Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  Tender, Julius takes her arm and pulls it on to his lap. He lifts the syringe and flicks it a few times to clear the bubbles.

  Asking once more for forgiveness, he hopes aloud that she will be welcomed into the kingdom. Even if he himself has renounced such mercy. He tells us his soul is a small sacrifice to pay for hers.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he says.

  Then he gently slips the needle into the crease of her elbow and whispers a sweet farewell. With his thumb on the plunger, he begins to press down. But, as though he’s triggered it himself, time coalesces. A noise chiming from the walls and turning his head. It sounds like a doorbell. And it just won’t stop ringing.

  Sam, on the front step, noticed a camera on the doorframe. Reaching up, he used his thumb to carefully press a single print of blood over the lens. He checked his watch and tried the doorbell again and again. Still nothing. He retreated, looked up at the second-storey windows, which, like the others, were covered with metal bars. Strong enough to keep an intruder out, or a prisoner in. Certain he didn’t have the strength to kick through the door, he pulled the pistol from his belt, rested against the frame and placed the barrel on the lock. But a shadow arrived. And the door opened.

  The moment he saw that face, those scars, Sam stood straight and pointed the gun. A dim flash of adrenaline – his remaining blood doing its best.

  ‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘Do it. Now.’

  Julius did as he was told as Sam pressed the Glock into his back and walked him inside.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Tilting his head, Julius glanced upstairs.

  So, Sam seized his collar, holding both the fabric and the gun’s grip with his good hand, and pushed him forwards. ‘Up,’ he yelled. ‘Go.’

  Again, he forced Julius to walk – this time all the way to the second floor.

  On the landing, Sam put him against the wall.

  ‘Stay there, don’t move. Don’t you fucking move.’

  To his left, a door with a latch lock. Stepping backwards, he kept the pistol on his target, who took a quick peep over his shoulder.

  ‘No, face the wall.’

  Sam leaned down and used his broken elbow to lift the small hook.

  The door creaked open.

  Julius stirred. ‘She’ll just . . . drift off . . . ’

  Slowly blinking, dreamy and real, Sam turned towards the room.

  A sleepy child, standing in her pyjamas, was staring up at him.

  For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Robin eyed his wounds, the gun, the sheer state of him – her chin dimpled and quivered. Tears began to flow.

  ‘Hey,’ Sam said. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Go back to bed – he’s a bad man, don’t—’

  ‘Shut up – face the wall. Listen to me, Robin, listen. Run. Run downstairs and outside. Run down the road. Don’t stop running until you see a police car.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I . . .’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s all fine. Just, please, do what I say.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ She gestured to Julius, concerned about his well-being.

  ‘Do it,’ Sam yelled, loud enough to scare her.

  She flinched, and something fell from her sleeve. A short, straight, silver object. Hesitating just once more, she went down the stairs, through the open door and disappeared.

  ‘Get on the floor,’ he said, after she was clear. ‘On the fucking floor.’ Shaking, Julius complied and sank to his knees. ‘Hands.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  In Robin’s room, Sam saw a small tray poking out from under the bed. Two glass bottles, syringes, a needle.

  ‘What were you doing? What were you doing?’

  ‘You’re making a mistake.’

  ‘Show me your hands.’

  Gradually, Julius passed both hands behind his back. Sam holstered the gun in his belt, then took the handcuffs from the raincoat pocket. He closed one ring around Julius’s right wrist, pulled it towards the other and—

  An elbow swung back into Sam’s hip. It happened quickly – in one clean motion, Julius ducked, scrabbled across the floor and grabbed whatever Robin had dropped. It was sharp, like an ice pick. Sam reached for the pistol again as a clenched fist came up hard into the centre of his chest. Winded, he thought he’d been punched. But gasping, glaring, he looked down and staggered. The metal skewer had gone in deep through the cigarette burn – a bullseye.

  ‘What is that?’ Sam wondered, oddly calm in fresh shock, his good arm slack at his side. The pistol fell heavy on to the landing carpet between them.

  They stood, face to face, and both seemed surprised. Before he could flee, Sam grasped Julius by the wrist.

  ‘Get off me.’

  But Sam wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he walked backwards, through the doorway – holding him the whole time. Now they were in the dark, gloomy room. It was warm in here. Smelled of fabric softener. Smelled like Robin.

  Somewhere along the line, Julius had obtained the gun – he was pointing it at Sam’s navel as their feet jostled. ‘Get. Off. Me,’ he said.

  Staring into his eyes, Sam pulled them even closer together, into the raincoat, and used the last of his strength. A quiet clatter and then click-click-click – the remaining cuff ring closed on his own wrist. Now, they were connected. Now, neither of them was going anywhere.

  ‘Your move,’ Sam said.

  ‘Get off, let me go, get off,’ Julius screamed, yanking, tugging Sam’s arm straight, firing again and again into his torso at point-blank range, driving him further into the room.

  Sam fell backwards, on to the bed – dead weight coming easy. He could see a haze of brick dust from the bullet holes in the wall above his head. A broken window whistled, like breeze on a bottle rim.

  Hysterical now, Julius yelled, threw the gun away and snatched the spike from Sam’s chest – stabbing him five, six, seven times, shouting, ‘You don’t know what you’ve done,’ over and over.

  But Sam barely reacted to this ferocity, this violence – as he’d said to Robin, it was fine. It was all fine. As long as she had a good head start. Only the children matter, he thought. Nothing else.

  After a while, the noise seemed to fall silent. He just watched as his arm was stretched up into the air, but Julius wasn’t strong enough to lift him from the mattress. The image reminded him of Freddie, pulling him by the hand – come and play, come and play. But he couldn’t. He was too tired. It’d been a long night.

  Now a rag doll, his body useless, Sam relaxed as Julius searched each pocket. He grabbed his hip and rolled him on to his side; fingers rifled but found nothing.

  Sam blinked. He saw something on the carpet – he was able to tilt his head to read: The All-Seeing Eye. And he remembered. Julius Jacob was the main character. The hero. JJ. A familiar name.

  ‘It was his favourite book,’ Sam whispered.

  Tugged again, flat on his back, he stared up at the desperate man, at his scars and silvered hair.

  ‘Grey . . . Iris . . . she . . . she said you were middle-aged. You dye it that colour, don’t you?’

  ‘Where are the keys?’ He collapsed on to the floor, rested at Sam’s knee – pleading.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘In this light, you . . . you don’t look a day older than eighteen.’

  Here he was, disguised, disfigured – Ethan Clarke, all grown up.

  ‘Oh, kid,’ Sam whispered, liquid streaming from his mouth. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  Again, he tried to raise his head for another glimpse of that face – those eyes, these familiar things. It would be good to see them just one more time. But he couldn’t get even an inch off the bed. Sighing, Sam went limp.

  ‘Wow. Look at that,’ he said – cold goosebumps on numb flesh. ‘Look, Ethan. Can you see them?’

  A thousand birds flocked above him – shifting left, then right, speckled at the edges, like stencilled graffiti. For a while, Sam wondered if they were
real. Was the ceiling actually alive with wings and feathers? He felt his eyelids dip. When they opened again, he followed the pictures down the wall, to the corner of the room. On top of a chest of drawers, he saw a tin. Spray paint. Oh, it was true. The birds really were here. And, as he took his last lungful of this air, Sam squeezed Ethan’s hand, closed his eyes and smiled.

  Chapter 40

  A dark TV studio. Producers, runners, silhouetted figures move amid the shadows. Beyond this bustle, Francis and Anna, starkly lit beneath countless bulbs, are seated on a semi-circle sofa.

  ‘Sixty seconds.’

  There are two large cameras in view – one wheels to the left, passing around a cable taped on the concrete floor. It’s busy behind the lights – people wearing headphones, holding clipboards, adjusting equipment, pointing. Someone fiddles with a teleprompter and the show’s director claps them away.

  ‘Come on, move.’

  The backdrop is an artificial city skyline, a Gaussian blur softens rooftops and clouds. Above this the wall turns industrial grey and, even higher, metal warehouse girders. But, when we move forwards, the chaos behind the scenes, on the left, the right, the top and bottom of the frame, it all shrinks, until a final picture emerges. Spotless carpet, plain sofa, gloss and lights. A contrived set – the product of design.

  Dead centre in this limelight oasis – the people we’re here to see. They’re well dressed. Their faces clean and smooth with foundation. Once again, the Clarkes are ready for the cameras.

  The voice whispered in the muted chill of a most graceful winter. A tap-tap on his cell door. Francis had thought: this is it. A murder charge awaited. The time had come. But, in fact, there was a call for him. It was Jeremy.

  No greeting, no hello, no phatic pleasantries to warm him up. Just three sublime words.

  ‘They found her.’

  Francis didn’t smile – rather he opened his mouth and turned his head to the ceiling, as though catching snowflakes.

  Formalities wrapped themselves up quite fast – he went from killer to victim at the flick of a switch.

  When Jeremy – cool, suave, handsome Jeremy – arrived, Francis held out his hands and shrugged.

  ‘I never doubted it,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘Come here.’ Francis strode forwards, grabbed him by the neck and planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

  They left through a fire exit in the prison’s east wing. Jeremy carried Francis’s bag, his own briefcase, and walked ahead. He clunked the door bar, pushed it open and let delicate daylight fall into the drab corridor. Breathing, Francis stepped outside – a free man. Innocent, exonerated Francis.

  Across the parking lot, they stopped beneath a swaying birch tree – its speckled bone branches, still thick with summer green, began to rattle. And, as though a gift from Mother Nature herself, the breeze plucked a single leaf. It fell, spinning, and caressed the air near his hand. Autumn. Francis knew what followed these amber days.

  ‘How’s the tooth?’ Jeremy asked, opening the boot, placing the bags inside.

  ‘Feels much better,’ Francis said – his blood still soft.

  He climbed into the back seat, rubbed his dry hands with moisturiser, then checked the time on his phone. A little under three hours until his next pills. Today he was celebrating, so he’d call it two hours and a double dose. Perhaps he was hooked on these chemical distractions – but, then again, so what? Addiction is only a problem with diminished supplies. Hunger only a concern for the poor. Francis would be able to indulge himself with every sensory delight the world had to offer. All the things that make life worth living surely hinge on freedom.

  And yet, amid this triumph and relief, Francis still felt the weight of guilt in his stomach. As he had done as a child. Relentless persecution takes its toll. It was, he thought, the logical destination for victims of any injustice. Because when you’re attacked with sufficient frequency, sufficient severity, sooner or later you’ll start to wonder if – in some way – you deserve it.

  But, despite countless hours spent crying alone, in a cell, in his bed, in a high-school toilet, racking his brain, asking this very question, he was unable to find a single reason why that might be so.

  This made today’s absolution feel hollow, maybe even temporary.

  However, with a firm nod to himself, Francis decided there and then that it was over. Never again would he allow himself to think like that. He did not deserve this cruelty. And he would reclaim the happiness and joy the world owed him.

  Jeremy drove out through the side gate and, turning down the road, had no choice but to pass along the front of the building – mere metres from the press. There were hundreds of cameras – the car strobing as they picked up speed. With a smile, Francis bid farewell to that sprawling complex of walls and wire.

  ‘Tell me about these people,’ he said.

  ‘North Serpent is a . . . like a hardcore Christian Identity group. It’s all quite sketchy at the moment, but they’re saying it’s somehow connected.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Very. Set up by a woman called Diane Marston,’ Jeremy said, approaching a corner, checking his mirrors.

  ‘They arrested her?’

  ‘Well, they would.’ He indicated to turn, looked both ways. ‘But she’s dead. Whole family killed yesterday. Pretty much a massacre.’

  ‘I see.’

  Of course, Francis was curious, but he was in no rush for these answers. All that mattered was that Robin was safe and he was vindicated. The elaborate schemes to tarnish him had, for whatever reason, failed. And quite right too.

  ‘The detective, Isabelle Lewin.’ Jeremy stopped at traffic lights, catching his eye in the mirror again. ‘She’s looking into it. Links to the Clarke Foundation?’

  ‘Still seems unlikely,’ Francis said. ‘But she’s welcome to try.’

  They were able to use a staff entrance at Hallowfield General Hospital. Still, two photographers with long lenses had it covered. Francis pretended not to notice as they clicked away.

  Inside, he saw Anna from behind, standing at the foot of Robin’s bed – she was clutching the frame, her knuckles clenched white. As she turned, she covered her mouth and began to cry hysterically. He held her against his shoulder and stroked her hair, weaving his fingers through the curls.

  Sweet Robin was asleep.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Anna mumbled into his collar.

  ‘It’s OK. It’s over.’

  Francis touched her neck, feeling the skin Daniel had kissed. Gently, he placed his lips on the exact spot and, in his imagination, smelled him on her. Now was not the time to bring it up. Maybe it would be something he never mentioned. Admitting that he knew was, in turn, confessing to his own distrust – although, as he’d suspected at the time, the ends justified the breach in privacy. Her grip was strong – beautiful Anna clawed at his clothes, desperately bundling herself into his chest, as though she couldn’t get close enough. It wasn’t just anguish. It was remorse. This crazed affection would disappear if he asked her about Daniel now. Forgetting what he’d seen was not an option, but perhaps he could pretend to forgive her. Like he had done so many times before.

  ‘I knew,’ she whispered. ‘I knew it wasn’t true.’

  Smiling, Francis nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Over Anna’s shoulder, he looked at his daughter, sleeping soundly in the hospital bed. Her eyelids flickered with a dream – Francis hoped it was a nice one. Sweet little dreams for sweet little Robin.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve sedated her, but she’s fine.’

  Rolling news now. Nothing better than a drip-fed story. Something they can talk about for hours on end. All day, all night. Boundless speculation.

  ‘As details continue to emerge, we’re joined in the studio by Detective Chief Inspector Phil Webber, who led the investigation into Robin Clarke’s disappearance.’ The reporter turns at the desk as the camera zooms out to reveal his guest. ‘I suppose now the question has t
o be: how did you get it so wrong?’

  ‘The investigation is still ongoing but, yes, it is clear mistakes were made.’

  ‘And the suspect, Julius Jacob, what is known about him?’ The screen cuts to that e-fit, and we see how poor it really is – capturing the scars, the hair, but little else.

  ‘Not a great deal at present.’ Phil clears his throat. ‘The operation at the property, where it is understood Robin was kept, may take some days.’ We see footage of the house, set in tall trees along Wrenwood Common’s western track. It’s a soot ruin now, flanked by white tents. The second floor is partially collapsed – brick walls are all that remain – fire has torn everything else to ash. Everything besides the metal bars – some of which have survived and protrude from the scorched frame like curved fence spikes, claws warped in the heat. The blaze has singed surrounding plant life, creating a black clearing in the woods. ‘I’m afraid it is too early to formally identify the remains inside.’

  ‘And the connections to so-called North Serpent?’

  ‘Again, the investigation is complex and we’re working with colleagues to establish the sequence of events that led to the Marston killings.’

  ‘What about the speculation that this is related, at least in some way, to the disappearance of their son, almost a decade ago? Part of the justification for arresting Mr Clarke was, as I understand, built on the assumption that lightning does not strike twice.’

  ‘As I say, we . . . we’re looking into every possibility. No stone is being left unturned. The reality is Robin is home, safe, and all charges against Mr Clarke have been dropped.’

  ‘We’ll have to leave it there.’ The camera pans away from Phil and centres on the reporter again. ‘And, of course, later in the programme we will bring you that exclusive interview with Anna and Francis Clarke.’

  For the second time, Francis met Isabelle Lewin at the Hallowfield Criminal Investigation Department. She took him into a quiet office and offered him a drink. He asked for water. It was cold and he squeezed the flimsy plastic cup, reminiscing about the dismal hours he’d spent in situations like this, unable to leave. Now, should he feel the urge, he could stand up and walk out. He hoped never again to enter a room without such liberty at his disposal. It had been a humbling way to learn that his worst fear was not shame, or pain, or even death – but the confines of a cage.