Morgan was the one who kept me awake at night. It was always the same thought, too. That could have been me. Whatever happened to me, at least it was over quickly.
Long after Mum stopped us going to the group therapy sessions I still couldn’t think about the other families without that familiar pang of guilt deep down. Why had I survived when their children, when Alex, hadn’t?
Even now, watching the embers of the fire as they tumbled into the night sky, I wondered if it was worth this, just because some bastard had decided to try to scare me. Was it worth seeing all of the families at the memorial tomorrow? Was it worth dragging up all of those old memories, of the days after I had woken up in a hospital room without my brother, no idea where we’d been for the last few weeks and no way to find him?
What else was there to know? I had survived and Alex had not. That was all there was to it.
I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. The shadows were long and the night was still. I stood away from the crush of bodies around the bonfire. The tree shaded me from the mizzling rain, and I had darkness to my back where a long fence ran the length of the beer garden.
I glanced around swiftly, taking in smiling, shadowed faces I didn’t recognise. My shoulders tensed and a churning in my gut made me peer into the darkness behind me. I felt somebody watching me, eyes creeping along my spine. But when I turned there was nothing to see except mud and shrubbery, the shadows of the trees smudged by fairy lights strung between lamps.
I shivered, rubbing my arms with my hands. I wanted to light a cigarette but I had no intention of sticking around long enough to smoke it. I was just on edge, I told myself. Spooked by the fact that somebody might have been in my house.
In the end I paid half a fortune for a small burger with burnt onions and walked quickly back to my car while shovelling it in my face. The shadows seemed to swim with human-like shapes that looked suspiciously like my nightmares.
BEFORE
Mother
THE HOUSE WAS EVERYTHING she had ever wanted. It needed dedication and inspiration but she was lacking in neither. She had always liked a challenge. It was why she had married Jack. She saw no shame in admitting that she liked being needed.
The house was no different to their marriage.
They moved in over the course of three days, both blessing and cursing the old lady who’d left it to them in her will in such a state of disrepair that there was a leak in the ceiling in the kitchen and three broken upstairs windows. Their meagre belongings didn’t even fill half of the space.
The boys were as happy as she’d ever seen them, Mouse running shrieking between the rooms with Chris-Bear crawling after him. She and Jack carried their boxes from the van with one eye on the boys. They left everything stacked up against the wall in the front hall.
“We can’t leave them there,” she said, lifting Bear onto her hip.
“I know,” Jack said. He swiped a kiss on her cheek but his attention was elsewhere. Then he disappeared into the basement, his tool-belt gripped loosely in his fist.
It was left to her to shepherd the boys into their bedroom that evening after a rushed dinner of spaghetti hoops on toast. Jack still hadn’t reappeared from the basement, and after yelling for him to come and eat she’d left him to it.
But it got darker and he still didn’t emerge. Had he left the house? She hadn’t heard him leave, but she wasn’t going to run around looking for him. He’d been moody recently, even the prospect of a fresh start making him irritable. She didn’t fancy being shouted at after their long day.
The wind picked up outside, whistling down the side of the house. There was a sharp crack from the roof, then another from the ground. She jumped.
Just a roof tile. Another one. She’d have to mention it to Jack so the boys didn’t get hurt in the garden tomorrow.
“Father?”
One of the boys was out of bed. He was in the hall in his pyjamas, his brother’s bear tucked under his arm and his hair mussed with sleep.
“Hush, Mouse,” she said. He jumped, his eyes glittering in the dark. Mouse always wanted his father when he had a bad dream. “He’s not here,” she added. Where was he? “You’ll have to make do with me.”
Even in the big bed he wouldn’t settle. Every noise made both of them startle, every jump shattering her peace that little bit more.
“Lie still, Mouse.”
He couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Rain drummed a steady pattern of white noise behind her eyelids and in her chest, a soothing sound – until Mouse wriggled again. She reached out and slapped his thigh. Only enough to make him understand she was serious. He made a little mewling sound, which was pitiful really. Then he quieted.
In the morning they would sort the roof tiles and the leaks. Jack would have mellowed and they’d all have breakfast together in the kitchen. She might even make eggs if she could find the good pan.
In the morning everything would be perfect.
EXCERPT
George & Jacob Evans
Abducted: Sheffield, 21 June 1995
The first time I spoke to Molly Evans about the twins, George and Jacob (7), in late October 2009, she told me how much George loved to sing.
“Oh, that boy was never quiet,” she said. “He sang from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to sleep. He used to drive us mad. We’d always be yelling Georgie, quiet! but it never made a difference. It was like we’d been given a bird instead of a boy.”
“What did Jacob make of all the singing?” I asked.
“He liked it. He used to hate it when people told Georgie to shut up. He had this little harmonica Andy got him, and he played it when Georgie sang. He didn’t like confrontation – he was ever so gentle – but I think he felt like it was his job, you know, to look after George.
“They loved being outside, those boys. We got them out of the house whenever we could. There’s a big park not far from here that we always used to go to with a whole bunch of adventure play equipment. They remodelled it the spring that the boys were taken. And we played out there more than ever before. It was marvellous…”
“Did any of their friends use the park too?”
“Not really,” Molly said. “Most of them lived nearer the school, but George could make friends with anybody. I remember this one time, there was a boy who’d lost his mum, and the boys looked after him until she found him. That’s the sort of children they were.” She sighed. “Maybe they were too trusting, but I couldn’t have changed them.”
NINE
6 NOVEMBER 2016
Harriet
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I got a text.
I’ll come to the memorial. Can we go together? Mum’s on holiday.
I hadn’t dared to believe she’d come. Not after what I’d told her last night. I don’t think my cousins were the Father’s first victims… I’d expected her to freak out, but I’d been wrong.
I drove to Erin’s house a good five miles below the speed limit, faintly nervous. I hadn’t been to one of these memorials in a long time, and I hadn’t really thought about how it would feel, seeing so many of the parents I’d interviewed all in one place.
Still, I thought, it would be worse for Erin. I remembered what Molly had told me about the therapy group and was surprised to feel anger towards the people I’d been writing about for so long. I knew they weren’t perfect. I’d spoken to them after the worst days of their lives; some of them had been polite, friendly even, some immediately welcoming, but others had been outwardly hostile even after inviting me into their homes. I’d seen in them the same grief wrapped in anger I recognised in my uncle, in Thomas and myself too. But it was different knowing Erin now, knowing that people had pushed her away.
When I pulled up outside Erin’s house she was already waiting. I saw the curtains twitch in one of the downstairs windows and she stepped out seconds later in smart, dark jeans and black trainers, her jacket buttoned up tight.
I got out of the car.
“My car’
s a piece of shit,” Erin said by way of greeting. “Been crapping out on me. Thanks for the lift.” She eyed me cautiously, as though she wasn’t sure how to act around me. Then she said, “Come on, let’s get this over with. The service is in Chesterfield, right? That’s, what, forty minutes?”
She checked her watch. The sun was already getting low in the sky and Erin’s nervous energy was contagious.
When she climbed into the car she smelled of perfume and cigarettes.
“Did you stay at your house last night?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?” Erin raised her eyebrows, a small smile on her lips. I liked the way she raised one side more than the other.
“I just wondered if it was safe.” I shrugged. “You know, with what you told me—”
“Honestly, it was nothing. They didn’t even take anything.” Erin held her hands in her lap, perfectly still, watching as the trees and cars passed. “It might have been a prank or something.”
“Why would somebody break into your house as a joke?” An interrupted burglary was one thing, but a prank? It seemed to me like Erin didn’t know what she thought – or she did and didn’t want to talk about it.
“People aren’t very nice,” Erin said simply.
“Well, no…”
“Maybe somebody found out about Alex and me and wanted to make a point. It’s not the first time I’ve been the centre of somebody’s attention. In my last job I had a colleague who went a bit overboard with all these weird theories. I wouldn’t put it past people. I don’t know. It happened, the police are dealing with it, and I’m not worried any more.” She paused. “But no,” she added. “For the record: I didn’t stay there. I’ve been crashing at my mum’s house. Okay?”
I drove on in silence. I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It seemed like Erin felt the same. The air in the car was stuffy, the heater blasting.
After a while she finally broke the silence.
“Those boys,” she said slowly, “the ones who – went missing before. I’ve been thinking about them. About everything, to be honest. I just don’t understand how it happened. Children are hard to just – take. And if you try to take two at the same time… They’re not light. Not easy to carry, especially if they’re not willing.”
“They’re not,” I admitted. “But all of the older children were fairly small for their ages, like you. Short, skinny. There was a theory about how he might have lured them, maybe with sweets or threats, but without proof it’s hard to say exactly how he did it. It could have easily been a bribe or a threat. Either way he must have been prepared…”
It felt wrong to be discussing this with Erin. But she had raised the subject, so I tried not to shy away, knowing she was probably thinking of the person who had broken into her home.
“He chose the children at random, didn’t he?” Erin said. I noticed the phrase the children, not us, the distance she put between herself and them.
“Yes. From the North and the Midlands. A variety of ages, different genders and combinations. Different skin, hair, eye colours. Earlier on they looked a little more similar, lighter hair and skin, small dark eyes. But by the end there was no pattern to the children or the locations. The only things they had in common were that they were small and that they were siblings. Always a pair, always taken together and always found separately.” Or not at all. I felt the words I hadn’t said hovering between us.
Erin had fallen silent.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This must be hard.”
“Yes,” she said. “But it’s okay. I’m – I think it’s time to try.”
I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“It’s just so clinical,” I said. “The whole thing. No DNA or trace evidence. Taking children from their beds feels personal, but nobody has ever been able to figure out a connection between them. I mean the parents were home during the abductions. That takes some serious balls, doesn’t it?”
Erin grunted.
“Thing is, those foster brothers… if they were somehow connected, there could be something which the police missed. That’s partly why I wanted to talk to you and your mother. I wasn’t sure if you might remember anything important, anything that might confirm it.”
“Well I don’t remember anything at all,” Erin said. She sounded tired, as though she’d been up half the night wracking her brains. “So realistically you might as well leave the police to it.”
“I just wanted you to have a say. I know I’d want to, if it were me.”
Erin didn’t look at me. She fumbled with her phone, sent a couple of quick messages, and the only sound for the rest of our drive was her gentle tapping on the dark screen with her fingernail. By the time we reached Chesterfield she hadn’t spoken at all in nearly fifteen minutes.
As we slowed into the town traffic I cast a quick glance in her direction. She looked solemn. I couldn’t tell whether she was regretting being here, but I couldn’t help the words that came out next, as insensitive as they might be.
“You haven’t asked me the boys’ names,” I said quietly.
Erin looked at me and blinked.
Oscar and Isaac, I thought, as loudly as I could.
“That’s because I’m not sure I want to know.”
TEN
Harriet
“HARRIET…” ERIN SURPRISED ME by speaking again as we pulled into the small car park on the hill near Chesterfield train station. I turned off the engine and spun to look at her. She took a small breath. “Are you going to write about this?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I surprised myself with my honesty. It felt like we’d broken some invisible barrier that had been between us. “I’d intended to.”
“Oh,” she answered simply. “Okay.”
Together we got out of the car. During the daylight hours this small tarmacked space would look down over the trees and a winding stretch of road, but in the evening it was cast in long, greyish shadows. I felt the tension at the bottom of my spine as Erin fumbled around in her pockets, pulling out a cigarette and a plastic lighter.
I was glad the Crooked Spire wasn’t far. I could see the church already, the point of the spire reaching up to pierce the sky, twisted and lethal, as though a monster had gripped its point with a melting grip and wrenched it around. It appeared through the trees, black and looming.
“Why now?” Erin asked. She’d pulled her hood up although it wasn’t raining any more. “The memorial, I mean. Why today?”
“They do them quite regularly,” I explained. “Or they used to. Less so, now. I think in the early days it was a way to connect everybody. Before Facebook and everything… But everybody’s so scattered that it can be a bit difficult to organise. I think this one is – to remember everybody. To mark the – well, the end of it all.”
I didn’t say to mark the day you came home and the kidnappings stopped, but I knew we were both thinking something like it. Erin had said that the Father was dead. She believed that, even though there wasn’t any proof. What did I believe?
I wanted to believe that he was dead, but that seemed too neat. If anything I was more inclined to side with the theorists who assumed he was arrested for another crime – burglary or breaking and entering seemed likely considering his preference for climbing through windows. What that meant for Erin’s safety, though, I wasn’t sure. One theory I’d liked for a while suggested that the Father might, in fact, be the notorious Edward Slater, arrested for a string of arsons in Derbyshire in early 1999, and who had later died in prison. But I wasn’t sold completely. Why move from kidnapping to arson?
“I’ve never been to one of these,” Erin said quietly, startling me out of my thoughts. “Not even once. I told my mum I was coming.” She trailed off and came to a standstill just outside the churchyard, her cigarette tip glowing as she inhaled deeply. “God, I’m a mess. This is really hard. I – thank you.” She shrugged. “Yeah, thanks. That’s what I wanted to say.”
A cr
owd had already gathered outside the church. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to Erin. With her hood up and her long hair darker at the ends she looked nothing like she had as a child. The trees were heavy with yellowing leaves, the castoffs scattered about the big grey cobbles like confetti, crushed under the weight of many feet.
There were faces I recognised, and people that said hello to me. I hadn’t seen most of the parents in years but they all remembered me. Some had aged better than others; a couple of parents came tonight with children who were now much older than their siblings had been when they’d died. The thought filled me with an overwhelming sadness. I looked over to see if Erin was okay, but she hung back, her hood obscuring her face.
Some folks I didn’t recognise. A man with sandy hair stood back, watching with sadness lining his face; a woman blew her nose into a clean white handkerchief. People had begun lighting candles already. Tea lights in some places, but thick pillar candles in others. The leaves in the centre of the path had been swept towards the edges, a pathway of lit candles in glass jars leading to the church itself.
The effect was eerie. The guttering candlelight was yellow and cast strange shadows. It reminded me of the creeping silhouettes in cartoon monster movies. I leaned over, watching as Erin clenched her fists tight.
“Alright?” I asked.
She nodded tensely, but I could tell she was lying. I stepped a bit closer, hoping it might help.
I spied Molly Evans by the doors to the church, but she didn’t see me as she ducked inside.
I’d never been in the church before – I wasn’t even sure if they did regular services here. I’d always assumed that the crooked spire was a tourist trap now, but the musty smell of old bricks and beeswax as we stepped inside made me reconsider.
“I read that the Devil himself twisted the spire,” Erin whispered. Her voice trembled as she walked half a step behind me into the dimness. “The stories say he landed there, and when he tried to flee from – I don’t remember what – his tail wrapped around it and melted it into a spiral. I wonder if he meant to do it.”
The Final Child Page 7
