Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  Previous footage like this, the snippets of him on camera, hood up, head down, iconic features covered with bandages, scars, shade, has all been short, blurred, unreliable. The feral teen who comes from the woods and steals from the bins – he’s an urban legend.

  It continues, flickering forwards on a scale we rarely grasp – days pass first with sweeping shadows, arching suns, tracer stars, pinwheel nights. Weeks make months as seasons shake the trees, kill the leaves, fell that wooden bridge across the water. Time colours the view brown and white and green and back again, slowing finally on our eighth rotation.

  And blinking to another place, here he is, older, transformed, looking right at us. A close-up of all that remains of the missing child’s face. Ethan Clarke fills the entire screen and addresses the camera directly. He tells us a story.

  ‘A sad story.’

  It’s about a boy who runs away from home and stays hidden until fire and age have sufficiently disguised him. He tells us about Diane Marston, who took him in, taught him how to combat the demonic forces that prowl among the good and feast on innocence. They have agents on every street, in every town, in every country on earth. Chances are, he whispers, they’re nesting closer than you’d dare to think. Diane was the only person who understood.

  With her guidance, her answers, it all started to make sense. At fifteen, he lived with her – the Marstons became his new family. They were all kind, he says, and he shakes his head and smiles.

  ‘Even Max.’

  But they did not, he insists, know his true identity and – despite what the news might say – they were good people. North Serpent is not the hateful group depicted in the media. Their motives, like his, are righteous.

  He tells us that, in order to expose the depths of actual malevolence, he must once again employ the Devil’s greatest trick.

  ‘Deception.’

  Perhaps, had he been brave enough, he could have achieved this sooner. And for that, he is truly sorry. He is sorry all this chaos and death and sin have rippled through so many lives. The two families – three if you count Sam’s – utterly destroyed by a single host of this omnipotent darkness. Such is their power. All of it avoidable. If only he’d answered honestly when adults had asked the simplest of questions.

  ‘I’m fine,’ young Ethan would lie. He had feared the truth and its consequences.

  But he doesn’t blame himself and can’t, not even under the watchful gaze of the Lord, regret his actions. The results will justify these devious tactics. All that matters, all that has ever mattered, is that Robin escapes unscathed. His own redemption is simply irrelevant.

  Ethan talks about this sacrifice. He speaks of the books that make an impression on us when we’re small and searching for meaning. When our minds are young. He appreciated the unique value of cameras and the depravity they so often illuminate long before these timeless fables confirmed his suspicions.

  He’d sought solutions in these stories. But Hecate’s torch, her pointing finger, had failed him. It seems these dark arts are not an exact science. Perhaps he was childish to think they were.

  Cameras, however . . . they always work.

  Towards the end, he tells us it might be difficult to watch the following film. The file will transmit in real time to another location. And, if it goes according to plan, there is a very good chance he won’t be around to stop the footage.

  So, there will be some delay. But, once the battery has died, it will publish automatically online. The public domain, a memetic theatre previously filled with a vacuum of half-truths and conspiracy, seems the best place for this video, whatever it unveils.

  And he says a prayer.

  ‘Ultimately, we will lose the fight,’ he adds. ‘You can’t defeat them. But you can shine the light. You can show the world.’

  Once it’s all laid out, he steps away from the lens, exposing a backdrop of woodland. We watch from a camera, lodged in between a thick branch and the trunk of this hazel tree. Another one of Ethan’s all-seeing eyes. Like him, a lot of effort has gone into ensuring it stays hidden.

  There is a clearing. The ground is soft, covered in broken twigs and a shallow layer of yellow leaves. Birds sing in the canopies, flutter down through the sun, through the golden flakes and breeze.

  Everything is in place now.

  He walks across the dirt, over the fallen leaves and checks his watch. He picks up a spade.

  And then, in clear, high-definition clarity, Ethan Clarke begins to dig a grave.

  It was 11 a.m. and the house was quiet. Anna sat at the kitchen table and, having read the emails, absorbed the usual cruelty and kindness, the hollow messages that meant nothing, she had clicked on a link.

  A few short, momentous minutes later, she pushed back her chair, stood and walked across the kitchen tiles, her fingertip stroked along the counter. She stopped, turned to her right – the double doors spread open, the glass gold, heaven’s rays shining. A gentle domestic sound – the wooden wind chimes clattered without rhythm.

  Francis was standing outside on the patio, in the morning sunlight, sipping his coffee and looking out towards the fields at the end of their long, wide garden. Beyond him, beyond the fences, harvest tractors were making stripes in the dry crops, adding dust and depth to the view.

  ‘It’s a lovely day,’ he said, still facing away, swigging from his mug.

  Anna agreed – it was spectacular. Better than she had ever envisaged. There was another sound, a whisper in the distance, were they sirens?

  ‘What were you watching in there?’ he asked.

  ‘A video.’

  Her phone buzzed inside, sliding along the kitchen table. The landline too began to ring.

  Francis’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He took it out. ‘It’s Jeremy,’ he said, turning, frowning at the inexplicable orchestra of tones and bells.

  ‘Answer it.’

  But when he lifted it to his ear, faced the end of the garden again and heard those words, Francis was unable to speak.

  The webcam at the top of Anna’s laptop. Behind the vacant chair, we see the kitchen counter, the Shun-Karyi knife set that cost more than a grand – a gift for Christmas, a gift for Francis. Ergonomic pakkawood handles sticking vertically from the top, each blade set on a small oak plinth above a square marble base. One of the slots is empty.

  Tilting her head, embracing the sky, Anna felt her eyes sting. But there was no reason to cry, no sense in anger. No need for any of this drama. It was a straightforward matter. Calm and nodding to herself, she breathed it all in. This déjà vu – surreal in its clarity. As though, somehow, rehearsed so many times, it had already happened. It was, she realised, simply another routine. One, two, three. Just as she had seen.

  Ethan said it was a sad story. But it can’t be, she thought. Because, if that were true, then how come she was smiling?

  For the first time in these long years, Anna felt the gentle touch of peace. This moment, like every moment, was the end of something else. Because what is now, she thought, if not the very sharpest edge of then?

  Anna remembered medical school – that first surgical demonstration, those precious, irretrievably delicate spinal nerves. So vital they appear to glow in her vision, even through uncut flesh. She knew exactly what she must never do. And, even with the approaching storm, those sirens on the horizon, she had plenty of time to do it. One, two, three. Her steady hands.

  He was right there on the patio, as he always is, and she took three steps towards him, as she always did. She felt the handle on her cardigan sleeve, wood brushing wool. The garden, swaying in the background, the grass alive with morning dew. Every blade was glistening.

  Fantasies rarely retain their promise. But today, it was precisely as she’d imagined. It was just so effortlessly familiar.

  After all, she’d had this dream before.

  Chapter 44

  Ten years pass.

  We see an eighteen-year-old girl sitting alone at the back of a coffee shop,
wearing a dark woollen hat that presses her blonde hair flat against her head – a few strands curl at the brim. Robin Clarke drawing in her sketchbook.

  As she finishes her tea, she checks her watch and turns her attention towards the door. And a person enters. Initially, we can’t see his face but, when he approaches the table, he’s unmistakable. The last decade has altered Daniel Aiden in a number of ways. He has gained some weight – broader shoulders, wrists and neck – and now he fills his clothes. His hair is entirely silver and his face distinguished with new creases – dark eyes remember every smile. Middle age suits him well.

  They greet one another with a kiss on the cheek and a short hug.

  He sets his bag on the ground and unravels his scarf. As he removes his smart, double-breasted jacket, a waitress takes their order. After her departure, we hear that, when they last met, Robin was sixteen years old. She’s taller now, he says, and looks so much like her mother.

  ‘Honestly,’ he whispers, staring at her like she’s some kind of hallucination, something impossible. ‘It’s arresting.’

  The drinks arrive as Robin and Daniel continue to reacquaint themselves – they fill the time between them with compliments, idle commentary about their respective lives and the early spring weather. But there are odd silences in this exchange – a vague reluctance to engage on her part. Though careful not to seem rude, she keeps her syllables low and her questions rare.

  ‘College good?’ he asks.

  ‘Almost finished now.’

  ‘University?’

  She nods, holding her mug with both hands.

  ‘Art?’

  ‘And design.’

  ‘Good for you,’ he says. ‘Really.’

  Robin places her drink on its saucer and looks out of the window.

  ‘Anyway.’ Daniel shuffles in his chair. ‘As discussed – all green-lit and ready to go.’ He pulls a folder from his bag. Having removed a few sheets of paper, he puts his reading glasses on and takes a breath. ‘The hard part is over – now we’ve just got to make the thing.’

  ‘The producer who called – is she coming?’

  ‘I thought it would be best to discuss it with you myself.’

  She turns her head back and faces him again. ‘Am I the star of the show?’

  A smile – Daniel’s eyes are warm. ‘It’ll be a comprehensive film – but, yes, a lot will focus on you. Is that OK?’

  Shrugging, she sighs. ‘I guess.’

  ‘I think it’ll be illuminating. There’s so much people don’t know. We shot a couple of snippets last autumn, they’re online if you want to see. To get the tone.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  ‘We even spoke to Freddie Maguire. Gives quite an insight. Funny, he’s so shy when he’s talking about his football career. But he’ll talk for hours about his father. Sam was . . . well . . . you know.’

  She nods. ‘I know.’

  Daniel clears his throat. ‘Where are you . . . where are you living now?’

  ‘Still at Tom’s.’

  ‘Tom is your . . . boyfriend?’

  ‘We haven’t said it in those terms, but . . .’ Another shrug.

  ‘Would he be comfortable to answer some questions – straightforward, talking-head scenes?’

  ‘I’d rather keep him out of it.’

  ‘That’s cool, absolutely fine.’

  Daniel passes a piece of paper to her, she reads a few sentences. ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘We’ll probably shoot a month with you – on and off.’ He unlocks his phone. ‘I’m away this weekend, but we’re doing some filming around town next Friday – are you free? Down on the bench, near the memorial. We can send a car.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there – it’s not far.’

  ‘Great – two p.m. And, Robin.’ He reaches across the table, but doesn’t quite touch her hand. ‘I am grateful for your involvement – I know it’s hard. But you really are the only good thing in all this.’

  ‘As you said – ten years, seems a milestone.’

  Robin was surprised by the nerves and doubt. Filming wouldn’t be much fun – they would use some of that footage. Plus, although he hadn’t said so, Daniel might want to get shots of her talking to her parents – something she rarely did nowadays.

  Speaking with her mother was a challenge – they had grown apart through her early teens, while Robin lived with Daniel, and things had never been quite the same. There was something cold about her. A distance she did not like. Robin could stare into her eyes and it would be as though no one was looking back – like a face on the television. Clear as day, but not really there.

  In some strange way, despite everything, she found conversations with her dad more straightforward. He might be vilified – guilty of crimes most consider worse than monstrous. But he had never hurt her and he was still, whether she liked it or not, her father. People were horrified to hear that – as though she had any say in the matter. Robin couldn’t choose her family, or the compassion she’d developed in spite of them.

  On their first date, Tom asked how she could even speak to her dad after everything he’d done.

  She knew what he meant, but decided instead to answer the question in practical terms. Maybe she ought to feel guilty for quite liking the simplicity of their relationship. The silence. The tubes. The accordion that breathed for him.

  ‘It’s actually pretty easy,’ she’d said. ‘One blink for yes, two blinks for no.’

  The light was ideal, and Robin spent the rest of that afternoon at home, painting. Having finished a new piece, she took her finest brush, filled a lid with black and dipped the end to a wet point. She rolled her hair over her ear and, near the root of a tree, stroked her first initial. She would sign her work ‘R. Clarke’ and always, without fail, she would sigh.

  Although she would never tell Tom, she often imagined their wedding day. Of course, she was getting ahead of herself – she knew these thoughts were ridiculous and, frankly, embarrassing. But, still, she yearned to smell the ink – to see the words flow from her hands. Clarke meant nothing to her now – certainly nothing good. She wanted his love. She wanted his surname.

  Tom was kind – he didn’t mind her filling his apartment with all her work. She’d commandeered his spare room – an open-plan studio with plenty of space for plenty of mess. It really was perfect. The roof was flat and had a lantern window in the centre which glowed with natural light. Although, now, some of the terrace ivy had spread on to the glass, so dappled grey leaves drifted across the floorboards throughout the day. Robin would chart their journey as she painted and knew that, when the shapes arrived at the desk, there was less than an hour of sun left – depending on the season. And, often, the whole place would flicker with everything flying overhead.

  We see the bench, from a CCTV camera on the corner of an adjacent building. The timestamp ticks, Robin has come early. She sits and waits for Daniel Aiden and his crew, for the documentary filming to commence. This camera has a set pattern – on the left of its axis, it captures the wooden seat and half of the war memorial behind. Then it turns slowly away and looks down the high street. A busy market, tarp canopies flex and ripple, steel stall supports rattle in the breeze – in digital, monochrome silence.

  It stops here for a few seconds, filming the road and, at the very end, the barrier to the beach. And, in reverse, the camera sees it all again and returns to Robin. Now she’s biting her thumbnail and holding her phone. She looks over her shoulder. Her knee bounces. Swivelling once more – towards the beach and kites and pixel windsurfers cutting white lines across the water.

  And, with our final glance, it is 1.50 p.m. and the bench is empty. Robin Clarke, like so many things, is gone.

  We can’t see her. We can’t hear her telling Daniel she’d made a mistake, that she’s spent long enough in front of a lens, in the thoughts and conversations of strangers. Nor can we watch her painting alone in that perfect room, beneath that lantern window, lost in the shadow
of all the birds above.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2019 Kayt Webster-Brown

  Martyn Ford is a journalist and author from the UK. His debut middle-grade children’s book, The Imagination Box, was published by Faber & Faber in 2015 to critical acclaim and went on to become a trilogy. This was followed by 2019’s standalone title, Chester Parsons is Not a Gorilla. This is his first novel for adult readers.