Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  Ethan lunged, grabbed him by his jacket collar, dragged and shoved and Francis stumbled and fell into the hole. He turned, his back against the mud wall. Dirty fingers up. Trembling.

  The barrel was aimed at his head as the scarred creature stalked round to the top of the grave.

  ‘I’m sorry – God, please, I am sorry.’ Francis pleaded with his empty hands.

  The face was distressing when it smiled. The scar tissue like flayed flesh, raw, exposed muscle fibres that might start bleeding at any moment. Difficult to read, but it seemed Ethan was trying to offer comfort.

  ‘I forgive you,’ he said, looking down at him. Tender compassion – a superior reassurance. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘No . . . I . . .’

  ‘You don’t even realise – that’s what’s so scary about them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘You have a demon inside you.’

  Fuck, Francis thought, now certain he was dealing with madness. But he nodded and stood upright in the ground, the leaves at his elbows. ‘Yes.’

  ‘They taught me how it works.’

  ‘Who?’ Keep talking, keep him talking. ‘The church? North Serpent?’

  ‘She doesn’t like that name any more.’

  ‘Diane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that where you went, to live with her?’

  ‘Eventually. When I was bigger.’

  ‘Did . . . did she know who you were? Tell me what happened. Tell me.’

  ‘No. I . . . I had to lie. I had . . .’ Ethan blinked and sniffed – one wet eye formed a tear. It fell before he could wipe it away.

  ‘Who did that to your face?’ The question seemed obvious – and silence answered for him. ‘You did it to yourself . . .’

  ‘My photo was everywhere.’

  ‘But . . . what did you eat, where did you sleep?’

  ‘Lots of places. I used my survival skills. Diane, she owns land. Woods. A cave. A lake. I found her website when I researched the Devil. He is everywhere.’

  ‘You hid the doll in the tree? Pointed it at the house? Her torch exposes evil, doesn’t it?’

  ‘The internet said it would fix you. But it didn’t. You were still possessed.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘You changed.’ He showed teeth as he jutted the gun. ‘It was instant. I remember when you became cruel. You took me to the shops, we had milkshakes. I had a doctor’s appointment. And then the way you looked at me was never the same again. That was the day it happened.’

  ‘If it’s true then I don’t deserve . . . no one should die like this.’

  ‘It’s the only way to be sure. I’ve tried everything else.’ Standing above him, Ethan lifted the barrel once more. Took aim. Then averted his eyes. This was it.

  ‘No, don’t. Look. Look at me. Ethan. Please.’

  ‘I just can’t let you do it . . . not to her.’

  ‘I won’t,’ desperate Francis screamed. ‘I promise. I promise. I promise I won’t.’

  Again, Ethan seemed to refill with strength to shout, ‘You hurt me, countless other children but not Robin? Give me one good reason to believe that.’

  ‘It’s . . . I . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I would never hurt Robin . . . I would never hurt Robin . . . because she . . . she is my daughter.’

  ‘And I’m your son,’ Ethan’s voice rose at the end – a screech of despair.

  But Francis tilted his head, felt his eyebrow move mere millimetres. Just enough to seed doubt.

  And in that very moment, Ethan’s faith, his certainty, his mad theories and juvenile confusion began to collapse.

  There was no need to actually say it. In fact, Francis realised, he never even had. But perhaps this terrestrial explanation might be his ticket out of this grave.

  ‘No, Ethan,’ he whispered. ‘You’re not.’

  ‘Stop . . .’ Crumbling Ethan tried to maintain his aim. But he was weak. ‘Stop lying.’

  ‘The doctor’s appointment . . . you remember.’ Nod him back there. ‘They swabbed your cheek.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘They took your saliva.’

  The DNA test had seemed like a moment of fleeting insanity, something Francis expected to feel ridiculous about when recalled. How had he been so paranoid? Anna’s dishonesty, her fucking treachery, was all in his head. Surely it was all in his head. Just like she promised.

  But when he saw the results it was like every wretched, nasty, spiteful thing anyone had ever said to him was suddenly true. A laughing stock. The fucking lies. That stupid fucking whore and this disgusting little shit he’d been raising as his own.

  The entire ordeal seemed to unleash something within him. A delicate, delightful blend. Some beautiful, endlessly cathartic middle ground between lust and hate.

  ‘Who . . . who is . . . ?’

  Again, Francis let answers dance alone in the silence.

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘He and your mother . . . they . . .’

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘You were punishing me. Does it help – passing on the pain? Giving it to someone else?’

  A full, honest confession. Is this what it was going to take? ‘When you disappeared . . . Daniel came back . . . It’s . . . it’s a coping mechanism. It’s that simple. I’m selfish. I am precisely what you say I am. I am a monster. But Ethan, you’re not . . . You can’t kill me. If you do this, then you’re as bad as they are.’ Yes. It was working. He was deflating. ‘I’ll turn myself in. Come on, let’s go home. Mummy and Button have missed you.’

  There was a pathetic glint of excitement. As though, with a face like that, normality was possible. Francis had him though, so he didn’t break character.

  ‘I need help,’ he said as he moved to the edge, hands always in sight. ‘You can help me.’

  ‘You’ll tell the truth.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Slowly, carefully, Francis climbed out. ‘You’re good.’ Kneeling. ‘You’re a good person.’ On one knee. ‘I can see that.’

  Ethan stepped back, hesitating, his grip slack now as Francis gradually rose to his feet, advancing at a steady pace.

  ‘You . . .’

  ‘That’s it . . . calm down.’ Side on, like approaching an animal. ‘Let’s put all this behind us.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Easy. Just . . .’

  And he sniffed, breathed and finally lowered the gun.

  Quickly, but not too quickly, Francis leaned down and eased it from his fingers.

  ‘Did you dig this all by yourself?’ He put the pistol in his jacket pocket.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Come here.’ Just like the feeble embrace from his mother, he came forwards, into open arms, and cried on Francis’s shoulder. ‘Hey, hey, it’s OK.’ He grabbed the back of Ethan’s head. ‘It’s over now. It’s over.’

  ‘I wanted . . .’ Ethan whimpered. ‘I wanted them to know you were bad. I wanted to keep Robin safe. I was trying to be clever.’

  ‘And you were. Planting blood. Picking locks. Leaving no other evidence. And you hid all this time. You are so smart – much smarter than me, that’s for sure. You’ve certainly got your father’s genes there.’ He hugged him close, held him tight – his mouth at the rubbery ear. ‘Who shall we tell? Huh? Who shall we tell?’

  Lifting his head, Ethan paused for a moment – their cheeks just touching. ‘Everyone,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good boy.’ Now it was a single-armed hug. A proud hug. ‘What say we clean all this up and head back to the car, hey?’

  ‘Yes . . . I would like that.’

  Francis should have done this years ago.

  ‘But, on the other hand.’ He looked past Ethan, through the trees, through the golden leaves falling in the sunlight. ‘As I always say . . . it’d be a real shame to waste such a lovely hole.’

  Teeth together, he drove the pistol into Ethan’s chest, poi
nted up and pulled the trigger twice. The sound was drier than he expected – like a baseball bat hitting a sandbag, a muffled thud. Ethan slumped, heavy on his shoulder, and Francis shoved him off. Falling backwards, he flopped against the side of the grave, rolling down, his arms limp, dragging some loose earth on top of his clothes.

  Francis wiped the gun clean and threw it into the ground, along with Ethan’s jumper, bunched up at the base of a nearby tree. The dirt didn’t take long to shovel – he swept a lot of it straight off the pile. When it was all filled in, he brushed the ground with his foot and picked up a handful of leaves, twigs and dried mulch, which he spread over the low mound. You could hardly see it.

  Then he checked the area, but felt confident that necessary precautions had already been made. Ethan wouldn’t have lured him here without a clear plan of action. Even as a child, he was remarkably intelligent – sometimes worryingly so. He would have tidied the scene and prepared it well for murder. The grave too was sufficient in depth, the trees provided good cover and the ground would erode all footprints within the day.

  As for the spade – the last thing left, Francis rubbed it down and, on the long walk back to the car, javelined it over the quarry fence. A distant splash – like a perfect full stop.

  He took a couple more pills, then, after the three-mile hike, washed and creamed his hands in the visitor-centre toilets. Even before the drugs entered his bloodstream, he felt wonderful.

  At some of his lower moments, Francis had been concerned his habits might come to light. Not from Ethan – evidently, he would sooner push his own face into flames than tell another soul – but by some other means. Something for which he couldn’t account. He’d hoped for the simpler of the two scenarios – that Ethan was dead. It had niggled at him – never to the extent of Anna’s obsession, but the not knowing had become a low-level anxiety Francis couldn’t shake. Like the pay-outs, the legal fees, the odd kick to the jaw and a manageable dependency on opiates, it was just another thing he had to cost. But now even that was gone.

  Although jubilant, he was not made of stone, and there could well be fear in him if he were to go searching. However, it was overshadowed by immense satisfaction and closure.

  Along with the hard work and sacrifice of good old honest Sam Maguire – Ethan had inadvertently orchestrated what might just be an ideal scenario. An attentive wife, riddled with fitting repentance, Daniel’s cuckoo genes cleansed from the earth and, perhaps most incredible of all, Francis was now the mainstream media’s very own darling. Ethan Clarke. The gift that keeps on giving.

  Back in his car, Francis checked the mirror and cleaned his face. He licked the edge of a tissue, dabbed a small streak of mud from his temple, then looked at himself for a while. More than once he had been told his pale eyes – blue, if a colour at all – resembled those of an Arctic dog. Maybe a husky. But no. Francis was a wolf. Only now, thanks to fate’s kind hand, he was dressed head-to-toe in exquisite, priceless wool. And it felt so fucking good on his skin.

  Chapter 42

  ‘ . . . because she still lived at the castle,’ Francis read quietly – a bedtime-story whisper. He held the picture book on his lap, looking at Robin from time to time. ‘And every night, when the drawbridge was up and the shutters were down, she would tiptoe to the stables.’ He acted this out with two fingers, which he turned into legs – he walked them down the cover and she smiled. ‘Down and down the stone staircase, round and round the spiral column, through and through the secret tunnel. At the front of the castle, she sat in her saddle and looked to the mountains. “Where have they gone?” asked Ruby. “Are the giants coming back?” “No,” said Emerald, her hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles. “They’re in their caves now.”’ He turned a page. ‘“What are they doing?” “Why, my darling diamond, they’re sleeping.”’ And Francis gently closed the book and placed it on the carpet by his feet.

  Robin stared up at him, holding her one-eyed teddy which, having previously outgrown, she returned to now for comfort. Passing her fingers over the bear’s limp ear, she held her hand near her mouth. Francis could tell she was tempted to suck her thumb, but she resisted the urge.

  ‘How tall is a giant?’ she asked.

  ‘Very. Even bigger than me.’

  He bent down and placed a kiss on her warm cheek. Like the last few nights, she wrapped her small arm around his neck and held him for a couple more seconds than normal.

  Flat on the mattress again, she sighed and glanced across her bedroom. ‘Julius was a bad man, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘But, when I was there, he was mostly kind.’

  ‘He was just pretending. You don’t need to worry about him any more.’

  ‘He said he would keep me safe.’

  ‘Sadly, sweetheart, he was lying.’

  This was idle, tired chatter – she was just thinking aloud.

  ‘Will you keep me safe?’ Robin asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Francis said, tapping her nose. ‘But only if you promise to do exactly what I say.’

  Head on pillow, eyes shut, she smiled again. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good girl.’ Her knee was protruding from the covers – Francis slid it back into the warmth. Then he stroked her hair, pulled the duvet up over her shoulders and tucked her in. ‘As snug as a bug in a rug.’

  He clicked her night light on, pulled her door to and, humming quietly to himself, went to his own room.

  Later, in their en suite, still humming, he took his trousers off then washed his face. Anna was already there, brushing her teeth at the right-hand sink. Three scrubs, change angle, three scrubs, change angle. Rinse the bristles, then three knocks on the china to flick off excess water. Like clockwork.

  ‘You’re in a good mood,’ she said, holding back her fringe, spitting a mouthful of white dribble. Anna turned on the tap and leaned over – three quick slurps.

  ‘Don’t rinse,’ Francis said. He hung his towel on the hook. ‘I read that it’s better for your teeth to leave some toothpaste behind. And better for your breath.’

  Tiny little sparkles of pain on her face – delicious. He lived for those glimmers. The subtle ones were, by far, the best.

  Her punishment required nuance and guile. This was a marathon, not a sprint. A war of attrition. Not that there was any sport in it nowadays. Anna was still a gibbering wreck most of the time – her routines hadn’t improved since Robin’s return. If anything, they’d been exacerbated. Perhaps the trauma was permanent. But, as with her shame, this only made his life easier.

  A curious reverie arrived as he flicked on the bedside lamp and unclasped his watch. Perhaps he was emboldened by this new level of violence – as though it had stirred another dormant impulse. He imagined killing Daniel. And Francis knew now, without question, that he was capable – should such a thing become necessary, or sufficiently enticing. There’s a word for the man who decides who lives and who dies.

  Anna was already lying down, facing his side of the room. Her thick curls were in a bun and she was wearing her silk dressing gown over a top and her pyjama bottoms.

  ‘You shouldn’t wear it in bed.’

  ‘I just get so cold recently.’

  Francis waited. And then it happened. Anna tutted, sat up and removed the expensive lilac gown. It landed in a pile on the floor and he stomached his disgust. Of all the absurdities found in obsessive compulsions, Anna still managed to neglect tidiness and order. She couldn’t even do mental illness properly.

  He climbed into bed, showing her his back.

  Unlocking his mobile, he felt the mattress creak as she nestled into him, kissing his neck once – for affection and probably warmth too. She would get none.

  With sufficient body heat stolen, Anna moved to her side of the bed and took her phone. The futile ritual continues, Francis thought. Refresh every means of communication three times.

  When she had finished, she faced him again.

  ‘Do you remember the beach?’ he said, sl
iding his phone under his pillow. He rolled on to his back and let Anna rest her head on his biceps.

  ‘The beach?’ she asked, rubbing his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, when you told me you were pregnant.’ Warm sea. So warm you can hardly feel it. The same temperature as blood. Warm sea and beautiful Anna.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That was one of the best moments of my life.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Francis squeezed her hand.

  ‘Me too. I thought about our family . . . I thought we would be . . .’ She sighed. ‘It was so nearly perfect.’

  A flawless circle – the happiest day of their lives all the way round to now. Glorious, cold Ethan.

  ‘You know . . . Isabelle was asking about Daniel the other day. She seemed to think you guys might . . . well.’

  ‘Oh, Francis. We don’t need to retread all that.’

  ‘No, no . . . I . . . I wanted to say . . . you always told me I had to let it go. I feel like, now, I really can. I trust you, Anna. I should have been able to say this a long time ago. Nothing could come between us. I know you’d never, ever do anything like that. I shouldn’t have accused you. It’s like all that ugliness in the past is gone. Buried. I’m so, so sorry I ever doubted our relationship.’

  He reached up and turned his lamp off – the room was dark, lit by the faint strip of Robin’s night light coming through their door, open just an inch or so. They’d spent thousands on new home security, but Anna still refused to let him close it. But that was fair enough. Who knows what terrors might be lurking out there?

  If Francis could have his quirks, Anna could have hers.

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he whispered, with all the glee she’d never see. ‘We’re going to be fine.’

  Chapter 43

  Back to that image at the side of the river, now the golden water is overcast grey – flowing away in stop-motion increments. Low resolution, low-frame rate. It is clear we have shifted back in time – the mill wheel turns, the fallen tree is old, but now it stands on the bank. And, from the bottom of the frame, we see a child. A small boy, with his hood up over his head and a rucksack strapped to his back. He follows the water that, miles from here, feeds a lake, overlooked by a cave we’ve seen before. In the eyes of a child trying to hide, it could be considered ideal.