The Final Child

by Fran Dorricott

  There was a gig on at The Rock, the cheapest – and only – live music venue in Arkney, and only passable if you didn’t value your eardrums. It was a small pub off the beaten track, a squat building that didn’t fit with the old-fashioned village vibe of the rest of Arkney. Instead it had only one big window at the front, and a dark, sweaty, smoky room in the back. Even despite the smoking ban, it still seemed to reek of stale cigarettes. It was the kind of place where the spilled-beer smell stuck to you, even after a shower. Where you came home with random bruises from strangers’ elbows and chewing gum stuck to your shoes.

  I loved it.

  It was so far removed from the safety of my little terrace house that I often came here after a bad day, at least until recently. The noise was amplified by a hundred when they had live bands on; the room was too small, the speakers too big. The sound blocked everything else out until all that was left was darkness and white noise.

  The band tonight was one I hadn’t seen before, and normally I wouldn’t stay to watch. But tonight I wasn’t there for the music. I just needed oblivion, to get away from the niggling voice at the back of my mind. The one I’d been ignoring all week. Maybe longer.

  I ordered a drink from the barmaid who always seemed to serve me. She didn’t say anything as she slid over a double rum and Coke, just gestured to her watch, which I knew meant Monica was meant to show later. They were friends. I felt my stomach tumble.

  I hadn’t spoken to her in over a month. We’d called it off. Or, rather, she had. As far as I’d been concerned it was only casual anyway, and I’d always made that clear. Somehow things had got all tangled up, though. She said I was too distant, too hard to read. I’d never been in it for the long haul. I never talked about my family, didn’t have enough friends outside of work. I was stuck in my ways… And she, obviously, was perfect.

  I knew it was a bad idea to wait for her tonight. Either we’d end up getting into a steaming row in front of everybody – or I’d end up going home with her. And both of those were bad. But I didn’t want to be alone, so I took my drink to the back room and waited.

  The band were already setting up and a small crowd had formed.

  I sat at the back of the room on a table, my feet propped on a chair that was tucked underneath. I sipped my drink and patiently waited for the room to fill, occupying myself with the general din of people having a good time.

  I settled back, relaxing against the cool wall and letting the alcohol buzz settle over me. It was just a Monday. Could be any other Monday.

  I was on my second drink and the band had started by the time she showed up. She was beautiful in an effortless sort of way. I took in her golden-brown skin, eyes lined with day-old kohl, her dark hair that was braided and cut differently than when I’d last seen her, and felt a familiar thrill. I tried to look away, but I knew she’d seen me.

  I hadn’t dressed up, just wore my usual work wear of leggings and a t-shirt, but she looked stunning. She wore a skin-tight little green dress, her arms adorned with orange bangles. This wasn’t a thing any more, I repeated to myself, even as she headed straight for me, a beer in one hand and a rum in the other.

  “Hey. El said you were here.”

  She met my gaze for a second, as if daring me. I felt the pulse of the music in my ribcage, and thought again of my empty house. Tomorrow I would be brave again, but tonight I needed help. She was as willing to make this mistake as I was.

  I took the drink.

  We watched the band until the end of the first set, both pretending that we were just friends, that there was innocence in tonight’s meeting. I knew that Monica thought it was a bad idea too – saw it in the way she checked her phone repeatedly, flicking the home screen on and off. But in the end we both knew it was going to happen. And we both wanted it to.

  We left just as the band started up again, their heads swaying to a mistimed guitar riff. Monica’s car was older than mine, a beat-up green Ford, but I liked it. She cranked the heating up full as we peeled out of the car park and drove to her house, a small semi-detached she shared with a flatmate – absent tonight – and a cat. I didn’t like cats, but I’d always made an exception for Monica’s fluffy tabby, Savage.

  We tumbled into Monica’s bedroom, throwing aside shirts and socks and pants and bras with abandon. The rum was good, the night was cool, the silky sheets cooler still. Monica’s tongue was like electricity, sparking life back into my skin. Her breath was hot, her fingers cold, the rhythmic movement of our bodies an exorcism of the ghosts of the night.

  Afterwards, she offered me a cigarette. Her brown skin seemed to glow in the light that filtered in from the street lamps. We lit up and the air above us quickly became wispy and sort of grey.

  “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “And it doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”

  “I know that too.”

  She rolled over and propped herself up. “Are you kidding me? You’re not even gonna ask if I wanted to?”

  “You were very clear last time I saw you. I’m not girlfriend material.”

  “This doesn’t bother you at all?” she prompted.

  I shrugged. Already the memories were creeping in, the distant buzz of the rum fading. I realised that I felt just as hollow and irritable as before. And I still had to go home to my empty house.

  “This was a bad idea,” I said. I stubbed the cigarette out angrily in her ashtray. I wasn’t angry at her, just myself for thinking it would work.

  “You’re too damn right.” She shook her head. “What’s got into you tonight?”

  “I’m sorry.” I sighed. “Look, I’m going to go. I’m sorry about all of this – and before. I’ll call you later, if you want. I have some stuff I have to do tonight.”

  Monica said nothing, just watched me underneath heavy eyelids as I got dressed quickly, shoving my feet into my shoes with more force than necessary.

  “I’ll call you,” I said again.

  “Please, don’t.”

  * * *

  Monica’s house wasn’t far from The Rock, which I was grateful for. A fifteen-minute walk was enough to drag me the rest of the way to sober without feeling like I needed another drink to reward the effort. Why had I let myself lash out like that? It wasn’t me. I was usually so good at being normal. Sure, I got sad this time of year, but that was understandable. Some people knew I’d lost my brother – they just didn’t know how, and I was good at encouraging them not to ask. But most people never knew, and that was fine by me. It meant I could pretend nothing had ever happened.

  The trick-or-treaters were long gone now, all tucked up in bed. I lit a cigarette and stood beside my car for a moment, smoking in the darkness. The street lamps made everything look like melted gold, but my mind focused on the shadows. How big they were, how deep. They seemed to hold multitudes. I pulled my jacket tighter.

  I’d been feeling antsy for days. The anniversary had crept up on me, insidious. It felt like something was behind me, like eyes on the back of my neck. It was absolutely ridiculous, given that I was as safe and well-adjusted as I’d ever been. I had a good thing going, a job I enjoyed, coworkers I could definitely manage to tolerate. There was nobody out there taunting me from the shadows. The Father was dead and nobody even really knew who I was. I had no reason to be antsy.

  And taking all of that out on Monica had, as I’d thought, been a stupid bloody idea.

  I shivered and climbed into my car. Tomorrow would be a long day after a sleepless night. As I pulled out of the car park I made sure to double check the shadows either side of the road, locking my car doors just in case.

  EXCERPT

  Jeremy & Michael Taylor

  Abducted: Lincoln, 3 July 1994

  Two days before Michael (6) and Jeremy (4) were abducted from their home in Lincoln their mother took them to the zoo. Jem loved the zoo – the monkeys especially. He said they were like his older brother Mikey, who liked
swinging from ropes and bars at the playground.

  “They had such a good day,” their mother, my aunt, remembers. “It was the first time we’d been that year, but usually we went to Twycross a few times through the summer, and the boys absolutely loved it. I think there was a new activity trail, and we didn’t stop all morning.”

  Her face clouds as she recalls what came next.

  “I like to remember what they enjoyed,” Auntie Sue says. “Like how Jem used to make those silly bracelets out of beads and thread for his toys. He made them for us, too, but the toys got the best beads, the best thread. I like to think about the good stuff. It helps me to stop thinking about – the other parts. Afterwards. Like I love to remember how Jem always, always smelled like chocolate. Didn’t matter whether he’d just had a bath, or been playing football with your Uncle Greg. He could have been swimming in the ocean and he’d still smell like chocolate.

  “The boys used to watch TV together on the weekends. They played tag on the street most nights. They were running around playing tag at the zoo that day, while we ate our lunch. Jem fell and Mikey, bless him, picked his brother up and carried him back over to me going shh, shhh the whole time. It was adorable.”

  I try to only think of Michael and Jeremy smiling, happy, playing tag and laughing at monkeys.

  Sometimes it’s hard.

  THREE

  1 NOVEMBER 2016

  Harriet

  I TOOK MY MEAGRE information to the detective my aunt and uncle had mentioned. Her name was Godfrey. She agreed to meet me for a quick coffee on my lunch break so I could explain what I’d found. I hadn’t really asked permission from Sharon for the long lunch, but she did it more often than she should as well, and I knew she was in a manager’s meeting which would probably run over into the early afternoon.

  I fought an unfamiliar, nervous energy as we both sat down, the detective giving me a polite handshake.

  “Two children,” I said when Godfrey gave me the go-ahead. “Siblings, like all the others. They’re in the right age range, seven and nine. The right sort of location, not far from the others. And it happened around the right time, just a year before my cousins.”

  Detective Godfrey steepled her fingers. She was in her fifties, with curly brown hair that she’d scraped back into a bun. It was hard to tell from her face what she thought of my hunch, but the first thing she’d said when she met me was, “Ah yes, you were the journalist.”

  “I had a look before I came out to meet you,” Godfrey said now. “But these boys were reported missing in the spring. All of the other abductions happened during the summer or autumn.”

  “Yes, but this might have been the first time, right? Perhaps not everything was the same. Jillian and Alex were as late as October, so an early abduction isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”

  “They had both also run away before.” Godfrey dumped some more sugar into her coffee and stirred it.

  “Well, yes,” I said calmly. “I saw in the paper that they were runaways, but other things fit, don’t they? They were last seen at night, their bodies weren’t found. No clues or other evidence.”

  “They weren’t biological siblings, either,” Godfrey added. It felt like she was one step away from counting my failings on her fingers, a list of all the reasons my theory didn’t fit. “One boy was from Birmingham, one from Manchester. They’d both run from group homes and fosters before.”

  Her tone confirmed her lack of conviction. She had the same information I did, but clearly we had different interpretations. Where she saw holes, I saw possibilities. The detective glanced at her watch, casually.

  “I know. I know they weren’t blood relations – they had different surnames and that’s why I didn’t connect them right away, because I’m sure I’ve probably seen information about them before – but they were still living in the same house, sharing a bedroom. And I know they’d run away before, but they weren’t found this time,” I explained. “The other times the boys turned up, not very long after they’d run away, but this time they just disappeared. As if somebody had taken them.”

  “I’m not denying there might have been some foul play, but the Father took his victims right from their beds.” Godfrey shook her head. “Both together, at night. There’s no proof here that these boys did anything but leave the house of their own free will and then get into some trouble later.”

  “Can you at least look into it? Just… confirm I’m not right? They were last seen somewhere in Staffordshire, I think, on the border. The article mentioned a bus station or something?”

  “Yes.” Godfrey softened a little. “Of course, we’ll have a look at the old footage from the bus station, double check everything. I know the fact that it was only a year before your cousins were taken makes the timing seem right here, but often with these things there are any number of ways of looking at the facts. These boys were out on their own, in the middle of the night, with no money or transport. It doesn’t mean there’s a connection. But I’ll look into it. Obviously I can’t make any promises, but I do appreciate the time you’ve taken to talk to me.”

  And that was it. It was out of my hands. I’d achieved all I could – at least as far as official tracks were concerned. But there was still something niggling at me about the whole thing.

  Handing it over to the police had made me feel worse, not better. Like now it was out of my control.

  But maybe there was something I could do about that.

  I had new interviews lined up with a few of the parents over the next few weeks, to catch up and go over their original chapters. I wanted to start pulling the interviews into something real and book-shaped, and I wondered if any of them might have anything they wanted to add.

  Now maybe it was time to talk to Amanda Chambers and her daughter. In the beginning, when I first started working on the book, I hadn’t had much luck with either of them. Mrs Chambers had said she wasn’t in a very good place, and didn’t feel comfortable talking to anybody she didn’t know. I hadn’t pushed it. And, I realised, I’d been reluctant to talk to her daughter anyway, so it had felt like fate had somehow intervened.

  It had been years, so perhaps I’d have better luck this time. I found Mrs Chambers after a good bit of digging. She answered my call on the third ring and, much to my surprise, didn’t immediately put the phone down. I arranged to see her after I finished work – at her suggestion. It wasn’t lost on me that yesterday had marked the anniversary of her daughter’s escape, but if anything that seemed to make Mrs Chambers more willing to talk.

  I headed straight there from the office, found the house and sat in my car staring out into the dim evening. It was getting late. Almost seven. I was surprisingly nervous.

  Eventually I managed to drum up enough courage. I stepped into the cold night, smoothing down my wild hair, patting at my shirt, tucking it into my dark jeans. Mrs Chambers met me at the door; she had bottle-blonde hair, pronounced crow’s feet at her eyes, and a warm if apprehensive smile.

  “Miss Murphy, right?” she said.

  She let me in, then led me into a small lounge with a tiny inglenook fireplace.

  “Do you want a drink?”

  She made me warm tea, a little milky for my taste, and we stood for a moment sipping at our drinks. The friendliness she’d displayed on the phone was still there, but now it was hidden by a bundle of nerves.

  “So you…” She gave me a once-over, assessing. I imagined that she must have dealt with a lot of press over the years. “You’re a journalist?”

  “A writer,” I corrected. “Former journalist.” She arched an eyebrow but waited for me to explain. “I wrote for a few publications, small online ones mostly, after I graduated, but I didn’t stick with it formally. I appreciate it’s not a glowing record but – as I mentioned on the phone earlier – I’m working on a book, more of a personal project. It’s abou—”

  “The children.” Mrs Chambers nodded, popped her mug on a floating shelf next to the fireplac
e. Framed above were pictures of her children: a young Jillian, short white-blonde hair that stood up in tufts and wide blue eyes; her brother, Alex, not looking at the camera but off into the distance, his own hair a sandy blond and his cheeks just losing their childish plumpness.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s about the children. My cousins – they were Jeremy and Michael. Taylor, I mean. The first…” No matter how many times I told this story, it was still hard. “Anyway, I wanted to write the book about them, and the others, because – well, I was tired of the same old rubbish. Stuff about him. Not them. You know?”

  Mrs Chambers nodded. She had made no move to sit down, and so we both stood awkwardly.

  “I was hoping I could talk to you about Jillian, and Alex. Especially Alex. To get an idea of what he was like, the sorts of things you might want the world to know about him, if there is anything in particular. I’d like to talk to Jillian, too—”

  Mrs Chambers shook her head, suddenly full of emotion. She coughed, a wet hacking sound. Then, “No, sorry. She won’t want to talk to you. I know she won’t—”

  “I don’t want to make her,” I said quickly. “I don’t. Ultimately it’s up to Jillian. But—”

  I was interrupted by the sound of the front door as it opened and shut. There was a brief pause as Mrs Chambers looked at me, and then at the door.

  “Mum?”

  A woman came into the room. She was small, thin, with long blonde hair that had been dyed darker at the tips and pale skin, black smudges of makeup under both eyes like warpaint. It was the first time I had ever seen her and I was shocked by how solid she was, how strong, her movements fluid and surprisingly confident.

  “Oh – hello,” she said when she saw me. Her gaze flicked between her mother and me. “Sorry. I didn’t realise you had company tonight.” She gave me a smile and a small wave. “I’m Erin.”