The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (22 page)

Jackdaw44:
FUCK.

ICE9:
What?

Jackdaw44:
Busted.

ICE9:
What?!!!

Jackdaw44:
Mum found a bunch of tickets from the machines on Weston pier. She went through my jeans pockets when she was doing the washing. She knows I wasn’t in town with mates when I skived school last week.

ICE9:
Jesus! I thought you meant WE’D been busted. I nearly had a heart attack.

Jackdaw44:
That’s old age for you.

ICE9:
You’re an idiot.

Jackdaw44:
And you’re amazing at blow jobs. I can’t stop thinking about last week. You’re a fucking pro.

ICE9:
Charming.

Jackdaw44:
Not like that. You were fucking amazing. And it wasn’t weird.

ICE9:
You thought me sucking you off would be weird?

Jackdaw44:
Well, duh. Seemed like you were enjoying yourself too.

ICE9:
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation!

Jackdaw44:
That means you did.

ICE9:
I think you know the answer to that.

Jackdaw44:

When I wake it is dark, the only light a low glow from beneath the bedroom door. For one terrifying second I’m convinced that I’ve suffered another fugue but then I make out the shapes of the boxes beside the bed and the bundle of clothing hooked over the metal frame on the back of the door and I realize where I am. At the same time the memory of what happened in Sonia’s office earlier comes flooding back. I rub my fist against my chest but the pain doesn’t dissipate. It can’t be soothed like a small child’s bumped elbow or bruised knee. It is relentless.

Dead.

Billy is dead. I know it with the same level of certainty that I know my name is Claire Wilkinson.

My younger child has gone and he’s never coming back. I’ll never get to hold his angular body in my arms again, inhale his scent or hear his voice. I’ll never watch him fall in love. I’ll never see the look of adoration and terror on his face as his wife-to-be walks down the aisle. I’ll never get to watch his face light up with love and fear as he holds his first child in his arms. My baby. My child. My beautiful son. I was there for every scratched knee, every playground fight, every monster in the dark, every nightmare, but I wasn’t there when he needed me most.

I watched a documentary once, about a surfer whose arm was bitten off by a shark. He didn’t feel any pain until he was hauled out of the sea by lifeguards. The doctor who treated him said that pain is a survival mechanism, and where pain would make survival even harder, we shouldn’t be surprised that there is none. Is that why the pain is so unbearable now? Because Sonia tugged my true feelings out of my subconscious in the same way that the lifeguards hoisted the surfer out of the waves? But my ordeal isn’t over. It isn’t even remotely close.

‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Dad gives me a smile as he puts a mug and a pint glass away in the cupboard. ‘Mum said you’ve had a bit of a day.’

‘Yeah. It’s been tough.’

Mum stops stirring the pot of brown gloop on the hob and gives me a smile too. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘I’ve had enough tea to last me a lifetime. I’ll just have some water.’

‘I’ll get it.’ They turn instantaneously but Dad reaches the sink first and fills a pint glass.

They watch as I drink the water. Dad grabs the empty glass before I can put it in the sink. ‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up? Watch a bit of TV or something?’

‘Maybe in a bit. There’s something I need to talk to you both about first.’

They exchange a look and I catch the fear in Mum’s eyes.

‘There’s no news,’ I say quickly. ‘DS Forbes hasn’t been in touch. It’s about me. There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us?’ Mum says.

‘Shh, Maggie.’ Dad holds up a hand.

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ I adjust my chair, shifting myself closer to the kitchen table, and press the soles of my feet against the kitchen tiles. The coolness is soothing. ‘I knew how upset you both were about the TV appeal going wrong.’

‘We both were,’ Dad says and this time Mum is the one to make a shushing sound.

‘I thought the fugue to Weston was a one-off. So did my GP and counsellor. No one thought it would happen again.’

‘But it’s happened three times now,’ Mum says. ‘How many more are you going to have? Surely there’s something they can give you for it. Some drugs or something.’

My mum, the pill popper. When I was a kid she’d demand antibiotics from the doctor if I so much as sniffed.

‘What’s causing them?’ Dad asks. ‘And why did you go to such weird places?’

Although I’ve told my parents about finding myself in Weston, Gloucester Road and a car park in the centre of town I haven’t mentioned the photos I took of Mark or the knife I found. I’m not ready to tell them everything.

The knife.

At some point I have to go home and get it. I need to take it to the police – but not yet. Today has drained me and I couldn’t cope with the fallout.

‘Claire?’ Dad says. ‘Do you know what’s causing the blackouts?’

‘Yes, sorry. Sonia thinks they are caused by stress. She says I’ve been bottling up my feelings.’

‘You were always like that as a girl,’ Mum says, looking to my dad for a nod. ‘Always keeping yourself to yourself. We didn’t have the first clue that you were being bullied at school until we went in for parents’ evening. Did we, Derek?’

My dad shakes his head.

‘You know you can always talk to us, Claire.’ Mum reaches for my hand and clamps it between hers. ‘There’s nothing you can’t tell your dad and me. We’re always here for you. Aren’t we, Derek?’

‘Anything you need, love, anything at all.’

‘I got such a shock,’ Mum says, ‘when Sonia rang me using your phone. She said you were too upset to speak and could I come and collect you? What’s wrong, love?’ She gives me a searching look but I’m not sure if I can answer her. They’re my parents. They love Billy as much as I do. I don’t want to hurt them.

‘Come on, love,’ Dad says.

‘Remember what your therapist said. You mustn’t keep things to yourself, Claire. You’ll make yourself ill. Tell us what made you so upset.’

I look down at my hand. It’s starting to throb under the weight of her grip. ‘I told her I thought Billy was dead.’

‘Oh!’ Mum’s hands fly up to her face.

‘Oh no, no, no.’ Dad shakes his head. ‘You mustn’t be saying things like that, love. You need to stay positive. We’re still hopeful. Aren’t we, Maggie?’

Mum doesn’t answer him. She’s still staring at me, her fingers quivering against her lips.

Dad reaches round the table and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I know you had a shock when that nasty piece of work came out with … with what he said … but if the police haven’t confirmed it then …’ He tails off, doubting the words he’s saying even as they come out of his mouth.

I look at them, at my strong, feisty, determined parents, and a wave of sadness washes over me. They shouldn’t be going through this. They should be enjoying their retirement, conquering the bridge club league and gossiping about who’s having an affair with who and the fact that there are roadworks on the Wells Road again.

I try to read the look in my mum’s eyes, to work out if she’s horrified because she doesn’t agree with what I just said or because she does, but I can’t see beyond the film of tears.

‘Mum. Please don’t—’

I’m interrupted by the sound of the landline ringing in the living room. Dad disappears into the hallway. Seconds later he is back, the phone in his hand.

‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘It’s Mark.’

‘What’s happened?’ Mark shouts. I hear the roar of traffic down the phone. He must be parked somewhere.

‘Your mum rang,’ he says. ‘She said you had some kind of breakdown at your counsellor’s house? I said I’d come and get you but she told me not to. Is she there?’

‘Yes. She’s in the kitchen. So’s Dad.’

‘Good. That’s good. So what happened?’

I push the living-room door closed, aware that my parents have suddenly gone quiet in the kitchen just a few metres away.

‘I had a difficult session, that’s all. Sonia hypnotized me. She said she wanted to discover the reason for my blackouts.’

‘Did it work? What did you say?’

That I don’t trust anyone apart from my parents.

‘Sonia says I have a lot of fears that I haven’t confronted.’

‘What kind of fears?’

‘Fears about what happened to Billy.’

There’s a pause, long enough for me to wonder if we’ve been cut off.

‘Mark, are you still there? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes. I can hear you. I was just …’ I hear the spark of a lighter and the sound of my husband inhaling deeply on a cigarette. ‘Sorry. I know you hate me smoking but—’

‘It’s okay. It’s fine.’

‘So what –’ he inhales on his cigarette again – ‘what kind of fears are we talking about? Because we talked about this the other day. You can’t assume anything until we hear back from DS Forbes, sweetheart. And if we hear the worst then we’ll deal with it. We’ll get through it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that what upset you?’

Now it’s my turn to pause.

‘Claire? Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ I sit down on the sofa and reach for a cushion. I pull it close and bury my face in it. The soft material slips between my lips and stoppers my nostrils but I can still breathe. I press harder. I wait for panic to rise in my chest, for the compulsion to rip it away from my face to kick in, but none comes.

‘Claire? What is it? What’s the matter?’

I move the cushion away. ‘Do you think Billy’s alive or dead?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Billy. Do you think he’s dead?’

There is no sharp intake of breath from the phone. No horrified gasp. Just a long, slow sigh.

‘Mark?’

‘I think this is a conversation we should have in person. Face to face.’

‘I want to have it now.’

‘Claire, is your mum there? Could you put her on the phone?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m worried about you.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not. I’m coming over.’

‘No!’ The word comes out sharply. ‘I need to think. I need to be here. Alone.’

Another pause. Another sigh. ‘I don’t understand. Have I done something? Has Jake? I rang him at work. He said you had words the other day. Why didn’t you tell me? What did he say? Did he upset you?’

‘It’s not Jake and it’s not you. I just … Mark, please, please, just answer my question. Do you think Billy is dead?’

I count the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

‘Yes,’ he says softly. ‘Yes, Claire. I think Billy is probably dead.’

‘Why? Why do you think that?’

‘He’s been missing for a long time. The appeal’s been in the news, it’s been in the newspapers. There aren’t many people who haven’t heard his name or seen his photo. If he was staying with someone they would have come forward. If he was injured someone would have found him. And if he was living rough he’d have been recognized. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know that’s not what you want to hear and I can’t believe we’re having this conversation over the phone. Please. Let me come and see you. Let me take you home. I need you. I need to see you.’

There are no words. My head is empty and full all at the same time.

‘Claire? Please talk to me. I’m so worried about you.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ I whisper the words. ‘And I’ll be home soon. I promise. I just need a few days.’

‘Can I ring you? You didn’t answer when I tried your mobile.’

‘It’s in my handbag. I didn’t hear it.’

‘Are you sure this isn’t something I’ve done? Something I’ve said?’

‘I’m sure.’ I can’t bear lying to him like this. There have been lies in our relationship before, of course there have, but they were small ones – the number of men I slept with before I met him, how well the boys behaved when he was away on a conference, how many bottles of wine I drank with Liz on a night out – but nothing like this. Nothing so monumental.

‘I love you,’ Mark whispers. ‘You know that, don’t you? I’ve never stopped loving you, no matter what we’ve been through, not even for a second.’

‘I know,’ I say.

‘Do you still love me?’ His words are loaded with fear.

I close my eyes and reach inside myself, searching for an answer to his question through the fear and the doubt and the nights spent lying silently in bed back to back.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do.’