The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (17 page)

Unlike the counsellor the police arranged for me to see after Billy disappeared, Sonia works from home. We’re sitting in the back room of her terraced house in Bedminster. Not in an office block in town. It is a bright and airy room, decorated in shades of brown and beige with little touches of orange – the cushions on the sofa, the lampshade of the standard lamp in the corner of the room and a single white hydrangea in a vase above the black iron fireplace. On first glance it looks like a living room but it’s too carefully arranged. There are no children’s toys picking up dust under the sofa, no books propped open on the arm of the chair and no abandoned Diet Coke can on the table in the middle of the room. It’s homely but there are no traces of Sonia’s personality. I imagine that’s deliberate.

Mark didn’t go to work yesterday. Neither did Jake. I could hear him and Kira talking in low voices behind their closed bedroom door when I went to the bathroom a little after 7 a.m.

Mark and I stayed up in the living room for hours on Friday night. We both cried, taking it in turns to hold and console each other, whispering platitudes like, ‘
We’ve been through worse
,’ ‘
We can get through this
,’ and ‘
There’s been a mix-up. Jason Davies has confused our son with some other family’s child.
’

Neither of us wanted to go to bed but exhaustion gnawed at our bones and we dragged ourselves up the stairs a little after 1 a.m. I slept fitfully, waking on the hour, every hour, just as I had when Billy was little. Only it wasn’t his tiny face, turned towards me in his cot, mewing for milk that jolted me awake. He was in my dreams, crying, screaming, reaching for me, begging for me to save him. When I woke up on Saturday morning I went straight from the warmth of my bed to the cold keys of the laptop. I Googled ‘psychotherapist Bristol qualifications’, as Dr Evans had suggested and Sonia’s name came up first. Somehow I made it through the rest of the weekend. It’s all a blur now. I rang Sonia yesterday morning, the second the clock in the living room chimed 9 a.m.

Sonia leans back in her chair and knits her fingers together in her lap. She gives me an appraising look but it’s warm and sympathetic rather than cold and detached. I sobbed on the phone earlier, when I told her why I needed an urgent appointment, so she has some idea what she’s let herself in for.

She’s a few years older than me, late forties I’d guess, but she has the tight, gaunt face of someone older. Her multicoloured kaftan-like dress is diaphanous but her impossibly tiny wrists poke out from the sleeves and her collarbones are so prominent I could pour water into the triangular hollows either side of her neck and it wouldn’t dribble out. Her vivid red hair is piled on top of her head and secured with two wooden sticks. Chunky beaded earrings swing from her ears.

‘Tell me how you’re feeling, Claire.’

I have been asked how I am a thousand times since Billy disappeared and I still don’t know the answer. I feel overwhelmed yet empty, frantic yet numb.

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Okay. That’s fine. Why don’t you tell me what’s happened instead. Take your time.’

It’s a quarter past eleven when I finally stop speaking and take a sip of water. I’ve been talking, and Sonia has been listening and nodding, her eyes never once leaving my face, for over half an hour.

‘Thank you, Claire,’ she says as I place the glass on the coffee table in front of me. ‘It must have been very difficult for you to relive that experience.’

I nod mutely.

‘You’ve been through a lot recently, haven’t you?’

My heart splinters. I don’t want her pity. I want hope. But she can’t give me that. No one can.

‘We’ve got two issues here that we need to deal with,’ she continues. ‘The episodes of amnesia that you’ve been suffering, and the grief and pain you’re going through as a result of Billy’s disappearance. I’d like to tackle them separately, if that’s okay with you. Starting with the amnesia.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’re a private client,’ she says, resting her elbows on her knees and leaning towards me, ‘so I don’t have access to your medical files but, from what you’ve told me about your visits to the doctor, it seems that the episodes of amnesia you’ve suffered are probably psychological in origin, rather than physical.’

‘Dr Evans thinks they were caused by stress.’

‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘Although I think what you’ve been through is more akin to trauma which has resulted in two episodes of psychogenic amnesia.’

‘Psychogenic? Does that mean I was drugged?’

‘No. It means the condition has a psychological origin rather than a physical one. It’s also known as dissociative amnesia.’

Dissociative amnesia? I repeat the phrase over and over in my head but the words mean nothing to me. I thought I’d feel reassured, to finally receive a diagnosis, but all I feel is panic.

‘Amnesia? But I didn’t hit my head. Oh God, is it –’ a thought occurs to me – ‘is it early onset Alzheimer’s?’

Sonia shakes her head. ‘No, it’s got nothing to do with Alzheimer’s. It’s a psychological condition that typically occurs as a result of a traumatic event – war, abuse or a highly stressful situation.’

‘Can I stop it from happening again? Are there drugs I can get?’

‘Not drugs, no. Although hopefully we’ll be able to prevent you from having any more episodes by treating the root cause. The source of your trauma,’ she adds.

‘Dissociative amnesia.’ I repeat the phrase back at her but it still sounds strange and foreign. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘That’s because it only affects a tiny proportion of the population. There is one well-known sufferer, though. It’s commonly believed that Agatha Christie developed psychogenic amnesia as a result of her mother’s death and her husband’s infidelity. She travelled to a spa hotel in Harrogate and checked in under a different name. She said she was a bereaved mother from South Africa called Teresa Neele.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘Several of the guests at the spa recognized her so the police brought her husband up to Yorkshire to identify her. She returned home and never spoke of it again.’

‘God. How long was she missing for?’

‘Eleven days.’

Eleven days.

Sonia reads the fear on my face and holds up a hand. ‘It’s okay. Don’t be scared. These periods of temporary amnesia, or fugues as they’re often called, can last anything from hours to days to months. Sometimes people build whole new lives for themselves, just like Agatha did. And they have no idea who they used to be. That’s why it’s so disorientating when you come out of a fugue – your sense of identity completely changes.’

I clutch the ball of damp tissue in my hand. ‘It was like waking up in a nightmare. I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep. I was terrified.’

‘Of course you were. Typically, someone who suffers from a fugue will feel distressed and confused and will develop feelings of shame, guilt, depression and anger after it ends. You mentioned briefly that you spoke to the receptionist at the B&B after you came round from your first episode. What kind of emotions did you experience then?’

I don’t have to try very hard to conjure up his ginger moustache, straining shirt and the clipboard he kept just out of reach.

‘It’s okay, Claire.’ Sonia stares at my hand, the skin stretched tight over the knuckles. ‘I know it’s hard, reliving those memories, but there’s nothing you can’t share with me.’

‘I felt angry,’ I say. ‘Violent. I wanted to snatch his clipboard and beat him over the head with it because he was being so slow. I felt like he was doing it deliberately to stop me from finding Billy.’ I pause. ‘See, I knew you’d be shocked.’

Sonia’s earrings sway from side to side as she shakes her head. ‘I’m not the slightest bit shocked, Claire. Have you felt violent towards anyone else since?’

I look her straight in the eye. ‘Yes.’

‘Have you acted on those feelings?’

‘I kicked the cyclist, the one I opened the door onto. I thought he was going to hurt me.’

She doesn’t comment; instead she nods for me to continue.

‘Could I …’ I pause, unsure whether I can bring myself to ask the question that has been haunting me since my second blackout.

‘What is it, Claire?’

‘When I … when I came round the second time, I had a vision of Billy lying on the bonnet of my car. He was dead. I thought I’d run him over but I couldn’t have. The windscreen wasn’t shattered, the car wasn’t damaged and there wasn’t …’ I swallow . ‘… there wasn’t any blood.’

‘And you’re worried you may have had something to do with Billy’s disappearance? You think you may have done something you can’t remember?’

I press my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from crying and nod sharply.

‘Claire,’ Sonia says softly. ‘You were at your mum and dad’s house when Billy went missing.’

‘But what if I had a blackout that I don’t remember? What if I drove back to my house and ran Billy over?’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘I wouldn’t.’ I shake my head. ‘I’d never hurt him. Ever.’

‘Was your car damaged the day after he disappeared? Did you have to take it to a garage to get the windscreen repaired?’

‘No, I … I drove to work and then back home at the end of the day.’

‘I think,’ Sonia presses the palms of her hands together, ‘that the vision you had when you transitioned out of your fugue was more akin to a nightmare induced by feelings of guilt.’

‘For going to mum and dad’s the night Billy disappeared?’

She nods. ‘I think the dream also manifests your worst fear.’

‘That Billy’s dead? No. He’s still alive, I’m sure of it.’

‘Okay.’ She looks at me thoughtfully then leans back in her chair for the first time since I started speaking. ‘In a minute we’re going to do a few exercises to help you manage your anxiety but before we do I need to reassure you that what you experienced, what you felt and what you’re still feeling as a result of your fugues is completely normal. And that the violent thoughts you’ve suffered are also normal.’

Normal.

The relief I feel is so sudden, so intense, that I burst into tears.

‘Are you all right to continue?’ Sonia asks as the tears abate and I slump back against the sofa, totally spent.

I nod. It takes every last ounce of energy that I have.

‘What made you cry, just then?’

‘Relief that I haven’t turned into some kind of psychopath.’

She smiles sympathetically. ‘You’re not a psychopath, Claire. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure of that.’

I close my eyes and take a deep, settling breath. As I do so an image of Billy, lying on his bed with his headphones jammed onto his ears and his laptop on the bed beside him, pops into my head. He looks up, as though suddenly realizing I’m at the door, then winks. ‘Only ninety-nine per cent, Mum? So that means there’s still a one per cent chance you are a psychopath.’

My smile must have registered on my face because, when I open my eyes again, Sonia is looking at me curiously.

‘What were you thinking about, Claire? Just then, when you closed your eyes?’

‘About Billy. I was just imagining what he’d say if …’ I tail off. Moments like that – happy thoughts that break up the unrelenting gloom – I need to hug them to my chest and hold them close. Sharing the image of Billy with Sonia would only dilute it.

‘It’s okay.’ She smiles reassuringly. ‘You don’t have to share what you were thinking about if you don’t want to. Now –’ she crosses her legs and sits back in her chair – ‘I’d like to move on from the amnesia if you’re feeling strong enough, and talk to you about the development that DS Forbes shared with you the other day.’

‘You want to talk to me about what Jason Davies said?’

‘Yes.’

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Only this time Billy is nowhere to be seen.

Jackdaw44:
Is it wrong that I want you to kiss me again?

I have no idea if my session with Sonia was effective or not. I haven’t had another amnesia attack since I saw her six days ago but I still have terrible dreams. I dream that I’m driving around Bristol, looking for Billy, and then I see him – he’s at the end of the road, baseball cap jammed onto his head, shoulders hunched against the driving wind and rain. There’s a van, four cars in front of me, and it’s going slowly, so slowly and I’m swearing at the driver to put his foot on the gas so I can get to my son before he disappears. Then the van stops. The passenger door opens and Billy gets in. I scream and pull at my door but it’s jammed shut and I can’t get out. The van drives off and I can’t stop screaming.

Sleep deprivation has wiped my memories of the last six days. People have come and gone. Mum, Dad, Liz. There’ve been hugs, lots of hugs. And countless cups of tea. The days have run into each other as we all try and come to terms with what DS Forbes told us about Jason Davies. On a couple of occasions I’ve grabbed my car keys intending to go out and look for Billy, only to put them down again seconds later, unable to breathe.

Mark went back to work the day after my session with Sonia.

‘I’ll stay,’ he said after the alarm bleeped and he reached out a lazy arm to turn it off. ‘Claire, I’ll stay if you need me to.’

I shook my head. He’d spent all of the day before pacing the house like a caged animal, settling for minutes in front of the TV and then up again, into the kitchen for a cup of tea, then out to the garage, then back in again. He spent a lot of time standing by the window, looking out at the park opposite our house. He reminded me of one of the tigers in Bristol zoo, stalking back and forth along the same patch of worn grass, eyeing the visitors beyond the glass wall. He could see what freedom looked like but he had no means of escape.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You need to go to work. I’ll be fine. Jake will keep me company.’

‘If you’re sure?’ I could hear the conflict in his voice as he reached out his arms and pulled me close. I pressed my face into his hairless chest and inhaled his warm, sleepy, musky scent. ‘Is Jake taking another day off then?’

‘Yeah. He told me last night that he couldn’t face going to work.’

‘I’m worried about him. He spent all of yesterday in his room.’

‘We’ll go out. Take a walk.’

He stroked the hair back from my face and kissed me on the forehead. ‘I think it’ll do you both good to get some fresh air.’

We never did go for that walk. When I knocked on Jake’s door he said he had a headache and maybe we’d go later. I rang Mum and we drove out to Chew Magna and walked around the lake together. She didn’t mention the website, the appeal or the photos. Instead we held hands and we talked about Dad and his bridge games and the weather and the woman in the corner shop whose husband had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Then Mum told me how worried she was about me.

I told her I’d started seeing a counsellor again but I didn’t mention the amnesia. She squeezed my hand tightly and it struck me, not for the first time, how hard this must be for her and Dad. I am their child, Billy is their grandchild. They must feel the same sense of powerlessness that I feel. That’s why Mum works so hard on the website. It’s her way of helping, of showing she cares.

When I returned home just after eleven Jake was still in his room. At twelve I knocked on his door and offered him some lunch. He said he wasn’t hungry. At tea time he asked if he and Kira could eat their meals in their room. Mark and I ate our steak, chips and peas in front of the TV. I can’t even remember if it was on.

The next day I had a call from Ian, Jake’s boss. He asked if Jake was over his stomach bug yet. I deliberated before answering, unsure whether to lie and say he was still ill or tell him that we’d had some bad news. Ian knows about Billy; Jake had only been working there for a few months when he vanished but I couldn’t tell him the real reason Jake was off work. We weren’t allowed to tell anyone outside our immediate family about Jason Davies. Ian didn’t ask any questions when I said Jake was having a difficult time at the moment but he did agree to let him have a few more days off. I was grateful when he said goodbye.

This morning he rang back. Could I let him know whether Jake would be back at work some time this week as they had a big job planned and he needed to know whether or not to get someone else in? I asked him to hold on, then knocked on Jake’s door. He opened it seconds later, in the same faded pair of boxer shorts he’s been wearing for days, his eyes bleary, his jawline covered in stubble. Behind him, on the opposite side of the room, the curtains were still shut, the only light the blue haze of his laptop screen, the lid half-closed.

‘Ian wants to know when you’re going back to work.’

‘Huh?’

‘Ian. Your boss. He’s got a big job on. He needs to know when you’re going back or he’s going to have to get someone else in.’

Jake shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

‘You’ll lose your job if you don’t go back soon, Jake.’

‘Who cares?’

‘You do. You love your job.’

‘None of that shit matters any more.’

‘Jake!’

‘Mum –’ he rubbed a hand over his face – ‘I can’t deal with this right now. Can you tell him I’ll ring him back?’

He closed the door before I could reply. I stared at the knotted wood, grubby with semicircular grey patches – the remains of stickers he’d plastered on the door as a kid – and raised a fist to knock again, then remembered I’d left Ian hanging on the line and bolted back down the stairs.

‘Hi, Ian. Is it okay if Jake rings you back this evening?’

He sighed. ‘I like Jake. And I know he’s got a lot of family stuff to deal with but I need to have a team I can rely on. If he doesn’t call me in the next couple of hours I’m going to have to get someone else in. I’m sorry, Claire. Business is business.’

I can’t help to find Billy but I can still look after one of my sons. I can still help Jake.