in the night, convinced something was breathing cold air outside his window, nesting in his wardrobe or scurrying beneath the floorboards. They don’t exist, kid – these monsters aren’t real. Go back to sleep.

  But Sam had seen them – he’d seen the work of beings best killed with lies. And he felt compassion for most – even for premeditation, even for perpetrators reasonably classed as evil. Could these people have changed their course? If the universe rewound and they found themselves in the same position again, atom for atom, is there any reason to think they could have done things differently?

  Somehow, he even applied this cold determinism to the Marston brothers. He didn’t hate them for what they did to Freddie, or what they might yet wish to do. It was raw necessity driving him that afternoon, not anger, not the retributive glee he had tasted when he strode, mouth open, through that warm shower of black blood. He was as much a victim of this violence as they were.

  Really, nothing had changed. All this had done was add yet more urgency to Sam’s seemingly limitless supply of desperation. The goal remained the same. He was heading in precisely the same direction he had been for all these years, just faster now with the unique momentum of death at his sails.

  The river took a turn to the right and washed down some rocky steps – froth and bubbles spun in the top pool before gravity dragged it all over the edge. Bel
ow, it splashed and rumbled like thunder. Sam felt it in his chest. One small tributary, a shallow golden gloss over sand, led the way. Sam followed it up to a mossy, damp wall at the rear of Diane’s property. The water bled from a clay hole, leaving green streaked algae down the bricks. He placed the gun on top, then hoisted himself up.

  Standing now at the foot of her garden, Sam looked at the mansion ahead. The grounds were tidy and preened – the turf fit for a golf course. An expensive croquet lawn with perfect borders, warm in the sunlight. He went across the grass, trespassing, stalking towards the house. Instead of a plan, he had focused only on results. All he knew was that he would be leaving this place with Freddie’s and Abigail’s guaranteed safety, and the scarred man’s identity too. Exactly how he was going to achieve this was still unclear.

  Now against the building, he ran, bent at the waist, past a trellis, along the plain rendered walls. The rough surface brushed the shoulder padding on Henry’s blazer as Sam rounded a corner, ducking out of the late-afternoon sun. At the back door, he reached up, pulled the handle down and eased it open.

  Gun low, he crept in through a porch area, along a row of hooks, past waxed coats and boots, stepping heel first, keeping his torso steady, as though moving on tracks. An open door. He saw a kitchen. Rural in design, like a farmhouse. Blue-and-white porcelain on a shelf, terracotta tiling and a bunch of garlic bulbs hanging over the windowsill. Smelled like mud, and steam.

  A kettle began to whistle on the hob as Sam took a single stride towards the doorway, then froze.

  ‘Give ’em another call.’ A voice, now a person. A slim man with Gregory’s features walked across the kitchen. Max Marston, the final brother, faced the window. He was wearing combat trousers, laced leather boots and a white vest. A long rat-tail at the top of his spine was plaited so tight it reminded Sam of a dressage mane – glossy bulges, packed hair woven into a black rope. Aside from the scalp feeding this, Max was bald. The pale skin on his shoulders and neck was laden with a collage of dark tattoos – lines of scripture, a snake fighting a lion, triple six below the horsehair and, running above his ear, the words ‘Trust no bitch’ in a calligraphic font. Most notable, however, was his physique. Max Marston was extremely underweight – his clothes just rags, his flesh little more than bone.