Game Theory (13 page)

‘Understandable,' he said. ‘Look, let's get back to timing, shall we? We know when you came into the store. All of the interior cameras are working perfectly and you entered at exactly three twenty-two. But that's why I need to know how much time elapsed between entering and finding the abandoned trolley. It will give us specific areas of the recordings to focus on.'

I put my head into my hands and closed my eyes. I reviewed it all once more, the people at the deli, the Indian woman and her child, the broccoli stacker, the woman with the Celtic tattoo. Everything. I answered the questions as best I could, and when he asked the same questions over and over, I thought and deliberated and refined and answered as best I could. I kept my eyes shut to block out the room and focus on nothing but the images as they played out against the darkness of my lids. I knew they would people my nightmares and I knew also that I deserved it. I had lost my sister. She had been my responsibility and I had lost her.

I opened my eyes when something changed in the room. There must have been the sound of a door opening, but that wasn't it. It was something in the atmosphere, a sudden chill that pricked the hairs on my neck. My eyes watered from having been shut so long and it took a moment for them to clear.

Mum stood just inside the door, looking around as if bemused.
She was clutching her purse with both hands, holding it up to her stomach, a flimsy shield to ward off danger. Her mouth was set in a line. I could see the tendons working in her face to keep it fixed. And I knew that any relaxation would crack that foundation, produce a seismic shift and bring her structure down. She was one muscle movement away from destruction.

Mum glanced at the police officer, but I don't think she really saw him. She moved hesitantly towards me and I stood. The next moment she had me in her arms, her head over my left shoulder. She patted my back, slowly, regularly, like she was trying to bring up wind.

‘It's okay, Jamie,' she whispered. ‘It's okay.'

But we both knew it wasn't. Her voice was cold and the hand on my back felt as inflexible as judgement.

CHAPTER 12

It must have been hours later when the police drove us home.
Dad was waiting at the front door. It hadn't even occurred to me he hadn't rocked up at the supermarket. Later, I discovered that the police had discouraged it. They probably had enough to deal with, without the entire Delaware family sobbing intermittently and cluttering up the investigation, but they'd told him to stay at home in case Phoebe showed up there. I have no idea of the agony he must have endured, pinned to the stake of home, helpless and the prey of snarling imagination.

The tooth-sucking cop, whose name was Dixon, had had little to report before we were taken home. The security cameras
had
picked up Phoebe after she'd left the deli but then lost her somewhere before aisle five. So far, no footage had been found of her leaving the premises. Dixon admitted there were blind spots in the surveillance system, particularly at staff entrances and exits through the delivery areas, which struck me as bizarre.
I suspected Dixon felt the same way, though he didn't say anything other than that interviews of staff and customers were still taking place and he was hopeful we'd get news sooner rather than later. He said ‘news', not ‘good news', and I think Mum noticed. The muscles in her face tightened perceptibly. He asked whether we could find a recent picture of Phoebe and, if so, whether the cop who was driving us home might borrow it. Photographs of Phoebe were not in short supply. Only a month or so earlier, she'd had a school photo done and it was brilliant. She was in part-profile, a Mona Lisa–type smile on her face, and Mum had had it framed.

‘Perfect,' said Dixon when we described it. ‘She's in school uniform, yeah?' I nodded. ‘Ideal,' he added. He escorted us out of the store. I was gratified to notice that police officers were in considerable evidence and that three squad cars were lined up outside the entrance. I was less gratified to notice some of the staff watching us. They whispered to each other and stared at me.
That's the one. That's the kid who lost his little sister. How can you lose your sister in a supermarket? That's just wrong . . .
I kept my head lowered, like those guys you see on news reports, coming out of court. When that thought struck me, I realised I looked guilty but I didn't care.

Dad hugged Mum when we arrived home and glanced at me over her shoulder. I couldn't read his expression and didn't have the energy to try. When the police officer asked for the photograph, Dad got the picture out of its frame and scanned
it into our computer before handing over the print. The officer glanced at the photo.

‘She's a lovely girl, Mr Delaware,' he said. ‘We'll get this back to you as soon as possible.'

‘Just get
her
back,' said Dad. ‘Fuck the photograph.'

His words went through me like a jolt of electricity. Dad doesn't swear. I mean
never
. But the officer wasn't aware of this so he simply nodded. He told us we'd be the first to know if there was any news. He shook Dad by the hand, a curiously formal gesture under the circumstances, I thought. And then he left. I suspect he was glad to get out of there, out of the atmosphere of desolation and loss and back to a place where there would be action and colleagues and occasional laughter. Mum paced up and down in the front room, her mobile clenched in her right hand, giving the world a thousand-yard stare. Already the lines around her eyes seemed deeper, more ingrained. Dad waved me into the kitchen.

‘Tell me everything,' he said.

I was tired of talking, but I didn't really have a choice. So I went through it all again. It was strange, but the recounting of the story diminished it somehow. Each time I told it, it became more of a fiction, something that belonged in the pages of a novel rather than being a reflection of the real world. Tragedy was transformed into the commonplace through the medium of words. When I'd finished, Dad said nothing, and I didn't know whether to be grateful or resentful. Maybe I wanted acknowledgement
that I'd been witness to disaster, that somehow I was therefore more entitled to consideration, to forgiveness. But I also knew that any remark he made would either reveal or hide the true nature of my responsibility. I was already cocooned in guilt. I had no idea if I could take on the burden of any more.

Dad went straight to the computer and opened up Phoebe's photograph. He inserted some text:
Have you seen this girl? Any information, please ring
. Then he put our home number and Mum's mobile at the bottom and printed off dozens of copies. He stood by the printer, drumming his fingers on the machine and avoiding my eyes. The printer ran out of paper and he searched for more, cursing when he couldn't find any on the shelves. I went to my bedroom and brought down a fresh supply, which he took without saying anything. The machine burred once more and he resumed the finger drumming.

Mum came into the kitchen, picked up a sheet and nodded.

‘Good idea,' she said. ‘Get another twenty done and I'll get these up.'

‘What, now?' I said.

She looked at me as if not quite registering my presence. There was another world in her head and she was lost in it.

‘Of course, now,' she said finally. ‘Is there any point in waiting?'

‘Do you want a hand?'

‘Stay with your dad,' she replied. ‘And try to contact your sister. I've rung her mobile dozens of times and all I get is her message
bank. Any news and you ring me first, understood?' I nodded. Mum took the car keys from the pot in the kitchen and gathered up the posters. She glanced over at Dad as if she was about to say something, but then thought better of it. The front door closed and moments later I heard the car start and the crunch of gravel as she reversed out of the driveway.

Dad printed off posters until the ink cartridge ran out, his head bent over the printer. He only spoke once and then it was to himself.

‘Computers,' he mumbled. ‘My area of expertise.'

I said nothing. I'm not sure a response was expected and it sure as hell wasn't required.

Eventually, silence, like a cat, stretched and curled around the house. I was aware of its claws and knew that at some stage it would use them.

Dad and I sat for the next two hours locked in our own thoughts.
At one point I considered offering to make us a sandwich but dismissed the idea as soon as it came to mind. I rang Summerlee but had no more luck than Mum. I left three messages. All of them the same. Ring. Now. Urgent. I didn't have Spider's number and couldn't think of a way of finding it.

‘Do you want me to go round to Summerlee's house, Dad?' I asked. ‘I could get a taxi.'

‘Wait till your Mum gets back,' he replied and fell into silence again. I wondered why it was important to wait for Mum. Was he
resentful that she had appeared to take complete charge and was spitting the dummy?
I'm not allowed to make decisions so don't ask for one
. Or had he spent enough time alone and couldn't bear the thought of a silent house full of vague, malevolent shadows? Whatever the reason, I was aware we must be sharing mental images. Phoebe, clumping down the stairs after getting ready for bed, that peculiar asymmetric rhythm of bare feet on carpet. Phoebe in the morning, ducking her head as she ate breakfast, trying to get her mouth as close as she could to the bowl of cereal. Phoebe in the evening, bent over her homework, biting her bottom lip and printing her words carefully, methodically. Those were the good images, though they were painful. But others drew me, as they must have drawn Dad. Phoebe in a dark room, scared, her hands tied, the smell of mildew and despair rank in her nostrils. Phoebe in a shallow grave, eyes wide and unseeing . . .

My phone, when it rang, sent a jolt through both of us. It was as if Dad had been hit with a taser. He snapped upright, eyes filled with something – a cocktail of panic, hope, despair. He must have felt that we were on the brink of an answer he wasn't sure he wanted. And the drop was terrifying. I must have reacted similarly. I slid my thumb over the phone without even checking the caller ID.

‘Hello?' I said.

‘Yo, Jamie, dude.'

‘I can't talk now, Gutless,' I said. ‘I will ring you back. Please don't call again.'

‘Whadda fuck, man?'

I hung up. Dad had deflated as soon as he heard me say ‘Gutless'. Already his eyes were slightly glazed, focused on something within his head, and he appeared to sink into himself.

The sound of the car on the gravel brought us both to our feet. I recognised the engine noise. There were no revolving patterns of light against the wall, something a police cruiser might have generated. The car door slammed just as I opened the front door. Mum looked at me and I shook my head. She brushed past me into the house. Dad had sat down again at the kitchen table and Mum went to one of the cupboards, got a bottle of whisky from the shelf and three highball glasses. She poured an inch or two of whisky into each, put one down in front of Dad, handed me another and raised the last one to her lips, draining half in one swallow. I sipped mine. I'd had whisky before and didn't like it. Now I didn't care what it tasted like.

‘You got them up?' I said.

‘Yes, all of them. Around the supermarket, in all the adjoining streets. I'll get more up tomorrow.'

‘Let's hope it won't be necessary.'

Mum finished the glass. She gulped and twisted her mouth as if the taste was foul. Then she poured herself another.

‘And I want you to post as much as you can on social media,' she said. ‘Get your friends involved. Spread the word. Facebook, Twitter, whatever.'

I knew this wasn't a good idea, but I didn't know why I knew.
Only later did I think of game theory and the importance of keeping everything close to your chest. At that time, I simply nodded. ‘They'll find her,' I said. ‘The cops will ring tonight.'

Mum nodded as well, but we were both aware it was an agreement based on nothing but hope.

‘I couldn't get Summerlee,' I added. ‘Maybe I should go round to her place. I could get a taxi.'

‘I'll go,' said Mum. She moved to pick up the car keys again.

‘Not after those whiskies,' I said. ‘And, anyway, maybe you should stay here with Dad.' They had barely spoken a word to each other and I didn't know why. Maybe there were buried recriminations and their silence concealed an accumulating pressure between them, a dam that could break at any moment. Perhaps it would be good for it to be breached, but I didn't want to be around when it happened. I didn't think I could stand it.

Anyway, the real reason I wanted to go to Summerlee's place was that I could guess what I'd find there. It wasn't something that either of my parents could cope with right now. There would be words. Things would be said that couldn't be unsaid. And, anyway, Mum wasn't the only one who craved the illusion of action.

I rang the taxi company and was told they'd be here in ten minutes. I was vaguely surprised that the transaction was completed in a normal fashion. How could the world go on? How could it not care? I went and told Mum where I was going. She'd sat on the couch in the front room, staring at the blank screen
of the television, her mobile still clutched firmly in her hand. She nodded. When I went back to the kitchen, Dad was crying. He was holding another glass of whisky and he was crying. In between curiously soundless sobs, he took another slug. I put a hand on his shoulder and then I went outside to wait for the taxi.

CHAPTER 13

There were lights on at Summerlee's place.
All
the lights were on at Summerlee's place. Cars ranged along the driveway and halfway down the street. A few motorbikes were dotted among the cars. The noise coming from the house was palpable. The air throbbed.

I walked up the driveway. I heard voices coming from the bushes. A number of the solar lights that bordered the driveway had been kicked over and shards of plastic littered the pavers. The grass was long and turning to seed. Someone was kneeling in the middle of the garden and throwing up. Her body wrenched and buckled but I couldn't hear her puke. The music coming from the open front door drowned out everything else. She had on a dirty white top with spaghetti straps.